CW: domestic violence, physical abuse, implied sexual assault, implied rape
You’re sitting on hot metal stands wondering how you got here. Not the physical here of Dry Cactus Rodeo Arena or Benson, Arizona, but your path in life—31 and married, wearing long sleeves and jeans in 115-degree rodeo heat because you’re trying to cover up the abuse-bruises on your body.
The cause of the bruises: your husband, Chase Waters. You met him two years ago at a bar called Archillo Ranch in New York City. Chase drifted out of the hazy light like a figure in a dream, so cowboy cliché he looked like your imagination got lazy. His button-down was a foggy green and unbuttoned so you could see the hollows of his collar bones. His belt buckle was so brassy it was almost assaulting. Chase’s boots were the worst of it. They were brown leather with metal studs outlining their shape. He sounded like he was wearing high heels when he walked up to you.
He asked, “Can I buy you a drink?”
Right away, you heard the tang of a Southern accent on his tongue like the aftertaste of barbeque sauce. You thought it was fake at first.
“What are you doing in the city?” you asked. A fresh drink was sweating in your hand and you were sweating too. You felt a monumental moment approaching. Chase gave you a lopsided smile that burned through the haze of the bar.
“What is a guy like me always around for?” he asked.
You shrugged and said you didn’t know, but it was a lie. Chase looked like a guy who showed up just when you didn’t want him to.
“I’m only here for one more night.”
You remember thinking how perfect the temporariness of the situation was; you were only in New York City for one more night, too. You were on a weekend trip with a friend you don’t talk to anymore. Chase was supposed to be a one-night stand, but in his hotel room, the conversation sparked like it had in the bar. You experienced hours turned loose and stretched out thin until everything bled together and you were in a cab with him on the way to the airport, making out in the backseat like you were teenagers with nowhere to be.
Chase left for Arizona. “Text me,” you said. You expected he wouldn’t, but he did text you. Almost two years of your relationship with him was conducted through text and phone calls, aside from the occasional airplane visit—that’s how he hid so much from you while you were dating. Everyone told you that it was crazy to trust a man you’d only met a few times in person, but you felt like you were in some death-dive with Chase; your fates were interlocked so tightly, neither could survive without the other. How were you supposed to know that one day, you would move to Benson, Arizona and understand how a bruise can match the color palette of a sunrise?
You’ve been married to Chase for five years and still don’t understand where his behavior comes from, if he’s acted this way towards past girlfriends, or if there’s something about you that makes him turn sour. Over broken glass, Chase always says, I didn’t mean it. You feel sorry for the things he breaks. You’ve begun to believe that everything has a spirit that can be broken. When you see an object he shattered all over the floor, you see cracked turtle shells and broken promises. When he breaks into a rage over something you did or didn’t do, you aren’t afraid anymore. You’re comfortable with the darkness of his spirit.
I’m so sorry, he says. I didn’t mean it.
But you know he does; every blow Chase lands is done with precision—he never hits you in the face, ankles, or wrists. No evidence of battering can be seen if clothing inches out of place. On the other hand, you strike first without looking. That hairdryer you threw hit him in the shoulder, but you were aiming for his face, or at least his neck. Chase has bruises from you, too. He calls you City Girl when you hit him, even though you’re from the part of New York where apple farmers sell their crop to McDonald’s. At night, when Chase removes his cowboy costume, you see the blossoms of purple left on his skin and pride slithers through you. In those bare-skin moments, you are attracted to him in a way you can’t explain. You take time to kiss his bruises.
After these breaches of affection, he’ll mumble into your hair, I love you like crazy. You don’t believe him. A tongue can twist like a body; you fake it on nights when Chase grabs you too soon after a fight and begins to work his way under your pajamas.
“Virginia! Look!” says your friend, Queenie. You see her scrambling up the stands holding a cardboard box full of nachos and waving a packet of something—obviously food. She left a half hour ago to go to the concession stand while you sat and ruminated, sometimes looking out at the arena. Aside from the empty barrels and bullpens, the arena looks like a giant grassless football field. They even have sponsors like DeWalt, Jack Daniels, and Ford. You’re on the top seats of the stadium, far enough away to get caught in the flash of blinking camera lights. You have a decent view of the arena, but everything happening below looks small to you. A giant screen positioned straight ahead of you is your best chance to catch the action. Right now, the screen is showing the bullfighters that are hanging on the metal rungs of the pens. Once the rider falls off, the bullfighters are responsible for distracting the bull so the rider can scramble out of the arena. The first bull is already out. He’s jumping and jerking against the metal gate, fighting to get out in the open. His horns are shaved down to dull points. It feels wrong to you, like a censored image.
