“There's no limit to how complicated things can get, on account of one thing always leading to another.” ― E.B. White
“So much talking. Oh God,” she moaned, hands face-up covering her eyes, squinting.
“What? huh? I don’t understand,” said Susana in a haze of flashlights.
Unsteady, pushing to her feet, two paramedics were firmly telling her “no mam you need to stay here.” Susana woke, after what seemed like an eternity. “Ma’am, you blacked out for about 60 seconds. We’re going to take you to the hospital for observation. Do you have anyone we can call?” “But my truck, my pets, this place...Jefferson... her voice trailed off. “Ma’am, do you know these people?” “Please. call me Susana,” her eyes glazed. “Susana, has this happened to you before?” “No, never. I think I was overwhelmed,” rubbing her head, “How do you guys do this? Please. I need to get home. My anima…. “Listen ma’am,” said one of them, “we can hang out for another hour. It’s slow tonight. Just to make sure you’re okay to drive. Give you some fluids. Would that work?” They were young, handsome and ever so tatted, Susana observed. She recalled the Kern County Fire Department’s beefcake fundraiser calendar from 2016 hanging in Ranch Town Liquor. Still there.
Does anything feel real anymore? she thought.
As she sat on the gurney in back of the fire unit, Susana asked them if they could let Beauty out of her truck. “It’s unlocked. She won’t bite. Her name is Beauty. She needs to see me.”
Obliging, one of the young men went and got the panic’d white shepherd. Ever since all her puppies were adopted Beauty’s been Susana’s right hand dog. Never lets her out of her sight. Meanwhile, an ambulance left with Jefferson and most of the engines were packing up to go. A coroner’s vehicle had arrived and the county Sherif were giving details. Everything felt like a nightmare. She was too old for this, she thought.
By the time Susana got home all the animals were in an uproar to be fed, barking, clamoring away at the containers in her small trailer. “Shhhh shhhh shhhh,” it’s okay, you did so good… here you go. Food bowl frenzy, she dumped the water bowls over her flower pots, and poured fresh water from store-bought jugs. “Okay okay, all good now?” as she plopped down on the makeshift kitchen table-bed.
It was 11 p.m. and she couldn’t stop thinking about Jefferson, his eyes, the sadness, what he said. And Mark. God she was mad. But how would she really know? she thought. Open the phone book. It’s not like Smith is uncommon. Dolly was all over her from the time she walked in the door and now sound asleep on her lap. Chuck, Beauty’s partner was an old boy and it was getting harder and harder for him to get in the truck without Susana lifting him, and that just wasn’t going to happen anymore with her small frame. She needed to be healthy for them. Snowcone, her young Great Pyrenese took great charge of the little ones, Susana’s lookout trio, Scruffy, Mighty and Sweet One. The minute they were done eating they all laid down together in the back of the trailer, Chuck on his bed squished below in the small hallway. She gave up the good bed for them. Beauty stayed near the door all night on her bed, but tonight she was as restless as Susana’s stomach. Pacing, panting, nose-nudging her hands, “what is it mija?” trying to calm her down. Okay, okay, let me see if I can find my big torch.
She knew better than to drive back over to Jefferson’s ranch in the middle of the night, but with Beauty, she felt a bit more confident. After all, she had seen the worst for years. Although eerie, her gut nagged her to go back. In all the chaos, could there have been the possibility of life? Somewhere? Anywhere. The thoughts kept creeping in. La muerte lenta es una agonía. Visions of dying animals, dumped animals. The big city. Her Papa. People lying in filth, gutters for toilets, lost souls captured by power, dangling on threads of addiction. Prey food. Muted bedlam in a fog of stories.
She was supposed to be at work, bright and early, by 8:00 a.m.
Susana left a soft classical station on her portable radio, grabbed the keys, an N95, and headed out with Beauty. Guess it made her feel better, for leaving them, but she also noticed how the animals completely relaxed to the music, often chasing rabbits in their sleep. She kept dry food in an airtight container, a crate and a box of leashes in the back of the truck, plus a few old blankets.
Jefferson Henry Smith III and Margaret Alice Miller were married in Bakersfield, just before Jefferson was deployed, in April of 1965, at the beginning of the U.S. involvement in Vietnam. He was a baby-faced 18 year old and she was almost. He looked 90 in his frail 79 year old farming body. They both dreamt of a small manageable ranch income, where they would only have dairy cows, goats, barn kitties and rescue dogs. Margaret’s family were descendants of the famed cattle baron, known as “The Cattle King.” Beef ranching, though, had it’s tolls. It was ugly work despite the necessity.
Jefferson’s namesake, and great-great grandfather, Jefferson Henry Smith I, traveled by steam locomotive, from Nebraska, with his young bride and baby child, to the warmer climate of California in search of land for beef production. He claimed 160 acres, under The Homestead Act of 1862.
Susana arrived to see one light flickering on the side of the old barn out in the field where half dead ghost pines leaned. Sheriff promised they’d take care of the deceased animals, but she wouldn’t hold her breath.
Leaving Beauty in the cab again, her tiny frame, not much younger than Jefferson herself, at 64, shut the truck door to an overwhelming steam of what smelled like urine permeating from the ground. Susana grabbed a small first-aid backpack, stuffed with rescue necessities, placed her huge portable torch on the ground, flipped it on, so she could find her way back, donned her headlamp and checked her holster. Her 9mm was locked and loaded.
