1

    “I need a shirt,” Jim said into the mouthpiece of the payphone.

    “What for?” said the man’s voice on the other end.

    “I had to lose the other one,” Jim said as he maneuvered a cigarette from the pack of Marlboros he purchased a few hours earlier.

    “Where are you?” asked the man.

    “The Seven-11 on Wilbur, just off Moorpark,” Jim replied.

    “You get around fast,” said the man’s voice.

    “Yeah,” replied Jim.

    “Was that your handy work at the gas station?” the man asked.

    “How’d you hear about that?” asked Jim.

    “I said low profile, Jim,” shouted the man.  “Jesus Christ!  What did I say?  I said keep a low profile.”

    “Yeah, well… it couldn’t be helped,” replied Jim nonchalantly.

    “You think I’m fucking with you?” the man yelled.  “It’s all over the scanner, asshole.  They’re looking for a big man with no shirt and a tattoo of Jesus on his back.  That your idea of laying low?”

    “That’s why I need a shirt,” Jim said as he wedged the phone between his right ear and his shoulder.

    “Don’t get smart!” the man’s voice bellowed from the earpiece.

    Jim could hear the man on the other end of the line sigh in disgust.  The shirtless cowboy leaned against the brick wall of the Seven-11 and lit the cigarette with his Zippo.  He cupped the flame with his left hand, which was still wrapped in the bloody blue flannel bandage.  The hot, relentless August sun blazed in the sky directly overhead.

    “Bring me some gauze or somethin’,” Jim said calmly.  “And some aspirin,” he added.

    “For what?” asked the man.

    “I cut my hand.”

    The man that Jim was talking to sighed again heavily.  Jim took a long drag of his cigarette and drew the smoke deep into his lungs.  He tilted his head back until it rested against the side of the hot convenience store brick wall and blew the smoke into the air.

    “I’ll find somethin’.  How bad is it?” asked the man.

    “I’ll live,” replied Jim.

    Jim looked down at his bloody hand.  It throbbed as he pulled the bandage aside with the fingers of his right hand to inspect the damage.  Thick flaps of shredded skin oozed fresh blood into his meaty palm.

    “Look,” the man said in a calmer voice.  “Don’t draw any more attention to yourself until I get there.”

    “I won’t,” replied Jim, still looking down at his hand.

    “I’m serious,” reiterated the man.  “I’m responsible… I could get my ass in trouble, little brother.  You know that?”

    “Yeah,” replied Jim indifferently.  “I know.”

    “I got some shit I gotta do, and then I’ll be there,” said the man in a much calmer voice than before.

    “How long?” asked Jim as he grabbed the receiver with his right hand and straightened his head.

    “I don’t know… thirty minutes?” replied the man.

    “Alright,” Jim said with an annoyed sigh.

    “Think you can manage to stay out of sight for that long?” the man asked.

    Jim didn’t respond.  He took another drag of his cigarette, stood up straight, and faced the pay phone.

    “Hello?” the annoyed voice bleated from the receiver.

    “Yeah,” Jim said as he blew the smoke toward the ground.

    “Just stay out of sight,” said the man in a frustrated voice.

    “Okay,” Jim said.

    “Later,” the man said, and then hung up.

    Jim heard the familiar click as the line disconnected.  He slowly hung up the receiver and took another drag of his cigarette.  The pay phone made a series of metallic clinks, and Jim checked the coin return.  A balled-up gum wrapper was the only thing inside.

2

    Joan Caldwell sat in the rose garden at Los Robles Hospital and chatted with Ventura County Sheriff Lewis Pennelton “Jeff” Lohr and Sheila Jones in the hot August sun.  The many varieties of roses still delivered their sweet fragrance despite the relentless heat.  Joan’s conversation with Jeff and Sheila was much different than that of her “garden confessional” earlier.  Jeff puffed on his pipe and leaned against the exterior wall of the hospital under the spot where the sign that said No Smoking was mounted.

    Sheila took a few pictures of the roses and fountain with her cell phone camera as she listened to Joan and Jeff’s conversation.  She also “stole” a picture of the Ventura County Sheriff with the Indiana Jones hat puffing away under the No Smoking sign.

    The unlikely trio chatted about lighter things, such as Maebelle, who was Joan’s best friend and Jeff’s wife.  Jeff talked about how Maebelle’s coffee was better than anyone else’s, and boasted at the fact that she also made a hell of a meatloaf.

    “She would have my hide if she knew I told you what her secret ingredients were,” said Jeff as he made air quotes with his fingers when he said the words, “secret ingredients.”

    Sheila looked up from her cell phone.  She thought to herself how her husband would love a good meatloaf for a change.

    “What are they?” asked Joan, with her attention diverted from Colleen for the moment.

    Jeff leaned over and whispered in Joan’s ear.  Wisps of smoke rose from the pipe, which he held behind his back.  Sheila turned her head and leaned closer to the secretive pair.

    “No shit,” said Joan.

    Jeff went back to his leaning and smoking, and slowly nodded his head.

    “But you said there were two secret ingredients,” Joan said and tilted her head like a puppy hearing a high-pitched noise for the first time.

    “Oh, right,” said Jeff.

    “Hey!” Sheila nearly shouted and stomped her foot, startling the other two.  “Joe hates my meatloaf!”

    Jeff removed the pipe from his mouth and crossed his arms.  “Well, you see…,” said Jeff.  “You have a secret we want to know, and we have a secret you want to know.”

    “What secret?  I don’t have any secrets,” Sheila said.

    Jeff and Joan looked at each other, and then at Sheila.  Sheila stood with her arms folded, mocking Jeff’s lackadaisical posture.

    “We want to know about the tattoo,” said Jeff.

    “Shit,” Sheila guffawed.  “You heard that?”

    “Yes we did,” Joan chimed in.

    Sheila stood in the rose garden, thinking about the value of good meatloaf.  Her thoughts wrestled with each other about whether or not the secret that only the Four Musketeers knew the whole story about was worth trading.  Jeff and Joan waited for a response.

    “Okay,” Sheila said finally.  I’ll show you my tattoo, but that’s all.”

    Jeff and Joan looked at each other again, and then back at Sheila.  Sheila closed her cell phone, put it in her purse, and sauntered closer to Jeff and Joan.  Jeff unfolded his arms and stood up straight.

    “You can’t tell anyone,” said Sheila.

    “Neither can you,” replied Jeff.

    Sheila was wearing a knee-length denim skirt and a sleeveless red cotton blouse, which was buttoned up the front, save the top two buttons.  The blouse had a large “retro” collar, which was commonly referred to as “vintage” by modern fashionistas.

    “The things I do for a good meatloaf,” Sheila chuckled.

    “It’s worth it,” replied Jeff.  “You’ll see.”

    Sheila slowly turned her back to the waiting Sheriff and Joan Caldwell.  She unfastened a third button and looked over her left shoulder at Joan, who was still sitting on the concrete ledge.

    “It’s on my left shoulder blade,” Sheila said.

    Sheila grabbed her collar with her left hand and pulled it down as far as she could.  Her freckled shoulder was draped with a thin silky bra strap, which was slightly darker than her blouse.  She looked at Joan and indicated that she needed help pulling her blouse down further to reveal the tattoo.  Joan stood up while Jeff held his pipe to his mouth and gnawed on the plastic mouthpiece.  He tilted his head as Joan hooked Sheila’s collar with her fingers and gently pulled the blouse downward.

