Bad Country: A Novel by CB McKenzie Page A

allow any Spanish at home.
    Buck liked to play at being an Indian and a Mexican when it suited him, but he was White, wasn’t he?
    I’m not really here to talk about my daddy, Mrs. Rocha.
    That’s why your mother married him, you know. She married Buck because she wanted to be White. His potential client appraised Rodeo from top to bottom. You’re taller than I thought you’d be. Take after her, I guess. Your father was pint-sized and mean.
    Rodeo did not comment.
    Katherine Rocha shrugged. Apples don’t fall far from their tree, do they? she asked.
    If you say so, Mrs. Rocha. I don’t know much about apples.
    The woman squinted at him. And I see you still dress up like a cowboy even at your age. But you looked better as a little kid dressed up like that for the Tucson Rodeo Parade than you are as a grown man dressed up like that. Little Indian kids in cowboy outfits are always so cute in parades but then they grow up, don’t they.
    Some do, Mrs. Rocha.
    You don’t remember me, do you? she asked.
    No ma’am.
    But I remember you, the woman said. San Xavier kid. Went to Mission School then Tucson High then got some college scholarship for rodeo later on, didn’t you?
    Yes ma’am. I went up to Highlands in New Mexico for a while and then to Ranger College, out in West Texas.
    But you never graduated, did you?
    No ma’am. Not yet.
    Little late for you to do it now, idn’t it?
    Depends on how you look at it, Mrs. Rocha.
    The old woman looked at Rodeo’s dog. Don’t you dare let that dog off the concrete or in my house, she said. He’s your responsibility to clean up after if he messes. I am tired of cleaning up after dogs. And cleaning up after men with dogs.
    He’s a good dog, Mrs. Rocha.
    Every man in the world says that about his dog. Katherine Rocha shook her head at the mongrel. That dog looks like every other dog I ever saw or worse.
    The dog circled a spot on the polished concrete porch several times and laid himself down. The old woman entered the house, directed Rodeo into a folding lawn chair in the front room and left. She came back in a little while with a coffee mug in her hand and settled deep down into an ancient Barcalounger that was parked five feet from a giant TV. Rodeo moved his lawn chair sideways in order to be in the woman’s range of vision.
    I knew your mother, Katherine Rocha said. I was in Food Service with her at Mission School. That is your mother, idn’t it? Grace Peña?
    Yes ma’am. Grace Peña Garnet. But she passed six years ago.
    I know all about it. The woman said this surely. She stared at the TV. Rodeo looked at the screen and saw his reflection there beside the woman’s. I always wanted to meet his son grown up and now here he is. The woman said this to herself. Rodeo waited for her to explain this statement but she did not, only stared at the television.
    How you been then, Mrs. Rocha?
    The woman shrugged. I was a lunch lady at Mission School for a long time after your mother was fired for stealing from the library. I never heard from her again even though she lived just a little ways from here. But then we never had anything in common. She always thought she was above the rest of us because she had some sort of schooling. I guess that’s why she killed herself. Just too smart for this life, she thought. But then she didn’t have much real sense at all, did she. I remember she spent all her money on that worthless trailer lot down there in Los Jarros, thought that was a good investment, then died penniless without a soul around. She hung in that cheap trailer house for days and days with nobody to cut her down. It was like an oven in that trailer house they said.
    Rodeo flinched.
    What did you do after Mission School, Mrs. Rocha?
    I went to the casinos and cleaned up after other people until I could retire. Now I go back to the casinos and let people clean up after me.
    I guess all that worked out for you then, Rodeo said.
    Nothing worked out, the woman said. She drank