Hello, Henry Part Three

by

Diana Walker 

This work of adult fiction, loosely based on characters portrayed by Russell Crowe, includes adult language and experiences; you have been warned.  No copyright infringement on the original work is intended.  Copyright Diana Walker 2007.

Author's Note:  Thank you, Beej.



HENRY
The tongue trying to stuff itself into my ear might be nice but for the bouncing on the bed.  I don’t remember a girl from yesterday, but I do remember a warm, comforting presence as I went to sleep.    
 
I have sand paper pasted to the inside of my eyes, and my mouth is dry, sticky, and full of gravel.  I smell like a brewery even to myself.
 
I risk permanent injury to my eyes by slitting them open enough to see the room is still dark.  The tongue leaves my ear and begins painting my face with spit.  No girl I’ve ever slept with had a tongue that broad or was that fond of giving a tongue bath.  It must be Holly helping me wake up as Okie sits in front of me, looking at me with his head cocked.  I’ve never seen a dog with ears that big in comparison to the rest of his body; they’re even bigger than bat ears.  I'd best not move since I think I remember Diana telling me that Basenji's like to hunt their food; they are not fond of carrion which I closely resemble at the moment.  I know Diana sent the dogs in retaliation for coming in drunk last night.
 
I can hear voices in the kitchen – Dad, Diana, and a voice I don't know.  Diana sounds concerned.  “Terry, where are the dogs?”
 
“Last I saw they were headed towards Henry's room.”
 
“Oh shit!”  I hear Dad's raucous laugh, a quiet, soothing laugh from the voice I don't know, and rapid steps rushing down the carpeted hall.
 
I manage to sit up with Okie growling at my movement which disrupts his contemplation before Diana knocks on the half open door.  “Are you decent?”
 
“I'm rotten, but no bits are showing.”
 
Diana peeks her head round the door, and Holly bounces the bed leaving me.  “I'm sorry about the dogs.  I thought your door was still closed; your dad can have an evil streak, particularly when he's not feeling great himself.”
 
Diana's patting Holly when Okie leaps over my legs to snuggle against her.  She begins rubbing his ears as he grumbles at her.  “How are you?”
 
I shrug; at least my shoulders don't hurt to move.  “In addition to the wretched nature of its individual parts, my head feels super-sized.”
 
She has the audacity to laugh at me.  “You'd better get up.  You'll have to make the next pot of coffee; your dad and Junior have been hitting it pretty hard.  We’re fixin’ to leave for the stock show in an hour, and there’s a guaranteed hangover cure there.”
 
“Pardon me?”
 
“The coffee?  We've let you slide the last couple of days, but this is another home for you.  You need to pour your own coffee and make a pot when it's empty.  Your dad is the only one who makes tea, however.  He's fussy that way.  Honestly, he makes a much better cuppa than I do.”
 
I must admit, except for that day on horseback, Diana and Dad have gone out of their way to make me feel comfortable.  I was being a bit of a prick about Dad needing to work, but it all felt too much déjà vu.
 
“No, not the coffee.  ‘Fixin’ to?’  What does that mean?”
 
Diana’s laugh starts loud, then she claps her hand over her mouth, reducing the sound slightly.  My head throbs.

“I’m sorry both for the laugh and speaking a foreign language to you.  It’s Texan.  ‘Fixin’ to’ is a very useful phrase meaning that you intend to do something.  The time frame is often indeterminate, but in this case, the truck leaves in one hour for the stock show.  If you want to see a cowboy on this trip, you need to get moving.  Dress for the day is jeans and some kind of shirt.  Oh, and a jacket.  It’s 25 degrees out there now but should get into the 60’s.”  She translates for me.  “That’s zed or minus one for you up to …warm.  But the barns will be cold all day.”
 
“You’re mocking me, aren’t you?”
 
“Shore am, honey chile.”  Diana drops the Southern accent and continues.  “I’m not giving you as hard a time as I gave your dad.  Terry knows about drinking too much.  I intend to annoy him all day.  I’ll take care of you as long as you promise me you’ll learn from this.”
 
“I promise.”
 
After my shower I feel better, not well, but better.  When I enter the kitchen, Diana hands me a piece of toast, two aspirin, and a large glass of water.
 
“Who was here so early this morning?”
 
Dad answers.  “That was Junior.  He runs the place,” Dad jerks his head towards the west window and the barns that lie beyond; he stops abruptly and raises his hand to cradle the top of his head.  “He stopped by to give Diana his shopping list.”
 
