A Long Vacation

         "No, we can take thirteen-five hundred for the Invader, not 
       a cent less.  Look, can you hold a minute?  I've got to get hold 
       of the service department.  Al, this is Rick.  I need you to get 
       that Caddie out for me.  Can't you get those guys off of their 
       coffee break just a little early and get them on it?  The 
       customer is on his way over now.  I can't sell cars if you guys 
       can't get 'em out to the customers.  Thanks, Al.  Bye.  Okay, I'm 
       back.  Tell him we'll go thirteen-two fifty and he can buy his 
       own stereo system."  Richard MacKay looked at his watch.  It was 
       a pointless gesture.  It was still three-fifteen and he was still 
       running late.  He reached for the antacids in his desk drawer and 
       chewed a handful.  Brady would be getting out of school right 
       now.  The boy would be hopping up and down, waiting. 
            On his way out of the office, he tossed a set of keys into 
       the mail tray on the desk-top.  He grabbed his Resistol straw  
       off of the hat rack and headed through the showroom.  "My demo 
       keys are on my desk if anybody needs them.  Don't burn the place 
       down while I'm gone." 
            The secretary smiled and blew him a kiss as he passed.  She 
       was old enough to be his mother, almost.  "Have a nice vacation 
       Mr.  MacKay." 
            "Keep these guys in line for me.  Don't take any sh . . . 
       baloney off of them, Okay?" 
            "Okay.  Have fun with your boy." 
            "I will.  Bye."  On the parking lot, he fished in 
       his pockets for keys to the old pickup.  He reassured himself 
       that the camping equipment was under the tarp in the bed and had 
       not been disturbed.  What a miracle.  He hoped he hadn't 
       forgotten anything.  When he hit the first light red, he turned 
       on the radio and hung his tie on the mirror.  He would never 
       get used to wearing a tie. 
            He almost missed the turn into the driveway where the cash 
       machine was located.  The driver behind honked, but Richard 
       ignored him.  He had decided to get as much cash as he could for 
       the trip.  First he tried for a thousand.  The machine beeped.  
       He tried nine hundred and it beeped again.  He settled for eight 
       hundred and fifty.  Damn.  It made him mad every time he thought 
       about it.  Thirty-five years old and he didn't have a thousand 
       dollars in the bank.  Janice had his house and about five hundred 
       a month of his money to help her with the payments.  He had a 
       one-bedroom apartment and a twelve year-old pickup.  Don't be 
       bitter, he told himself.  But it didn't help. 
            The sign said, " Bliss Child Development Center."  He pulled 
       into the parking lot at three thirty-two.  There was Brady, 
       sitting just inside the glass door.  As Richard entered, his nose 
       wrinkled at the smell of disinfectant-over-urine.  The cacophony 
       of shrill children's' voices assaulted his ears.  He wondered how 
       anyone ever stood to work in a day-care. His son, sitting on 
       his suitcase, seemed not to notice the noise.  Richard gave him a 
       quick hug.  "Dad, you're two minutes late.  I was worried you 
       weren't going to make it."    
            "Just a minute and we'll get out of here.  Let me tell 
       someone we're going."  He looked around for someone who looked 
       old enough to be in charge.  He spotted a blonde woman who looked 
       about eighteen, maybe twenty.  She wore a clown-silhouette name 
       tag that said, "Miss Brenda," and underneath that, "Director."  
            "Hi, I'm Richard MacKay,  I'm supposed to get Brady today 
       for our summer visit." 
            "I see.  Hold on a minute while I check on something. Wait 
       right here."  He wondered where else she thought he would wait; 
       he sure wasn't going to join the screeching mob in the play room.  
       The place was cheerless.  Fluorescent lights and hand-printed 
       walls.  He didn't see any child development happening either.  
       The place was more like an asylum.  They just turn the kids loose 
       and forget them, he guessed.  Miss Brenda was back and she looked 
       unhappy. "Sir,  You aren't on my access list." 
            "Your what?" 
            "My access list.  Each parent or other competent adult 
       authorized to pick a child up at the center must be on the list.  
       You aren't on it.  I can't let you take him." 
            "Look, I'm his father.  We look alike.  He calls me Dad.  
       This was supposed to be all arranged by my ex-wife, Janice 
       MacKay.  She said it would be all right." 
            "She didn't tell us about it." 
            "I can't help that.  She told me she'd take care of it." 
            Her jaw tightened.  "Sir, you had better leave now, before I 
       have to call the police.  I don't know who you are.  You could be 
       a kidnaper and you aren't on my list." 
            He began tapping his left foot up and down.  He clenched his 
       fist, making a great effort to stay calm. "Brady is my son.  I 
       am his dad.  I am taking him camping.  Why don't you call his 
       mother and ask her?  Surely you have a telephone." 
