markwildyr.com,
Post #134
Hope everyone enjoyed the Curt Huntinghawk story that ended last week.
THE VICTOR AND THE VANQUISHED
Chapter 1
“Wilam!” Matthew called from the sidelines.
I waved him off and got set as the pitcher
whipped a fastball over the plate. Hitchcock, a chubbo whose belly moved slower
than his hips, whipped thin air—with the bat and the belly. I rolled my
shoulders and pounded the glove with a fist to loosen up, hoping my brother
would go away. I didn’t get a chance to play ball with the other guys very
often, and I didn’t want to be pulled off the field. Besides, I’d really come
down to the tribal rec center to find James, but he wasn’t around. I planned to
go looking for him pretty soon.
“William Greyhorse!” Matthew yelled. “Hey, man,
you need to get your butt home.”
“Not now.”
“Okay. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. The old
man’s on a rip-snorter, and he sent me to get you.”
I spotted the kid whose glove I’d borrowed and
motioned him over. Then I ran to catch up with my brother and fell into step
beside him, which wasn’t easy. Matthew’d turned twenty-one this summer. All that
meant to him was he could get into the bars over in Mapleton without sneaking
around, but it also meant he stood six-one, and had legs to match. They ate up
the ground a lot faster than mine. I was a little better than five-nine but
considerably short of five-ten. I’d already accepted the fact I was the runt of
the family. My dad was an even six feet. Something I’d never match.
“What’s going on?” I was panting because he
hadn’t shortened his stride for me like he usually did. A bad sign.
“We’re
leaving.”
“What
do you mean?” I asked between gasps.
Our place was a rundown affair sitting right at
the eastern edge of the little settlement of Rolling Hills. The big barn behind
it was usually empty except for junk. Now, our twenty-year-old pickup was
hidden in the middle of it, half loaded with our belongings. The truck had been
black once, but the Bondo smeared all over it rendered the vehicle two-toned.
Black and gray usually looked pretty good together, but not on a beat-up Dodge
half-ton. The barn already smelled of rubber, gasoline, and burned motor oil.
Dad lurched out of the back door loaded down with
his hunting rifle and fishing tackle. He was sweaty and wild-eyed from his
drinking, but he didn’t seem drunk. Cutting up a man must have sobered him
some.
“Where the hell you been?”
“Rec center.”
“Well, get your ass in gear. We’re out of here in
ten minutes.”
I headed for the room I shared with my sisters,
Nola and little Junie. There wasn’t much I wanted to salvage except for my
carving knives—and my clothes, for all they were worth. Mostly Matthew’s
hand-me-downs cut to size.
But my knives were something else. Because I
never knew when Mom would pass out for the day or when Dad would come home mad
dog drunk, I was practically house bound all summer on account of the
girls. And during the school year, I’d rush home as soon as class was over. So
I whittled to keep busy. Got pretty good at it, too. I made all the toys the
girls ever had, including their dolls.
The last couple of
Christmases I’d even sold a few carvings. I put the little money I made right
back into better knives. Mom said it was a waste of good money buying up
different carving knives, but if it was, it was the only wasting I ever did. I
never bought candy or soda pop like the other guys. But sometimes I stood
sweets for Nola and little Junie with money I made from doing quick chores
around town or selling a carving.
I liked to whittle
animals mostly, but I did a head of Nola once that looked pretty much like her.
Or at least the way she looked when I carved it a couple of years back. Never
been able to capture little Junie, though. It always came out bland like a
baby’s face. Nola said that's because Junie had a bland baby’s face, even if
she was walking around and jabbering hard enough to raise a dust devil.
I passed Mom in the living room. She was folding
some sheets and towels and looked sober. Tired but sober. Her cheeks were sorta
mashed in—you know, sunken. She’d been over at Uncle Dulce’s and Aunt Aurora’s
last night, and she usually didn’t drink around her youngest sister’s family.
They were born-again people. That was why I’d been able to get away for a ball
game down at the rec center this morning.
Nola, thirteen and big enough to know what was
going on, seemed scared. Little Junie wasn’t yet three, and she just looked
excited. Of course, every day was an adventure to her. She was a happy baby
except when my dad was in the house raising hell.
“Wilam!” she yelled when I came through the door.