    Sheila’s secret was partially covered with the red bra strap, so Joan switched hands and pulled the silky thin material to the left with her index finger.  The maroon ink on Sheila’s shoulder saw the sun for the first time in over ten years.

    “S.J.J.M.B.,” Jeff read the tattoo aloud.  “What’s that mean?”

    “How old were you when you got that?” Joan asked before Sheila could answer.

    “I just turned eighteen the day I got it,” said Sheila, ignoring Jeff’s question.

    “I like the lettering,” Joan said as she continued to hold Sheila’s blouse and bra strap in her fingers.  “What kind of font is that?”

    “It’s Old English, I think,” said Sheila as Joan let go of her blouse and bra strap.

    “But what’s it mean?” asked Jeff impatiently.

    Sheila adjusted her blouse and refastened her third button.  Jeff went back to the wall he was holding up with his shoulder as Joan sat back down on the concrete ledge.

    “Uh uh…” Sheila said as she turned to face the pair, folded her arms again and shook her head.  “You owe me one secret ingredient.”

    “I can only assume that the first two letters stand for Sheila Jones,” Jeff muttered through his teeth as he resumed gnawing on the pipe and smirked at Sheila.

    “Your investigative skills are incredible,” Sheila said mockingly.  “Where did they teach you that, Junior Sheriff’s School?”

    Joan let out a loud belly laugh for the first time that day.  Jeff stood up, removed the pipe from his teeth, and used it to push the brim of his “Indy Hat” higher on his tan forehead.  The smirk on his face grew wider.

    “That’s good,” Jeff chuckled and looked down at Joan.  “I like this one.  She’s a smartass.”

    “Don’t get her started,” said Joan, still laughing hysterically.  “I have heard her say some things that are simply beyond belief.”

“I’ll bet,” replied Jeff.  “Okay…  Come closer.”

    Sheila moved closer to Jeff with her arms still folded.  Jeff leaned forward and Sheila turned her head as the sixty-four-year-old Ventura County Sheriff whispered Maebelle’s secret ingredient in her ear.

    “You’re kidding,” said Sheila, who stood with her mouth open wide.

    “Nope,” replied Jeff.  “She puts it in everything.”

    “Gr-,“ Sheila started to say aloud, but Jeff interrupted.

    “Shhhh!”

    Sheila mouthed the words of the secret ingredient to Jeff and Joan.  “I can’t believe it,” Sheila continued.  “How much do you put in?”

    “Maebelle puts in like a heaping tablespoon for each pound of ground beef,” informed Jeff.

    “Hmmm,” Sheila said reflectively.  “I’ll have to try that.”

    “You won’t be sorry you did,” said Jeff.

    “So that’s one secret ingredient,” Joan interrupted.  “What’s the other?” she asked as she looked up at Jeff.

3

    Carlos Guzman sat on the padded cloth bench seat in the tiny chapel near the Emergency Room of Los Robles Hospital.  A simple wooden altar with small plants on each end stood against the wall in front of him.  The other walls, with the exception of the multi-colored stained-glass mural to his left, were white and bare.

    Carlos thought long and hard about the tragic events that took place earlier that day.  In all his years, he had never felt such sorrow and loss.  Colleen eased much of his pain by placing the blame on Camorrista, but he still felt responsible for the filly’s tirade.

    Prayer, Carlos thought, was the answer to healing his troubled heart.  He prayed silently for many things in the small, non-denominational chapel.  He prayed for Colleen’s health, Joan’s strength, and for his own forgiveness.  The chapel was completely devoid of any religious symbolism, so Carlos removed his gold cross necklace and clutched it tightly over his chest.  He knelt and kissed the gold cross as he completed each prayer, finishing with a Sign of the Cross.

    The latch of the heavy wooden door clicked slowly as Carlos knelt on the short, unpadded carpet with his eyes closed.  Father Francis Jones quietly opened the door, stepped inside, and held the door handle to keep the latch from making too much noise as he closed the door behind him.  Carlos opened his eyes and returned to the seated position as he looked up and made eye contact with Father Jones.

    “I hope I’m not interrupting,” said the Priest in a whisper.  “I can come back if you would like to be alone.”

    Carlos kneeled again and faced the Priest.  “No, Padre’,” Carlos replied.  “I feeneesh.”

    “Rise, my Son,” said the Priest to Carlos.  “I don’t stand so much on formality here.”

    “Gracias, Padre,” said Carlos as he stood and made another Sign of the Cross over his chest.

    “Shall we sit and talk?” asked Father Jones.

    “Si, Padre’,” replied Carlos.

    Carlos and Father Francis Jones sat together on the bench seat in the small makeshift chapel.  Father Jones noticed the gold cross and chain nestled tightly in Carlos’ hands.

    “Here,” said the Priest.  The seventy-one-year-old Man of the Cloth reached into his pocket.  He withdrew a rosary made of dark glass beads with a matching wooden crucifix attached at the end and offered it to Carlos.  “I keep an extra one handy for those in need.”

    “Gracias, Padre’,” said Carlos as he cupped his hands under the rosary.

    “You’re welcome,” replied the Priest as he carefully placed the rosary in Carlos’ hands.

    “What is troubling you, My Son?” asked the Priest.

    “Mi Alma, Padre,” said Carlos.

    “Your soul?” asked Father Jones.

    “Si, Padre,” Carlos replied and bowed his head.

    “Help me understand,” Father Jones said.

    Carlos felt immediately comfortable with the Roman Catholic Priest that sat next to him.  He felt as if there were a spiritual presence in the chapel as he spoke in broken English to Father Francis Jones.

    As Carlos started to tell his version of the day’s events, the Priest immediately knew that he was talking about Colleen Caldwell, just as Joan Caldwell did a few hours before.  Father Jones barely said a word as Carlos spoke, aside from the occasional “Bless you, My Son,” whenever Carlos paused for a deep breath.  The Ranch Foreman held the rosary tightly in his hands together with the golden cross and chain from his neck.

    “What am I to do, Padre?” said Carlos as he finished his story.

    “We must pray to the Almighty for strength, My Son,” replied the Priest.  “The Caldwell Family needs you now, more than ever.”

    “I try,” replied Carlos.

    “Do, or do not.” instructed Father Jones.  “There is no try,” he said as he stood and faced Carlos, who remained seated.

    Carlos looked up at Father Jones.  “I hear someone say this before, but I doan know who say eet,” said Carlos.

    “Yoda,” replied the Priest with a smile.

    “Si!  Yoda!” Carlos replied with a smile of his own.

“I don’t think Yoda was Roman Catholic, but he should have been,” chuckled Father Jones.  “Yoda had some very wise things to say,” the Priest continued.

    “Si,” said Carlos.  “I weel do.  Es no try,” Carlos said, paraphrasing Yoda’s words.

    “You must also draw upon the strength and wisdom of your fathers before you,” said Father Jones.

    Carlos bowed his head again.  “I tr- I weel do,” said Carlos, correcting himself.

    Father Francis Jones placed his right hand on Carlos Guzman’s head.  “Let us pray together to the Lord Almighty.”

4

    Jeff Lohr looked down at Joan Caldwell as Sheila Jones stood and shifted her weight impatiently from hip to hip in the middle of the small rose garden.

    “Well?” Sheila pleaded as she folded her arms again.

    “Well?” Jeff imitated.

    “What’s the other secret ingredient?” asked Sheila.

    Jeff leaned toward Joan, who was still seated on the concrete ledge that lined the garden.  Joan tilted her head as Jeff cupped his right hand in front of her right ear.  Maebelle’s meatloaf was now becoming less of a secret.

