Cry Father by Benjamin Whitmer Page A

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    Junior stands. “I’m leaving. I ain’t got time for this shit.”
    The girlish twinkle disappears from her eyes. They’re mother now. “I mean it, Junior. You need to find something else to do.”
    “There ain’t nothing,” Junior says, sitting again.
    The moonlight washes some of the exhaustion clean from her face and she looks almost as young as she actually is. She rests her head on his shoulder. “We’ve got to get out of here,” she says, her voice bruised soft with exhaustion and marijuana. “I’m going to get this job and we’re gonna get the hell out of here.”

19
    spider goats
    I t takes Patterson a few days to get over his trip to Denver. He’s too old for cocaine, and far too old for bar fights. But finally he makes the drive over to Henry’s that he knows he needs to make.
    The old man’s poking around for something inside his Wild Mustang Mesa truck, parked up by the stables. He backs out of the driver’s door holding his computer, a chunky piece of hardware encased in black, military-grade polymer. “Hello, Patterson,” he says. His face is healing, the old skin flaking off and the new coming in pink and tender.
    “Hello, Henry,” Patterson says, stepping out of his truck. “That’s a hell of a computer.”
    “It’s indestructible,” Henry says. “They bought it for the horses. We track them now using wireless sensors. We can even tell if they’re being mounted.”
    “Mounted?”
    “To make sure they’re breeding.”
    “Damn,” Patterson says, impressed.
    Henry looks at Patterson for a minute, like he’s deciding whether or not to tell him something. Then he makes up his mind. “Spider goats,” he says.
    “Say what?”
    Henry sets the computer on the hood of his truck and opens it. “I just heard about ’em on the radio. Brother Joe says they’re goats that spin silk like spiders. Only instead of being regular spider silk it’s stronger than Kevlar. The feds are going to start making body armor out of it.”
    Patterson doesn’t say anything.
    “There ain’t no need for that shit,” Henry says. “I can see what you’re thinking.”
    “I’m thinking the altitude is affecting your brain,” Patterson says.
    Henry pushes a button on the computer. It clunks to life and he punches a few buttons more. Then he swivels the computer screen around so Patterson can see it. “See?”
    Patterson squints at the screen. “Looks like a regular goat.”
    “Well, it ain’t,” Henry says. “It’s a spider goat.” He turns the screen back around and shuts the computer.
    “I’d have thought it’d look like a spider,” Patterson says.
    “I don’t know why I show you anything,” Henry says. He shoves the computer back in the truck. “What do you want?”
    “I’ve been meaning to tell you that I went up to Denver.”
    Henry’s face doesn’t exactly change expression, but every line in it deepens, threatening to fissure completely. “Why’d you do that?”
    “To talk to Junior.”
    Henry leans against his truck. “Why?”
    “You know why.”
    “At least he didn’t kill you,” he says.
    “I helped him put a deck on his house. And then we got drunk.”
    “Well. That should teach him.”
    “We came to an agreement,” Patterson says. “He’s going to call me if he gets it in his head to see you. He’s going to stop by my place first and we’ll talk it over.”
    “You can’t trust him.” Henry shakes his head. “I was hard on him, but it wasn’t all me. You never could trust him.”
    “I can trust him. I’m not sure I ever want to get drunk with him again, but I can trust him to keep his word.”
    Henry smoothes his beard with his hand, a smile toying around with his mouth. “Bit off more’n you could chew?”
    Patterson shakes his head. “I’m lucky to be alive.”
    Henry laughs. “He’s a wild one, that’s for sure.”
    “I heard you were, too.”
    “I was,” Henry says. “Someday I’ll have to tell you the whole