Diana can't move away from work, either.  “This is a real live stock show, Henry.  Not some put on, fake Wild West show.  There are some things we need for the barn, and we can get them discounted because of stock show pricing.  Everybody runs specials.”
 
Dad resumes the introduction to the absent man.  “You'll meet Junior Sunday with the rest of his brood.  My partners and other close friends will be coming for Sunday dinner.  Do you remember Dino O’Reilly?  I brought him up to Stowe once.”
 
I rack my brain and remember an unruly red head who hadn’t a clue about footy and cheered at all the wrong times.  He was the only person Dad had ever brought to school with him.  He has to be the same bloke.  I nod, and Dad looks pleased.
 
“He’s one of my partners now.  He and his wife, my other partners, Max and Sooze, and their ….”  Dad gives up trying to describe who will be here; the intellectual challenge is too much for him at 6:30 AM, and it’s certainly too much for me.  Alcohol soaked brains have no room for information.
 
As Diana explains the day to me, I shovel the toast and aspirin down.  Diana is as good as her word, unfortunately.  There is no coffee.
 
I'd no more than drained the last bit of water from the glass when Diana begins herding the dogs outside and Dad and I towards the front door with a travel mug in her hand.  “We're burning daylight.  Let's go.”
 
“I hate it when she starts her John Wayne impersonation on me.”  He looks anything but annoyed with her.  “She planned this day for you.  I get to come along for the ride.”
 
I’d expected Diana to look more cowgirlish than she does.  Her Levi jacket does match her pants, but it has a silk insert of a horse and rider jumping a fence on the back.  Dad isn’t in the spirit of the day either – white shirt, Levis – but both of them are wearing some type of short boots.  I never noticed before; Dad’s a bit bowlegged.
 
As Dad locks the front door behind us, Diana hands me the travel mug.  “This is for you.  I rescued the last cup from your dad.  I'm afraid there's more milk than coffee in it because there wasn't much coffee, but it didn't seem to bother you the other day.”
 
“Thank you.  I'm sure it'll be fine.”
 
Diana tries to describe how the doors open on this monstrously large pickup truck from the driver’s side running board.  Whether it's alcoholic remorse or overly complex engineering, I've no idea how the bloody door works, but Dad arrives to gain us entry into the behemoth.  He walks to the driver side and opens the door for Diana; she giggles as she has an extra boost into the seat.  Dad is still a randy git apparently. 
 
The truck’s engine is obviously large from the size of the bonnet, but the power becomes obvious when Diana finishes fiddling with buttons and knobs.  It emits a ‘balump, balump, balump, balump' sound indicative of its strength.
 
I take a quick sip of coffee whilst I still can.  I’ve no idea what the ride will be like. 
 
Diana cheerfully introduces me to her truck.  “This is Whitey.  He only goes out when I'm towing several horses, picking up extra feed, or going somewhere agricultural.  Today is clearly the last.  Truck,” she points towards a large SUV, “is wimpy in comparison to some of the rigs you’ll see today.”
 
I’m seated in the back behind Dad whose earlier spriteliness is showing signs of decline.  “Diana, save the narration for the sights you want to show Henry on the way.  Let’s get to your hangover cure …quickly.  Henry needs it.”
 
She smiles at him knowingly and pats his cheek.  “Henry, hand your dad one of those bottles of water in the floor beside you.  Hangover crankiness does NOT become him.  Let’s try to wash some of it out of him.”
 
By the time Dad has sucked down half a litre of water, Whitey’s interior has warmed up to the point I’m no longer shivering, but we can still see our breaths.  Diana backs down the curving drive avoiding the bare branches that overhang it.  Though she’s half turned backwards looking through the rear window with her arm across the seat tops, her hand resting on Dad’s neck, she pays me no notice or so I think.
 
“Hey, this is cool.  I can actually back this thing without the side mirrors.  Cool!”  We’re stopped in the middle of the road.  Diana’s gaze swings from straight behind her; she stops to grace me with a fun-loving smile and moves to include Dad.  She drops her hand from Dad’s neck and settles in to move us forward.  From where I’m sitting, it appears he moves with her hand slightly, as if he’s unwilling to lose her touch.
 
On the highway, we are in light traffic and are the tallest vehicle but for the lorries.  We can easily see into the smaller cars.  Dad starts a game of ‘I Spy’ as if I was still an eight-year-old who needed to be entertained, but Diana has joined in gleefully.  It would be rude of me not to participate.  This is a more adult version of 'I Spy' and a great deal of fun.  This is the first time I’ve been in a vehicle high enough to see hiked skirts.
 
