by David Larsen

Harper Schmidt pulled his sweat-stained straw Stetson from his head, mopped the grit and moisture from his wrinkled forehead and neck with his red kerchief, one of a set of four, a gift from his younger son, Konrad, the one off in Dallas, then lumbered toward his 1973 faded-blue Ford F100 pickup truck. The afternoon heat was getting to him,. It was time to call it a day. There was nothing he could do but fret, and fret he did, but it didn’t do any good. No matter how long he stood out in the parched hills and draws with the cattle it wasn’t going to make the situation any better, for him or for the livestock. And things were bad.  

Was it two Christmases ago or was it three that last time Konrad was home and gave me these neckerchiefs? Harper asked himself as he settled his hundred-and-ninety-seven pounds behind the wheel of the truck. Good God, just how long has it been since we last saw the boy? It doesn’t much matter, not really. The boy never had much use for Dos Pesos no how. I guess some folks were born for small towns and some folks weren’t. Hell, he talks to his ma on the phone from time to time. That should be plenty good.  

The unmarried son Harper puzzled over was a mystery to the entire family, even back when the boy was still a pup, different from any other boy in town, a bit swishy, and not just in his  parents’ eyes but also in those of neighbors and town folk. Or so the rancher suspected. Harper wouldn’t dare ask any of them, not even Billy Paul, his friend from all the way back in high school; Billy Paul might’ve been a little too blunt and that could’ve caused some pretty damned hard feelings. But how does one know? Konrad, from the youngest age, never liked tossing a ball or roughhousing with the other boys. He didn’t date in high school. But hell, Harper chuckled as he bumped along the washboard road to the highway, then home, where his wife would be surprised to see him this early, I didn’t date none neither, not until I met Emma, and even then I didn’t set the world on fire, that’s for damn sure. Some of us are just gun shy when it comes to the opposite sex. Just because Konrad never had a girlfriend, unlike his brother who had a few too many, doesn’t mean nothing. Talk about not bein’ gun shy, Wilson was always far too eager to get his pistol out of its holster, and that was almost as bad. How many embarrassing predicaments with young women did I have to bail that boy out of? Hell, he’s in his forties and he still can’t seem to keep it in his britches whenever his wife, or whoever that latest woman is, ain’t lookin’. But at least Konrad’s never had the balls to bring anyone home with him, no one he knows we wouldn’t approve of. Not around these parts anyway, that’s for damn sure. Dos Pesos, Texas is no place for that kind of tomfoolery.  

Harper hated himself for his suspicions about Konrad, well-grounded though they might have been, but, what the heck, they were what they were. He’s an adult, the rancher reminded himself as he felt a pang from a troublesome hernia he’d been neglecting for months. What he does is between him and his maker. Not much I can do about it now. He’d just better not come flaunting any such nonsense around here, for God’s sake. He knows good and well that folks around these parts are more than just a little squeamish about that sort of thing. 

Harper turned onto state highway 1129 and headed south. The hernia in his crotch eased off a bit and the pickup’s springs ceased their bellyaching now that the path was paved. He pressed down on his pelvic bone and the damned hernia. Even through his Wranglers he could feel that matters weren’t right, though everything was still in place, sort of.  

Perhaps, thought the rancher, Emma shouldn’t’ve nicknamed the boy Konnie. But, Lord, I’d never say nothin’ about that to her. She’d have my hide in less time than it takes to spit. Women tend to be that way about their boys. She fussed and fluttered over those two kids like a hen over her chicks on a winter day, and look what it got her? Two pretty screwed up males, but decent enough adults. 

Harper raised his eyes skyward, squinted then muttered curses at the unrelenting sun almost directly overhead in the cloudless mass of grayish blue. His truck kicked up enough dust off of the lonely stretch of highway to have some it blow into his opened window. He cranked the danged window shut. He knew damn well that it was wrong to think such thoughts, but he wondered, on that last day of His life, as He languished on that cross, did the Lord himself feel the same way I feel today, utterly betrayed? Over a hundred degrees at two in the afternoon. Fourteen days in a row. Holy shit. What in God’s name did we ever do to deserve this? The hottest goddamned summer on record. 

A fourth-generation West Texan, the seventy-two-year-old rancher was accustomed to extremes—he’d lived his entire life in the desert hills and arroyos six miles outside of Dos Pesos—but there had never been anything close to this summer when it came to the dogged heat. The past summer or two had been bad enough, almost unbearable, even for an old cuss like Harper, but this year was by far the worst in anyone’s memory. Old timers, even older than he was, some from as far back as his cantankerous father’s generation, a bunch of old coots who seemed to linger on like unwelcome guests at a church potluck, just shook their heads and sneered. Everything his old man and Schmidts as far back as anyone could remember, hard-working, uncomplaining Germans, had struggled to build seemed to wither right before Harper’s eyes and there was nothing he could do about it. Not merely were the days intolerable, but each hour brought another forewarning of economic disaster not that far down the pike, unless, the good lord willing, the drought let up. Throughout Contreras County the water tanks and creeks were dry, the grasses dead, cattle, goats and the few sheep some of the Mexicans raised were downright pathetic. Something had to give. 

