And Yesterday Is Gone Read online

  I gently put the hood down and backed away, almost as though it was holy.

  I’d cleaned the bed of the truck after we let the sheep out, but the smell when I lifted the tarp was overpowering sheep shit and skunk—my eyes almost watered.

  Ollie’d obviously enclosed the bed of the truck himself, using four-by-six slotted plywood panels. A double plywood floor had been built a foot higher than the metal floor beneath. I slid my hand around and found a cleverly concealed flap that hid the false bottom.

  A person would really have to search to find it, and what cop was going to dig through the sheep shit in an old beat-up truck barely doing the speed limit.

  I was more than a little scared. I knew this wasn’t a mom-and-pop operation—I could only imagine the value of a load of marijuana hidden beneath the hay. Somehow I had gotten lost in a big-time operation and how in hell was I going to get out of this mess.

  It was late in the afternoon, almost dusk. I was hungry and still curious. I knew Ollie’s “garden” wasn’t peas or carrots. I walked around the house and started up the trail—a little scared, but more curious, even though I had a pretty good idea what was up there.

  The pungent smell of marijuana grew stronger with every step—it seemed to permeate even the dark trees that hung over the trail that soon had become a narrow path. I’d only gone a little way when I heard voices. Suddenly, furious barking came from nowhere and a big dog lay crouched at my feet with every tooth bared in a frightful snarl.

  I froze, terrified.

  Then I heard a yell and the dog backed off, still growling.

  Ollie appeared, trailed by the two Mexicans.

  “Where in hell do you think you’re going? Does this look like a sheep pasture to you?” he raged. “You got no business up here, kid. Get the hell back where you belong and stay there—I won’t call this dog off again.”

  Scared to death, I ran back down the trail, the branches whipping me in the face. At first I didn’t feel the warm wetness on the front of my pants, but when I did, I was glad that was all it was.

  I kicked open the door of the bunkhouse, breathing hard, and sank down on a bench with my head in my hands. I wanted to cry. At that moment, I’d have given anything to be in my mother’s kitchen. Supper would be over by now and Sis and I would be fighting over whose turn it was to do the dishes. Then she’d be hogging the bathroom for as long as it took to put Noxzema on her pimples or curlers in her hair.

  The door opened and a Mexican boy who looked about my age stepped in. He leaned gracefully against the doorjamb and I stood as we took each other’s measure.

  He was taller than me by a couple of inches, but very slender. His long black hair hung to his shoulders and framed the light-skinned face that was dominated by thickly fringed black eyes that appeared bottomless. I was unable to look away. High cheekbones declared his Indian blood inherited from some long-ago ancestor; a curved, smiling mouth appeared as he tentatively held out his hand and said, “Juan.”

  A wayward thought flashed through my mind: He’s pretty enough to be a girl.

  I held his hand gratefully and shook it with enthusiasm. I was so glad to find a friend that tears welled up in my eyes.

  “Steve,” I answered as I gave him back his hand.

  He pointed to a bunk, made a scowly face and said, “Carlos, Papa,” then made a big “O” with his mouth, pointed to the cabin, and then aimed his thumbs to the floor.

  He rubbed his belly, motioned me to follow and we walked up the path to the cabin.

  These “accommodations” weren’t great either. A makeshift washstand stood outside the cabin, holding a black rubber feed pan usually used for grain. On the opposite side a hand pump, and a three-sided shower beside it with only a pipe to convey water from the well.

  Juan pumped the handle and cold water gushed over Carlos as he stood, six feet three inches or more, I guessed, and naked to the waist. He cupped his hands and threw the water over the massive shoulders that would have made a bull envious. He seemed to have no hips or belly.

  As he dried himself on his dirty shirt, I could see Juan’s Indian blood was not that far removed. Carlos looked far more Indian than Mexican. His tawny, copper-colored skin stretched over his cheekbones, and above, the hooded black eyes that never seemed to see me. I was glad—he scared me.

  The only time he ever looked directly at me, he smiled and those black eyes glittered in the dim light of the kerosene lantern. I would never—never—forget it.