            "I'll call her.  You wait here."  Miss Brenda turned and 
       stormed off.  He looked out the window to check on the truck and 
       the gear in the back.  While he had been talking, Brady had 
       dragged his suitcase out the door.  It was by the pickup and  
       Brady was already sitting on the passenger side, waiting.  He 
       saw Richard looking his way, so he reached across and tapped the 
       horn.  Richard scowled at the place where Miss Brenda had been 
       standing.  Making his decision, he stalked out of the building, 
       threw the suitcase in the bed of the truck, and climbed into the 
       cab.  The tires squealed for the first half-block as he pulled 
       into the afternoon traffic.  Miss Brenda and Janice could work it 
       out. 
            "Dad, slow down.  You're speeding." 
            "Sorry."  He took his foot off the accelerator. "Miss 
       Brenda didn't want to let you leave." 
            "Screw her." 
            "Brady, don't talk like that!" 
            "Well, you cuss." 
            "I shouldn't talk that way either.  Anyway, don't talk that 
       way." 
            "Okay." 
            "You want something to drink?" 
            "Sure, can I have a Dr. Pepper?" 
            "Coming right up."
            "Where are we going to spend the night?" 
            "Oh, I don't know.  Let's just head into the sunset." 
            "Do we get to stay in a motel?" 
            "I don't know.  We'll see." 
            They sipped their cold drinks as  they reached the edge of 
       Fort Worth.  The traffic was easing up.  Richard looked over at 
       his son.  He looked pale like his mother, but he had Richard's 
       eyes and hair.   He had a Band-Aid on one cheek and was chewing 
       on his fingernails, as usual.  He looked tense.  Try as he might, 
       Richard couldn't remember having a care in the world at that age.  
       Things were different then.  Kids had a Mama who was around to 
       take care of them, a Daddy that came home every night, and a 
       brother or a sister or two.  And a mutt dog to play with.  Brady 
       had some kind of a pedigreed Lotsa Oopso, or something like that, 
       that was too expensive to play with. 
            "How are your music lessons going?" 
            "I hate the violin.  Mom says it's teaching me culture." 
            "It won't hurt you to learn to read music." 
            "Violin is for wimps.  I'd rather play the drums." 
             Now, there was an idea for a Christmas present.  Janice 
       would love that.  He knew he wouldn't do it.  Besides, he 
       couldn't afford drums.  "Keep working at the violin.  When you 
       get old like me, the rock-and-roll hormones die off and you might 
       actually enjoy the fiddle.  I mean the violin."  He wondered if 
       his voice betrayed the lack of conviction he felt. 
            "Sure, right." 
            The evening sun was in his eyes, so he put the visor down, 
       but Brady was too short for his to be of much help.  He 
       squinted.  Richard handed him a baseball cap that was hanging on 
       the pickup's gun rack.  It was too big, but it blocked the sun 
       from the boy's eyes.  "Dad, I love you.  This is great -- I like 
       going places together." 
            "Me too." 
            "I hate that stupid day care.  The big kids are mean to me.  
       The teachers don't even care.  This kid, Seth, stuck me with the 
       scissors and Miss Debbie didn't even see it."  He pointed to a 
       Band-Aid on the side of his head.  Richard frowned but did not 
       speak.  Damned day care.  Damned divorce.  Damned court system. 
            The West Texas sunset was gold, then orange, and then deep 
       purple.  Richard began to relax and let the stresses of the day 
       fall behind him in the rear-view mirror.  By the time they got to 
       Abilene, Brady was sound asleep and Richard had to carry him to the 
       motel room.

Heat waves rose off the asphalt ahead of them. The day was going to be hot. The bank sign had said it was eighty-one as they left Alamagordo. They were past the brilliant dunes of White Sands and now the desert floor was broken only by yucca and the occasional century plant. Brady looked out at the jagged mountain range in front of them. "Dad, is that where we're going to camp?" "No, we're still a long way from the Gila. Those are the Organ Mountains and they're mostly desert. Very few trees." "They're really tall. Can we climb one?" "We'll climb something when we get to the Gila. Those mountains are too high and it's too hot." "Okay." He looked disappointed. They rode in silence. Brady dug around in his school pack and found a hand-held video game. Soon, he was absorbed in the sounds and the tiny electronic figures darting around the display. Richard was content to watch the mountains grow larger in the windshield. He enjoyed being with his son. He did not get to spend as much time with Brady as he would like; Janice was still angry about the divorce and would allow him only court- ordered visitation. Since he had sued for custody and lost, she had taken every opportunity to make him miserable over it. He looked over at the frail child in the seat next to him. She refused to allow Brady to participate in sports. She said it made him too aggressive. From what Richard could tell, Brady spent most of his time at home alone, playing video games and watching trashy movies on the VCR. Maybe during the trip he could rent some horses and teach the boy to ride. He thought back to his own childhood. The old man was pretty strict. Had him up doing chores around the ranch before sunup, most mornings. It had not seemed so great at the time, he realized, but now he wished he could live that way again. Just hard work in the outdoors. You sure slept good at night -- no worries about how you should have done things. Instead of the haggling on the phone with people over twenty-thousand dollar cars, you just fixed the windmill, looked for that cow with the sick calf. Brady put the game away. They were climbing now and the pickup was laboring up the steep grade. Richard could see in the mirror how far they had come. . "Look back there, son. We're probably a thousand, fifteen hundred feet up from where we started." "Dad, why did you and Mommy get divorced?" He asked the question often, yet it always took Richard by surprise. "Son, I guess we were just selfish. Both of us thought of ourselves, but we didn't think about you." He knew it was not much of an answer to the question, but what could he say to a seven year-old that would mean anything? For that matter, he was not sure he knew what had happened. Things had just fallen apart and neither of them had known what to do to fix it. "I miss you, Dad. I wish I could live with you." "The judge decided you should live with your mother." "He didn't ask me." Richard did not have an answer. He tapped his foot on the floorboard, out of time with the music on the radio. They were over the mountain pass. Peaks stood stark and jagged to either side of them. Behind them, he could see the entire forty miles of desert they had just crossed. Ahead was a curve in the road, beyond which he could see nothing. He guessed they would be in Silver City by four or five.

