Bull Rider (14 page)

B
en’s brain was a mystery. He’d remember his locker combination from seventh grade but he couldn’t add a column of figures. He named off all the men in his unit and pointed out streets on a map of where he’d been on patrol in Baghdad, but he got lost when the rehab folks took him on an outing to the grocery store. It was the little things he forgot—keys and numbers and whole clumps of words. But certain things were there, front and center, like he’d never been wounded at all. After seeing his nightmares, Mom spent more and more time with him in Palo Alto.

“Ben remembers the bulls,” she said one night.

“What do you mean?” Dad asked.

“He can name every bull he ever made a time on. Look, they gave me a list.” Mom handed a long list of bulls to my Dad. He mouthed the names to himself as he read them. “Amazing,” he said. “Go figure that.”

“He wouldn’t forget,” I said. “He wants to raise bulls. He knows the good ones.”

“It’s selective memory,” Mom said. “They’re trying to use it to help him remember other things. They say he might do better at home—because of the bulls and the ranch and all.”

“Is Ben coming home? Tomorrow?” Lali asked.

“Not tomorrow, honey, but it could be soon.” She turned to Dad. “They’re evaluating his outpatient needs. If we can get him into Winnemucca for physical therapy and maybe down to Reno for some occupational training, then, yes, he could come home.” She broke into a wide smile.

“Gotta fix a downstairs shower,” Grandpa Roy said. “I can get the materials in the morning.”

“There’s no room in there, Dad,” my dad said. “We’ll have to bump out a wall.”

“Gianni will help out,” Grandpa said, and suddenly we went from feeling helpless and low with Ben in the hospital in California to a full-scale deal, building him a downstairs bedroom with a bathroom—sit-down shower, handrails, and all. “We’ll lose some space in the living room, of course,” Dad said, “but we can open up to the kitchen.”

It was early March and the snow was still on the ground in the high country and spring calves were a month away, so when Grandpa said, “Gianni will help,” it was a little short of the truth. When word got out that Dad and Grandpa and I were taking sledgehammers to our downstairs, two or three guys showed up every day to help out. Every one of them had an excuse. “Gotta get in shape and thought this was better than the gym, ha-ha.” “Can’t stand another
day cooped up in my house.” “I was driving by and thought you’d have the coffee on, and while I’m here, let me help you set that toilet.” Friends came to help—like Darrell and Neil Jones—and so did folks you wouldn’t expect to see, like Pastor Fellows. It was as if they were all just waiting for something, anything to do for Ben. Some days Mom just wept from the joy of it.

We had Ben’s rooms set up by the end of the month, and the bill—well, nobody’d take any pay and the lumber and fixtures just showed up. Lali drew a sign for his door—Ben O’Mara, Super Hero—and she backed it with a multicolored page from one of her comic books. And best, when Ben was ready, Grandma Jean promised she’d come back too.

At the end of March, Ben came home for good. This time, when Dad called on the cell phone from the end of the ranch road, Grandpa, Lali, and I rode out on the ATVs to meet them. It was like all the fretting and anger from the last few months was gone. Ben was home. No more military forms spread out on the dining room table for Mom and Dad to fill in. No more Mom being gone for ten days at a time. No more wondering what Ben was up to and what I could do for him when he was so far away in the hospital. Ben was home. And now, I knew it, he’d only get better.

He had his new hand and some money the Marines gave him to pay for therapists since the VA hospital in Reno was too far to get to each week. He had his new room and Lali to bounce on his bed. He had Grandpa Roy to tease him, Dad to treat him like a man, and Mom to treat him like a kid.

I called Grandma Jean. “Ben’s home. So when are you coming to see us?”

Grandma laughed. “Keep your shirt on. You know I’ll get there soon as I can.”

Lali leaned over my shoulder and called, “You promised,” into the phone.

“And I’ll be there. Let me talk to your mom about it. How’s this weekend?”

But by the end of the first week, there was something wrong. And it was bad. The nightmares didn’t come every night, but when they did, they were loud.

