Blind Your Ponies Read online

  “Remember what I said, Pickett.”

  Then he snorted and stomped off like an angry rhino.

  Andrew put a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, I always appreciate a madman getting my blood pumping to start the day,” Sam said, attempting to smile.

  “What did he want?”

  “He wanted me to tell Tom he couldn’t play basketball anymore, wants him to work or something.”

  “Well, don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of Stonebreaker.”

  Andrew half turned and glared up the street.

  “Thanks, I’m really glad you came along.”

  “The boys didn’t do too well last night,” Wainwright said with a mock frown.

  “I never realized you had the gift of understatement.”

  “Do you think there’s any hope for the Norwegian kid?”

  “I don’t know,” Sam said. “There’s so little time and there’s so many fundamentals he doesn’t get.”

  “It really hurt when the boys scored from outside and it got nullified because he was camped in the lane.”

  “Yeah, and that’s just for openers,” Sam said.

  “Well, you go get ’em tonight. I’ll be there, and hopefully they’ve shaken the moths out.”

  “Or the butterflies,” Sam said, realizing his stomach fluttered with a newly hatched swarm.

  Andrew went into the grocery store and Sam scurried to the safety of his Ford. He kept an eye peeled for Tom’s father while despising the garments of cowardice he wore, yet knowing he could easily give in to the madness and unleash the vengeance stored in the arsenals of his rage. He started his car and hightailed it out of Three Forks. For a fleeting moment he thought of buying a gun. No, never give in to it, never. It was Amy’s voice he heard, clear and strong, and he felt ashamed.

  SATURDAY NIGHT AT the Big Timber tournament had been more of the same. Diana massaged Sam’s shoulders and neck on the way home before he could suggest she drive. Olaf and Curtis had fouled out and, playing four against five, Willow Creek fell to Lavina, 61 to 50. She sensed the disappointment in all of them, but more acutely in Sam, and as was her habit, she tried to make things better. When they were locking up the equipment late Saturday, she suggested they go out to eat Sunday night.

  “Oh … ah … that would be nice,” Sam said.

  “How about the Land of Magic in Logan? I’d like to get away.”

  “Sure, that sounds fine.”

  “Okay, pick me up around seven. Do you know where I live?”

  “Of course.”

  She turned his of course over in her mind on the way home. Was it the response of people who live in a small community and know about each other, or was it the response of someone who took a personal interest in someone? She caught herself hoping it was the latter.

  SUNDAY NIGHT, Sam’s headlights raked the deteriorating barnyard. He pulled up to the house and stopped, a once-thriving ranch site that had been left behind in the wake of modern expansion, the house a casualty, farmed out as rental property. Before Sam could get out of the car, Diana came bounding out of the house and into the front seat. She wore a white sweater and red skirt under her unbuttoned down coat, and beneath that crimson matador hat, her hair flowed freely over her shoulders, begging him to touch it. She planted herself next to him and smiled. Sam swallowed hard and was sure he caught a whiff of lavender soap.

  “I’m starving,” she said. “I could eat a horse.”

  “Well, good … let’s go find a place that serves horse Wellington.”

  “Horse Cacciatore.”

  “Corned horse and cabbage,” he said.

  “Horse Newburg?”

  They laughed and he drove out of the yard.

  The Land of Magic was a renowned restaurant in the valley, sitting in the little village of Logan, a once-thriving community now bypassed by all but locals, sheltered in a rock gorge along the Gallatin River that was only frequented from the outside world by passing freight trains on their journey to somewhere else. The brown-stained log building hardly stood out among the other dozen or so dwellings along old Highway 10, once the main artery across southern Montana between Chicago and Seattle.

  At a candlelit table along the log wall, they ordered dinner.

  “This was my idea, the treat’s on me,” Diana said.

  “Oh, that’s good of you, but you don’t need to do that.”

  “Is that hard on your male genes?”

  “I don’t know, I haven’t had a woman offer to buy my dinner lately.” He tried to laugh.

