41. Bull

41

Bull

“What time is the greased pig-catching?” Lily asked.

“Two-thirty,” I said with authority.

“I still think you’re kidding.”

I pulled her closer. “I ain’t kidding. There’s greased pig catching every year.”

I’d been going to the fair since I was a kid and it was one of my favorite places on earth. Everything was big: hulking bulls and fine, glossy-coated horses competing to be the best animal in their classes. Giant pumpkins and squashes, nursed and nourished for months as carefully as any baby. And everywhere there was food. My stomach rumbled. Cotton candy, turkey legs and corn dogs, popcorn and ice cream. And most of it was fried. And on a stick.

But none of it could distract me from Lily. I walked arm-in-arm with her, proud as a kid with his prom date. She looked amazing. When I’d gone over to the bus to pick her up, she’d stuck her head out of the door and tentatively shown me her dress—white, with black polka dots, cut tight on the waist and with a long skirt the wind kept catching, licking it upwards to show glimpses of her bare legs. I’d whipped off my hat and told her that she was the prettiest darned thing I’d ever seen.

She’d thought I was kidding.

The local girls had gotten dressed up, too, whether in little strappy tops and shorts or full-on dresses like Lily’s. Girls I’d lusted after and sometimes fucked—sometimes more than once. Any other year, I would have been swaggering around and showing off for them. Now, though...I was having trouble remembering what I’d ever seen in them. They just seemed so plastic, next to Lily.

Sometimes, they’d start to flounce towards me, either not noticing Lily or studiously ignoring her presence. Then I’d grip Lily a touch more firmly around the waist, and she’d pull me closer, and sometimes we’d kiss, and I’d feel the girl skid to a halt, staring at us, and then turn and march off the other way, her nose in the air.

“I guess it all seems kinda silly to you,” I said. We were strolling past a tiny stage, where a country band was belting out a song, the audience lounging on hay bales. “Ain’t exactly New York. Not a whole lot of bling, or Krystal, or dot-com billionaires.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s West coast,” said Lily.

“Okay—not a whole lot of cocktails and canapés, then.”

She patted my arm. “You have a very weird view of New York.”

“Maybe we should go visit, sometime. You could show me around.”

She nodded and smiled, but I saw the momentary panic in her eyes. It popped up whenever I mentioned New York, or her past. “Mmm-hmm,” she said, noncommittally. “Hey, that looks like fun.”

I followed her pointing finger and groaned inwardly. She was pointing to the Ferris wheel.

I have a thing about heights. You want me in an arena with a pissed-off bull? I’ll tip my hat and go to work. Got five or six liquored-up cowboys trying to cop a feel of the barmaid? I’ll wade in there and knock seven shades of hell out of them. But heights?

The thing with Texas is, it’s mighty flat. If I grew up in mountain country, I’m sure I’d be climbing like a damn lizard.

“Sure,” I said, giving her my best smile. ‘Why not?”