Blind Your Ponies Read online

  “To be coming to USA I did not want.”

  The boy paused and Sam was surprised, always assuming it had been Olaf’s idea to be an exchange student.

  “I must be coming my father said. Understanding America and this language is necessary to do well in business.”

  “Is that what you want to do—business?”

  “No. To be a teacher.”

  “Doesn’t your father want you to teach?”

  “No, to make a good living, he says, be in business and finance.”

  Sam rounded the curve into Willow Creek and chuckled at the irony. If Olaf grew another inch or two and kept improving at the rate he had in the past four months, he would likely, After college, make more money playing basketball than his father ever dreamed of making in the world of business.

  During almost an hour of watching basketball, Sam noticed Olaf’s attention waning, his eyes drifting off on occasion. After hurrying him home to bed, concerned that they were wearing the boy out in their eagerness to forge another win or two, Sam wondered if he was using Olaf as Mervin might be, or was he helping the boy to grow and learn and experience one of the grandest times of his life? He didn’t know, and he recognized that he could never understand, truly, why he did anything. If Mervin was wagering on Olaf for a victory over his brother, what was Sam’s bet?

  All his hope had amounted to nothing. They were 1 and 6. Other than the one narrow victory they were right where they always were.

  FOR THE REST of the week, like two children who had played with matches and nearly burned down the house, Sam and Diana shied from each other as though neither wanted to admit they had a strain of pyromania in their nature.

  CHAPTER 41

  When the Greyhound pulled up along Main Street in Three Forks, Peter was the first one off. With his backpack and duffel in hand, he trundled across the street to the Conoco station. He called Grandma on the pay phone, but no one answered. He realized where she was now—at the game. They were playing Gardiner that night and he would’ve made it with time to spare if the bus hadn’t had mechanical trouble. They had to transfer onto another bus in Bismarck.

  Inside the Conoco station, he asked the stoop-shouldered man behind the counter if he could leave his stuff until he came back for it with a car. The man glanced over the Guns & Ammo magazine he was reading and nodded. Peter crossed the street and ran through downtown, three blocks, then out the road to Willow Creek. There was a cluster of cars around each of the several bars, but nothing moving. He quickly put the five or six blocks of residential neighborhoods behind him. As he followed the curve at the edge of town out past the brick yard and talc plant, he was winded. The blacktop aimed the six miles to Willow Creek as straight as an arrow. There were no cars on the road, it seemed everyone was at the game. He slowed to a walk and held his watch up to his face. Eight-thirteen. They would be into the second half. He started running again, pushing himself. He knew he could make a difference.

  Headlights appeared coming around the curve behind him. He turned, hung a friendly smile on his face and stuck out his thumb. The car swung to the other side of the highway, slowed, and went past him several car lengths before stopping. Pete ran to the passenger window, which was down.

  “Thanks for stopping, are you going to Willow Creek?”

  It was a woman, maybe fifty years old.

  “I’m supposed to be playing in the basketball game tonight and the game’s already going and—”

  “Hop in,” she said.

  Peter opened the door and slid into the passenger seat. It was a big car, a Buick or Oldsmobile.

  “So you go to Willow Creek, huh?” she said.

  “Yeah. Are you going to the game?”

  “No… just driving around, remembering… making my getaway.”

  Pete didn’t understand. With only the light from the dashboard he noticed she had a bathrobe on under her winter jacket, and slippers.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Peter… Peter Strong.”

  “I used to live around here, grew up on our ranch west of Willow Creek, the Taylor place now.”

  She sounded sad, really sad. Pete looked at his watch. Eight-twenty.

  “How come you’re late for the game?”

  “I was visiting someone in Minnesota. I was supposed to be back in time but the bus broke down.”

  She didn’t seem to hear him.

  “I went to school in Willow Creek a long time ago,” she said. “We had a few good teams back then, even went to State once.”

  “Did you win it?”

