Blind Your Ponies Page 17

  THE CELEBRATION MOVED down Main Street to the Blue Willow where Sam could see Axel was visibly upset that he had missed the unexpected triumph, sure he’d have to wait another three or four years for the next. The inn buzzed with an uncommon energy as the team ate and jabbered about every aspect of the game as they each remembered it, laughing and savoring the heady flavor of winning on their virgin palates. Dean laughed the hardest at his field goal attempt when, running wide open, he drop-kicked the ball off the scoreboard. Sam, holding the squat boy’s arm high like a victorious prizefighter, officially dubbed him the “Dutch Boy” who saved his town with his finger in the dike.

  At a table with Hazel and Mavis, Grandma looked across at John English who stood at the bar.

  “Hey, English, who won the game?”

  John turned in reflex and then, catching himself, returned to his conversation, ignoring her.

  “I believe I just saw a cow flying by!” Grandma shouted, and although John gave no indication he heard her, he certainly heard the laughter that followed.

  Rip fell asleep in a chair next to the red player piano that Olaf pedaled with unrestrained joy, giving a beat to the spontaneous celebration that had been five years incubating and which most of the Willow Creek community—probably Christmas shopping in Bozeman—would only hear about when they awoke to a new day.

  In the midst of the merrymaking, Grandma dragged Peter outside to take a turn on the bicycle built for two. Others followed out onto the porch in the mild winter night and they made a game of it, seeing who could ride down past the grain elevator, around the block, and back to the porch in the shortest time.

  Though it looked easy, they soon found out there was more to it than riding single. Grandma and Pete did it in two minutes and eleven seconds, according to Axel’s second hand. Tom and Olaf took a turn, wobbling and weaving down the faintly lit Main Street with everyone on the porch howling and shouting, Olaf behind Tom like a grown man on a child’s trike, his knees higher than the handlebars, a grasshopper trying to stay upright on a quaking blade of grass. They made the circuit in two minutes and forty-two seconds, having fallen over twice. When Tom got off, Hazel shoved her way through to the bike before Olaf could dismount.

  “Let me take a round with you.”

  “You can’t ride that thing,” Grandma said.

  “Just watch me,” Hazel said, giggling as she hoisted her heavy body onto the tiny bike seat in front of the startled Norwegian.

  The spectators on the porch exchanged incredulous glances while the two pushed off and teetered down the blacktop, the tires all but flattened by their weight, veering from side to side, nearly flopping to the left, then pitching to the right. They glided through the shadows like circus performers, the fat lady and the thin man on a tandem bike, out of sight past the elevator and onto the gravel.

  “I wonder if the lovers will ever come back for their bike?” Axel said as they waited.

  “Yep,” Rip said without hesitation. “One a these days they will, sure as shootin’.”

  Back down First Street, nearly sideswiping a parked pickup, Hazel and Olaf rode, heading for home, bobbing and weaving toward the rowdy spectators, reaching the finish line in three minutes and seven seconds. Rob and Pete inspected the tires as Hazel puffed up the steps. She settled heavily in the rickety wicker rocker and nearly destroyed it.

  Curtis and Dean took a turn and everyone could hear the Dutch Boy’s shrill whoops and hollers all around the block. Rob and Mary had the slowest time and were accused of parking on the far side of the block. Andrew Wainwright convinced Amos Flowers to climb on the contraption and it appeared as though the Tom Mix hat was driving.

  When nearly everyone had taken a turn on the bike, Diana pulled Sam by the coat sleeve. “Come on, we can beat that time.”

  Sam climbed on the back for power and Diana up front for navigation. They were off to a fast start with the roar of the gang behind them. They swooped and swayed and careened around the corner.

  “We shouldn’t be doing this together,” Diana called.

  “Why not?” Sam said, floating in the joy of this rapturous moment.

  “They say that couples who ride this bike will have a falling out.”

  “Do you believe in folklore?” he said as they took the third turn.

  “You’re the English teacher, I stick to biology.”

  Oh, how he’d like to stick to biology with the biology teacher!