Queenie sits down next to you and throws something into your lap. You pick up the packet.
“Peanuts?” you say.
“Yes! Virginia peanuts!” says Queenie. She sounds so excited, it knocks you off-balance. When was the last time you were excited about something as small as peanuts?
“They share your name,” says Queenie, still not satisfied with your reaction.
“They’re great,” you say. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Queenie says. She gives your thigh a little squeeze. Her thumb hits a bruise; she doesn’t know. No one does, although there are a couple people who know more than they should. You work as a caretaker, and sometimes when you’re helping an elderly person out of the bath, they cling to you so tightly that your shirt ekes up just right to reveal the bruises on your back. They catch sight of the rotten blossoms in their bathroom mirrors. You can tell what they’ve seen by the looks on their faces. They never expect it.
I know, you want to say. I can’t believe it either.
You could run away. You’ve gotten used to Arizona enough to where you think you could navigate home, or at least someplace Chase would never think to look. You could bury yourself in the sand and hide out like all the other secrets of culture and poison hidden in Arizona’s landscape. But even if you do run away and take precautions and cover your tracks, you still think Chase would find you. He always catches you, no matter the locks on the doors or the space between you.
Best to stay put and sweat in the stands with the rest of the wives and young sons watching their daddies ride bulls. This is Arizona; there’s money to be won from bull riding. That’s why Chase and Eddie, Queenie’s husband, signed up. This is their first rodeo, ever. Before today, they’ve never even seen a bull up-close. They’ve been taking turns on Eddie’s American quarter horse, Minnie. One of them heats up an iron poker and then slaps her thigh while the rider holds on tight.
It’s the same as riding a bull, said Chase. But you’re not so sure. You’ve been eyeing the bullpen and even from here, you can see that it’s not true.
“How do you think they’re going to do, Queenie?” You’re curious now. You’ve seen bulls on television, but never up-close. The bullfighters look so tiny next to the animal. When you see it knock against the gate, you’re sure the bull is going to break free.
“I think Eddie is going to be on his ass in less than two seconds,” says Queenie. “Chase might last a little longer.”
“But this is dangerous, isn’t it?” you ask. Something crunches; you look down at the peanuts and realize you’ve been squeezing the package to death.
“Very dangerous. But you know Chase and Eddie. They think they’re invincible,” says Queenie. “I was telling Eddie just last Thursday that he should consider doing something safer than construction. He’s not twenty anymore, you know?”
Queenie says more after that, but you’ve stopped listening. Dangerous—very dangerous. Think of the way Chase could be thrown from the back of the bull’s body. Think of how his bones would crumble if kicked just right. Those bulls are full of raw power, and you have this gut-belief that beast beats man, especially when the beast has a reputation for gouging men in places that cause them to bleed to death.
“Look at the size of that bull,” says Queenie. “He’s got to be about 1,000 pounds.”
“Bigger than that,” you say. Your voice sounds unfamiliar to you, more solid than it has in months. The bull probably weighs almost 2,000 pounds. An entire ton of force crushing down on a ribcage is enough to break it open and pop organs. Chase is quick; he catches you every time. But four legs are better than two skinny ones tripping over furniture.
“Honey, you’re sweating,” says Queenie. She’s crunching her nachos and looking at you. You feel sweat slide down your neck in a way that makes you shiver.
“I’m fine,” you say. Only, you’re not. Images of chunky, bloody dirt are splattered across your mind. It all looks like roadkill, something you see a lot of in Arizona.
“You know, if I had your figure, I wouldn’t dress like Wednesday Adams,” Queenie says.
“I’m comfortable like this,” you say.
Above, speakers crackle to life. You look up at the sound and listen to the voice explode from the paint-chipped speaker.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer says. “My name is Hank Sommers and I’m pleased to be here with you this afternoon at the 5th annual Dry Cactus Amateur Rodeo Contest!”
The announcer rattles off the rules of the rodeo. The riders are being judged by PRCA standards. That means both the riders and their bull will get a score. The goal is to get as close to 100 points as possible.
“First bull ride is Timothy Clarke versus Buckeye,” says the announcer.
You watch as the first rider gets set below. He’s wearing a protective helmet with a face guard. On the screen above the arena, you can see that he’s adjusting a mouth guard. Already, this man is more prepared than Chase. The only type of protective gear Chase is wearing are chaps, but they’re only for dramatic flair.
