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“Dad, why is that cowboy pointing a gun at the horse in front of him?”
David, Jake’s dad, squeezed his son’s small shoulder. “Son, you will get to hear the whole story on the tour and…some tidbits of how this hotel may be haunted.”
He had twisted his head toward the horse, his small hand again pointing to the statue. “Dad, please tell me now. I don’t care about haunted stuff. You and I both know that ain’t real, just like Santa is you. That haunted stuff is just stories scaredy-cat girls make up.”
“Ohh…I see, Jake,” he chuckled, kneeling beside his son so they were at eye level. “So all spooky stories come from girls?”
“Yep, they think of all that stuff during slumber parties to scare themselves…and me…but I won’t let them fool me.”
“Well, that means girls are more creative than boys are…”
“Nah, boys are the most creative, well, except Mom and Jenae and Issa, especially Jenae. She helps me with my Halloween costumes and tells me things that no one else tells me.”
“Is that so, son?” David smiled, tugging Jake’s ear. “Well, I will tell you the story behind this statue, but on the tour, you have to act like it’s the first time you've heard it…okay?”
“Yes, yes sir…I’ll say,ooooh ah—isn’t that what Issa does when she gets new earrings or shiny stuff…?”
Jake’s memory had inscribed every word of his father’s description that day about how The Widow Maker shows a runaway horse with the cowboy’s foot caught in the stirrup, followed closely by another rider who has his rifle pointed at the horse in front of him. The story is that the rider following has two choices: kill the horse or let his cowboy friend be dragged to death. Jake remembered the shocked gasp that had left his mouth when his father got to that part and the painful realization of that horrific choice. He had to push away the urge to cry when he looked back at the statue. He had concealed that emotion bubbling up inside him, scooting it aside so his dadwould think he was old enough to hear stuff like that. When they did the tour, Jake found most of it boring—he didn’t care that Lyndon Johnson met his future wife, Lady Bird, at the Driskill or that Colonel Jesse Driskill opened the hotel in 1886. Jake's young self had perked up when the tour guide said, “They say if you are staying at the Driskill with a lover, you are most definitely having a threesome,” curious as to what all the adults found funny. “Let me tell you about the ghosts of the past that roam our historic hotel.” When the tour got to the statue, Jake jumped in to interrupt the tour guide but was halted by the clenching of his neck from behind, paired with a guttural “Shhh…” jumping from his dad’s mouth.
That evening sparked Jake’s obsession with Old West books. When they left that night, Jake said, “Dad, I want to start reading books about the old days in Texas; it sounds cool. Also, what’s a threesome?” His dad sputtered, finally saying, “Something you never want to be involved in, but never mind that, let’s stop off for a good, old-fashioned book about Texas.” They had driven the short distance to one of Austin’s iconic bookstores, BookPeople. Jake couldn’t believe there were so many books in one place and that there were enough people out there who spent time reading. The first book his dad bought him at that bookstore wasOld Yeller.
“Jake, this book was written before I was born, but a little warning, son, it will make you cry, so read it in your room when none of the girls are around.” He’d winked at Jake, handing him the bag with the book. After they made their way out to his dad's truck, on the drive home, animated by Jake’s newfound interest in books, his dad elaborated on the history of BookPeople— that they were part of the independent bookstore renaissance. Then he had tunneled into the day Jake’s grandpa had bought David his first big kid book at that same bookstore,Old Yeller. “Grandpa told me the same thing about that book, except I’dnever seen him cry, so I thought he didn’t have faith in me. It wasn’t me. It’s that book,” David assured his son. “Definitely the story that shows men they are not onlyallowedto cry, but they must. If they don’t, they will miss out on a key part of living,” he said, turning into their driveway.
The way his dad had looked at him when he cranked the key, the truck engine halting, would forever be etched into Jake’s memory. “Son, there will be stories you hear or read about other people’s pain. Let yourself feel those stories and cry for those people, even if it seems like those events will never touch your life. Someday, something hard will happen, and you will be glad you learned how to mourn for others because that understanding will give you grace during your own losses.” His dad’s words and the somberness in his voice spelled trust to Jake.
