We Will Not Be Taken Alive (part XIII)

I didn't see Aida during the picnic. I didn't expect to. A ranch full of young men no longer distracted with hard work would simply be too tempting for her. She couldn't resist commanding their collective attention. I didn't blame them. She radiated a golden charm. Hers was a magnetic quality that didn't require explanation. I didn't hold it against her either. It was just her nature. Nothing changed. Nothing ever changes much.

Henrietta handed me a plateful of pulled beef. A meal at the Bingham's was a rarity to those of in the employ of Andrew Bingham, and she served me with warmth.

"You can come sit with me." She said when she saw me scanning the yard. "No sense in you wasting this one special occasion we got sittin' off by yourself."

Henrietta was poor, but unlike most of the folks in town, the farmers especially, she had always been poor. She had always been what they called "servant class." She never had any schooling, but that didn't stop her from getting an education. I never could tell how old she was, and I never saved up enough nerve to ask. Some days, when the dawn sent tangerine light streaking across her face, cool blue shadows collected in etched lines surrounding her mouth and her eyes. At those times she may have sixty, maybe older. And now, in the grey shade of a tall thick oak, the breeze caught wisps of her hair and framed her face in salt and pepper curls. Her eyes were sharp and kind, and she barely seemed a day past forty, maybe younger. I think I preferred not knowing. The mystery gave her wisdom weight and the weight gave her wisdom substance.

"Oh," I smiled, embarrassed. I glanced around me one more time. My eyes darted across the yard, then back to Henrietta. They scanned the pasture, then returned to Henrietta. Daniel wasn't anywhere. His four followers, the other men in the horse collecting party sat contentedly, eating beef, dripping bar-be-que onto their clothes, laughing at stories from the hunt. I looked toward the stables from the corner of my eye, careful not to turn my head, and give myself away, but it was too late.

"Ah," Henrietta said with a broad grin. "It isn't exactly a seat you're looking for, is it?"

Daniel wasn't near the stables. He wasn't anywhere.

I blushed. "No ma'am. It sure isn't."

"Aw, honey, come and sit with me a while. He'll show up. And you won't hurt my feelings none if you get up and go running after him when he do." She put her wide arm across my stiff shoulders and pulled me deep into her soft fleshy self. Her embrace was convincing. Mama always told me you can't trust a skinny cook, and Henrietta was mighty trustworthy.

"Thanks," I said giving in. "And thanks for the bar-be-que. It smells incredible."

"Its nothing, girlie. Its just what I do."

I followed her to the pine laundry table. It had been converted into a picnic table for the occasion with the small addition of a red and white checkered cloth. Half way there I remembered how skinny Mama was. I let loose errant laugh. Henrietta turned to me inquisitively, one eyebrow arched high. The look she gave caused me to laugh again and harder. I passed her and sat down. She sat too.

"You wanna tell me what is so dern funny?" she asked.

"I'm sorry, Henny." I said. "I just remembered something Mama used to say."

Her smile was still warm, but her eyes sighed deeply.

"You're mama was a fine lady, and I 'spect she had many good jokes."

"That's true. She did. But this thing I just remembered, I didn't even know it was a joke until now. Even from beyond her grave she continues to surprise and impress me."

"Well, what was it, honey?"

I contorted my face into the very serious expression that Mama wore when she said it.

"Lucene," I took a deep breath to add emphasis like Mama had, "you can't never trust no skinny cook."

Henrietta mirrored my solemn expression. Her eyebrows furrowed into a knot low over her eyes. I was afraid I might have hurt her feelings, and I hated to think she might hold it against Mama. I was just about to apologize when the corner of her mouth cracked betraying her. I pursed my lips taught. I bit them to keep them straight. She squinted her eyes down into tight little slits, but her chest heaved. From deep within me, the laughter gurgled up, a low base tuned giggle. When she heard it Henrietta pivot her head far back on her neck and opened her mouth wide. Laughter peeled out of her as sure and as high as steam shoots out of a geyser. I doubled over to hold my cramping stomach as round after round of laughter erupted between us.

