Star, this is the proudest moment of my life.”
“Hold up, Dan,” his wife said. “You don’t seem to be pleased, Quinn.”
“Shouldn’t I have something to say?” Quinn asked.
“Well, didn’t you and your mother visit enough campuses? I mean, we’re talking Harvard. The greatest university in the world. Do you know how many applicants they turn down?”
“Dad, I agreed to take a look at Harvard to confirm I’m going to make the right choice.”
“What’s your point, son?” Dan asked with a touch of meanness in his voice. “You could even make the baseball team.”
“For God’s sake, Dad, I’m a marginal athlete.”
“Not in baseball. You have a real talent.”
“Stop trying to make a Brooklyn Dodger out of me. Students go to Harvard for scholastics. I don’t want to get involved in the rat race until I know what I want to study.”
“Quinn, you’re the first white man ever to turn down a Harvard education. Have you got any idea how much it costs?”
“That’s enough, Dan,” Siobhan said angrily. “Forget what he said, son. God has been gracious to us, and I’ve got plenty of money put away.”
With direct insults falling now, Dan unloaded bottle into glass. Quinn made him uneasy by not backingdown.
“I want to live my own life, Dad. I saw enough of the country with Mom to know how wonderful it is. I don’t want to be lured, yet. I want to stay near here. Dad, you don’t need a Harvard education to operate a ranch.”
“So what is it, then,” Dan said ominously.
“He’s only a boy,” Siobhan said. “How many times did you come in off of your police beat cursing your father for setting up your life?”
“I’m going to the University of Colorado,” Quinn said. “No ice hockey, no football. Maybe I’ll play baseball if the team is bad enough. I’m going to study a general liberal arts course and the humanities. I want to study with Reynaldo Maldonado. I hope it leads me to something I can be passionate about.”
Dan arose, came to Quinn, and slapped him in the face. Siobhan was between them instantly. Quinn turned away and made for the door.
Chapter 9
TROUBLESOME MESA, 1968
It was mud season. The tracks and washboard of the dirt road went from slop during the day to a thin coat of frost through the night. It was a slippery go from the ranch to the town, two miles of switchbacks and steep grades. Walking was slippery. One was off one’s feet every twenty steps.
Quinn left without a jacket, a flashlight, the Jeep he never really felt was his. Go to Carlos in Texas? No. That would bring Consuelo and Pedro into a family brawl they had no part of.
Call Uncle Sean? He laughed aloud at his own misery. There were no phones for over a mile. Headlights hit him in the back. He stopped in a rut with slush running over the top of his boots.
“Quinn!” Siobhan called, stopping the Jeep. “Son, come home! Please! Your father is beside himself with sorrow. Please! Quinn.”
All he did was shake his head.
She pleaded to the mesa and the valley, for he did not hear. Her arms went about him. He pushed her away firmly. She was a mud woman, a streaked mud woman grotesquely crying with mud running down her face.
“Take the Jeep,” she gasped. “There’s money and credit cards in the glove compartment. Please phone me, son, please!”
She turned and staggered back toward the house. After a time, Quinn grabbed the steering wheel and,in an automatic move, slid into the driver’s seat. The windshield was half ice, half water. He wiped away a spot of fog so he could see through, then put the vehicle into four-wheel low and inched down the incline.
Between his tears and the frost he could hardly see, but he knew the turns of the hill and he understood it could be his last moment on earth. His caution told him he did not want to die and gave him a tiny relief from his pain.
The Jeep skidded. He had to lay off the brakes. It stopped abruptly down in the roadside ditch,
“Hold up, Dan,” his wife said. “You don’t seem to be pleased, Quinn.”
“Shouldn’t I have something to say?” Quinn asked.
“Well, didn’t you and your mother visit enough campuses? I mean, we’re talking Harvard. The greatest university in the world. Do you know how many applicants they turn down?”
“Dad, I agreed to take a look at Harvard to confirm I’m going to make the right choice.”
“What’s your point, son?” Dan asked with a touch of meanness in his voice. “You could even make the baseball team.”
“For God’s sake, Dad, I’m a marginal athlete.”
“Not in baseball. You have a real talent.”
“Stop trying to make a Brooklyn Dodger out of me. Students go to Harvard for scholastics. I don’t want to get involved in the rat race until I know what I want to study.”
“Quinn, you’re the first white man ever to turn down a Harvard education. Have you got any idea how much it costs?”
“That’s enough, Dan,” Siobhan said angrily. “Forget what he said, son. God has been gracious to us, and I’ve got plenty of money put away.”
With direct insults falling now, Dan unloaded bottle into glass. Quinn made him uneasy by not backingdown.
“I want to live my own life, Dad. I saw enough of the country with Mom to know how wonderful it is. I don’t want to be lured, yet. I want to stay near here. Dad, you don’t need a Harvard education to operate a ranch.”
“So what is it, then,” Dan said ominously.
“He’s only a boy,” Siobhan said. “How many times did you come in off of your police beat cursing your father for setting up your life?”
“I’m going to the University of Colorado,” Quinn said. “No ice hockey, no football. Maybe I’ll play baseball if the team is bad enough. I’m going to study a general liberal arts course and the humanities. I want to study with Reynaldo Maldonado. I hope it leads me to something I can be passionate about.”
Dan arose, came to Quinn, and slapped him in the face. Siobhan was between them instantly. Quinn turned away and made for the door.
Chapter 9
TROUBLESOME MESA, 1968
It was mud season. The tracks and washboard of the dirt road went from slop during the day to a thin coat of frost through the night. It was a slippery go from the ranch to the town, two miles of switchbacks and steep grades. Walking was slippery. One was off one’s feet every twenty steps.
Quinn left without a jacket, a flashlight, the Jeep he never really felt was his. Go to Carlos in Texas? No. That would bring Consuelo and Pedro into a family brawl they had no part of.
Call Uncle Sean? He laughed aloud at his own misery. There were no phones for over a mile. Headlights hit him in the back. He stopped in a rut with slush running over the top of his boots.
“Quinn!” Siobhan called, stopping the Jeep. “Son, come home! Please! Your father is beside himself with sorrow. Please! Quinn.”
All he did was shake his head.
She pleaded to the mesa and the valley, for he did not hear. Her arms went about him. He pushed her away firmly. She was a mud woman, a streaked mud woman grotesquely crying with mud running down her face.
“Take the Jeep,” she gasped. “There’s money and credit cards in the glove compartment. Please phone me, son, please!”
She turned and staggered back toward the house. After a time, Quinn grabbed the steering wheel and,in an automatic move, slid into the driver’s seat. The windshield was half ice, half water. He wiped away a spot of fog so he could see through, then put the vehicle into four-wheel low and inched down the incline.
Between his tears and the frost he could hardly see, but he knew the turns of the hill and he understood it could be his last moment on earth. His caution told him he did not want to die and gave him a tiny relief from his pain.
The Jeep skidded. He had to lay off the brakes. It stopped abruptly down in the roadside ditch,
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