Percival Everett - Wounded

The day had turned hot and the street felt like steaming food. I ducked into the library where it was air-conditioned. It was a routine stop once a week to read newspapers and magazines. I was able to at once counteract my chosen isolation and justify that choice. I read about the gay killing in the Denver Post, the Washington Post, the St. Louis Times Dispatch, and the New York Times. They all said about the same thing, with the Eastern papers offering the implication, if not outright accusation, that the crime was symptomatic of some rural or Western disease of intolerance. I thought, yes, it’s called America. I wondered why the reported rash of fifty rapes in Central Park was not considered a similar indicator of regional moral breakdown. I saw the dead boy’s name and it stuck with me for the first time and I felt a little ashamed by that. Jerry Tuttle. By all reports he was a small man, a gentle man, and like most murdered people, not deserving of what had happened to him.

“Mr. Hunt?” It was the librarian, Kent Hollis.

I looked up at his craggy face. “Mr. Hollis?”

“Would you like some coffee?” he asked. “I just made some.”

I had seen Hollis and said hello many times, sometimes on the street when Hollis took lunchtime walks with his wheelchair-bound wife. She was a big woman with a loud, good nature, but Hollis was quiet. I always noticed his delicate hands.

“French roast,” he said.

“No, thank you, Mr. Hollis.” I had always called the man Mr. Hollis because he always called me Mr. Hunt. I called to him as he stepped away. “Mr. Hollis.”

“Sir?”

“How long have I known you?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Years. Many years.”

“My name is John. I’d like you to call me John.” I stood from the straight-backed chair and put my hand out. “You don’t mind, do you?”

Hollis took my hand and shook. “Kent,” he said.

“Kent,” I repeated his name. “How is your wife?”

“She’s fine.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Coffee?” he offered again.

“No, thank you. I’d better get back to my place before it falls down. I find I can’t get things done unless I do them.”

Hollis laughed.

“See you next week” I said. I left, considering the man and his devotion to his wife. I imagined that if Susie had lived, I’d be caring for her the same way.

I was out riding with Morgan. I held up on the far bank of the creek and waited while she coaxed her horse, Square, through the rivulet. She reined the horse left down the bank and turned through the water and up the opposite side. I liked the way she sat her horse.

“Why’d you name that animal Square?” I asked.

“He just never fit in with the other horses,” she said. “He’s too sweet. He lets them run all over him.”

“I’m not going to mention how tacky it is that you ride a Morgan horse.”

“I admire the restraint,” she said.

When we were higher, we let the horses go for a stretch, opening up into a lope across the big meadow. The air was cooler up there and it felt good on my face. The breeze pressed the ochre grasses down and the ground appeared to move in a gentle wave. We stopped at the edge of the meadow and studied the valley below. My house and barns were small in the distance. The Red Desert was far off to the left; I could just see the desolate edge of it.

“Don’t you just love it?” I said. “This has got to be the most beautiful place in the world. Just think, somewhere out there in that godforsaken desert are wild horses kicking up dust.”

“Dying of thirst and starving to death,” Morgan said.

“Wet blanket.”

We stepped on toward a higher spot.

“You ever going to run cattle again?” she asked.

“Probably not,” I said.

“Why?”

“I don’t like cows.” I shifted my weight in the saddle. “Mainly, I don’t like the businesses I had to sell cows to. Hell, I don’t even eat much beef anymore.”

“I like cows,” Morgan said. “They’ve got kind eyes.”

“Yeah, well.”

“Do you like my eyes, Hunt?” she asked.

“What, you think you’ve got cow eyes?”

“Do you?” she asked again.

“If I say they’re kind and gentle, that kinda makes them cow eyes,” I said. I didn’t know which way I was running.

“Do you?”

“Sure, I like your eyes, Morgan.” I pushed back my hat and looked at her eyes. “What’s this all about?”

“You know, I like Gus a lot,” she said, “but Gus is not the reason I spend so much time at your place.” She was looking into my eyes. “I like your eyes, John. I like them a lot.”

I could see she was near panic. “I guess I know that,” I said.

“Well?” she asked.

“Well, what?”

“Am I wasting my time?”

“What do you want from me?” I asked. “I’m your friend, right?”

Some jays screeched in a nearby pine.

“You’re my friend,” Morgan said. It was resignation. She dismounted, dropped her reins, and walked a few yards away.

I threw my right leg over the horn and slid off the saddle. “Morgan,” I said, slowly moving to her. I put my hands on her shoulders and turned her around. She felt soft just then and uncharacteristically frail. “It took a lot of courage for you to say that, I know.”

“Well, whoop-tee-do. Pin a medal on my underappreciated breast and let’s see who salutes.”

“Listen, I’m really very attracted to you,” I told her. “I am, Morgan. But, and I know you don’t want to hear this — but, I keep thinking about things.”

“Susie’s dead, Hunt.”

“Well, that’s it. I blame myself.” I didn’t want to talk about my dead wife, but had to once the topic surfaced. I realized I had more than one reason to talk about her. I needed to work through it all myself. “Susie was afraid of a lot of things,” I said. “You wouldn’t know anything about that. I didn’t understand and I’m not sure I really know now what it was like for her. It made her real negative about stuff and I guess her negativity started to make me irritable.”

“Hunt.”

“Let me finish,” I said. “Susie would say something and I’d feel myself start to shut down. I’m sure she saw it. She was smart. I believe she began to think I didn’t like her.” I sat on the ground and stared at my house, at the corral where Susie had been killed. Morgan sat beside me. “I honestly think she was trying that horse so I would see her as brave.”

“That’s crazy,” Morgan said.

“Maybe,” I said. “All I know is I hated the way I’d cringe when she said anything for a while. I would anticipate the complaint or the fear. Made me feel like shit. I started not liking myself. I reckon I’m still not too fond of me. Anyway, Morgan, I really appreciate the way you just spoke up.”

“Appreciation noted.”

I looked north at the clouds holding steady over the mountains.

“What do you say we ride back?” Morgan said.

We did, loping again across the meadow. We led the horses with loosened girths the last quarter-mile. The air was feeling a little more humid and I could smell the hay. At the barn, we tied up the horses and took off the bridles and saddles. Morgan and I reached for the same hoof pick.

She snatched it away and said, “Hey, cowboy, get your own.”

We were standing close to each other. Before the moment became deadly and irrevocably awkward, I leaned forward and kissed her on the lips.

A rustling at the edge of the barn gave us a start. Then we saw Gus walking back toward the house. He said, without looking back, “About goddamn time.”

I got in some more of my hay the next morning. I was covered with dust and my dust mask was still hanging around my neck. I sat on the edge of the water trough beside the house and rested. I took off my shirt, turned around and splashed myself with the water. I sat back down and closed my eyes. I must have drifted off because I suddenly felt Gus standing next to me.