Percival Everett - Wounded

“Berkeley?” Robert asked.

“You find that odd?”

“John studied art history,” David said. “Right?”

I nodded, a bit surprised that David knew and remembered that fact.

“So, why are you here?” Robert asked.

I looked out the window, then to Robert. As my father would have said, there was a tone to his question. “Did you notice the landscape when you drove in?” I asked. “This is a beautiful place.” I pulled back some. “I love horses. This is where I grew up. Well, down in Colorado.” I shrugged. “Where are you from?”

“Vermont,” Robert said.

“Pretty state,” I said. “I went to school in New Hampshire.”

“I thought you went to Berkeley.”

“I went to prep school in New Hampshire. Phillips Exeter.” I felt bad for enjoying the confusion and disappointed assumptions reflected in Robert’s face. “Sometimes they let us country boys out. Anyway, it’s too green back there in New England for me.”

“How big is your ranch?” David asked.

“I’ve sold half of it and the BLM leases since I don’t run cattle anymore. So, there’s about fifteen hundred acres. Not so big.”

Robert asked, “How many black people live out here?”

I was a little startled by the question. “Good question. I don’t know. How many black people live in Chicago?”

Robert stumbled.

“I’ve never counted people around here, Robert. Black or white. A whole bunch of Indians live over that way.”

“Ever have any problems?” Robert asked. “With race, I mean.”

“Of course I have, son. This is America. I’ve run into bigotry here. Of course, the only place anybody ever called me nigger to my face was in Cambridge, Mass.” I let that sink in. “There are plenty of stupid, narrow-minded people around. They’re not hard to find. There are a lot of ignorant people, a lot of good, smart people. Is it different where you come from?”

Robert laughed nervously, but avoided my question by drinking some water.

I felt a little like a bully and I didn’t like it. I was a bit on the defensive and I liked that even less. I made myself relax, as when on a nervous horse. I viewed it as good practice.

“I’m here because I like the West,” I said.

The waitress returned.

“I’ll just have the burger,” David said.

“Same for me,” from Robert. He dropped his hand on top of David’s on the table.

The waitress couldn’t help but see this and it registered slightly on her young face. “Cheese on those?” she asked.

“No, thanks,” David said.

Robert shook his head.

“Becky, I’ll have the BLT without the B and with avocado,” I said. “And I’ll have cottage cheese instead of the fries.”

“Be right up,” Becky said.

“Don’t tell me you’re a vegetarian,” Robert said.

“Okay,” I said. “So, what do you think of our little town?”

“Not much to it,” David said.

“That’s for damn sure,” I agreed. I looked out the window and saw that the SUV was gone from in front of the sporting goods store.

“So, why did you study art history?” Robert asked.

“I like art.” I emptied my water glass and set it back down. “What are the two of you studying?”

“Undecided,” Robert said, somewhat sheepishly.

“There’s plenty of time,” I told him.

“I’m majoring in English right now,” David said. “So, how did you and my father get together? He was a business major.”

“I don’t remember. Probably some anti-war protest or something.” I leaned back. I felt slightly sleepy. “You two should come out to my place. I’ll put you on a couple horses and you can really see this country.” I considered that I was forgetting why they were there and I felt a little stupid. “So, when is the rally again?”

“Tomorrow at noon,” David said.

“You think folks would mind if some straight cowboys showed up?”

“I don’t think so,” David said.

The waitress brought the food and we began to eat.

I looked at the two young men together. They were handsome, bright. I thought about Howard.

“How does your father feel about your being gay?” I asked.

The directness of my question caused David to glance at Robert. “He doesn’t like it.”

“He hates it,” Robert said.

“Sorry to hear that,” I said.

“How do you feel about it?” David asked me.

“I don’t feel one way or the other about it,” I said. “Should I?”

“No,” David admitted.

“I hope I didn’t offend you,” I said.

“You didn’t.” David fiddled with his napkin.

“Would you like to come to my place for dinner tomorrow? It’s a bit of a ride. I’ll drive you out and you can stay over if you like.”

David questioned Robert with a look.

“Listen, no rush,” I said. “You can let me know tomorrow.”

“Okay,” David said.

We finished lunch, which turned out to be a dragging, boring affair. Still, I liked Howard’s son. I tried not to dislike Robert. I wasn’t put off by the men’s homosexuality, but Robert’s display for the benefit of the waitress seemed mean-spirited. I didn’t feel bad for thinking that, as I considered I would have been as put off by a heterosexual man or woman similarly marking territory.

I was in my Jeep, pulling off the highway and headed up the hill to Morgan’s house.

Morgan’s mother was on her knees in the garden in front of the house. She pushed herself to standing as I approached.

“Good day, Emily,” I said. “New knee pads?”

“What I need is new knees.”

“You wouldn’t like the new ones,” I told her. “What are you up to? Dividing irises?”

“Yes,” she said with disgust. “I’m sorry I ever put them in. They’re pretty but every time I turn around I’m dividing them again. How would you like to take a hundred home with you?”

“I don’t think so. Not with that testimonial. Is that wild, good-for-nothing daughter of yours around?”

“Barn,” Emily said.

I left Emily to her irises and walked around the house, across the corral to the barn. I found Morgan in the tack room, cleaning her bridle.

“I heard some people really do that,” I said. “Me, I like to let my tack get all cracked and brittle.”

She put down the sponge and stepped close, stood there, arms at her sides. “So, what are the ground rules? Do we kiss when we greet now?”

“I reckon. Till you get tired of me.” I put my hands on her shoulders and kissed her lips. Her mouth was soft, sweet. I liked kissing her.

Morgan turned away and went to hang her bridle on the wall. Again facing me, she said, “I guess we’re going to have to have sex soon.”

“Sounds reasonable,” I said. “It’s been on my mind.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that, Hunt. I’ve been trying to figure just how retarded in these matters you are.”

I looked around at the neat room, the clean saddles and tack arranged in a way that made sense. “You sure you want to get tied up with a slob like me?”

“No.”

I laughed. “Your mother looks good.”

“The man-stealer,” she hissed.

“Hey, guess what I’ve got at my house? I’ve found a baby coyote.”

“Where’d you find him?”

“Over in the desert. Some asshole torched a den and killed the mother. I found two, but one died. I hope this little girl makes it. She has a burned leg.”

“I hate people,” Morgan said.

“They’re no damn good, that’s for certain. I was so pissed off.”

Morgan was silent.

“Anyway, I came over—”

She cut me off, “For sex?”

“Well, no.” She’d caught me off guard, which apparently was not difficult to do. “I came over to ask you out on a date, sort of.” I sat on a stool.