Pure Will Endures

I'd met him at a Texas barn dance—this cowboy of mine. A brawny fellow. His leathery hands with fingers like sausages engulfed my hand while dancing.

My girlfriend, Shirley, had begged me to go with her, "Come on. It'll be more fun with a friend—makin' eyes at all those shy farm boys—seein’ what they'll do—eggin' them on. They're all good Christian men you know, who've spent most of their days toiling on the trail or mending fences. They don't know a girl from a young heifer."

After much persistence on her part, I finally told Shirley I would go—more to upset my parents than appease her. Not long after we arrived, this big hunk of a farm boy came clomping across the dance floor, headed my way. My dad, an oil man, had just moved his family here, and I didn’t know the difference between a rancher and a farmer. I giggled to myself as he pulled himself up in front of me, then all humble-like, bowed like a fool. I gave him my best coquettish smile as he held out his big bear-paw, requesting the first Polka.

**

It had been a quick engagement and an even quicker marriage ceremony. Will had given me a tiny gold band passed on by his grandma. He presented it so properly, even going down on a knee. I treasured it like a five-carat diamond. I held up the spread fingers on my left hand in front of his nose and then, turning my wrist, mine, to admire it for a moment.

He was impatient and kept asking me, "Ya like it? I could getcha something else if ya don't like it."

I knew he didn’t have money for anything better, so I just gave him a satisfied smile and said, “I like it just fine. Maybe you can get me something bigger when you're a big, successful West Texas rancher." By then I knew the difference.

It was a simple church wedding, followed by a modest reception in the basement; the ladies from the congregation had brought an assortment of covered dishes. I know my folks, their financial means much better off than Will’s, wanted me to have a more lavish affair. But I was totally satisfied with the event. Over supper, Dad, bragged about his multiple oil leases and the number of rough necks who worked for him while Ron’s father just sat there, pie-faced, searching for some way to save his pride. I was so proud of my new husband when he put my dad in his place by braggin’ about his own big heifer havin’ three calves at once, and all healthy. I had assisted him with the birth—he was particularly proud of me and didn’t hesitate to say so.

Of course, my mother had never been in a barn—or a kitchen for that matter. She was a prissy filly; a racehorse; brought up in a Virginia mansion—catered to—and with too much money for her own good. I was delighted when Will’s mother offered to share recipes with her—all the dishes she'd created over the years. But my mother just turned up her button nose with an accompanying, "humph," while waving the recipe offer away with her embroidered hanky. "I'm sorry, but I always leave that to my kitchen help. It's such a bore, you know."

Mother was a bitch sometimes, and I knew it.

**

Sitting here now in the pickup, all sweaty, I glance down at my dried, split fingernails. I take the small mirror from my denim jacket pocket and gaze at the person so different from the girl I knew not that long ago. A girl whose hair has turned blond from the sun, with split ends up to the roots and with a face parched to the bone. The pickup has broken down for the umpteenth time. Will is under the hood, tightening bolts and adjusting hoses. Except for our wedding, I don’t recall ever seeing his fingernails clean.

I think back to high school and junior college, homecoming queen at both, new gowns for each event. The last time I wore a gown was at my wedding.

I am hot and restless, second guessing my choice, dreading the possibility that my mother could have been right. I tolerate the hurt I feel sometimes at how different my life has become—it tasks me, and again, as the temperature rises and my blood boils, I find myself calling Will numerous names under my breath.

Then I glance down at the little gold band on my finger, I twist it off, my angry thoughts raging. I roll down the window. Where can I throw it? I wonder. I roll it between my fingers and in that moment, I remember the engraving inside. I hold it up to my eye and peer in at the worn markings. I can still read the words clearly: Love Pure, Will Endure.

I glance out at Will as he closes the hood. He motions his head at me and says, “We should be good to go. Turn the key and step lightly on the gas, Darlin.”

Darlin’, just the way he says it melts my heart. I slip the band back on my finger before he notices. I turn the key and the truck engine comes to life and purrs with satisfaction. I slide over to the passenger seat as Will opens the driver’s side door and climbs into the pickup.

“Ready to go home?” he asks me with a smile.

And without hesitation, I nod my head and whisper, “Yes.” I hesitate and say, so softly I’m sure he can’t hear me, “I just want you to know, I love you—even when I think I don’t.”