Both Harper and Emma—the hard-shell rancher much more so than his level-headed wife—had dismissed out of hand, even ridiculed, the programs on PBS that fretted over the changes in the planet’s climate; too often soft-hearted Emma was gullible enough to be swayed by their emotional drivel, but not Harper. To folks in West Texas, the damned shows and doomsday newscasts were nothing more than liberal claptrap spewed out of the mouths of a bunch of hand ringing do-gooders who’d never put in an honest day’s work in their entire lives, but this year had almost made a believer of even the staunchest cynic, Mr. Harper Schmidt. 

He grinned as he pulled in behind his house. If my neighbors knew that I watch PBS, they’d have me banished. Hell, just mentioning Masterpiece Theater could get a fella tarred and feathered in Contreras County. 

*     *     *     * 

When Harper came through the back door, Emma, for some reason in a plain, brown dress, was at the kitchen table, her hands gathered into a knot like a nun at prayer, with full-bearded Wilson, smirking like he’d just heard a dirty joke, seated in the chair across from her. Though they looked like startled lovers caught in the act, Harper could tell they were not merely expecting him, but were awaiting his arrival. Something was up. 

“Good lord, Wilson, have you gone and gotten another gal pregnant?” said Harper to his firstborn. He grabbed a Diet Coke from the Frigidaire and sat at the end of the oak table.  

Wilson grimaced. 

“Harper,” said Emma, “why do you always pick on the boy?” 

The rancher yanked his hat from his shock of gray hair, laid the Stetson on the floor beside his chair then shook his head. “Out of habit…I guess.” 

His wife sighed, but smiled. She had her own misgivings about their older son’s shenanigans.  

Harper looked from one uncertain face to the other. Both were worried about something. 

Finally, it was Emma who spoke. “Wilson got a call from his brother this morning.” 

“I was just thinkin’ about Konrad ten minutes ago,” said Harper. “Ain’t that something? He gave me this handkerchief two years ago. That’s how I got to thinkin’ about him.” He grinned. “Don’t tell me Konrad’s gone and got some gal in trouble.” 

Wilson frowned. “No, Pop. Konrad called to tell me something.” The boy looked toward his mother then back to Harper. “He’s gettin’ married.” Still a boy in Harper’s eyes, beard or no beard, Wilson paused. “He wants the three of us to come to Plano for the wedding.” 

“You mean to tell me that it really is Konrad that’s gone and got some gal in the family way?” said Harper. He caught his breath. He’d never called his son by his nickname. “This is good news, ain’t it? You two look like he’s gone and shot someone.” 

“Harper,” said Emma in her most plaintive voice, the tone that drove Harper nuts. He always felt she was talking down to him whenever she used it. “You got that kerchief five years ago. Konnie hasn’t been home in years.” She smiled, took a deep breath, then continued. “Konrad’s marrying another man.” She sighed heavily. “They met in the same church they’re getting married in. Wilson got to talk with him on the phone. He says that the man sounded real nice. His name’s Samuel.” 

Harper looked at his son. “You talked to the man who’s gonna marry your brother? What the hell is this?” 

Wilson shrugged. 

“We’ve never talked about it,” said Emma. “But you had to have suspicions, just like I did. You did, didn’t you? I just figured you wouldn’t want to talk about it none.” 

Harper ran the back of his calloused hand across his forehead. He frowned, then said, “Yeah, but I never thought he’d go and do some foolhardy thing like marry another man. I guess I just counted on his bein’ discreet about whatever it is those kinds of people do. 

Wilson drummed his fingers on the table. “Pop, he’d like it if we all came to the wedding.” 

“And I suppose you think you’re goin’?” asked Harper. 

“I thought I would,” said Wilson, defiantly.  

“But Harper, we don’t have to go,” said Emma. “I think Konrad would understand that it would be asking too much of us. That it would be too much to swallow all at once.” 

The rancher stared at his son, cleared his throat then turned to his wife. “I can swallow more than most. I just don’t know what the hell kind of church would marry two men.” 

“What difference would it make?” asked Emma. “We don’t go to church.” 

“We’re Lutheran,” said the rancher. “At least I am.” 

Emma laughed. “You haven’t been in church since I’ve known you.” 

“Only ‘cause we don’t have a Lutheran church in Dos Pesos.” 

“It’s a Metropolitan church,” said Wilson. 

“Never heard of it,” snapped Harper. 

 “It’s for people like Konrad,” said his son. “And Samuel.” 

“They don’t worship the devil or nothin’ like that, do they?” 

Wilson laughed. “No, I think they’re very much Protestant. But I really don’t know.” 

“We don’t have to go,” said Emma. 

“Hell, we’ve gone to two of Wilson’s weddings,” said Harper. “We’d ‘a gone to the third but that was in Las Vegas. I would think we can drive to Plano for Konrad’s first.” He grimaced. “If my boy’s getting’ married, I’m gonna be there. Whether I like it or not.” 

