It’s the final night of Rodeo Roundup Days. The heat has broken after a cold front came in the night before, bringing strong winds, occasional thunder and lightning, and heavy rain. The cooler temperature is good for keeping the ice frozen, but bad for the other events. The final bull-riding challenge was canceled because the arena’s too muddy, the petting zoo has closed early, and the rides are all closed due to risk of lightning strikes. The wind is rattling the chain-link fence, and the boards sound as if they might fly off.
But the skating cowboy show must go on. So I’m standing here at the end of the rink, waiting with everyone else for the 7:00 show.
There’s a strong gust of wind, and I smell a slightly manly lavender and oatmeal fragrance blowing through the air. It’s familiar to me, but I can’t quite place it. I turn to my right and see Mr. Stinson standing right next to me.
“He’s quite good, your father,” Mr. Stinson says. “I’ve been here almost every night, and he’s quite consistent.”
“Yes, he is. I told you he wouldn’t let you down, didn’t I?” I say.
“Yes. It’s a shame he’s decided not to go for that tour after all,” Mr. Stinson says. “I’d have sponsored him for sure.”
“Well, maybe another time,” I say.
“Right. Or perhaps I’ll sponsor a show here—I’ve been thinking about asking him to skate a special Christmas show.” There’s an awkward pause as we both think back to last Christmas. Then he steps a little closer to me. “It’s ironic, don’t you think?”
I turn toward him. “What is?” I ask. Or maybe I should ask, What isn’t?
“Your encounter with the robber,” Mr. Stinson says. “It’s ironic that you would be the one to dispense justice, after your own checkered past.” He makes me sound like a convicted felon, as if I were in a work-release program. Or maybe that’s just how I feel. “But I suppose you have a right to evolve as much as the next person.”
Evolve. Is that what I’ve been doing? “I’m not a bad seed, and I’m not evil. Is that what you’re saying?” I ask him.
He almost smiles. “I suppose you simply needed to find the right employment. The right outlet for your talents. And lucky for you that you have. Selling petrol is a noble profession.”
“I don’t actually have anything to do with . . . petrol,” I say. “I make the coffee. Sometimes tea. I’m good at picking up muffins with tongs.”
“Ah. Well. No matter. It’s a shame that ungrateful excuse for a French teacher got the best of you. French. What did we expect,” he complains, shaking his head.
“He’s not French,” I say. “He only taught French. Anyway, it was a car door that really got me.”
“Yes. Well, not to worry. You’re young; you’ll heal.” He slaps me on the back, so hard that I can feel it in my ribs.
It hurts, but I’m not going to let it stop me tonight. And since Mr. Stinson apparently doesn’t hate me anymore, I have a question. “Can I ask you something, Mr. Stinson?” I say.
“I suppose,” he says, somewhat grudgingly.
“When you moved here to Lindville, however many years ago, why did you do it?” I ask. “I’ve always wondered. What made you stay?”
“I had an excellent business opportunity, a great chance to invest in—oh, look.” Mr. Stinson sighs as he unsnaps his heavy yellow rain slicker. For once, the weather actually suits his outfit. “I came to America because I wanted a cattle ranch, all right? That’s why I came here to Lindville. That’s why I’m still here.”
I hate to state the obvious. “But you don’t have a ranch,” I say. The last I knew, Mr. Stinson lived in a large ranch house, in our general neighborhood. “Do you?”
“Yes, I know. I’m well aware of that.” He pushed his glasses up on his nose, the frames mashing his bushy eyebrows. “However, I will someday. I’m not giving up yet. In the meantime I have my shop, and life is not too hard to take around here, now, is it?”
I don’t say anything. A month ago, I would have said “Actually, yes, it is,” without even hesitating. But now, I’m not so sure. Maybe I’m not going anywhere in a hurry, either.
At 6:59 there’s a crackle over the loudspeaker. Then a voice says, “Attention, ladies and gentlemen. There has been a slight change in tonight’s program. Do not adjust your sets.”
I watch my father’s face as he steps out of the warm-up room and peers at the hockey penalty box that’s being used as an audio booth.
Denny looks out and waves at him. “I repeat, ladies and gentlemen, do not adjust your sets,” Denny says in a deep voice. Then he smiles and starts playing the music that begins Dad’s program.
“Excuse me,” I say to Mr. Stinson. “Would you mind holding this for a second?” I take off my coat and hand it to him, then lean over to retie my laces and pick up Charlotte’s hat.
When I straighten up, Mr. Stinson is staring at my outfit: a vintage pale green Western-style shirt I found at the thrift shop two days ago, a pair of boot-cut stretch jeans with a black belt, and my new silver PFF belt buckle. I pull the white hat over my hair, which is in two braids. Mr. Stinson looks down at my feet and for the first time realizes that I’m not wearing shoes.
“What on earth . . .” he mutters as I slip the rubber guards off my white figure skates. “Miss Farrell? What’s the meaning of this?”
My father skates to center ice and suddenly his usual country music comes to an abrupt end. He looks over at Denny, confused. He stares at me as I open the side door and glide onto the ice. I skate toward him and stop with a flourish, spraying him with ice flakes. He looks like he’s going to faint. I don’t know who’s more surprised at the fact I’m doing this, Dad or me.
“Ladies and gentlemen, presenting Phil and Fleming Farrell in, uh, ‘Cowboy’ . . . ‘Cowgirl’ . . . oh, forget the title. Here they are, so start clapping, already!”
The audience applauds politely, looking confused as Charlotte drags a few small hay bales over to the sides of the rink. As arranged, the rodeo clowns gently lead the lambs and horses off the ice to make room for us. I asked for their help when I first came down to practice a few days ago.
“You won’t need this,” I say, taking the rope lariat from Dad and tossing it aside.
As the opening notes of U2’s “Who’s Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses” play over the loudspeaker, my dad says out of the corner of his mouth, “P. F.? Are you sure about this?”
“No,” I admit.
“What are we going to do?” my father asks as we push off and start to circle the rink, to the sound of Bono’s voice.
“We’ll wing it,” I say as we both turn and start skating backward. “Just like we used to.”