The Sweet Spot (8 page)

“Oh, my gosh. What happened?”

“I had bariatric surgery two years ago.” Bella pulled her sleeve down. “When you lose
two hundred pounds, the skin can’t keep up. Had to have the seams taken in.”

Char’s jaw dropped. She pictured the perfect heart-shape butt swiveling in front of
her in Walmart.

“I was the fat girl in school. I was born at fifteen pounds and never stopped gaining.”
Bella patted her mouth with her napkin, then dropped it beside her plate and leaned
back in the chair. “You finish eating. I’ll tell you the story.”

Char put a tortilla in her open mouth to cover her shock and forced herself to chew.

Bella continued, “I’m Italian. I’ve got the typical huge family back in New York,
and God, can they cook. When Momma and Nonna get in the kitchen, you wouldn’t believe
what they create:
bucatini, tagliatelle ai carciofi, osso buco
—mmmm.” She kissed her fingers. “And the desserts!” She threw up her hands. “Don’t
get me started.

“Anyway, I blimped up. By the time I was in junior high, I was wearing a size eighteen,
and the kids in the neighborhood called me
porcellino
—piglet. It stuck.” She winced, remembering. “I became a full-blown food junkie, and
Nonna was my pusher. She came from the old country, see, and didn’t understand. She
loved me fat.”

Char surveyed Bella’s prominent collarbones and delicate wrists. “It’s just so hard
to believe…”

“Well, believe it. I tried every diet known to woman. I ate carrots until my skin
turned orange, and I still can’t look
at a grapefruit without my stomach hurting. I did diet pills. For a while it worked.
I’d lose a few pounds here and there.

“But the smells from that kitchen.” She closed her eyes and pulled a deep breath through
her nose. “I swear I heard the leftovers call me at night, through the refrigerator
door, all the way to my room. I’d lay there, determined, for hours. Eventually, though,
I’d wear down, and I’d end up sitting at the kitchen table, shoving food in my mouth.
I’d even eat it cold. I couldn’t wait long enough for the microwave.” Her eyes snapped
open. “Did you ever want anything that bad?”

Char’s gaze sought the bottle on the windowsill before she could stop herself. “No.”

Bella didn’t seem to notice. “I didn’t have a single date in high school. I went on
to college, resigned to becoming the spinster aunt to my brother and sister’s kids.”

Char reached for the tin of cookies on the counter, guilt picking at the edges of
her conscience. She’d judged this woman. The whole town had.

Bella gazed through the window, a Mona Lisa smile softening the sharp angles of her
face. “Then I met Russ.”

“And?”

“Another day.” Bella took a cookie and studied it a moment. “I haven’t blabbed on
like this since I left New York.” She took a bite. “Hmmm. What is this decadent thing?”

“They’re my creation. I call them my Chocolate Hunk PMS Specials, though not in mixed
company.”

Bella snorted a laugh, popped the last bite in her mouth, and dusted her hands. “I
thought you were going to show me this hamburger-on-the-hoof thing.”

Ten minutes later, Char led the way to the corral. Bella followed with mincing steps,
trying to keep her spike heels from sinking in the dirt.

“And this”—Char strolled along the fence to where a small, stocky gray-and-black spotted
bull stood, chewing cud—“is Jimmy’s star bucker, Mighty Mouse.”

“He’s a little punk, isn’t he?”

“Maybe, but you wouldn’t believe what his semen’s worth.” As Char recalled hitting
the button that would increase the price of a straw, a muscle in her stomach jumped.
“At least, what I hope it’s worth.”

Bella faced her, hand on hip. “Just
what
is the deal with you and cow jism? Here you are, Little Ms. Housewife, wouldn’t say
crap if you had a mouthful and somebody asked you what you were eating. Yet you talk
like this is acceptable dinner conversation.”

Char waved away Bella’s comments as if they were gnats circling her head. “It’s business.
Think of it like widgets.”

Bella rolled her eyes, hand on the fence to help her balance on her toes. “Yeah, right.
So how did you get in the ‘widget’ business?”

Char looked at the horizon, remembering. “When it came time to split the assets, neither
attorney could decide how to divide the business. If they split it in half, it wouldn’t
be viable.