They bought groceries at the only Safeway in town, stocking up on canned goods and easy-to-fix meals for camping. He remembered lantern fuel at the last moment. He also got the fishing licenses they would need. They were half-way across the parking lot with the groceries when he felt Brady tugging at his shirt. "I promised Mom I'd call her." They found the pay phone and Richard stood by while his son dialed the number. "Hi, Mom. I'm Okay. We're in New Mexico. We're going to camp in the Gila Wilderness. We crossed this hot desert and some tall, tall mountains. Dad says we might get to ride some horses." Brady was silent, listening. Richard could not hear what Janice was saying, but she sounded irate. "She wants to talk to you, Dad." The boy's shoulders sagged. As Richard took the phone, Brady began picking at his fingernails and looking down at the ground. "Richard, what do you think you are doing? You didn't tell me you were taking him to some freaking wilderness. He'll get a sunburn. He's got a delicate complexion, you know. Don't you dare put that child on a horse, either. Do you hear me? I have him signed up for gymnastics in the fall and you'd better not get his arm broken before he has a chance to start. Horseback riding is dangerous. Besides, he doesn't have to grow up to be some kind of compost-kicking, macho-man just because that's what his dad is. Real men can be graceful and sensitive. They don't all have to be hick-cowboy car salesmen." "Come on, Janice. I'm just trying to give him a good vacation." "If you damage my child, I'll have my attorney petition the court to restrict your visitation rights." "Calm down, Janice." The line went dead. He hung up the phone and walked back to the pickup without speaking. Brady followed. "Bitch." "Brady! She's your mother and, if I hear you talk like that one more time, I'll bust your butt." "Yes, sir." Brady did not appear intimidated. "Does that mean we don't get to ride horses?" "No. It is my decision. We will ride horses." Brady brightened and skipped around to the passenger door. As they traversed the winding road into the mountains, Richard tapped his foot and brooded about the conversation with his ex-wife. He was not going to take orders from that woman. After the beating he had taken in court the last time, he had little doubt that she could carry through with her threat, but he was not going to let her spoil their vacation. Night fell before they could pitch the tent, so he spread the tent canvas out in the bed of the pickup and they rolled their sleeping bags out on top of it. The stars were bright against the dark sky and the even-darker silhouettes of the mountains surrounding them. Brady buried his head in his sleeping bag, afraid of the night sounds. "What if a bear comes around?" "I doubt if one will as long as we keep the food locked up." "But what if one does?" "I'll take care of you." After his son fell asleep, Richard lay awake for a long time; looking up at the stars, picking out the different constellations, and praying to their Creator to help him untangle some of the mess he had made in the life of the child sleeping beside him.