    “I’m getting tired of this!” Sheila shouted, snarling at the other two.

    Jeff stood up straight, backed up a step and went back to holding up the wall with his shoulder under the No Smoking sign.  He looked at Sheila’s face, which was turning red in the hot August sun.  Joan looked at Sheila, and then up at Jeff again.

    “You made that up didn’t you?” asked Joan.

    “May God strike me down if I’m tellin’ a lie,” replied the Ventura County Sheriff, who resumed chewing on his pipe.  “Scout’s honor,” he added through his teeth as he held three fingers in the air.

    “If Maebelle hadn’t told me that Congressman Gerald R. Ford presented him with his Eagle Scout Award personally, I would have said he’s full of shit!” Joan testified loudly to anyone within shouting distance.

    “Really?” asked Sheila.

    Jeff Lohr removed the pipe from his teeth as he looked at the thirty-two-year-old blonde.

    “That, young lady, is something I never joke about,” he said proudly.

    Sheila unfolded her arms and stood with her mouth open.  Before she could say another word, her cell phone rang loudly with the song, “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic” by The Police.

    “Excuse me for just a second,” said Sheila as she ripped through her purse in search of the slender phone. “Don’t go anywhere.”

    Jeff and Joan looked at each other and chuckled as Sheila rummaged through the mess that was her purse.  After a few seconds, she found the phone and flipped it open.  She looked like the Starship Captain did from the original “Star Trek” as he flipped open his communicator and said, “Kirk to Enterprise.”

    “Hello?” Sheila said.  “Oh, hey, K.P.…  Can I call you right back?  Okay.  Bye.”

    Sheila closed her cell phone with a loud clap, and slipped it in her right back pocket.  She slung her purse over her shoulder and crossed her arms again.

    “Okay… Go ahead,” she continued.

    “Go ahead with what part?” asked Jeff.

    “The other secret ingredient,” replied the frustrated Sheila.

    “I don’t think so,” said Jeff defiantly.

“Why not?” asked Sheila.

    “There’s still one secret left of yours, young lady,” Jeff reminded her in a fatherly voice.

    “No there isn’t,” she interjected.  “I showed you the tattoo.”

    “Uh huh…” said Jeff.  “Now what’s it stand for?”

    “I told you that already,” said Sheila.

    “No you didn’t.  You made some smartass remark about me learning my investigative skills at Junior Sheriff School… remember?”

    Sheila uncrossed her arms and looked down at the hot concrete.  She kicked at an invisible pebble at her feet.

    “What I meant was…” she began in suddenly submissive tone, but didn’t finish her sentence.

    “You did do that, though,” interrupted Jeff playfully.

    “Okay.  I did do that.  What do you want to know?” asked Sheila.

    “Only what it stands for,” replied Jeff.

    “Okay.  You win,” Sheila began.  “Like I told you before, I got it the day I turned eighteen.”

    “Right,” Joan replied, announcing that she was still just as interested as Jeff was, if not more so.  “You already said that.”

    Sheila scanned the area for other people.  She did not want others listening in on their conversation.  A few visitors entered and exited the automatic double doors further down the wall from where the No Smoking sign was mounted, but none of them entered the garden area.

    Sheila stepped closer to the other two and grabbed her purse from her shoulder.  Joan stood up and so did Jeff.  Sheila stopped a few feet away from the Ventura County Sheriff and Colleen’s sixty-one-year-old Mother-in-Law and began rummaging in her purse again.  Sheila took out her billfold, unsnapped it, removed her California Driver License, and then put her billfold back in her purse.

    “Here,” Sheila said as she offered the License to Jeff.  “Read that.”

    “Okay, let me see,” Jeff began.  “Sheila Jones… apparently no middle name… your address in Tarzana… female… five foot seven… blonde hair… blue eyes… weight…”

    “Just never you mind about the weight,” Sheila interrupted.  “You already said what’s different about my license.”

    “No middle name?” Jeff asked.

    “That’s right, Sheriff,” said Sheila mockingly.

    “Here in California, that’s not all that uncommon,” informed Jeff.  “I pulled Madonna over about ten years ago.  Did you know that her License actually says just her one name?”

    “Seriously?” Joan asked.

    “Scout’s honor,” Jeff repeated as he held his three fingers in the air again.  “So you are obviously calling attention to the fact that you have no middle name.  So?  What’s that have to do with what your tattoo stands for?”

    Sheila snatched the license from Jeff’s hands, and then dropped it in her purse without putting it back in her billfold.

    “If I showed you Joe’s License, you would notice that it had a different last name on it,” Sheila said.

    “That is also not uncommon in California,” said Jeff matter-of-factly.

    “What I am trying to say is that I kept my last name because of a damn tattoo,” said Sheila, her face turning red again.  “If I took Joe’s last name, the initials that my tattoo stands for wouldn’t rhyme.”

    “What’s Joe’s last name?” asked the Sheriff.

    “Liebert…  Joseph A. Liebert,” she said.

    “Which initial does Jones rhyme with, then?”

    “The last one,” replied Sheila

    “That’s a long dance, Mrs. Jones,” Jeff said, getting frustrated.  “Either trade the secret, or don’t.”

    Sheila could tell he was growing tired of playing the game with her.  She decided to get to the point because the mood would be returning to a somber one soon enough.

    “When I got the tattoo, I vowed to keep it for the rest of my life.  It’s a reminder to me that no matter how complicated life gets, it’s important to remember a time when I didn’t have a care in the world.  Joe and I discussed it, and we decided that when we have kids, they will take his last name, and I will keep mine.  With all of that in mind, S. J. J. M. B. stands for…”

    Sheila paused and looked around again to see if anyone else was nearby.  With the exception of a fat man near the newspaper racks in the distance, the courtyard was empty.

    Joan Caldwell and Jeff Lohr looked around, imitating Sheila, and then leaned in toward her.  The makeshift triumvirate stood together in the garden, huddled like school children about to play a game.

    “Sheila Jones…” she said aloud, and then whispered the rest.

    Jeff stood up straight, blinking exaggeratedly and tilted his head backward as his brain processed what he just heard.  His Indy hat gripped his head tightly as Joan looked at Sheila and closed her lips tightly.  They were beginning to turn white.  The Sheriff’s shoulders began bouncing up and down silently as he stepped back and struggled to keep from laughing.  Joan took one look at Jeff’s face, and couldn’t keep a reign on her laughter anymore.  She let out a cackle that neither Sheila nor Jeff had ever heard from the sixty-one-year-old woman.  Jeff joined in the chorus with his own series of loud guffaws.

    Joan sat down on the concrete ledge that lined the rose garden and held her stomach as she tried to catch her breath.  Sheila stood with her arms crossed and her lips closed tightly, just as Joan did before she lost control.   

    “Well, shoot a mule!” Joan shouted.  “I reckon I wouldn’t tell anyone what that means, either!”

    Sheila began to smile, which allowed the blood to flow again to her lips.  Joan put her hands over her mouth and drew a breath of the hot August air through her nostrils with a loud snort.  Sheila laughed at Joan, and Jeff’s roars grew even louder.  The three laughed until tears were streaming down their cheeks.

    “How can I keep a secret like that?” Jeff asked with a chuckle.

    “You can tell me the other secret ingredient, that’s how,” Sheila said as she wiped the tears of laughter from beneath her eyes.