Emma and Wilson stared at the rancher as he removed his boots with two heavy thuds onto the linoleum floor. 

Finally, Emma said, “Just like that? You decide it’s all right for your son to marry another man? Out of the blue?” 

Harper leaned forward and placed both elbows on the table. “Emma, I ain’t about to kill the fatted calf over this, but I can drive five hundred miles to our younger boy’s wedding.” He squinted then shook his head. “I ain’t never told either of you about my father’s brother Franklin.” He bit at his lip. “Well, Franklin was younger than my pa. He died early. Rather mysteriously. Neither my own ma or pa talked about it. But I remember the man like it was yesterday. Hell, he could outwork any of ‘em and never work up a sweat. He could sit a horse about as good as any man I ever laid eyes on. And he was a handsome son of a bitch. But Franklin never married. I ‘spect he was a lot like Konrad. But there was a terrible sadness in Franklin’s eyes that haunted me somethin’ fierce. It still haunts me. A loneliness. I’ll never forget seein’ Franklin starin’ out the window about as sad as hound that’s been scolded, while all the other men was a braggin’ ‘n cussin’, and probably tellin’ jokes about men like Franklin. Not knowin’ what they were doin’ to the poor guy.” 

“I never met Franklin,” said Emma. “You’ve never talked about him.” 

“Like I said, he died awful young. And I think I was always ashamed of Franklin. Us boys used to tee-hee about the poor man. My own pa and the others talked about Franklin when he weren’t around.” Harper drew in a deep breath. “Well, I’ve seen that same sadness in Konrad’s eyes. That same damned loneliness. I didn’t want to see it, ‘cause I knew what it meant. And it plumb broke my heart. A man don’t like seein’ his own son in pain. So, if Konrad has found someone to care about, and if someone cares about him, and if it takes some of that loneliness outta his eyes, hell, I ain’t gonna do nothin’ but wish him the best.” 

“Pop,” said Wilson. “This ain’t like you.” 

“Maybe you don’t know me,” said Harper. “I think your ma does, some. Around here a man can’t let ever’one see what’s goin’ on inside of him. I’m just tired of not doin’ what I shoulda done years ago…accept my boy for who he is.” He stood. “I was afraid of this day. But now that it’s here, I’m glad.” 

Wilson chuckled. “What else don’t I know about you, Pop? Do you have a secret past?” 

“Nope.” The rancher grinned. “But I do wear argyle socks ‘neath my boots on Sundays. There are secrets a man likes to keep hisself. Your ma knows about the socks.” 

    *     *     *     * 

The pickup packed, Wilson’s truck directly behind it, ready to go, Emma and her older son waited for Harper to return from talking with Billy Paul about keeping an eye on the ranch while the three were in Plano. Harper had taken the Camry, the car Emma wanted them to drive to the wedding, but Harper would have none of it: he’d take his “goddamned truck” to some “oddball” wedding. If it wasn’t good enough for those Dallas folks, to hell with them. 

Harper parked the car beneath the shade of the white oak beside the house, got out and walked toward his wife. 

“Did Billy Paul agree to keep an eye on things while we’re gone,” Emma asked. 

“He did not,” said Harper. He sniffled, spit then leaned against the truck. 

“What did you tell him?” 

“I told him the goddamned truth. I told him that we were going to Plano for Konrad’s wedding.” 

“And?” 

“And,” said Harper, “I told him that my son is goin’ to marry another man. Someone named Samuel.” He took a deep breath. “I asked if he’d come by and check on Luis and Ramon, just to make sure things were okay.” 

“And he said no? The heck with him,” said Emma. “Anyway, that’s what we pay Luis and Ramon to do, work around here. If Billy Paul doesn’t like it…tough. We don’t need him.” 

“That’s what I thought,” said Harper. “But he told me that if Konrad was gettin’ hitched, even if it’s to a man, he wanted to be there.”

The rancher wiped his eyes. “That son of a bitch made me blubber right there in front of him. He told me that if Konrad is goin’ to marry another man, then that’s just how it should be. He’ll be here to caravan to that damned devil-worhippin’ church in ten minutes. Irene, on the other hand, wanted no part of any of it. She said it’s sinful. His wife’s always been more than just a little persnickety about these sorts of things. But, hell, she’ll get over it.” 

Emma laughed. “Like we’ve always been so open to this sort of thing?” 

Harper cocked his head. “She also told me that this damned drought is due to our puttin’ up with too much wickedness. God’s punishin’ us.” He grinned. “She could be right, you know?” 

David Larsen is a writer who lives in El Paso, Texas. His stories and poems have been published in more than forty literary journals and magazines including, Cholla Needles, The Heartland Review, Aethlon, Floyd County Moonshine, The Raven Review, Change Seven, Literary Heist, Coneflower Cafe, El Portal, Oakwood, Canyon Voices, Dark Winter Literary Magazine, Voices and Cowboy Jamboree.