They left the pickup at a narrow pull-off at the head of the trail. There were no other vehicles parked there, so it Richard guessed they would be six or seven miles from the nearest road when they reached their destination. He had rented two horses with the intention of letting Brady ride one, but had changed his mind and decided to put all of the gear on one animal while he and Brady rode together. All morning he had coached his son as they made their way up the rugged trail. "Don't jerk. Easy, easy. Just pull the reins gently in the direction you want him to go. This horse is neck- reined and just the touch of the rein against the side of the neck is enough to guide him." He seemed to be getting the hang of it. Their horse was named Ranger, a bay gelding. About a four year-old, Richard guessed, and a pretty good trail horse. The pack horse was a sorrel mare named Rose. It was good to be in the saddle. He had been surprised that in all those years away from the ranch, he had not lost his riding skills. Their destination was the confluence of a small creek, the Sapillo Creek the map called it, with the Gila River. When they had rented the horses, the stable man told Richard that there was an old line shack there that might serve as a place to stay. He said he doubted that the owner would mind, but Richard had packed the tent, nonetheless. As the afternoon wore on, Brady became more sure of himself in the saddle and Richard allowed him to trot the horse across a flat meadow. They stopped once to drink from a cold stream and renew the suntan lotion Richard had brought to protect Brady's pale skin. They crossed a final ridge and began a sharp descent. The horses, sure-footed as they were, still faltered on loose rock and Richard had to take the reins. He spotted the cabin. It was about thirty or forty feet up the side of the hill from the clear creek. Further down, he could see the darker waters of the Gila. "There's the line shack." "Good. I'm tired." When they reached the cabin, they found it locked. Richard could remember when no one bothered with door locks in the country. He pitched the tent on the flattest piece of ground he could find along the creek bed, a dozen yards from the water. He knew that mountain streams were prone to flash- flooding. He hoped the campsite was far enough from the stream in case it did rain, but it was difficult to find a level piece of ground close to the hillside. After making camp and taking care of the horses, they fished in the stream just above where it fed into the swift current of the Gila. Several times, Brady got his line snagged in the underbrush and Richard untangled it for him without complaint. It was all part of a dad's job description, Richard told himself. After trying several small pools along the creek, they found the right spot. Watching Brady drift his line around a bend, Richard was thrilled to see the youngster hook a Rainbow trout. The fish flashed silver in the sunlight as it fought to escape the barbed steel. Brady was excited and almost lost the fish, but he managed to reel it in, to Richard's amazement. They caught six more fish during the afternoon and cooked them in a cast-iron skillet as the sun set behind the peaks to the west. "Man, I am hungry. I could eat a horse." "Maybe you'd better not, son. They are our transportation out of here." "Sorry Rose, sorry Ranger. I didn't mean it." They sat by the campfire as darkness fell. A rivulet of hot pitch sizzled its way down the side of a piñon log before burning away. A piece of juniper popped and crackled, lending a sweet smell, like the smell of a grandmother's cedar chest, to the smoke. The breeze picked up and the canyon gave a mournful sigh as cold night air moved off the mountains down to the river. Richard could hear it coming down the slope through a thousand acres of pine forest long before the first cold wave touched the back of his neck. Both of them moved closer to the fire. The Gila gurgled and bubbled its eternal way to a far ocean, oblivious to the humans camped on its banks. Louder than the river and louder than the crackling fire was the overarching silence of the wilderness, against which no bird or night creature dared utter a sound. "Daddy, are you scared?" "No, of course not." It wasn't altogether true, he realized. There was always something a little frightening to him about the wilderness. The forest made you feel . . . insignificant. It was scary in a way, but reassuring too. Next to the vastness of the wilderness, problems seemed diminished, unimportant in the eternal scheme of things. Richard could tell his son was getting sleepy. He poured the dish water on the coals of the fire. They crawled in the tent and into their sleeping bags. Richard turned out the lantern, and before its hissing died away, Brady was asleep. Richard was not far behind. It had been a good day.

The walls of the tent flashed blue and the crash of thunder followed in an instant. The echoes reverberated up and down the canyon with each successive bolt. Richard was awake. The thunderstorm was close, no further than two or three miles up the mountain, he estimated. Brady moaned. Richard patted him through the sleeping bag. "It's just a thunderstorm. We'll be Okay. Go back to sleep if you can." They were not under a tree, so there was little danger of being hit by lightning. He was tired and began dozing again, despite the noise of the thunderstorm. The thunder woke him again. He pressed the light button on his watch. Four-thirty. It had been raining for over three hours. He sat up and, untying the tent's canvas window cover, looked out into the night. The lightning illuminated the canyon for an instant and he could see. The rain was solid and the creek had risen over its banks. "Brady, wake up. We've got to get out of here. The creek's up." The stream was flowing not a yard from the end of their tent and it was full of debris. Brady was slow in waking. Richard shook him but spoke in a soft voice. "Son, wake up. We have to get out of the tent." He didn't take time to light the lantern. Instead, he used the flashlight to find the boy's jacket and shoes. Then, he began piling as much of the gear onto his sleeping bag