Points yonder, he said, and smiled.
Points yonder? I repeated. Nice. I smiled back. We kept our glacial pace and eased on down the road. C’mon, I said, hop in, just for a break. Aren’t you tired? I said. He said he was but still, no thank you.
Is it because we’re strangers? I asked him. He looked at us. He said he just wanted to walk if that was okay with me. Yeah, of course, I said, but how’d you get separated from the pack?
What pack? he said.
Your race! I said. I pointed at the number pinned to his back. Logan took a big breath and closed his eyes. The guy didn’t say anything, just shook his head. Are you sure you don’t want a ride, just for a few miles? I said. We won’t hurt you, I promise.
He smiled wearily and said yeah, he was sure.
Do you want a drink or something? A bottle of water? Or we’ve got juice! Thebes! I said.
Yo! she said, and whipped the lid off the cooler and grabbed a bottle of water. Here, she said. She handed the water to Logan, who handed the water to the guy, who took it and said thank you very much.
Well, do you race often? I asked him.
He said no, it had been a stupid idea. He hadn’t known what he was doing or what he was getting into. I loved this guy!
Listen, I said, why don’t you just…get in the van.
Nope, he said. He told us he’d be just fine, really, but thank you.
I said yeah, I know but—
Jesus, Hat, whispered Logan, give it up, man, fuck.
I thought: Kidnap this odd walking man, be lost and tired together, take care of the church, laugh at our old misguided ways (Oh yeah, what were we thinking? Marathons. Searching for fathers. Hilarious!), change my name from Troutman to something like Grey…
Mmm-hmm, I said, cool. Okay. I smiled at the guy. Good luck with, you know, the whole…this, I told him, and took off.
Shh, I said to the kids, who were poised to explode with commentary. At least Thebes was.
Were you gonna marry that guy or what? she said.
Logan had said earlier what he’d needed to say. Filled his daily talking quota.
Hey, do you want to play Zit? said Thebes.
Not now, I said, okay, Thebie? I reached around and patted her stomach, although I’d been aiming for her knee. Your shirt is crusty, I told her. We’ll have to cut it off you. Logan took out his knife. No, put that away, I said.
We were in Cheyenne, at a giant rodeo and carnival. The Granddaddy of ’em All, was what the sign said. We were floating over barns and corrals and concession stands and chuckwagons in a huge Ferris wheel. The kids were throwing mini-doughnuts at the crowds on the ground, because, according to Logan, it’s tradition and it doesn’t hurt. He had new headphones, but Thebes had decided to buy a plastic holster and two pistols instead of a crimping iron. She said she’d never take the holster off. Now both the kids were armed. When we were buying them a woman at the store had looked at Thebes and then at me and had said I should comb that girl’s hair…was it purple? And what kind of a mother was I?
Um, inferior? I said.
We witnessed a robbery while we were in the store. A young guy, about twenty, came running in and grabbed as many bags of Huggies diapers as he could carry. He went tearing past us and one of them fell, and Logan picked it up and shovel-passed it to the guy, who said thanks, man, and kept on running.
Next time that guy wants to shoplift he should consider a pack of these bad boys, said Thebes, pointing one of her pistols at a row of Trojan condoms. She fired at them, and blew off the barrel like a pro. Am I right or am I right? she said.
We got off the Ferris wheel and wandered around. We bought some corn on the cob. We observed Americans at play. Logan was looking at girls. Staring at girls. Thebes took my hand and tried to take one of Logan’s.
Don’t, he said, and shook it off. We were liabilities, me and Thebes. She started to hum “To Sir with Love.” Other kids were staring at her hair and her holster and her general prodigious strangeness. The fake tattoos she’d had all over her arms and legs had smeared and faded in the pool the other night and her skin had a rainbow glow to it that was pretty and unique in a way, but could also easily be mistaken for some awful skin disease.
Thebes wanted to watch some bullfighting.
It’s not bullfighting, said Logan.
It’s like bull…bull riding? I said.
Like, busting, he said, or whatever. Bronco busting. I don’t know. It’s not bullfighting. Okay, so Thebes wanted to watch the bulls and Logan said he was going to walk around for a while and check out some other stuff. We arranged to meet back by the Ferris wheel at ten, and then we’d go find a motel for the night.
Thebes and I watched cowboys get thrown off raging bulls and be rescued by clowns. She had pink cotton candy all over her face and arms and hands and legs and feet and shoulders and back. I wondered if she maybe didn’t have scabies too. A nice old man sitting next to her let her borrow his watch so she could count off the eight seconds, the length of time the cowboys were supposed to stay on the bull’s back. She yelled out the numbers in German and then French and then Spanish. She was very excited and had to be reminded constantly, by the family of haters behind us, to sit down and stay down, they’d paid their money to see the bronco bustin’ and dang if they were gonna have some wild foreign retard leapin’ up every second and blockin’ their view.
Got that? I said to Thebes. I put my arm around her shoulders and pulled her in close to me. She gave the man his watch.
Thank you very much, she whispered. I’m sorry if it’s sticky.
No problem, gunslinger, he said.
She watched the rest of the cowboys silently. Tears were running down her face and getting mixed up with the cotton candy.
Let’s go, I said. I grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the bleachers and down the ramp and outside into the not-so-fresh night air. Lights were flashing and people were laughing and screaming. We walked over to a dark, empty piece of grass behind a heifer barn and sat down.
Go ahead, I said.
It’s just that…, she said.
I know, I said.
It’s just that…I’m not retarded, she said.
I know that, I said.
I just want Min, she said. She never yells at me. She thinks I’m beauti—
You are, I said. She couldn’t get very far past that before it all erupted and she was sobbing in my arms and then all the captive little heifers in the barn next to us joined in, crying and lowing like a bovine choir of angels in solidarity with Thebes.
It was time to meet up with Logan at the Ferris wheel. Here, let me fix that, I said. I adjusted Thebes’s holster so it hung slightly lower on her narrow hips. It was ten after ten and Logan wasn’t at the Ferris wheel. Thebes and I shared another bag of mini-doughnuts and played Twenty Questions while we waited. After that she told me about her Tag manifesto. She’d written up a set of rules for Tag during recess at school.
1. No time outs
2. No quitting and rejoining
3. No sore rebounding
4. No cliffhangers
5. No physical fighting or hurtful tagging
6. No stabbing
7. No pulling hats down
Do people adhere to your manifesto? I asked her.
Yes, she said. Most of the time.
What happens if they break a rule? I asked.
Well, nothing, said Thebes. Because they’re just my rules.
Stay right here and don’t move, okay? I told Thebes. I’m just gonna take a walk around and see if I can find him. If he shows up here, make sure you guys both stay here. Don’t leave. Okay?
Roger that, daddio, said Thebes. She had us do one of her elaborate hand shake-punch-slap-grab routines and I headed off in the direction of the arcade emporium. Logan wasn’t there. He wasn’t at the gambling booths either, or at the rodeo, or by any of the food stands or waiting in line for any of the rides. He wasn’t watching the Miss Cheyenne pageant or the Cutest Little Buckaroo contest, and when I returned, he wasn’t back waiting with Thebes, either.