  I could smell the food and I was hungry.

  Ollie’s rough voice shouted, “What the hell are you doing out there? This ain’t the Ritz.”

  When Carlos went in, Juan and I hurriedly splashed some water over us and wiped off on a towel thin as tissue paper, then followed.

  The kitchen didn’t look much different from the bunkhouse, only that it had a stove and a better table.

  Ollie motioned me to sit next to him. Remembering our last meeting, I would rather have joined Carlos and Juan on the opposite side. But I sat where I was told.

  Ollie was a big man—not as tall as Carlos, but he carried a lot more weight around his belly. His hands were as big as hams. I remembered him telling me when we stopped for breakfast that he had once been a heavyweight champ.

  Sitting next to him, I suddenly felt very small.

  I looked across the table in the lighted kitchen and got a good look at Juan. The string that had held his long hair back must have loosened when we washed up, for now it hung close about his face, the skin only a shade darker than my own. Those eyelashes would have driven Sis wild with jealousy.

  Ollie saw me staring and he laughed. “He’s a hell of a lot better-lookin’ than his dad, ain’t he? That is, if Carlos is his dad. How about it, Carlos, are you real sure? He ain’t Lupe’s for damn sure. He sure is a pretty boy.”

  Carlos gave no indication that he heard; Juan never raised his eyes from the plate.

  His heavy-breasted wife walked flatfooted as she dished up the food and carried the plates to the table. I noticed that she managed to brush up against Ollie as she set the other big platters down, heavy with beans and rice.

  Everyone ate like they were starved. Chewing something foreign to me, I looked at Juan. He grinned and went “baa.” Ollie silenced him with a look.

  We ate fast and without speaking until the woman brought something in a big pan, scooped most of it on Ollie’s plate, then scraped what was left to the three of us.

  “Damn this flan is good. Lupe, is there any left?” Looking directly at Carlos, Ollie laughed. “Our wife has outdone herself—she’s getting better in the kitchen, too.”

  When she turned, Ollie ran his hand over her hip and gave it a familiar slap, then looked over at Carlos with a knowing smile and said something in Spanish.

  I sneaked a look at Lupe. She had a sly look on her face, but her back was to Carlos.

  I caught my breath as Carlos looked up—his eyes were just black slits, hate radiating from every pore. The thick rope-like veins bulged, throbbing on his forehead; his hands trembled as if in anticipation as he pushed his plate away and left.

  Ollie threw back his head and laughed.

  In utter disbelief I looked at him—was he crazy? Surely he had seen the murderous look on Carlos’ face. How could he be so blind?

  I was glad to escape to my thin mattress and damp blanket on the top bunk. I lay awake for a long time. It seemed that all the strength had drained from my body and evaporated into the tension-filled air. Then I slept so soundly I never heard Carlos come in, except that I dreamed the dog growled.

  • • •

  The horrible clanging of the big rusty bell just at dawn sent us rushing up the path to the cabin. Scrambled eggs smothered in rice and beans—what else? Black coffee so bad I couldn’t drink it; hardly a word was spoken.

  The men walked quickly up the trail and I went down to start the sheep toward the big pasture, then went back to clean the lambing shed.

  I
was happy to see that twin lambs had arrived without my help, newly born, still wet and searching for their breakfast on stumbling, shaky legs. The young mother seemed uncertain as to what was expected of her and wouldn’t stand for them, despite their persistent efforts to nurse.

  I knelt, held that woolly body still and told her what a fine girl she was to have produced two such lovely babies. She leaned against me, relaxed, and the lambs found what they were looking for and nursed vigorously. When I left, she was cleaning her babies as though her maternal duties had suddenly come to mind.

  Working most of the day cleaning that big shed and carrying manure to a pile that was almost as tall as I was totally exhausted me. Since the harvest had begun, the sheep apparently were not a priority.

  Sitting against the barn for a moment’s rest, I was startled when I heard that miserable old ram fighting the gate again. I realized it was late and was thankful for the wake-up call.

  I ran to let the herd in and worked like hell to get the feeding done before the men came down for supper.