“I lived in a fog back then. I would have signed away everything, just to be left
alone. But the judge wouldn’t allow it. He was afraid Jimmy would take advantage of
me.

“The solution he came up with was pretty clever. He gave Jimmy the bulls, and I get
the semen.”

Bella made a face. “Isn’t that messy?”

Char let out a surprised bark of laughter. “You are such a city girl.” She shook her
head. “We take the bulls to the vet, to have them ‘collected.’ When someone buys it,
the office ships it to them, to artificially inseminate a cow.

“Jimmy earns a fee, taking the bulls to PBR events, and makes even more if they win.
What’s more important is them bucking well and gaining a reputation. If they’re a
desirable sire, it drives up the price of semen and the value of their calves.”

Bella held her nose as the bulls paraded by, a safe distance away. “Wow, they are
ripe.”

Char smiled. “My daddy says that’s the smell of money.”

Bella cocked her head, watching the bulls. “How do they, you know, ‘collect’ it?”

Char colored. “Trust me, New York, you don’t want to know.”

Junior stood at a back corral of the feedlot, watching a trailer of cattle being unloaded.
JB took off his hat and strode to the fence. The hammered sun on Junior’s features
highlighted the years that had passed since JB’d last worked here. Crow’s-feet furrowed
the fat around his small eyes, and his jowls swung when his head turned.

“Well, if it isn’t the big man.”

Oh, this is going to be fun.
“Junior.” JB leaned his forearms on the fence, fingering the brim of his hat. “Could
I talk to you?”

Junior perused the cattle. “Air’s free, last I checked.”

JB’s stomach muscles tightened. “You need any help out here?”

“
You
looking for a job?”

“Yeah, part time. I’ve got two households to support now and—”

“That tends to happen when you hang your wash on someone else’s line.” Junior glanced
over his shoulder.

“Okay, I get it.” JB straightened from the fence. “And I deserve that. But goddamn
it, Junior, I lost a lot too.” When he didn’t answer, JB followed Junior’s gaze, to
see his ex-father-in-law disappear into the shade of the barn. Shame burned in the
blood that rushed to his face. “And I lost him too.”

“Yeah. You did.” The porcine little man stared him down.

“Never mind about the job, Junior. I should know by now that you can’t go back.” JB
wanted to pound something. Instead, he slammed his hat on his head and walked away.

Maybe they needed help down at the Stop-n-Go off the interstate.

“Hey, Big Man.”

JB spun back. “What?” It came out as a snarl, and he didn’t care. He was done getting
whipped. He stood his ground, jaw tight, shoulders tense.

“I may have something,” Junior’s canny eyes roamed over him. “In fact, it’s right
up your alley.”

An hour later, JB whistled as he drove home, one arm draped over the wheel. The wind
from the open window messed his hair, but it felt so sweet and fresh, he didn’t mind.
Junior had come through with a better job than he’d hoped for: part-time manager of
the feedlot and sale barn. Seems he’d been thinking about partial retirement but hadn’t
found anyone he trusted with his operation.

Junior even agreed to let JB serve as auctioneer on the Saturdays he was in town.
Oh, sure, he’d warned that the job wasn’t all glamour, but that didn’t bother JB.
He’d been working since he was big enough to tote a water bucket, and sweat never
drowned anybody.

The sun shone warm on the arm he draped on the window ledge. Maybe the dark days of
last winter were finally behind him.

He smiled. His new beginning would break with tomorrow’s sunrise.

D
addy, just relax. How about sitting in the rocker? You always liked—ouch!” Char ignored
the sting on her forearm from her father’s flailing hand. He’d been fine through dinner,
but since then he’d gotten agitated. Now he stood in the living room, yelling gibberish
at his own reflection in the patio door. Wanting the nurse to meet him, Char had held
off giving him the pill that would relax him to sleep.

She stepped in front of him to distract his focus. “How about if I read to you?”

He roared and shoved her aside. Her shins smacked
the edge of the coffee table, and after a teetering moment, she grabbed the corner,
caught her balance and her breath. Rubbing her shin, she gaped at him. A memory flashed
of the man from her childhood. Daddy, arms akimbo and knees bent, squeezed into her
kid-sized chair, an invited guest to her teddy bear tea party. Her heart ached more
than her bruised shin. How could this be the same person?

