The Jealous Kind (Holland Family Saga 2)

It was the kind of moment that would not pass. There was no way the insult and the challenge would be undone. The groups despised each other, worse than whites and people of color or Hispanics did, and if you asked them why, they would not be able to explain except to say, “They’re always asking for it, man.”

Loren went into the men’s room by himself. I followed him inside and stood one urinal down from him. He hadn’t noticed me and was looking back at the entrance to the room while he relieved himself.

“Hey,” I said.

“Is that you, Broussard? You look good in that hat and chaps,” he said.

“I’m riding in a few minutes. Loren, get away from those guys.”

“Which guys?”

“The hoods you’re with.”

“Those are my friends. Don’t be calling them names.”

“Okay, I won’t. I know those kids at the shoeshine stand. They’re from Tomball. They don’t mean anything. Blow it off.”

“They do mean it.”

“Don’t get into it, man,” I said. “It’s not worth it.”

“It’s not my call.”

I zipped up my pants and washed my hands and went to the lavatory where he was combing his hair in the mirror. I took out my wallet. “I have two passes, reserved seats. They were for Valerie and a friend, but she went in with her 4-H clubbers. You take them.”

“No, man.”

“Yes, man,” I said. I punched him in the sternum with my finger.

“You worry too much, Broussard.”

“Don’t call me by my last name.”

“Okay, Aaron. You’re from outer space. But you’re not a bad guy.” He took the tickets from my hand.

“I’d better see your butt in one of those seats,” I said.

“What are you riding?”

“Bulls.”

“I knew you were suicidal.” He held up the tickets. “Thanks.”

I walked out of the men’s room ahead of him and didn’t look back. His friends were gathered at a concession about twenty yards from the shoeshine stand. None of them had bought anything. They seemed to be waiting on Loren. I walked through the concourse and a security gate and past the rough-stock pen into the loading area behind the chutes. I looked up into the stands and tried to locate my parents but couldn’t see them in the glare. But I saw Manny, a smirk on his face. He stood up and shot me the bone, then cupped his phallus. Behind me, I heard one of the bulls tearing the chute apart.

WHEN I LOWERED MYSELF down onto Original Sin, my teeth were clicking so loudly I was sure the gate man could hear them. I pulled the bull rope tight and felt Original Sin swell like a thunderstorm between my thighs, then crash against both sides of the chute; I touched my holy medal with my left hand, said the first words of a Hail Mary under my breath, then couldn’t remember the rest of the prayer and hollered, “Outside!”

The gate swung open. Original Sin and I burst out of the shadows into a world of blazing spotlights, bullfighters in football cleats and outrageous costumes and clown grease, the metal bell clanging on the bull rope, Original Sin slamming down on all four feet, bending my spine like a bicycle chain about to snap, the shock so hard I believed I was ruptured, all the while my spurs raking at Original Sin’s neck, my head stretched back to his rump.

The bullfighters seemed to be rotating around me, the spotlights an eye-searing blur, my chaps flapping, my buttocks starting to slip sideways with each bounce as I waited to hear the buzzer and didn’t. I thought I heard my father say Hold on, son. The bull hasn’t been born you can’t ride. Original Sin corkscrewed and reversed his spin. For just a second I saw the other riders up on the boards, their faces full of alarm; I felt blood on my face and knew I had been hooked and was about to go over the side; I also knew my left arm was hung up and there was a good chance I would be rope-dragged under Original Sin’s hooves or impaled and whipped like a rag doll.

But it didn’t happen. I heard the buzzer like the voice of God. Then I was flung through the air, my arm free o

f the rope, and even though I crashed to the ground on my side, I knew I was in one piece and the bullfighters were diverting Original Sin away from me. My hat was still on my head, the slice below my eye a badge of honor, the audience applauding and shouting and coming to their feet, the other riders dusting me off and patting my back and saying things like “One hell of a ride, kid” and “Casey Tibbs better look out.”

But I was disqualified. I had touched the bull during the ride with my free hand on the first bounce out of the chute. It wasn’t important, though. Earning the approval of professional rodeo people is reward enough. A medic cleaned the cut on my face and put a bandage on it. “Get yourself some stitches or you’ll have a scar,” he said.

I heard a sound outside the arena, somewhere down the concourse by the concessions. At first it was a single scream, perhaps a woman’s, then the sound began to grow like a wind swirling through a woods, gaining strength, gathering organic debris in its maw. These are the words I could hear people saying: