A Little Black Book

Carrie Pepper [email protected]

Word Count: 942

916-342-5668

Secret at the Swingin’ E

The road ribboned out in front of them, leading toward a blackening horizon. Silvery storm clouds drifted over weathered snow fences and pale green sagebrush. As the landscape rushed past, Tanner longed to take photos and repeatedly asked her husband to pull over—always met with, “We don’t have time to stop. It’s Wyoming; there’s nothing out here anyway.” She gathered all the cassette tapes and angrily flung them onto the floor, breaking most of the plastic cases. I WANT TO STOP she yelled, tears welling up. Reluctantly, he pulled over.

Tanner climbed out of the car and walked straight toward the snow fence, leaning against rough boards, watching clouds puff up in the distance like steam train trails; tears ran down her cheeks as a cold prairie wind blew into her face. She thought of her mother who’d grown up out here in the middle of nowhere, on a flat, barren ranch, tending sheep and working harder than any little girl should have to. The tears came even harder. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve, remembering something she’d read once about how ancestor’s spirits come on the wind and wondered if her mother could feel her there.

At the base of the fence post she saw something green half-buried in the dirt and kicked it with toe of her boot until she loosened it. Of all things, it was a tattered, weathered dollar bill. She wondered where it might have come from, who could’ve dropped it—from how far away it could’ve blown. She tucked it into her pocket thinking of her mother and feeling her spirit even more now.

When the oil company offered her uncle a price he couldn’t pass up for his land, even though he loved the ranch, he knew he’d sell. All the kids got their share, $20,000 each. Her mother had gotten hers as well, but for the life of her, Tanner had never seen her mother spend a penny of it; her father told her she’d squandered it on liquor and cigarettes. She’d believed her father but now, thinking back, she knew better. Her mother just wouldn’t do that; she would’ve done something with the money—something to keep it from her father, the husband who made her life miserable. She recalled all the arguments, lying on the bedroom floor listening through the heat grate to them downstairs, all the accusations, the name calling, telling her she was a drunk—and worse. But her sweet mother never lashed back, never flung out a harsh word. Ever.

As the tears on her cheeks dried in the wind, she again felt the spirit of her mother. She thought of that old tattered suitcase and the little black leather notebook inside. She’d thought of tossing them so many times, but kept putting them back in the closet. There was a reason she’d kept them and she was going to look through them more closely. She’d endure the rest of the trip, then take a long hard look at her life—and her future.

She bumped across the cattle crossing in her SUV rental, and sat listening to the wind. It was just coming into spring and the wildflowers bloomed in a pallet of color—red Indian Paintbrush, purple thistle, yellow sage. There was nothing left of the ranch where her mother grew up, nothing but piles of rotted wood from the barn and outbuildings. She pulled her mom’s tiny black notebook from her pocket. She’d never really paid much attention to the book; it was full of old names and phone numbers, so old that most had passed long ago. Still, she kept it as one of her mother’s precious keepsakes. On the inside cover, there was something—very faint—drawn on the now yellowed paper. It was a sketch of the brand from her mother’s ranch. She’d told her the story—they called it the swingin’ E—and here, in her mother’s hand, was a tiny sketch of the E dangling on the crossbar above the gate. Behind the last page, barely visible, was a tiny fold-out compartment. She took a nail file from her purse and gently opened the flap; inside was a note: Dear Tanner, I tried to take care of you but your father made it so hard; I know you thought I didn’t love you but I loved you more than life itself. Do you remember the money from the sale of our land, the money your father told you I’d wasted? Well, sweetheart, I took that and I put it away for you; I knew that when the time was right, with a little luck and God on my side, you’d find this note. I know you always loved Wyoming and I prayed you’d come looking. Go and see Mr. Pruitt at the bank in town; if he’s passed, I’m sure his son has taken over. He’ll take care of you. I love you honey, I just couldn’t stand up to your father.

Love,

Mom

Tanner looked up at the crossbar, imagining the E dangling there and for a millisecond thought she smelled her mother’s Cashmere Bouquet powder.

A storm was brewing and she leaned on the fence, smelling rain sweeping across the prairie, alfalfa on the wind, clean and sweet, loving the stark smoothness of the wide open land. Tears coursed down her cheeks as she shivered in summer clothes, imagining her mother riding bareback, holding the reins in supple hands that wouldn’t feel the slightest sign of arthritis for some 50 more years. Their lives had been running parallel and she was just now beginning to realize it.