as he could. Brady was out of his bag now and getting his shoes on. He didn't speak. Richard told him to roll it up and get ready to get wet. Rolling his own bag with the camping supplies in as tight a roll as he could, Richard was ready. "Keep your bag held high. Follow me. We'll go for the cabin." He couldn't hold Brady's hand and the bag too. It was steep and muddy. Brady slipped several times as they climbed. Richard followed close behind to break his son's falls, afraid he might slip all the way into the waters below. When he looked back after the first twenty feet up toward the shack, the water was lapping at the tent flap; they had left just in time. Or maybe they hadn't. He could feel it before he could hear it. A vibration beneath his feet, like an earthquake must feel. A steady and growing rumble between the continual claps of thunder. Richard felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. He knew what it was. He somehow managed to sweep Brady up in his arms without losing the gear. He climbed. His legs ached and his breath was ragged but he noticed neither. He could hear the terrifying sound of boulders smashing against boulders and the roar of tons of water gouging and ripping at the earth out in the darkness. Flash flood. Got to get up higher. Come on Richard, a little higher. Don't let go. He ran headlong into the porch of the cabin. So intent had he been on getting above the flood, he had not been watching. He deposited Brady and the gear onto the porch and turned to look down the canyon. Brady was crying now. He knelt behind the boy and put an arm around him. "It's all right, son. I think we're safe here." He had to speak directly into the boy's ear; the roar was so intense that it blocked out all other sounds. There it was -- a wall of water ten, maybe fifteen feet high rushing down the canyon. The lightning revealed it for brief instants, like a slow-motion sequence in a movie. The sound was deafening. The earth shook as if the whole mountainside would give way. Richard held the boy tighter and continued to speak reassurances that neither of them could hear. It was right beneath them, not more than fifteen feet away. Richard saw the muddy water laden with branches and clumps of grass and rocks sweeping down the canyon. The tent was gone in an instant. After what seemed forever, the waters began to recede. Brady was shivering. Richard made a decision. Picking up a rock, he smashed a single pane in the front-door window and got the door open. He would leave the owner a twenty-dollar bill and explain the circumstances, but now they needed shelter. The storm eased and the waters began to subside. Soon, the stars were out. He built a fire in the shack's wood stove using a small stack of wood that was left in the house by the previous tenants. Using a roll of duct tape from the camping gear he had salvaged, he taped over the broken window glass. He tucked Brady into his sleeping bag and spread Brady's wet bag out to dry. At last he lay beside his son on the floor by the fire and fell asleep. The morning sun was shining as if the storm had never happened. Richard saw that the creek was running high and muddy. In the daylight, there was ample evidence of the previous night's flood. Trees still clad with needles had been uprooted and carried downstream until they caught between the narrow banks. Mud covered the banks six or seven feet above the swollen stream and boulders, which had been tossed about before coming to rest, some with their mossy bottoms turned up to the sky. For all of the apparent destruction around them, he knew that the landscape would soon recover. The fishing would not be good for a few days; the creek was too muddy. Things could have been worse, he thought. The tent and some of the cooking utensils were missing, but he had managed to recover most of the equipment. The horses had wandered off during the storm. He found them grazing a hundred yards down the river, contented, as if nothing had happened. Brady was throwing rocks in the creek, trying to make the flat ones skim on the fast-running water. Richard noticed that his son looked at each stone before throwing it. If he found it interesting, he would put in his pocket instead. His jeans pockets were bulging. Richard smiled as he remembered how he had done the same thing as a boy. Some things don't change, he thought. "Dad, can we stay a little longer? I like it here." "I suppose we'd better head out. We'll find some other interesting things to do before we have to go back to Ft. Worth." "Come on, Dad, just one more day." Richard thought about it. "Okay, I guess we can stay, but we will have to go back tomorrow." "Thanks, Dad. You're the best."

They made it back to the pickup at noon on Thursday after getting an early start. Richard unsaddled the horses and coaxed them into the trailer. They finished loading the gear and started down the winding road into Silver City. Brady was still talking about the flood like it had been a grand adventure. "Wait 'til I tell Mom. That water was awesome." He tried to duplicate the noises of the flood churning down the canyon. "Maybe you shouldn't mention it." "Why not? It was bad." Richard was able, with only a short delay now, to translate "bad" to "neat" to give the correct interpretation to his son's comment. "She's likely to come unglued." In Silver City again, they stopped by the Safeway so Brady could use the pay phone. Richard tried to ignore the conversation but couldn't. "Hi Mom. We're having a great time. We caught some fish and rode some horses way up in the mountains and . . . yeah, we did." Richard guessed Janice was mad about the horses. At least Brady had not told her about the flood. "And guess what else." Brady was dancing around as he talked, like an excited puppy wanting attention. "There was this real bad storm and it flooded and we nearly drowned. It was cool. Dad saved my life." Richard winced. The voice from the phone grew louder, strident. Brady shriveled, like a festive holiday balloon with a sudden leak. His face fell and he looked as if he wanted to cry. Richard's stomach tightened. He could feel the pressure in his jaw as he clamped it shut. Here she goes again, he