  They pitched around the corner and came to a faltering stop in front of the inn. Axel clocked them at two minutes and four seconds. They had won together on this night of winning. Sam mused over the legendary bike to which some attributed magical powers. Would it adversely affect his budding relationship with his assistant coach? They couldn’t very well have a falling out before they had a falling in. At least, if the bike held any enchantment at all, he could look forward first to the falling in.

  As Diana put on her ski jacket she caught Sam who was still out on the porch.

  “I’ll be leaving in the morning.” She smiled. “Why don’t you come out for a while if you can break free.”

  “I’ll try.”

  The look in her eye and the invitation in her voice sucked all the oxygen out of his lungs.

  CHAPTER 28

  Sam checked his watch: ten-thirteen; it wouldn’t seem unreasonable. He gathered the boys and told them it was time they headed for home, that they would practice tomorrow afternoon with no letup. They didn’t protest, not even Tom, which surprised him.

  He attempted to look nonchalant as he bid some of the other celebrants good night and worked his way out the door. Main Street was deserted except for a balmy mountain wind, and he quickened his pace, somewhat giddy with this strange and wonderful night. A new moon beamed a thin smile at him, lying on its back near the rim of the Tobacco Roots. Stars glimmered in the cloudless sky and animals scurried in the darkness ahead of him in a town of wild creatures.

  Lima had a decent team in a conference where some coaches had to work miracles with baling wire and chewing gum, but teams like Twin Bridges and Gardiner and Manhattan Christian were another matter. Nonetheless Sam would savor this exhilarating experience and unparalleled feeling while it lasted; he’d deal with the other in turn. He felt an unfamiliar surge of pride, and he jumped high enough to click his heels. He wanted to tell someone about what they had done that night, but he didn’t know who.

  I’m doing better, Amy, I’m doing better.

  He banged through the front door and snapped on the lights as conflicting voices competed in his head: Got to take a shower, shave, change clothes. Don’t go out there, just turn on the TV and get to bed early. Hurry, she may go to bed thinking you aren’t coming. You’re not ready for this! Tell her you were too tired. There’s danger out there, you know what can happen. Are you mad, turning down an invitation to Eden?

  As though his fate were determined by some unseen hand, he hurried toward the magnetic vision of Diana standing naked in the locker room. A navy shower, pull on some clothes, no clean underwear, forget the underwear, a clean pair of jeans and his sexy soft cotton Levi shirt. Hurry, run the electric shaver over his face, splash on aftershave, hurry, brush hair, brush teeth, socks, forget socks, pull on loafers, out the door.

  Sam drove up the blacktop in his Ford Tempo and as he passed the Blue Willow, Grandma’s VW bus had pulled up at the back and the brake lights were on but not the headlights. Grandma? Peter? He checked his watch. Nearly eleven. Strange. But as he rounded the curve and headed north he discovered the voices were waiting for him in ambush.

  DIANA STRIPPED OFF her clothes and showered the moment she got home, feeling hot and sticky from the night’s excitement and exertion. She kept asking herself why she’d invited Sam out. What would he think? Could she tell him, being that she was leaving in the morning for San Diego and Christmas with her parents, that she just wanted to have some time alone with him to talk and unwind? Why did she invite him out? Out of the shower, she pu
lled on a pink terry-cloth robe she’d never worn, and it felt sensuous against her tingling skin. Should she get fully dressed, jeans and sweater? She combed her hair and avoided eye contact in the mirror as if her own eyes would accuse her.

  “We’ll just talk,” she said aloud. “Keep it light, nothing serious, a friendly good-bye. Offer him something to drink—I think there’s some wine—and we’ll just spend a nice quiet hour together and then he’ll go home … maybe a kiss at the door, and I’ll be safe on my way to California in the morning. Or, if we do make love, it’s just a physical thing, a basic need, that’s all, nothing to take seriously, people do it all the time.”

  She hesitated, standing before the mirror in the bathroom. Was that the door? Just her imagination. Relax, nothing serious, keep it light, stay cool. She snapped off the light in the bathroom and hurriedly lit several candles in the living room. Then she blew them out. Too much. She turned on all the lights, stood there a moment, relit the candles and turned out all the lights.

