| General Fiction posted March 29, 2024 | Chapters: |
...4 5 -6- 7... 
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Sometimes the truth is mighty hard to believe.
A chapter in the book Right in the Eye
Right in the Eye, pt 6
by Wayne Fowler
In the last part Slim escaped the long-term care facility and made his way toward Cerrillos where he last saw LouAnne.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
I disturbed the man from his TV. Too bad. He should be glad I don’t go out an’ get a stick for the side of his head.
Spent a near sleepless night in the biggest bed I’ve ever seen. My starin’ at the parkin’ lot security light through the flimsy curtains was interrupted by three or four little naps. This world’s gonna take some gettin’ used to. In my day Cerrillos had two dozen saloons. You picked one for all sorts of reasons: closest one on yer side a’ the street, friendliest bartender, prettiest girls, the loudest, or quietest, any number of reasons. Some were only little bars, but there was a lot goin’ on.
I filled up on two cups of coffee, and went for a stroll. Goin’ on twenty years since I was here last… in my mind. Then you have to add all the years when I was out of my mind. I have no idea if the town’s decline started right away, or its prime held out. Pretty run down now, though. LouAnne’s saloon is a beer and pizza place. The wooden Indian out front woulda been shot to splinters in the 70’s – 1870’s. Six blocks and I was worn out. After movin’ the metal lawn chair from the front of another room to mine, I settled back for some rest. The clatter of a cleaning cart gave me a start.
“Sorry, Mister. Didn’t mean to startle you. Care if I tidy up your room? You’re staying another night, right?”
“Yes’m. Sure, but no need. It’s fine.” Her voice was pleasant, not like Suzanne’s whose voice could freeze hot coffee.
“Won’t take a minute. Just a little touching up.”
She smiled. The difference was amazing. She went from a 50–60-year-old woman to a 35-year-old beauty. If I died this very second, I’ve seen LouAnne. Now, don’t get me wrong. She didn’t look nothin’ like her, ‘cept maybe her height. LouAnn’s hair was flaxen. This woman’s was somethin’ between blond and reddish, dark reddish. Had streaks of each color. LouAnne’s waved down to her shoulders. This gal had bangs and a high ponytail with wavy bunches from her temples and below the ponytail. Not a lot, but some. It looked good. Prob’ly helped out while toilet cleanin’.
“Name’s Slim,” I said real loud after she’d cleared the door. “Marian,” I heard back. “You can call me Mary since I see you’ve made your bed.”
I smiled to myself. I think I remember hummin’. Not sure, since I went to sleep. Sleepin’ when she left, too.
She was in the office behind the counter when I stepped in an hour later to inquire about the town. I needed some food and wanted to make more clear how long I’d be stayin’. Had to be mindful how much I knew about the place when I’d last been here. I decided to keep it all to myself. “I took a little walk earlier this mornin’. Was that pizza bar always that?”
“Oh, no. It was full-out saloon until prohibition. Closed down then. They tried to make a come-back, but without a regular train stop there wasn’t much chance. It closed again until just a few years ago.
I just nodded, bitin’ my tongue to keep from blurtin’ out the history I knew.
“You after lunch, The Cousins over on Second Street sets a nice table, makes out a nice plate lunch. I always get the half order. Full comes on a platter.”
“’Bliged.” I tipped the hat I wasn’t wearin’. Her smile ‘bout knocked me down. Made me wish I had more’n a half smile. She didn’t seem to mind at all. Her face didn’t change a speck, ‘cept her smile got even prettier.
I didn’t see her for a few days after that. The place seemed busy enough. And someone cleaned my room. I just missed her whenever I returned from investigatin’ the town. Usually, I set out on foot. I was gradually gettin’ to where I could go a good little ways without overdoin’ too much. Couple times I drove the Bronco. That was when I wanted to cross the rail tracks and see a bit farther that way, up toward the cemetery. I thought about searchin’ out the area I was last prospectin’ from ’75 to ’80 up Cedar Mountain, what’s now Highway 55. There was good water in the Ortiz Mountains.
Finally, I saw her again. She had a fat lip that wasn’t there last we spoke. I didn’t say nothin’.
“I meant to ask, Mr. Goldman, how did you like the Cousins’ lunch?”
“Took your advice ‘bout the half order. Good thing. Can’t say much for what they called meatloaf though. It sounded good. And bein’ on special …”
“Oh dear. I should have warned you. Tell you what. Why don’t you come to my house this evening and I’ll cook you some pork chops.”
“To your home?” I blurted. “I mean …”
“Oh, you’re safe enough. Over the years I’ve learned to tell the difference from a honey locust and a thorny locust before getting scourged. Besides. I’ve fought with the best, or worst, however it should be said.”
