heels.
Nanny was sick that day, though, so I was on Ginger, a younger horse my mom didn’t trust. She kept Ginger attached to her horse with a lead, which I felt was insulting for a boy my age. We marched along with me launching a barrage of bitter complaints the whole time, until my mom’s shoulders sagged with the weight of them.
Then I was angry because she didn’t want to ride up to take a look at what boys my age called Dead Man’s Falls (located in an area known to us as Dead Man’s River and close to Dead Man’s Rock), saying she was tired.
“You’re always tired,” I told her viciously.
I brought my contemptuous attitude with me to the dinner table, infuriating my father.
“Charlie, you are being rude to your mother!” he barked.
“It’s okay,” my mom murmured.
“It’s not okay. Go to your room, Charlie. No TV tonight. Let’s see if you can be more polite in the morning.”
The lash of my dad’s anger stung me, but I didn’t let him see any pain in me as I slid off my chair and flounced down the hall as if I didn’t care what they did to me.
I think I know now what that was all about. A restlessness was starting to afflict me, a sense of not being able to fit into my own skin. Manhood was a long way off, but already I was becoming impatient with being a boy. I wanted to ride a horse by myself, without an umbilical cord. And mostly I wanted to push my mother away from me, to gain independence from her, as all men must eventually do.
At the time, though, these irrational impulses came to me like temporary insanity, goading me into churlish behavior and then fading away to leave me stewing in guilt.
The house darkened; my parents murmured; my dad passed my doorway without a word. I heard my mother clink a few things in the kitchen, and then she was in the hallway, pausing at my door.
“Mom?”
She looked into my room. Her face was different, her cheekbones sharper and her eye sockets more pronounced, and of course her hair was nothing more than a wispy fuzz trying to make a comeback on her head, but the smile she gave me was the same. I’d treated her like dirt all day and here she was smiling at me with all the love in the world.
“Yes, Charlie.”
I’d say I was sorry now. God, how I wish I could say I was sorry to my mom, sorry for every single thing I ever did to hurt her. But instead I said, “Aren’t you going to kiss me good night?”
More than a year had passed since I’d asked for—no, demanded—a halt to the nightly ritual of a kiss. But on my mom’s face there was no triumph, nor surprise, nor self-satisfaction. I saw only affection in her eyes as she came in and gently touched her lips to my forehead.
“Good night, Charlie. I love you.”
“Good night, Mom.” I didn’t tell her I loved her back. I don’t know why. If I had it to do over again, I would have said it, and it would have been as true as anything I’d ever uttered.
This memory hit me like a sucker punch when the Jeep stopped at the ranch, the dirt cloud that had been pursuing us engulfing the vehicle, then drifting away like a dog who chases cars and doesn’t know what to do when one stops. I watched the dust but focused on my memories, pangs of something like hunger clawing at my insides.
“What do you think of that?” my dad asked proudly.
I looked where he was pointing. On the other side of a wooden fence a dark herd of maybe twenty-five buffalo were standing around, their tails swishing. Some sort of wooden pathway led from this corral to pass beneath an odd platform above the fence, as if the buffalo were going to walk down the chute and have somebody leap on them from the perch.
“Buffalo,” I said.
“American bison,” my father said. It sounded like a correction, but when I looked at him curiously he nodded. “Buffalo, sure.”
“For rides?”
My dad grinned at me. It was a full grin, unburdened by any death or sadness. “For eating. Mr. Shelburton and I are going to
Nanny was sick that day, though, so I was on Ginger, a younger horse my mom didn’t trust. She kept Ginger attached to her horse with a lead, which I felt was insulting for a boy my age. We marched along with me launching a barrage of bitter complaints the whole time, until my mom’s shoulders sagged with the weight of them.
Then I was angry because she didn’t want to ride up to take a look at what boys my age called Dead Man’s Falls (located in an area known to us as Dead Man’s River and close to Dead Man’s Rock), saying she was tired.
“You’re always tired,” I told her viciously.
I brought my contemptuous attitude with me to the dinner table, infuriating my father.
“Charlie, you are being rude to your mother!” he barked.
“It’s okay,” my mom murmured.
“It’s not okay. Go to your room, Charlie. No TV tonight. Let’s see if you can be more polite in the morning.”
The lash of my dad’s anger stung me, but I didn’t let him see any pain in me as I slid off my chair and flounced down the hall as if I didn’t care what they did to me.
I think I know now what that was all about. A restlessness was starting to afflict me, a sense of not being able to fit into my own skin. Manhood was a long way off, but already I was becoming impatient with being a boy. I wanted to ride a horse by myself, without an umbilical cord. And mostly I wanted to push my mother away from me, to gain independence from her, as all men must eventually do.
At the time, though, these irrational impulses came to me like temporary insanity, goading me into churlish behavior and then fading away to leave me stewing in guilt.
The house darkened; my parents murmured; my dad passed my doorway without a word. I heard my mother clink a few things in the kitchen, and then she was in the hallway, pausing at my door.
“Mom?”
She looked into my room. Her face was different, her cheekbones sharper and her eye sockets more pronounced, and of course her hair was nothing more than a wispy fuzz trying to make a comeback on her head, but the smile she gave me was the same. I’d treated her like dirt all day and here she was smiling at me with all the love in the world.
“Yes, Charlie.”
I’d say I was sorry now. God, how I wish I could say I was sorry to my mom, sorry for every single thing I ever did to hurt her. But instead I said, “Aren’t you going to kiss me good night?”
More than a year had passed since I’d asked for—no, demanded—a halt to the nightly ritual of a kiss. But on my mom’s face there was no triumph, nor surprise, nor self-satisfaction. I saw only affection in her eyes as she came in and gently touched her lips to my forehead.
“Good night, Charlie. I love you.”
“Good night, Mom.” I didn’t tell her I loved her back. I don’t know why. If I had it to do over again, I would have said it, and it would have been as true as anything I’d ever uttered.
This memory hit me like a sucker punch when the Jeep stopped at the ranch, the dirt cloud that had been pursuing us engulfing the vehicle, then drifting away like a dog who chases cars and doesn’t know what to do when one stops. I watched the dust but focused on my memories, pangs of something like hunger clawing at my insides.
“What do you think of that?” my dad asked proudly.
I looked where he was pointing. On the other side of a wooden fence a dark herd of maybe twenty-five buffalo were standing around, their tails swishing. Some sort of wooden pathway led from this corral to pass beneath an odd platform above the fence, as if the buffalo were going to walk down the chute and have somebody leap on them from the perch.
“Buffalo,” I said.
“American bison,” my father said. It sounded like a correction, but when I looked at him curiously he nodded. “Buffalo, sure.”
“For rides?”
My dad grinned at me. It was a full grin, unburdened by any death or sadness. “For eating. Mr. Shelburton and I are going to
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