Dusty red adobe bricks. Baked in the heat of the New Mexico sun, the deep color of a roan quarter horse, brushed ‘til its sides shined. We carried them from the well to lay at the foot of his grave, hoping thieves wouldn’t steal them in the night.
He would have liked that; the simplicity of a man’s mark on the world boiled down to a heap of red bricks. It said something about him. About his tenacity, his slow nurturing patience that allowed him to go forward while others stalled. Something a carved piece of granite couldn’t say. He never tired of getting his hands wet in the muck of earth and water, and the rooted solidness of their weight bore him on when the outside world wore him down. He was humbled by the land and the way it sang to him when his hands heaved the clay from the sweltering ground, shaping his future brick by brick, as he waited for them to dry in the oppressive Albuquerque heat.
I loved that old man.
We stood at the rim of the hole we dug, but not too close because yesterday’s rain made the ground soggy and feeble under our feet. The unearthed dirt stank of pitch and darkness and obscurity in things that never saw light. It’s interesting how six feet of hole can sever you so completely from a loved one that you almost ache to crawl into the hole with them. Almost. While at the same time the truth is motioning you forward, reminding you that you’re one step closer to the grave yourself. Joke’s on you. He would have laughed at that. Would have said there was no getting around it. If you worry about it, you die. If you don’t worry about it, you die. What was the point? It’s what you did in the time before the dying that mattered.
J.T. held the brim of his hat curled in his hands. We had already said the obligatory prayers and I knew he wanted to say something more. Something important that would cause us to pause when we thought back on this day. But Pa was hollering at us to ‘hurry it up’ and ‘we ain’t got all day,’ and J.T. don’t think well when he’s under that kind of pressure. Just when I turned to go he cleared the tightness in his throat and spoke.
“You stay dead ol’ man. Amen.”
And that made Pa laugh, a little ‘hey hey’ sound we weren’t expecting. We both fixed him with a look to see if he had been drinking. Funny wasn’t the way J.T. meant it—I knew that. He loved Granddad as much as me, maybe more. It was just his way of telling him to rest easy; that there was no sin in wanting to escape this life. That we recognized the misery of sitting in a wheelchair day after day, having to bear witness to the ruin and neglect overrunning the land he had sunk his heart into. No man should have to tolerate suffering like that just because he’s outlived the use of his legs. We all knew Pa’s hand was in it deep. Abandoning the land while he indulged himself, spending money on god knows what. We knew what, but we weren’t to say it out loud. There was a deep down twistedness to my father that served no purpose other than to take pleasure in tormenting us, and it worried me some, knowing I was his seed. That last year Granddad was already living dead. It taught J.T. and me there’s worse pain than dying.
“And whatcha bring those bricks out from the well for? They don’t belong here.” And before we could stop him, Pa picked one up and dropped it in the grave. We heard a dry thud as it hit the top of the coffin and lay still. I felt the muscles in my jaw working and my mouth stretched into a thin line. No one said nothing. Then Pa looked up at the sky and told us to move along, those were rain clouds setting in and wouldn’t that just be the shits if we got caught in the middle of a bucket down with a half dug grave. “I’ll be waiting in the truck,” he said.
I hate that old man.
I put my hat back on and glared at Pa’s back, then picked up a spade and threw it to J.T. I grabbed the other one and we began to shovel the unearthed dirt back into the hole. The hollow sound of earth making contact with the pine coffin undid me some, and I was glad when we finally reached the point where dirt was hitting dirt. The marker we made had his name written in small black letters across the short arm of the cross, and on the long arm we made note of the years he spent in this life: 1863-1936. We needed to wait until the ground settled before we could stake it properly. I knew about these things because this was my second grave digging. The first was Ma’s five years ago when I was twelve.
When we got back to the house night had rolled in. Pa told us to listen up so we took seats at the table while he reached for the whiskey bottle. He brought down three glasses from the shelf.
“You boys need to hear about this sooner or later, so I might as well tell you right now.” He poured the whisky into one of the glasses and drank it down. Then he refilled his glass and the other two next to it. “I’m selling the ranch.”