    “Okay,” Jeff said, still chuckling.  “But you can’t write it down or tell Maebelle.  We wouldn’t want something like that to fall into the wrong hands.”

    “Too funny,” said Joan, who was wiping her own tears away with a tissue.

    Jeff stepped closer to Sheila and cupped his hand over her left ear.  She listened intently as Jeff revealed the second secret ingredient that Maebelle always put in her prized meatloaf.  Sheila crossed her arms as Jeff turned and went back to his leaning wall.

    “I never would have thought of that in a million years,” said Sheila.

    “Me, either,” added Joan.

“How much of that does she use?” asked Sheila.

    “What do you use for your wet ingredients?” asked Jeff through his teeth as he resumed chewing on his pipe.

    “I use Worcestershire Sauce, ketchup, and one egg per pound of ground beef,” she replied.  “And about a tablespoon of prepared mustard, I think.”

    “Well, however much ketchup you use, replace it with you know what,” Jeff instructed.

    “Hmmm… I have plenty of that in the fridge,” said Sheila.

    “I don’t, but you can bet I’ll get some,” added Joan.  “I gotta try that.”

    “So Maebelle’s secret is safe with you, young lady?” Jeff asked.

    “Is my secret safe with you?” Sheila answered with the same question.

    “It’ll be a tough one, but I’ll keep my end of the bargain,” Jeff replied.

    “Same here,” said Sheila.

    “Sounds good.  Speakin’ of Maebelle, I best be moseyin’ back to the shop,” Jeff said.

    “I need to get a move on too,” said Sheila.  “I gotta call K.P. back and meet up with her and Jezebel.”

    “I’m headed back up to the room,” Joan piped in.  “I reckon Carlos is floatin’ around somewhere.”

    “I almost forgot,” said Jeff.  “When you make the sauce for your meatloaf, mix a tablespoon of brown sugar with one cup of ketchup and a dash of Worcestershire.  Mince about two tablespoons of fresh sweet onion, and whisk it all together.  About fifteen minutes before your meatloaf is done, spread it over the top and put the meatloaf back in the oven.”

    “Is that a secret, too?” asked Sheila.

“Do you think I would just give away secrets for free?” asked Jeff.

    “I think you have plenty of secrets,” said Sheila in a mocking tone.

    “Too damn many,” added Joan.  “Okay, kids…”

    Joan gathered her purse and stood up.  Jeff tapped his pipe against the heel of his boot, and the burnt tobacco fell to the concrete.  Sheila checked her pockets to make sure she wasn’t forgetting anything.

    “Sheriff, it was nice meeting you,” Sheila said as she stuck out her hand.

    “You too, young lady,” said Jeff, who shook her hand like she was a foreign dignitary.  “Stay out of trouble.”

    Sheila just looked at him playfully, but did not reply as she stepped toward Joan and hugged her tightly in the hot sun.

    “Thanks for coming,” said Joan as she leaned back and looked squarely at Sheila.  “Colleen couldn’t have chosen a better best friend.”

    “Awww.  Thanks, Ma,” Sheila said, and then hugged her again.

    “I like it when you call me Ma,” Joan said as her eyes started to well with tears.

    “I’ll stop by tomorrow afternoon.  She should be more awake by then,” said Sheila.

    “Okay.  I’ll be here,” said Joan with a tight squeeze.

    Sheila and Joan parted and wiped their eyes again.  Jeff ushered the two women through the automatic doors that led to the waiting area and elevators of Los Robles Hospital.  The sweet fragrance of roses that once filled their nostrils was replaced with antiseptic and hand sanitizer.  Jeff and Sheila continued down the hall toward the parking garage as Joan stood at the brown elevators and began pressing the “up” button repeatedly with her thumb.

5

    Room 258 at Los Robles Hospital was a busy place for a Sunday.  The room was occupied by a busted-up, gorgeous thirty-two-year-old Ranch Owner with plenty of friends and family, and a new tenant in her mid-twenties.  Nurse Amy worked quietly as she set up I.V. antibiotics for August Riley.  August, who was already heavily sedated, tightly clutched the same kind of pain button as the one in Colleen Caldwell’s left hand.

    August had skin that was a leathery tan color from too much sun, and hair that was long and stringy from too much bleach.  Her right eye was covered with a white bandage, which was wrapped at an angle over a third of her head.  Oversized silicone breast implants made it look like August was hiding Chinese grapefruit under her hospital gown, which matched the same diamond pattern as Colleen’s.  The heavy plaid curtain that hung from the ceiling was pulled between August and Colleen, allowing for visual privacy.

    August was no stranger to the second floor.  She had been Nurse Amy’s patient a number of times during Amy’s twenty-one month tenure as a Registered Nurse at Los Robles.  Nurse Amy was what they referred to as a “Traveler,” which meant she worked under contract for a thirteen-week term.  Amy, however, was just beginning her eighth contract renewal, which meant she had worked on “Two North” for about three months shy of two years.

    Amy had a talent for remembering her patients, and she got to know them quite well.  She could recall their afflictions, the names of their family members, and even what room they were in the last time they “visited.”  What she knew about this twenty-five-year-old patient was no exception.  She knew that August ran away from home before her seventeenth birthday to pursue acting and modeling, but never got that “big break.” 

    She knew that she was married to a Military man of the same age and had no children.  She knew that the young woman’s husband was overseas for extended periods, and that she had a propensity to injuries that ranged from head trauma and broken bones to sexually transmitted diseases. 

    August Riley came to know a great deal about Amy as well.  She knew that Amy grew up in a small town in central Virginia, and was a travel agent that dreamed of being a nurse.  With the help of her mother, Amy graduated with honors in her nursing school class in Charlottesville.  Three years later, she came across a Travel Nursing ad in a magazine, and within a few months she moved to California with her boyfriend.

    Amy spoke of her boyfriend often, and said that he left the corporate world to pursue his dream of being a Photographer, but somehow moved to producing films and writing novels.

    Amy was by far the young blonde’s favorite nurse.  Unlike the Social Worker, Amy didn’t ask too many questions.  She dreaded the Social Worker, but thankfully she only worked during the week.  That gave August time to think up different answers to the same questions the Social Worker always asked.

    The Intensive Care Unit at Los Robles knew more about August than anyone, including the Social Worker.  The results of countless previous X-rays, C.T. scans and M.R.I. reports suggested trauma that was consistent with injuries sustained in quite different circumstances than those suggested by August.   

    Countless bruises about the arms, back and legs held Amy’s attention as well, but August evaded even the vague questions about how she incurred such telling injuries.  To Amy’s recollection, August ran into doors, fell off her bicycle three or four times, and was beaten and mugged repeatedly.  This time, the I.C.U. Nurse reported to Amy that August had fallen down a flight of stairs in a drunken stupor, but her blood alcohol level was negative.

    The only alcohol present in Room 258 was still coursing through the veins of Colleen Caldwell, whose tequila hangover was a product of the latest Girls Night Out. She felt little pain from the broken leg and collar bone, but could hear blood rushing past her ringing ears with every heartbeat.  The pain button did little to alleviate her headache, no matter how many times she pressed it.

    Amy finished her work and pulled the heavy plaid curtain around the foot of the new tenant’s bed.  The sound of the sliding curtain woke August from her sedated snooze.

    “That you, Amy?” asked August.

    “Yes, sweetheart, it’s me again,” Amy replied with a whisper.

    “Will you turn the light off when you go, please?” August asked with a low tone.

    “Yes Ma’am, I sure will.”

