as tall as a horse, only broader, deeper, with short thick legs planted like fenceposts in the dust. It was the eyes that compelled, however, the oldunblinking bovine glare, somehow both impassive and implacable in its mindless hostility. Meeting that gaze, Blanchard was reminded of a time in Saint Louis over a decade before when he had driven at night to Gaslight Square for a going-away party for an art director who was moving to a Dallas agency. Blanchard had had a new car then, a 1967 Impala hardtop, and he had driven around the picturesque gaslit streets of the area for a while looking for a parking place close to OâConnellâs Old Irish Pub, where the small party was to be held. Giving up finally, he had settled for a spot two blocks away, pulling into an empty space in front of some tenements, which surrounded the Square and in time would overrun it, as all the phony, nostalgic gaslights gave way to the darker realities of poverty and crime and fear.
On this night, as Blanchard parked and got out of his car, he found himself gazing into the eyes of three young black men lounging on a stoop not twenty feet away. And he would never forget their lookâand one look it was too, the same in all three pairs of eyesâa cool, almost somnolent surface amusement, taking in his predicament, the shiny new car he could either leave in their tender care or hastily get back into, like any other motherfucking white bigot, and drive on, to some other, presumably safer, location. But it was what was under the veneer that struck him, a kind of primordial antagonism, a blood hatred that he doubted any amount of time or effort or sweet charity would ever mitigate.
After only a momentâs hesitation he had gotten back into the car, to park elsewhere, blocks away.
What he had seen on that hot Saint Louis summer night he saw now, in the eyes of the bull: the same implacability, the same aversion of the spirit. And he wondered if in the end it would be the same for him and the ranch as it had been for Gaslight Square and so many other parts of so many otherAmerican cities. He wondered if this dark, unknowable presence would destroy him in the end. He wondered if all this time, ever since he had brought it to the ranch, the animal unknowingly had been preparing his destruction.
Within a few days he would know. And that, he decided, was soon enough.
He spent the night on the front porch of his house, curled up on the old wicker couch that had come with the place. He woke briefly with the light at dawn but fell back asleep, this time to be awakened by Clarence arriving on the dot of seven oâclock, as he always did. Hearing the truckâs engine, Blanchard started to get up, hoping to slip into the house before Clarence gained the top of the hill and a clear view of the porch. But he had heard him too late and was not even on his feet as the old pickup rattled past, with Clarence practically leaning out of the window to get a full, open-mouthed gander at him.
Blanchard angrily went inside, used the bathroom, heated and drank leftover coffee and smoked two cigarettes. Then he went to the phone and called Ronda. She did not answer until the sixth ring. Yes, sheâd been asleep, she said. But not all night. As heâd told her to do, she had wakened Shea once and he had seemed all right, normal in every way, in fact too normal, warning her that if she woke him again he was going to go back to sleep on top of her. He did look bad, though, she said. His face and ribs were swollen and discolored and his hair was matted with blood. Blanchard told her to take him to a doctor as soon as she could and not to worry about the money because Shea had plenty, had just hit on a friend for five hundred dollars. He told her he would call her again later, probably around five. Then he hung up.
He made himself a breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon,fried potatoes, and, again, coffee, two more cups of it, swallowed black and hot. When
On this night, as Blanchard parked and got out of his car, he found himself gazing into the eyes of three young black men lounging on a stoop not twenty feet away. And he would never forget their lookâand one look it was too, the same in all three pairs of eyesâa cool, almost somnolent surface amusement, taking in his predicament, the shiny new car he could either leave in their tender care or hastily get back into, like any other motherfucking white bigot, and drive on, to some other, presumably safer, location. But it was what was under the veneer that struck him, a kind of primordial antagonism, a blood hatred that he doubted any amount of time or effort or sweet charity would ever mitigate.
After only a momentâs hesitation he had gotten back into the car, to park elsewhere, blocks away.
What he had seen on that hot Saint Louis summer night he saw now, in the eyes of the bull: the same implacability, the same aversion of the spirit. And he wondered if in the end it would be the same for him and the ranch as it had been for Gaslight Square and so many other parts of so many otherAmerican cities. He wondered if this dark, unknowable presence would destroy him in the end. He wondered if all this time, ever since he had brought it to the ranch, the animal unknowingly had been preparing his destruction.
Within a few days he would know. And that, he decided, was soon enough.
He spent the night on the front porch of his house, curled up on the old wicker couch that had come with the place. He woke briefly with the light at dawn but fell back asleep, this time to be awakened by Clarence arriving on the dot of seven oâclock, as he always did. Hearing the truckâs engine, Blanchard started to get up, hoping to slip into the house before Clarence gained the top of the hill and a clear view of the porch. But he had heard him too late and was not even on his feet as the old pickup rattled past, with Clarence practically leaning out of the window to get a full, open-mouthed gander at him.
Blanchard angrily went inside, used the bathroom, heated and drank leftover coffee and smoked two cigarettes. Then he went to the phone and called Ronda. She did not answer until the sixth ring. Yes, sheâd been asleep, she said. But not all night. As heâd told her to do, she had wakened Shea once and he had seemed all right, normal in every way, in fact too normal, warning her that if she woke him again he was going to go back to sleep on top of her. He did look bad, though, she said. His face and ribs were swollen and discolored and his hair was matted with blood. Blanchard told her to take him to a doctor as soon as she could and not to worry about the money because Shea had plenty, had just hit on a friend for five hundred dollars. He told her he would call her again later, probably around five. Then he hung up.
He made himself a breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon,fried potatoes, and, again, coffee, two more cups of it, swallowed black and hot. When
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