Kept Animals Page 25

  “No,” Rory said, drifting into the living room, looking at the high, pointed slant of Sarah’s writing. Like rushing waves.

  Mona had left the television on: Eye to Eye with Connie Chung. They were covering the fires, talking about the devil winds, that one hundred thousand acres had burned, how you could see embers in the air all the way from Malibu. Rory looked out the window. It was pitch-dark now.

  “Vivian—” Rory was hearing, for the first time, entire days later, what it was that Vivian had been saying while she was taking her picture in Carlotta’s: that she wanted to call journalists, magazines, that she was going to find a way to bring her mother home, because that was what she really needed. More than anything or anyone. That love.

  Upstairs, the curtains were luffing back and forth, in and out of the room. Rory stood at the window, remembering Sarah Price on the night of the accident, the way she’d walked out into the yard in her white nightgown, digging in the dirt, not even noticing when Vivian was there. “I have to give this to Vivian.”

  “I understand,” Gus said. “Whatever you need to do. I’m just not sure she wants to be found.”

  The pool lights came on down below and Rory got quiet, waiting, until she saw Wade. He was leaning against the house outside Vivian’s room. The mop of his hair, his stooped shoulders, the length of his legs. How long had he been standing there?

  “Honestly, Rory. I thought you would hate me by now,” Gus was saying. “You have every right to hate me.”

  Wade stepped toward the pool, and it was clear he was looking up at her, that he saw her there in the window.

  “I can’t hate you,” Rory said. “You’re who I’ve got.”

  LITTLE SNAKE, WYOMING JUNE 12, 2015

  “JUNE,” I SAID to Vivian on the phone. “Tell me what happened to her.”

  Vivian’s voice was thick with amusement. “Oh, she moved to Malibu. She married a doctor. A man.” She snorted. “Isn’t that something? Did just what her daddy wanted her to do.”

  “She’s still there?” I wasn’t sure if I could trust any of what Vivian said.

  “Mm. Probably has sets of twins, a mouth full of veneers, and an OxyContin addiction. Don’t bother with her, Charlie. She wouldn’t even remember how she got home that night.”

  “She’d know where her brother is, though.”

  “Maybe.” Then she said, “You know, that canyon’s set to burn again real soon.”

  * * *

  Last summer, the last time Mama oversaw the wean, a bald-faced roan, his coloring split perfectly down the middle of him—one limpid blue eye, one nut brown—went and tried to make a ladder out of the paddock gate, aiming to reach his mare on the other side. He snapped his tibia, the hoof separated from the fetlock, dangly as an earring. I was the one to fetch the rifle, but Mama, having the best aim, took the shot. I remember looking at the white side of that colt’s face, thinking that blue eye was as close as I’d seen a horse come to crying. I hated Mama then for thinking she was doing right by any of them.

  * * *

  We were sitting on the front porch when I told Grandad I was going to be leaving for California. I didn’t cry, I didn’t show him my limpid blue eye, but I felt as divided as that colt’s markings.

  “Of course you’ll go,” he said. Almost a demand. “But, Charlie, don’t expect it to solve anything. There won’t be any signs of that fire there now.” I already know this. “No great swaths of ore-black earth or darkened, shriveled trees. No evidence left. What Vivian and I can’t answer for you, that place surely won’t. Those mountains, that land, it’s supposed to burn.” He took his hat off and looked out at our herd picking their way through the wheatgrass, the foals still moving in lockstep, thin-legged shadows of their mares. “But it’s calling you,” he said. “I understand that.”

  The washboard song of the crickets was rising from the grass around us.

  “I’ll miss your voice, Charlie,” Grandad said. “I’ll miss you while you’re gone.”

  This softening between us, it makes it that much harder for me to go.

  Mrs. Traden has agreed to come and stay in the downstairs bedroom. She’ll cook for him and walk with him to check on the foals. The Craces are sending their sons to help with feedings. And I will come back, I promised him that.

  We have five foals right now: two bay colts, one blue roan, and a chestnut filly with the same milk-white star as Chaparral.

  “That star,” Grandad said, “has shown up in every foal from her line.”