During a lull in the laughter, I ask the question that's been bothering me since we got into the truck.  “Dad?  Do you never drive anymore?  Diana drove from the airport; I drove to AK's; and Diana's driving to Fort Worth.”
 
Dad's answer reinforces my notion the steely man I'd known is nowhere in evidence.  “You see, Son, I'm the expert now.  I only get called in for the toughest tasks like last night when you were a danger on the road.”
 
He waits for a moment until Diana and I quit laughing.  “The truth is Diana knows this area much better than I do.  I have the trails that I follow, but Diana knows every back road.  I’ve been known to call on her for directions.  Now if we were in Singapore or Jakarta, I'd be driving.  You know, it's a shame I'm more at home in foreign cities than I am in Dallas.”
 
I lean forward on the seat backs.  “How did you come to choose Dallas for home base?”
 
“Why don't you ask Dino on Sunday?”  Diana suggests.  “That will give you a good conversation starter with him.  You may not operate the same way I do, but if I were facing as many people as you are on Sunday, I'd be looking for conversation starters.  Besides, he tells it better than Terry does.”
 
“Good idea.”  Diana seems like she will be a good ally in getting one over on Dad.  “I never knew when you left London.  Why didn't you ever tell me that you were living in the States?”
 
Dad shifts uncomfortably.  “In the beginning I wasn't terribly fond of Dallas.  Bloody hell, Henry!  You always did know how to get me into the worst trouble.”
 
Diana cuts her eyes towards him and smiles softly.  “Boomer, you're talking about a town.  I promise I won't take it personally.”
 
He takes a deep breath.  “I saw Dallas as being the back of Bourke, but without the amenities.  It certainly doesn't rate in anyone’s top 10 cities of the world.  It doesn’t have the caché of Sydney or London.  It's also too hot.”
 
“I’m not picking at you, Terry, but are you admitting that you’re a city snob?”  Diana asks with a chuckle lurking just below.
 
Dad smiles at her interruption.  “I've come to realise that I never went to the museums in London, can’t stomach football, or even had a local.  Henry was the only person tying me to London. 
 
“You're establishing your own life now and don't need your dad tagging along behind you.  I truly didn't know where I wanted to live.  All I ever see of most cities is their bloody airport and a hotel.  I really don't know any of the top flight cities; I have no idea what the people are like.  Dallas was meant to be a way-point for me.
 
“For a while it really didn't matter where I lived.  I was on the road so much starting the business, talking to potential clients, I didn't have enough time to even meet my neighbours.  In the last few years I've met some very wonderful, caring people in Dallas, people who I could call on in the middle of the night and know I could have help, if I needed it.  I suppose when you have no roots, anywhere can be home.
 
“I suppose in the beginning I was embarrassed to be living in a place as mundane as Dallas.  Once I started considering it home, I never thought to bring it up because it was comfortable.”
 
Diana slows and exits the motorway; no one argues with this tank.  She stays in the slow lane on the commercial street.  This is odd as she always is in the passing lane, staying up with traffic.  What I’m actually saying is she drives fast, but I’m becoming used to it.  She’s looking to the right, smiles, turns on the indicator, turns into a row of shops, and parks but doesn’t turn off the engine.
 
She turns to Dad; I sit back to give them what privacy the cab allows. 
 
“How ya doin’, Boomer?  The Coliseum is just up on the right.”
 
“You don’t want to show off your new truck?”
 
“It's our truck.  Now answer the question.  How are you feeling?”
 
Dad and I are both sweating the alcohol out of our systems.  He’s drunk over a litre of water; I’m only halfway through my first.  Diana’s ordered we are to have a full bottle in our hands until noon. 
 
He unbuckles his seat restraint, opens the door, and walks to Diana's door.  She unbuckles hers and hops out of the tall vehicle into his arms.  Apparently Dad's feeling well enough; they stand together in an embrace outside in the freezing cold, sharing a brief conversation I can't hear.
 
When their voices increase in volume again, I hear Diana giggle.  “No, you don't have to get me back in the truck.  I know you; all you want to do is get your hand on my butt boosting me in.”
 
They separate and resettle in the truck, this time with Dad driving, and we make it to the show with no further truncated Chinese fire drills.
 
 
DIANA
I immediately steer my two impaired charges to the first of my hangover cures; the menudo stand is located in the Brahma barn.  I won't be telling them what's in it as that will guarantee both of them to become worse; they'd immediately throw up.
 