Darrell came by to visit after work. He brought Mom some tulips and a video of the Reno Rodeo to show Ben. “Take a look at this, Ben. This was right after you left.” Darrell stopped. “Well, right before…” His face colored up. “You know…”

“Oh, stop,” Ben snapped. “We all know what happened. I don’t want to see that video anyway.”

“Why?” Darrell asked.

“That was my life before. Before I was like this.” Ben turned away.

Darrell couldn’t get him to say anything else.

I tried to help out. “Ben, Darrell came up to see you. Talk to him, man.”

Ben just turned his head farther toward the wall.

Darrell tossed the video on the table. “Call me when he’s feeling better.” And he left.

Darrell wasn’t the only visitor, and Ben was rude to most
all of them. And when it was time to go to Winnemucca for therapy, he actually yelled at Mom.

“It’s like the real Ben’s not here,” I told Mom. “It’s like we got a different one—a mean one.”

“Don’t bother him,” she said. “He’s readjusting.”

“I thought being home at the ranch was supposed to help.”

“He needs more time.”

“So is he just going to sit around and stew while his brain heals?” I asked.

“Cam, don’t talk that way.”

“We owe him,” I said. “He’s miserable.”

“I think I know what we owe your brother, and he’ll be fine. Don’t bother him about it.”

That’s the deal. O’Maras don’t talk about uncomfortable stuff, but I sure did feel I owed him something. I was the one who could walk and bull ride. I was the one who’d fouled up Dad’s selling the fall calves—that could have taken care of some of the bills. I figured I owed everybody. Ben wasn’t right. And, you know, I was sick of feeling helpless. And I was tired of being quiet.

I started the next day with Ben. After school I ran in from the bus and grabbed a pop. Then I stuck my head in his room and said, “Ben, you up? Let’s go out to the barn. Grandpa thinks that new pinto is ready to try a saddle. I’m going to set one on him and see how he takes to it.”

“Not now, I’m tired,” Ben said. He sat in his wheelchair, staring out the window.

“You know you love seeing a horse broke to his first saddle. You can hold his head while I ease it on.”

“Not now.” Ben sounded grumpy.

But instead of backing off, I went in, took hold of his wheelchair, and threw a blanket over him. If Grandpa Roy could do it, I could too. “We’re going to the barn,” I said.

“Leave me alone, will you?” He threw the blanket off, but I pushed right over it.

It was bright outside and the sun warmed you just enough to feel like winter might go on back to where it came from. I bumped his wheelchair across the dirt and out to the barn. I pushed him inside the barn door and called to the pinto in the corral. He was friendly and came right over for some oats. It would be fun to saddle him. “You sure are nasty lately,” I said to Ben. “And I don’t know why. You can stand up. You’ll be walking pretty soon, I know it.”

“Maybe,” he said.

I scratched the horse’s nose. “So what’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong? Let me tell you. Start with this.” He slammed his good hand hard on his wheelchair.

“No, what’s really getting at you?” I insisted. “You aren’t like you used to be. You were better when you couldn’t even talk good—at least you were fighting then.”

“Thanks for the info.”

“Well, I’m tired of it. I want my real brother back.” I knew I was being mean. “I’m tired of pretending you’re doing so great and all. You’re nasty half the time, and the other half you just stare. I’m sick of it.”

“Forget you!” he yelled, grabbing at the wheel of his chair.

“No,
you
. Forget YOU.” I stopped him from pushing himself toward the door. “Just tell me. What is it with you?”

That’s when he started. He cussed and waved his
plastic arm at me. “What is it with me? You want to know? I can’t do anything. You want me to hold that colt while you saddle him. How? What if he takes off? I can’t walk, I can’t ride. I can’t remember half of what anybody says. For all I know, you told me this same garbage yesterday.” He banged around like he wanted to get up and chase after me. “Look at me, Cam. Look good. You sit around like me and see how it feels. You’re the man now, Cam. Right? You can go out skating and bull riding. Nothing happened to you.”

I glared at him. “Mom won’t let me bull ride.”

“But you do. I see you going off to practice with Darrell. We were going to—”

“Yeah, I sneak around—and that’s because of you. If you weren’t shot up and pitiful, Mom would lay off of me.”

