Chapter Twelve
AFTER OUR drives, we made dinner together in his kitchen. I cooked my pasta primavera, which burst with the bright colors of zucchini, carrots, and peas. Marlboro Man grilled medium-rare rib eye steaks that sizzled in melted butter and garlic. I prepared my favorite Spago-inspired pizza: a thin, chewy crust topped with tomatoes, basil, and fresh mozzarella, which I had to order by mail from a mom-and-pop outfit in Dallas, since no Oklahoma shops carried it. He showed me the art of making white gravy in an iron skillet, how important it was to brown the roux to a deep golden brown before pouring in the milk. We discovered each other’s histories while cooking in his kitchen in the country, me whipping out my arsenal of L.A. vegetarian delights with the same pride and enthusiasm that Marlboro Man shared his carnivorous ones. Our two worlds collided in rich, calorie-laden dinners. I began doing step aerobics at my hometown YMCA every morning to keep from growing out of my Anne Kleins. Now was the time for love, not jiggle.
Meanwhile, back in my hometown, my parents’ marriage was crumbling before my eyes. I loved my parents, loved them dearly. But as an adult, watching the thirty-year marriage of your mother and father implode and disintegrate is like watching a train wreck happen in slow motion. And your parents are the conductors, and the passengers on the train are family, and many lifelong friends, and all the future grandchildren, and a community, and memories and hopes and dreams. And they’re all about to die in a fiery, deadly accident. Oh, and you’re on the train, too. But you’re also watching from outside the tracks. You want to scream, to try to warn the operators of the train of the devastation that’s about to come. But it’s a nightmare, and your voice is squeezed and squelched and nothing comes out. And you’re powerless to stop it.
I wanted to leave; I wanted out of there so badly. It’s not as if my parents’ difficulties manifested themselves in dish throwing or screaming or slamming doors or loud, unpleasant histrionics. No, instead it was hushed conversations, tense expressions, ashen faces, and, occasionally, tired, puffy eyes. The screaming might actually have been better; this slow, excruciating death was agonizing to watch. Every time I passed through the house and felt the stifling tension in the air, all I wanted was to be somewhere else. I wanted to pack my bags, withdraw all my cash from the bank, and bolt.
But I was stuck—stuck in a delicious, glorious, beautiful, inescapable La Brea tar pit of romance with a rough, rugged, impossibly tender cowboy. As soon as I’d have any thoughts of escaping to Chicago to avoid my parents’ problems, within seconds I’d shoot myself down. Something major would have to happen to pry me out of his arms.
Marlboro Man filled my daydreams, filled my thoughts, my time, my heart, my mind. When I was with him, I was able to forget about my parents’ marital problems. On our drives together, preparing our dinners, watching our VHS action movies, all of those unhappy things disappeared from view. This became a crutch for me, an addictive drug of escape. Ten seconds in Marlboro Man’s pickup, and I saw only goodness and light. And the occasional bra-and-panty-wearing grandma mowing her yard.
Further complicating matters was the passion and lust I felt for Marlboro Man; it was stronger than anything I’d felt in my life. And sometimes I worried about it, in the same way a heavy drinker might occasionally question his second, third, or fourth pour of whiskey. This couldn’t be good for me, could it?
But deep, deep down, I didn’t care. And even if I did care, there wasn’t a thing on earth I could do about it. If Marlboro Man were moonshine during Prohibition, I’d smuggle crates of it across state lines and guzzle it on the journey; if he were a street drug, I’d sell my hair to score a fix; if he were standing below a cliff, I’d jump off to be with him.
If Marlboro Man was wrong, I didn’t want to be right.
Where would all of this lead? At times I asked myself and wondered. Despite having put my plans for Chicago on hold, despite my knowledge that trying to go one day without seeing Marlboro Man was futile, despite how desperately in love I knew I was, I still at times thought this might all just be a temporary glitch in my plans, a wild hair I needed to work out of my system before getting on with the rest of my life. Like I was at Romance Camp for a long, hot summer, playing the part of the cowgirl.