    Amy turned off the light over the sink that was on the wall to the right of August’s bed.

    “Thank you,” said August.

    “You’re welcome,” said Amy as she left Room 258.

    Colleen stirred and tried to reposition herself with her right arm and leg, but gave up the struggle.  She felt restrained from the heavy steel pins that protruded from her leg and the sling that held her arm at a right angle over her midsection.

    “Somebody over there?” Colleen asked as she lay with her eyes closed tightly.

    “Yeah,” said August.  “Sorry if I woke you up,” she said.

    “No problem.  My name’s Colleen.  What’s yours?” Colleen asked.

    “August.  But you can call me Augie,” the twenty-five-year-old Riley replied.

    “Hi, Augie,” Colleen said.  “Whatcha in for?”

    “Fell down some stairs… What about you?” Augie asked.

    “Got trampled by a horse,” Colleen replied.

    “That’s a good one,” said Augie.  “Can I use that?”

    “Sure,” said Colleen.  “In my case, it’s true.  Broke my damn leg and I think my shoulder.”

    “That sucks,” Augie said.  “I broke my eye and a couple of ribs.”

    “Broke your eye?” Colleen asked, confused.

    “Yeah.  That’s what he said, anyway,” Augie replied.  “And a couple of ribs.”

    “Ouch,” said Colleen weakly.

    “It’s not too bad, actually.  I’ve had broken ribs, but I never broke my eye before,” said Augie.

    “You sound young, Augie,” said Colleen with a frown.

    “I’m twenty-five goin’ on fifty,” said Augie with a light chuckle.

    “I’m thirty-two,” said Colleen.  “Where you from?”

    “Originally from Miami, but I live in Simi,” replied Augie.  “You?”

    “Simi.  Born and raised,” replied Colleen.

    “Well… nice to meet you, Colleen.  I’m gonna take a little nap,” Augie said with a yawn.

    “Good idea,” said Colleen.

6

    Joan Caldwell chewed her thumbnail as she stood and waited for the heavy elevator to open.  She wondered if Carlos was somewhere in the hospital, or if he had already been in Room 258.  Her thoughts turned to the cowboy that saved her precious Colleen’s life.  She tried to remember what he looked like, but the clouds of dust that spewed from the show ring also clouded her mind.

    The old elevator bell announced its arrival with a dull thud, and Joan stepped inside.  She mashed the button for the second floor repeatedly until she realized what she was doing.  She chuckled to herself as she thought of Xia the Nurse and her scrub top with Tigger on it.

    Joan leaned against the wall to the right of the elevator controls and resumed her thumbnail snack.  The same bell thudded with a muted clink as the elevator reached its destination and the doors opened.  The brightly-lit hallway that led to Room 258 was fairly empty, but mechanical blips and bleeps emanated more frequently than before from the patient rooms, almost in concert with one another.

    Joan glanced in the doorway of the Nurse’s Station as she passed by and saw someone in a white lab coat leaning against a tall counter inside.  She took a few more steps before her brain caught up with her.  It was Doctor Eng, Colleen’s surgeon.  Joan went back to the Nurse’s Station doorway and poked her head inside.  Doctor Eng was standing on his toes as his elbows rested on the high counter.  He was talking to Nurse Amy, who was seated with her back to one of the many computer terminals in the crowded room.

    “Doctor Eng?” Joan called from the doorway.

    “Joan Caldwell,” replied the doctor as he sunk to his heels and turned to face Joan.  “Hi.  I Doctor Eng,” he stuck out his hand and announced himself in the same humorous tone as he did before in the rose garden.

    Joan shook his hand and couldn’t help but notice that the Vietnamese man in his mid-fifties was much shorter than she remembered.

    “Hi, Doctor,” Joan returned the greeting with a chuckle.  “Have you already been to see Colleen?”

    “No.  I go now,” he replied in his thick Asian accent.  “You go, too?” he asked.

    “Yes,” replied Joan.  “Would you like to walk there together?”

    “Okay.  We go,” he said.  “You want still hold my hand?”

    “Oh sh-,” Joan stopped as she caught herself.  She looked down and realized she was still holding Doctor Eng’s hand and quickly let go.

    “That okay.  Nusses want hold my hand all time,” said Doctor Eng.

    Amy and the others in the Nurse’s Station laughed loudly as Doctor Eng and Joan exited the room and started down the hallway toward Colleen’s room.

    “He’s so damn cute,” laughed Amy as she watched the two pass by the window.

    Joan and the short Vietnamese doctor stepped quietly inside Room 258.  Joan noticed that the bed next to Colleen’s was now occupied, but couldn’t see who was behind the thick plaid curtain.  Doctor Eng approached the left side of Colleen’s bed and touched the strap that held the blue sling on her left arm.  Joan stopped at the foot of the bed and inspected the yellow roses in the glass vase on the table.  She leaned over and inhaled deeply through her nostrils as she searched for a card, but could find none.

    “Ma?” Colleen called without opening her eyes.

    “It’s me, Sweetheart,” replied Joan as she went to the opposite side of Colleen’s bed and leaned over her.  She pulled Colleen’s hair back with her left hand and kissed her on the forehead.

    Colleen opened her eyes and looked at her mother-in-law’s face.

    “You look like shit,” Colleen said.

    “You don’t look so good yourself,” replied Joan playfully as she took Colleen’s hand in hers.

    Colleen could feel someone touching her arm and turned her head to the left.

    “That’s Doctor Eng,” Joan informed Colleen.

    “Hi, Doc,” Colleen said with a grunt.

    “Hi.  I Doctor Eng,” the doctor replied.

    Joan chuckled aloud as the doctor stuck out his hand over Colleen’s midsection.

    “What’s so funny?” Colleen turned her head and asked Joan.

    “Nothing.  I’ll tell you later,” Joan replied.

    Colleen let go of Joan’s hand and weakly pawed at the air trying to shake Doctor Eng’s hand.

    “I Colleen,” Colleen said, mocking the short man of medicine.

    “I know.  I put leg back together,” said the doctor as he shook Colleen’s hand weakly and then let go.

    “So where are my boots?” Colleen asked.

    “We had to cut boots off,” replied Doctor Eng as he touched the outside of the steel pins that held her leg together.  “You want keep boots?”

    “No,” replied Colleen as she turned her head away from Doctor Eng.

    “I’m sorry, Honey,” Joan said.

    Colleen thought about the expensive snakeskin boots that Chase gave her for her thirtieth birthday.  They had just begun to turn a hint of yellow from the sun and extensive wear over the last two years.

    “It’s okay.  It was about time to let them go anyway,” replied Colleen.

    Doctor Eng was still inspecting the steel pins on her leg as she turned her head back toward the short Asian man and said in a stern tone, “You owe me one gumball machine.”

    “What is gumball machine?” asked Doctor Eng.

    “Never mind.  It’s a quote from a movie,” replied Colleen.  “Nobody ever gets that.”

    “Who sent the flowers?” Joan asked Colleen.

    “Flowers?  Where?”

    “Here,” Joan replied.

    Joan moved to the end of the bed and held up the vase of yellow roses so Colleen could see them.  She looked like a short, older, female version of US Open Tennis Champion Roger Federer as he hoisted his trophy to the crowd.  Colleen felt her thoughts drift as the morphine in the gray box on her I.V. pole mixed with the tequila she finished only twelve hours before.

    “Bring one here,” said Colleen.  “I wanna smell.”