  It was almost dark when I saw them at the washstand and I walked quickly to the cabin. Juan grinned and playfully punched me in the shoulder. Carlos never looked my way. We filed in and sat down. Ollie looked at me and asked, “Well, kid, what did you get done today?”

  “I cleaned the lambing shed that didn’t look as though it had been cleaned for six months, and when I counted those thirty sheep you said you had, my count came to fifty—not counting two new ones born last night.”

  He gave me a long, penetrating stare. As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I knew I’d stepped in it.

  “Don’t get mouthy with me, kid. Just keep on shovelin’ shit and we’ll get along.”

  Juan grinned and I figured he knew more English than he let on.

  Ollie looked over at Carlos as Lupe started to dish up. “Hey, Carlos—next time I go to Frisco, I’m gonna buy our wife a nightgown. I don’t think she’s got one. What size do you s’pose?”

  Carlos never lifted his eyes from his plate or let on that he heard a word.

  “Lupe, bend over and let me look at that fat ass. What size, Mrs. Carlos?”

  She gave him a playful swat as he ran his hands over her hips.

  “Oh, hell—probably a waste of money now that I think about it. She likes bare skin. What d’ya think, Carlos?”

  I watched Carlos’ hands clench and unclench. The fork was bent double when he dropped it to the table.

  The goose bumps on the back of my neck threatened to explode; my stomach tied in knots.

  Ollie laughed as Carlos walked out—quiet as death, his feet never seemed to touch the floor.

  Lupe continued to clear the table as Juan and I almost ran out of the cabin and down the path.

  “Doesn’t that maniac know what shit he’s stirring up?” I asked Juan.

  He didn’t answer.

  Ma would have said Ollie was messing with the hind leg of a mule, but I would have said it wasn’t a mule—it was a king cobra.

  Mealtime was always a miserable experience. Ollie never let up on Carlos except to throw a few words at me.

  CHAPTER 3

  My chores with the sheep had expanded to include digging postholes for a fifty-foot fence. It was backbreaking work—the ground obviously had never known a shovel. Plus I had to dig out the stumps that were in the way. By mealtime I was almost too exhausted to eat and food was hard to keep down. More than once I lost it along the path back to the bunkhouse.

  After a couple days, I took a break to clean the sheep shed. Two more lambs had been born during the night and I was putting down clean straw, then pacifying the new mothers.

  I looked up to see Lupe watching me as she leaned against the door with an egg basket hung over her arm.

  What is she doing here? The henhouse is at the other end of the barn.

  But I instinctively knew before she took my hand. I followed her as though hypnotized, stumbling along, my penis trying to undo my zipper—or so it seemed.

  She stopped when we got past the wired bales where the loose hay was piled high. She set the egg basket aside, sat down, pulled the dress over her head, gave it a toss and lay back. Her thick brown body, her legs splayed out, those dark-tipped breasts—I could hardly breathe.

  The thin sheen of sweat made her almost glow and the scent of her smothered the smell of the fragrant hay. Her voice sounded slurred and guttural as she said, “Come and get it, pretty boy.”

  I fell to my knees and tried to unbuckle my belt with ten fingers on each hand.

  “Let me,” she said.

  As if in a dream, I felt the pants slide off and she moved against me, kissed a part of me that had never before known such affection. The agony was so great I groaned and uncontrollably erupted. Later—much later—I thought I had probably put most volcanoes to shame.

  I wanted to die I was so humiliated. I turned away, but she pulled me back; her mouth and hands were everywhere—places I never knew existed.

  Shockwaves drowned me as I lay suspended so close to Heaven I could hear the angels sing. Then exquisite agony as the entire universe exploded.

  I lay almost unconscious, and still that insatiable member stood erect before I could hardly breathe—as if it was apologizing for its first premature performance.

  She laughed as she whispered, “Another time, guapo, must go.”

  But I held her fast and in the struggle somehow her legs held me captive again. Then a rustle in the hay and she was gone.

  I crawled around in the hay that wasn’t stacked so neatly now, looking for my pants, wondering if I had the strength to pull them on. My boots—where are my boots?