The bell goes off and the gate opens. Timothy has one hand up, the other gripping a hank of rope around Buckeye’s shoulders. Buckeye twists, jerks, and pivots on his hooves. The announcer compliments Buckeye’s technique as if he were purposefully trying to knock Timothy off-balance. Timothy does wind up slipping off of Buckeye’s back around the three-second mark. He falls, picks himself up, and scrambles out of the way. The other bullfighters go after Buckeye, trying to corral him into an empty stall on the other side of the stadium. Timothy limps off to a quieter side of the arena. It’s a well-rehearsed exchange where all parties understand their roles. Timothy’s eyes are hopeful as he watches his score displayed: 50.8. The bull scored higher than him. Timothy hangs his head at his score, then disappears into the backstage arena.
“An honest start to amateur rodeo,” says the announcer. “Let’s give Timothy a round of applause for his efforts. Next up, Hartwick Granger.”
Hartwick does worse than Timothy. The bull, Gremlin, steps on his wrist after he falls off. One of the bullfighters has to help him walk off the field.
You’re on the edge of your seat the entire time. This is the first time you’ve seen men flung around. They fall to the floor of the arena gracelessly; their faces speak hurt. Chase always seems solid to you, an impenetrable fortress of bone, muscle, and flesh who laughs at you even if you do manage to land a good slap to his face. But seeing the way the bull throws around these men is both frightening and exhilarating. Watching it gives you sick excitement.
Queenie says, “People are getting injured.”
“Yes, they are,” you whisper.
Queenie is about to run to the concession stand when the announcer says, “Eddie Vance is up next!”
Queenie sits back down and wraps her meaty hands around your arm. Her grip sparks your bruises. You uncurl her fingers and hold her hands in your lap.
What is the likelihood that in a few hours, maybe even minutes, you’ll be on the road to meet Chase at the hospital when in fact you suddenly veer off and take I-40 East all the way across the country to New York?
A conversation, spoken in the dark a week ago:
I’m sorry I hit you, said Chase.
I’m sorry you did too, you said. You felt his hands then, through the sheets. He caught your torso, and for a moment, you didn’t dare breathe for fear that your ribs would crack against his strength. He let you go the next second. His hands settled on your waist.
I get so angry, said Chase. I don’t know why.
Our chemistry is bad, you said. You’ve begun to believe it, that you’re no longer good for each other the way you were that night in New York City.
Maybe it is, Chase said. But I love you like crazy.
Crazy like believing that there is nowhere else for you except by his side. Crazy like risking your life for money. Crazy like dreaming one day, all the bad times with Chase will be behind you. For whatever reason, you’re glued to his side like a mouse in a snake’s belly. There doesn’t seem to be anything else to ask yourself except if today is the day everything is going to change.
The buzzer sounds and you turn back to the rodeo, back to the sound of hissing bugs and the hot smell of manure, so strong you can taste it at the back of your throat. Eddie is out of the gate and the bull is rocking him.
Beside you, Queenie is moaning.
“Oh my god,” says Queenie. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
“It’ll be okay.”
“I don’t know. Guys are getting pummeled.”
“It’ll be fine.”
“Oh my god, Eddie!” says Queenie. You look at the arena and see Eddie twisting on the ground, holding his stomach. You hadn’t noticed the sparkles on his vest in the parking lot, but now they’re clear as stars. The bullfighters hustle to drag Eddie out of the arena to safety. The rest of the bullfighters shoo the bull over to the pen to prepare for the next rider: Chase.
“Hold these,” Queenie says. She shoves the leftover nacho box into your unanimated hands. The cheese is cold and congealed, the box as soggy as the chips it holds. Queenie leaves you in the stands and flies down the steps. You watch her run around the circular track of the stands until she reaches the bullpen where the bullfighters are working. You can imagine the conversation:
“Is Eddie okay?”
“Who?”
“The rider who just went down, what do you mean ‘who’?”
On and on this merry-go-round of a conversation goes until Queenie finally works her way to the backstage arena. Over the loudspeaker, the announcer says, “We hope Mr. Vance is all right.”
You’re glad she’s gone. Now you can sit here in these beer-sticky stands and wait with baited breath to see whether your husband will be bucked off and trampled or lead the scoreboards as he thought he might.
The announcer doesn’t miss a beat at Eddie’s injury. He calls out, “Chase Waters takes the arena!” You see him come out backstage with his fists pumping as if he’s already won.
“Mr. Waters says this is his first time riding a bull in his life,” says the announcer. “Pretty bold move, Chase. Let’s see how you do.”