thought. General Janice, guardian of world order. All spit and polish, that woman. By the numbers. Nothing shall be out of place. Every rule and regulation is to be followed, to the letter. Good Housekeeping and Parenting are the training manuals and everything will be done by the book. Insubordination will be punished as a court-martial offense. Do you understand? Yeah, General Janice would bark a few orders and the troops would fall in line. Order would be restored. Never mind the broken spirits, the casualties of war in her battle against the unpredictable. Richard motioned for Brady to pass him the phone. Brady handed it over like a baked potato, fresh from the oven, then began picking at his fingernails. "Look, Janice. We're fine. It wasn't that big a deal. He's just excited because it was an adventure." "Richard, you ass. Why do you insist on endangering my child? You idiot. You bring him back here for the rest of the visit. I will not tolerate you getting him hurt." "He isn't hurt, he's fine." He felt like he ought to snap to attention and answer with name, rank, and serial number. Invoke the Geneva Convention. He also felt like ripping the phone off the wall. "By the way, the day-care called the day you left. The director was panicked, said someone who wasn't on her list had taken Brady without permission and asked me if I knew about it. I could have you arrested for that, you know. Maybe I will. Brady was supposed to have called to let me know he was leaving. I was worried sick. You are a jerk, Richard. You do one more stupid thing and I'll . . . I'll have you arrested." Oh, now she was going to call out the MPs. Good old General Janice. She hung up. Richard stood for a moment, the dead phone in his hand, a bemused statue in the Safeway parking lot. He always felt a sense of confusion in dealing with her. All of that negative energy surrounding her drained him and left his brain paralyzed. God alone knew how Brady bore it, day after day. He looked at his son. The boy's shoulders drooped like those of an old man, only smaller. He wasn't bearing it well, Richard realized. He was staggering with the burden of Janice's perfectionism on his back, like a slave bearing bullion for the conqueror. It had to stop before she crushed him flat. He could not go back to court. In an instant, he relived his last day he had spent there. It ran through his mind like a news clip of the apocalypse. Her attorneys had ripped him tooth and nail, exposing every flaw. Janice had coached them well. His attorney, who must have learned all he knew of courtroom procedure from reruns of LA Law, fumbled with his legal briefs and could not seem to recall anything Richard had told him. It still rankled. It had cost him close to ten grand and it all boiled down to one thing. He was not the mother. It was discrimination turned inside-out. The court's finding was that he was not the mother. He would not go back to court. He walked back to the truck, not speaking to Brady. They rode in silence for a long time, each with his thoughts. Richard tapped his foot on the floorboard. There was now a hole in the rubber mat. Brady fiddled with the video game but pressed the button to silence the game sounds. It was getting late. The sun would be down soon. Richard was not sure where he would stop for the night. He was too angry to think. He just wanted to drive forever. Wouldn't it be nice, he thought. Just drive away. Just him and Brady into the sunset. No more Janice, no more car lot bullshit. Dream on, he thought. "You're speeding, Dad." Richard continued his daydream as the old pickup chewed up the asphalt. Why not? Why not just disappear? If something didn't change she'd have Brady so beaten down he would never be a grown man. Richard visualized Brady at forty, browbeaten, muttering 'yes mother' to the old hag. And Janice was determined to deal him more grief when he got Brady back home. She had proven she could and Richard did not doubt she would. He would not go back to court. So, what would he do if he didn't take Brady home? Maybe he could get a job on a ranch somewhere, he thought. The pickup bounced as they hit a stretch of bumpy road. Brady had put the game away and was dozing. Richard saw the tight little face relax in the glow of the dashboard lights. He returned to his daydream. I could do that kind of work. There wouldn't be a bunch of people around some remote ranch studying milk carton pictures or studying wanted posters. It began to seem more plausible the longer he thought about it. He drove on into the night, across New Mexico, through the traffic around El Paso, and onto I-10. It was one-thirty in the morning when he took the exit at Van Horn and headed south.

Old Sanders was standing, looking out over the desert. His desert. He looked like a whiskered old coyote waiting for something to move. Richard walked up to the porch and raised a hand to his hat brim. Old Sanders finally spoke but his eyes did not leave the horizon. "What can I do for you fellers?" "You got any work? I need a job. Guy named Tom in Marfa told me you might need a hand." Sanders stroked his grizzled whiskers and turned his eyes on Richard, sizing him up. "I might could use you. I know a cowboy when I see one. The boy part of the deal?" "I expect I could make a hand of him." "You might need to. Tell you what. I'll give you forty a day starting tomorrow and if you don't work out I'll let you know straight ahead. You can eat at the main house if you can stand my Missus' cooking. No vacation, no benefits, and I'll shoot you if you steal from me. That's it. Take it or leave it." He stood there, hands on his hips, immobile. An old bristlecone pine bent in the West Texas wind, waiting for another six-hundred years to pass or a reply to his offer, whichever came first. "I'll be ready to start at sunup." "That's a new saddle in your truck. You been out of the country a while?" "Yeah, a while." "See you in the morning. Breakfast is at five-thirty. Bunkhouse is over there. You might can stand it if you'll do a little fixin' up." Old Sanders raised a gnarled limb and pointed at a dilapidated structure a hundred yards from the main house. Home, sweet home, Richard thought.