  She peered out the window for headlights. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to get away; after all it was their first win in almost six years. He was probably still celebrating at the Blue Willow. Though she hadn’t been very aggressive, he did have a knack for avoiding her whenever they might spend some time alone. But she’d felt his passion the night they went to dinner and embraced at her door. Sometimes she caught him looking at her. Had she read him wrong? Damn! She wasn’t ready for this. She lit several lamps and blew out the candles.

  ON THE DRIVE out of town, Sam couldn’t deny Amy’s memory, and he knew that one of the voices in his head was hers. He knew she wanted him to live his life fully, with gusto, with passion, but he was terrified of falling in love again, afraid of needing someone like that again, someone who could be snatched away in an instant.

  “Not going to fall in love, not going to fall in love,” he said aloud, in rhythm with the yellow highway strips flying past on the blacktop. “Not going to fall in love, not going to fall in love.”

  Maybe she just wanted to talk, to say good-bye when they were alone. He could turn around; she’d never know he came this far. Keep it light, don’t get serious, don’t get involved, you’re not ready for this. His hands trembled on the steering wheel when he turned on the gravel road to her farmhouse. She’d see the lights by now, too late to turn around. Maybe we’ll just neck on the sofa, friendly like, just for the fun of it.

  He pulled the Ford to a stop in front of the house and doused the lights. Damn, the house was almost dark, she was probably already in bed. He’d taken too long. He stumbled onto the porch and was about to knock when the door opened and she was standing there in a terry cloth robe, barefoot, and the room behind her was aglow with candles.

  “Hi,” he said, his throat going dry.

  “Hi.”

  “I almost didn’t come.”

  “Me too,” she said softly.

  She backed into the house and he followed, tentatively, shutting the door behind him, his breathing quickening.

  “You want to talk?” he said.

  “Yes … talk …”

  He stood in the flickering light for a moment and fire mainlined through his body and face. He could smell her, soapy and sweet, see her in the dull glow with the pink robe’s sash tight around her small waist, the cleavage of her breasts slightly visible. The next moment they flew into each other’s arms and kissed with a primitive hunger.

  “We’re not getting serious,” she said between kisses.

  “Nothing serious.” “Nothing serious,” he said with his mouth tasting the skin of her supple neck. “Just some fun.” And with his last rational thought he told himself, I’m not going to fall in love.

  CHAPTER 29

  With the lights off, Peter guided the old VW bus around to the side of the Blue Willow, moving stealthily even though the village appeared deserted. A few vehicles lingered in front of the café, like weary horses tied at the rail. The night was unseasonably warm, more like April than December, a balmy wind gusting from the southwest.

  Tom and Pete crept to the building’s back door with the bearing of burglars, leaving Olaf in the bus, a getaway driver. Through the windowed door they could see Axel mopping the room. Tom knocked lightly and the brawny man looked up, momentarily startled. Then he waved them in.

  “What are you guys doing up?” the innkeeper said. “You’re supposed to be resting.”

  “We need some paint,” Tom said.

  “Paint! At this time of night?”

  “Yeah, do you have any around?” Pete said.

  Axel cocked his sweat-glistened bald head and regarded the two boys suspiciously, his hand holding the mop handle like a meat cleaver.

  “What are you fellas plannin’ to paint?”

  “We have to fix something,” Tom said. “Do you have any?”

  “We don’t have a water tower.” Axel paused. “A bridge?”

  “No, nothing like that, honest,” Pete said. “Don’t you have any?”

  “Yeah, I got paint. I’m always touching up something around here. What color you need?”

  “Anything but red,” Tom said.

  Axel set the mop aside and led them to a neatly kept back room. He swung open a cupboard and revealed a dozen or more cans of paint in a variety of colors and sizes, none of which was more than a quart.

  “We need a gallon or two,” Tom said.

  “A gallon or two!” Axel shook his head slightly. “What are you going to paint, the talc plant?”

  Tom glanced at Pete with disappointment in his face.