  When the waitress left with their order, Sam said, “The shrimp here is terrific, some special batter.”

  “I love shrimp,” she said as Sam relished the natural pout of her lips and the seduction of her throaty voice.

  “Why didn’t you order it?”

  “I refuse to eat them.”

  “Why?” Sam tried not to stare.

  “The shrimpers of our country refuse to use devices in their nets that would prevent the drowning of sea turtles. They say it’s too much bother. It’s my way of identifying with sea turtles, while they’re still around. I’ll never bother to eat anything that has shrimp in it until they bother to stop the unnecessary killing.”

  Her voice carried a weight he’d not heard from her before.

  “Good for you, I think that’s great.”

  Sam pushed his aviator glasses up on his nose and turned toward the kitchen.

  “Ma’am!”

  The middle-aged woman in a long Western dress and apron scurried to their table. She raised her eyebrows on her aiming-to-please face. “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am, but I’d like to change my order. Hold the shrimp. Give me, ah, the rib eye, medium well … no make that medium rare. Thank you.”

  The woman nodded and headed for the kitchen.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” Diana said.

  “I wanted to, I admire your stand.”

  “I’ve gotten seven people to quit eating shrimp.”

  “Eight,” he said.

  Throughout the meal he tried to concentrate on what she was saying and keep his eyes on her natural, unpainted face when they wanted to tippytoe the outline of her sumptuous orchard or trace the nape of her supple neck. She was ravishing in her soft, white sweater, and being with her sent testosterone mainlining through his body; he felt intoxicated, brave and strong and strangely happy.

  “ … and the birds are the only living descendants from the dinosaurs,” she said as Sam caught up with the conversation.

  “Have you seen the vultures?” Sam said.

  “Yes, there were two more nests this summer.” She nibbled on a radish. “Dean told me about them just north of his place.”

  “Are we going to keep him eligible?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “It’ll be close all winter, but I’d sure miss him on our trips.”

  “Isn’t he God’s green creation?”

  She nodded with her mouth full.

  Sam finished the last slice of his steak. “You’ll have to learn to drive the bus, those long trips—”

  “No, I can’t drive that thing,” she said and laughed.

  “Sure you can, there’s nothing—”

  “No! I don’t want to drive it.” She laid her fork on the table and looked into his eyes. “Do you understand? And please don’t ask me to drive in front of the kids, it’s embarrassing.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you felt so strongly about it.”

  “It’s all right,” she said, her voice calming. “It’s just something I have to get over. I’m sorry I can’t help with the driving.”

  Sam was puzzled, she drove her Volvo all over the country. But he recognized the worm holes in his own peculiar history and he let it go.

  WHEN SAM PULLED into the unused barnyard he floundered in the ambivalence of his emotions. He wanted to prolong this time with her, dreaded saying good night and
going home, and yet feared giving in to his attraction to her and becoming involved. Before he could turn off the ignition, she rescued him.

  “Would you like to come in?”

  “Ah … yeah, thanks.”

  Inside she took his coat and he began browsing through her front room. Her little farm house was a revelation: bookshelves crammed with volumes on birds and flowers and stars and insects and fish and mammals, a depository on nature, a museum of the earth’s creatures, with dolphins and humpback whales and passenger pigeons adorning the walls. Sam moved from shelf to shelf, from painting to poster, completely astonished and deeply impressed with this biology teacher who had come out of nowhere to teach in Willow Creek, Montana.

  “Now I see why you’re always disappearing into the fields and woods,” Sam said, perching on the edge of her deep-cushioned sofa.

  “I didn’t know anyone noticed.”

  She regarded him with the warmth of her dark eyes. Sam felt his face flush and he glanced away. She turned on her television and slipped a cassette into a VCR.

