Like a Woman (19 page)

The Shepherd and the Saint

“What the fuck do you need my name for? This has nothing to do with cops or drugs. I just got bit by a goddamn dog, okay?”

I'm pissed. My leg is killing me, I'm comin' on way too hard due to the Quaaludes I took 'cause I knew they weren't gonna give me any pain medicine at this joke of a place they call the free clinic, and now I'm getting carded. I look over at Neill. “Fuck it, let's go.”

“Annie Oakley. Sir. That's her name.”

Neill is the only person I know who can get away with saying the word
sir
like he means respect instead of like it's something he's trying to spit up. Which can be a useful thing around cops and I guess in certain medical situations. He knows I won't give my name to anybody in a uniform, even if it's just a sweet-faced clinic doctor, so he tells 'em what my friends have been calling me ever since I started working on the horse ranch. I've been getting a lot of shit about liking ropes and spurs and wanting something bigger and faster between my legs than what we find on the streets but that's okay. Anyway, the name Mahatma hasn't been fitting too good lately since it's getting harder and harder for me to keep on the nonviolent side of things. But right now I can't hardly walk, ride, or fight since I got my leg tore up so it's a good thing Neill is with me 'cause the clinic's the only place that will treat a minor without telling the cops and I gotta get it taken care of before I lose this job that keeps me from sleeping on the streets.

“Annie Oakley, huh?” The doctor laughs and writes something on his clipboard, which is a good sign. “I think we ought to call you Florence Nightingale. This is quite a bandage you've got here.” I try and look down at my leg, but I'm not focusing too good so I close my eyes and imagine what the toilet paper wrapped up in my boss's undershirt I stole out of the laundry this morning, tied together with baling string, must look like to this guy who does this shit for a living, and then I have to smile, too.

“She got bit by a St. Bernard a couple weeks ago up at Lake Arrowhead.” I listen to Neill tell the story which may be true that I made up about what happened to my leg. “She got lost and went up to the wrong cabin looking for her friends and somehow got caught in the middle when the dog tried to attack the neighbor's German Shepherd that was with her. No, she hasn't seen a doctor yet. Yeah, it's definitely infected.”

Neill's voice sounds distant and hollow and I can't hardly hear the doctor, but I'm glad they're talking ‘cause I don't think I can. I want to just close my eyes and sing praise for Quaaludes and self-medication ‘cause now I'm feeling no pain. I think I was probably a jerk for going off on the doctor just for asking me my name but it's 'cause I felt stupid for being so fucked up the night I got bit that I don't even know what happened to my own damn leg. But pretty soon I stop even worrying about that. Fuck it. Let 'em ask the damn dog what happened.

“Fuck, man. This dog's hurt. His whole fucking side is covered with blood.”

I don't know where I am or what the hell is going on. I know I've been tripping and I'm definitely gonna buy up all the windowpane Bobby has 'cause this shit is bad. I come out of this fucking awesome trip, right, and there's this huge St. Bernard pushed up against me with his head in my lap telling me he's sorry and talking to me like he's God or some shit. His head is so beautiful and feels great in my hands, the weight of it resting sweet and heavy into my sex and belly. His breath is going all through my body and I feel like this incredible love coming from him and think, what the fuck, maybe he is God (who I don't believe in except that god
is
dog spelled backward, right?) and then I laugh 'cause I know I'm still stoned and I smell the opium and see these hippie boys all around me that I don't know but they sort of look like the guys I came up here with except none of 'em are Bobby and then my hand touches something thick and sticky and I see the saint's coat is all covered in blood and I try to tell these assholes that their dog is hurt but I don't know if my words come out right so I try and stand up but I am matted into his blood and something tears through my leg and I'm gone again.

“No, man. I told you, I don't know how the fuck I got home. Maybe those guys got scared or smart or something and figured out where I lived. Maybe Bobby found me and dropped me off. Fucking punk. I just wish I could've made the buy before he freaked and split. That was good acid.”

My leg hurts and I don't want to talk about it anymore, but I feel sorry for Neill because he feels like shit for passing out when the doctor dug out my wounds and besides, he definitely hangs on the sweet side of friendship with me. He's the kinda guy that can still cry after the pigs tear through a demonstration, leaving their spit and hate on our faces while our guts and blood coat the pavement, and who won't freak out when my anger comes out in screams instead of cries. You know, the kinda guy who you can just hold on to and rock with when it's all over and if you want to fuck and he can't get it up you can just say forget about your dick, man, just make love to me like a woman. And he will.

It's been ten days since that St. Bernard almost took my leg off and then apologized for it. I got back to the ranch just in time to start my five a.m. shift but I don't think the dog spit, horseshit, twelve ton of hay and fourteen-hour days did my leg much good 'cause it's all different colors now and swelled up like something the turkey vultures circle round. I can't drive for shit since just putting in the clutch makes me want to scream. So we go to the clinic and then Neill decides he wants to be some sort of fucking gentleman or something 'cause when the doctor tells me I might want to grab hold of something, Neill gives me his hand. When the guy starts digging into the wound I take it as long as I can and then leave to check out the ceiling. It's a trick I learned as a kid but I guess I forget to let go of Neill's hand when I go 'cause now I'm looking down at the scene and I see the doctor scrape more out and then Neill falls to the floor and I still got hold of his hand and my eyes are closed tight. I come back down into my body, open my eyes, look over at Neill and then the doctor who says, “I think you might have busted that poor fool's hand. I'll take care of it after I finish with you.”