Brady looked good. He had a deep tan and Richard could see he had started to fill out. His muscles were starting to tone up and he sat in the saddle like he was born there. He would make a fine man soon. The morning sun was already hot as they unsaddled the horses. They had checked on a few head of cattle after sunup. The August grass was green, since the rain, but Richard needed to go into Marfa to buy hay before the weather turned cold and the price went up. He also needed to find out what he would have to do to get Brady registered for school. Richard had yet to figure out how he was going to work around the fact that Brady's school records weren't available. Old Sanders and Rachael, his wife, were up at the main house on the porch. After the first couple of weeks he had stopped accompanying the MacKays on their rides. He was taking it easy, which was his reason for hiring them. Richard was content. He knew he was probably wanted by the law and Janice was probably worried sick. When his conscience bothered him, he concentrated on the job at hand and his guilt would usually leave him alone. If that did not work, he would picture Janice gloating in the courtroom and the guilt would flee. Brady had not mentioned home. Maybe he thought it was all still part of the summer visit. Richard remembered how time had seemed to flow when he was a kid, days blending to months with no deadlines or appointments. He did not know how to tell Brady they were not going back. He just kept hoping the boy would not ask. He was a bright kid. He probably knew already. The pickup rattled and danced on the rutted road, across the cattle guard and under the iron gate at the ranch's entrance. Marfa was only six miles away. They slowed as they entered the little cow town then parked at the curb by the Rexall Drug. The drugstore still maintained a fountain. Richard wondered if it was the only drugstore left in the universe that still had one. They sat in a booth and looked out at the street as Brady ordered his usual chocolate milkshake and Richard ordered a glass of lemonade. "Dad, are we going home pretty soon?" Richard's heart stopped. There was cold lead in his stomach, like a pistol shot from nowhere had caught him in the gut. He tried to think of something to say. The drugstore dimmed and grayed around the edges. He had known it was bound to happen, but still he was not ready for it. He has got to know sometime, Richard realized. "Son, I thought you liked it here. Aren't we having a good time together?" "Sure, Dad, but I kinda miss my school and my friends. Even Mom, sometimes." Richard bit his lower lip. Of course, he would miss his mother. How could it be otherwise? General Janice or not, she was still his mother. This changes everything. Of course he missed his mother. She was, after all, his mother. His conscience reproached him. Way to go Richard. Just take him away from his mother and expect him not to notice. You stupid cowboy. "Do you want to go home, Brady?" Richard barely recognized his own constricted voice. "Not too bad, but . . . maybe I ought to. Mom might be worried about me." Richard took a deep breath. "Okay, son. I'll get you home." "Dad, you aren't drinking your lemonade. Don't you want it?"

They sat in the Marfa cafe and waited. Richard sipped at his half-cold coffee without noticing it. Brady was fidgeting and picking at his fingernails. "I love you, Dad. I'll miss you." Richard dug in his pocket and, finding a quarter, gave it to Brady and nodded at the jukebox. Brady went over, as he had done a hundred times over the summer, and punched up "Achey Breaky Heart." Richard hated the song, but Brady always got a kick out of it. Somehow it had all gone wrong, Richard thought. He had pictured them living happily ever after on the Sanders' ranch. Father and son working together, sweating and cussing and laughing together. He should have known better. Of course Brady would miss his mother, his friends, and even that damned goofy Lotsa Oopso dog, or whatever it was. Brady was dancing to the jukebox song. He had a lot of energy. You can't put it back together again. You can't put it back together. It won't fit back like it was. It's like trying to glue a broken toy; sometimes the parts just won't line up the way they were. He couldn't have Brady to himself. If he sent him home now, he might never see him again. Richard pushed the thought out of his mind. He had to do what he had to do. The song was over. Brady came back to the table and took another bite of his pancake. Richard left a five at the register and they walked to the pay phone by the Rexall. Richard dropped his remaining quarter into the slot. The phone rang three, four rings. He heard the metallic sound as her answering machine picked up. The mechanical voice intoned, "You have reached the Janice MacKay residence. I am unable to . . ." "I'm here. Wait until the machine stops babbling so I can hear you." She sounded tense, tired. "Janice, this is Richard. Be at the Greyhound bus station at four-thirty. I'm sending Brady home." The line was quiet, with only the hiss of the long-distance line in Richard's ear. He had expected a tirade. Now he heard another sound and realized she was crying. "Four-thirty. Can you be there?" "Yes." Her voice was frail, quavering. Richard's heart was about to block his air supply. "I guess it's too late for apologies, but I'm sorry for not getting him home on time, for the divorce, for the times . . . the whole mess. Never mind calling your lawyer, you won't need him." He hung up the phone. Maybe they had not had time to trace the call. He heard the unmistakable diesel clatter and looked up to see the red, white, and blue side of the bus, then the running dog, slide by in front of him, like his life passing before his eyes. He lifted Brady's suitcase out of the pickup and carried it over to where the driver was opening the luggage compartment door. Brady stopped