    Doctor Eng pulled a pair of thin latex gloves from his coat pocket and struggled to pull them over his fingers.  He pulled back the brown bandages near the pins and inspected his work.

    “Look good,” said Doctor Eng.  “That hurt?”

“No,” replied Colleen.

    “Then I put leg back right,” the doctor said proudly.

    “Pfft,” Colleen replied with a half-hearted snicker.

    Joan removed one of the roses from the vase and brought it to Colleen’s nose.

    “Mmm,” said Colleen.  “That smells wonderful.”

    “Pretty flower,” Doctor Eng added.  “You feel this?”

    “No,” replied Colleen again.

    “I do good work,” said the doctor as he positioned the pillow under Colleen’s leg.

    “Glad you approve of your own work,” Colleen said.

    “Sometime I have parts left over,” replied Doctor Eng without breaking a smile.  “Instructions in Chinese, so I not know if I do it right.”

    Doctor Eng removed his gloves and tossed them in the wastebasket next to Colleen’s bed.  Muffled giggling came from the other side of the heavy plaid curtain.

    “That’s real funny, Augie,” said Colleen in a loud voice.

    “I can’t help it,” said Augie through the curtain.  “Doctor Eng cracks me up.”

    “August Riley,” said Doctor Eng as he looked at the ceiling.

    “Hi, Doc,” replied Augie.

    “I come see you five minute,” said the doctor.

    “Okay,” Augie replied.  “I’ll be here.”

    “How long will I have to have that damn thing on my leg, Doc?” Colleen asked.

    “Six month… mebbe eight,” said the short doctor and comedian.

    “Are you serious?” asked Joan, who still had her nose buried in the yellow rose.

    “Did I say six month?” asked Doctor Eng.  “I mean week.  Six week… mebbe eight,” he said with a straight face.

    More giggling came from the other side of the curtain.  Joan chuckled and Colleen just smiled.

    “I give up,” said Colleen.  “How about my arm, Doc?  Will I ever be able to play the piano again?”

    “Yes.  You play piano just fine,” replied the doctor in a serious tone this time.

    “Good, because I couldn’t play worth a shit before,” said Colleen.

    Doctor Eng laughed with a loud chortle that sounded too big for his body.  It made everyone else laugh harder, including Augie.

    “I go home now,” said the doctor.  “August Riley,” he called loudly.

    “Yeah, Doc?” Augie replied, still laughing.

    “When Amy come back, you say you want move to difflent loom,” he said loudly.

    “Get over here, Doc,” Augie commanded playfully.

    “I come back tomorrow and check on you,” said Doctor Eng as he touched Colleen on her restrained left arm.

    “Okay, Doc.  Thanks,” replied Colleen.

    “Good to see you again, Doctor Eng,” Joan added.

    “You too,” replied Doctor Eng.

    Doctor Eng stepped away from Colleen’s bedside and touched the curtain as he walked around the foot of Augie’s bed.  Joan and Colleen could hear the water from the sink against the wall as Doctor Eng washed his hands.  Joan turned her attention back to Colleen.

    “So have you seen Carlos?” she asked.

    “Oh right.  He must have brought the flowers.  He was here about half an hour ago,” said Colleen.  “Is there a card or anything?”

    “I couldn’t find one,” said Joan.

    “He was crying, I think,” Colleen said.

    “Crying?” asked Joan.

    “Yeah.  Poor thing.  He blames himself for what happened,” said Colleen.

    “Still?” asked Joan.  “He said something about that when I called him earlier.”

    “I barely remember him being here, I was so out of it.”

    “He’s just worried about you, Sweetheart,” said Joan.

    “I know,” said Colleen.  “He’s worried about you too, Ma.”

    “Me?  Why does he worry about me?” Joan asked.

    “Because he loves you,” Colleen replied.

7

    Jim peered around the red brick corner of the Seven-11 on Wilbur, just off Moorpark.  As soon as the white Chevy pickup came to a stop in the oil-soaked parking space to the left of the store entrance, he quickly made his way to the passenger door.  The pickup was tall, and Jim’s short older brother looked out of place behind the wheel.  The fumes from the diesel exhaust combined with the hot August sun made Jim cough as he opened the door and got in.

    “About fucking time,” Jim said as he adjusted the air conditioning vents on his side of the cab.

    “Kiss my ass, little brother,” said the man behind the wheel.  “And don’t get blood all over.  This is a company truck.”

    “I don’t give a fuck,” said Jim.

    “You will if you want my help, assh-,” said the man, who suddenly stopped talking.

    Jim looked out the passenger window at the black and white Sheriff’s patrol car that pulled in the space alongside them.  The pickup towered over the patrol car, and the uniformed officer that was sitting in the driver’s seat was looking forward, speaking into the microphone of his radio.  Jim hunkered down in his seat so the Deputy couldn’t see him if he looked to his left.

    Jim’s brother shifted into reverse and eased the pickup out of the parking space, taking extra time as he maneuvered the large Chevy around the small parking lot.

    “Did he see you?” asked Jim’s brother.

    “Nah.  I’m like a cat, man,” replied Jim.

    “Shit,” said Jim’s brother.  “I thought we were screwed there for a second.”

    “It’s all good,” Jim said as they pulled onto Wilbur and turned toward Moorpark.  “Didja bring me what I asked for?”

    “Yeah.  It’s behind your seat in the bag,” said Jim’s brother.

    Jim sat up and turned on his knees toward the back of the extended-cab pickup.  He reached behind the seat with his good hand, grabbed the bag and then sat down facing forward again.

    “Let’s see what we got here,” said Jim.  “Shirt… pack of underwear… Band-Aids… gauze… antiseptic spray… aspirin… and look what we have here,” said Jim.  “A carton of Marlboro Reds.  Got any money?”

    “Jesus Christ, Jim.  Not even so much as a thank you?” said Jim’s brother, disgusted.

    “You owe me,” said Jim.

    Jim took the pack of cigarettes he bought earlier out of his pocket and removed one.  He fished in his pocket for his copper-colored Zippo, but couldn’t find it.

    “You’re not smoking in here, asshole,” said Jim’s brother.  “This is a company truck.”

    “Like I said before, I don’t give a fuck,” said Jim as he pulled his Zippo from his back pocket.

    “Then roll down the window.  You hungry?” asked Jim’s brother.

    “Starvin’,” Jim replied.

    “The usual place okay with you?” asked Jim’s brother.

    “Yeah.  They have good chicken,” replied Jim.

“I didn’t figure you liked it for the mac and cheese,” said Jim’s brother.

Jim puffed away at the cigarette in his lips as he pulled out the shirt that his short, pudgy older brother brought him as they continued down Moorpark and headed for Simi Valley.  Even though his brother was a full six inches shorter than he was, Jim knew the shirt would work for now.  He put his arms through the holes of the thick gray t-shirt and pulled it down over his back and midsection.

“You fucker,” said Jim as he looked down and inspected the logo on his chest.

“What?” said Jim’s brother.

“UCLA?  What a fuckin’ joke,” said Jim, disgusted.

“The whole year you spent there makes USC better than UCLA?” asked Jim’s brother.

“UCLA doesn’t even have a polo team,” Jim replied.

“Like you would have made the cut on their team, even if they had one,” Jim’s brother said condescendingly.

“Fuck you!” Jim fired back at his brother.

Jim and his brother sat in silence for a minute while Jim flicked ashes on the floor.  It was his way of getting back at his brother for hitting below the belt by bringing up USC.

