The Old Bull

Life with a twist.

            As I enter into my bedroom, freshly painted with my latest favorite color lavender it greeted me gently after a lengthy day. In my arms, Muffin, my tabby cat, and today’s mail. A couple bills and junk mail from credit card companies stating, “Sara, you are pre-approved.” And one small box with sis’s return address. I plunked the cat and mail on Grandma’s quilt that covered the bed I had built. Pa had forced his will upon me; telling me I needed to expand my interest, I enrolled in wood shop. I had used black walnut because by high school I understood that I was Pa’s black sheep. Born and raised on a sheep ranch in Montana, I knew black sheep never make their first birthday. They become mutton on the holiday table.

            I opened the box. Inside a hand written note.

            My dearest Sarah,

            Pa’s health is slipping fast. Praying you will return home before the old bull passes.

            “Old bull?” There are other words I would choose to describe our Pa. He always found time for those damn sheep of his. He expected more from me, the first-born. I was four when sis crossed over the tarnished threshold into my life wrapped in Grandma’s quilt, protected in Pa’s callused hands. She, the flawless white lamb was, destined for blue ribbons. I harbor no hatred toward my sister. We were like a pair of early season lambs born powerless against what befalls us in life.

             Sarah how are you. Have you gotten that dream job yet? I return your locket you forgot. Sis, inside is the photo Ma took on the day you left. Do you remember how proud Ma was of you that afternoon? My big sister was 21. Wishing you will decide to come home soon. Sis I miss you. Sad you left because of Pa what an idiot, but I understand. Wished Pa could.

            Your loving Sister,

            Becky

            P.S. Ma sends her love.

            I slipped out of my dress. The New York Sarah stood reflecting back at me in the five-dollar mirror. . I had purchased it at one of the small stores located on the ground floor of the artsy neighborhood that I now call home. The owner of the boutique told me I looked pretty, and reduced the price. I let my auburn hair down. It fell past my shoulders. The person glancing back still seemed alien having lived with short hair until I moved east. I decided changing my old look was necessary for the person I have dreamed of becoming. I liked the new me. I hoped this would help break the ties with my Montana history.

            My sister, Becky, was always able to get the boys to do what ever she wanted. She was born beautiful. I will always have to work at being beautiful.

            It had been an exhausting day. I stalked toward the bathroom. I showered using the hottest water my apartment could give me. Today it gave me scorching water. When I finished, I returned to my bedroom, and wrapped myself in my Grandma’s quilt. I observed my cat, napping, wishing I could trade places with him. He was curled on top of my bed, sheltered against the evils carried in the storm that brewed on the distant horizon. I noticed my reflection in the mirror. My eyes, green like my cat’s, stared back at me. The quilt covering my nakedness clung to me like a piece of water soaked rawhide. My soul was exposed like a freshly sheared lamb. I long for my family.

            I started to reread my sister’s letter.

            Pa has taken a turn for the worst.

            Will I grieve my Pa’s death? I still remember the rage in his eyes like that of a 2000-pound bucking bull hell bent on smashing his rock hard head against mine. It was then I grasped the fact it was essential I leave home. His rage would stomp me, and overwhelm me if I stayed.

            I lowered my cleansed body down on the edge of my bed next to my Muffin. I had wanted a cat for my tenth birthday, but dad told me there would never be any cats on his ranch. I asked, “Why not?” It was the first time I had questioned his power. His reply was simply, “Because I say so.” This is when we started our deterioration. We drifted apart slowly, me the small piece of ice breaking off the mountain glacier into the stream. I floated slowly, increasing speed with the melting snow in the spring sun until I became like the roaring rapids of the mighty river racing down the mountains. Unable to stop the flow that Pa had started until the water reached the ocean.

            I finished my sister’s letter.

            P.S. Ma sends her love.

            “Love.”

Ma had a funny way of showing her love. Mother hovered in the background like rain clouds that never produced rain. She promised to bring peace between Dad and me. The day I decided to break from my family, it was my twentieth birthday. It had been raining for two straight days. The ground needed the rain. I did not. Mother and I had been baking her county fair, blue-ribbon prize winning cookies, which were my Grandma’s recipe. Dad had come into the house upset that I had forgotten my chores, again. He stood in the doorway, filling it completely, like a mountain. I pushed past mother in the rush to start my chores. I bumped her triggering her hands to release the platter of cookies. The platter broke sending pieces of glass across the floor. One lone piece struck my bare foot cutting deep. The blood streamed in the direction of the prized cookies. I stood in the growing pool of my own blood, unsure what had happened.

            The mountain exploded like a volcano. Curse words and insults slammed against my skull; Father’s rage unleashed. I pushed my clinched fists deep into my jean pockets afraid I might think about smashing them upon Dad’s rock hard skull and ending with broken hands. Mother had instantly occupied herself kneeling and placing the blue ribbon cookies in her apron. Ma’s glaze burned into my brain. Her grey eyes resembled the sacrificial black sheep’s eyes pleading for its life before Pa placed his .22 caliber pistol against its skull and pulled the trigger, ending the lamb’s life without emotions. That is how it was the day I left home. Hatred was pumping through my veins, pushing me away from my family.

            Thoughts of my father and his approaching death triggered my faded pain. I had accepted and blunted this pain since I moved east. Becky’s letter had opened old wounds. I cannot be troubled tonight. I have a new career starting tomorrow. I wanted . . . no, . . . I needed to look pretty for my work, which I had dreamt of since being an adolescent in Montana. However, instead of a cabaret dancer on Broadway, I landed a job in an upscale dance club blocks removed from Broadway.

            I pulled my Grandmother’s quilt tighter around my body. My thoughts drifted back west. The ring of the phone brought me back into the newly painted room.

            “Howdy sis,” greeted my ears.

            “Becky is " .” I stopped, not wanting to know. “Is Pa gone?”

            “No, Sarah. He wants to talk to you.” Becky continued, “He wants to make amends. Be strong sis, remember I love you.” I waited for Father’s voice.

            “Hello son,” even at the end he could not acknowledge who I was.

            “Dad, I’m Sarah. Sam is gone.” The truth there was never a Sam only Sarah trapped inside a boy’s body. My sister understood this fact; mother resigned herself to this fact.

            “Where did . . . I . . . go wrong? You the son I . . . dreamed of handing over the ranch.” His voice stuttered then tripping over his words. “I . . . I . . . need to admit . . . tell . . . explain . . . before . . . I di . . . diee. I . . . I was ashamed . . . I blamed your Ma believing she made you a little sissy boy.” I heard sobbing in the receiver. My Pa was crying. A single tear flowed down my cheek.

            “Yes Pa and I was ashamed an".” Pa interrupted.

            “Sarah I love you.” Shocked at what I just heard.

            “Pa I love you.” I shook as I spoke those words.

            “I . . . I . . . truly love you.” My hands shaking, his voice said it all. I realized Pa’s rage had finished its journey and emptied into the ocean.

            “Please come home Sarah. Ma misses you.”

            “Pa I will.” Those were my last words to the old raging bull.