  The guys got Sunday afternoon off, but the sheep didn’t observe Sunday so I took the herd to pasture and did a quick cleanup of the lambing pen. Then I could sneak a couple of hours for myself.

  Juan joined me as I drove the sheep out. When they were secure, we found a sheltered place in the brush and relaxed.

  Juan produced a baggie with the green stuff, then proceeded to teach me how to roll a joint. I was fascinated to see how expertly those long, graceful fingers could produce so neat a cigarette.

  He took the first deep drag and held it for what seemed forever, exhaled, and handed it over.

  “Bueno, bueno.” He nodded.

  I tried to follow his example, but thought my time had come as I coughed, choked and my eyes watered. He shook with laughter, then motioned for me to give it another try.

  I did, reluctantly, and found that inhaling was easier this time, and I held it as long as I could. It was overrated as far as I was concerned. I certainly didn’t feel any different, only hungry—but I was always hungry.

  We passed the joint back and forth and talked. Juan was picking up English very quickly and I thought I was doing great with Spanish. We were connecting, and this time I rolled the joint.

  I was tempted to tell him—brag, even—about my experience with Lupe, but somehow I couldn’t find the words.

  He told me of his home, deep in the mountains, where his grandmother cared for him. Later a teacher lived with them and he saw very little of kids his own age in that tiny village. He said he had been lonely all his life.

  I talked about my home, of Ma and Sis, and told him about my stepfather’s encounter with Ma’s chicken-butchering knife and we laughed till we cried. We seemed to get the gist of each other’s broken language using our hands to diagram our words.

  Suddenly—or slowly—I lost track of time, ranch life got better, the rain wasn’t so cold and wet, the work wasn’t so miserable, and the sheep smelled good. But I sure was hungry.

  Later when we brought the sheep up, I had never been so happy and the beans and rice were the best I’d ever eaten.

  At supper that night I even dared to ask Ollie when payday was and, since I knew I’d been there about five months, I also asked about a raise. I didn’t sign on to dig postholes. He looked at me and squinted his eyes. “You okay, kid? You coul
dn’t be into anything—you must be gettin’ loaded on the smell. Don’t worry about money. God will take care of you.”

  Juan had sneaked five plastic bags—double-bagged to keep the smell down—of that high-grade Mary Jane. I’d stashed it in a Folgers Coffee can in a corner of the manure pile. I figured if I ever got out of there, I’d have something to compensate me for all those postholes. I knew God would take care of me, but I thought Ollie should help.

  I turned my head to see the scared look on Juan’s face and I realized the danger I had put us in with my big mouth. So I just looked as stupid as I was and said, “Smell of what? Sheep shit?”

  And he laughed then. “Got that fence up yet, kid?”

  “Not quite,” I smart-alecked back. “Only got about three more stumps to dig out and about forty more postholes to dig.”

  “I hope I don’t have to come down there and jumpstart your ass with the toe of my boot.”

  Then he looked over at Carlos. “I’m leavin’ early in the morning—special delivery. I’ll pull the truck around and you two can get it loaded by midnight—so get movin’.”

  “Kid, you be ready by sunup to load them sheep—use plenty of hay. And when I get home, I better see a long line of postholes—got that?”

  He sneered. “Carlos, it’s all yours. Don’t wear it out—remember, I’ll be back.”

  I went down to the bunkhouse and found the baggie Juan had left for me. I lay in my bunk and smoked. I didn’t hear them come in, but I sure as hell heard that damned bell clanging at the cabin and it was still dark.

  Ollie was gone for two days and a night.

  We all slept in—what luxury. The sheep got fed late; the old ram in a rage nearly tore the fence down. Juan helped me nail it back up.

  “That old son of a bitch is Ollie’s real father. They’ve got exactly the same hateful disposition,” I snarled as each nail was pounded home.

  That tickled Juan. He laughed so hard he couldn’t seem to drive a nail straight and I had to pull all those bent nails. Somehow his hand didn’t look right curled around the handle of that hammer.