Yes, let’s see, you think. You can’t help it—you stand. Chase plops himself down on the bull, Harley. Chase steadies himself on the bull. You can see the concentration on his face even from the stands. You hold your breath, pushing your heartbeat to the surface of your neck.
The buzzer sounds and the gate opens. Harley bursts into the arena, bucking his hind legs. Harley moves so fast, you’re having trouble keeping track of Chase. You can’t see his face anymore because his body is a blur. He looks like a doll being shaken by a dog. There’s something inhuman about his body, the way it jerks as if all the bones have suddenly dissolved. The clock reads two seconds. Chase bumps up and down on the back of the bull, and then he slumps and slips from the bull’s back. His hand is still tucked into the rope, but his body is limp. A shot on the screen shows Chase with his eyes closed. The announcer is silent on the events, but you know something is wrong. The bullfighters swarm the bull. One brave bullfighter gets close enough to grab hold of Chase’s hand and untucks it from the rope. Untethered, Chase slides to the ground. The bullfighter pulls Chase out of the way of hooves. Chase lies still on the ground. The bullfighters shoo the bull into the empty pen. A silence overtakes the stadium.
“It appears Mr. Waters was knocked unconscious when he and the bull’s head collided,” says the announcer. You half-hear the words. They sound so unreal, spoken aloud.
“Dr. Tuttle and the medical team of Dry Cactus Rodeo Arena are coming out on the field to assist Mr. Waters,” says the announcer. Men dressed in jeans and cowboy hats get down on their knees in the dirt. One of them carries a stretcher, another a big black duffel bag. You guess those are the medics. On the fuzzy screen of the arena, you watch these men crowd around Chase. Your husband disappears. Your eyes are peeled so wide, they start to burn. Blink, you remind yourself. A medic preps a stretcher for Chase. You can’t see what’s happening. Somewhere in the crowd, a baby starts to cry. You touch the birth control implant in your arm. Feeling the small bump calms you down, at least for a second. Your heart jumps when the screen shows Chase’s foot twitch. The medics help him up slowly, one under each arm. The crowd cheers. They start chanting his name—Chase, Chase, Chase!—as if he were a hero. Chase stands up, assisted by several medics. The crowd goes wild. Hearing his name on their lips makes the skin on the back of your neck tighten.
“The medics have allowed Chase to walk off the field under his own power,” says the announcer. “Getting knocked out by a bull isn’t an easy thing to walk off. You’re a tough son of a gun, Chase.”
You pull your bag from underneath the seat and sling it over your shoulder. There is a bustling crowd around you, but you feel completely frozen until you realize you’ve taken to crunching the packet of peanuts again. The next steps you take are cautious, as if you’re unsure of the strength in your feet. You creep down the metal stands, half-thinking someone is going to grab a hank of your hair and yank you back into place. No one does.
You reach the bottom of the steps and spread your feet as if you’re going to run away, but something holds you in place: the sound of Queenie’s voice, rising above the audience’s cheers, the dirt-packed clomp of hoofs, bullfighters clanging the metal pens. You hear her call your name.
“Virginia!” she says. You feel the vibrations of her heavy footsteps. You look at her. Queenie’s face is in shambles. Her face is red and sweaty and her sparkly purple eyeliner is smeared down her cheek. She must’ve brushed tears away just seconds ago.
“What?” you ask. The venom in your voice shocks her, but she snaps back like the world’s best rubber band.
“The doctor said Chase has a traumatic brain injury,” says Queenie. “They’re taking x-rays now. You need to see him.”
Need. I need to see him like I need a hole in the head, you think. Just a small hole, to let some of the pressure out. Your head feels like a hundred-pound balloon cemented to an old metal post.
Queenie leads you to the backstage of the arena. She takes you down a small flight of steps and then through a tunnel. The floor is dirt, and it smells like earth underneath the stadium. There’s a heavy scent of wet animal, too. It reminds you of spring in New York, where it rains heavy every afternoon. Bullfighters cross your path, barricading you from Queenie. They can’t see you because of the rims of their cowboy hats. You stagger to keep up with her. She manages to barrel through, no matter the crowd. When she notices you’ve fallen behind, she waits and grabs you. The pressure in her hands takes your breath away.