  “Sorry,” Axel said. “That’s all I got.”

  “Would you get my grandma?” Pete asked. “We’re supposed to be in bed and don’t want anyone to see us.”

  “Sure.”

  Axel fetched Grandma Chapman, who was still savoring the win with a few loyalists in the dining room. She came plowing through the kitchen with worry taking root in the furrows of her face.

  “What’s the matter? You all right?” she asked Pete.

  “Yeah, fine,” Pete said. “We need to talk to you.”

  “What are you still doing up? Coach Pickett sent you to bed an hour ago.”

  “I know,” Pete said. “We need your help.” He nodded. “Outside.”

  She exchanged a “what’s up” look with Axel and followed the two boys out the door.

  “They need some paint,” Axel called after them.

  At the bus, Grandma noticed Olaf stacked in the back seat.

  “They keeping you up, too.”

  “Ya, falling asleep I am.”

  “Have you got any paint?” Pete asked, standing beside the truck.

  “Paint? Yes … have a couple of gallons of white; was going to paint the fence last summer, but decided there were more important things to do.”

  “Have you got a brush?” Tom asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Have you got two brushes?” Pete asked.

  “Yes, I have several old brushes. What are you three up to?”

  Tom glanced at Pete, questioning. Pete knew his grandma and nodded at Tom.

  “We’re going to paint the score of the game on my dad’s barn,” Tom whispered as if George Stonebreaker were lurking in the shadows. “He told me we’d never win a game as long as I played, that I was a loser, that the whole team was a bunch of geldings.”

  Grandma stood silently for a moment, regarding the three boys. Then she looked into Tom’s stubborn face. “Can I help?”

  GRANDMA BOUNCED THE Volkswagen bus across the pasture, the vehicle’s lights off. Tom sat beside her, pointing the way, while Pete and Olaf rode on the bone-jarring bench seat, shaking two cans of Sherwin-Williams outdoor latex. They stopped at a fence line and scrambled out of the bus, a quarter of a mile south of the ranch site.

  “This is great,” Grandma said. “Thought I’d lost any chance to do something like this.”

  They helped each other through the barbed wire fence, headed toward the one
dim yard light, which did little to dispel the smothering darkness. The wind prodded at Pete’s back as though sensing he was losing his nerve. Was he the only one with a knot of fear in his stomach? he wondered. His mother was coming to Willow Creek for Christmas and, though he felt like a traitor, he knew he could talk her into letting him go home with her.

  “What will your dad do if he catches us?” Pete asked Tom, who led the way.

  “He’ll kill us.”

  Pete tried to find some comfort in numbers, but as he glanced at the shadows beside him, he found no comfort. Tom hurried ahead of them, and all at once the barn loomed out of the darkness like a great ship, casting its outline against the star-spangled sky. Passing an assortment of farm machinery, Tom led them around to the dark side of the barn, in the lee from the yard light. He stopped and swept his arm toward the towering broadside.

  “There,” he said.

  The three of them stood gawking at the huge wall, the first story of which was constructed out of mortared field stones. Small square windows six feet above ground level ran the length of the barn like cannon ports.

  “How are we going to get up there?” Pete asked.

  “We’ve got an old ladder,” Tom said, “but first I’ve got to see if my dad is home.”

  A dog barked from beyond the barn.

  “That’s Skipper. You wait here,” Tom said, and he crept off into the darkness toward the aroused dog and the one low-watt light.

  Shortly after Tom disappeared, the dog stopped barking. His three cohorts instinctively crouched and waited. Pete began wondering if this was such a great idea after all. He’d heard stories about Tom’s violent father and he wished they had let Axel in on their scheme and brought the oxlike inn-keeper for backup. As a million stars watched mutely from the endless sky, things were moving on the barn, creaking and groaning and bumping in the wind, as though it were a rocking vessel moored to a wharf. How would they ever know if one of the sounds was Tom’s dad? Peter was able to make out more of his surroundings as his eyes adjusted to the shadows of the barnyard. The minutes stretched on until it seemed as though Tom had deserted them.