I managed not to look at her lip, changing the subject back to food. “Haven’t had a pork chop in over …” I started to say 100 years. “a long, long time.”
“Five o’clock, then?”
I guess I looked confused.
“Follow the path around the office. The house out back. You can see it through the breezeway. Use the door with the flowers.”
I tipped the hat that I wasn’t wearing.
+++
“Mary. That was the best chop I have ever had. I’m sorry I couldn’t eat but one. Haven’t grown into an appetite yet.” Her eyes picked up at that. I let it go. “But your mashed taters – mmmmm-mmm! If I ate nothin’ else for the rest of my life it would be that. (I learned later that she put chives and mayo an’ some kind of seasoning salt in ‘em.)
“Well, thank you, Slim.” The grin she was holdin’ back told me that she was gonna hold her secret recipe tight. I couldn’t cook no-way anyhoo.
We went out back to sit and “watch the morning glories grow”. Her words. First order of conversation, after a spell of flower-watchin’, was to tell one another about ourselves. Somehow, I convinced her to go first and that we could trade off, pieces at a time. She fessed up to ownin’ the motel. It was built by her daddy when she was off to California after bein’ born an’ raised right there in Cerrillos. She cleans rooms when her help has to be off. Ralph tends the counter six nights a week. He works at the feed mill days, trying to get enough money to move away. “He never will,” she added.
When I asked if she’d ever married, she gave me a look that said my turn.
“Naw, I never married. Got to Santa Fe in ’70. Prospectin’.” It bein’ 1971, her confused look was understandable.
“Really? For what?”
“Gold or silver, either one.” I thought it would be safe enough to say that. Surely there were still a few old codgers out there.
“You do know that owning bullion is against the law.”
Her eyes bore into me. “Well, there’s laws, and there’s laws. Anyway, I bought that Bronco and drove here from Denver. Were you married?” I shut my trap, afraid to scare her by revealin’ too much.
“Yes. I married a truck driver that used to deliver to this area. That’s when I moved to California. We had a daughter, MaryLou.”
I physically flinched. She looked at me to see if I was hurt. The name MaryLou was mighty close to LouAnne.
“We lost her in ’64. That’s when I got a divorce and moved back here. I didn’t even know that my mother was sick. She had cancer. I got here in time to help. Then Dad died just a few months after she did. A heartache, is my belief.”
We both sat quiet for a spell. She hadn’t said anything that might explain her busted lip.
“Your side is falling a little short, Slim. It’s like you skipped over the first half, and then skipped over the second half.”
Her smile made me want to open my craw and empty it out at her feet. I felt terrible. I started out at the easiest ‘cause I didn’t want to leave yet.
“I was born in Arkansas.”
I guess I waited too long ‘cause she asked when that was. Not like a lawman would, but gently.
“09,” I told her, thinkin’ up a number that might sound right and me not have to outright lie and say 1900 instead of 1800. “My oldest brother inherited the farm. I chose to go west. Santa Fe first. All around these parts, then a few years here in Cerrillos, workin’ close by.”
She allowed me a little rest before urging me on. I told her about comin’ to Colorado, namin’ the mountain peaks.
“And something happened. You lost your eye, and spent some time in a hospital. You haven’t been in prison, but a hospital long enough to lose your body mass and strength.”
Her analysis was just about dead on. It wasn’t no statement, but a question. I could tell. I just nodded.
“Slim. I don’t believe you would lie to me. Not after enjoying my cooking.” She smiled. “But I know when I’m not hearing the truth. Right now is the time to tell it. I don’t care if you had a stroke, have cancer, if you’re dying this very day. I’ve lived through lying and I won’t anymore.”
I watched the flowers grow for a minute, swallowin’ hard. I think she knew I was workin’ up the strength the way my lips kept openin’ and smackin’ back shut. “Sometimes the truth is hard to believe,” I said, blinkin’ hard enough to stifle back a tear. Her nod told me to go ahead an’ try. So I did. I told her everything, everything except the part about LouAnne and her bein’ why I came back to Cerrillos. I told her about prospectin’, hidin’ from Indians, findin’ gold, gettin’ shot, and about 80 some years in the institution.
“A hundred and twenty, you say. That’ll take a little, I don’t know … something. A hundred and twenty?” She said as if not actually comprehending the number the first time.
“I know there’s more, Slim, but you’ve had a very rough day. Would you come back and see me tomorrow?”
I nodded I would and walked as upright as I could, stopping to thank her for the meal and to say goodnight before rounding the corner. I couldn’t imagine what she thought.
In the last part Slim escaped the long-term care facility and made his way toward Cerrillos where he last saw LouAnne.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
I disturbed the man from his TV. Too bad. He should be glad I don’t go out an’ get a stick for the side of his head.