The traditional Mexican, beef tripe soup that the Noranda family makes at the stock show is always in high demand.  Ranch hands see the January stock show circuit as one big party.  Cowboys who spend long months with only their dogs, horses, and cows go wild when they come to town.  Terry’s white shirt and jeans blend right in with the working cowboy’s Stock Show garb. 
 
The youngsters who are here are starry eyed at being able to show off their lovingly raised animals.  All the early mornings, worry, washings, combings, feeding, nursing, and stall cleanings can mean the child's education account is fully funded with a tidy nest egg left over should their animal be chosen as Grand Champion.
 
The professional rodeo cowboys know good food when they taste it, and they’re looking to reduce expenses on the circuit.
 
Everybody congregates at Noranda's first thing in the morning.
 
Henry finds the drinking fountain and refills our water bottles before grabbing three places at the picnic tables.  Terry stands behind me in line with his hands on my shoulders, his mouth at my ear.
 
“You may not be at our stove, but something about you and food compels me to be here.”
 
I smile and tilt my head back to look at him.  “I'm not complaining as long as you don't go any farther.  We're not in the kitchen alone.”
 
Mama Noranda asks, “Cuantos?” 
 
When I answer “Tres,” she puts the three bowls and three spoons on a tray.
 
Henry and Terry both look at the soup suspiciously, give it the smell test, but try it.  The spicy hotness is a little too much for Henry, but with water refills he manages to finish his breakfast.
 
“Different spices and the peppers have a different flavour than Indonesian ones, but good.”  I'll take that to mean that Henry is adjusting to Mexican cuisine.
 
Both my men are wiping sweat from their brows.  They do look perkier than they did on the drive over.
 
 
A stock show is not a single show, but a series of livestock competitions.  Different organizations run the individual events on successive weekends.  Exhibitors come and go. 
 
Since today is Wednesday, the barns are pretty much empty.  One or two arrivals can be expected, but it won’t be the crush that will start tomorrow.  The grounds staff is doing the heavy stall cleaning and minor repairs required with heavy traffic.  Workers are busy shuttling bedding into the pens from the small mountain of shavings outside the barn doors.
 
The barns are big, enclosed sheds that all look the same.  Inadvertently, they are also pigeon roosts.  The stalls and pens on the floor within are purpose built for each species.  You can’t expect a three foot tall fence to keep a curious Quarterhorse contained, and a solid, eight foot wall is overkill for a chicken.  No matter the species being housed, their human caretakers have aisles to access the animals and to deliver the beasties to their temporary homes.   
 
Our next stop is the pig barn where my second hangover cure stand is located – funnel cakes and strawberry soda.  Henry wrinkles his nose, and I haven’t even told him the concoction yet.  He’s not used to barn smells yet. 
 
“Henry, if you'd been raised in farm country that wouldn't smell bad to you.  That is the smell of money.  Here in Texas you can also add the smell of oil and cotton.”
 
He looks doubtful.  I envision a bit of surfing tonight to show him the financial impact of what he sees today.
 
We’re fortunate in the pig barn as a Louisiana farmer is unloading his stock, and his two helpers are guiding them to their pens.  Henry can see some actual farm work.  Now pigs are very intelligent beings; the first two in the aisleway see a long, empty expanse in front of them.  They make their break for freedom.  The following drove scatter into any available opening; some enter empty pens, others down the crossing walkways.  We still have a bunch heading towards us.
 
Unfortunately, the grounds staff had removed the gate that encloses the pen area.  We’re standing right outside the missing gate.  When the pigs reach our end of the barn, there is nothing to contain them but us.  Terry's steps in front of the opening to block it; he's not broad enough to provide a complete barrier unless he spreads his legs wide which then gives the pork rampage a chance to go between them.
 
Henry is looking on wide-eyed behind us.  I step beside Terry and give him a familiar hip bump to make room for me, and his arm goes around me, a little tighter than normal.  I know my arm around his waist has all my strength in it.  Together we stand a chance of not going down in a heap when the first two hit us; by himself Terry doesn't stand a chance.  Humans are not meant to be a brick wall.  Our two sets of legs mostly block the opening, at least enough that the little, squinty-eyed 250 pounders headed towards us think they don't have an out and stop.
 
They mill around for a while, plotting their next gambit.  I'm pleased when they decide the fresh shavings look better than freedom and crowd into the last two enclosures before us.  Terry reaches for the pen gate on the right, and I close the gate on the left pens.  The wayward hogs are contained.
 
