Breeding Ground (2 page)

She poured a scoop of grain in Maggie's feed tub, and threw her two flakes of hay, then started off toward the house.

She tried the phone by the woodstove in the kitchen. But there wasn't a dial tone there either.

So Jo would have to treat Sam herself, hoping for a simple impaction. And that meant Jo would have to oil Sam, the thought of which was unnerving. You called your vet for something that hard you knew was dangerous too.

And yet Tom must have oiled his own horses. He had the equipment in the tack room. And unless Jo oiled Sam soon he'd die a miserable death.

Jo fastened Sam's halter, and attached the lead rope, then led him out of his stall onto the aisle-way's concrete floor. The big copper-colored horse didn't even look at her as she rubbed the white star on his forehead, and clipped the crossties to both sides of his halter.

Every bit of him that could looked scared, and he groaned quietly as he picked up his left rear leg and kicked at his own stomach.

“I'm sorry, Sam, I'm sorry it hurts.” She could see the pain, and the patience, in his eyes, and she patted the side of his neck. “You've got to help me and swallow the tube, 'cause I've never done this before.”

The very first step was the most dangerous. She had to get the tube into the lowest of the three chambers at the back of Sam's nose. Plenty of vets have missed it and shoved the tube straight into the lungs, causing really horrifying bleeding, and many times even death.

Jo was trying to picture what a vet would do in precisely what order, while she washed her hands in the tack room, and braided her long brown pony tail to keep it out of her way. The longer she thought about it, the shakier she got – which made her feel even worse.

She was just about to slide the tube into Sam's nose – when she remembered the first thing old Doc Taylor had done every time she'd watched him worming mares in their broodmare barn when she was a little girl.

It made perfect sense, when she thought about it. So she positioned the one inch diameter rubber tube along Sam's side, measuring the length of his head and neck down all the way to his stomach. She made a mark on the tube with a pen she'd found in Tom's pocket, so she'd see when she'd slid enough tube to reach Sam's gut.

Jo stood for a second, quietly talking to him, trying to whip up enough courage to actually stick the tube in his nostril and try to push it down his throat.

She still postponed the irreversible. She pushed the stainless steel bucket full of mineral oil, with the hand pump sitting in it, six feet away. Tom only had a gallon, and she couldn't afford to kick it over, or damage his only pump.

It was guiding the tube that had her panicked. She'd be sliding the tube with her right hand. Maybe she could stick the index finger of her left into Sam's nostril too, and push the tube down inside his nose toward the bottom hole.

It made as much sense as anything else, and she took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, while Sam tossed his head up and kicked at his stomach.

“Ho! Sam. Settle down. You've got to hold really still.”

Jo pushed the tube in his left nostril and held it down with her left index finger, but it bumped up against something hard, and Sam jerked his head up.

She talked to him, and tried again, and thought,
Lord, don't let me kill him, not Tom's favorite horse.

And finally, on the fourth try, with Sam on the edge of panic, it slid a little way down an opening she hoped to God was his throat.

Sam didn't seem to be swallowing it, and Jo asked him to five or six times, and kissed his nose, and wiggled the tube further. And then, miraculously, it seemed to slide on – and she began to think she saw a faint outline of something moving down along his neck, from where she stood on his left.

That's when the lights went off. And Sam disappeared.

“Stand, Sam! Everything's okay. You just stand still.”

Candles aren't what you want in a barn, with everything that's flammable. But she stuck two on a metal tack trunk, and one more on the concrete floor on her side of Sam.

Then she could see enough to slide more tube – and finally begin to pump the oil down Sam's throat, talking to him, kissing his nose, kissing him on the cheek.

He held still and put up with it. And didn't look any worse than he'd been when she first came into the barn. She wanted to get some water in him too, and she pulled out one of his water buckets and pumped all of it down.