It was really bad. Ugly in fact. Turkey Buzzards were never meant to have manners. Susana squeezed her eyes and kept walking. She’d looked all around the perimeter of the old farmhouse first. Nothing but some dead cats, mice scampering and mischiefs of the night moving about. Susana noted how big the rats were.
As she neared the barn, a voice suddenly rang out and across the low plain. It’s freaking midnight out here, what the hell? she thought. After a few seconds she heard it again. “Susana Susana!! wait! wait! stop!! it’s me, it’s me, Mark!!! Mark Smith! It’s okay it’s okay,” as the cold cloud of his voice hustled into her light. “What are you doing here?” he asked her. Stunned, like a cold drink on a bad tooth, she pulled down her mask and said, “I could say the same for you. Why did you turn away and leave earlier?? who are you??!! what’s wrong with you!!!? yelling now, she dropped her backpack to the ground and grabbed her holster. “Hey, wait, what are you doing? I’m not here to hurt you,” he said. “Then what are you here for that you couldn’t have been here for earlier? are they your parents? (her hands flailing madly toward the house) or is that some kind of coincidence? is this a bad joke?” “Look, I’ve been wanting to tell you, but I didn’t know how. I just…” “You just what?” she said. “What are you just?? huh? their son? what about your sister? your life in Oregon? your uncle?” Out of breath, she kept going. “I don’t have time for you! For liars. For crazy people. I’ve had enough. I don’t want to hear anything right now!! Do you hear?? NOTHING. My entire life has been about rescuing unwanted dogs, cats, you name it, .. and for some reason, for some DAMN reason, it seems as if you can’t relate to that? AND, if this was where your life began, well one of your parents is dead and the other is struggling, and I don’t know where the hell they took him. EVERY HOPE AND LIFE SURROUNDING THEM IS DEAD! Do you hear me??” Susana took her gun out and aimed it at him. “You see? as I stand here in the dark on an old farm that smells like piss and rotting carcasses, I’M DONE. DONE! with people like you.” Mark interrupted, loudly, “You don’t know me from Adam! “Well, it would SEEM THAT WAY!!” she yelled back, still pointing the 9mm directly at him.
In the meantime, Susana stopped and said, “listen. listen, That’s Beauty barking her head off in the cab. You’ve basically destroyed any hope I could find a surviving thing out here!!” Mark snapped back, spitting on the ground, “you’re wasting your time! you won’t find anything.” Susana still waving the gun, “stop it with the gun will you,” he said. “No, what are you going to do? stop me from telling everyone in town about you and how you let your parents and everything around them suffer? Go ahead. Stop me.”
“Don’t be foolish,” Mark said. You don’t know everything. You have no idea how stubborn these people were/are. I mean. How hard they made my life. “Awe, how sad. You look like you’ve had a terrible life,” she said, looking him up and down in all his success, fancy new truck parked behind hers. “Look, I’ll say a prayer for you, but leave me alone for now. I never want to talk to you again, do you hear?” she said defiantly, asking God for forgiveness.
Yadi, ya. Shaking her head, she thought she’d seen it all, and she had. She’d seen everything. The stories ran like scripts in these places. God forbid your parents hoped you’d stick by them, help with the farm, or at the very least, be their friend, honor them, help them work things out. But it was a different world and one that Susana didn’t want to be a part of anymore.
Susana already had a history with one liar. She didn’t want another. Maybe the world was always this way.
“Look, at least hear me out at some point when you’re not wielding a gun in my face, my God Susana!! what is wrong with YOU?” Mark said. “Do you think this is easy for me to come here?” she piped in, sliding the gun back into her holster, “it’s past midnight Mark. You snuck over here. You didn’t come here to be seen. Obviously. What kind of artist are you anyways? aren’t artists supposed to feel things?” “Please Susana! give me another chance. Not now, maybe not next week. But when you’re ready. Let me explain,” he said exasperated.
“Ready? Ready? you need to leave,” she said with a deep breath. “Go. Now. I can’t unsee today and the longer you stand here the longer I will never, ever consider talking to you.” He said, “Fine, I’m going, but…” she interjected, “There are no buts. Buts are for cowards who let everything fall apart and die while living inside of a made up story so you could make your real life go away. And by the way, who did you call when we were burying Obadiah?” Looking sullen, he answered, “Some rich dude was standing inside of my shop wanting a custom monstrosity for his beach house in Morro Bay. Sorry. Jake called me because he doesn’t handle this stuff.” “Who’s Jake?” Susana said exhausted. “He’s a kid I just hired. Graduated last May, lingered all summer, no college, or future plans ahead of him. He walked in the shop a few weeks ago and I thought, why not.
How convenient, her mind persisted.
“Okay, whatever. Just go,” she said. Mark turned around to walk back across the field to his truck as Susana made her way closer to the barn. Just as she was passing the ghost pines, she noticed a rustling in the leaves. Definitely not a rat, or even a cat, she thought. Slowly, reaching for her gun again, edging towards, she encountered the most beautiful wolf-like face peering through the old deadened trees. Heart beating out of her chest, eyes focused on his, she heard that voice again in the distance, running at full speed this time. Yelling her name.
“Susana. Susana. He won’t hurt you. His name is Sarge.
He’s mine.”
Mixed media image: One of our old rescues found running in the hills near our former home. He was part wolf.
Music: Don’t Even Know | by Matt Storm