“Shut up, Cam.” He stared at me. “They put me out, you know. I could have gone back to my unit, to a desk at least, but I can’t remember nothing. Nothing normal, anyway. I’m a Marine—and a bull rider—till they kicked me out. And now what am I? A babysitter for Lali? Tell me, Cam. What am I?” Then he put his head against the stall, sniffed a couple of times, and let go and bawled.

“Oh man, listen, I didn’t mean it, Ben,” I said. “I didn’t mean any of it.” I reached toward him but my feet didn’t move. He kept crying. It was the stupid TBI. I kicked the wall. “You gotta stop that. I didn’t mean it. I just want you to fight the way you did before. I thought when you came home, things would get better.”

“Well, you were wrong,” he said, sniffling.

“I was wrong to say that stuff. Geez, this is bad. Ben,
I’m so sorry. But I have to do something for you. What am I supposed to do?”

He didn’t answer me, didn’t even look up, really.

“You gotta fight, Ben,” I was begging. “Things will work out. You can do anything if you try. You just have to believe it.”

“
You
believe it. I don’t believe in anything anymore.”

My skin went cold and I could feel the blood draining out of my head. “You don’t mean that. You can get better.”

“Yeah, I can get better like you can ride that bull Ugly they’re all talking about. It’s just as likely.”

“Well, I’d fight to ride Ugly at least. You’re just a quitter.”

Ben’s face got red and now he really did try to get out of his chair. “Shut up. You go ahead and ride Ugly. Then I’ll believe your garbage about doing anything. Then I’ll do whatever stupid therapy they dream up.”

“Okay,” I said. “Just watch me, I will.”

I turned the pinto colt loose in the corral, without bothering to try to saddle him, and slammed the metal gate behind him. When I came back in the barn Ben was quiet. I pushed him to his room. He sat staring at the blank TV. “I’m holding you to it, you know,” I said, and I closed the door.

I
’d hardly talked to Mike since January, when he got mad with me for leaving his house to ride a bull. But now he was the only one I wanted to talk to. I took my bike and my skateboard, fixing to go down to see him. On the way through town I saw Darrell’s truck outside the feed store. I pulled in. “Hey, Darrell, you got time to come by and see Ben again?” I asked.

“How’s he holding up?” Darrell asked.

“He could use some company,” I said.

“You know, I’m working full-time now and putting in hours training to ride Ugly. I’ll come up if I can, but it might be a while.”

“He’s not always so nasty,” I said, but I wasn’t so sure anymore.

“Can’t blame him, really.” Darrell threw a fifty-pound bag of dog food into his truck. “But I don’t have a lot of time. You say hi for me.”

I wondered, with the way Ben was, who else would get too busy to see him. I bought a cookie from the pile at the front counter and rode up to Mike’s. The dogs barked at me as I turned into the driveway. Mike must have heard it, ’cause he came out on the front porch. Favi was right behind him.

“Hey, Mike,” I said. I jumped off my bike and let it fall to the ground.

“So?” he muttered.

I held up my skateboard. “I thought we could board.”

“Why now?” he asked without moving.

“Come on, get over it. We’re boarders,” I said. I took my board around the driveway once and said, “Can you do this?” I ollied onto the rail. It’s a game we played to mess with other kids at the skate parks. “Try this,” we’d say, and jump into a 360, kicking the board around full circle and landing it. Most of the time, the guys would laugh and peel off down into the pool or up a ramp. Sometimes we’d get a taker. “No, do this,” the kid would say, and he’d hit a ramp, ollie with his board right under him, land, and pivot grind off the other way. Then we had a game.

Now I started with Mike. “Come on, man, let’s see you do it.” I landed a 360 and then I missed an easy kickflip.

“What’s up with that?” Mike asked. “Lali could do better.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Come on. Let’s skate.”

“You didn’t come around before,” Mike said, folding his arms tight across his chest.

I coasted up to the porch and kicked my foot down to
stop. “It’s hard. I need you, man. Ben’s driving me nuts.”

“And I care?” he asked.

“Of course you care,” Favi answered him. “You two are acting like two-year-olds. Cam’s apologizing.” She looked at me and raised her eyebrows. “Right?”