The time was drawing near, however, when Marlboro Man would take the bull by the horns and answer that question for me, once and for all.
ONE DAY Marlboro Man invited my sister, Betsy, and me to the ranch to work cattle. She was home from college and bored, and Marlboro Man wanted Tim to meet another member of my family.
“Working cattle” is the term used to describe the process of pushing cattle, one by one, through a working chute, during which time they are branded, dehorned, ear tagged, and “doctored” (temperature taken, injections given). The idea is to get all the trauma and mess over with in one fell swoop so the animals can spend their days grazing peacefully in the pasture.
When Betsy and I pulled up and parked, Tim greeted us at the chute and immediately assigned us our duties. He handed my sister a hot shot, which is used to gently zap the animal’s behind to get it to move through the chute.
It’s considered the easy job.
“You’ll be pushing ’em through,” Tim told Betsy. She dutifully took the hot shot, studying the oddly shaped object in her hands.
Next, Tim handed me an eight-inch-long, thick-gauge probe with some kind of electronic device attached. “You’ll be taking their temperature,” Tim informed me.
Easy enough, I thought. But how does this thing fit into its ear? Or does it slide under its arm somehow? Perhaps I insert it under the tongue? Will the cows be okay with this?
Tim showed me to my location—at the hind end of the chute. “You just wait till the steer gets locked in the chute,” Tim directed. “Then you push the stick all the way in and wait till I tell you to take it out.”
Come again? The bottom fell out of my stomach as my sister shot me a worried look, and I suddenly wished I’d eaten something before we came. I felt weak. I didn’t dare question the brother of the man who made my heart go pitter-pat, but…in the bottom? Up the bottom? Seriously?
Before I knew it, the first animal had entered the chute. Various cowboys were at different positions around the animal and began carrying out their respective duties. Tim looked at me and yelled, “Stick it in!” With utter trepidation, I slid the wand deep into the steer’s rectum. This wasn’t natural. This wasn’t normal. At least it wasn’t for me. This was definitely against God’s plan.
I was supposed to check the monitor and announce if the temperature was above ninety-nine degrees. The first one was fine. But before I had a chance to remove the probe, Tim set the hot branding iron against the steer’s left hip. The animal let out a guttural Mooooooooooooo!, and as he did, the contents of its large intestine emptied all over my hand and forearm.
Tim said, “Okay, Ree, you can take it out now.” I did. I didn’t know what to do. My arm was covered in runny, stinky cow crap. Was this supposed to happen? Should I say anything? I glanced at my sister, who was looking at me, completely horrified.
The second animal entered the chute. The routine began again. I stuck it in. Tim branded. The steer bellowed. The crap squirted out. I was amazed at how consistent and predictable the whole nasty process was, and how nonchalant everyone—excluding my sister—was acting. But then slowly…surely…I began to notice something.
On about the twentieth animal, I began inserting the thermometer. Tim removed his branding iron from the fire and brought it toward the steer’s hip. At the last second, however, I fumbled with my device and had to stop for a moment. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that when I paused, Tim did, too. It appeared he was actually waiting until I had the thermometer fully inserted before he branded the animal, ensuring that I’d be right in the line of fire when everything came pouring out. He had planned this all along, the dirty dog.
Seventy-eight steers later, we were finished. I was a sight. Layer upon layer of manure covered my arm. I’m sure I was pale and in shock. The cowboys grinned politely. Tim directed me to an outdoor faucet where I could clean my arm. Marlboro Man watched as he gathered up the tools and the gear…and he chuckled.
AS MY sister and I pulled away in the car later that day, she could only say, “Oh. My. God.” She made me promise never to return to that awful place.
I didn’t know it at the time, but I’d found out later that this, from Tim’s perspective, was my initiation. It was his sick, twisted way of measuring my worth.