Reflections - cover2

A Journey not Measured in Miles - Rash
The thought of those letters even now, years later, still cut him like a hot knife. Why had she married him if she loved another? How could she
hurt someone who loved her so much? Maybe he wasn’t quick with words or poetry, but he loved her more than he could understand or explain.
The things he wanted to tell her never found voice; he always felt awkward and clumsy in her presence – like a servant addressing a master.
They had patched their lives back together after the letter incident, mainly because she was pregnant, but also because there was no other choice.
The possibility of divorce was never even mentioned; it was an unthinkable alternative. After the birth of the little girl, they had a mutual focus
other than their own relationship, so their lives assumed an appearance of normality. But they were never happy; there was never a warm peace
between them. She always wanted something more than he could give her, and she seemed to take a perverse pleasure in making him aware of
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what she considered his inadequate attempts to provide for his family.
During the war years, jobs were plentiful in Ft. Worth, so they moved there with the new baby and Walter went to work in the Stockyards. She
suddenly became obsessed with the idea of buying a house. It was obvious that on Walter’s salary and in the uncertainty of the wartime economy
this was neither affordable nor practical. Nevertheless, she was determined to have a house and promptly found a clerical job in the ration office.
Within six months, she had her house.
Walter remembered that house only too well; it was like a dead chicken she had tied around his neck to remind him that because of her efforts, her
sacrifice, her skills, her money, they owned a house – with no thanks to him. Her attitude made it clear that had he been any kind of man at all, he
would have provided the house for her. From that point on, she assumed the position that if she wanted anything other than the barest necessities
for herself and the child, she would have to provide them.
“P.O’d,” he thought again and pulled himself painfully up the fence and onto the catwalk. He wanted to make one last count before he went inside
to the ring to begin settling in the “canners and cutters.” He looked out across the countryside again. From this high vantage point, he could see in
all directions. He saw a cloud of dust on the dirt road that lead to the sale barn. It was moving rapidly. Suddenly, as if outrunning the dust that
was chasing it, a big black Cadillac roared into view. The knot in his stomach twisted and coiled. It was Rash.
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Rash eased the big black Cadillac into a space close to the front entrance of the sale barn. The run was light today, judging from the scant number
of pick-ups and cars out front and the few empty cattle trucks parked over by the pens -- more sellers than buyers. He thought of Walter and his
chest tightened in anxiety for him. A big note on the sale barn was coming due soon, and he dreaded the scene they would have to play in his office.
He liked this man. His pursuit of Walter's wife in no way diminished his feeling for the man himself -- one had little to do with the other. Beyond
simply liking him, he respected his remarkable knowledge of cattle, his simple decent honesty and lack of affectation. He understood him in a very
fundamental way, for they were much alike, these two. Some men, regardless of the hand they hold, know how to play the cards. Others are
Opposite, Harriett's father and Jassamine's husband, Walter
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