  “No, didn’t win a game, but we sure had fun going.”

  “We have a kid from Norway. He’s six foot eleven.”

  “I’ve heard all about him. I live over east of Churchill, had two boys play basketball for Manhattan Christian.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard all about them. I missed our first game against them when I was back in Minnesota.”

  Pete could see the meager lights of Willow Creek and he prayed he would at least make the fourth quarter.

  “You know, even when my boys were playing for Christian, in my heart I’d be rooting for Willow Creek.”

  Pete thought of Kathy and the hurt rose up in his chest. “When you went to school here, did you have a boyfriend?” he said.

  “Yes…”

  “Did you get married?”

  “No…” she said, “we never did.”

  “Why not?”

  “We got mixed up and confused and lost.”

  Pete didn’t know what she meant. “Did you love him?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  She stopped in front of the school.

  “What’s your name?” Pete said with his hand on the door latch.

  “Maggie.”

  “Thanks for the ride, Maggie.”

  He opened the door and got out.

  “I still do,” she said.

  “Still do what?” he said, about to shut the door.

  “I still do love him.”

  “I gotta run,” he said, and wondered if she’d been drinking.

  He shut the door and turned for the school. The car window purred down.

  “I hope you win!” she called. “I hope someone wins in Willow Creek one of these times.”

  Pete dashed for the school door.

  When he came through the lunch room and across one end of the gym, the action was at the other end and no one seemed to notice him. The scoreboard had visitors 49 home 37. He knew he had at least twelve points in him. In the locker room he found his jersey and trunks hanging where he’d left them as if they expected him back, as if they knew better than he that he’d return. He had no jock. He’d wear his underwear under his trunks. His game shoes were in his duffel but the shoes he had on would do. He glanced in the steel mirror to see if he was all together, took a deep breath, and ran out onto the court.

  The teams were at their benches, it was the end of the third quarter. Fans in the bleachers saw him coming first and after a blink of the eyes, they were standing, clapping, and shouting. He waved at Grandma, whose mouth hung open so far she nearly fell out of the stands. The boys turned from their huddle around Coach Pickett and Miss Murphy with astonished faces, and Peter ran into their arms like the one lost sheep. They hugged him and shouted and laughed, growing wide smiles on their exhausted, sweaty faces. Coach Pickett beamed as if he’d swallowed the sun.

  They needed him here, he counted for something. He thought he’d burst with the joy of it.

  SAM HAD WATCHED coach Fred Sooner and his Gardiner Bruins swagger into Willow Creek. State Champions two years ago, the Bruins still wore the confidence and self-assurance such achievements breed. Sam had hoped that his five could give them a game, knowing in his head that that was highly unlikely. Denise Cutter, Dean’s cerebral-palsied sister, sat in her wheelchair at the end of the bleachers, watching. He couldn’t remember seeing her at a game before.

  Olaf fouled out halfway through the third quarter and Fr
ed Sooner showed his sportsmanship by having one of his players simply stand on the court in front of their bench without participating in the game, playing four on four.

  In the last minute of the third quarter, with Gardiner ahead by fourteen, Curtis was called for his fifth foul. They were down to three; they were beaten. Sam felt the utter absurdity of his hopes, heard the voices ridiculing and mocking his expectations as if he were the lunatic knight in Cervantes’ imagination. He conceded and sat quietly on the bench.

  Then, like a Willow Creek ghost, Peter trotted across the floor out of nowhere, in uniform and ready to play. Was he dreaming?

  Now they had four players, and it was four on four when the fourth quarter started, but after Peter hit five straight shots, Gardiner’s sportsmanship had soured and their fifth player was no longer just standing in front of the bench. Their fifth player was double-teaming Peter, who was playing like they’d insulted his mother.

  Mervin Painter, who had become one of their most boisterous fans, thundered from the bleachers, “You can’t beat us man for man! You can’t beat us even-Steven!”