Snakeskin

Taylor spotted Dutch leaning up against the corral fence, a dusty boot up on the bottom rail, his Levi's slick and stiff with dirt.
The old guy don't even have an ass left on him anymore
, Taylor thought, making her way over to him.
Guess he's just wore it off riding all them horses
.

She felt good. Tired, but good. Like she might just be able to keep this new job. She came up quiet beside the barrel-chested, flat-butt old cowboy, unsure about interrupting his thoughts.

“I'm all finished stacking the hay,” she finally said. “Got the grain all mixed up with the molasses like Mr. Gordon said, and the barn's swept good. Got the paddocks cleaned out and them five new stalls, too. Dumped all the shit out in that gully just like you said.”

Dutch didn't even act like he heard her, just kept looking out into the corral, watching the new filly kicking up dust, acting all wild and foolish.

“Girl, can you rope?” he finally asked, spitting out a wad of chewing tobacco and turning to look at Taylor.

“No, sir. I can't,” she said, struggling to meet his eye.

Lying to the boss was one thing, but this guy knew what he was doing. She had lied like a rug to the Gordons to get this job, bragging on all the experience she had working with horses, making up stories faster than the blinking young couple could ask her questions. She'd corralled every tale she'd ever read or seen on TV concerning horses into what she hoped was a credible proof of her worthiness.

“Just give me a chance,” Taylor had told them. “I'll work hard. I ain't never been afraid of work. I'll take real good care of your horses and your nice place here and all. I'll do right by you, you'll see.”

The Gordons had liked her, Tom Gordon especially, and hired her on the spot, room and board, fifteen dollars a week spending money. “She's got spunk, honey. Strong, too. I like this gal.” His wife just nodded, not quite sure about this skinny girl with muscles like a boy and a mouth that wouldn't quit. When they told her to go on back home and get her gear, she could start right away, she excused herself, stepped outside, and returned with the small bag she had stashed out behind the rose bush in the front yard. A little stunned, Mrs. Gordon had shown Taylor to her room at the back of the house.

Now Taylor's heart sank as she felt the bowlegged old foreman sizing her up for real. She knew she couldn't hide anything from Dutch and there didn't seem any way into him, any weak spot for her to work a hustle on him either. Tom Gordon would be easy to handle. Taylor had seen a hundred guys like him before, seen how he had checked out her ass, unbuttoned her Levi work shirt with his eyes. That she could work. But Dutch was tight, self-contained, careful about what, if anything, he showed or let in. Taylor made a mental note never to play cards with this guy.
If
she could even keep her job long enough to get into a card game, that is.

She had been looking forward to shaking down the Gordons and their fancy rich friends. A little at a time, of course. But this guy was different. She saw Dutch look down at her brand-new Tony Lama boots, intentionally scuffed up to look not new, stolen from Bob's Western Wear the day before her interview. Unable to be too picky about size, style, and color, Taylor just knew they were the most expensive ones in the store. She hoped they'd bring her luck. Two sizes too big for her, the red lizard-skin boots were stuffed with toilet paper and still pinched her toes. Taylor's feet already ached real bad and the day was only half over.

“Nice boots,” Dutch said, rubbing his chin. Half his two-day stubble was coming in grey, the other half the color of sand, like the hair sneaking out from under his hat.

“Thanks,” Taylor said. “My daddy got these for me. Real live snakeskin,” she added.

Dutch's mouth twitched a little and he turned back out to the corral. “How you fixin' to bring that filly in if you can't rope?” he asked. “Boss wants her in by three. Shoer's comin' this afternoon.” Dutch squinted over at her. “Now, is it that you can't rope very good or you can't rope at all?”

“Can't rope at all,” Taylor said, knowing it wasn't worth it to even try to lie. “Never learned.” She paused. “But I'll get you your horse.”

“Well, Carl could rope a tick off a cow's butt at full gallop,” Dutch chuckled. “But I can't say as it did him any good with that filly out there. He roped her, okay, but she caught him good with a cow kick when he leaned down to cinch up her girth. Split his cheek wide open, sent him packing with an ugly scar and a wad of severance pay.”

“I ain't scared of her.” Taylor worked a splinter loose from the top corral board, pissed that a damn horse might cost her this new job.

Dutch's creased face broke into a grin. “Ain't no shame in being a little bit afraid, girl. Horses are powerful creatures, worthy of a little mortal fear.” He looked out at the dark bay filly, grazing a hundred yards out. At sixteen and a half hands, she was tall even for a Thoroughbred, still a little gangly but muscling up nice and long in the chest. Dutch had argued to keep her, even after she'd practically killed Carl.

“She's got spirit, boss,” he'd told Tom Gordon. “Got a lotta heart and spirit. You'll need that at the track. I knew her daddy. You just can't cowboy horses like that. That's where Carl went wrong.”

Dutch noticed that the filly was keeping a close eye on the two figures by the fence. Turning to Taylor, he said, “Well. You go on back to the barn now and get yourself a halter and a lead rope. Guess we better see what you can do with that wild gal out there. I'm going to go take me a siesta.”

Taylor walked back to the barn, wishing she could get out of the damn cowboy boots and back into her wide-toed black street boots. “Why they gotta make these things so damn pointy?” she grumbled. “Probably so they can kick their damn stupid horses,” she answered herself, grinning at her own joke. She pushed open the heavy wooden door and entered the warm, sweet, hay-smelling darkness, wishing she could just stay inside for a while and take her own siesta. That morning, when she had stacked the two new tons of alfalfa, she'd left a place in between the top bales where she could curl up and hide, or sleep, if she needed to. Taylor knew to make sure she always had a few good places to hole up.