We looked at him like he was a ghost. He lifted the whiskey to his lips a second time and threw it back.
“You can’t do that,” I said.
“Shut up,” Pa said. He slapped the glass down on the table hard, making the drink in the other two glasses jump. Then he leaned across the table towards me. “Last time I needed to check with you, boy, about what I can and cannot do, was never.”
There was a sudden stillness to the room and I felt the electricity between us spark like a live wire being tapped. It didn’t take much to set Pa on edge, especially after a day of drinking, and both J.T. and I had been beaten enough to know when to keep our mouths shut. But this time was different. This time something in me was unleashed and the naked heat I found myself directing at Pa drove all warning from my mind. Before I knew it my elbows were digging deep into the table and I heard the scrape of my chair as I pushed it back and made to stand.
“This ain’t your land to sell,” I said. “You know he wanted it to stay with us.”
There was another silence. Then Pa threw his head back and laughed. Only this time it was a coarse laugh that shook and died in his throat. He put the whiskey bottle to his lips and took a swig, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He pulled his pocketknife from his jeans and picked up an apple from the basket on the floor.
“You will always be the fool, son,” he said, narrowing his eyes at me. “I don’t know what that ol’ man told you, but this ranch belongs to me now that your ma is gone and he’s gone. And there ain’t a damn thing to do about it.” He said this while he used the knife to cut a slit deep into the apple’s skin. He cut a chunk of it off and stuffed it in his mouth, licking the juice off the blade with his tongue, all the while keeping his eyes on me. “Set yourself down.”
I hate to admit it, but there was a time I took pleasure in feeling the temperature rising in a room. There was something familiar about it that came from growing up with it my whole life, and I couldn’t ignore the swell of adrenaline dribbling into my veins that interrupted the living of an ordinary life. It promised the spark of something new. But that was before the night Ma got hurt and I found out how dangerous a pressure cooker can be and the truth of how we were all living our lives atop a bundle of dynamite with Pa holding the matches. It changed the way I saw the world, and from that day on I got to trembling inside each time I felt it enter our house.
The day she got hurt was the day Granddad came back to life. He came out of his wheelchair and stood between them, shaking with such fury that the finger he pointed at Pa was wobbling and little bubbles of spittle formed in the corners of his mouth. “If you ever….” He said, his finger folding back into his hand to make a fist. You could see the veins in his forehead throbbing. “If you ever,” he repeated, “touch her again…,” and then his words trailed off and stopped, like he wasn’t sure what came next. His eyes swept the room and took in Ma on the floor bleeding and me eight years old kneeling beside her, and J.T. six years young in his PJs standing there crying. Then Granddad’s loathing carried him the rest of the way.
“…I’ll kill you.” He said these last words in a real low voice that had lost its roar but none of its promise. Pa didn’t speak. They just stared at each other like that while time stood still. And still. And then Pa walked away.
Only this time it wasn’t Granddad standing there, it was me. And I knew Pa was not walking away. Inside I felt the buildup of the hatred threatening to climb out of me all day. J.T. rose to his feet unsteadily, looking like he wasn’t sure which way the dynamite was going to pitch and what side he was supposed to be on. And just when I thought all hell would break lose, the world lit up outside like it was daybreak and a roaring boom ripped across the sky and reached our ears. The storm had broke free. In the next instant a pounding like stampeding horses hammered the roof of the house. We all looked up, and then at each other.
“Shit,” Pa said. “Those calves are loose in the south pasture. We gotta get to ‘em before they drown.”
I knew he was right, we all did. There was no room for arguing. Those calves had to be found. But it was hard to let go of my anger after stepping over that threshold. Hard to surrender my courage when it was just gaining breath. Because the truth was, I didn’t know when I would find it again. I let go a slow breath, took a step back from the table, and then nodded my agreement to Pa.
“Harlan, you run out and turn those horses loose. If lighting hits the barn, we don’t want them hemmed in,” said Pa.
