Animal Dreams
Page 68
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Carefully, so as not to lose anything, I brought myself back to the present and sat still, paying attention. "I'm not talking about chicken souls. I don't believe roosters have souls," I said slowly. "What I believe is that humans should have more heart than that. I can't feel good about people making a spectator sport out of puncture wounds and internal hemorrhage."
Loyd kept his eyes on the dark air above the road. Bugs swirled in the headlights like planets cut loose from their orbits, doomed to chaos. After a full half hour he said, "My brother Leander got killed by a drunk, about fifteen miles from here."
In another half hour he said, "I'll quit, Codi. I'm quitting right now."
Chapter 17
17 Peacock Ladies at the Cafe Gertrude Stein
"He's giving up cockfighting for you?" Emelina's eyes were so wide I could only think of Mrs. Dynamite's husband watching Miss America.
"I guess. We'll see if he stays on the wagon."
"Codi, that's so romantic. I don't think J.T. ever gave up a thing for me except cracking his knuckles."
"Well, that's something," I said.
"No, it doesn't even count, because I terrorized him out of it. I told him it would give him arthritis or something."
Emelina and I were eating chili dogs at a roadside diner on 1-10. Loyd's pickup, which we'd borrowed for the trip, was parked where we could keep an eye on it. Piled high in the back, individually wrapped in dry-cleaner bags, were fifty peacock pinatas with genuine peacock tail feathers. We were headed for Tucson, prepared to hit the streets with the biggest fund-raising enterprise in the history of the Stitch and Bitch Club.
The project was Viola's brainchild, although she shared credit with Dona Althea, who had opened up her storehouse of feathers. They'd held two all-night assembly lines to turn out these masterpieces, and really outdid themselves. These were not the likes of the ordinary pinata, destined to meet its maker at the end of a blindfolded ten-year-old's baseball bat. They had glass-button eyes and feather crests and carefully curled indigo crepe-paper wings. These birds were headed for the city, and so was the Stitch and Bitch Club, en masse, by Greyhound. Our plan was to meet at the bus station and take it from there.
I was surprised when Viola asked if I'd come. She said they needed me, I knew the city; you'd think it was a jail break. But Loyd was doing switch-engine time in Lordsburg and it was Christmas break, so I had time on my hands. I begged Emelina to come too, and spend a few days in Tucson. I needed to walk on flat sidewalks, risk my neck in traffic, go see a movie, that kind of thing. J.T. could stay with the kids. He was home on thirty days' probation from the railroad, for the derailment that was officially not his fault. The railroad moves in mysterious ways.
Emelina hadn't gone anywhere without a child in thirteen years. Out of habit she packed a roll of paper towels in her purse. As we drove out of Grace she gasped for air, wide-eyed, like a hooked fish. "I can't believe I'm doing this," she kept saying. "Turn the truck around. I can't go."
I drove westward, ignoring my hostage. "What, you think J.T. doesn't know how to take care of his own sons?"
"No," she said, staring at the center line. "I'm afraid I'll come back and find him dead on the kitchen floor with a Conquerers of the Castle arrow stuck on his head and a fistful of Hostess Ding Dongs."
By the time we hit the interstate she'd decided it would work out. The boys could go to college on J.T.'s life insurance.
"Oh, they won't pay if it's murder," I said gravely.
She brightened a little. "I always forget. He's the one that wanted so many kids."
It was mid-December, fourteen shopping days till Christmas, and by afternoon it was clear and cold. Twenty-two women in winter coats and support hose took the streets of downtown Tucson by storm, in pairs, each cradling a papier-mache pinata in her arms. No one who witnessed the event would soon forget it.
Emelina and I and the truck were more or less set up as headquarters. We parked in front of a chichi restaurant called the Cafe Gertrude Stein, for the sole reason that it sported an enormous green plastic torso out front and the women felt they could find their way back to this landmark. As soon as they sold their birds, they were to head back for more. Emelina and I held the fort, perched carefully in the midst of our pyramid of paper birds.
