1

    Salty crystals of drying tears held on for dear life at the corners of Joan Caldwell’s bloodshot eyes.  Her head swam with a hundred different thoughts that ranged from confusion and deep sorrow to rage and unbearable pain.  Her mind raced through the events that took place in Room 258 a few minutes before.  She replayed the things that Colleen said to her and tried to understand where they came from.  Even more, she tried to understand why Colleen said the things the way she did.

    “One Goddamn thing,” Joan said aloud, repeating what Colleen said.

    The small space of the El Camino’s cab made her words resonate loudly against the silence of the hospital parking garage beyond the thick, tinted windows.

    “I said I was sorry,” said Joan.

    Joan gripped the brown leather steering wheel cover tightly and gritted her teeth.  The leather squeaked as it rubbed against the hard steering wheel, and Joan’s teeth squeaked the same tune as she ground them in disgust.

    “What did I do to deserve this?” she scoffed as she squinted her eyes and glared at the red Visitor Parking sign on the wall in front of her.

    Joan felt as if she had been stomped by the same horse that put Colleen in the hospital.  The sixty-one-year-old widow and mother of two dead children closed her eyes, leaned forward, and rested her forehead against her knuckles.  She drew in a deep, choppy breath as she began to think about what to do next.  She opened her eyes, let out her breath and leaned back in the seat.

    She studied her knuckles, which had turned white from gripping the steering wheel.  They stood in contrast against the dull black dashboard of the souped-up El Camino that once ran perfectly on leaded gasoline and a thousand decibels of Van Halen.

    Joan released the steering wheel and grabbed her purse, which was perched neatly on the seat beside her.  She lifted the brown leather satchel to her lap and reached for the zipper, but suddenly stopped short of her target.  A few inches below the zipper on the side of the expensive purse was a deep, light scratch as long and as wide as an unsharpened pencil.  The scratch ran straight through the word COACH as if it were crossed out with a thick white marker.

    “That figures,” said Joan aloud as she let her body go limp and her head tilt backward until it rested against the rear window.  “What next?”

    The answer to Joan’s question came with a knock on the window.

    “Joan, is that you in there?” asked Father Francis Jones as he cupped his hands around his face and peered through the thick tinted window.

2

    “Is there anything else you need?” Amy asked Colleen, who shifted her position a little.

    “Other than a fresh lunch tray?” replied Colleen.

    “Actually, I figured you would want another one, so I took the liberty of calling the kitchen,” said Amy, one hand on her hip in a fake scolding posture.

    “She’s great, ain’t she?” Augie chimed in.

    “You got that right,” said Colleen.  “There is one other thing I need, come to think of it.”

    “What’s that, Sweetheart?” asked Amy.

    “That walnut-cracker’s phone number,” said Colleen coyly.  “Is he married?”

    “Hey!” scoffed Augie.  “Hands off!”

    Colleen and Amy looked at Augie and then back at each other.  Both searched their minds for the right thing to say because of Augie’s unstable situation.

    “Actually, he is married,” said Amy as she looked at Augie again.  “His wife Becky is the sweetest thing.”

    “And I’ll bet she’s hot as hell, isn’t she?” asked Colleen.

    “She’s gorgeous,” said Amy.  “She’s a bodybuilder like he is.”

    “No shit…,” said Augie.

    “Ugh,” said Colleen.  “Does she look like a man?”

    “Not at all,” replied Amy.  “She is very muscular and at the same time very feminine.”

    “Like how big is she?” Colleen continued with her line of questioning.

    “She’s a bit smaller than David, but not much,” replied Amy.  “What surprised me the most about her is that she has this high-pitched voice that’s girly and cute.”

    “Like me!” Augie chimed in again.

    “She said girly and cute, Godzilla,” Colleen fired back playfully, referring to Augie’s man-sized belch a few minutes earlier.

    Amy gasped at Colleen’s dig at Augie.  Augie’s face turned red from embarrassment, and suddenly the bandage on her head and face seemed a brighter white than before.

    “You guys kill me,” said Amy as she started for the door.  “I need to go check on your lunch tray.”

    “Would you mind handing me the bag that my mother brought before you go?” asked Colleen.

    “Sure,” said Amy.  “Do you want both of them?”

    “Yes, please,” said Colleen in her girly voice again.

    “Yes, please,” mocked Augie.

    “You go straight ta hell!” Colleen fired again playfully.

    “Pfft!” Augie sputtered and then went back to eating her food.

    The plastic bags rustled lightly as Amy lifted them from the floor and placed them in Colleen’s lap.  Colleen inspected the contents of the Wal-Mart bag, and then the other.

    “This one goes to Godzilla over there,” Colleen said as she lifted the Wal-Mart bag and offered it to Amy.

    Augie perked up in her bed as she took another sip of her Sprite.

    “Fer me?” asked Augie.

    “Yeah, fer you, Miss Pain in the Ass,” replied Colleen.

    “What is it?” asked Augie excitedly.

    “Just stuff,” replied Colleen.  “Stuff I wouldn’t be caught dead without in a place like this.”

    Amy handed Augie the Wal-Mart bag, and Augie tore through it like a two-year-old on Christmas morning.

    “Oh my God, I need all of this stuff!” exclaimed Augie.

    Amy pulled the table that held Augie’s lunch to the side and watched intently as the excited twenty-five-year-old pulled each item from the bag, held it up Show and Tell style and then neatly placed it in a line on the bed.

