Percival Everett - Wounded

At home, I put the shots for the dog in the medicine refrigerator in the tack room. I then walked across the yard toward the house. All the snow was gone, but somehow I could tell that it had been there. I stepped into the kitchen to find Gus nursing a cup of tea.

He put down his cup and tilted his head like a dog. “So, what’s wrong?” he asked.

“Wallace Castlebury hanged himself.”

Gus whistled, picked up his cup and sipped some tea. He looked down at the pup on the blanket by his feet. “Such is life.” He leaned over, put his hand down and the little coyote pushed toward him. “She’s stronger.”

“I see.”

“You realize we haven’t named her.”

“That’s your job,” I said.

“What about Spirit?” he said.

“Sure, if that’s what you want hippie-Jim.”

“Just fooling around,” he said. He stroked the little head. “Her name is Isosceles. Maybe Tripod. Maybe Nubby.”

“I suppose any of those will work, Gus,” I said. I studied my uncle for a few seconds. “Hey, Gus, you feeling all right?”

“Fine. Why?”

“Just asking.”

Susie had for a time accused me of being interested in a young woman who had brought her three-year-old Arabian mare to me for training. That was how she had put it. “You’re interested in her,” she would say. I laughed it off every time. “Don’t you think she’s beautiful?” Susie asked once.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” I asked back. “You’re beautiful and I happen to be married to you.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” she said.

“Question?”

“Do you think she’s beautiful?”

“She’s attractive. Lots of people are attractive.”

“And you like her,” Susie said.

“I don’t like the way this is going,” I said. “Why don’t you just tell me what’s eating at you? She’s a kid. Listen, I’m not interested in anyone but you. It never occurred to me to think of her as attractive until you mentioned it.”

“So, you do find her attractive.”

“I love you, Susie. You’re my life.”

She claimed to be satisfied and to have let the matter go, but still a distance had been created and she was, at least that night, cool to the touch. I told her I loved her and went to sleep with my hand on her hip.

A few days later, the young woman, Lane, was at my place for a lesson on her horse. I was standing in the middle of the round pen, watching, asking her to position her arms in various ways. She was a tough, lean woman who wanted badly to conquer her fear of horses, particularly this big and unruly horse. I didn’t have the horse on a line, not that that would have helped. Something got into the mare and she kicked out and bucked her way across the midpoint of the circle, namely me. Lane began to lose her balance and I stepped to the horse and righted her. She was shaken a little and I helped her down. Our faces were close and I realized in that moment that Susie had been correct; I no doubt knew all along that she was right, but I was being defensive and, basically, male. Lane and I kissed. A brief kiss, but a kiss nonetheless. I kicked the dirt like an idiot and did the only thing that seemed decent, I said I was sorry and looked at the horse. Nothing else happened.

Later that day, no doubt to prove beyond any doubt that I was an idiot, I confessed to Susie that I had kissed Lane. I did it to make myself feel better, I realized later; that could have been my only reason. I thought I had been a bad man, a bad husband, and I believed that being forthright and honest would fix me up. I was a selfish jerk and some part of me must have wanted to hurt Susie. That’s all I can imagine. I really wasn’t then a stupid man, but I was, apparently, an idiot. The reaction was what any reasonable person would expect and I don’t think we ever really got over it. All of my apologies never offered a why. I didn’t have any whys to offer.

It was odd to be thinking of Susie while I prepared to call Wallace Castlebury’s brother. I was sitting in my study, looking out the window at the hills. There were no clouds collected over them; that was good. It was a beautiful day. I didn’t procrastinate, didn’t find a leaky faucet to repair, didn’t clean my already-too-clean rifle. I picked up the phone and pushed in the number.

I identified myself and the man on the other end said, “What is it?” But his tone was different this time, perhaps softer, perhaps he was just tired.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ve got bad news. I’ve been asked to notify you that your brother is dead.”

“Dead?”

“I’m sorry.” I was surprised to detect a note of sadness, given the tone and content of our last conversation. “He killed himself.” I thought to spare even this uncaring relative the grizzly details of his brother’s death. In fact, I was sure at that moment that I had agreed to make the call only because I believed the man would be unmoved by the news. So much for what I thought I knew.

“What?” the man said. “My brother is dead?” I could hear that he was beginning to weep.

“Is this Wallace Castlebury’s brother?” I was suddenly terrified that I had misled another man into believing his brother was dead.

“Oh, lord, poor Wallace,” he cried. “Poor, poor Wallace.”

I don’t think I was ever so confused in my life. I looked out the window that faced the barn and saw the mule emerge.

“How did he die?”

“He killed himself. If you want details, you’ll have to call the Highland sheriff’s office.” I gave him the number. “In fact, you’re supposed to call there anyway. About the body and all.”

“The body,” the man wailed.

“How did he kill himself?”

“I don’t think I’m supposed to say any more,” I said. “I’m sorry for your loss and I’m sorry to have had to give you such news.”

“Brother,” he said. “I have found the Lord Jesus Christ and brought him into my life just last week. I’m saved now and I’d like you to pray with me for my poor, poor brother, Wallace. Do you know if he found God before his death?”

“I have no idea.”

“Pray with me,” he said.

“I think you should call the sheriff’s office. Here’s that number again.” I read it off.

“Dear Jesus,” he said, as if dictating a letter. “Please find the soul of my poor lost brother and guide him into your sweet, forgiving arms. Open those beautiful gates of that beautiful heaven to him in spite of his sick and evil doings, his homosexualness and his shortcomings.” He wept loudly. “And help me stay away from the substances, you know the ones I mean, so that I might serve you better. In your name, Jesus-God-Almighty, amen.”

“Okay, one more time, here’s that number.” I gave him the number one last time and hung up. I was exhausted. I felt as though I had been chased by a cougar.

I picked up the phone again. This time I called Morgan and invited her over for a ride into the desert. She seemed puzzled by the quality of my invitation and so I said, “I think I need some company and I don’t think Gus is it.” Thinking that was not exactly romantic, I added, “And I’d really like to see you. I’d like to try that kissing thing one more time. If that’s okay.”

She said she’d think about it, but we could certainly go for a ride.

The sun didn’t have to compete with any clouds and so my jacket was off and stuffed into my saddlebag. I rode Felony and I put Morgan on my Appaloosa. She hadn’t trailered her horse to my place for fear that there might still be some icy patches on the highway. My mare needed the exercise anyway. We rode up high and got really cold. Morgan asked me about the cave.

“It’s not far from here,” I told her.