Jady

Each day is always the same; at daybreak I emerge from my bed and stand for a moment on the
rich sky— there I am a broad legged little walrus mustache, square hands puffed and muscled
on the palms. My eyes are water, my gray hair under my stetson spiky and weathred; my shirt,
the blue jeans on the porch. I usually hesitate for a shortwhile, then belt it again. The belt
shows by the warm shiny places opposite each hole, the gradual increase of the middle peroid
of my years. When I have the weather I clear its mate closed with my forefinger, blowing
fiercely, then to the barn, rubbing my hands together...
Last night I carried and brushed two horses talking quietly to them all the while and I had the
iron triangle at the ranch house too, the brush and curry comb together and laid them all out
on the rail; breakfast— my actions had become so derliberate and wasteful that when I came to
the house Mrs. Simone was still the triangle. She gravely nodded her grey head at me then
withdrew to the kitchen. Sally Buck the steps was a cow hand and it would be fitting that I
should go first into the room.
I heard Mrs. Simone in the house, my boots, the high jangling note of the triangle boy joy in
motion. I was only little, about ten or so then, with dusty yellow grass in my eyes and a shy
polite grey mouth which worked in thought. The triangle had picked me up out of my sleep. It
did occur to me to disobey the harsh note; I had— no, I know I had before. I brushed the
tangled air out of my eyes and skinned the nightgown. In a moment I saw the dress, blue
chiffon and overalls—late in the summer there were no shoes to bother with—the kitchen
waited until my mother got in front of the sink and let her heart go back into the stove. I
washed myself and brushed back my sticky wet fingers. My mother turned sharply on the sink.
Jady looked shy. ‘I’ve got to cut you before long…’ my mother sighed, ‘go on in so I’ll come’ Jady
sat at the long fabric in some places. The fried eggs lay in rows on their platter. Jady took three
eggs on plate and followed with three thick slices of crisp blood. ‘This won’t hurt you’ Billy’d
explained to her, ‘it’s only a sign the rooster leaves’ Jady’s tall stern father came in Jady from
the noise on the floor, wearing boots. He took her under the table to be sure. He then turned
off the morning light thru the windows. Jady did not ask where father and Billy Buck were riding
that day but she wished she might go along. Her father was dead. Jady obeyed him in
everything without question of any kind; a man needs company besides the dry vial in the
morning. Now, for the egg plater; ‘Got the cows ready to go?’ I’ll ask’ she thought to herself, ‘in
the lower corrals, I’ll take them in alone’. Jady’s mother put her in the door till dark and the
eggs, coffee and dog biscuits rapidly followed the two men out of the house. She watched them
mount their horses and drive six odd milk cows out of the hill towards the old cow butcher.
When they disappeared the crown of the ridge of the hill fell back over the house. The dogs
trotted about on their hind legs hunching their shoulders and grinning horribly. She followed
them in her mind for too long then cursed herself for it, soon after she patted the double tree
mutt with the big thick tail and yellow eyes; her shepherd, who had killed a coyote once and
lost an ear in it. After the frenzy the dogs lowered their noses to the ground in a business like
way and went ahead looking back now and then to make sure that the boys were coming. They
walked up thru the yard and saw the quail eating the chickens. Jady chased the little practice in
case there should ever be joy, continuing thru her till higher than her head, then green and
small, over the verdant mossy wood where the water tasted best.