  Rob hit a nice turnaround jumper, bringing the Broncs within three. Sam wanted to believe. The Willow Creek fans were on their feet, daring to hang their hearts out one more time, but Sam couldn’t join them. It hurt too much.

  They lost by seven. Peter Strong had come too late. Sam praised his boys in the locker room, though there wasn’t much to say anymore. They were 1 and 7. While all the other boys circled around Peter, asking about his journey to Minnesota and looking for assurances he was back for good, Sam approached Dean, who slumped on a bench and pulled off holey socks.

  “You played well, Dean,” Sam said, patting him on the back. “Did you have some fun?”

  “Yeah, but I stunk,” the freshman said, crunching up his nose.

  “No, you did great, and your mother and sister were here. I hope they’ll come again.”

  “Mom says they can’t afford the tickets,” Dean said.

  “Oh,” Sam said, taken back. “We always have some extra tickets lying around. You tell them to come. We need all the fans we can get. I’ll take care of the tickets.”

  GRANDMA DROVE THE VW bus up the blacktop for Three Forks after Pete told her he had to get his things at the Conoco station. He sat quietly for a while, hurting over the immediate loss which seemed to magnify his greater loss.

  “How’d you get to Willow Creek?” Grandma said.

  “I hitched a ride with a nice lady. Her name was Maggie.”

  “Maggie Painter?” Grandma said.

  “She didn’t say.”

  Grandma wondered if it was indeed Maggie Painter. What was she doing driving around Willow Creek at night? Grandma had heard tell when she first arrived in Willow Creek that Mervin’s older brother had stolen Maggie from him when they were young sweethearts. The latest word was that Maggie, who was pretty sick, had taken a turn for the worse.

  “Well,” Grandma said, “what did you find out back in Saint Paul?”

  “No one wants me back there.”

  “Well, that’s hunky-dory with me because there’s lots of us who want you here.”

  “Kathy’s going with some senior jerk. She said she was sorry.”

  “How about your mom?” Grandma said, swinging down Main Street in Three Forks.

  “I think she has a boyfriend, she was always talking on the phone like she didn’t want me to hear. I was in her way. She always had some place she had to go.”

  She pulled into the station and Pete threw his stuff in the back. She turned for home.

  “How about your dad? Did you see him?”

  “Yeah, stayed with him a couple nights, but he said it was a bad time, that I’d have to stay with you until summer.”

  “Well, at least you didn’t lose a hand in the deal,” Grandma said, trying to lighten his load, “or other body parts.”

  “Does a heart count?” He stared out the side window.

  “Peter, my lovely grandson, you’ll discover that the heart is a very resilient muscle.”

  “I wasn’t good enough for her, or cool enough or something.”

  “You feeling… ugly?”

  “Yeah, like there is something wrong with me… ugly.”

  He didn’t speak again until they were almost into Willow Creek.

  “Grandma, do you ever get lonesome?”

  “Lonesome? Well, I’ll tell you. Lonesome is a sly bugger. It crouches behind every memory, it lies in ambush in every drawer, it hangs in the closet like old clothes, ready to waylay you when you’re least expectin’ it. But one thing I’ve found, it’s slow, it’s sure slow. It can only grab you if you’re giving in to life, sittin’ around thinkin’ too much. I just keep moving so fast it can never get its stinking hands on me.”

  She stopped in front of the house and pulled on the hand brake.

  They were home.

  CHAPTER 42

  When most of the fans had filed out of the Blue Willow, Sam and Diana remained huddled at a small table near the antique black-iron stove. The bar was busy, and a few couples danced to country and western music out of the jukebox. After they had traded their feelings from losing again, mitigated by the joy of having Peter back, Diana shared her excitement over a teaching position she had applied for near San Diego.

  “They even have a course in oceanography for the high school students,” she said.

  “Sea turtles?”

  “Yeah.” Her face brightened.