“J.T. can do that.”
“Do as I say,” Pa said, looking directly at me. “J.T. and I will collect the calves. Go on—git.”
I stood still. The last thing I wanted was J.T. out in this storm with a drunk fool beside him. I felt the heat brewing in me again. I looked hard at Pa, then past him to J.T. And that’s when I saw what living with 15 years of having your heart ripped out and put back in had cost my brother. Had cost all of us. I saw the begging in J.T.’s eyes, pleading with me to step down.
“I can handle the calves, Harlan,” J.T. said.
“I know you can handle the calves.”
“Then what are we standing here yapping for?” Pa said. “Go on to the barn.”
I ignored Pa and looked straight at J.T.. “You stay clear of the creek, understand? It’ll be swollen. If one of those calves go in, you let it go, you hear me?”
“I hear you.”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“I won’t.”
Then I looked at Pa. “After I see to the horses I’ll head out to help with the calves.”
“Suit yourself,” Pa said.
And those were the last words I ever heard him speak.
A wide arc of lightning passed above me as I made my way to the barn, and it weren’t but two seconds before I heard the clap ride up behind it. I heard the whinnying of the horses and their hooves tap-tapping the ground as the thunder cracked. Stepping into the barn, I opened the doors wide, the dark musk of the horse muddied stalls pushing against me, the rain in the air making it sweeter. It brought me back to Granddaddy and how he craved leaning into that smell every chance he got; said it gave consequence to his life and reminded him every day that horses were a gift from heaven. Pa said the stink of livestock always brought him back to the slaughterhouses his family sent him to work in when he was a boy; said I’d feel the same if I spent ten hours a day shin deep in blood.
I opened the first three stalls and the horses bolted, coughing dust as they broke. They didn’t need my permission. In the next two stalls I had to do some persuading. It’s a dangerous thing getting around a horse when they’re skittering like that in such a small space. After a few minutes I coaxed them out with help from the thunder that rained down hard again, so ear-splitting my head ached and I saw white.
When I swung open the last stall I could tell Ruby was staying put. She had backed into a corner of the stall and was shivering from head to toe. “Come on baby,” I whispered with a dry mouth, trying to sweet talk her into moving, but her eyes were wide, like they’d been stretched flat against a sharp blade. Her breathing was grunted and heavy, and I knew I’d have to ride her out. I grabbed her halter off the hook and came close, holding out my hand so she could smell it, all the while her snorting and stamping with those wide eyes. I slipped it over her head just as she jerked away, but still managed to grab hold of her mane. And just as I swung myself up onto the sweatiness of her back, a spool of thunder rolled over the roof again and I felt myself lift into the air as she reared and flew forward like a coyote on fire. We crashed out of that stall and I thought for sure I was going to lose my grip but the rhythm of her gait was like breathing to me, and instead of fighting it I gave in and we soared out and into the husk of the storm, the unexpected relief of showered rain pelting our heads and draining our thirst. The air was thick with water, and there was no seeing through it.
I tried to head towards the south pasture, but in the blackness of the downpour it was impossible to know exactly in which direction I was headed, and Ruby wasn’t helping. I called out to her above the rain, above the thunder and the lightning, but if she heard me she didn’t listen. Both of us soaked to the bone and still she kept going. I pulled up hard on the halter, shifting my weight over her haunches, bearing down to signal her to stop, but she kept going. Lightning charged and I could make out the outline of the old sycamore tree. That’s when I knew we were headed towards the creek. And I knew the creek would be full. I couldn’t let her take me down into the muddy water where we’d both surely drown.
“Whoa,” I yelled about a hundred times but she kept on. And just when I made the decision to surrender, to let her go and take my chances hitting the ground, a bolt of lightning lit up the night and she came to a dead halt; and for a moment I thought she had been struck, the way her hooves fastened to the ground and her body went rigid. I was re-centering my weight when another zigzag of electricity ignited the sky, and that’s when I saw them.