Now, looking back, wiping the salty liquid from the sides of his face and rubbing Dolly’s head as she snored on his chest, he smiled, thinking that was a complicated way to teach your son to be empathetic. Jake’s memory extrapolated the nuanced details of that day with his dad at The Driskill, then BookPeople, as if it had ensued just days ago. The sun had been in the sky, inching its way toward the hills as they drove to The Driskill. When they left, the sun had retired for the evening, leaving a black sky, which meant they were headed home. It had been a Sunday and a school night, so when his dad drove to the bookstore, Jake had felt like such a big boy, staying out later than usual with his dad.
He drifted off, the last vestiges of his hangover falling away as his body lost itself to the rehabilitation only sleep could provide. It was Dolly’s urgent bark that shook him awake, his eyelids peeling open, “Dolly, chill.” Her head was up, alerted, her snout pushed on his chin before shifting toward the end table, barking. Oozing from his phone was an old Dolly Parton song, “Puppy Love,” his ringtone. His friends often ribbed him aboutit, saying things like, “Jake, that song, it hurts my ears. Who sings that? It’s, like, a thousand years old.”
Dolly had a visceral reaction when his phone rang repeatedly—it was almost always a coach or a family member, which Dolly seemed to know instinctively. He grabbed the phone—Melissa—and he quickly caught the time…shoot… “Hey, Issa.”
“So I finally have a night without the kids, but what am I doing? Pacing in my parents’ backyard while Mom and Dad entertain my kids so I can have a night out with my brother, who promised…”
“Hey, hey, I’ll order some Chinese so just come over right now…sorry, I fell asleep…but head over now…I’m like thirty minute behind…that’s nothin’,” he said on a yawn.
“It’s nothing to you. You have your life, it’s fully yours, but I only have this one night to myself…so I just want to…” Her voice cracked as she marched back and forth.
The shrill in Melissa’s voice brushed the remnants of sleep from him. That’s not how she communicated, ever. Her delivery always had a composed air, as if all the words had been rehearsed beforehand, even with her children. He’d been seeing cracks in the manicured Melissa, the one that everyone had referred to as ‘perfect’ when she was growing up. He’d noticed there seemed to be a bad undercurrent brewing between Melissa and Tom. “Okay, okay, huh. Do you want to…?”
“Jake, I’m losing an hour because you fell asleep…I suppose that is the luxury of…” She gulped so loudly it sounded like she had swallowed the phone, then there was a silence filled with her breathing.
He was at a loss for the next line.Don’t ask, Jake…don’t ask. He cleared the angst from his throat. “Hey, Issa, I have an idea…” He ignored her sigh. “Okay, forget Chinese. How about I get Torchy’s, a bunch of tacos and beer, and head out to Mom and Dad’s.”
“Yes, that would be…”
“I can see the kids and…”
“Don’t you dare…then I’m leaving, no!”
“Okaaay…”
“Jake, you don’t get it. I need a night away. The kids and I are staying here tonight. Mom and Dad are entertaining them, so I can just…I would like to be able to forget everything tonight…” Her voice trailed off.
“Hey Issa, I’m going to join ya’…we’ll forget together. Like I said, I will pick up Torchy’s… gluten-free, veggie, no sauce, no cheese…right? I’ll meet you behind the dance barn, and we can head to The Hill [they always referred to the mound with a firepit and gazebo with an attached kitchenette as The Hill… How does that sound? I’ll bring water for you,” he added, making sure he got it right. Melissa adhered to what she termed a ‘clean’ diet.
“Wait, I’m pulling up the menu…no veggie garbage…I want the Trailer Park—actually, the Trailer Park Trashy, The Cougar, and Crossroads, and no water. I’ll take whatever beer you’re drinking…no, tequila, I need tequila…I know you have several bottles left over from the party. Bring a bottle; it doesn’t have to be your expensive stuff. I haven’t had it in so long, I won’t know the difference.”
He repeated her order as if he were a robot, “Trailer Park Trashy, The Cougar and Crossroads…got it…and tequila. I’ll bring beer too…” A queasy sensation inhabited his gut with the wordtequila.