“So what’s the plan?” Jim’s brother asked, finally breaking the silence.

“I figured you could drop me off at the Police Station on Madera.  I’ll waltz in and tell them that I’m the one who beat the shit out of the little fucker that parked in the handicap spot,” Jim said in a devious tone.

“Cute… real cute,” said Jim’s brother.  “You’ll be back to eatin’ mac and cheese with a spork in no time.”

“Better than where I’m at now,” Jim said.

“What’s wrong with where you’re at now?” asked Jim’s brother.

“That place is a shit hole,” replied Jim.  “Let me bunk with you for a day or two.”

“No can do, little brother,” said the portly man as he shook his head.  “Dawn would shit if she knew I was anywhere near you.”

“Fuck her,” said Jim.

“Watch your mouth, you fuckin’ prick!” Jim’s brother shouted.

Jim knew he crossed the line when he blasted his brother’s girlfriend.

“Sorry,” he said.  “I’ll just go back to hot dogs on a stick for a few days.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Jim’s brother.

Jim flicked his cigarette out the window of the pickup and blew smoke out his nostrils.  His brother shifted in his seat and drove with one hand as he pulled his billfold from his back pocket, opened it and fished around inside for some cash.

“Here,” he said.  “This should get you into a motel for a few days.”

Jim’s brother closed his billfold and threw it on the dash.  He handed Jim all of the cash he had.

“Thanks, man,” said Jim.

Jim counted the money his brother gave him.  In all, he had one hundred and thirty-seven dollars in varying denominations.

“I still owe you, little brother.”

“Yeah… you do,” Jim said as he stuffed the cash into his pocket.  “And you’re still buyin’ supper.”

8

Joan Caldwell and her thirty-two-year-old daughter-in-law chatted quietly as August Riley and Doctor Eng exchanged pleasantries on the other side of the heavy plaid curtain in Room 258.

“I’m gonna go crazy just sitting here,” said Colleen to Joan.

“I know, Honey,” replied Joan.  “You need to rest as much as possible in here so you can go home in a few days.”

“I’m so tired,” Colleen said.

“Punch the pain thing again,” said Joan.

“It doesn’t help my headache,” Colleen said.

“Well, out of everything that happened, I reckon the headache is a self-inflicted wound, is it not?” asked Joan.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” replied Colleen with a sigh.

“Uh huh…,” Joan guffawed.

“Besides, tequila is good for you,” Colleen continued in her own defense.

“Uh huh…,” Joan repeated.

Colleen paused for a moment and tried to listen in on the conversation between Augie and Doctor Eng.  She could only hear whispers back and forth, but heard Augie say something about how she fell down some stairs and that her ribs hurt.

“So how did Carlos manage to get control of the filly?” Colleen asked Joan.

“He had some help,” said Joan.  “Don’t you remember the cowboy?”

“What cowboy?”

“There was this cowboy dude.  Big guy.  Looked like he knew what he was doing,” Joan continued.

“Where did he come from?” Colleen asked, slurring a little.

“I have no idea,” Joan said.  “I was in the kitchen and heard the commotion, so I came outside.  Camorrista was going crazy and this cowboy dude was trying to get her under control.”

“That’s right, Los said he named the filly Camorrista,” said Colleen.

“Fitting, huh?” asked Joan.

“Yeah… Camorrista hasn’t heard the last of me,” Colleen said with a frown.

“You should get rid of her,” Joan suggested.

“Fuck that!” Colleen blurted.  “I will train that glue factory reject if it kills me.”

“It almost did, Colleen,” Joan replied in a more serious tone.

“Shit… if that’s all she’s got…,” Colleen said.  “She caught me by surprise this time.  I shoulda never worked ‘er with a hangover.”

“Hangover my ass,” said Joan.  “You were still drunk when you got up this morning.”

“Bullshit,” Colleen said with a yawn.  “What time is it?” she asked.

“Quarter to six,” Joan replied as she looked at her watch.  “You hungry?”

“No,” Colleen replied.  “Just sleepy.”

“Well, why don’t you get some rest, Sweetheart?” Joan said tenderly.

“I will,” said Colleen.  “But first I have to pee.”

“Punch the call button thing,” said Joan.

“The call button’s gonna help me pee?” asked Colleen with a snicker.

“Very funny,” Joan said.

Augie giggled from the other side of the curtain again.  Doctor Eng had already left the room.

“Bedpan time!” Augie called like she was calling ranch workers to supper.

“Oh shit,” said Colleen.  “You think that’s funny, don’t you?” Colleen asked Augie loudly.

“Of course I do!” Augie replied.

Colleen suddenly remembered that she and Joan were discussing the cowboy, but got sidetracked.

“So who do you think this cowboy is?” asked Colleen.

“John Wayne?” Augie interrupted aloud.

“I wasn’t talking to you, Miss Graceful,” Colleen said playfully.

“Ha!” Augie blurted aloud.

“Carlos said that Jesus thinks he’s a ghost,” said Joan.

“Jesus believes in that shit?” asked Colleen.

“Yeah,” replied Joan.  “He’s into all kinds of crap like that.”

“Huh…,” Colleen said.

“I believe in ghosts,” said Augie quietly.

Joan and Colleen looked at each other.  Colleen thought that maybe she hurt Augie’s feelings when she asked whether Jesus believed in that shit.

“I’m sorry, Augie,” Colleen said in a consoling tone.  “I didn’t know.”

Augie giggled again, and then laughed out loud.  Colleen frowned as she realized that Augie was pulling her leg.

“You piss me off,” said Colleen out loud.

“Ha!” Augie blurted aloud again.

“Well, the last thing I remember is getting stepped on over and over,” said Colleen, getting back to the conversation.

“So you didn’t see him?” asked Joan.

“No… well maybe I caught a glimpse of him,” Colleen said.  “Was he wearing something blue?”

“He was wearing a blue flannel shirt at first,” Joan said.

“At first?” Colleen asked.

“Well, he must have taken it off, because when the ambulance got there, you had strips of blue flannel wrapped around your leg.

“I don’t remember any of that,” Colleen said.  “I just remember seeing something blue, and I couldn’t breathe worth a shit.”

“Oh well, maybe he’ll turn up again,” said Joan.  “The paramedic said that whoever bandaged your leg knew what he was doing.”

Colleen grunted as she tried to shift her weight in the hospital bed.  She was getting tired again, but the growing pressure in her bladder became a higher priority than sleep for the moment.

“Hit the call bell thing, would ya Ma?” Colleen asked.

“This thing?” asked Joan.

“I guess so,” said Colleen.

9

Three of the Four Musketeers sat in the red vinyl booth of the restaurant Colleen often referred to as “The Feed Trough.”  Sheila Jones, Karen Phillips, and Jesse Troutdale settled in as their waitress approached the table and greeted them.

“Hi, my name is Marina,” said the young chubby Hispanic woman of about twenty.  “Can I bring you some hot bread rolls?”

“Yes, please,” said Sheila.

“Okay, I’ll be right back,” said Marina.

“Thank you,” Sheila said as Marina turned and walked toward the kitchen.

“So what did Colleen say when you talked to her?” asked Jesse.

“Not much,” said Sheila.  “She was pretty drugged up.  She just said a few one-word sentences, but that’s about it.”

“How bad is she?” asked Karen “K.P.” Phillips.

“She has a broken leg with all of these gross pins sticking out,” said Sheila.

“Ewww!’ Jesse and K.P. sang in unison.