  “You might like this,” she said, settling on the sofa beside him. For nearly an hour Sam was fascinated by the documentary on the plight of the sea turtle: coming back to the beach where they were born after thirty or forty years to bury their eggs; the newborn, coming out of the shell and struggling for two days up through the sand, then racing across the beach for the ocean, instinctively knowing it was their home. Sam found tears blurring his vision as the little hatchlings, about the size of a silver dollar, touched wet sand and scrambled like Keystone Kops for the surging waves, swimming out into the vast ocean, going where? A species that has survived for millions of years was presently being slaughtered for food, jewelry, wallets, and knickknacks, their existence threatened and their future in doubt.

  When the documentary was over, Diana put on a cassette, Mozart he thought, and she lit several candles, dowsing the lights. They sat on the sofa facing each other, Diana with her shoes kicked off and her legs folded under her red skirt. He’d fallen into his most farfetched fantasy. He pulled off his shoes and they swapped chapters of their stories like cross-legged traders at a Turkish market. With the scene meticulously set in flickering shades of possible passion, Sam—sweating out this delectable perplexity like answered prayer—hadn’t a clue as to what was expected of him. His mouth went dry.

  “Why are you teaching in Willow Creek?” he said.

  “I’m an endangered species, hiding out in the backwaters of America. I’m not sure what I’m hiding from.” She laughed. “But it feels right.” She shook her hair back over her shoulder. “How about you?”

  “I thought it would be … different, and I wanted to see the West.”

  Sam had long ago come to the conclusion that all of them had stepped out of the mainstream, into the calm, quiet backwaters of Willow Creek, to find refuge and healing, to lick their wounds and find some peace, to hide from life’s capricious whims, to save their souls. But he kept it to himself.

  “Ever been married?” she said.

  “Once, a long time ago.”

  “What happened?”

  “It didn’t work out.”

  “I know about that,” she said.

  “You been married?”

  “Yes …” She paused. “For six years.”

  “Any children?”

  “We had a girl.” She picked at a fingernail.

  Sam sensed he’d touched a nerve but pushed on. “Is she with her father?”

  “She died when she was four.”

  “Oh, God … I’m sorry …”

  Diana cleared her throat. “Do you think there’s some way we can get it into Olaf’s head about the free-throw lane. I’ve looked at the stats and if we eliminated sixty or seventy per cent of his turnovers, we’d have won both games.”

  Glad she changed the subject, Sam said, “You’re right, I’ve thought about that all weekend, his walking with the ball, three seconds in the paint—”

  “And fouling,” she said. “If he caught on to those three, he’d be some player. Right now he’s a liability.”

  “That’s it,” Sam said. “How do we get it into his head in just a few days or weeks?”

  “Brain implant,” she said and he sensed she’d fended off a darkness.

  He had the impulse to reach over and take her in his arms, to hold her closely and protect her from some self-inflicted wound he sensed she continued perpetrating in her mind. At the door she took him by surprise once more and leaned against him, zeroing in with dark liquid eyes.

  “I’ve enjoyed being with you, you’re different, I like you.”

  Sam swallowed hard and attempted to find something to say in the dizzy motion of his mind. Tentatively he put his arms around her waist. She brought her warm pouty lips to his. He pulled her close for a moment, feeling her breath in his mouth, her belly and breasts against him. Then, as the fierceness threatened to break loose within him, he stepped back as though some unseen hand had tapped him on the shoulder, warning him of three seconds in the paint.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I better go.”

  “See you tomorrow.”

  Sensing they had traded lies, Sam made his getaway, an owl gliding into the night who understood that the birds were the only living descendants of the dinosaurs. He lay in his bed that night, scared, muddled, confused, frightened to death that he could become deeply in love with this woman, the way he was with Amy. So deeply in love that he’d be utterly destroyed if he ever lost her.

  CHAPTER 22

  Monday morning Grandma Chapman felt the defeats seep into the daily routines of the townspeople like arctic drafts through worn-out weather stripping, bringing a chill to the bones, frost to the heart.

