sprayed it with antiseptic and then finally a blast of aerosol with the botfly medicine. The dog lay panting.
Joe cut the twine binding the dog’s mouth, placed the T-bone within reach and freed the rope. The pink medicated mass of the dog, whose wounded pride found voice in a sustained howl, bolted across the dirt yard past the eloquent T-bone and into the hayfield, where it sat and poured out a cry and lamentation for the life in the dark which it had lost.
Joe spent the rest of the morning sealing up the space underneath the cabin with rocks. The dog sat in the field and watched him, making small adjustments in its position toward the steak. Joe noticed these adjustments and, as he walked back toward the ranch, he felt that, given time, the dog would sell out. He thought he knew how the dog felt.
•
The phone rang. There was some excitement about getting his first call. A small voice came over the line. “Joe, this is Ellen Overstreet. Do you remember me?”
“Why I sure do. How are you, Ellen?”
“I’m just fine, Joe. I was excited to hear you were back.”
“Where are you living these days?”
“Until recently, outside of Two Dot. But we’re separated. I think we’ll work it out though.”
“ ‘We,’ who is we?”
“Actually, I’m Ellen Kelton now. Do you remember Billy Kelton?”
“Are you kidding? After all the thumpings he gave me? Is he still the wild cowboy I remember?” Joe’s question was polite in the extreme.
“Well, not nearly. He’s gone to ranching.”
“Are you all going to make it through this dry spell?”
“I honestly wonder,” said Ellen in a musical voice. “We have had such dust pneumonia in our calves from following their mothers down these old cow trails to water. We’ve lost quite a few of them. Billy’s spent all his time doctoring.”
“I can’t tell you how nice it is to hear your voice. It
sounds
like you’re as pretty as ever.”
“I’m not!” Ellen laughed. “On the other hand, nobody puts on weight around here. But let me get to the point.”
“All right,” Joe said warmly; but the truth was, a nervous feeling had invaded his stomach, something which had just crossed time from where he used to be to where he was now.
“I just thought—and I don’t know how easy it will be to do—but I just thought you might like to see your daughter.”
“
My
daughter? You say
my
daughter. Well, yes! What’s her name?” Joe watched the wind toss an end of the curtain intothe room. He knew what was meant when people talked about time stopping. He felt his hand moisten on the telephone receiver.
“Her name is Clara.”
“Clara. Where did you get that?”
“It’s Billy’s mother’s name.”
“I see. Kind of an old-timey name. I guess I’m going to see her, huh?” A sudden intimacy descended with the crisis. “I mean, why in hell don’t you just tell me what I’m supposed to do, Ellen.”
“That’s up to you, Joe. I’m just making the offer.”
“Anybody know this?”
“I told Dad.”
“You did? And what did he say?” His mouth had gone chalky. “You told your father?”
“He said, ‘Good,’ ’cause Clara will get it all when you people’s place is part of his and it all makes a perfect square.”
“Well, this just kind of floors me. And well, Ellen, what about you? What happened to your plans?”
“I teach. I teach at Clarendon Creek.”
“That’s where I went! That’s where my Aunt Lureen taught.”
“The first four grades.”
Joe could smell the sweat pouring through his shirt. He felt like he was burning up. He felt as if the rickety logic of his new life had just disappeared.
“I would like to see her,” Joe said. “Any arrangement that you would like suits me.”
“I just wanted to find out if you were interested,” she said in the same musical voice. “I’ll be in touch!”
13
An old man named Alvie Butterfield who irrigated for the Overstreets came through the ranch yard to change the
Joe cut the twine binding the dog’s mouth, placed the T-bone within reach and freed the rope. The pink medicated mass of the dog, whose wounded pride found voice in a sustained howl, bolted across the dirt yard past the eloquent T-bone and into the hayfield, where it sat and poured out a cry and lamentation for the life in the dark which it had lost.
Joe spent the rest of the morning sealing up the space underneath the cabin with rocks. The dog sat in the field and watched him, making small adjustments in its position toward the steak. Joe noticed these adjustments and, as he walked back toward the ranch, he felt that, given time, the dog would sell out. He thought he knew how the dog felt.
•
The phone rang. There was some excitement about getting his first call. A small voice came over the line. “Joe, this is Ellen Overstreet. Do you remember me?”
“Why I sure do. How are you, Ellen?”
“I’m just fine, Joe. I was excited to hear you were back.”
“Where are you living these days?”
“Until recently, outside of Two Dot. But we’re separated. I think we’ll work it out though.”
“ ‘We,’ who is we?”
“Actually, I’m Ellen Kelton now. Do you remember Billy Kelton?”
“Are you kidding? After all the thumpings he gave me? Is he still the wild cowboy I remember?” Joe’s question was polite in the extreme.
“Well, not nearly. He’s gone to ranching.”
“Are you all going to make it through this dry spell?”
“I honestly wonder,” said Ellen in a musical voice. “We have had such dust pneumonia in our calves from following their mothers down these old cow trails to water. We’ve lost quite a few of them. Billy’s spent all his time doctoring.”
“I can’t tell you how nice it is to hear your voice. It
sounds
like you’re as pretty as ever.”
“I’m not!” Ellen laughed. “On the other hand, nobody puts on weight around here. But let me get to the point.”
“All right,” Joe said warmly; but the truth was, a nervous feeling had invaded his stomach, something which had just crossed time from where he used to be to where he was now.
“I just thought—and I don’t know how easy it will be to do—but I just thought you might like to see your daughter.”
“
My
daughter? You say
my
daughter. Well, yes! What’s her name?” Joe watched the wind toss an end of the curtain intothe room. He knew what was meant when people talked about time stopping. He felt his hand moisten on the telephone receiver.
“Her name is Clara.”
“Clara. Where did you get that?”
“It’s Billy’s mother’s name.”
“I see. Kind of an old-timey name. I guess I’m going to see her, huh?” A sudden intimacy descended with the crisis. “I mean, why in hell don’t you just tell me what I’m supposed to do, Ellen.”
“That’s up to you, Joe. I’m just making the offer.”
“Anybody know this?”
“I told Dad.”
“You did? And what did he say?” His mouth had gone chalky. “You told your father?”
“He said, ‘Good,’ ’cause Clara will get it all when you people’s place is part of his and it all makes a perfect square.”
“Well, this just kind of floors me. And well, Ellen, what about you? What happened to your plans?”
“I teach. I teach at Clarendon Creek.”
“That’s where I went! That’s where my Aunt Lureen taught.”
“The first four grades.”
Joe could smell the sweat pouring through his shirt. He felt like he was burning up. He felt as if the rickety logic of his new life had just disappeared.
“I would like to see her,” Joe said. “Any arrangement that you would like suits me.”
“I just wanted to find out if you were interested,” she said in the same musical voice. “I’ll be in touch!”
13
An old man named Alvie Butterfield who irrigated for the Overstreets came through the ranch yard to change the
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