[all right, this kinda turned into a way longer post than intended. read from the star onward if you're in a hurry; everything before that is basically a solo post. will shorten it up from here on out!]
It's a two and a half hour drive from the White ranch to the Carey farm, and half of that distance is covered on endless arrow-straight country roads slicing across northern Colorado. It's a long time for five large men to spend crammed into a single crew cab, and longer still when the three men in the back -- ranch hands and distant cousins all -- are too meek, too bored, too sleepy or too wise to pipe up.
As for Calden, he's just too damn worn down to even bother. Most the way there he drives with one hand on the wheel, the other elbow propped against the edge of his window, fingers kneading his brow. Most the way there his father sitting in the passenger's seat is the only one talking.
First it's the weather.
-- If this winter bullshit don't stop soon, we can kiss the calves goodbye. There's still no grass on half the range, did you see? Didn't I tell you to bale up extra hay last fall? You never listen, boy, and now you get to watch your stock starve. Hah! Well, at least we won't have another drought year. I told you back in '09 to dig that reservoir deeper. Didn't I? Then last summer you're running a garden hose into a pig trough, putting poor Jimmyboy on watch there with a cattleprod to make sure all the cows get their turn. Hah!
Then it's the drive.
-- Six hours round-trip to go to some goddamn neo-celtic shindig. Who still celebrates Beltane nowadays? What is this, the Stone Age? You gonna put up some standing stones when you get home, boy?
Thought it'd do you some damn good, Calden says wearily. Get off the ranch, see some faces old and new.
Should've kept his mouth shut. His father's instantly energized by the opposition. Revs right up. -- What? And who the hell do I know all the way down in Castle Rock or Colorado Springs or wherever the god-damn you're driving us?
It's the Careys, Calden grimaces. Sarah and Aidan? One of their nieces once removed or something married one of Uncle Donovan's sons last year, remember?
-- And that's reason enough for you to drive six hours round-trip to see them, and drag your father and your three cousins with you? Boy, you are some piece of work.
Calden doesn't answer this time. In the back seat, Jimmy's staring uncomfortably out the window. Ian's asleep, head tilted back, mouth wide open. Paul wisely has earbuds in.
-- God damn, this country goes on forever. Good land. Your great-great-grandfather did the best thing anyone's ever done for this family when he bought up that plot of land. You wouldn't be where you are today, driving your fancy truck and living in your fancy house if it weren't for him. 'Course now the country's going to hell and you right along with it. God damn liberal fag-lovers--
Christ, Calden snaps, your son is gay.
-- Bah, he's just making up an excuse to run around Paris. Surrounded himself with all that French pussy and you still think he's gay? Hah! Boy, you are dumb as a brick. Pull over, I need to take a piss.
What?
-- Pull over. I need to take a piss.
Sitting the truck, Calden fumes silently while his father takes a stand at the side of the road. After a moment, Paul pulls his earbuds out and claps a hand on his shoulder.
I don't know what the hell to do with him, Calden says. Can't take him anywhere. It'll be a straight-up miracle if he doesn't get his teeth knocked out tonight.
As if you'd let that happen, Paul says. Not to mention, he's a sly old fox. He never mouths off like that to anyone he knows will take him up on it.
What the hell are you saying? That I let him, so he acts like this?
Paul shrugs.
He's my dad. I don't let him do anything. He just does whatever the hell he wants.
A little later Rory White climbs back in and buckles his seatbelt. No one looking at the two of them would mistake them for anything but father and son. The same large frame, the same strong bones. Rory's a good four decades older than his second-youngest son, though. His hair's gone white. There are liver spots on his temples, and his hands tremor when he isn't paying attention. Calden looks at his father and feels a great squeeze of pity, of revulsion, of love, of disappointment. He looks away.
-- So who was that woman, Rory begins.
Don't even start, Calden snaps.
*
They arrive a little after sundown: a charcoal-grey Silverado truck pulling up wherever everyone else has parked. It's a nice vehicle, just a couple years old, the paintjob still gleaming, the interior still redolent of new leather. The four doors wing open and the passengers get out -- five men with the smell of horseflesh and cattle still on them.
We'll see you inside, says Jimmy, and the three ranch hands amble toward the growing crowd. Calden doesn't blame them for getting away from his father as soon as they can. Or for heading straight for the pretty girls with their best bowlegged swaggers. All three of them are in fancy tooled boots and big belt buckles. Jimmy's wearing a white Stetson. Paul's opted for chocolate, and Ian's got a flat-brimmed buckaroo hat on. Not a single one of those hats or boots have seen a single day of work. They look ridiculous, Calden thinks fondly.
He lets down the tailgate on his truck. There's a haunch of venison back there, spiced and seasoned, tied up in twine, wrapped in foil. He drags it to the edge.
Wanna help me carry it? he asks his father.
-- Nope, says the elder White, walking off. Calden watches him go, too. Watches his father pull himself up straight, go to greet Sarah and Aidan Carey, the owners of the farm; watches his father turn on his old charm and his old manners, turn back into the man he remembers adoring as a boy. He wonders which is the real Rory White. He decides it hardly matters now.
Calden hoists the haunch of venison over his shoulder. He slams the tailgate on the truck shut. Alone now, a tall broad-shouldered man in jeans and a red-checked shirt, he carries his offering into the Bealtaine gathering.