    “Whatcha got there?” Amy asked as she played along with the game of Show and Tell.

    “I got…,” Augie started.  “A hairbrush…,” she said as she grabbed the first item in the line, held it up, and then presented it like a model on The Price is Right before moving on to the next item.  “Deodorant…,” she continued, held it up, and went to the next item.

    Along with the hairbrush and deodorant were tampons, mini pads, hair scrunchies, toothbrush and toothpaste, body spray, and hand lotion.  As Augie presented each one, Amy and Colleen made a game of saying “Ooh” and “Ahh” in unison.

    “Very nice!” said Amy as Augie held the last item in the air and then placed it on the bed again.

    “Oh wait,” said Colleen.  “Isn’t there anything else in there?”

    “Ummm…,” said Augie as she grabbed the empty Wal-Mart bag, opened it and then turned it upside-down and shook it.  “Nope,” she said.  “Why, is there supposed to be more than that?”

    “There should be,” said Colleen as she turned her attention to her own bag.

    “That is just the sweetest thing I ever saw,” said Amy, who was fighting back tears at the thought of the Caldwell family’s generosity.

    “Here they are,” said Colleen as she rifled through her bag with her right hand and held the edge of the bag between the thumb and index finger of her left.

    “Here they are?” asked Augie excitedly as she clapped the palms of her hands together.

    “Amy, would you mind one more time?” asked Colleen.

    “Not at all,” Amy replied.

    “This fuckin’ sling has got to go,” Colleen said through gnashed teeth.

    “I know, sweetheart,” Amy offered empathetically.  “It won’t take long.”

    “This is hers…,” said Colleen as she pointed into the bag.  “…and that.”

    “Wow,” said Amy.  “That?” she asked and pointed at the pink iPod Nano and headphones.

    “No, that’s mine,” said Colleen.  “This thing on the bottom.”

    “Oh…,” said Amy.  “I was gonna say.”

    “What is it?” asked Augie excitedly as she leaned painfully to one side and tried to see what other surprises Colleen had for her.

    “Just hand them to her?” Amy asked Colleen softly.

    “Yeah,” replied Colleen.  “She’s gonna pop a vein or somethin’ if we keep her waitin’ any longer.”

3

    Father Francis Jones peered through the dark tinted window of the El Camino.  He saw the outline of a person’s head against the rear window, but couldn’t be sure it was Joan.  The security guard at the Emergency Room exit offered little more than “Si, Senor” when asked if a woman fitting Joan’s description came through.

    “Joan?” Father Jones called again loudly.

    Joan closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and then let it out slowly.

    “Maybe he’ll go away,” she whispered to herself.

    “Hello?” called the priest with another assault of the window with his knuckles.  “Anybody in there?”

    Joan opened her eyes, lifted her head from its position against the window and looked down at her purse.  She traced the length of the scuff with her fingers and shook her head.  She wrestled with what to do next.

    She knew if she waited long enough, Father Jones would go away.  On the other hand, she figured if she started “The Bitch” and gave her some gas to suck on, the noise of the powerful engine would send a message that would be clear enough.  She reasoned with herself and came to the conclusion that either way, the priest would move his ass.

    “Another time, Father,” Joan whispered as she hurriedly unzipped her purse with a loud VREET!

    Joan pulled Colleen’s keychain from the purse and the small plastic gnome at the end of the bulky mess clunked against the dashboard as the key slid easily into the ignition.  Out of habit, Joan gave the accelerator a double-pump before she turned the key.  The starter whined as it cranked the El Camino’s engine for a few seconds, but would not fire.

    “Dammit!” Joan whispered loudly through her teeth.  “Come on!”

    After a few more seconds of cranking, Joan let go of the ignition key and it returned to the “on” position.  The red idiot lights on the dash panel glared at her as she thought about what to do next.

    “Flooded!” Joan said loudly, startling herself.  “Hold it to the floor!”

    Joan did as she instructed herself and tried the ignition key again.  The engine cranked for a few seconds and then spat a loud “KOOF!” from under the thick metal hood.  Joan increased her pressure on the ignition key and the accelerator at the same time.  The engine let out another “KOOF!” and then started with a loud, smoke-choking “VRRRRROOOOOOM!”

    Father Jones leapt backward and bumped his buttocks into the Volvo in the parking spot behind him.  The Volvo’s alarm immediately sent a series of loud honks and high-pitched shrieks through the concrete and steel parking garage.

    “Shit!” Jones yelled loudly as he scrambled to get away from his position between the beastly El Camino and the screaming Volvo.

    Joan released the ignition and raced the engine long enough for the idiot lights to blink off one by one.  She then moved her foot to the brake pedal, slid the gearshift to the reverse position and looked down again at the ruined leather purse in her lap.

    The gnome that dangled from the end of the keychain swung back and forth as Joan flung her purse to the bench seat to her right.  She turned her head to the left and saw that Father Jones was standing behind the Volvo scratching his head.  She eased up on the brake pedal and the powerful Chevy lurched backward.  Joan checked her mirrors, swung “The Bitch” around so that her nose was pointed toward the exit, and intentionally avoided eye contact with the confused priest.

    Joan whipped the gearshift to the drive position and eased up on the brake.  The power steering whined loudly as the heavy steel hot rod headed toward the exit with the fury of a teenager at a drag strip.  The rear tires, which Colleen often referred to as “fats” lost their grip when Joan let go of the brake and poked the accelerator.