  Their conversation had slowly circled their Beartrap Hot Springs excursion until Sam finally jumped head first into it.

  “When are we going hot-potting again?”

  He toyed with the salt shaker, trembling inside that she’d say Never.

  “That was a surprise,” she said. “I don’t know what got into us.”

  “Well, whatever it was, I hope it gets into us again.” He laughed.

  “It was good, wasn’t it?” Her eyes smiled warmly.

  “Milk chocolate.”

  “Milk chocolate?” she asked.

  “Yes, you ruined everything.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “When I was a young boy I couldn’t go off our block. That was my boundary. On the other side of our block and across the street there was one of those filling stations that sold more pop, junk food, and cigarettes than gas. My parents were super strict about candy. I only got it on rare occasions like holidays or birthdays.”

  “Was this before you started school?”

  “Yeah, maybe I was five or six. Well, there were these three girls in my neighborhood, about my age or a little older, who didn’t have like-minded parents. They hauled candy out of that store like looters in a riot. We’d sit on a cement-block wall in the alley and I’d watch them feed their faces: Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, licorice twists, Milky Ways.”

  “Good night, you two!” Andrew called on his way out. “Great to have Peter back!”

  “Yes,” Sam said, and Diana waved.

  “Back to our gang,” she said.

  “Well, at first they shared some of their candy with me. One of them, a kind of pushy little girl, always got Hershey bars, and I became addicted to milk chocolate. But it wasn’t long before they figured out I never had any candy of my own and that I wasn’t allowed to have any. That got them started. They’d bribe me, offering me one little square of milk chocolate if I’d do something ridiculous like roll in the dirt or sit up like a dog and bark—humiliating things.”

  “Would you do it?” she said, then grinned.

  “Oh yeah. Boy could I do a good dog imitation. And they enjoyed this wondrous power they held over me. Then, After a while, they turned it up a notch to cruel. They’d make me run around the block. When I was finished, they’d say it wasn’t fast enough, and around I’d go again, faster. They’d make me shinny up a telephone pole and when I’d slide down, full of slivers and creosote, they’d say I didn’t go high enough. Up I’d go again
, anything for a square or two of milk chocolate.”

  “Those dirty little creeps,” Diana said.

  “I started to hate those girls, teasing me, hoarding their glut of candy and making me beg, using me for their cheesy entertainment. One day I finally had enough. I began telling myself I hated candy, especially milk chocolate. I wouldn’t take it if they gave it to me. I would repeat it over and over: I hate candy, I hate candy. And you know, I never performed for them again.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Yeah, but that’s only the half of it. When I was in my teens and early twenties, girls had something I wanted—affection, sex, love, pleasure—and they wouldn’t share it with me. I’d trip over my tie being nice and polite and kissing their pretty round asses in hopes they’d share their candy.”

  “Like the little girls in the alley,” Diana said.

  “Like the little girls in the alley. Women seemed to sense the power they held over me. They taunted with their big, beautiful eyes and their delicious-looking lips and their suntanned legs, like Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and Hershey bars and licorice twists.”

  “Ha!” Diana clapped her hands.

  Sam leaned toward her with elbows on the table.

  “Hey, understand I’m not your proverbial sex fiend. I admit to the lusting little hormones, but what women don’t realize, or most men for that matter, is that the physical allurements aren’t an end in themselves, but constant reminders of a much deeper mating, that precious oneness that exists between two people in love.”

  “You want anything more?” Vera called from the counter.

  “Sam wants a lot more,” Diana said.

  “No, thanks. We’re about to go,” Sam said.

  “Don’t want to rush you,” Vera said.

  Sam glanced at his watch. Eleven-fifty. He looked into his assistant coach’s eyes for some understanding.

  “Okay, one day I realized I was back on the block with those little girls who had the candy I wanted. They had power over me again. So I did what I did then. I disciplined myself to give up wanting that wonder with a woman.”

  “Did it work?” Her dark eyes searched his face.