Jo walked him back and forth in the aisle-way for two hours straight, talking to him much of the time, talking to Maggie on her way past – till Jo couldn't make herself walk any further that night. She led Sam into his stall and leaned against a wall for a minute, trying to ease her back.

She slept there in the aisle-way, on a pile of horse blankets under a comforter, waking up every few minutes, checking on how he was doing, using the Coleman lantern she'd found in the back of Tom's pantry.

She heard the sound she'd been waiting for at three-thirty that morning. And found another small oil-covered pile when the sound of Sam sucking water at five got her up for good.

He wanted breakfast, but she didn't give him any. When she saw a couple of more piles she would, but not this early.

The ice hadn't melted much, so she couldn't put him out with Maggie, which was what Sam needed – the two of them outside together keeping each other moving.

By seven Jo had heated water on the cook stove, and gotten herself washed, and dressed, and eaten an egg sandwich.

She was sitting by a fire in the study by seven-thirty, in an old leather chair that had come with the house, the cardboard box Tom had left her waiting on her lap.

She cut the tape he'd used to seal it as permanently as an engineer would – and pulled off the lid.

His life insurance policy was on top. Under that was a small manila envelope where he'd put three medals from WWII she'd never known he had. There was a long handwritten letter on personal stationary from someone named William Donovan too, who recalled recruiting Tom, and his early days of training, and thanked Tommy for everything he'd done, above and beyond the call of duty, while he served in something called the O.S.S., which Donovan had directed.

Jo had never heard of the O.S.S. And she put the letter on the table to read again later.

In a small leather drawstring bag she found her father's grandfather's pocket watch, which her dad had given Tommy when he'd turned seventeen his freshman year in college.

At the very bottom of the shoe box was a seven inch reel-to-reel recording tape, as well as a black leather-bound book, the pages printed like graph paper, the covers held tightly closed by a black elastic band.

When Jo opened it, she found a letter to her from Tommy inside the front cover in an envelope sealed with wax.

Jo broke the seal and pulled out several sheets of black lined graph paper covered in his engineer's printing, very precise, very readable, that architects often use too.

12 January 1962

Dear Josie,

I know, you want to be called Jo, but I've got too many memories of you when you were Josie to give it up now. Like seeing you on Rabbit at age six galloping through the woods, holding a banana in one hand as you chased Dad on Red.

There're names and addresses in the enclosed lab book for people I knew in the Army. Give it to a friend of mine named Alan Munro (address on fly leaf). There may be folks there he knew and wants to get in touch with.

The tape I've left is a record of my memories of the war when I was trained by, and worked for, the Office Of Strategic Services in Europe. O.S.S. was the beginning of our military intelligence services that you never heard about from me, no matter how you asked.

We swore an oath of secrecy I'm breaking now, in this letter, and on the tape. It won't be read until after my death, and I console myself by thinking that's an honorable breach that will take place many years from now.

It was when I first heard Mom was sick, that I felt duty bound to start this. It didn't make a lot of sense, but I knew it was what I should do.

I hope someday the secrecy ban will be rescinded. Those who were in the O.S.S. need to be free to talk about it with those they love most, so the loved ones understand too.

You're the last one left I do love, by the way. Though I entertain hopes, cautiously, at the moment, that there still might be a woman for me. I would like to have a wife and kids, even in my forties. I wish that for you too, little one, needless to say, after the unworthy and roguish Nate. Thirty-two is not too old for you to start a new life.

You and I haven't had much luck, have we? Me, getting the proverbial Dear John from Missy while I was overseas. You, getting two-timed by Nate. I, as the protective older brother, toyed with the idea of squashing him like a bug, but decided to rise above.

I'm sorry we haven't had much time together since I got back in '45. You were so young then, and I wasn't anymore. And I came back different. More complicated. More unpredictable. Angrier too, to tell you the truth. I didn't want to inflict that on you. And I had to get away from Lexington. I had to go where no one knew me. Where no expectations could tangle me up.