    The screaming “fats” left wisps of fine black rubber dust in the tracks that followed the El Camino’s wake from the exit to the street above the parking garage.

    Father Francis ambled aimlessly toward the walkway near the parking garage exit and thought about what had just happened.

    “Demons,” the priest said to himself softly as he fiddled with the glass beads from the rosary in his pocket.  “Must pray for them.”

4

    “Here,” said Amy.  “It would be easier if we just take this out.”

    “Ya,” Colleen quipped approvingly and then leaned back onto the freshly-adjusted pillow.

    Amy removed the iPod and headphones from the bag in Colleen’s lap and set them on the table.

    “It’s heavy,” said Amy as she lifted the bag, turned toward Augie and pretended that it weighed a hundred pounds.

    “What is it?” asked Augie in a girly voice.

    “You’ll see,” said Colleen.

    Amy held the looped handles with her left hand and supported the bag underneath with her right.  She grunted as she lifted the bag over the bed rail and said “Oof!” as she plopped the bag onto the bed in front of Augie’s line of treasures.

    The bag barely had time to settle on top of the covers before Augie snatched it from Amy’s hands and dragged it closer to her.  She fought through the plastic and dug into the bag as Amy took a step back and looked over her shoulder at Colleen.  Colleen gave Amy a wink as Augie pulled out a huge bag of Hershey’s Miniatures.

    “Holy shit!” exclaimed Augie.  “The two-pounder!”

    Amy looked back at Augie and continued the game of “Ooh’s and Ahh’s” with Colleen.

    Suddenly the expression on Augie’s face changed just as Amy had seen a hundred times before.  Augie peered into the bag and her bandaged face turned a deep red as she let go of the bag and slowly brought her hands to her mouth.  She then cupped her entire face as tears gushed from her left eye.  Colleen turned her head and looked away toward the window through fresh tears that had not yet escaped the wells of her beautiful azure eyes.

    Augie’s breath became short and choppy as she fought to keep from bawling like a two-year-old.  She leaned back against the head of her bed and held her breath.  Amy turned and looked back at Colleen with her head tilted to the left, confused at what she saw.

    “I must’ve missed something,” Amy thought to herself.  She wondered why both women suddenly went from cheerful to sullen over a bag of chocolate and some underwear.  A sealed six-pack of Fruit of the Loom bikini underwear was what Colleen referred to when she said, “And this thing on the bottom,” when Amy asked about the iPod.

    Amy was right.  She missed something.

5

    The powerful El Camino seemed to guide itself down the driveway of the Triple C as if it were equipped with both cruise control and autopilot.  As the hot rod rounded the corner from the driveway toward the house, Joan hit the button on the remote for the garage door.  Her head pounded as she pulled into the garage nose-first, which was in direct defiance of the way Colleen liked her car parked.

    Colleen preferred to have The Bitch parked backward in the garage ever since she accidentally ran over her dog a year before she met Chase.  “Dee-oh-jee,” who was a ten-year-old Dachshund, had been lazily sunning himself in the driveway when the rear tire of the heavy gas-guzzler crushed his slender body.

    Dee-oh-jee was a present from her father for her eighteenth birthday, and he had a habit of sunning himself in places where the traffic at a bustling ranch was at its highest.  Dee-oh-jee, or “Dog” for short had his share of bumps and bruises from being stepped on by one horse or another, along with a series of narrow-misses by vehicles through the years.

    Joan knew that her Chinese Pug “Merlin,” was too much of a lazy ass to lie in the sun in front of the garage door.  Merlin preferred the air-conditioned comfort of the office and usually stayed away from anywhere where lots of people and animals actually performed work.

    Joan shifted Colleen’s car into park, switched off the engine and removed the ignition key.  Tinny clicking noises emanated from under the hood as she opened her door and grabbed the “scarred” Coach purse from the bench seat.  The sixty-one-year-old could feel heat against her leg from the engine as she stood up, stepped to the side and slammed the door shut.

    As Joan opened the door that led into the house at the rear of the garage, she reached over and pressed the button for the door opener.  The garage door squealed as the metal rollers scraped against the track on the way down.  The squeal sent a shiver down her spine as if someone had scraped their long fingernails against an old blackboard.

    Suddenly a cinnamon-spiced, air-conditioned breeze from deep within the comfortable, four-bedroom abode chased away the shiver as it circled Joan’s entire body.  Immediately she felt better.

    She gently pulled the door closed behind her, headed straight for the refrigerator and pulled out an ice-cold bottle of Bud Light.  She ignored the sting of the frosty brew and chugged what she often referred to as “Ten Seconds of Heaven” before the empty bottle sailed through the air and landed with a thud in the heavy trash bin near the corner.

6

    The bright, mid-August California sun silhouetted Colleen’s beautiful face against the large picture window in Room 258 at Los Robles Hospital.  The tears that pooled at the bottoms of her eyes finally overflowed and left shiny thin trails of quicksilver down her soft, pinkish cheeks.

    Amy’s eyes welled at the thought of what must be in the bag in Augie’s lap.  She thought that, in a way, she didn’t want to know.  She had been accused so many times by coworkers and supervisors of becoming too personally involved with her patients, and she suspected that this was one of those times.

    She couldn’t help who she was any more than she could control her heart when it came to caring for people.  She suddenly remembered reading something years ago about what makes a good nurse.  Someone had scrawled a quote in pencil in her new Basic Nursing textbook, which she bought a few days before her first class in Nursing School.

