I found myself on my feet with the rest of them, but I wasn’t clapping. I stared down into the arena at the blond man in work gloves, sweat running down his face. The hair was completely different, but I had seen that pivot and spin before, the same fast shuffle of feet, the angle of the shoulders as the man had turned into his tight spin. He had done that before in a game against Norfolk Academy on a lateral pass, where he had pivoted around the end of the line, dodged a cornerback, and run into the end zone. I stood in the chill night and watched Fritz Davenport climb up onto the fence and straddle it as the other cowboys led the bull away.
I FORCED MY WAY through the standing crowd, people still talking about that last bull and the man who had rescued the rider, and made my way toward the stairs that led down to the ground by the pens and the stable. But a church youth group, all its members in matching purple tee shirts underneath their coats, was clogging the aisle, a score or more of boys and girls apparently heading for the porta potties standing next to the pens. I turned and went back through the crowd the other way, toward the parking lot, ignoring a shout as I stepped on someone’s foot. My own foot was beginning to clamor for attention, the dull ache in my heel that I felt at the end of every day now upgraded to a burn, but I just craned my neck to see whether Fritz was still by the chutes. All the cowboys seemed to have exited the arena. Limping, I made my way down the stairs at the far end, hurried out the gate and past the ticket booth, the gravel crunching beneath my sneakers. There was a closed gate, against which leaned a fat, bearded man in a red plaid shirt and a dirty cowboy hat. Despite my sense of urgency, I hesitated. Just walking up and asking about Fritz didn’t seem like the right play. It might scare Fritz off, and I hadn’t come this far to lose him. He might not even be using his real name. Then a man farther down the fence, pulling bales of hay off a flatbed, called to the fat cowboy, who pushed himself off the gate and ambled over to help. As soon as he left, I quickly pushed the gate open and stepped through, letting it swing shut behind me. I didn’t look back.
Here stood a handful of trailers, all backlit by the bright lights of the arena and crossed in shadow. Knots of men stood around smoking and chatting. The flat voice of the announcer came out of the speakers again, talking about bronc riding. A medic in a blue uniform knelt down in front of the last bull rider, who was sitting in a folding chair, his shoulders trembling, head down in defeat. Beside him were the two clowns, their face paint now ludicrous, even bizarre. The balding one had a slightly affronted air about him, as if embarrassed by the rider’s behavior. The tall one was closer to me, and I caught his eye. “You know where I could find the guy who saved him?” I said, indicating the bull rider with a nod.
The clown looked at me, the sweat that was running through his greasepaint making his face seem half-melted. “Might be over there, getting a cup of coffee.” He pointed off to the right, toward the stable. “Why?”
I waved and moved off, not wanting to engage with anyone else until I found Fritz. Pausing to let a man carrying a pail of water cross my path, I glanced back and saw that the tall clown had left the bull rider and was dogging my steps. I hurried on, stepping around the end of a trailer and moving toward the stable as I tried not to let my limp slow me down. To my left, I could hear the crowd gasp; turning my head, I saw in the arena someone attempting to ride a bronco. The horse was kicking frantically, its rear hooves bucking into the night sky and its rider leaning back as if riding a barrel down a waterfall.
Ahead, by the pens, I saw a table with a stainless steel urn and stacks of coffee cups, and a group of men standing around and talking. “Hey,” someone said behind me. I ignored the voice and strode forward, trying to get a good look at the men around the coffee. A hand touched my shoulder. “What do you think you’re doing?” came the slow voice of the tall clown.
“I’m looking for somebody,” I said, turning around and tearing my arm out of his grasp as I glared at him. His face looked like an overheated wax impression of a panda, black circles smudged around his eyes.
“There’s nobody back here don’t work here, boss,” he said calmly. “You need to move on.”
“No, I just need to—I’m looking for a friend of mine—”
The men around the coffee looked up.
“You need to get out,” said the clown, “or you’ll be escorted out, your choice.”
I wanted to laugh aloud at the absurdity, the man in the melting clown face demanding that I leave while Fritz was back here somewhere. But the laugh died in my throat as the blond man who had rescued the bull rider looked around from the coffee and stepped slowly forward. His hair was short and thatched, his face tanned and roughened and slack with surprise, but I knew him.
“Pete?” the clown said, addressing the blond man. “You know this guy?”
I looked at the man the clown had called Pete. “Ho,” I said.
“Ho,” said Fritz.
WE STOOD IN A trailer that served as a changing room for the rodeo clowns—bullfighters, Fritz had called them. The trailer held a rack of various colored shirts and overalls. A heap of straw hats lay on a counter next to a small round mirror and a flat box containing what I guessed was greasepaint. A shabby green sofa sat propped against the wall at this end of the trailer. The room smelled of sweat and mildew and the sharp tang of dipping tobacco.
“Sorry about George,” Fritz said. He was referring to the tall clown. “He’s protective. Thought you might be trying to serve a warrant or something.”
“A warrant?”
“Happens sometimes. Last week a stable hand got served divorce papers.” Fritz leaned back against the counter with the hats. “We try to take care of one another.”
The pause after this stretched on, the tension taut in the air. I felt that if I spoke a moment too soon, something would irrecoverably break. All those years since that March day in the trees at Blackburne, all the choices I had made or avoided—it all seemed reduced to this moment in a trailer, standing across from Fritz. I found myself looking at a Far Side calendar on the wall, the picture of a cow standing at a microphone reading something. The calendar was too far away for me to read what the cow was saying.
“So, what’s with the ‘Pete’?” I said. Some distant part of me registered the anger in my voice but elected not to do anything about it. It was beyond unimaginable to find Fritz here, with blond hair and a new name and identity, with friends.
Fritz shrugged. “It’s simple. Easy to remember.”
“So, what, you’ve got a driver’s license, Social Security number? Whole new life?”
“How’d you find me?” he asked. He placed his hands down on the counter he was leaning against and looked at me. “Did my family send you?”
I stared back. “Your family had you declared dead,” I said. “Last year.”