I sag left to lean on the fence railing.  Terry reaches for me again and pulls me away.  I look to see if the pigeon droppings I'd almost leaned on were fresh or dried.  I see the west end of an eastbound snake – a youngster less than a foot long and very slender – and try to climb into Terry.
 
Henry gasps and takes a giant step backwards.  He'd have gone farther but the barn’s outer wall stops him.
 
The snake continues on his merry way and drops into an unoccupied pen.  He snuggles into the warm shavings looking to regulate his body temperature.  I’d rather he froze to death.
 
“Is it always this exciting?”  For a young man from England, this west may be too wild for him.  We haven't even gotten to the cattle barns yet.
 
I start to laugh to relieve my fear, but I'm not shaking.  “My hero or did you not want to scrub the snake cooties off me all day?”
 
 
REAGAN
After much coaxing and convincing, Max finally agreed that a trip to Terry and Dee’s as Emily's first outing might be acceptable.  This grudging agreement came only after assurances that Dee and Celeste would be sure the house was disinfected, all guests would be germ-free, and the dogs would be relegated to the dog yard.  Terry's disappointment at not being able to introduce Henry and Max was what finally tipped my husband into the trip.
 
Dee's house is filled with people, yet it doesn't seem crowded.  This Sunday dinner is not a sit down affair; the O'Reilly's, the Robertson-Vega’s, Junior and his brood with Nancy and Bill are in mixed conversation groups.  It was all a bit much for Emily.  She was a little fussy, and Max was approaching overwrought from Emily’s being passed amongst all the experienced mom’s in attendance.  We had retreated to the library with Dee, Terry, and Henry.
 
Now that Emily's happier, Dee makes an amazing request.  “Can I hold her?  I've been practicing with the baby doll I got her for when she's older.”
 
Max stifles his protest when I risk Emily wriggling out of my arms by placing one hand on his knee.  I’d briefed him on the baby-exchanging-hands routine, but he hadn’t listened.  Nancy, Celeste, Sooze, and Sarah were displaying the time-honoured ritual of accepting Emily into our world by each of them holding her.  We hadn’t anticipated Dee wanting to enter into this most maternal of traditions.  I’d hoped for it but hadn’t expected her to hold what might be her first baby in a public venue.
 
Even though we're seated next to each other on the sofa, the transfer is a little awkward.  Dee tries to take Emily from my arms as I'm trying to put Emily into hers; sometimes having two proactive people trying to do the same thing is counterproductive.  Dee makes sure Emily's head is supported, but her blanket comes untucked.  Terry leaves the wing chair where he’s seated to see to Emily's comfort.  In reality he wants Dee's first experience at holding Emily to be positive.  Sure, Dee's stuck her head into the crib and made goo-goo sounds at Emily, but she's never held her.
 
Henry looks totally unfazed by the occurrence.  The confidence only youthful inexperience can bring is wonderful.  It’s never dawned on him holding a baby is an accomplishment; to him it’s simply something a person does.  He has no idea what a momentous feat is unfolding before his eyes.
 
Terry finds Emily fascinating; he normally only has eyes for her.  Now, his eyes roam over Dee's face, drinking in the silly faces she's making, which Emily can't see clearly.  Her tiny hands are waving round, and one of them brushes Dee’s hair.  Reflex kicks in, and the tiny hand closes in a fist on the lock of hair.  Dee giggles, leans over Emily to release the tension, and saves her hair.  Terry delicately unwraps Emily's fingers to the great annoyance of my child.
 
At Emily’s first whimper, Dee begins moving her back to me.  I shouldn't have worried that Dee might be regretting her inability to have children; holding Emily was just a momentary whim, a godmother’s expected duty.
 
Dee's interrupted in Emily’s transfer to me or Max who has magically appeared at our feet by the Thorne men.  Terry slides Emily from Dee's arms and props her  against his shoulder, blanket still tucked neatly about her small body.  Henry kneels behind the sofa, talking softly to Emily, cheering her temporarily with his new voice and a different shape.  He places his warm, big hand softly on her back.
 
Emily’s asleep within moments.  Henry takes his hand from her back and continues talking to her.  Terry slides forward on the sofa, stands, and walks down the hallway to the full nursery he and Dee have set up for Emily's visits.  They've duplicated the baby furniture in her own nursery so their place feels like home to her.
 
Max accompanies the male contingent with one tiny – and clearly imperial – princess, and Dee and I have a chance to catch up on the week.  “I didn't expect Henry to be so instinctive about babies.”
 