    “A good nurse is defined not by the skill she has but by the size of her heart.”

    Amy thought of that quote many times during her nursing career.  Whenever she was faced with hard choices about how to deal with the less-than-glamorous side of nursing, she would think of the quote and forge ahead the best way she knew how.  Amy was much more than a “good nurse.”  She was a Saint.

    Amy was sure that whatever was in the bag was something that she would remember for a long time.  Never before had she seen two humans gain such unbelievable affection for one another as the two women before her:  August Riley, who has always had a habit of making bad choices stemming from treatment by those who had no heart at all, and Colleen Caldwell, who was always taught to make choices by following her heart, even if those choices were not always the right ones.

    Amy felt that these two women were going to accomplish incredible things together someday.

    Amy caught herself still staring at Colleen’s silhouette as the broken and bruised Triple C Ranch owner turned her head back toward Augie.  Colleen winked at Amy once again as the nurse-saint wiped a tear from the corner of her eye and searched her pockets for nothing in particular.

    The expression on Colleen’s face suddenly turned from serene and calm to one of despair and concern.  Amy turned toward Augie and saw that she was leaned slightly forward and had removed the bandage from her head.  All that remained was an oval-shaped patch of cotton that was pasted to Augie’s right eye.

    “Oh n-,” Amy started scoldingly, but was stopped short by a quick hand signal from Augie.

    “Honey-“, Amy started again, but stopped when Augie pointed at her.

    Augie turned her head away from Amy and Colleen and gently pulled at the edges of the oval patch of cotton.  She held her breath as she freed the tear-stained patch and touched her eyelashes gently with the tips of her fingers.

    “I need to see this with both eyes,” said Augie with a labored tone that sounded like she was just short of sobbing.

    “At least let me help so you don’t damage somethin’,” said Amy worriedly.

    “Ok,” said Augie.  “I need to get this eye open, but it has goop holding it together.”

    Colleen turned her head away and looked out the window again.  She envisioned what Augie’s eye looked like and a shiver ran up her spine.

    “How could some fucker do this?” she whispered to herself.  “If he shows up here, I swear to God I’ll kill the bastard, leg or no leg.”

    “Put your hand down for a sec,” Amy instructed.

    “Ok,” replied Augie.

    Augie waited while Amy put on a fresh pair of gloves and tore open a small pouch that contained a four-inch square piece of layered gauze.  She then supported the back of Augie’s neck with her left hand and blotted the corner of Augie’s eye with the piece of gauze in her right hand.  “I can’t really feel that,” said Augie as she struggled to open her eye without using her fingers.

    “That’s what worries me,” said Amy as she gently wiped Augie’s lower eyelid with the lightest pressure possible.

    “No, I mean you can press harder,” retorted Augie.

    “Ummm… it looks pretty clear, actually,” said Amy.  “Here, let me wet this gauze and we’ll moisten everything,” she said as she let go of Augie’s head, turned and walked a few steps to the sink.

    Before Amy could wet the gauze and turn back toward her, Augie raised her right hand, grabbed her upper eyelashes with her fingertips and pulled the upper eyelid apart from the other.  A thick yellow crust lined the edges of her deeply-bruised eyelids and hung onto the base of her eyelashes like yellow cement.  She squinted at the brightness of Room 258 but resisted rubbing her eyes.

    “There we go,” said Augie.

    Amy turned and gasped at the sight of Augie’s injured eye.  The once-white tissues that surrounded Augie’s ocean blue cornea were a deep, painful red.  Amy thought it looked even darker than the color of the stone in a ruby ring that her boyfriend often wore.

    “It looks pretty bad, doesn’t it?” asked Augie rhetorically as she closed her eyes gently and bowed her head.  “You know what?  Don’t even answer that.”

    “You already know the answer, Sweetheart,” said Amy.  “Can you see… out of it?”

    “Yeah, thank God,” replied Augie.

    “That’s good at least,” said Amy.  “Do you want a mirror so you can see what it looks like?”

    “No,” said Augie.  “I wanna see this.”

    Augie opened the bag once again and peered inside.  Amy watched curiously as Colleen leaned forward and turned her whole upper body so she could see without straining her neck any more than it already was.

    “This is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life,” said Augie as she held the edge of the bag with her left hand and reached inside with her right.

    “Her name is Buttercup,” said Colleen with a weepy girly voice.  “I think you need her more than I do right now.”

    Amy shook her head as she tried to envision what was in the bag.  Her curiosity was getting the best of her, but she was afraid if she said anything that she would ruin the moment.

    Augie slowly lifted the object that Colleen referred to as “Buttercup” from the heavy plastic bag.  Amy swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and began sobbing at the sight of the beautiful, yellowish-brown stuffed pony, which had a blonde mane and tail and a worn English saddle made of brown felt.

    “She’s beautiful,” sobbed Augie as she brought the pony to her chest and hugged her as hard as she possibly could.

    “Buttercup helped me through some really tough times,” said Colleen.  “Now she can help you.”

    All three women wept uncontrollably.  The soft fur of the tiny palomino stifled the sobs of the broken and bruised August Riley for several minutes.  Amy composed herself, wiped her eyes and quietly slipped out of the room without saying a word.

7

    Joan found solace in the depths of the dark brown leather sofa that held residence in the darkly-lit, nicotine-stained den since before Colleen “Wilson” Caldwell was born.  An ice-cold Bud Light kept company with a lit Yankee candle on the huge antique steamer trunk in front of the sofa.  The candle’s vanilla aroma danced with the fragrant bitter bouquet of the alcohol and mingled about the coffee rings, cigarette burns and faded blots of spilled cherry Kool-Aid that adorned the steamer trunk’s surface.