Spent a near sleepless night in the biggest bed I’ve ever seen. My starin’ at the parkin’ lot security light through the flimsy curtains was interrupted by three or four little naps. This world’s gonna take some gettin’ used to. In my day Cerrillos had two dozen saloons. You picked one for all sorts of reasons: closest one on yer side a’ the street, friendliest bartender, prettiest girls, the loudest, or quietest, any number of reasons. Some were only little bars, but there was a lot goin’ on.
I filled up on two cups of coffee, and went for a stroll. Goin’ on twenty years since I was here last… in my mind. Then you have to add all the years when I was out of my mind. I have no idea if the town’s decline started right away, or its prime held out. Pretty run down now, though. LouAnne’s saloon is a beer and pizza place. The wooden Indian out front woulda been shot to splinters in the 70’s – 1870’s. Six blocks and I was worn out. After movin’ the metal lawn chair from the front of another room to mine, I settled back for some rest. The clatter of a cleaning cart gave me a start.
“Sorry, Mister. Didn’t mean to startle you. Care if I tidy up your room? You’re staying another night, right?”
“Yes’m. Sure, but no need. It’s fine.” Her voice was pleasant, not like Suzanne’s whose voice could freeze hot coffee.
“Won’t take a minute. Just a little touching up.”
She smiled. The difference was amazing. She went from a 50–60-year-old woman to a 35-year-old beauty. If I died this very second, I’ve seen LouAnne. Now, don’t get me wrong. She didn’t look nothin’ like her, ‘cept maybe her height. LouAnn’s hair was flaxen. This woman’s was somethin’ between blond and reddish, dark reddish. Had streaks of each color. LouAnne’s waved down to her shoulders. This gal had bangs and a high ponytail with wavy bunches from her temples and below the ponytail. Not a lot, but some. It looked good. Prob’ly helped out while toilet cleanin’.
“Name’s Slim,” I said real loud after she’d cleared the door. “Marian,” I heard back. “You can call me Mary since I see you’ve made your bed.”
I smiled to myself. I think I remember hummin’. Not sure, since I went to sleep. Sleepin’ when she left, too.
She was in the office behind the counter when I stepped in an hour later to inquire about the town. I needed some food and wanted to make more clear how long I’d be stayin’. Had to be mindful how much I knew about the place when I’d last been here. I decided to keep it all to myself. “I took a little walk earlier this mornin’. Was that pizza bar always that?”
“Oh, no. It was full-out saloon until prohibition. Closed down then. They tried to make a come-back, but without a regular train stop there wasn’t much chance. It closed again until just a few years ago.
I just nodded, bitin’ my tongue to keep from blurtin’ out the history I knew.
“You after lunch, The Cousins over on Second Street sets a nice table, makes out a nice plate lunch. I always get the half order. Full comes on a platter.”
“’Bliged.” I tipped the hat I wasn’t wearin’. Her smile ‘bout knocked me down. Made me wish I had more’n a half smile. She didn’t seem to mind at all. Her face didn’t change a speck, ‘cept her smile got even prettier.
I didn’t see her for a few days after that. The place seemed busy enough. And someone cleaned my room. I just missed her whenever I returned from investigatin’ the town. Usually, I set out on foot. I was gradually gettin’ to where I could go a good little ways without overdoin’ too much. Couple times I drove the Bronco. That was when I wanted to cross the rail tracks and see a bit farther that way, up toward the cemetery. I thought about searchin’ out the area I was last prospectin’ from ’75 to ’80 up Cedar Mountain, what’s now Highway 55. There was good water in the Ortiz Mountains.
Finally, I saw her again. She had a fat lip that wasn’t there last we spoke. I didn’t say nothin’.
“I meant to ask, Mr. Goldman, how did you like the Cousins’ lunch?”
“Took your advice ‘bout the half order. Good thing. Can’t say much for what they called meatloaf though. It sounded good. And bein’ on special …”
“Oh dear. I should have warned you. Tell you what. Why don’t you come to my house this evening and I’ll cook you some pork chops.”
“To your home?” I blurted. “I mean …”
“Oh, you’re safe enough. Over the years I’ve learned to tell the difference from a honey locust and a thorny locust before getting scourged. Besides. I’ve fought with the best, or worst, however it should be said.”
I managed not to look at her lip, changing the subject back to food. “Haven’t had a pork chop in over …” I started to say 100 years. “a long, long time.”
“Five o’clock, then?”
I guess I looked confused.
“Follow the path around the office. The house out back. You can see it through the breezeway. Use the door with the flowers.”
I tipped the hat that I wasn’t wearing.