“He must have his dad's touch.  Did you notice when he put his hand on Emily’s back?  Terry did the same thing to Henry the night they came in drunk,” she answers.
 
I smile.  “The not-so-superficial male bonding routine …I love it.”
 
“Oh, yeah.  Been a lot of that going on this week.  At times I felt like I was a den mother in a boys camp.  Other times I just gave it up and joined them.”
 
“I take it the visit’s gone well.”
 
Dee bobs and weaves in place and shrugs.  “We've had our moments.  Sometimes it felt like a Thorne Generation Gap War.  Terry, bless his heart, played the pacifist.  We got to experience teenaged moods because Henry is still a teenager in some ways.  I swear, there were times Henry regressed to being a seven-year-old. 
 
“Here's something you never thought I’d say.  I feel sorry for Marjorie.  She went through years of his teenaged attitude; we've only had to contend with it this week.”
 
“Do remember, she shipped Henry off to Stowe before the full onset of adolescence, and someone else got to deal with most of the angst.  Don’t feel too sorry for her.”
 
We laugh, and she continues.  “They decided to go to the gym one day.  Apparently they started boxing.  Got taped up, gloves, mouthpieces, headgear, everything.  Luckily it was one of Henry's good days.  All I had to contend with when they got home was minor bruising.  That reminds me; I need to add frozen peas and corn to the grocery list.  When Terry tells the story, Henry beat the snot out of him.  Henry says his dad let him win.  Oh, yeah.  There's a trophy.” 
 
She points to a shelf on the wall.  A 6-inch tall, golden boxer on a marble stand is perched next to one of Dee's equestrian trophies; it looks like the boxer is landing the punch on the horse's nose.
 
“Who posed the trophy?”
 
“Terry, of course.  I think Henry is still a little scared of me from the morning we rode together.”  She winces at the memory.  “He was dogging Terry about having to go in, and I kinda chewed him out.  He hasn’t mentioned it again, but I bet it figured prominently in his snotty period.”
 
“How did Henry like the stock show and rodeo?” 
 
“He was impressed.  It took us a while to talk him out of trying his hand at bull riding.  Some of the professional bull riders were standing around out back of the chutes afterwards.  They were trading notes on the bulls.  Henry got to see how taped up they are, and when couple of the bulls got into it through the fences, he changed his mind on trying to ride.
 
“By the way, we watched the team penning competition. It was hilarious.  Calves scattered everywhere.  One little girl was on a pony smaller than most of the herd, but she got in there.  She grabbed her calf by the ear, and the pony dragged him down the arena.  Another horse had apparently never seen bovines of any kind before; we nicknamed him ‘City Slicker.’  His rider couldn’t get him within twenty-five feet of them. 
 
“The reason I bring it up is Terry wants to give it a go.  Do you or Max want to try it with us?  Talk to Max and let me know.  I’ll find us a third horse – one that has some cow sense.
 
“Henry wasn’t impressed with the pig stampede, an unscheduled event.  He thought his dad and I were crazy for turning them.    
 
“I'll have to give him his due.  When we went to the new exhibition opening, he'd paid enough attention to the bull riding that he could talk a good game.  Remember little Linda Thomas?” 
 
I nodded.  When Dee starts telling stories like this, I’m better off letting her go.  Right now I’m just grateful to hear another adult voice and a little time away from Emily …in short, I’m starved for adult company, and that’s a common compliant of new mothers.  We have another month-and–a-half until Emily’s first round of inoculations.  After that we can risk going out more.
 
“She's the first person in Dallas Henry met who's close to his own age.  He totally charmed her.  After we introduced them, Terry and I had the rest of the night on our own.  Were you aware the DMA has some lovely, little nooks?  We had to go find him when we were ready to leave.
 
“We may be seeing a lot more of Henry even though Terry told him on the ride home he wouldn't be funding his long-distance romance.”
 
“I doubt Henry will see much of Linda on his next visit.  Two words – Ron Buckman.  Linda was trying to make Ron jealous.  I had a call from Jaquie Thibault yesterday.  One of the gossip items she had for me was that Linda got her proposal Friday night.”
 
 
TERRY
Henry shows every indication that he's enjoyed his week here; it's gone too quickly for me.  We've gone larking about and had some significant talks.  I've earned back my right to call him ‘Son.’
 
He moves easily amongst the groups in the lounge this afternoon.  He's talking with Nona at the moment I pass on my way to the bar.  I don't like what I overhear.
 