    Joan scooted her backside deeper into the couch as she leaned forward, grabbed the Bud Light with two fingers and took a long swig of the amber-colored swill, nearly draining the 12-ounce bottle in one breath.  She swallowed hard as tears welled at the corners of her eyes, both from the sting of the beer in her throat and the thought of the events that had taken place not thirty minutes before.  Joan thought that this day was one of those days that alcohol could help her escape everything and everyone, if even for a few hours.

    Joan introduced the last of the Bud Light to her stomach and stood uneasily as the alcohol started working its magic on her head.  The empty bottle sailed through the air with the arch and accuracy of Magic Johnson just as the first one, the second one, and the third one did before it.  Joan held up both hands like a referee signaling “three points,” which actually meant, “I’m getting drunk!”

    Joan retraced her steps to the fridge and pulled out another Bud Light.  She underestimated the sharpness of the barbs that lined the rim of the bottle’s cap as she twisted it in her calloused hands and received a series of short, shallow scratches down the length of her middle finger.

    “Ouch, you fucker!” Joan shouted as she let go of the bottle cap and inspected her finger.  “Jesus, now I’m yellin’ at my beer.”  Joan gathered a handful of material at the bottom of her blouse and gave the bottle cap another try.  She chuckled to herself as the bottle made its usual “PFFT!” sound.  “My thoughts exactly,” she said as she flicked the bottle cap at the trash bin, raised her swill toward the heavens in a silent toast and downed the entire beer in one breath.

8

    Augie sat motionless as she clutched Buttercup to her chest and sniffed at the warm, silent air of Room 258.  “I think she likes me,” said Augie.

    “I know she does,” said Colleen as she turned her head from side to side and wiped away the last of the latest round of tears with her right hand.

    “Colleen,” said Augie blankly as she opened her eyes and stared blankly into space.

    “Yeah?” replied Colleen.

    “You can’t leave things like that with your mom,” Augie said almost scoldingly but softly enough to sound like advice rather than instruction.

    “I know,” said Colleen as she rested her head back on her pillow and turned her head toward the window.  “I really fucked it up this time.”

    “Yeah,” agreed Augie, who paused for a few seconds as she took another breath.  “I can’t be the cause of the friction between you two, Colleen.  I just can’t.  I can’t bare the thought of it.”

    “It’s not you,” said Colleen as she turned her head back toward Augie.  “I’m so fuckin’ independent and bullheaded that I just get caught up in the moment sometimes.  I can’t control it.  I never could.  It used to drive Chase crazy.  He always knew when I was talking outa my ass at the wrong time.”

    “How did he deal with it?” asked Augie.

    “He didn’t,” replied Colleen.  “He just let me make a fool of myself because he knew if he said anything that it would only piss me off more.”

    “He was a smart guy,” said Augie.

    “Fucking genius, if you wanna know the truth,” retorted Colleen.  “He knew his shit about horses, and even more about people.”

    “So how you gonna fix it with… what is your mom’s name again?” asked Augie.

    “Joan,” said Colleen.  “I’ll buy her flowers.”

    “Flowers?” asked Augie inquisitively.

    “Yeah,” said Colleen.  “I’ll buy her flowers like I used to buy Chase when I acted like a horse’s ass.”

    You bought him flowers?” asked Augie as she lifted her chin from Buttercup’s soft fur.

    “All the damn time,” said Colleen.  “I swear I gave him flowers more often than any man ever gave me.”

    “Sounds like you got the better end of the deal,” Augie chuckled.

    “You got that shit right,” said Colleen with a chuckle of her own.  “Chase was a fuckin’ saint.”

    “So… back to my question,” said Augie as she returned her chin to Buttercup.

    “Oh right,” Colleen continued.  “Flowers first.”

    “Then what?” Augie persisted.

    “I guess I’ll just keep trying to call and apologize.  If she’ll answer the damn phone, that is,” Colleen said begrudgingly.

    “Caller ID?”

    “No,” Colleen said blankly.  “The house actually still has one of the old-style Princess phones, and there’s no Caller ID box or anything.”

    “Hmmm…,” Augie hummed with a thoughtful tone.

    “I’ll leave about 20 messages, and then at some point she’ll just forget it,” said Colleen.  “That’s how she deals with shit like that.  Drives me crazy.  I walk on eggshells until she decides I feel guilty enough and then she talks to me again like it never happened.”

    “Sounds like Chase,” chuckled Augie again.

    “I don’t know who taught who when it comes to dealin’ with my stubborn ass,” Colleen said through gnashed teeth as she bit down hard.  “It’s a conspiracy.”

    Augie looked down at Buttercup and stroked the Palomino’s mane, which was thinner in some areas than others.  She figured that Buttercup had seen her share of pain over the years, and would see even more in the years to come.  Buttercup’s felt saddle was frayed around the stirrups on both sides, and her tail was nearly the same color as her mane, with one exception.

    “Did her tail come like this?” asked Augie without looking up from Buttercup.

    “Uh… no,” said Colleen.

    “Hmmm…,” mumbled Augie once more.

    “Yyyyyyeah,” Colleen continued.  “One time I just figured she needed a haircut, and I got a little carried away.”

    “So the pink highlights were your little… addition,” Augie said rhetorically.

