New Way to Fly

Gradually consciousness replaced the dream. Pain flowed in, the old dull ache that was now so much a part of Mary Gibson’s life. The ostriches faded, pushed aside by memories of the party at the Double C.

Mary moaned and rolled over in bed, pulling the pillow over her head, trying to shut out the images of her neighbors’ pitying faces and tactfully averted glances, of Billie Jo Dumont’s smug grin and lush swaying hips. Worst of all was the memory of Mary herself, actually agreeing to look at clothes with that glamorous television lady…

“God help me, I must be crazy,” Mary whispered aloud into the muffling depths of the pillow. “What on earth could I have been thinking about? What do I need stylish clothes for?”

She rolled over again, and lay staring at the ceiling, thinking about Amanda Walker’s dark classic beauty and her calm sweet air.

Mary admired women who managed to look perfect on all occasions. Mary herself always felt, even when she did dress up, that there was something not quite right, something hanging or bunching or fitted wrong, something smeared or rumpled or clashing with something else.

Of course, she thought, moving restlessly in the wide lonely bed and gazing up at the ceiling, she’d never had much chance to learn how to dress and make herself up. She’d been married at nineteen, and life had been such a struggle in those early years that there was no money for a young ranch wife to think about getting herself rigged up fashionably.

Still, she and Al had been so happy in those days. They spent their time working and building, laughing together in the sunshine, playing with their little girl….

Tears stung in Mary’s eyes and burned hotly against her cheeks. She snatched a tissue from the bedside table and dabbed at her face impatiently, disgusted with herself. “I’ve done enough crying,” she muttered aloud, a habit she’d acquired since the dreadful day when they’d taken Al away. “I’m not going to cry anymore, dammit.”

But it was hard not to cry when she remembered all the pain and confusion. Thirty-five years of marriage, Mary thought bleakly. All those years of planning and building and loving and caring, washed away in a single moment by a car swallowed up in the dust.

She hadn’t been to the jail to visit him, and she didn’t know if she ever wanted to, though she’d gotten a couple of letters from him begging her to come, telling her that they needed to discuss urgent business about the ranch.

“Can you imagine Bubba Gibson sitting in prison?” the neighbors were whispering to one another. “Bubba Gibson, locked away in some little ol’ jail cell, with nothing to look at but four walls?”

And Mary tried sometimes, but she just couldn’t. When she pictured her husband he was always outdoors somewhere, striding across the sun-warmed grass in big booted feet or riding out among his cattle herd, casting a fishing line into the river or standing on a hillside in the sunset with the autumn wind riffling his hair.

He deserves every single thing that’s happened to him, Mary thought defensively. He brought it all on himself, and now he’s paying, just like he should.

At least he recognized that, she reflected morosely. He’d refused J.T.’s offer to bail him out, saying he deserved his punishment and he’d take it like a man. Or so J.T. had told her later. But Martin had insisted on ensuring he’d gotten a speedy trial, with the eligibility of parole for good behaviour, especially in light of the fact he’d testified against that horrible man who actually made it his business to murder innocent animals.