I sat on my board and grabbed the ends with my hands. My knees poked up by my chin. “Yeah, maybe,” I said.

Mike parked himself on the top step and leaned back on his elbows. “So, what’s with Ben? He’s home. That’s good, right?”

“No, it’s weird. It’s like we thought it would fix everything and instead it’s worse. He’s given up.”

“You can see why,” Mike said. “That’s one ugly hit he took.”

“Well, ugly or not, he’s got to walk and remember stuff and get back to himself. He just sits.”

“But your grandpa doesn’t put up with that, does he?” Favi said.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “This is worse than before. All the teasing and messing around doesn’t get through. Ben says he’s useless.”

I moved up on the porch and sat a step below Mike and Favi. A couple of little purple flowers had popped through the dirt, but mostly, everything was still bare against the mouse-colored ground. “So what are you going to do?” Favi asked.

“He says it’s impossible to get better. He says it’s about as likely as me riding Ugly.”

“Well,
that
isn’t about to happen,” Mike said.

“I have to make it happen,” I said. “I made Ben a bet—I’ll ride Ugly. That will prove anything is possible.”

“You bet him you’d ride Ugly?” Favi covered her face with her hands. Then she spread her fingers open and peered at me. “What were you thinking, Cam?”

“I got nothing to lose,” I said.

“Except your brains. What about when that bull smashes you into little pieces?”

She was right, of course. That bull could kill me. Mom and Dad could disown me. I could fall off the dang bull and embarrass myself and prove Ben right all at the same moment. But there wasn’t any choice, as I saw it. “Somebody’s got to do something for Ben. I figure it’s gonna be me. I can’t stand watching him. I want my brother back.”

“If you rode Ugly, you could use all that prize money to pay your family’s bills,” Mike said. “Or get Ben started with an AI breeding business like Amy Jones’s.”

“That’s an idea,” I said. Maybe Ben really could do that. He knew all the bulls—who they were and what their stats were. He could totally play that market, buy the best straws, put ’em away till the bull was real important, then sell those little vials for more money still—sell the right to the bull’s offspring. Ben could so do that. And he always wanted to raise bucking bulls.

“Well, you better think a minute before you go planning how to spend all that prize money,” Favi said. “You need a plan B. You know you’re too young to enter to ride Ugly, don’t you?”

“That didn’t stop me in Elko,” I said.

“Elko didn’t have a fifteen thousand dollar purse,” she
said. “They’ll check stuff like that at this Ugly Challenge. It’s not some small-town bull practice where they let you ride because they know your grandpa.”

“How old do you suppose I have to be?” I asked.

“Eighteen,” Favi said. “That’s when you can sign your own life away. Or maybe if you were already sixteen, your mom or dad could do it for you. They make you sign legal papers when you ride in big competitions.”

I said, “I’ll ride him in Redding. There’s a challenge there. I looked it up on the Internet. No one will know me or how old I am.”

“Like you look eighteen,” Mike said.

“I’m big. They always take me for a senior down in Winnemucca. And that’s why I’m going to California. You’ll see. I’m going to ride in Redding.”

“They check ID in California, too.” Mike shook his head. “They’re gonna ask for your driver’s license or birth certificate or something.”

I crushed a clod of dirt under my heel. “Then I’ll get a fake one. A false ID.”

“Oh, please. That’s illegal. Forget it.” Favi rolled her eyes. “Your folks will take care of Ben.”

“Right,” I said. The problem with working your thoughts out on a skateboard, or the back of a bull, or pitching oranges is that you never just plain say what’s on your mind. Now, these guys didn’t get me, and I wasn’t fixing to explain. “I’m getting an ID,” I said. “You know anybody can help me out?”

Mike thought a minute. “I guess I know of a guy.”

“I knew it,” I said. “I knew you could fix me up.”

“Don’t thank me yet for any favors,” Mike said.

“Cam, don’t get yourself in trouble,” Favi said.

I smiled at her. “It’ll be okay. Just picture me riding Ugly. I’ll make it happen. You’ll see.”

“Yeah, right,” Mike moaned. “You’re nuts, O’Mara. No way this is turning out good.”