at the foot of the steps. Richard knelt and took the boy in his arms. "Don't forget. Stay on the bus until the driver says you are in Fort Worth. Don't get off anywhere else and stay with the driver until you see your mother. I'll miss you, son. I had a good time." Richard was fighting the tears. He wasn't going to cry. He forced a smile. A tough cowboy smile, he hoped. "How about that flood, wasn't that something?" "Yeah, it sure was." Brady stuck a hand in his jeans pocket, reaching for something. Richard recognized the smooth, black stone as one Brady had saved from those he had gathered along the creek after the flood. They were all over the mountains in New Mexico. People called them Apache tears. Brady extended his hand. "Here, Dad. You can have it to remember our vacation by." "No, you keep it, son. I'll remember." He held Brady for a moment without speaking. The boy had gained weight over the summer. He looked good; Janice wouldn't recognize him. Richard thought about the pale child he had picked up at the day-care. It seemed like a year ago. He remembered the anticipation of the trip and the month they were going to share together. Now, there was no telling when he would see Brady again. He fought the tears once again. Words wouldn't come. He felt Brady drop something in his shirt pocket. The stone. "I'll remember, Dad. Always. You keep it." His heart hung suspended like a Fort Worth hotel he had seen demolished once. When they set the charges off, the building just seemed to hesitate in mid-air for several seconds, then it collapsed. Tons of stone and wood and glass reduced to rubble, just like that. Richard's eyes blurred. He felt the cowboy facade start to fall. The sobs came hard. Like the flooded stream, it was too much to contain. Brady held on, clinging. Richard was unaware of the driver, the bus, the day. He was lost in his grief and felt only the child in his arms. The tears subsided. He pulled his hat down close over his eyes. The bus driver coughed and scraped his shoe against the asphalt. He let the boy down to stand on the sidewalk then, pulling a bandanna out of his pocket, took a self-conscious swipe at the corner of each eye. Brady climbed the steps and was gone. Then Richard could see him at the window, his small hand waving as the bus clattered away in a pall of black smoke. Richard looked across the street at the courthouse. The sheriff's office was right there. If he turned himself in they might go easy on him. Maybe he would be out of prison in time to see Brady graduate from high school. He took a step toward the square, then turned and walked back to the pickup. He drove back to the ranch. He went to the bunkhouse and sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. He sat in silence for a long time. His thoughts came, too fast and disjointed. Old Sanders had just paid him for the month, then he and Rachael had left for a weekend in El Paso. The money would be enough to get him where he was going. He wrote a note thanking the couple for their hospitality. It did not sound right. He tore it up and, taking a second sheet of paper, wrote a longer one:

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Sanders, I appreciate your kindness to a stranger. Forgive me for running out on you all like this. I didn't want to cause you any trouble. Brady and me were just having a nice summer visit together. We were having such a good time, it kind of turned into a long vacation, only I didn't ask his mother if he could stay. Brady got a little homesick and I sent him home to Ft. Worth. You all look him up some time. It was good being a cowboy again.

Thanks, Richard * * *

He left the pickup at Panther Junction. He had never seen the Big Bend before, but it seemed like a good place for what he had to do, out in the middle of nowhere as it was. He waited until the sun went down and watched the magnificent colors move across the clouds. Taking only a backpack and a small canteen, he crossed the road and began climbing. The backpack was heavy on one side, but he did not notice after the first few yards. He felt awkward hiking in cowboy boots. When he had traveled for two hours he stopped for a drink. It was still hot despite the season and the late hour. The moon was rising and he could see the Chisos Mountains pale in its light. It was wild country. Still untamed. He stood and listened. The wind across the crusted sand wiped out the traces of his boot tracks behind him. It was peaceful. His kind of country. It would do. He sat on a boulder and took the holstered Colt from the backpack. It was a lot more gun than he needed, but it would do. He drew it from its holster and dropped a shell in the chamber. The air was still now. The desert was quiet except for the insects. He felt like the last man on earth. So, it would end here. His way. They wouldn't pick him to pieces in court. They wouldn't send him to a prison cell with no windows to look out of. Brady would not have to watch him hauled away in cuffs. "Dad just disappeared," he would say to his friends. "We never found out what happened to him." Brady would adjust. He was a fighter, Richard told himself. He pulled the hammer back until it clicked. He could almost see Brady's face, pale on the moon. The look on the boy's face was the same one he had worn as he talked to Janice on the phone. Brady didn't say anything. His face was just there, pale on the moon. Richard closed his eyes and lifted the cold barrel to his temple. Brady was still there, shining through his eyelids, sad little boy, pale on the moon. A single tear welled in the corner of Richard's eye then fell to the dust. He lowered the pistol. He sat on the boulder a long time, watching the moon. Brady was gone; it was just the moon looking down now. Putting the pistol back in the pack, he began the climb back down. "Damn fool." The wind carried his words out over the empty desert and they were gone.