The doorbell rang. Char limped to the door, keeping a wary eye on Dad as he continued
berating the window. She unlocked it and tugged. It didn’t budge.
Jimmy. Dancripity! He should have taken care of this.
The doorbell rang again.

I’m
not
asking the nurse to go to the back door.
Char wrapped her fingers around the doorknob, mad enough to rip the devil right off
the hinges. Bracing her foot against the jamb, she gave a mighty jerk. Something pulled
in her shoulder, but the door let loose all at once, and she just caught herself from
tumbling backward.

A round-faced, mahogany-skinned woman stood in the pool of light on the porch.

“Missus Denny? I’m Rosa Castillo, from Health Services.”

“Please come in.” Char smoothed her hair with one hand, opening the screen door with
the other. “I’m afraid we’re—” When her father hollered from the other room, Char’s
welcoming smile wobbled.

The nurse stepped in and looked around Char to the living room, then shrugged out
of her wool coat. She held it out and let go, not caring if Char caught it or it ended
up on the floor, then bustled down the hall.

A cauldron of emotion churning in her chest, Char opened the coat closet door with
a shaking hand. She was
mortified, for her father and for herself, for being embarrassed. Char only hoped
the nurse wouldn’t get the wrong impression after stepping into this melee. Suddenly
aware of the silence, she closed the closet door and stalked to the living room.

Her daddy sat, eyes closed, in her mother’s rocker. Rosa Castillo knelt beside it,
singing. Amazed at the transformation, Char rested her butt on the back of the couch
and listened. More a chant than singing, the tonal notes rose and fell, and her dad
rocked gently in cadence. There weren’t words, just guttural sounds in the rhythmic
repetition. Char felt her own muscles loosening.

The woman seemed unaware of Char’s presence but, after a few minutes, whispered without
turning, “Would you bring his medication? I’m sure he’s tired.”

Her words broke the spell. Char rose and walked to the kitchen for his pill.

A half hour later, her dad settled in bed, Char and the nurse sat in the kitchen,
sipping from steaming cups of tea. While Char had taken care of her father, Rosa had
made herself at home in the kitchen, brewing chamomile tea that Char didn’t know she
owned.

She studied the little woman over the lip of her mom’s china cup. Rosa’s round, lined
face reminded Char of dolls in the tourist shops, their heads made from dried apples.
In blue surgical scrubs with cartoon cows on them, she looked like a grandma in pajamas.
“That was amazing. I had no idea that singing would calm him like that.”

“There have been studies done on the effect of music therapy with Alzheimer’s patients.”

“Well, it sure worked. Was that a Native American chant?”

Rosa’s obsidian button eyes flashed. “Navajo. I was raised by my mother’s people in
New Mexico.”

Char cocked her head. “You’re obviously qualified, and my father must trust you to
react like that. Though I’m curious, how did you hear about us?”

Rosa’s glance flitted around the room. “I ran into Reverend Mike at Saint Luke’s one
day, and he told me that you could use some help.”

“Oh.” The blood rushed to Char’s head and pounded at the back of her knees. “We’re
fine at night.” She recalled the pandemonium the woman had walked into and rushed
on. “We are. I need help most in the mornings. If I leave him alone for more than
ten minutes, I start worrying. Daddy really is fine most of the time. He recognizes
his friends, and if you didn’t know him well, you might not even guess—”

“No need to explain.” Rosa put her hand over Char’s. The skin felt smooth and cool.
“I can see how much you love him. I’m sure your father is a wonderful man. It’s my
job to be sure he is allowed dignity and is safe.”

The woman’s touch delivered comfort and something like peace. Char’s heavy burden
of responsibility shifted a bit. She cleared her throat, but the words still came
out a choked whisper. “I’m so glad you came.”

An hour later, Char smoothed cold cream onto her face as she walked from the bathroom.
What a day.
She’d been saying that a lot lately. She stretched, her tired muscles protesting
the labor of the past weeks. On the upside, she’d been too busy to mope, and the siren
song of Valium was easier to resist out of doors. She still struggled every day, but
had weaned herself down to one pill, before bed.