  More dominant than Cosmo’s genes, I think.

  “You know the foal, the first one Chap ever threw,” he said, reading my thoughts. “Your mother refused to have her registered. I had Adler’s approval and everything.”

  “She was punishing you?”

  “No,” Grandad said, shaking his head. “Well, maybe some. But she said she wanted that foal to prove itself, like Chap had done. Your mama broke that filly herself. We didn’t sell her until she was five years old and running fences clean. An event horse, just like I’d planned. But for a hell of a lot less money than if she’d had papers with Cosmo Waltz’s name.”

  When I was born, Mama gave me the surname of Scott. It wasn’t until I learned that Joy’s cancer was a hereditary type that any of them told me we weren’t blood, that we were family of a different kind. Charlie Scott. That’s who I’ve always been.

  “But did she win?” I asked Grandad.

  “Of course she did.”

  * * *

  I loaded the broodmares and drove them through Savery and up Cherry Grove to the Craces’s farm, leaving the foals behind.

  Tonight they are screaming, screaming from their bellies out, and refusing any feed. But tomorrow it’ll be only half as bad, and by the end of the third day their minds will have spiraled out and spun clean, willing to take grain from a human hand. I’ve moved them into the main barn, where the walls are solid wood and their stick legs stand a chance.

  From upstairs, I have a view into the breezeway of the barn. The moon’s so big and high it’s casting shadows and I can see our collie, Lulu, drawn large against the walking path. She is tender-footing her way toward the foals, pressing her nose to the cracks between the stalls, as if to reassure them that they are not alone.

  Every animal, Mama used to tell me, knows the sound of another animal’s suffering.

  * * *

  I thought I had gone through everything there was to be gone through in Mama’s keepsake box—the photos, the negatives, the newspaper and magazine clippings, the thin strap of a handmade necklace, the few, brief journal entries—but when I went to put the lid back on there was an envelope taped to its underside, and it was addressed to me. Charlie, in Mama’s handwriting, followed by a long dark dash of her pen, a blank space, but also a kind of dividing line.

  TOPANGA CANYON, CALIFORNIA NOVEMBER 1, 1993

  “FOSTER?” RORY ASKED. She was in the darkroom and had heard the door opening behind the blackout curtains.

  “How did you get in here, Rory?” It was Foster.

  She’d jimmied the lock first thing that morning, sliding a kitchen knife between the frame and the door, the way Vivian had done, but she wasn’t about to admit this to him. She’d been working since the first bell, developing what she’d shot at Carlotta’s house. She looked at the clock: It was third period now. She was supposed to be in Biology. “It was open,” she lied. “And I had a free period, I mean, study hall. I have to leave early today actually.”

  “I see,” Foster said, skeptical. “Well, show me what you’ve got, since you’re here.”

  The Santa Anas had blown themselves out, leaving behind a dry, pressurized heat. The Sunday evening news, which Rory had watched sitting on the floor, with Mona and Hawkeye eating fried chicken on the couch behind her, had reported all the fires contained, then showed the smoldering remains of homes. They interviewed the parents of trick-or-treaters, each of them saying some variation of how they just wanted to give their kids a nor
mal night, but their eyes were itchy, the air still sooty. One of the kids looked up and said the candy tasted funny. “That’s the saddest thing I ever heard,” Hawkeye had said.

  Rory had printed almost everything she wanted to give to Vivian. She was going to find a way to get these pictures and Sarah’s letter to her. She followed Foster into the camera room, where they could look through her prints in real light.

  Vivian running across the table. Uncurling from the curio cabinet. Crawling across the floor. Unraveling from the curtains. She had even printed the images of Vivian up against the darkened shadow on the wall, but she meant to keep those for herself. The picture of Tomás, the one he’d wanted for Jorge, she was going to bring to Carlotta’s funeral that afternoon, give it to him then.

  “Were your negatives flat?” Foster asked.

  “Oh, I wanted that. I overprocessed a few seconds because I wanted them a little gray. I wanted the motion to not be so separated from the space, from the background, but the shadows stronger at the same time—and I wanted this grain—like a newspaper clipping.”

