My One Regret

The wooden bridge spanning the crick made a hollow, lonesome sound as I walked across the weather-beaten, cracked and grayed cedar. My little Remington 20-guage shotgun rested on my shoulder, the black walnut stock worn smooth from years of use.

The sun was a golden orb still hidden behind the mountains to the east, somewhere only my imagination could take me. I paid it little attention, much less the time of day it was. Five am was a time of day I rarely saw. In the event I did manage to pry my sorry *** out of bed, I would be found staring bleary-eyed out the window from behind a cup of strong, hot, black coffee. This morning was different. One of my customary strolls down memory lane was long past due.

I made my way past the lake, slowing only slightly to give my old fishing waters a glance of longing. A boy, about eleven or twelve sat out on the old T dock, the dock nobody but me had ever liked to fish from. He cast out a line, one of many spoons in a succession of lures that would fail to attract even the dumbest of rainbows or browns. He looked up at my sudden appearance, and gave me a crooked grin. As I passed by, the boy from my memory faded into the mist, along with the dock that had been torn out not too long after that beautiful morning. All that remained of the memory was the calm, timeless, glassy surface of the pre-dawn waters.

I made my way up the slight hill and across the cattle guard that had filled up with dirt in the property’s neglect. Not that it mattered. Cattle were a rarity in these pastures, ever since the place shut down. The only cattle that ever set foot on this property were the ones that managed to break down the fence from the Stateline Ranch side.

I stopped at the three way split in the road and closed my eyes. The wind was in my face as I screamed down the road on the old Suzuki King Quad four wheeler. I slid around the bend, trying to drift the whole thing without flipping. I downshifted into second, opening the throttle wide, revving the engine and breaking the back tires loose. Sliding sideways around the curve, I strained to keep the machine in control. I hit the stupid drainage ditch that Bill had put in to keep the road from eroding, and opened my eyes. I was stationary again, staring unseeingly at the ground. Lifting my head, I readjusted my gun on my shoulder and started walking up the middle road.

Cresting the small hill, I gazed out across the still-asleep herds of cattle scattered on the distant pastures. A few early-rising birds chirped out, hesitantly, as if to not break the early morning hush. My boots on the dirt road was the only other sound to be heard. Down the other side of the gentle hill, I saw the spot where I’d chosen to give Oscar, our old bull, an eight second chance to feel like a PBR brahma bull. I’d hopped on his back, and he just looked at me with an inquisitive eye, then gone back to his cud.
As I bottomed out on the shallow valley, the dew-soaked buffalo grass turned the light Montana dust on my boots to dark mud. I jumped when the sound of an ATV whined out of a large hole in the ground a few yards off. A seventeen year old boy wearing a black cowboy hat came slipping and sliding up over the edge of the cow pond. His lanky frame wore mud soaked clothes that were more than likely clean when he left the house. He jumped when he saw me standing there, then gave a sheepish grin and spun a few donuts, sending mud flying high into the air.

“Bill forgot t’ shut the spring down all the way an’ I got the four wheeler stuck,” he said. I mouthed along with the same words I’d rehearsed to my grandmother when she demanded to know how I got so dirty. I’d actually gone back up after Bill had shut off the stock tank and opened it halfway to get the cow pond muddy again. Then the boy zoomed away over the hill behind me to a tongue lashing that would make a person bleed.

I pushed on, determined to make my sunrise arrival at my destination. I stopped only for a few seconds to admire the work I’d done on the gate pull that had snapped off at the chain attachment.. I’d welded up a new one, and was pleased to see that it held firm, even after all these years. Passing through the gates, I took a few deep breaths at what I knew would greet me just around the next turn.

I came around the bend, tight faced and my stomach turning somersaults. I saw an old red Bronco parked next to the stock tank. Dual CB whips sprouted off the back bumper, each of them sporting a Barbie head at the tip of the nine foot length. A peeling bumper sticker on the back window featured a rebel flag with the words “Cowgirl Up” emblazoned in black across it.

A boy wearing the same old cowboy hat sat on a downed log next to a girl wearing a black hat, spaghetti strap shirt and tight jeans, with battered work gloves wadded up in her hands. Both their boots were caked with mud and cowpies all the way up to their knees. The boy was telling the already shiny-faced girl a story, no doubt about something him and his redneck buddy had done that ended in near-peril. Tears were running down her cheeks by the time he finished, hand clamped over her mouth as if to cover up how funny she thought it was. It was obvious he was taken with her, I could tell by the way he looked at her.

I tip-toed past, as if trying to not impose on the memory that already burned like a beacon in my head. I hiked up the hill, the butterflies in my stomach growing into moths, fluttering around with no other intent than increase my discomfort. My hand had a white knuckle grip on the rifle stock. My breath was coming in ragged gasps, less from the walking, more from the anticipation of what lay ahead. I trekked through the woods, abandoning all attempts at a silent approach to the hallowed ground. Sticks cracked under my boots, tree branches snagged on my clothing, and my breathing was a few decibels short of a cold diesel engine.

I stopped at the ridge next to the old dead cedar that was still standing after all these years. I caught my breath, forcing myself to calm down and get my heartbeat under control. The moths had grown into a swarm of overlarge bumblebees tumbling around in my belly.

I slowly walked down the saddle towards the pile of rocks with almost temple-like reverence. I clambered over the rocks and stopped. There, on the pedestal overlooking the river, stood the same boy and girl, arms wrapped tight around each other. The newly risen sun outlined the couple, standing there in each others’ arms. I stepped up next to them. My eyes searched her face, so young and beautiful. So full of love. Her head rested on his chest, eyes half closed in a reverie. My eyes shifted over to the boy for a second. I read every emotion that crossed his face as if I were in his shoes again. The need to be loved finally fulfilled. The burning desire to be needed satisfied. I felt sick with jealousy watching it. Everything that I’d ever wanted had been given to me, and I just threw it away.

My gaze flicked back over to her.
Every fiber in my being was on fire with guilt and pain and regret as I tried to whisper her name. All that came out was a mangled croak. I watched her face as it blurred behind the tears. Her dark blue eyes slipped closed, lost in the embrace just as I’d been.

I watched her until I couldn’t watch any more. Tears ran down my face in rivers, my stomach tied up in knots of regret. A small, desperate sob escaped my throat. If only I’d done what I promised. Another sob worked its way out of my chest. If only I’d kept my word, I never would have ended up here like this. Greater sobs worked up from under the tight rein I’d kept my emotions on. My chest and stomach spasmed so hard I wanted to puke. The torment of ten years of loneliness and remorse welled up inside me, finally free to do as they pleased. Memories of us flashed across my mind, blurring together, painting me a portrait of how it could have turned out. How it might have ended. The whirlwind of colors faded, leaving me with a bleak, empty picture of reality. Of how it had really happened.

I liked it ol benny boy. Really good imagery.

Sad, and engaging.

In the end I really felt like the guy should buckle up, it made me uncomfortable - and I hasten to say I think that is a good thing!

You really made me feel it, I wanted him to do something to make him feel a little better (even though it might have been something stupid and pointless like shooting somebody), just for a second.

I wanted him to solve it, instead of the controversy of "how it might have ended" against "how it had really happened". Or at least to see that it might have ended differently for him, that maybe it wouldn't have been this good if he had made another choice...

I think that, in making me feel this way you have written a gripping story :) Just my humble opinion ;)