BOBBY BRAYDEN, JR. aka B.J.
“Darn, how’d that happen? How’d daybreak come so quick?” I gripe
at the rising sun. Busy casting dawn’s colors across the horizon, it
pays me no mind. A lone bird cries out, waking dozens more. They
rejoice in the promise of a new day in a frenzy of chirping. The early-
morning bellows of a few of the cattle resonate off the surrounding
hills. My old horse, Cole, answers with a whinny.
I jab my key at the lock with a shaky hand––the unwanted side effect
of drinking tequila and snorting cocaine all night long. Out of
nowhere, my chocolate lab, Bullet, bounds onto the porch almost
bowling me over. He jumps up, putting one paw on each side of my
chest and licking my face. “I love you, too boy, but down,” I tell him,
The Texan, A Tale of Betrayal and Revenge
scratching behind his ears until he sits.
I manage the lock. Bullet nudges the solid oak door open with his
snout, pushing inside ahead of me. I follow him into the guest house
my folks let me live in for free, situated on the Double Bar X Ranch,
the big spread they own outright.
There it sits smack-dab in the middle of the entry hall table, the small
package whose arrival I’ve been dreading. I take off my woven
summer cowboy hat, wiping the sweat from my brow with the cuff of
my sleeve. I set my hat down next to the package as gingerly as if it
contained explosives that might blow at any second.
Am I sweating because the thermometer reads eighty-some degrees
at sunup or from pissing the night away or because of what the
package contains? On account of all three, I reckon.
Feeling sick to my stomach, I pick up the box, carrying it over to the
sofa and sinking into the overstuffed cushions. I hear Bullet lap water
from his metal bowl in the kitchen. Then he hops up next to me,
wrangling his head in my lap for some petting. I give him his due
before he curls up over on his side of the couch and falls asleep.
I stare at the package in my hands, too weary and too shaken to make
a move. For how long, I don’t know. The grandfather clock in the
foyer keeps track, ticking away each second aloud. Bullet whimpers
in his sleep, moving his front paws in the air, digging at the imaginary
dirt in his dream.
The doorbell chimes, startling me so bad I jump right off the sofa. I
want to jump out of my skin, too, into a new skin, free from the trouble
my sorry behavior stirred up. The doorbell wakes Bullet, sending him
off the couch cushion in a roll on the floor. He rights himself, letting
10
The Texan, A Tale of Betrayal and Revenge
out a gruff, “Woof!”
Mother busts in, her small entourage of tiny lapdogs, decked out with
colorful bows and painted nails, trailing along behind her. Before I
can muster up so much as a howdy, she lights into me, “Have you
seen it? Did you open it? Can you believe it? I’m fixin’ to have a heart
attack here, B.J.”
I sink back down into the sofa. The tiny herd of lapdogs chase Bullet
around in circles, round and round the couch they go, pausing every
now and again to sniff each other’s bottoms.
Mother paces back and forth in front of me, holding the very same
book, I am one hundred percent certain, my package contains. She
reads aloud, “February 24th, 1971, my sixteenth birthday. Daddy
comes through, delivering the perfect present, a bottle of aged
whiskey older than me, a jaunt down to Mexico, and a roll in the hay
with a two-bit whore. My raunchy initiation into the Good Ole Boys
Club.”
Mother throws the book down almost nailing one of her precious
pups. It lets out a yelp, snarling at the book and nipping one corner of
it. Then it rejoins its pack in pursuit of poor Bullet around the couch.
Mother stands there, staring at me. My mouth feels dry like I
swallowed a bucket of sawdust. My stomach does a loop, letting out
a nasty growl. The taste of bile rises at the back of my throat.
With the blue sky, the birds take flight, scattering to parts unknown.
I’d give anything to fly away with them. For a moment, quiet fills the
void. Until hundreds of cicadas take up where they left off, their
relentless cacophony saturating the still air.
The very notion of my spurned sweetheart’s book chaps my hide.
11
The Texan, A Tale of Betrayal and Revenge
Now in print, for all the world to see, it forces Mother and me to face
things we best leave buried. Down in Texas, we keep our problems
private, paste a smile on our faces, and live under polite facades. I feel
exposed, naked. I reckon Mother does, too.
I hang my head in shame. A drop of sweat rolls down my nose,
plopping onto the package. “Well, don’t just sit there. Speak up. Tell
me true,” Mother barks.
Tight-lipped, I give her a look blank as a slate.
“I’ll skin your daddy alive,” she snaps. As if on cue, her army of little
lapdogs join in, with a chorus of high-pitched yipping. “Curse you,
Bobby Brayden Junior. Didn’t I warn you? You can’t trust a damn
Yankee,” she hollers. Then she heads out the door, her furry
entourage in tow. Slamming it shut so hard, she shakes the guest
house to its foundation.
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