A man in a black fedora and glen plaid scarf came out of the cafe and gave us a startled look. We'd not been there when he went in. "How much?" he asked.
Loyd kept his eyes on the dark air above the road. Bugs swirled in the headlights like planets cut loose from their orbits, doomed to chaos. After a full half hour he said, "My brother Leander got killed by a drunk, about fifteen miles from here."
In another half hour he said, "I'll quit, Codi. I'm quitting right now."
Chapter 17
17 Peacock Ladies at the Cafe Gertrude Stein
"He's giving up cockfighting for you?" Emelina's eyes were so wide I could only think of Mrs. Dynamite's husband watching Miss America.
"I guess. We'll see if he stays on the wagon."
"Codi, that's so romantic. I don't think J.T. ever gave up a thing for me except cracking his knuckles."
"Well, that's something," I said.
"No, it doesn't even count, because I terrorized him out of it. I told him it would give him arthritis or something."
Emelina and I were eating chili dogs at a roadside diner on 1-10. Loyd's pickup, which we'd borrowed for the trip, was parked where we could keep an eye on it. Piled high in the back, individually wrapped in dry-cleaner bags, were fifty peacock pinatas with genuine peacock tail feathers. We were headed for Tucson, prepared to hit the streets with the biggest fund-raising enterprise in the history of the Stitch and Bitch Club.
The project was Viola's brainchild, although she shared credit with Dona Althea, who had opened up her storehouse of feathers. They'd held two all-night assembly lines to turn out these masterpieces, and really outdid themselves. These were not the likes of the ordinary pinata, destined to meet its maker at the end of a blindfolded ten-year-old's baseball bat. They had glass-button eyes and feather crests and carefully curled indigo crepe-paper wings. These birds were headed for the city, and so was the Stitch and Bitch Club, en masse, by Greyhound. Our plan was to meet at the bus station and take it from there.
I was surprised when Viola asked if I'd come. She said they needed me, I knew the city; you'd think it was a jail break. But Loyd was doing switch-engine time in Lordsburg and it was Christmas break, so I had time on my hands. I begged Emelina to come too, and spend a few days in Tucson. I needed to walk on flat sidewalks, risk my neck in traffic, go see a movie, that kind of thing. J.T. could stay with the kids. He was home on thirty days' probation from the railroad, for the derailment that was officially not his fault. The railroad moves in mysterious ways.
Emelina hadn't gone anywhere without a child in thirteen years. Out of habit she packed a roll of paper towels in her purse. As we drove out of Grace she gasped for air, wide-eyed, like a hooked fish. "I can't believe I'm doing this," she kept saying. "Turn the truck around. I can't go."
I drove westward, ignoring my hostage. "What, you think J.T. doesn't know how to take care of his own sons?"
"No," she said, staring at the center line. "I'm afraid I'll come back and find him dead on the kitchen floor with a Conquerers of the Castle arrow stuck on his head and a fistful of Hostess Ding Dongs."
By the time we hit the interstate she'd decided it would work out. The boys could go to college on J.T.'s life insurance.
"Oh, they won't pay if it's murder," I said gravely.
She brightened a little. "I always forget. He's the one that wanted so many kids."
It was mid-December, fourteen shopping days till Christmas, and by afternoon it was clear and cold. Twenty-two women in winter coats and support hose took the streets of downtown Tucson by storm, in pairs, each cradling a papier-mache pinata in her arms. No one who witnessed the event would soon forget it.
Emelina and I and the truck were more or less set up as headquarters. We parked in front of a chichi restaurant called the Cafe Gertrude Stein, for the sole reason that it sported an enormous green plastic torso out front and the women felt they could find their way back to this landmark. As soon as they sold their birds, they were to head back for more. Emelina and I held the fort, perched carefully in the midst of our pyramid of paper birds.
A man in a black fedora and glen plaid scarf came out of the cafe and gave us a startled look. We'd not been there when he went in. "How much?" he asked.