“How long has your dad worked for my dad?”
 
“Dad doesn't work for Terry.  He is Diana's barn manager.”
 
“So, when Diana hooked up with Dad, he bought her this place?”
 
I continue to the bar to freshen my drink, check the library's availability for a private chat, and return to Nona and Henry.  She looks uncomfortable with the conversation.
 
“Nona, Love, I think Dolores is looking for you.” 
 
She smiles at me and takes her leave with “Henry, I'll talk to you later.” 
 
Henry smiles at her retreating back.  Females learn to read social nuances so much earlier than we men do.  Henry has no idea how uncomfortable he was making Nona.
 
“Henry, we need to talk.”  Diana hates that phrase; it always puts her on edge.  Henry has no idea he needs to be paying close attention.  Before he starts to work, Diana and I are bringing him here for political survival training.
 
“Sure, Dad.” 
 
I put my hand on his back, suppressing the urge to throttle him, as I propel him towards the library and indicate to him the sofa is available.  I close the double French doors to keep our voices in and the din out.  This will need to be a quiet chat though I will be pacing in front of him.  I look at the pictures from Stowe to remind myself that I do love the little bugger.
 
“Henry, this is where I can give you some very good advice.  A man's life becomes markedly better when the right woman comes into it.  The right woman has come into mine.  I will not have you disrespect Diana in her own home, not to Nona, not to anyone.”
 
Henry had straightened to attention when he first heard me.  He begins to speak, and I hold up a hand to silence him.  “Not a word.  You will listen to me.  Right now, I'm only annoyed with you; you do not want to make me angry.
 
“You also will not want to say anything remotely negative about Diana in front of her.  That goes for Reags as well.  You are not man enough to take on either of them. 
 
“You will hurt Diana, and I won't have that.  She’ll never tell me, and she'll continue to be nothing but nice to you and then hand you your balls when you least expect it.  I still have hope of being a grandfather some day.  In the far distant future, mind you. 
 
“Now Reags, on the other hand, will flip you and have you pinned before the words have left your mouth.  In a former life, she was in the Army.  Now she's a psychologist.  I don't believe you want her to peel your psyche in front of your face.
 
“If you disrespect Diana again in her own home, I will sic the two of them on you.  You can talk now.”
 
His mouth makes grouper-like movements before he starts his question.  “What did I say that was disrespectful?”
 
“You made an assumption about a woman.  This house, this farm, belonged to Diana before I met her; I moved in with her.  She designed this house.  She made sure she could run the farm by herself without anyone else's help.
 
“Here's the advice.  Never make an assumption about a woman – good or bad.  It will only cause you grief.”
 
“Girls, women, anyone female are a complete mystery to me.”  I nod in agreement; he doesn't need to hear that will be his ongoing condition.  “You said 'the right woman.'  How do I know?  Do I ask a lot of questions?”
 
“Christ, no.  You listen.  Spend your time now dating many, different women.  You know who you are now – what’s important to you.  After you’ve met and spent time with a variety of women who are out there, you can become more selective.
 
“You can consciously have a checklist with your core values or let your subconscious tell you whether the woman shares them with you.  Then one day you’ll wake up and discover you can't imagine your life without her.  She'll make you laugh; she'll infuriate you; she'll challenge you; she'll believe in you.  That's your ‘right’ woman.”
 
 
CELESTE
Nona comes to me with a whispered question that was not a question.  “Mama, I thought Diana and Terry were married.”
 
Junior and I have discussed Terry and Diana's marital state and whether to bring it up with children.  We had decided not to unless they asked.
 
“We will discuss it on the walk home.”  That gives me time to structure the conversation.
 
Terry and a chastened Henry emerge from the library to bid us goodbye.  Junior and the boys gradually draw away from Nona and me.  We have intentionally slowed our steps to give us the room we need for a private conversation.
 
Nona, my curious child, is eager.  “Henry told me that Terry and Diana aren’t married.  They seem married to me.”
 
“They do to me as well, but they aren’t, at least not in the eyes of the Church or under the law.  They are mature adults who have many life experiences.  How they choose to live is none of our business.
 
“They love and care for each other.  They have a stronger relationship than your Auntie Beatrec and Uncle John, at least looking at each relationship from the outside.”
 
I let Nona think about the two relationships.  I am also preparing her for an imminent divorce in the family.  I also take this opportunity while she is receptive to guide her in her own search for a mate.  Too soon she will become the age when anything I say will be rejected, just as I did to my mama.  Her early words remained with me even in my rebellion, however; I can only hope the same will happen with Nona.  I used Mama’s words in choosing the good man I married to my everlasting satisfaction.