Pa stood in the distance, his arm up across his forehead trying to ward off a blow. Next to him must have been J.T., though his back was to me and I could only make out the shape of a body. His raised arm came down towards Pa with something solid; something that squared in his hand. Then the lightning blew out and there was only darkness and rain in my eyes until we took in the thunder and I felt myself tumbling from the horse as it reared. I don’t remember meeting the ground. I just remember a loud buzzing in my ears cancelling out everything else. Everything except the splash of water and Ruby’s whinny as she disappeared into the creek. Then the world disappeared.
~
When I woke up two days later, I knew Pa was dead. I knew this because sometime during those forty-eight hours he passed through my dreams—sat on the rim of them begging me to make the journey over to where he was sitting. He was holding out a piece of red licorice in his hand. I could see the black clouds gathering behind him and something in the way they knew him scared me. It was the kind of dream that makes you wake up reaching for the light and feeling drained out of yourself, relieved you were on solid ground. Only I couldn’t wake up – not then. And when I finally did open my eyes, every fiber in my body was alive with the knowledge that I came just that close to never waking up again.
I didn’t see J.T. in my dreams, so it felled me hard when they told me he was gone.
“What do you mean, ‘gone’?
They stared me down, studying my face, trying to read something that wasn’t there, trying to decide if they were reading it right.
“He’s dead, Harlan.”
And then comes that moment when the floor at the pit of your stomach gives way and you feel hollow, less than a whole person. Like you were holding something and it just vanished, even with the warmth of it still in your hand. Poof. You can almost hear the word inside your head, helping you to understand that part of you just broke; a small hiccup in your heart pumping that stifles your breathing, just for a second, when you try and stop time and realize you can’t.
Everything they said after that felt tired and far away. How they found J.T. on the south side of the creek in the shallow reeds lining the riverbed, Ruby’s halter tangled in his arms. They thought he drowned trying to save her, but they didn’t know for sure. They tracked where his horse’s hooves went in from the north of the river. That didn’t sound right, given where they started out and what I saw, but I didn’t say so.
I told them what I remembered, how the storm got out from under us and how Pa and J.T. went to rescue the calves, and how I freed the horses and fell from Ruby and how everything went black after that. I figured whatever I thought I saw in the lightning of a rain-cussed sky was no more reliable than my dream vision of Pa beckoning me towards hell. I could tell they thought they read something in my face.
“What?” they asked.
“Nothing.”
“You got something more to say, say it.”
“I don’t have nothing more to say.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
And just when I thought they were never going to let up on me, the tall one in the back of the room with the sideburns told them to lay off; I had just lost my whole goddamn family for chrisssake.
~
By the time I sold the ranch, the snow had set down on the ground in small pockets of white gauze, so delicate looking you wanted to scoop them up with a butterfly net. The sale took longer than expected because of the conditions I laid down. Between the time the bodies were buried and the ranch was sold, I built a low wall around the perimeter of the graves with the bricks; it now looked a proper cemetery and it was not to be disturbed. Whether the new owners would honor those conditions I didn’t know. But I set it down in writing, and in my head it was done. I buried Pa out in the south acre underneath the old sycamore tree. Most folks thought that was disrespectful, not including him with the family. But it was my business, and I got to thinking I’d sleep easier if I knew the rest of them weren’t spending eternity lying next to the devil.
I walked Ruby out of the stall and stopped to tighten the cinch, then patted the saddlebag and felt the solidness of the bricks inside. Just a couple to remind me of my roots. I swung up into the saddle and nickered her forward, looking towards the west, feeling the weight of uncertainty on my shoulders.
Yes, Ruby survived the storm. If it was J.T.’s doing, I’ll never make sense of it. It seemed a whole lot of foolishness to risk your life over a horse and J.T. would have known that. I keep wondering if during those two days there was a small part of me that passed through his world while I was getting back to my own, but I can’t bring it forward in my mind. I keep hoping it’ll come back to me, like a slow memory that blows out of the dust, and you have to stop to remember whether it really happened or you just dreamt it, or both. My mind hasn’t summoned it yet, but I’ve got time.