A hard night sky -- Part 1
By the time I arrive, my friend’s husband, who knows nothing about horses, except how to pay the feed bill, is on his knees next to Ebony. The 30-year-old Morgan horse is sprawled out on his side in the driveway. Breathing hard, he spews shards of silver into the flat black night.
“He just collapsed,” says Bill. As if he can read the question mark in my eyes, he explains, “Rebecca’s in the house with the girls. She’s calling the vet now. Thanks for coming.”
I nod, out of breath from trotting down the dark arroyo in my barn boots. I couldn’t find the flashlight. Kneel down slowly next to the old Morgan so as to not pop the buttons of my plaid coat
“Rebecca’s losing it,” says Bill, who is mired down in his spot on the ground. I don't know what to say to that. A heavy silence hangs between us. She’s had the horse for something like 20 years.
“We’ve got to get him up.” I hunker down as well as I can in my swollen body on all fours, place my cheek against the horse’s neck.
An old-style Morgan, Ebony always gets as wooly
as a bear in the wintertime. I don’t know what to do, but Bill, the usually
competent defense attorney, is staring at both of us, chewing on a bottom lip,
hands hanging limp at his sides, curly hair damp at the temples. He’s
still wearing his camel coat, khakis, shiny dress shoes. His button-down collar’s
all messed up and his tie’s wadded at his throat. I have a feeling that
he’s had at least 5 of the 6, 7 or 8 (depending on her mood) beers Rebecca complains that he has every
night. His nearly palpable weakness, his need to check out of everyday life,
his indifference—enrage
her, make her face turn bright red while she seeks asylum in my greenhouse and chainsmokes cigarettes that she swears she wouldn't
otherwise. But at least he’s
here. Right now. We all make our choices. I start massaging the horse’s
neck, his ears, his head, withers, little
raccoon touches
I ask the Morgan if he will take me on a big ride down the creek like we like to do together one more time, but Ebony is starting to get that crumpled-up-paper look I’m all too well-acquainted with regarding the dead and the dying. Like he’s about ready to blow away right off of the driveway into the steely night. He’s all dried up, resigned. Welcoming it, even. We all make our choices. Just close my eyes and go to sleep now, maybe is what the horse is thinking. His muscles are flaccid. His once-arched neck is now sunk beneath my hand. I feel brittle bones beneath parchment. Think of the brand new life inside of me.
I look up, I guess, for some kind of help. The hard stars flicker in the stifling black vault above, sucking out the ancient horse’s breath like they are nearly sucking out my own as I wrap my husband’s muffler around my mouth, but his heavy cologne nearly suffocates me. The expensive designer scent is tinged with the fear that permeates everything. I wonder what time it is, look at my bare wrist. Hard to tell, it gets dark so early now. Worry that he will yell at me for spending too long. That could make him very unhappy, and I don't want to do that. He likes to keep track of my time, although going to the Albertson’s with my baby daughter is about as far as I get. We all make our choices.
Just as I’m about ready to give up on whatever divine intervention I am hoping for, the horse leaps to all fours in front of me, shivering and blinking and blowing as I rub his neck, murmuring, “Good boy, Ebony. Good.”
To be continued.
Check out these beautiful Flickr photos: Pivi, Chambrenoire, Aradan, paintistworks
Related links: Something Hot and Fiery