“Do you approve of Terry?”  My mama told me what was right; Nona needs to be led.
 
“Oh yes.  When he talks to me, I am his only focus.”  Good.  My Nona looks at the deeper traits, not immediately going to his stunning build and good looks.  There is enough time when she's older for shallowness. 
 
I ask a question I believe will guide her as she grows older and begins looking for the man she will marry.  “Does he talk to you in the same way he talks to Diana?”
 
“Oh, no, Mama.  When he talks to Diana or about her, it's very clear she is the only woman in the world for him.  It's in his eyes and the way he holds himself.  I want a boy to be like that for me.”
 
“No boy will ever be able to do that, Nona.  A man who holds you above all others will look like that.  Remember the way Terry talks to Diana.  Make sure the man you choose looks that way for you.”
 
 
HENRY
This week has been everything I could hope for.  My father accepts me as a man, and I've come to understand my past.  I've come away with a balanced view of Mum and Dad's marriage. 
 
I've also learned a lot about what a happy couple looks like in Diana and Dad.  Even when I was at my most resentful this week, they allowed me my space to work through it.  Neither one of them became angry for themselves, but they set me right when I trod on the other.  I also got something else this week … from the brief time I was with Max and Reagan and Emily, I have an idea of what a happy family should be. 
 
Dad and Diana drop me off at the terminal to check in whilst they park Truck.  Diana encouraged me to call the vehicles by their nicknames to drive Dad mental; I’m eager to comply.  She also doesn’t want me walking too far in my new cowboy boots as she says they aren’t broken in well enough to walk long distances.  They ought to be for all the leather conditioner Diana has worked into them during the quiet evenings we spent at home.  She sat on the floor, leaning on Dad’s legs, whilst his arm was round Holly.  Okie, the little bugger, kept crowding me until I, too, was on the floor where he promptly joined me and stretched out with his back against my leg.
 
The cowboy boots and shirt are my contribution to drive Mum mental when I get home; she will not be pleased.  The plaid shirt with snaps is in my backpack along with the two framed pictures Diana insisted I carry on with me.  She says they are the start to furnishing my own flat.    
 
I don’t consider Diana a parent as she’s not acted that way with me; she’s been a daft aunt, perhaps.  I’ve not left her out of my efforts at annoyance; I’ve not made coffee all week.  She had me sussed the third day, and it’s become a running joke.
 
We meet at the security check-in for our good-byes.  Dad is surprisingly non-verbal as he shakes my hand; he probably has no more words to pull from deep within his soul.  We had a week of talks that I’ve only had with school chums that start late at night and go until dawn.  He pulls me in for the same bear hug with which he welcomed me.  Steadfast.  I’ve a new revelation and trait to identify my dad. 
 
“You have a home whenever you need or want it.”
 
Diana pipes up.  “I need 24-hour notice to clean house, but what your dad says is true.  Anytime.  Whether he’s in town or not. 
 
“I promise next time you come the bedroom will be more masculine.  Peach really doesn’t suit you.”
 
Dad releases me from his hug, and Diana pulls me into her arms.  She stretches up to kiss my cheek, and then lays hers against mine.  I feel wetness on it; Diana must be crying because my misty eyes haven’t overflowed yet. 
 
“I’d like that, Diana.  Dad and I spent so much time together this week, I don’t feel I got to know you properly.  I think I have some misconceptions about you that I’d like to change.  We can also hang out and dream up ways to get one over on Dad.”
 
She tilts her head back to look me in the eyes.  “I’d like that.”  Her sincerity is evident.    
 
I reach out to take Dad’s hand again, and he puts his other on my shoulder.
 
“Thank you both for everything this week.  I understand my background so much better.  I found out who I wanted to be in Aceh.  You fleshed it out for me by being round both of you.
 
“I love you, Dad.”
 
“Love you, too, Son.”
 
My last view of them is Dad with his arm round Diana’s shoulders and her thumb hooked in his belt loop; the two of them are watching me.  I can’t tell where he started and she stopped.  They smile and wave.
 
The last sound I hear from them is “Email when you get home.”
 
 
NOTES

Team Penning	Three riders on horseback wade into a small herd of calves, try to separate out the ones marked with a blue dot sprayed on their sides, and herd them down to a round pen at the arenas other end.
DMA	Dallas Museum of Art

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