    “Yes they were, and her tail was a lot longer than that,” said Colleen proudly.  “Look at this,” said Colleen as she turned her head away from Augie, raised her right hand and pulled her hair up in the back.

    “Hey, look at that!” exclaimed Augie.  “I didn’t see your pink highlights!”

    “We have always matched,” said Colleen.  “You should have seen her during my… brunette stage.  She looked stupid, and I eventually decided I did too, so we changed back.”

    “Ha!” Augie blurted as she looked at Buttercup again.  “Oh I can see the brunette roots in her tail.”

    “That’s why her mane doesn’t look so good,” said Colleen in a girly voice as she let go of her hair and turned back toward Augie.  “No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get her mane back the way it was, so I had to… uh… fix it the best way I could.”

    “That just makes her one of a kind,” said Augie girlishly.  “Just like you.”

    “Awww,” said Colleen.  “Thanks, Augie.”

9

    Joan stood in the doorway and looked out the screen door at the show ring where Carlos was working a horse named Condor, a twenty-four-year-old retired show jumper.  The hot August breeze painted her face a darker shade of red on the outside than the effects of the alcohol did from within her swimmy head.

    The dust and dirt that kicked up from Condor’s wake swirled like the exhaust from an old tractor as Carlos cracked the lunge whip and made the all-to-familiar “CHICK-CHICK-CHICK!” sound from the side of his mouth.  Joan heard the same sound a million times before, and each time she heard it, she felt a wave of ease and comfort come to her.  She often pretended that Carlos was calling to her, letting her know that everything would soon be okay.  Joan always knew everything would be fine as long as he was in control.  She knew that no harm would ever come to her as long as Carlos held the whip.

    Joan doted longingly at the tanned Ranch Foreman and envisioned herself in his arms, dancing slowly to “Old Blue Eyes” in the middle of the den at the Double C years ago.  Dream played over and over as she closed her eyes and softly hummed along with the melody of the old “forty five” that played in her head. 

    Dream when you're feeling blue
    Dream that's the thing to do
    Just watch the smoke rings rise in the air
    You'll find your share of memories there

    So, dream when the day is through
    Dream and they might come true
    Things never are as bad as they seem
    So dream, dream, dream

    She remembered how the dusty vinyl record crackled through the speakers of the old turntable stereo system that Carl Caldwell always referred to as “the Hi-Fi.”

    Joan opened her eyes and took in a deep, nostalgic breath.  She let it out through pursed lips as if she were blowing out the candles of a birthday cake.

    Suddenly the bottle in her right hand escaped her relaxed grip and fell to the floor.  Frothy foam shot into the air and all over her jeans, but Joan didn’t care.  The alcohol that coursed through her veins continued its numbing effects on her body, inside and out.

    Joan moved slowly and unsteadily as she stood up straight and took an uneasy step backward.  She looked down at her left hand and inspected the dashed line of shallow gashes on her middle finger.

    “Just like my purse,” she said aloud and then chuckled drunkenly.  Joan tasted the hot air as she licked her lips and looked at the Bud Light on the floor.  The thick glass bottle had landed on its base and foam oozed slowly out the top.  “Things never are as bad as they seem,” Joan said aloud.

10

    “I’ll bet your mom thinks you’re one of a kind too, doesn’t she?” Augie asked, still in her girly voice.

    “Damn, you know how to get a point across,” replied Colleen.

    “What did I do?” asked Augie innocently.

    Colleen looked at Augie out of the corner of her eye and said, “You know what you did.”

    “Yeah… well… you can’t let that one go, that’s all,” Augie said almost scoldingly.

    “If there’s one thing you will learn about me right away, it’s that I always do what I say I’m gonna do,” Colleen said with a bit of a snort.  “I don’t let shit lie for long, and when it’s time to move on, it’s time to move on.  End of story!”

    “So let’s move on, then for Christ’s sake,” Augie spat weakly.

    “Then let’s talk about something else other than what a bitch I am, if that’s okay with you,” Colleen fired in a more serious tone.

    “You owe me one gumball machine,” said Augie, remembering Colleen’s favorite saying when awkward silence stepped in the room.

    “You’re right,” said Colleen.  “I owe you one fucking huge gumball machine.”

    Even though Colleen’s line about gumball machines put a period on the topic of conversation, silence filled Room 258 for a few minutes.  Colleen leaned her head back against her pillow and tried shifting her position in the bed.  Augie searched through all of the things that Colleen and Joan had brought her until she found the hairbrush.

    “Buttercup needs a good curry,” said Augie as if she were ten years old and having a tea party by herself.

    Colleen was surprised that the city girl that shared the warm hospital room with her even knew what a curry comb was, let alone how to use it in a sentence.  “Well, well, well… listen to you,” said Colleen.  “Next thing you know, you’ll be pickin’ frogs.”

    “I’m not totally stupid when it comes to horses, you know,” said Augie with her head tilted to one side.  After a few seconds she looked up at Colleen and asked, “What’s a frog?”

    “Green slimy bastards that hop on the ground, stupid,” chuckled Colleen.  “I’m sure you kissed a few in your day.”

    “Oh very funny… punk ass bitch,” Augie spat playfully and then went back to brushing Buttercup’s mane and tail.

    Colleen continued laughing and did a short fist pump with her right hand, proud of herself for misleading Augie.  “Actually, a frog is also a part of a horse’s foot, so I was only half yankin’ your chain,” Colleen said, still chuckling.

