The way Wink told it to Ruby, she could see it, hear it, almost feel it, as if she were there with Wink and Sam out in the desert. Feathered clouds obscured the sun, Wink told Ruby, leaving a long tail of wisps behind, “as if an afterthought,” he said, and continued his story. Don’t the poets always say it best?
“Take this old tin here,” Wink said to Sam, as the older man bent over to pick up a rusted can. “We can hold onto grudges and anger and bitterness for just so long until it turns us nasty.” He put the can into his soiled pack. “Anger like that starts to wear on a body. Time to let go.”
Sam kicked a mesquite branch out of the way and came up shoulder to shoulder with the old man as they walked through the desert. Stretched across the trail ahead was a large bull snake lolling in the sun. Wink put out his arm. They watched the snake for any sign of movement.
“Well, would you look at that, Sam. The weather warms up and the desert exhales, and with it, snakes.” They gave the bull snake a wide berth and tromped past with heavy footfalls. It curled slightly, but didn’t move.
“Like the Garden of Eden.” Wink paused. “And just as mystifying.”
Sam looked puzzled.
“No matter how far we wander, there’s no place so far as the soft folds of a woman’s flesh … but I’m not talking about women today,” Wink said, shaking his head vehemently. “That’s a whole other subject for a whole other day. Give it a year, maybe two. What I’m talking about now is not knowing what the next day will bring—that’s the gamble of life. We’ve got to look past the part we’re afraid of, because if we don’t, we’re no better off than dead.”
Wink scuffed a few steps and stopped. “‘Out, out, brief candle!’”
Sam signed, Shakespeare?
“That’s right, Sam. Best writer in the English language. Had something to say for everything.” His long arm wrapped around Sam’s bony shoulder as he gave the boy a squeeze.
“‘To be, or not to be; that is the question.’ Hamlet. Act 3, Scene 1.”
Sam looked up at Wink with large brown eyes, signing, What?
“Can’t always figure what your fingers are saying, chap, but from where I stand, you’ve got your whole life ahead of you like a long calendar.” Wink mimicked turning page after page. “So I say let it go, Sam. Whatever it is that’s got your tongue tied up in knots.” Wink patted Sam again and started to quote another line, but thought better of it.
“Hard fact here: the past is over, Sam. No way to get it back. Everything dies. People, stars, even mountains.” Wink slowed down and stopped. “I think it’s time you knew the real story, Sam. Not just the bits and pieces part of it. Or what you saw.”
Wink dusted off the top of a boulder. “Have a seat, young squire.” He motioned to the cleared spot. Sam sat, his back straight, feet touching the ground. He tossed his long blond hair out of his face. Wink parted his long swing coat and sat on the low boulder next to the boy. “You’re old enough now.” Wink looked toward the Santa Catalina Mountains, not making eye contact.
“Some say I talk in parables—that’s a fancy name for stories, Sam—but don’t let it be said that Theodore W. Inkman tells untruths.” Wink turned toward Sam. “Here is the story, plain and simple.”
Sam returned Wink’s gaze, his eyes narrowed because of the sun.
“Your pa was right miserable to your ma,” Wink started. “Some men—your pa in this case—think the world owes them something. Like they’re better than their neighbor or their brother. When they don’t get what they want, they take it out on those around them, usually the ones they’re closest to. That’s what happened with your ma. Your pa thought he could misuse your ma for no fault of hers. She took it and took it until she couldn’t take it anymore. In the end, she was protecting you, Sam. You and your brothers.”
Wink stopped and wiped spittle from his whiskered chin. “You might think your ma went too far—you saw it, after all, and that’s a shame in anyone’s book—but this world is better off in spades without men the likes of your pa.”
Sam’s eyes rimmed with tears.
Wink scratched his unkempt beard. “You can’t change a thing, no matter how hard you try.” He nodded. “Today is all we’re promised, Sam. Tomorrow, well, that’s too far ahead for this old fart to worry about.” Wink stood and opened his arms. “We’re either on el camino de dios—that’s God’s road, boy—or el camino del diablo, the devil’s way. Either road, Sam, we make decisions, some good, some bad. That’s what your ma did, some good choices and some not-so-good choices. What she did wasn’t so much for her, but for you boys. The way she tells it, it was especially for you.”
Wink took Sam’s chin in his grubby hand and looked the boy in the eye. “Understand?”
Sam swiped at his eyes and pushed Wink’s arm away.
“Up he jumped then,” Wink told Ruby afterward. “Grabbed his canteen and broke into a run, gangly legs sprinting over prickly pear and sagebrush on the way back to The Miracle. I yelled after him, ‘Where’re you going, young squire? We’ve got nickels to make while the sun shines!’ but he didn’t look back, Ruby. He didn’t look back.”
SAM LEAPS OVER THE BACK FENCE and lopes across the yard. He barges through the kitchen door, dirt crusted and sweaty and out of breath.
“Well, if it isn’t the birthday boy. Twelve years old already.” Ruby pulls Sam’s birthday cake out the oven with new oven mitts and sets the pan on the counter. She plunges her warm hands into cool dishwater in the sink.
Sam drops his pack on the floor with a thud. Ruby, hands and forearms wet, turns to face her son. Sam stares at Ruby, hard, and then runs headlong toward his mother. Suds and water droplets fly in bone-dry desert air as Ruby envelops him.
“Thank you, Ma,” Sam says, his voice stumbling over words. “For all of it.”
Well, Ruby knows that twelve-year-old boys aren’t keen about their mommas scooping them up like small fry, but with a cry from deeper in her gut than any sound that has come before, Ruby gathers that gangly man-boy of hers in her arms and bawls her living soul out, clutching her son, his hair, his shoulders, his back, her fingers squeezing out all the lost conversations. They stand there in the kitchen like that, chattering and crying, and chattering some more until the day runs late and Ruby’s voice runs dry.
“Eighteen coming tonight, Sam,” she croaks, when at last they sit side-by-side at the kitchen table drinking iced tea. “Nineteen, if Dog rousts that lazy arse of his and makes it in time.” She hugs Sam tight again, like she never wants to let go, ever. “No matter, one way or the other. There’s always room for more.”
Ruby need not worry about her table, or about Sam’s voice. Sam talks a blue streak at his birthday supper, to the delight of all present, even the crotchety Dog Webber who makes it after all, and who is now playfully interrogating Sam. Speak up, boy; we all want to hear what’s in that head of yours. Wine glasses, plates, forks, knives, spoons, all of Jericho come, even Mae. You can have a job at the store anytime, she says to Sam. Margaret asking Sam to teach her to sign; “o” and “k” he signs to her. Virgil and Elizabeth, heads close, and Virgil egging Sam on. About time you came clean, Sam, how you swiped that piece of my birthday cake hot out of the oven. And then there’s Sam’s cake on the table, and twelve candles, and that familiar lusty chorus, Happy Birthday to you, Sam! Present after present, and Penny offering Sam the best gift of all: a bag full of nickels. What will you buy with that, young man? Sheldon asking, and Sam answering, a Coca-Cola, sir.
Ruby steals a look at Sheldon over the jabbering. He offers up a smile, raises a glass, and nods. “To you, Ruby,” he mouths. And then everyone is clapping and Ruby is standing there, crying, in front of God and all creation, but what does she care? Fletcher’s coming home, and maybe Clayton, too. Endings and beginnings. Babies. Forgiveness. Friends. And, according to Doc, she’ll live longer than Jimmy Bugg anyway. Virgil squeezes Ruby’s hand and Sam smiles like a cat that’s snared a mouse and isn’t he the clever one, the first shall be last and the last shall be first and all is well with the world, all of it.