Queenie stops at a red door. To the left of the door, you see a little blue plaque with a white cross on it. Underneath the cross is braille lettering. If you knew how to trace the delicate dots, you’re sure they would read “MEDIC.” Queenie opens the door and strides in. She pushes you inside the room and shuts the door behind you. The little room is cramped, with one fluorescent light fixture that works too hard and threatens to burn out your eyes if you look too closely. Eddie is there, and he’s in a wheelchair. Chase is there, too. He’s asleep, or half-asleep; it’s hard to tell. Chase has a habit of mumbling when he’s dreaming. Still, you have trouble looking at him. You concentrate on the outline of his toe underneath the blanket.
“Mrs. Waters?”
The doctor is speaking to you. You look up at him, and feel a twist in your gut. The doctor is impeccably clean, the corners of his beard razor-sharp. Even from under the shade of his hat, his eyes are a shade of blue that seems too clear. It looks like he saw something that shocked the irises right out of him.
“Can I talk with you outside?” the doctor asks.
“Sure,” you say.
“We’ll be right here for you when you get back,” says Eddie. He smokes two packs of cigarettes a day, and his voice sounds grated, like it never makes it out of his throat. You try to smile, but it’s hard. You feel awkward, unsure of what to do or where to be. You follow the doctor back out into the hallway of the arena. Before the door closes, you catch sight of Queenie and Eddie hovering over Chase as if they are afraid they will catch sight of his spirit leaving his body.
“Mrs. Waters, I’ll be frank. Your husband is seriously injured,” says the doctor.
“There’s nothing you can do about it,” you say. “He just needs rest. Can I take him home?”
The doctor shakes his head.
“His injury has made him confused,” the doctor says. “He thinks he’s in Kentucky.”
“That’s where he grew up,” you say. Your tone sounds flat, even to your ears.
“After taking X-rays, we’ve determined that he’ll be transported to a proper facility where he can be monitored while he returns to full function.”
“You have the address?”
“Wouldn’t you like to sit with him in the ambulance?” asks the doctor.
You almost bark out a laugh, but you hold back.
“No, that’s fine. I’ll take my car. Just the address, please.”
The doctor tells you where to go. It’s a hospital five minutes from the arena. How convenient.
“Are you sure you’re safe to drive?” asks the doctor. “It seems like you’re in shock.”
“Of course I’m in shock,” you say. “I never thought this would happen.”
The doctor looks like he has something else to say, but you’re out of patience. You quickly thank him, and then move down the hall of the arena, barreling through the clogged hallways of the arena’s underbelly until you burst into the dusty stadium. The entrance, labeled so clearly, is your destination. You run, and you don’t stop running until you’re in danger of running into your car.
You throw yourself into the driver’s seat. The doctor said Chase is confused. His brain was so rattled, it knocked him all the way back to his teenage years when he was living on a ranch in Kentucky.
Everything was so green, Chase would say. Not like here. In Benson, everything feels like the life has been scorched out of it.
The sound of sirens seeps through your windows. From the driver’s seat, you catch sight of the ambulance barreling down the road. You know Chase is strapped in the back, rocking with every road bump. For once, it isn’t you taking care of him. At work, you scrub the backs of elderly people and you think of Chase as some old, wizened cowboy. You’re still the one looking out for him, making sure he’s eating and taken care of. But now, you think of him in a different scenario; you think of him with someone else, maybe a young woman like you who’s just trying to make a living. You imagine this young woman sitting across from Chase, who is so old, he doesn’t even look like himself anymore. In your head, he’s telling the girl a story. It begins: I once had a wife who I loved like crazy.
From there, the story branches. You hear the girl ask, What happened to her? Chase sighs and rubs his weak lips together. His responses overlap each other. There are two options. You died or you left.
You feel something hot and wet roll down your cheek, and even before you touch it, you know it’s a tear: palpable rodeo heat humidity. You keep dreaming that when men love hard, sacrifices are made in the hopes that one day, the hardness will soften like clay washed with water. You press your forehead into the steering wheel and tell yourself to pull it together. You can’t sit here forever, deciding whether you should go to the hospital or leave Chase. A decision needs to be made, but you’re still not sure, so you take the next closest step and pull out of the parking space. You pull out of the lot as slow as you can, putting off the journey to the end of the road.
You make the left turn onto the path that leads to Willow Road, which will take you to an exit that will bring you onto I-40 East, to the hospital or New York. You’re nearing the end of the dirt road, coming up to the stop sign. The car has a half-tank of gas, but your back-left tire is a little low on air. Maybe you should stop and fill it up before you decide. If you ever decide. If you keep driving, the bruises on your legs will begin to hurt; you’ll think of Chase.
It’s too late and too early to decide. You’ve reached the end of the road. You pull up to the stop sign, put on your right blinker, and wait for an opening in traffic.