Cowboys

The musical inspiration for this one was My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys.  Perhaps with also a little bit of The Games that Daddies Play. 

She sat on the couch and stroked his hair, one eye on the screen, other on the setting sun.  It didn’t escape her the way her son’s own eyes were all for the screen.  He loved westerns.  Was that weird in a kid of today?  But she slid her arm across his shoulder – let it be: “Your father was always like that, you know?”

Joey turned to look at her.  “Like what?”

“A cowboy.”

“No, he wasn’t.”

Marjory considered.  “No.  Not exactly.”

“You can’t go out riding horses and driving cattle and stuff anymore.  And you’re not allowed to shoot the bad guys.”

“All right, clever clogs.  But he’s a cowboy at heart.  Did you know that?”

Joey shrugged.  The topic was one full of thorns for them both.

“He drives trucks rather than roping cattle.  But he’s a wanderer like those guys,” and the words scratched at her throat, “he likes the freedom of the road, the open air and all that.  He plays cards and pool and all rest of it. I don’t think he has the hat though.  He never used to have a hat.”

Joey twisted on his seat.  “Where is he now?”

Marjory felt the tears catch in her lashes.  Good question, kiddo.  “Out on the wind, where all cowboys go.”

If he wanted more than that, she’d be guessing.  She hadn’t seen Danny in over four years, and – more importantly – neither had Joey.  She’d barely heard from him – a quick email, usually to say he was working on it: he’d be able to pay the child support soon.  And the backpay?  Sure.  He had something lined up.  The emails didn’t ask about Joey – or her for that matter – and they didn’t make any promises about seeing the boy again.

In the meantime, she could sit in this position and see the crack in the window, running through the glass like snap-frozen lightning.  She could see the way a street light caught in the splinters, turning them gold-orange and even more like lightning.  Downstairs she could hear Mr and Mrs Quentin fighting again – the snarling of overloud voices through thin walls and floors.  The crashing that would follow it soon when things got out of hand.  The sirens that would be overlong in coming, and of no particular use when they arrived.  And the party still going strong in number 24.

Small, usually lightless.  That was home.  The wallpaper was peeling, and the stove was unreliable.  Each week she crossed her fingers in the hope that her rent payment would go through.  Just one more week, she’d think, even knowing that there were endless weeks yet to be lived, yet to be paid for. 

Joey always asked: “What’s he like?”

“He may have changed.”

“What was he like when he was still here?” He can’t remember.  He lives on photos.

Marjory considered.  She always had to re-wonder what she should tell him.  “He was sad, I suppose.  Incomplete.  He always just wanted to be out in the wind, chasing something.  He loved you though.”  Maybe.  “He took delight in you.”  At first.  In the first few months before things got tough.  It still chilled her to remember the emptiness in his eyes, towards the end, when he’d looked at his son.

Joey rested back against her, letting her tousle his hair. “I want to grow up to be just like him.”

Marjory blinked at her tears, but she didn’t let her hand falter.  “I know,” she said softly, “I know you do.”

Picture credit/discredit: author's own work