"Your mama couldn't never have weighed no more'n a hundred pounds!" She squealed.

"I know!" I wheezed.

Tears streamed down our faces. I crossed my legs to control my bladder. Henrietta planted her hand deep into my shoulder to brace herself as she struggled to catch her breath, her diaphragm still tremoring. I wiped tears from my chin and eyes with the backs of my fingers. Through the clearer vision I saw Daniel standing in the door of the stables. He leaned heavily, his shoulder pressed against the wood frame.  He held his Stetson in one hand, and ran the other through his hair and over his beard as thought it ached. I ached.

He watched us, watched me with patient concentration. His eyes were distant, buried deep under the weight of his private thoughts, but he wore the slightest of smiles. It was a departure from his usual deliberate and wicked grin, and it gave him a queer look of bewilderment.

The joy dissolved from my face as I looked back at him. His smile evaporated. Henrietta continued to chuckle unperturbed, but Daniel's face grew dark. He ripped himself from the door frame like a scab and blended into the shadow of the stable.

"Did I ever tell you I met your mama her first day in Morrison? She'd just come in that morning with your pa." Henrietta asked, but I didn't notice. "Honey can you hear me?" She followed my gaze out toward the empty doorway. "Did your fella show up? Which one is he?"

I shook my head and looked at my feet. "No. He didn't show. What were you saying?"

"Don't worry, child. He will."

I wanted to believe her. I wanted painfully to trust that she knew and spoke truth. But Henrietta always spoke from the heart, and the heart isn't always very frank. And the thing about my fella was he wasn't my fella. He was a crazed, poker playing, punch swinging, horse charming, wild eyed stranger. I had no idea what he might do next, what he was capable of.

"I asked if I ever told you how I met your mama the day she came to town with your pa."

"Came?" I asked. "What do you mean came? Weren't they always from here?"

"From here?" she asked with surprise, "No, no, girlie. Your mama came here." She stretched the word "came" far enough to break it. "She came with your pa when she was, I don't know, just about your age, I 'spose. I met her the day they moved in to your place. My brother Thomas used to work up at the Wilson stead just up the road from y'all. I happened to being walking him to work that morning when the craziest little white lady came running down the path at us. She was hollering to heavens and waving her arms all about. I'd like to have thunk she on fire 'cept I didn't smell no smoke. When she reached us at the road she was all raven curls and wide eyes. She wasn't no more than the merest sliver of a thing! But she wound around with the force of a twister.

'Excuse me!' she wailed at us. 'Excuse me!'

We stopped, Thomas, my brother, and I of course cause she was making quite the spectacle.

'Thanks for stopping' she said. She was pantin' just like an old hound, but she looked us straight in the eye. Don't everybody do that.

'I'm Rosalie, and we just moved here, today actually, and wouldn't you know it, but our pump just doesn't want to cooperate,' and that's just what she said, like the pump might have its own mind to make up.

'Could you take a look at it? Maybe tell me what I'm doing wrong here?' she asked us. So Thomas, my brother, went up and looked at it for her."

"Wait," I said. "Hold it for one hot minute. You're trying to tell me that Mama didn't know how to use a well pump?"

"Well, not on that day she didn't." Henrietta answered.

"Mama? My Mama?" I asked dumbfounded. The farm had been her home, her whole life.

"Yes, child your mama." Henrietta said patiently. "Wasn't really nothing wrong with it, 'cept one of the washers was rusted on tight. So Thomas, my brother, loosed it up for her and we was on our way. I ain't never had much occasion to talk with your mama after that, but do you believe that in all these years since then, she ain't never seen me once without stopping to say hello and ask after me and my brother, Thomas."

Questions roiled in my brain. Henrietta must have seen it in my eyes darting back and forth, jumping around like fleas. She took my hand softly.

"Your mama was a fine lady," she said.