“And she has a sling on her arm,” Sheila continued.  “She has a broken collarbone and probably some bruised ribs from the sound of it.”

“That sucks,” said K.P.

“Yeah, but you know her,” said Sheila.  “She’ll be up and around before the doctor says it’s okay for her to be up and around.”

“She’ll be pole dancin’ before you know it!” blurted K.P.

“Hey!” Jesse interrupted loudly.

Sheila and K.P. chuckled and put their right hand over their mouth to stifle a fake snicker.  They looked like synchronized swimmers in the off season as they both let out a series of “Fff!” sounds through their fingers.

“I forgot, Jezebel… that’s your job,” Sheila said in a smartass tone.

“I only do that when I’m drunk!” said Jesse.

“How much did you get from that fat guy in the black shirt?” Sheila asked.

“That’s not funny,” said Jesse.  “He was soooo gross.”

“What was it he called you?” asked K.P.  “Marmalade or Camel Toe or some shit like that?”

“For your information, he called me Mamasita,” replied Jesse.  “I don’t think he spoke English.”

“You think?” piped Sheila.  “I’m gonna go get some chicken.”

“You always get chicken,” Jesse chided.

“Better than that bunny food shit you eat,” replied Sheila.

“I like cucumbers,” said Jesse defensively.

“We know you like cucumbers,” said K.P.  “I’ll bet the fat guy would have given you one of his own last night, Mamasita.”

The couple at the table across from the booth suddenly laughed hysterically.  The Four Musketeers minus one didn’t realize that others were listening in on their conversation.  Jesse’s face turned several shades of red as Sheila and K.P. slid out of the booth and headed toward the salad bar.

“Some friends you are,” said Jesse.  “I can’t take them anywhere,” she said aloud as she slid out of the booth.

10

“Can I help you?” asked the female’s voice from the call box on the wall at the head of Colleen’s bed.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” said Colleen loudly.

“Okay, I’ll let your nurse know and she’ll be right in,” said the voice.

“I’m already here,” said Amy as she stepped through the doorway and into Room 258.

“I’m already here,” repeated Augie, mocking Amy’s voice.

“My, aren’t we feeling spry today?” Amy asked Augie rhetorically.

“Ha!” blurted Augie for the third time.

“Don’t mind her,” Colleen said.  “She’s a pain in the ass already.”

“I came to check on you and see if you need anything,” said Amy.

“She has to pee,” Joan answered for Colleen.

“Thanks, Ma… but I’m a big girl,” said Colleen.  “I’ll take it from here.”

“No problem,” said Amy.  “Let me just get a pan for you.  They’re pretty easy to use.”

“What if she has to…,” Joan started again.  “You know… what if she has to go number two?”

“Don’t you have stuff to do at the ranch?” Colleen turned her head and asked Joan.

“No,” Joan replied.  “I thought I would stay here tonight and sleep in the recliner.”

“That’s okay, Ma.  What are you gonna do?  Watch me sleep?” Colleen asked.

“If she needs to go number two…,” Amy began.

“Then I can also take care of that myself,” Colleen finished her sentence.

Amy grabbed a pair of thin gloves and put them on.  She removed a pink plastic bedpan from a low shelf near the head of Colleen’s bed and approached her left side.

“Did you want me to stay in the room, or do you want some privacy?” Amy asked.

“Ma,” Colleen said in a stern tone.

“Yes, Pumpkin?”  Joan said as she stared at the pan in Amy’s hand.

“You don’t have to be here for this,” Colleen instructed.

“You sure you don’t want me to stay?” Joan asked.

“Go home,” Colleen said.  “Come back in the morning.”

“Okay, Sweetheart,” Joan said.  “You sure you’re alright by yourself?”

“I’m not alone, Ma,” Colleen said.  “I haven’t been alone all day.”

“You’re right, Honey.  I have some stuff to do back at the ranch.”

“Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Grandma’s beatin’ off the Indians!” Augie blurted.

Amy and Colleen started giggling.  Joan stood at the other side of the bed and frowned at Augie’s joke.  Her eyes were transfixed on the pink bedpan in Amy’s hand.

“I need to order Goat Chow.  George eats that stuff like it’s goin’ out of style,” Joan said.

“Don’t order any more from Purina,” said Colleen, remembering her thoughts from earlier in the day.

“Why not?” asked Joan.

“Because I’m not ordering from that asshole until he learns some manners,” said Colleen.

“What are we gonna feed George?” asked Joan.

“Feed him dog shit for all I care.  Right now I have to pee,” Colleen said sternly.

“Crab-by,” said Joan.

“Good night, Ma,” Colleen said in the same stern tone.

Joan leaned over Colleen and kissed her on the forehead.  She had a look on her face that was a combination of concern and annoyance.

“Good night, Ma,” Augie said, mocking Colleen.

“Good night, Sweetheart,” Joan said as she stood up.  “Good night, Augie.”

Augie giggled again.  Joan walked toward the foot of the bed and paused at the recliner to gather her purse.

“Bring my iPod in the morning, will ya, Ma?  Please?” Colleen said as she tried to shift her position on the bed.

“Oh, now it’s please,” Joan said in a mocking tone.

“Thanks, Ma,” said Colleen.  “I love you.”

Joan stopped in her tracks.  She felt guilty for mocking Colleen.

“I love you too, Sweetheart.  Sleep well,” Joan said as she started for the doorway of Room 258.

“I will,” Colleen said.

Amy pulled the heavy plaid curtain across the foot of Colleen’s bed.  She helped Colleen relieve her bladder and jotted down the volume of her urinary output for the medical chart.  The gray box on the I.V. pole beeped as Colleen pressed the pain button for another dose of morphine, and August Riley followed suit.  As Amy removed her gloves and washed her hands the two tenants of Room 258 drifted off to sleep once again.

11

Carlos Guzman pulled into the driveway of the Triple C Ranch and thought about all that happened in the scorching heat of an August Sunday.  He thought about the many tasks ahead of him in the coming weeks without Colleen.  He pulled up to the concrete pad just outside the edge of the show ring and sat with the engine of his Toyota pickup still running.  He felt unworthy of the shiny silver PreRunner given to him by Chase and Colleen the previous year.

When Chase presented Carlos with the keys at the annual Crew Appreciation Cookout, he was taken completely by surprise.  Chase made a speech in front of his fellow workmen that brought a sense of pride he had never felt before.

“For the hard work and dedication you have shown the Caldwell family over the last thirty-five years, Colleen, my mother, Joan, and I would like to present you with a little token of our appreciation,” Chase said.

Carlos thought that after all that transpired on what should have been an easy Sunday, even the personalized license plates that read “THXLOS” seemed more like a mockery than a tribute.

Carlos pulled a small spiral notepad from the glove box and flipped it open.  There was one note written in pencil, half in Spanish and half in English.

No mas Goat Chow!!

The entry was double-underlined with two exclamation points, which is what he did to remind himself that the note was extremely important.  He found himself wishing that Goat Chow was still the most important order of business for the day.  He flipped the page in his notebook and took a short pencil from his shirt pocket.  He thought of the Padre’ and the comforting words of wisdom he offered in the small hospital chapel.

Do or do not.  Es no try.

Carlos transcribed the words and double-underlined them.  The words echoed in the sixty-four-year-old Ranch Foreman’s head like a long thunderstorm on a warm Spring Southern California day.  Carlos had a feeling that a different kind of storm was coming, the likes of which the Guzman surname had never seen before.


    Please CLICK HERE to continue to CHAPTER FOUR.