It's a two and a half hour drive from the White ranch to the Carey farm, and half of that distance is covered on endless arrow-straight country roads slicing across northern Colorado. It's a long time for five large men to spend crammed into a single crew cab, and longer still when the three men in the back -- ranch hands and distant cousins all -- are too meek, too bored, too sleepy or too wise to pipe up.
As for Calden, he's just too damn worn down to even bother. Most the way there he drives with one hand on the wheel, the other elbow propped against the edge of his window, fingers kneading his brow. Most the way there his father sitting in the passenger's seat is the only one talking.
First it's the weather.
-- If this winter bullshit don't stop soon, we can kiss the calves goodbye. There's still no grass on half the range, did you see? Didn't I tell you to bale up extra hay last fall? You never listen, boy, and now you get to watch your stock starve. Hah! Well, at least we won't have another drought year. I told you back in '09 to dig that reservoir deeper. Didn't I? Then last summer you're running a garden hose into a pig trough, putting poor Jimmyboy on watch there with a cattleprod to make sure all the cows get their turn. Hah!
Then it's the drive.
-- Six hours round-trip to go to some goddamn neo-celtic shindig. Who still celebrates Beltane nowadays? What is this, the Stone Age? You gonna put up some standing stones when you get home, boy?
Thought it'd do you some damn good, Calden says wearily. Get off the ranch, see some faces old and new.
Should've kept his mouth shut. His father's instantly energized by the opposition. Revs right up. -- What? And who the hell do I know all the way down in Castle Rock or Colorado Springs or wherever the god-damn you're driving us?
It's the Careys, Calden grimaces. Sarah and Aidan? One of their nieces once removed or something married one of Uncle Donovan's sons last year, remember?
-- And that's reason enough for you to drive six hours round-trip to see them, and drag your father and your three cousins with you? Boy, you are some piece of work.
Calden doesn't answer this time. In the back seat, Jimmy's staring uncomfortably out the window. Ian's asleep, head tilted back, mouth wide open. Paul wisely has earbuds in.
-- God damn, this country goes on forever. Good land. Your great-great-grandfather did the best thing anyone's ever done for this family when he bought up that plot of land. You wouldn't be where you are today, driving your fancy truck and living in your fancy house if it weren't for him. 'Course now the country's going to hell and you right along with it. God damn liberal fag-lovers--
Christ, Calden snaps, your son is gay.
-- Bah, he's just making up an excuse to run around Paris. Surrounded himself with all that French pussy and you still think he's gay? Hah! Boy, you are dumb as a brick. Pull over, I need to take a piss.
What?
-- Pull over. I need to take a piss.
Sitting the truck, Calden fumes silently while his father takes a stand at the side of the road. After a moment, Paul pulls his earbuds out and claps a hand on his shoulder.
I don't know what the hell to do with him, Calden says. Can't take him anywhere. It'll be a straight-up miracle if he doesn't get his teeth knocked out tonight.
As if you'd let that happen, Paul says. Not to mention, he's a sly old fox. He never mouths off like that to anyone he knows will take him up on it.
What the hell are you saying? That I let him, so he acts like this?
Paul shrugs.
He's my dad. I don't let him do anything. He just does whatever the hell he wants.
A little later Rory White climbs back in and buckles his seatbelt. No one looking at the two of them would mistake them for anything but father and son. The same large frame, the same strong bones. Rory's a good four decades older than his second-youngest son, though. His hair's gone white. There are liver spots on his temples, and his hands tremor when he isn't paying attention. Calden looks at his father and feels a great squeeze of pity, of revulsion, of love, of disappointment. He looks away.
-- So who was that woman, Rory begins.
Don't even start, Calden snaps.
*
They arrive a little after sundown: a charcoal-grey Silverado truck pulling up wherever everyone else has parked. It's a nice vehicle, just a couple years old, the paintjob still gleaming, the interior still redolent of new leather. The four doors wing open and the passengers get out -- five men with the smell of horseflesh and cattle still on them.
We'll see you inside, says Jimmy, and the three ranch hands amble toward the growing crowd. Calden doesn't blame them for getting away from his father as soon as they can. Or for heading straight for the pretty girls with their best bowlegged swaggers. All three of them are in fancy tooled boots and big belt buckles. Jimmy's wearing a white Stetson. Paul's opted for chocolate, and Ian's got a flat-brimmed buckaroo hat on. Not a single one of those hats or boots have seen a single day of work. They look ridiculous, Calden thinks fondly.
He lets down the tailgate on his truck. There's a haunch of venison back there, spiced and seasoned, tied up in twine, wrapped in foil. He drags it to the edge.
Wanna help me carry it? he asks his father.
-- Nope, says the elder White, walking off. Calden watches him go, too. Watches his father pull himself up straight, go to greet Sarah and Aidan Carey, the owners of the farm; watches his father turn on his old charm and his old manners, turn back into the man he remembers adoring as a boy. He wonders which is the real Rory White. He decides it hardly matters now.
Calden hoists the haunch of venison over his shoulder. He slams the tailgate on the truck shut. Alone now, a tall broad-shouldered man in jeans and a red-checked shirt, he carries his offering into the Bealtaine gathering.
BECAUSE OF LIGHT AND DUTY AND REASONS.