  The hard-core pessimists of Willow Creek, those who had steeled themselves against any expectation of victory, accepted the weekend losses as part of nature’s unremitting cycle, where winter winds eat snow, blow away topsoil, and bury dreams; where short bleak days and long lightless nights suck heat from the body, joy from the spirit; and where—as a part of this ceaseless tide—the basketball team limps through its foreordained itinerary of loss. These defectors dismissed the teams’s failure with a few snide remarks about the games, and Olaf, the Norwegian oaf, and then summarily moved on to more significant matters such as government subsidies, subsoil moisture, and the price of heating oil.

  But those townsfolk who had willingly or unconsciously allowed themselves a glimmer of hope caught themselves hurting again, having dared to believe: children standing along the siding, waiting for the circus train, hearing that it had been rerouted another way because of a washout and wouldn’t be stopping here after all, the earned coins languishing in their pockets. Already tasting cotton candy, smelling roasting peanuts, and following elephants along the street in their minds, they had to turn for home and try to swallow the dried saliva of their expectations.

  At the Blue Willow, Hazel strutted her prophecy to Grandma Chapman with I-told-you-so’s, but after the ponderous woman had worked so hard at the scrimmages and personally identified with the team—misplacing over twenty pounds somewhere in the modest gym—Grandma Chapman recognized the note of hurt in Hazel’s braggart voice and the disappointment in her nearly hidden hazel eyes. Leaning against the pie counter and bending Axel’s ear, John English, who raised his ireful voice at obviously appropriate times, let all eavesdroppers know that if the school board had listened to him they wouldn’t be going through the torture of another humiliating winter.

  With her peach-colored hair in curlers that resembled the jet engines on a 747, Mavis Powers, who kept one eye on the post office through the front window, got in her two cents worth.

  “One of these years we’ll have a bunch of boys coming up through the grades.”

  “We should live so long,” Hazel said.

  “One of these years cows will fly,” John said loudly.

  Amos Flowers, who had furtively roosted in a corner of the bar, glided toward
the front door under his inseparable Tom Mix hat.

  “Well, the boys are getting good exercise,” Mildred Thompson, a retired teacher, said in her sophisticated manner, as everyone casually noted Amos’s passing, “and they’re staying out of trouble.”

  “If we don’t win this year,” Grandma said, “we never will, with them about to shanghai our kids off to the Three Forks High School.”

  She watched as Amos momentarily hesitated by the door, squinting out into the street. Then he shuffled back through the dining room and said something to Axel, who nodded toward the kitchen. Behind the serving counter Grandma could see Amos’s hat drifting through the kitchen until it went out of sight, apparently out the back door. Grandma turned and gazed out the front window. Nothing unusual. Only a green four-door sedan she didn’t recognize across the street. She shrugged.

  “This is the year, by God,” Rip said with his toothless mouth.

  “This is the year of lunatics,” John English said from his leathery, suntanned face.

  He cast an accusing glance at Rip and Grandma. Then he stomped out in his black going-to-town Tony Lama boots.

  EVEN THOUGH THE losses were treated like relatives in the penitentiary, the stink of defeat drifted through the school hallways, contaminating any attempt at frivolity and lightheartedness. Sam bumped into Dean as the boy rushed up the stairs to the second floor before first bell.

  “Good morning, Dean.”

  “Hi,” he said.

  His face glistened with sweat and damp ovals spread from the armpits of his faded flannel shirt. Sam couldn’t help but wonder if that’s what the exuberant freshman was referring to when Sam talked him into playing basketball, when the boy insisted that he stunk. Maybe it was glandular. It wasn’t glandular that Olaf hung around after English class, and when they were alone, approached Sam with a pensive face.

  “The basketball I am not playing,” Olaf said firmly.

  “Oh, I think you’re doing well; you’ve come a long way. Those two losses don’t mean much, we’ll start winning.”

  “No, the basketball I am not playing.”

  “What do you mean?” Sam said, gazing up into the boy’s remorseful expression. His blue eyes pooled with disillusionment.