felt slippers, too soft to deliver a kick to stuffed Bugs with the googly eyes at the foot of the stairs. The slippers were a gift from his only granddaughter, Beth, married to Kevin Bead. Beth was important to him. He had made up his mind to tell her the ugly family secret. He would not leave his descendants to grapple with shameful uncertainties. He was going to clear the air. Beth was coming on Saturday afternoon with her tape recorder to help him get it said. During the week she would type it into her computer and bring him the crisp printed pages. He might have been nothing more than a ranch hand in his life, but he knew a few things.
Beth was dark-haired with very red cheeks that looked freshly slapped. It was the Irish in her he supposed. She bit her fingernails, an unsightly habit in a grown woman. Her husband, Kevin, worked in the loan department of the High Plains Bank. He complained that his job was stupid, tossing money and credit cards to people who could never pay up.
“Used to be to get a card you had to work hard and have good credit. Now the worse your credit the easier it is to get a dozen of them,” he said to his wife’s grandfather. Ray, who had never had a credit card, couldn’t follow the barrage of expository information that followed about changing bank rules, debt. These information sessions always ended with Kevin sighing and saying in a dark tone that the day was coming.
Ray Forkenbrock guessed Beth would use the computer at the real estate office where she worked to transcribe his words.
“Oh no, Grandpa, we’ve got a computer and printer at home. Rosalyn wouldn’t like for me to do it in the office,” she said. Rosalyn was her boss, a woman Ray had never seen but felt he knew well because Beth talked often about her. She was very, very fat and had financial trouble. Scam artists several times stole her identity. Every few months she spent hours filling out fraud affidavits. And, said Beth, she wore XXXL blue jeans and a belt with a silver buckle as big as a pie tin that she had won at a bingo game.
Ray snorted. “A buckle used to mean something,” he said. “A rodeo buckle, best part of the prize. The money was nothing in them days,” he said. “We didn’t care about the money. We cared about the buckle,” he said, “and now fat gals win them at bingo games?” He twisted his head around and looked at the closet door. Beth knew he must have a belt with a rodeo buckle in there.
“Do you watch the National Finals on television?” she said. “Or the bull-riding championship?”
“Hell, no,” he said. “The old hens here wouldn’t put up with it. They got that teevee lined out from dawn to midnight—crime, that reality shit, fashion and python shows, dog and cat programs. Watch rodeo? Not a chance,” he said.
He glared at the empty hall beyond the open door. “You wouldn’t never guess the most of them lived on ranches all their life,” he added sourly.
Beth spoke to Mr. Mellowhorn and said she thought her grandfather could at least watch the National Finals or the PBR rodeos considering what they were paying for his keep. Mr. Mellowhorn agreed.
“But I like to keep out of residents’ television choices, you know, democracy rules at the Mellowhorn Home, and if your grandfather wants to watch rodeo all he has to do is persuade a majority of the inhabitants to sign a petition and—”
“Do you have any objection if my husband and I get him a television set for his room?”
“Well, no, of course not, but I should just mention that the less fortunate residents might see him as privileged, even a little high-hat if he holes up in his room and watches rodeo instead of joining the community choice—”
“Fine,” said Beth, cutting past the social tyranny of the Mellowhorn Home. “That’s what we’ll do, then. Get him a snooty, high-hat television. Family counts with me and Kevin,” she said. “I don’t suppose you have a satellite hookup, do you?” she asked.
“Well, no. We’ve discussed it, but—maybe next year—”
She brought Ray a small television set with a DVD player and three or four discs of recent years’ rodeo events. That got him going.
“Christ, I remember when the finals was in Oklahoma City, not goddamn Las Vegas,” he said. “Of course bull riding has pushed out all the other events now, good-bye saddle bronc and bareback. I was there when Freckles Brown rode Tornado in 1962,” he said. “Forty-six year old, and the ones they got now bull riding are children! Make a million dollars. It’s all show business now,” he said. “The old boys was a rough crew. Heavy drinkers, most of them. You want to know what pain is, try bull riding with a bad hangover.”
“So I guess you did a lot of rodeo riding when you were young?”
“No, not a lot, but enough to get broke up some. And earned a buckle,” he said. “You heal fast when you’re young, but the broke places sort of come back to life when you are old. I busted my left leg in three places. Hurts now when it rains,” he said.
“How come you cowboyed for a living, Grandpa Ray? Your daddy wasn’t a rancher or a cowboy, was he?” She turned the volume knob down. The riders came out of a chute, again and again, monotonously, all apparently wearing the same dirty hat.
“Hell no, he wasn’t. He was a coal miner. Rove Forkenbrock,” he said. “My mother’s name was Alice Grand Forkenbrock. Dad worked in the Union Pacific coal mines. Something happened to him and he quit. Moved into running errands for different outfits, Texaco, California Petroleum, big outfits.
“Anyway, don’t exactly know what the old man did. Drove a dusty old Model T. He’d get fired and then he had to scratch around for another job. Even though he drank—that’s what got him fired usually—he always seemed to get another job pretty quick.” He swallowed a little whiskey.
“Anymore I wouldn’t go near the mines. I liked horses almost as much as I liked arithmetic, liked the cow business, so after I graduated eighth grade and Dad said better forget high school, things were tough and I had to find work,” he said. “At the time I didn’t mind. What my dad said I generally didn’t fuss over. I respected him. I respected and honored my father. I believed him to be a good and fair man.” He thought, unaccountably, of weeds.
“I tried for a job and got took on at Bledsoe’s Double B,” he said. “The bunkhouse life. The Bledsoes more or less raised me to voting age. At that point I sure didn’t want nothing to do with my family,” he said and fell into an old man’s reverie. Weeds, weeds and wildness.
Beth was quiet for a few minutes, then chatted about her boys. Syl had acted the part of an eagle in a school play and what a job, making the costume! Just before she left she said offhandedly, “You know, I want my boys to know about their great-granddad. What do you think if I bring my recorder and get it on tape and then type it up? It would be like a book of your life—something for the future generations of the family to read and know about.”
He laughed in derision.
“Some of it ain’t so nice to know. Every family got its dirty laundry and we got ours.” But after a week of thinking about it, of wondering why he’d kept it bottled up for so long, he told Beth to bring on her machine.
They sat in his little room with the door closed.
“‘Antisocial,’ they’ll say. Everybody else sits with the door open hollering at each other’s folks as if they was all related somehow. A regional family, they call it here. I like my privacy.”
She put a glass of whiskey, another of water and the tape recorder, smaller than a pack of cigarettes,
