x Tx: Billie the Bull

“I was not measured then, but I suppose I was as tall as a barn door.”

“I will be bigger than a barn door!”

Proud.

Billie Marcus smiles, tousles his hair.

“You are my big son.”

The smaller one curls up, into himself, a speck.

Rainbow in a bottle, disposable cookware, an albino skunk, 33 pink ladybugs, a black magician, a hobo free from facial hair and stench, a black diamond in the shape of a hot dog, a parrot tree, a chubby prima ballerina, the hopes and dreams of a trapped housewife in a dead-end marriage staying for the kids, a horse car, strawberries that grow bunched like grapes, another family missing a father, an oak tree seedling the size of a wine barrel, a penis breathalyzer, 12 ounces of blood perfume, the skin of six adolescent burn victims, a herding dog the size of a sheep to herd the sheep that are the size of cows, all of the freckles from every child who wished them gone, a kitten that eats only bees, an ottoman as big as a couch, a couch as big as a shipping container. These are the things he notes into the Scroll of Records. The scroll full then emptied once again, spins, snaps.

“You know where to put the furniture.”

The Finderman nods his head.

“Very good. You’ve done well.”

“Thank you, sir.”

My chickens. Killed my chickens.

Bloodbath. Tore up.

Broke, like shattered. A tornado. Wrecked.

My cow. Holes in her hide.

A limp. A sickness.

Corn gone. Gone. Rows. Her. It.

Well dry. Dust. I’m telling you.

Cradle barren. Her. Cursed, I say.

The poorhouse. No clothes. Vacant. It’s her.

The plague. The black of the sun.

An angry mob. Instigator.

An evil. That’s it. That she is.

A scar. Grotesque.

My baby. My dog.

The river. The mud.

The infection.

Loss of wages.

Cannot swim. Drowned.

Cheating husband. Lack of sexual interest. Rid us of her.

Consuming sorrow. The pain of childbirth.

A dead goldfish.

A broken plate.

Tinnitus.

Facial scars. Harelip. Cross eye.

Falling out of love.

Alzheimer’s.

Her leaving.

Him staying.

A house fire.

A car accident.

A plane crash.

A botched abortion.

Fetal alcohol syndrome.

A scalding. The burn unit. Catheters.

Head on collision.

A ‘not guilty’ verdict.

Jury duty.

A fallen ice cream.

Bad hair day.

Parking ticket.

Speeding ticket.

Eclipse.

Earthquakes.

Flood.

Tsunami.

(Each matador [killer] has six assistants: two picadors [lancers] on horseback, three banderilleros [flagmen], and a mazo de espada [sword page]. Collectively, they comprise a cuadrilla [entourage].)

They were not fathers, brothers, uncles, neighbors, mechanics, officials, bus drivers, grocery store clerks, soccer players, rodeo clowns, or dentists or doctors: they were men. That day. Holding her down. It took a lot. She knew her strength as did they. They came prepared. How do you slay a giant? They brought it all. Ropes. Cables. Chains. Guns. Knives. Torches. They laughed. “Where’s the fuckin’ pitchforks!” Pickup trucks. A tractor. Razor wire. Buckets. A winch. A shotgun. Sheets and blankets for her mouth. Coolers of beer. A novelty in flesh. A mountain to climb. The trees helped hold her down.

Her kind, a betrayal. They knew where to find her. Predictable in her fear. Predictable in her shame. Nobody would miss her. Not anymore. The finest opportunity. She dwarfed them. What would it be like to overpower the most powerful? She was every no . She was all women. She was so much female, she was them all, to them; mothers, sisters, girlfriends, wives that they would punish. They would show them all, with her. In this place where she felt safe. In this nowhere, her everywhere.

They took her down first with lassos and trucks. She crumpled and then dragged and they hooted. The dust filled the air, rampant with action. Furrows made from knees, from elbows, from hips and shoulders laced the earth; all hers.

She tried her best, but eventually, she tired. Her fear, then anger, spent; replaced by fear and exhaustion and a warm shameful relinquishing. Now she knew what the bull felt like; daggers in its back; the cheering crowd, heartbeat bursting through primal brain. Her face caked with dirt, sweat and tears. She lay there snorting with bull’s eyes darting at them as they used the chains to wind her to the trees, her neck to the winch, this knot to be maintained, the most threatening should she break free. Her current size could kill a man. This was known. This was reported.

But they found her. Every piece. Inside and out. For hours.

They left and even then she knew as she washed; the river water taking her filth, their filth, away; that parts of them had stayed with her. They were there now, burrowing, taking purchase. She felt their fight, knew the battle, and the taking, would grow strong inside her before it was all over.

“My angels, my angels.”

In a daisy covered clearing a man loves Billie entirely; all of her; all at once. One man. She is a surmountable, achievable entity. “Put my fingers in your mouth. Hold my breast in your hand. Carry me.” Requests of the regular-sized. In a summer dress he lifts her. He lifts her in her petite nakedness; weightless. He kisses her entire mouth with his. He enters her and she is full. He is not afraid. He is not conquering. He is in love. The sky lowers to meet them, still entwined; they float upwards, lighter than all there is. She wills the wings to retract and they obey. “Never put me down,” she orders him. “I never will,” he responds. He stays inside her in the sky. She is full of him as they tumble, airborne. His arms wrap around her seven times. She stays there, safe and small.

A break in the battle within the body of the larger one provides a space of quiet that envelops the air inside the burned out church; walls worn from the shake of his screams. The smaller one removes his hands from his ears and they meet the silence. He opens his eyes.

In this reclusive moment between the larger one’s painful twistings, his mother lies limp with a vacant-eyed collapse; the stretch of her son, on the verge of bloody, unconscious across her span in the gift of sleep or a similar state of forgiveness. Despite her exhaustion, her arms remain vigilant, wrapped around him and ready.

It is in this moment that the smaller one takes his chances.

Unfolding himself from himself, he shuffles towards his mother with the unsteadiness of calves’ calves. His body winces as he crosses into the realm of her unseeing gaze. He lifts his hand, grabs her finger, shakes.

Her eyes switch on, focus: oh, him .

“What do you want?”

The question, falling out of her mouth, buries him like sand. He takes then shrugs its weight.

“Please mama, when will I have my first growing?”

She tracks his eyes with hers. They slide then stick.

“You will not have one. Ever. You are simply ever-growing in the smallest way.”

He frowns, his disappointment along the stab of her eyes.

“Son, your size is what it is. It is only regular size. You will not have any growings, or the pains of becoming so much more. It is your hand. Try not to be sad. Look at the suffering of your brother and know that this will never be yours.”