He and Luisa and Arturo ate in the kitchen while she was gone. Sometimes at night after supper he’d walk out to the road and catch a ride into town and walk the streets or he’d stand outside the hotel on Beauregard Street and look up at the room on the fourth floor where his father’s shape or father’s shadow would pass behind the gauzy window curtains and then turn and pass back again like a sheetiron bear in a shooting-gallery only slower, thinner, more agonized.
When she came back they ate in the diningroom again, the two of them at opposite ends of the long walnut table while Luisa made the service. She carried out the last of the dishes and turned at the door.
Algo más, señora?
No, Luisa. Gracias.
Buenas noches, señora.
Buenas noches.
The door closed. The clock ticked. He looked up.
Why couldnt you lease me the ranch?
Lease you the ranch.
Yes.
I thought I said I didnt want to discuss it.
This is a new subject.
No it’s not.
I’d give you all the money. You could do whatever you wanted.
All the money. You dont know what you’re talking about. There’s not any money. This place has barely paid expenses for twenty years. There hasnt been a white person worked here since before the war. Anyway you’re sixteen years old, you cant run a ranch.
Yes I can.
You’re being ridiculous. You have to go to school.
She put the napkin on the table and pushed back her chair and rose and went out. He pushed away the coffeecup in front of him. He leaned back in the chair. On the wall opposite above the sideboard was an oilpainting of horses. There were half a dozen of them breaking through a pole corral and their manes were long and blowing and their eyes wild. They’d been copied out of a book. They had the long Andalusian nose and the bones of their faces showed Barb blood. You could see the hindquarters of the foremost few, good hindquarters and heavy enough to make a cuttinghorse. As if maybe they had Steeldust in their blood. But nothing else matched and no such horse ever was that he had seen and he’d once asked his grandfather what kind of horses they were and his grandfather looked up from his plate at the painting as if he’d never seen it before and he said those are picturebook horses and went on eating.
HE WENT UP the stairs to the mezzanine and found Franklin’s name lettered in an arc across the pebbled glass of the door and took off his hat and turned the knob and went in. The girl looked up from her desk.
I’m here to see Mr Franklin, he said.
Did you have an appointment?
No mam. He knows me.
What’s your name?
John Grady Cole.
Just a minute.
She went into the other room. Then she came out and nodded.
He rose and crossed the room.
Come in son, said Franklin.
He walked in.
Set down.
He sat.
When he’d said what he had to say Franklin leaned back and looked out the window. He shook his head. He turned back and folded his hands on the desk in front of him. In the first place, he said, I’m not really at liberty to advise you. It’s called conflict of interest. But I think I can tell you that it is her property and she can do whatever she wants with it.
I dont have any sayso.
You’re a minor.
What about my father.
Franklin leaned back again. That’s a sticky issue, he said.
They aint divorced.
Yes they are.
The boy looked up.
It’s a matter of public record so I dont guess it’s out of confidence. It was in the paper.
When?
It was made final three weeks ago.
He looked down. Franklin watched him.
It was final before the old man died.
The boy nodded. I see what you’re sayin, he said.
It’s a sorry piece of business, son. But I think the way it is is the way it’s goin to be.
Couldnt you talk to her?
I did talk to her.
What did she say?
It dont matter what she said. She aint goin to change her mind.
He nodded. He sat looking down into his hat.
Son, not everbody thinks that life on a cattle ranch in west Texas is the second best thing to dyin and goin to heaven. She dont want to live out there, that’s all. If it was a pay in proposition that’d be one thing. But it aint.
It could be.
Well, I dont aim to get in a discussion about that. Anyway, she’s a young woman and my guess is she’d like to have a little more social life than what she’s had to get used to.
She’s thirty-six years old.
The lawyer leaned back. He swiveled slightly in the chair, he tapped his lower lip with his forefinger. It’s his own damned fault. He signed ever paper they put in front of him. Never lifted a hand to save himself. Hell, I couldnt tell him. I told him to get a lawyer. Told? I begged him.
Yeah, I know.
Wayne tells me he’s quit goin to the doctor.
He nodded. Yeah. Well, I thank you for your time.