Kent Haruf - The Tie That Binds

“Hell,” one of them said. “The knothead wasn’t even trying to turn his horse. He acted like he never saw fences in Nebraska.”

“Well, you introduced him,” somebody said.

“That’s a fact,” he said. “I doubt he forgets it.”

I stayed down there in the arena for the duration of the rodeo, drinking warm beer behind the chutes with the boys and running the barrier for the calf roping when it was time for that event. It wasn’t anything onerous. I had to string the rope barrier across the open-ended stall when the roper had his horse backed up inside it, then check to see that the horse didn’t break the barrier before the calf was released from the near chute. If the barrier was broken I was supposed to wave a red flag at the judge. I did that twice when a couple of boys got antsy and couldn’t hold their horses back. The judge looked over at me from the center of the arena where he was watching the dallying and saw the flag, so the two boys got ten seconds added on to their times. The times weren’t anything to blow about anyway. Booger Brannon, a big heavy-set cowboy from south Oklahoma, won the calf roping with a nineteen-seven. Ordinarily he wouldn’t have placed.

It was late afternoon by the time the bull riding, the last event, was finished and the final quarter-horse race was contested and won. There would still be a good three hours of sunlight because of daylight savings, but I felt as tired as if I had worked. I suppose all that warm beer contributed to the feeling. At any rate, I was ready to go home. I still had evening chores to do and I wanted to see Mavis seated in a easy chair with her feet up. I believed she must be tired.

The crowd was coming down out of the grandstand, so I waited beside the gate for my wife and the Goodnoughs. I didn’t see them. I saw Doub Ragsdale and Louise come by with their two boys, all of them looking miserable and hot, like they weren’t satisfied, and then Pace Givens stopped to talk a minute. Pace was a dirt-poor farmer who was trying to hang on to a couple of dryland quarters east of town. His teeth were all rotten and gone to hell.

“By God,” he said. “Sanders, by God.”

“Yeah,” I said.

He was slapping me on the back. I could smell the whiskey on him. “You’re all right,” he said. “Didn’t I ever tell you that?”

“Once or twice,” I said.

“Well, don’t never weaken.”

“That’s right.”

“Don’t never weaken, Sanders.”

“Take care of yourself now,” I said.

“Hell, I’m all right,” he said. “You know why?”

“Because you never weaken.”

“I never weaken. That’s why.”

He was talking at me from about six inches distance from my face; he smelled strong of cheap whiskey, and there were people watching us and smiling as if it was a joke, but I liked Pace Givens nonetheless. He was going to lose those dryland quarters too. They just weren’t enough anymore for him to survive on. He slapped me again on the back and walked out the gate in his droop-seated, rag-cuffed overalls.

My wife hadn’t come down from the grandstand with Edith and Lyman. I climbed up into the stands; there was no one there except a young woman trying to get a little boy to wake up enough so he would walk and not have to be carried. I began to feel a little worried. I knew this entire opening-day program would be too much. I went back through the gate, looked around, didn’t see them, and walked out to Lyman’s car. It was still there, green and dust coated now with the afternoon traffic. So I returned to the buildings, walked through the exhibits and the show barns, and finally found the three of them drinking pop in the concession area. They didn’t appear concerned. Mavis and Edith were laughing at Lyman. They were giving him some kind of silly shit about something, and Lyman wasn’t altogether pleased. “What’s the joke?” I said.

“You don’t want to know,” Lyman said. “Just buy me a beer. These damn women won’t allow nothing but soda pop.

“Don’t you dare,” Mavis said.

“That’s right,” Edith said. “He has to admit it was a good system first.”

“What was?”

“The system we had for the races.”

“Don’t listen to them,” Lyman said. “Just buy me a beer, will you?”

“Of course. But what happened to your money?”

“I don’t have any money. Would I be drinking this damn stuff if I had any money?”

“What happened to it?”

“He lost it.”

“The hell I did.”

“But we know where it is. Don’t we, Edith.”

“It’s right here,” Edith said.

“Listen. If you ain’t going to buy me a beer, at least loan me a goddamn dollar. Is that asking too much?” “You have to admit it was a good system first.”

“Damn your damn system.”

“I think he’s getting mad now.”

“All right, here.” Lyman stood up and drew a checkbook from the pocket of his dress pants and sat down to write in it. “Here,” he said, “I’ll sign you a check if you don’t think you can even trust me for a goddamn dollar.”

“Just a minute,” I said. “I trust you. But what the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about that goddamn fool up at the counter that won’t take my check. They got him in on this, too.”

“Who?”

“These women. Look at ’em, laughing like two cats.”

I looked at them again. Mavis was smiling; her hands were folded comfortably on her swollen stomach, and Edith’s eyes were snapping bright brown. They were delighted. So I made them a little speech.

“I don’t understand any of this,” I said. “But I believe Lyman here is in need of a drink. So I’m going to buy him one, system or no system, whatever the hell it is. And I’m going to drink one myself. Now do either of you ladies object to that?”

“I believe Sandy is getting mad too,” Edith said.

“No, he’s not. He never gets mad. Do you, sweetheart?”

“Of course not,” I said. “I just get thirsty.”

“But I guess we’ve had our fun,” Mavis said. “What do you think, Edith?”

“I think so,” she said. “And let us pay for it. We’ve got all the money there is.”

That set them off again. They were giggling like teenagers and digging in their purses to stuff my hands with bills. I took the money and bought Lyman the beer he wanted, the beer he in fact needed bad now, the beer he was even beginning to get a little mad about not having sooner. I brought it back from the counter in paper cups. I still didn’t understand it, but it seems they had made side bets with one another during the quarter-horse races. Edith and my wife bet each of the six races against Lyman, betting their system against what he knew was good sense. I don’t claim to understand that either — perhaps no man could — but their system had something to do with how the color the jockey was wearing complemented the name of the horse the jockey was riding. They gave this as an example: a horse named Cajun Scoot was ridden by a jockey wearing chocolate and peach. That made it a sure winner. It was like ice cream. I didn’t see it. But anyway, five of the six horses the women bet on came in ahead of Lyman’s horses, and as a result they had won all the pocket money Lyman was carrying. To clinch the matter, they resolved to spend all their winnings — all of Lyman’s money — spend it all right there under his nose before they went home that evening. They started by buying that paper cup of beer Lyman wanted but which they weren’t going to allow until he agreed it was a good system. You can’t tell me women don’t have a complicated sense of fair play.

Their resolution to spend all his money, though, meant we weren’t going home yet. I would have to do chores in full dark, and Mavis wouldn’t have much opportunity to put her feet up. Before we could drive home, we had to do the carnival: throw darts for stuffed monkeys, lick the cotton candy off our fingers, play bingo, toss nickels, drink more beer, ride the Ferris wheel. They got a lot of mileage out of his money. I remember the Ferris wheel best.