She called me that because she couldn’t pronounce William when she first
started talking. The rest of the family fell into the habit of using that
label, and pretty soon I was Wilam to the whole reservation. I patted Junie on
the head and gave her a kiss on the cheek before rushing to our room and
slinging my things into plastic grocery bags.
We abandoned all of the furniture; it was mostly
junk, anyway. That left enough room in the bed of the pickup for the girls and
me. Matthew kicked over the motor and made straight for the Mini-Mart at the
south end of the reservation for gas and food to take on the road. Dad and Mom
went inside while he filled the gas tank and a couple of Jerry cans. I bailed
out of the bed of the pickup when I spotted James walking down the road on
those long legs of his. I knew he’d seen me, but he veered off around behind
the store. I found him sitting at a little picnic table they put back there for
customers.
“I heard,” he said.
“Yeah, looks like the Greyhorse family’s off and
running again. Man, I get tired of it. I wish we would just settle down
somewhere.”
He didn’t have an answer for my wishes, so we
went quiet. The loblolly pines flooded the clearing with the sharp smell of
resin. Somewhere a woodpecker tapped out a message only he understood. It got a
little awkward after a minute. I put it down to the way our leaving.
I
sat down on the table across from him and waited. Finally, he said something I
didn’t catch.
“What?” I looked over at him. He had on his usual blue jeans, gray
muscle shirt, and home-stitched buckskin moccasins. He’d worn those moccasins
ever since his feet quit growing. He looked good. That thought was off and
running before I could grab hold and pull it back.
“Wish I could figure out an easy way?”
“To
do what?” I asked.
“Letting you know
how I feel. About you.”
“I know how you
feel. We’re friends. We’re about the only friends each other has.”
“Yeah. I guess.”
His fingertip traced a set of initials carved into the rough oak table. “We’re
both loners.”
“Just a couple of
oddballs.” Why the hell did I say that?
“You’re just
different because you act like the man of the family and take care of your
sisters” There was bitterness in his voice. “Me, I’m a certified oddball.”
“That’s trash
talk, James.”
“Okay, here’s some
more. I’ve been wanting to do it with you for a long time, but I was scared to
let you know.” His voice faltered. “Every…every other guy on the rez who don’t
have a girl for the night comes knocking, and I do whatever they want. I do it
even when I don’t like them. But you never came around like that. So I just
kept my mouth shut, afraid of chasing off my best friend.”
I sat there with
my cheeks flaming.
He fixed me with
dark, haunted eyes. “Go ahead, say it.”
“S-say what?” I
stuttered.
“Whatever
you’re thinking. Call me a queer or a faggot. Tell me you don’t want anything
to do with me anymore. Or tell me it’s okay, and we’re still friends. Or tell
me you’ve been wanting us to do it too.”
“Why’re you saying this to me?” I swatted at a wasp buzzing around my
head.
He shrugged and glanced off into the trees over my shoulder.
“Because...because I like you. And I thought you liked me.”
My face felt hot. “I do, you know that. But…but….”
“But not like that.”
“I don’t know. Maybe I do. Or could. But we’re leaving. Going away.
Probably forever.”
“No, you’ll comeback someday. But I know you’re leaving for right now.
Else I wouldn’t of got up the nerve to tell you.” He looked at me again.
“You’re taking off in a few minutes, so I can’t chase you away. I can say
anything I want.”
“Okay. Now that’s out of the way, is there anything else?” Where’d that
stupid question come from?
“Just that you’re the best-looking guy around. That your’re fun and a
good friend. And that I want to touch you and do things with you.” He shut up
for a moment while he studied those initials enshrined in the picnic table.
“That’s all there is, except….” He swallowed hard. “Well, except to say I’ll
wait for you if you ask me to. I won’t get with no one else as long as I know
you’re coming back for me someday. I can do it. I know I can.”
A shiver went down my back, and my thing started to get stiff in my
pants. I couldn’t get my voice past my throat.
His puppy dog look changed to one of anguish. He dropped his gaze to
the table again. “That’s okay, I understand. But I gotta let you know
something. No matter what happens, I gotta say it.” He lifted his head and met
my eyes. “I love you, Wilam.”
I’d have said something to that, all right, but I don’t know what
because right then Matthew poked his head around the building. My brother’s
glance swept James and then fixed on me.
“Come
on, Pissant. The old man’s ready to go.”
* * * * *
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Mark
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