"Henny?" I asked. "Do you know where they came from?"

"Not for certain, no, but I heard it once upon a time they might have come here from New York City. The way they struggled on up there, its a wonder they didn't go back to New York whether they came from there or not. But I guess it wasn't no time really 'til she was 'specting you. After that they just found a way to make it work, I guess."

"New York," I repeated barely audible.

"Frankly I'm surprised you never knowed. You's always the one who knows so much about everybody in town."

"I just like to talk to people is all," I explained absently. "Do you know why they came?"

Henrietta looked away from me quickly and bristled. "Maybe that's some'n you oughta talk to your pa about."

"No," I muttered. "If he wanted me to know, he'd have told me by now."

"Well if he don't want you knowin' then it ain't my place to be tellin'. Besides, I don't know much about it anyhow, and some'n tells me I done gone and told you too much already. My brother Thomas always said I got too big a mouth and it ain't no good for nothing but cacthin' flies in."

Worry settled over her like a damp sheet.

"Its ok," I assured her. "I won't say anything to Pa. That's a sweet story about Mama. Thanks for sharing it with me."

"I guess I just thought you could use to hear how good a lady she was."

We sat quiet for a moment. I watched the stable. The door frame yawned hollow.

"Henny, I have to go." I said. "Thanks for the beef and the laugh."

"Sure, honey, sure," she said. "You go see about that fella of yours."

"Yeah," I said. "Right."

I walked across the sprawling lawn through the thick easy laughter of the others, swirling sonorous. Mama came here. She came from New York. She left New York. She left a home, a family, a life. Daniel came here. He left Abilene, and where ever he had been before that, he'd left there too. Independently, each made a choice. They held firmly to a faith in themselves, in the world around them and in their places in it. My faith was a hollow myth. From a tended distance I latched a misdirected fantasy to Philip's impotent vision. He had never seen me and never threatened to. I hoped he would take me away, and I slept easily knowing he never would. It was nothing more than a charade.  

The stable was empty. I looked in every stall expecting to see Daniel, back hunched, painfully focused on measuring a hoof or brushing a knot out of a tail, but each horse was alone in its stall. I walked down the corridor peaking in at and under each creature as I went. He wasn't anywhere. The closer I came to the last stall the slower I stepped. Dry straw crunched under my boots and echoed down from the rafters, like secrets whispered by ghosts. Daniel's grand draft stallion was housed in the far stall, nearest the opening to the pasture. Daniel might be able to tame the beast, but I had little desire to be left alone with it. A chill crawled over my flesh in spite of the dark heat. I could see nothing of the black giant from the aisle. I timidly put one foot out and pulled myself another half a step closer. Still the high wooden wall blocked my view. My feet frozen, refusing to move another inch, I bent from my waist and leaned my head far forward. My eyes stretched around the wall and into the stall. It was empty. No beast. No Daniel.

He must have gone for a ride. He must have needed some time, some air, some light. Mr. Bingham offered Daniel liberal use of the stallion. "You're the only one who can ride him anyway," he'd said. "Use him until we can break him in." Bingham liked the word "we." Nobody would concern himself with their mutual absence. No one would even notice they were missing. No one but me.

The hay in the stall was fresh and soft. It beckoned to me to come in and lay my head down, to wait and to rest. The high worn walls offered up their sanctuary and promised to hide me as long as I'd like. He could find me here when he returned. He could speak to me softly, tenderly as he had with the mare. I could try to allow and embrace it. If his eyes fell upon me here, there would be no more hiding, no more pretending. He would know the truth. He would see everything, all of the fear and the hope, all of the desire and the grief. He would see me.  The thought pressed its leaden hand down onto my chest. I could give in and give it all up. I could gift these things to him, bundle them up and hand them over. I could be honest and exposed and lay my self and my soul at the mercy of dark cowboy.

But not here, not at Bingham's ranch. When it was all over I would be known or alone, and I would not tolerate either here. I determined to intercept him at the Inn.









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