166 The Meadow Driving Cattle Eileen Bordy Jim had been transporting cattle for more than half his 57 years. He’d drive the beasts from their stinking stockyards in Coalinga down Highway 5 through country quilted with farms, then vineyards, then a federal prison. He’d leave the cows at a stinking slaughterhouse near Chino and go back for more. He’d learned the best places to get a good steak, take a shower, and have a nap or a piss. The cab of his truck had become his second home, filled with pictures of his wife, Karen, and grade-school photos of his son. His son was in college now—the first in his family to attend—but he liked to remember Jimmy Jr. when he was small and malleable, a squishy ball of potential. Before Jimmy Jr., Karen would ride with him. Not for the scenery, obviously, but because they didn’t like to be apart. They’d talk, make plans for the future, or listen to Robert Ludlum books on tape. She continued even after they had Jimmy Jr., who’d sleep between them on the bench seat or sit on Karen’s lap, watching the outside whizzing by. He loved having his whole family with him in the safe capsule of his cab, shooting down the highway together. As soon as Jimmy started walking, he didn’t want to sit in the cab all day. For a while, Jim kept in touch with his family by phone. He’d call throughout the day to find out cute things Jimmy had said, what was on the table for dinner, and just to hear Karen’s voice. But then it started to feel as if he were bothering her. After he said, “Hello,” Karen would say, “What?” as if he needed a reason to call her. Once he called to tell her about a sunset that had turned the grass so orange, he’d mistaken it for wildfire. “That must be nice,” she said. Now Jim would only call at night, right before dinner or bed, just to let Karen know he was alive. She was so busy though. His nightly calls were beginning to seem
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