    “Speaking of kissin’ frogs,” Augie said as she looked up at Colleen, “who kissed the frog that became that David the nurse guy?”

    “Becky,” blurted Colleen as if she were on a quiz show.

    “Oh right,” said Augie disappointedly.  “The female body builder that’s all sweet and girly,” she continued.  “He reminds me a little of my boyfriend.”

    “You mean the fucker that did all of that to you?” Colleen said suddenly with a bite to her tone.

    “Yeah… that one,” said Augie.  “He’s pretty hot like David, but he’s got a temper.”

    “Ya think?” Colleen continued with a tone of sarcasm.

    “The thing is, though,” said Augie, “he can be really sweet.”

    “So can O.J. Simpson from what I hear,” Colleen interrupted.

    “Will you cut the fuckin’ protective shit just for one minute?” Augie said through gnashed teeth.  “You already made your God damn point!”

    Colleen closed her eyes and took a breath.

    “You’re right,” said Colleen.  “Plain and simple.  You’re right.  I’m sorry.”

    Augie studied Colleen’s face as she took a breath as well.  Colleen opened her eyes, looked at Augie again, and smiled weakly.

    “Anyway,” Augie started again, “the thing about my boyfriend is that when we first met, he was really sweet.  He had this… I don’t know… presence about him.”

    “Presence,” Colleen repeated inquisitively.

    “Yeah.  A sort of sweet disposition for how big he is.  At the same time, you know that danger hides in his shadow somewhere,” Augie explained.

    “Oooo mysterious,” Colleen added.

    “You betcha,” Augie confirmed.  “I like ‘em big, sweet, and mysterious.”

    “Mmm,” hummed Colleen like she had just tasted something sweet.

    “A ten inch wang doesn’t exactly make things any worse, if you know what I mean,” Augie added.

    Colleen gasped, both at Augie’s bluntness, and at the fact that her boyfriend was so well-endowed.

    “Wow,” Colleen mouthed in an exaggerated whisper.

    “Best sex I ever had was with the same mean-ass bastard that did this to me,” Augie said as she pointed to her face with the hairbrush she was still holding.  “Go figure.”

    Colleen shook her head and decided to steer clear of the subject of Augie’s beating.  “You know who David reminds me of?”

    “Who?” Augie asked curiously.

    “The cowboy,” Colleen said with the same yummy tone as before.

    “Oooo yeah…,” Augie said as she looked up from Buttercup.  “Tell me about this… cowboy.”

11

    Joan Caldwell stood with her folded arms resting on the top rung of the heavy aluminum rail of the show ring and watched as Carlos worked the former champion show jumper from end to end.  The tipsy sixty-one-year-old had a fresh, unopened beer in each hand, and when she rested her chin on her arms, the beers stood up like dark glass horns.

    “He’s still got some run left in ‘im,” Joan said loudly as Condor passed by at a full gallop.

    Carlos said nothing as he cracked the lunge whip and continued making the “CHICK-CHICK-CHICK!” noise like before.  He knew that Joan was well on her way to getting drunk, if not already there since the aroma of stale beer and Chanel Number Five overpowered the smell of swirling dust and sweet road apples.

    “I said he’s still got some run left in ‘im!” Joan yelled even louder, trying to get the ranch foreman’s full attention.

    Carlos stopped turning in circles as Condor raced by and then slowed to a trot.  He knew that Joan would stay where she was until he acknowledged her and thought that the comment about Condor might as well have been, “Pay attention to me!” Carlos lowered the lunge whip, looked down at his hands and pulled at the fingertips of one leather glove, and then the other.

    “Oh!” said Joan as she perked her head up and nearly dropped both beers.  “Am I interrupting you?” she asked.

    Carlos finished pulling off his gloves, bunched them in his right hand, and slapped them against his thigh before stuffing them in his back pocket.  He glanced toward the gate where Condor was pawing at the dirt and pushed the brim of his hat further back on his forehead.

    “Cerveza for me?” Carlos asked as he reached for the handkerchief in his shirt pocket.

    “Sure is!” Joan blurted with an over-excited squeal.

    Carlos blew the afternoon dust from his nostrils as Joan’s outstretched arm wavered from the heft of the Bud Light perched proudly in her right hand.

    “Gracias,” said Carlos as he shoved the handkerchief in his pocket and reached for the cold, sweaty bottle.

    Joan suddenly lost her grip of Carlos’ beer and dropped it straight to the dirt at his feet.

    “Oh shit a mule!” yelled Joan as she began scaling the fence in a frenzied attempt to rescue the dirty glass torpedo.

    Carlos put his powerful hand on Joan’s shoulder, which prevented her from climbing the fence.  Joan immediately settled back to her feet as if she had been zapped with a cattle prod.

    “I mean…,” she started, but was interrupted by Carlos.

    “Shoot a mule?” asked Carlos rhetorically as he gently squeezed Joan’s shoulder.

    “Y-yes,” said Joan as if she were under some sort of spell.  “S-shoot…,” she muttered and then melted under the ranch foreman’s touch.

    Joan lost her grip on the other frosty beverage.  The bottle bashed against the fence rail with a hollow clank and tumbled to the ground.  Joan abandoned any thoughts of a rescue and concentrated instead on maintaining her grip on the rail.

    Carlos tilted his head forward and stared at Joan through the top of his eyes.

    “Too much drink today,” he said.

    “Mmm,” was the only response Joan could manage.