+++
“Mary. That was the best chop I have ever had. I’m sorry I couldn’t eat but one. Haven’t grown into an appetite yet.” Her eyes picked up at that. I let it go. “But your mashed taters – mmmmm-mmm! If I ate nothin’ else for the rest of my life it would be that. (I learned later that she put chives and mayo an’ some kind of seasoning salt in ‘em.)
“Well, thank you, Slim.” The grin she was holdin’ back told me that she was gonna hold her secret recipe tight. I couldn’t cook no-way anyhoo.
We went out back to sit and “watch the morning glories grow”. Her words. First order of conversation, after a spell of flower-watchin’, was to tell one another about ourselves. Somehow, I convinced her to go first and that we could trade off, pieces at a time. She fessed up to ownin’ the motel. It was built by her daddy when she was off to California after bein’ born an’ raised right there in Cerrillos. She cleans rooms when her help has to be off. Ralph tends the counter six nights a week. He works at the feed mill days, trying to get enough money to move away. “He never will,” she added.
When I asked if she’d ever married, she gave me a look that said my turn.
“Naw, I never married. Got to Santa Fe in ’70. Prospectin’.” It bein’ 1971, her confused look was understandable.
“Really? For what?”
“Gold or silver, either one.” I thought it would be safe enough to say that. Surely there were still a few old codgers out there.
“You do know that owning bullion is against the law.”
Her eyes bore into me. “Well, there’s laws, and there’s laws. Anyway, I bought that Bronco and drove here from Denver. Were you married?” I shut my trap, afraid to scare her by revealin’ too much.
“Yes. I married a truck driver that used to deliver to this area. That’s when I moved to California. We had a daughter, MaryLou.”
I physically flinched. She looked at me to see if I was hurt. The name MaryLou was mighty close to LouAnne.
“We lost her in ’64. That’s when I got a divorce and moved back here. I didn’t even know that my mother was sick. She had cancer. I got here in time to help. Then Dad died just a few months after she did. A heartache, is my belief.”
We both sat quiet for a spell. She hadn’t said anything that might explain her busted lip.
“Your side is falling a little short, Slim. It’s like you skipped over the first half, and then skipped over the second half.”
Her smile made me want to open my craw and empty it out at her feet. I felt terrible. I started out at the easiest ‘cause I didn’t want to leave yet.
“I was born in Arkansas.”
I guess I waited too long ‘cause she asked when that was. Not like a lawman would, but gently.
“09,” I told her, thinkin’ up a number that might sound right and me not have to outright lie and say 1900 instead of 1800. “My oldest brother inherited the farm. I chose to go west. Santa Fe first. All around these parts, then a few years here in Cerrillos, workin’ close by.”
She allowed me a little rest before urging me on. I told her about comin’ to Colorado, namin’ the mountain peaks.
“And something happened. You lost your eye, and spent some time in a hospital. You haven’t been in prison, but a hospital long enough to lose your body mass and strength.”
Her analysis was just about dead on. It wasn’t no statement, but a question. I could tell. I just nodded.
“Slim. I don’t believe you would lie to me. Not after enjoying my cooking.” She smiled. “But I know when I’m not hearing the truth. Right now is the time to tell it. I don’t care if you had a stroke, have cancer, if you’re dying this very day. I’ve lived through lying and I won’t anymore.”
I watched the flowers grow for a minute, swallowin’ hard. I think she knew I was workin’ up the strength the way my lips kept openin’ and smackin’ back shut. “Sometimes the truth is hard to believe,” I said, blinkin’ hard enough to stifle back a tear. Her nod told me to go ahead an’ try. So I did. I told her everything, everything except the part about LouAnne and her bein’ why I came back to Cerrillos. I told her about prospectin’, hidin’ from Indians, findin’ gold, gettin’ shot, and about 80 some years in the institution.
“A hundred and twenty, you say. That’ll take a little, I don’t know … something. A hundred and twenty?” She said as if not actually comprehending the number the first time.
“I know there’s more, Slim, but you’ve had a very rough day. Would you come back and see me tomorrow?”
I nodded I would and walked as upright as I could, stopping to thank her for the meal and to say goodnight before rounding the corner. I couldn’t imagine what she thought.
Slim Goldman (Herschell Diddleknopper): miner who Ben Persons rescued in 1886
Ben Persons: young man with a calling from God
LouAnne: Saloon girl that Slim loved/idolized.
Suzanne: long-term care aide who took an interest in Slim's well-being
Marian (Mary) Cerrillos motel owner
The tune has nothing to do with the story. Just thought I'd pitch it.
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. Ben Persons: young man with a calling from God
LouAnne: Saloon girl that Slim loved/idolized.
Suzanne: long-term care aide who took an interest in Slim's well-being
Marian (Mary) Cerrillos motel owner
The tune has nothing to do with the story. Just thought I'd pitch it.
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