  He kept leafing back and forth between the prints. “I see,” he said, his forehead lifting. “These are that girl again, then? The same friend?”

  Rory nodded.

  “There’s something different about her. And the animals—”

  “Are they bad?” Rory asked, deflating.

  “No, no.” He looked up, but not at her, toward the ceiling. His ruminating face. “These are different,” he said, looking down again. “Would you mind, Rory, if I showed them to a friend of mine?”

  “Yes,” Rory blurted. “I would. I mean—I would mind.”

  “What if I told you the friend is a photo editor? She works with a few different magazines, mostly art magazines, and I think she’d be—”

  “No,” Rory said. “I can’t. I haven’t even shown these to Vivian. I mean, an editor, really?”

  “Yes,” Foster said, smiling. “Would it make you feel better to show them to this Vivian first? Let her see what you’ve done? They’re quite evocative. You have a viewpoint, Rory. Show her the prints, all of these. But leave your negatives behind—every photographer has to learn that lesson.”

  “But you’ll wait?” Rory asked. “Before you show your friend?” Beneath the panic, there was elation: an editor, a magazine.

  “Of course,” Foster said. “I’ll wait. But you need to understand that these photographs”—he put his hand on her shoulder—“they have the potential to change your life.”

  * * *

  June pulled in with the top up, her windows rolled down, and Red Hot Chili Peppers blaring from the stereo. “Johnny finally fixed it,” she said. “And whaddya think of these?” She wanted Rory to admire her new, bigger, blacker sunglasses. “Daddy said I look like Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.” She slid the glasses down her nose. “And look what you’ve got on?”

  Rory had borrowed a dress from Mona, a thinning black rayon wrap dress, because it seemed like what she was supposed to wear. Carlotta had wanted everyone to gather at the ranch, for there to be food served, music played, and stories told, but Bella wouldn’t hear of it, and now Carlotta was getting a church funeral. Rory hadn’t worn a dress since she was a little girl—a fact that Mona pointed out as reason why it was hopeless to make it look right—and now, as Rory got into the Mercedes, wrestling the skirt from a sudden hot updraft, she said, “I don’t know. It was probably a mistake.”

  “No, you look great,” June said, turning the music down. “It’s hers, I take it?”

  They looked toward the window where Mona stood, a cigarette held to her lips. “Yeah,” Rory said. “The bag, too.” It was an old black handbag Mona never used. Rory only had the photo for Tomás inside, no camera or lenses. What Rory really wished she’d taken was a pack of Mona’s Lucky Strikes, though this wasn’t the time to go driving around with a lit cigarette. Red flag warnings had been posted all over the canyon.

  As they dropped into the valley, June said, “What a lovely day for a funeral.” In the distance, the sky was smudged with the dark specters of the suppressed fires. “You heard about River Phoenix?” June asked.

  Rory nodded. He’d died outside the Viper Room on Sunset Boulevard the night before. “A drug overdose?” Rory said.

  “It’s like we’re living through the apocalypse.”

  After they’d circled the block a few times, a space opened up right in front of the church. Neither of them was in a hurry to get out.

  The church was on a block of apartment buildings, all stucco and lath and muted pastels. Halloween decorations still hung on doors and railings, oddly somber in daylight. The church had a surprisingly large lawn and tables had been set up there—trying to fulfill some part of Carlotta’s wishes. The wind was raspy, starting and stopping with the sudden force of a coughing fit, and the tablecloths lifted and dropped, a folding chair falling over. Only Robin was sitting there with Mrs. Keating, and her newest husband, Harold, all leaning over clasped hands, deep in discussion.

  “Is that the Leaning Rock crest?” Rory asked, looking at the stitching on the hems of the tablecloths.

  “Something Wade saw at Adler’s ranch,” June said. “My mother had them made.”

  “Is she coming today?” Rory asked.

  “Recovering from the stomach flu. A.k.a. a tummy tuck.”