It wasn't what you and Mom wanted, but I had to travel, Jo, all over. I couldn't stay still for awhile. I can't really explain it. Though I think after Mom disappeared behind the brain tumor, our real Mom the way she was before, I've seen almost the same look in your eyes when you don't know I'm watching that I used to see in the mirror.

It wasn't easy for you, was it? Losing Dad early, having me gone for years. Yet, having seen what people went through in Europe, you and I will never have a right to complain about anything that happens.

I'm rambling, little one. Sorry. I can't thank you enough for what you did for Mom at the end. Giving up your job with the architect in Michigan, moving home and taking care of her, when we both know how hard that was. Just seeing her being nothing like herself made it hurt to set foot in her room. Thank God Toss was there to help run the farm.

Anyway, Josie, thank you. I love you a lot. You'd be a favorite person of mine even if you weren't my sister.

I hope you find the right man to love, who understands and appreciates you and loves you right back.

Keep saying what you really think. It's one of your best, if irritating, traits. Not too many of us want to hear what somebody
really thinks
, and we tend to resist before we can listen.

Marry a man who listens.

Like I have to tell you that. Like you'd do anything else.

If Sam is still alive, take care of him. Keep him, if you're ready for another horse. If not, if you're not over having to put good old Jed down (or the irritations of Mimi the miscreant), find him a really good home. He's a great guy. If you hang around him you'll understand. Great head. Great heart. Very decent gaits, especially the canter.

Maggie's a valuable Thoroughbred mare, in foal to a good stallion. I bought her because she needed a home, but she's also a good investment. Her papers are in my vet file.

If you meant what you said at Christmas, take some of the money you get from me and go see the houses owned by Washington, Jefferson, Adams, and the rest. Get yourself to Europe like you want to, and look at what's appealing about the smallest cottages in England and Scotland, and the great houses too.

Architecture that's absolutely timeless, you'll see it all over Europe. Go look for yourself, then build what you were born to build.

Don't feel sorry for me. Whenever I went, I was ready. I should've died in '43, or '44, or 1945 and didn't, when too many of the best did. Everything else has been a gift.

I love you, kidlette. I know, you hate that. But I love you anyway. I'm glad you were a surprise.

Tommy

Jo said, “Tommy,” twice, and stared at the letter, lying limp in her lap, and realized her throat had clenched up, and she'd already started to cry.

Then she heard a car engine. Which didn't make any sense. Virgil, the landlord, had taken his family to Richmond after Tom's memorial service and wouldn't be back till Tuesday. She couldn't imagine who else would drive out before the ice melted.

But it definitely was a car engine. That got switched off while she listened. Before a car door slammed.

“Jo? I'm Alan Munro.” The voice came first, quiet and deep, just before the knock.

“Yes?” Jo opened the heavy black door, and saw a face she couldn't place.

“I was a friend of Tom's. I came to see if you're okay. I tried to call, but your phone was out of order.”

“Aren't the roads horrible?”

“Yeah, but better than last night.”

“Ah.” They were still standing in the doorway – Jo Grant, tired and rumpled, tall and thin and wary, and a much taller man with dark hair and green eyes and an old scar on the left side of his jaw, just in front of his ear.

“I'm sorry. Come in. Please.” She was wearing one of Tom's warmest sweaters, which was way too big for her, and realized right then how ratty she must look.

“You okay?” He limped enough for her to notice, as he watched her considering him. “I was at the service yesterday.”

“I thought you looked familiar. I'm sorry I seem so vague. I've just had kind of a shock.” Jo's large, dark, intense blue eyes stared past him out the front door.

And when she closed it half a minute later, he said, “You look kind of tired. I'm sorry, if I—”

“No, it's fine. I was up last night with a horse.”

“Sam?”

“Yep. He was colicking. You know about horses?”

“No, but Tom used to talk about Sam all the time, and we'd go out to see him if I met Tom here. Tom and I rode bikes together, on the few occasions we were both in Virginia at the same time.”