    “Hmm,” Carlos mocked.  “Go home,” he commanded softly.

    “But-,” Joan started, but Carlos didn’t give her a chance to argue.

    “Go home,” he repeated and squeezed Joan’s shoulder reassuringly before letting go.  “I see you for dinner.”

    “Ok,” said Joan submissively.  “I’ll make you something… s-special.”

    “Ok,” Carlos said, even though he knew that in Joan’s condition, she would be asleep well before dinner.

    Joan took a deep breath, steadied herself, and then turned and swaggered for the house.  She completely forgot about the two soldiers she had brought with her and left them for dead in the dirt.

12

    The thick shingles that adorned the roof of the Las Gaviotas Motel provided little protection against the August Simi Valley heat.  Jim stood hunched over the small window air conditioner and turned the temperature control knobs back and forth with the expectation of coaxing cooler air from its rusty innards.

    The tattooed, brawny, shirtless cowboy banged his fist in frustration against the plastic cover of the air conditioner as Room 13 slowly roasted his skin to a pinkish, medium-rare hue.

    The musty aroma of nicotine-soaked wood paneling complimented the rankness of dripping tar shingles in a space that was more suited for renting by the hour than by the night.  Despite the constant abuse from the occupants of Room 13, the small, defenseless window air conditioner drummed on and continued its losing battle with the triple-digit California heat.

    Jim gave up trying to convince The Little Air Conditioner That Could that the air could get any cooler.  He stood up, stretched his back, and then turned toward the bed as he looked down at his hands.  The gauze bandage on his left hand was stained a deep maroon from old blood and nicotine.

    Next to the bed was a small nightstand that held a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels next to a strangely-adorned lamp with a push-button switch at its base.  The lamp looked like a large piece of candy corn with a broad-rimmed rice-paddy hat on top.  Jim inched his way slowly toward the bed when something from the nightstand caught his eye.  The bottom drawer was opened slightly and a small sliver of light caused something inside to glow a bright reddish-gold.

    Jim looked up from his hands and sat drunkenly on the edge of the bed.  He leaned forward and steadied himself by planting the palms of his dirty hands on his thighs.  His inspection of the nightstand was hampered by the assault of smoke from a lit cigarette on his glassy eyes.

    The brawny cowboy swatted at the air and leaned forward to get a better look inside the drawer that held his glowing reddish-gold treasure inside.  His less than sober state suddenly took a toll on his sense of balance.  The inebriated wrangler lost grip of his knees and tumbled face-first into the nightstand.  Jack Daniels attempted suicide by leaping from the nightstand but the candy corn lamp held its ground as Jim instinctively broke his fall with his shredded left hand.

    “MOTHER… FFFUCKER!” Jim cursed loudly through gritted teeth as he rolled slowly to his right and came to rest in the fetal position.

    Jim cradled his hand against his chest and began rocking back and forth.  He took a series of deep breaths in an attempt to control the pain, but was having no luck.  “SON OF A BASTARD HEAD!” he spat over and over gain with a snarled face.

    Jim’s temples dripped with sweat as he propped himself on his right elbow and took a few more breaths.  The alcohol that rushed through his veins numbed the angry hornets nest in his left hand just enough to gain some composure.  He struggled to keep his balance, but managed to sit up and cross his legs Indian-style and take one last deep breath.

    Jim’s shoulders raised and lowered with each breath, and the pinkish hue that once surrounded the tattoo of Jesus on his rippled back slowly returned.  Spent cigarettes, ashes, and the blood of Jack Daniels covered virtually every surface of Room 13, but the Las Gaviotas Motel was no worse for the wear as a result.

    “Let’s see what we have here,” said Jim as he reached for the newly-broken drawer that held his reddish-gold treasure.  

    Jim pulled at the bottom of the drawer and it slid open easily.  Inside was a red, hardcover HOLY BIBLE with gold leaf lettering, but the word BIBLE was scratched out hastily with something dull.  The word SHIT was etched below and Placed by THE GIDEONS was left untouched in the lower right corner beneath the symbol of Gideons International.

    Jim removed the defaced bible and searched the drawer for anything else of value, but found nothing at all.  He pushed the drawer closed with the bottom of the bible and then inspected the rest of its bright red, semi-gloss cover.

    “Holy shit,” Jim muttered, and then took a breath.  “Holy… shit…,” he repeated, and then said, “Nice!”

    Jim chuckled as he read the edited title over and over.  Chuckles turned to guffaws and then to full-on, alcohol-induced belly laughs.  Fresh blood oozed from the dirty bandage on his left hand, but Jack Daniels worked his magic and all things painful were forgotten once again.  Room 13 echoed with loud, twisted, reverberated squalls of laughter, the like of which Las Gaviotas Motel had never seen before.

13

    “There’s not a lot to tell,” said Colleen Caldwell in response to Augie’s query about the cowboy.  “I only caught a glimpse of him.”

    “Oh,” Augie said.  She started to say something more but was interrupted by Colleen’s cell phone ring tone.  Beautiful Girls by Van Halen echoed loudly throughout Room 258 while Colleen rifled through the bag that Joan brought for her.  “It’s Sheila!” Colleen squealed with excitement as she found and flipped open the thin, shiny, hot pink phone.

    “Sheila… Jones… jump my bones!” Colleen announced loudly.  “About time you called!”

    “Oh… my… God…,” Sheila said, mirroring Colleen’s announcement.  “You are never gonna believe… what happened to me this morning!”