  Wade and Preston were walking up the sidewalk in matching gray suits, their hands thrust in their pockets, each of them with that elongated stride that suggested the motion of their legs was what kept the world spinning. Wade was no longer wearing the bandage on his nose, sporting his bruises like a badge. People greeted him and Preston with vigorous handshakes, consoling claps on the back, clearly confused as to who was bereaved and who was benefiting from Carlotta’s death. Mrs. Keating and her husband had gotten up from the table and were squeezing between people, toward Preston. “She doesn’t want Daddy buying the place,” June said, watching out Rory’s window with her.

  “Really?” Rory asked. She hadn’t known there was any opposition beyond her own. Mrs. Keating was in her fifties, overly tan, but muscled and fit as a teenager. She’d always struck Rory as reserved and prissy, because of the cut of her clothes and the fact that she never tried to make conversation, despite Rory’s riding her two horses regularly. Gus had said she was old money, that she kept horses longer than she kept husbands, but there was Harold, by her side, animatedly nodding along to whatever she was saying. Preston Fisk grew taller, as if to escape her through better posture. “What do you think they’re talking about?” Rory asked, but June was looking up the street.

  “Wow,” she said, “I didn’t believe him. I thought she’d had enough of funerals by now.”

  It was Vivian. She was walking with Johnny Naughton. Johnny had tucked a black T-shirt into a pair of blue jeans. Vivian’s outfit seemed more appropriate for a school dance: a white dress dotted with yellow flowers, Converse high-tops, and a gray sweatshirt, three sizes too big, her face concealed inside its hood. “Who is it?” Rory asked.

  “Oh, come on,” June said. “Don’t play dumb. It’s Vivian.”

  Rory looked at Mona’s ratty old handbag, wishing she had brought the letter.

  The wind lifted and outside the church, people clapped their hands to their hats. Vivian and Johnny crossed the street.

  “Should we go in?” Rory asked.

  “You want to meet her, don’t you?” June said.

  “No, it’s not that …” Rory started. “I want to see Tomás.”

  There was some commotion near the door, people stepping aside: Bella Danvers had arrived, pushing her brother, Will, in his wheelchair. Wade coasted over and took the handles from her, playing hero, steering him inside the side door of the church.

  “Tomás isn’t coming,” June said. “You heard what happened? With Sonja? She took off in the middle of the night. None of them are coming, too spooked about INS. I don’t suppose you know where she went, do you?” June said,
peering over the frame of her glasses.

  Rory shook her head. June was wearing a different necklace: a chain connected by a horse’s snaffle bit.

  “Daddy gave it to me,” June said, seeing Rory noticing. “It’s from Tiffany’s.” She fiddled with the charm. “Well, it’s good Gus isn’t here, right?” The main doors to the church had yet to be opened. “I mean, it’s good you’re here on your own. Get a fresh start.”

  “With who?” Rory asked.

  June shrugged. “Well, Daddy, for one.”

  “I’m here for Carlotta,” Rory said. “That’s all.”

  “Don’t be crabby. I miss her, too.” At this June opened her door. She had on black tapered pants and a spaghetti-strap blouse around which she drew a black shawl as she stepped out of the car. She crossed without waiting for Rory, waving to Ema, who’d just arrived.

  The barn brats, the housewives, everyone whose horses Rory rode regularly, gave her half frowns and tight waves that seemed less on account of Carlotta and more about the fact that Gus was out of a job.

  June and Ema were laughing. And Vivian, Rory saw, in some cruel twist, had been drawn in under the arm of Preston Fisk. She heard him introducing her as Wade’s new girlfriend, like a newly purchased car. Mrs. Keating was talking to Robin again, Harold checking his watch.

  Ema turned to Rory, pity brimming in her eyes. “How is Gus?” She was wearing a tailored white linen shirt, teal suspenders on top, her dark hair freshly cut.

  “He’s fine,” Rory said. Wade was coming toward them. “He has impeccable aim.”

  Ema smiled uncomfortably.

  “Well, well, so you two have reunited, eh?” Wade said, only looking at June. “I guess there’s no talking sense into either one of you.”

  “She needed a ride,” June said. This wasn’t true; June had insisted.

  “Well, Spice,” Wade said to Rory. “It’s been a while. You look different, too. What is this, a costume?”