Why Sarah Ran Away with the Veterinarian (13 page)

“No,” Donna says, “but the man got arrested.”

“For what?” Daddy says. He startles me.

“For being,” Donna lowers her voice, “buck nekkid.”

“He wasn't wearing anything?” Scarlet asks.

“According to Holly, not a stitch but a sock.”

Aunt Kate lays down her piece of meat and says, “Where was the sock?”

Donna glances at the twins. Charlotte is staring at her plate, but Scarlet is staring straight at Donna.

“On his foot,” Donna says, jumping up from the table. “I'm not sure which. I'd better get the pie.”

Donna brings out two pies, both peach, and everybody has a piece. She's better at desserts. Aunt Kate asks for ice cream on hers and Jack has a second slice. Watching them all—Donna, the twins, Daddy, Aunt Kate, even Andrew—I can't believe how much I've missed Sunday dinners.

Jack and I laugh on the way home mostly about Donna's stories and Andrew's twitches. It feels good to laugh with Jack, almost normal. When we get home, Bilo runs to greet us.

“Why don't you take a nap?” Jack says.

“I could use one,” I say, wondering if Jack plans to join me.

I slip out of my dress and under the comforter. The bedroom is cool. Blue and cool. I used to think about painting it yellow in the winter, for warmth, and back to blue in the summer. Jack said I'd end up with a green mess. He worked in a paint store when he was in high school so I guess he knows. Anyway, blue's just fine right now. And I'll be gone before winter.

I listen for Jack. The newspaper. I hear him turning pages. I keep listening.

Something about the way a house sounds. Water pipes popping, the freezer fan coming on and going off, wind whining through the screen porch. I hadn't thought about the sounds in this house for a year or more, but now they seem louder, more distinct. Like cicadas or tree frogs on a summer night, singing in the background. You don't notice them that much until there's a lull in the conversation or you're trying to sleep. Then you hear them almost like it's your brain running, humming while you try to think of something to say or drift off to sleep. That's when I hear the house sounds.

I never did like this house. It's a terrible thing to say, I know. And I can just hear Mama, “Now Sarah, think of all the homeless who would give anything, if they had anything, for a house like yours.” Mothers don't have to be alive to make you feel guilty. But this past year I've begun being honest with myself. More honest than I ever was when I acted daughterly or wifely or “in the realm of normality,” as Andrew would say.

As for our house, I wanted a wooden one that had an upstairs, something like Aunt Kate's. Jack wanted one story. “More heat efficient,” he said, and brick, “less maintenance.” That's what we have, what the contractor called a ranch provincial. But there's nothing ranchy about it. Unless you consider the fireplace, the only part I like. But Jack wouldn't use it. “Eighty percent of the heat goes straight up the chimney,” he always said, “and Duke Power gets a bonus.” In the winter I used to build a blazing fire every time he was out of town. But I'd turn off all the lights to save power.

For a while last year, Michael and I stayed with some friends in Tennessee. Annie and Russell. Russell was a carpenter and Annie was a weaver. They had the most wonderful house. Slabside on the outside and paneling on the inside. All pine. Russell said he got the boards from a nearby sawmill. The ceiling went up to a point like a circus tent. And a huge stone fireplace reached through the center.

There was a little loft with room enough for one low bed. You had to climb a ladder to reach it. It made me think of an indoor tree house. The kitchen cabinets were pine, “rough hewn” Michael called it. Russell made the dinner table out of a broad slab of black walnut. It was smooth as Mama's mahogany. Annie used a wood stove to cook on. The house seemed alive. The smells and textures. It was like living in a work of art. I loved being there.

Michael and I talked about staying in the Tennessee mountains, building our own house. We used to lie in bed, mapping out the house in our imagination. I wanted a little stained glass window over the bathtub, red roses with green leaves and amber between the flowers. Michael wanted beams where he could hang his guns and fishing gear. And a fireplace so big you could walk into it. He said we'd have a platform bed. He'd build it himself. Goose feather mattress but no springs.

Annie and Russell's beds were low, practically on the floor, and Annie had woven covers for each one. Michael and I slept in the loft. It was warm and cozy and I could practically touch the stone fireplace with my toes. It's the first bed I really liked since the one Jack and I slept in at Mimosa.

No telling what Jack paid for this one. He read three or four consumer-guide books before he bought it. I'd still choose that half-shot bed at Mimosa Trailer Park. Guess I'm as crazy as Andrew thinks. Maybe it was the rainbow more than the bed. I almost drift off to sleep thinking about those Mimosa days.

The mattress shifts, startles me. Jack is sitting beside me. “You awake?” he whispers.

“No,” I whisper back. “I'm talking in my sleep.” I touch his hand.

He doesn't seem to notice. “Think I'll go over to Tommy's and watch the game,” he says.

“Oh,” I say, and move my hand.

“Feeling okay?”

“Yes,” I say, turning on my side.

“Then I'll see you when I get back.” The mattress shifts again as he stands. “Call me if you need me,” he says over his shoulder. I watch him walk away.

I try to fall asleep but my mind won't let me. I wonder if Jack's had a girlfriend. If he has one now. Not that it's any of my business. But I keep looking for signs like a pink toothbrush or curling wand or bath powder. A year's a long time for a man like Jack, any man, to go without. I'm not about to ask him. I did ask Donna, though, and she said she hadn't seen him enough to know. She said somebody at Holly's mentioned Joanne McJunkin. But her name always comes up when there's a man on the loose. If Jack does have a girlfriend, she isn't much of a cleaner. Not around the molding where dog hair and year-old dust are thick as the carpet.

“Maybe he's over there now,” I think out loud, “at his girlfriend's instead of Tommy's.” I pick up the phone. I can't remember Tommy's number. I hang it back up. It's his business, I tell myself, and if he does have a girlfriend, I'll feel less guilty.

Sunday dinner with the family, the newspaper, watching the game at Tommy's, taking a nap. Amazing, how fast you can get back into a routine even when you think you're making fresh choices every day. Reminds me of a horse at the ranch, a filly named Dijon. I noticed her the first day she came to the ranch. We hadn't been there long and I was fascinated with each new herd of horses they brought in. Dijon stood out. She was Athene's size but her coloring was different—really unusual—buckskin with a stripe, a shade darker, running from her withers along her backbone to the base of her tail. “Dun stripe,” Michael called it. “Adds $400 or $500 to her value. A fine looking filly.”

But the next evening he sounded different. “That filly's got the worse case of head-shy I've ever seen,” he said, dusting off horse hair. “We couldn't even get a halter on her. Had to lock her in a head gate just to worm her.” He looked at me for understanding, those dark eyes. I nodded. “She was shaking so bad when we finished,” he said, rolling up his sleeves, “I was afraid she'd founder.” He washed from his finger tips to his elbows and kept talking about Dijon. He went back out three or four times that night to check on her.

Michael's like that. Especially about horses. I've seen him break down and cry when a customer's horse had to be put to sleep and furious at another customer for leaving a halter on a mare. “Never, never, never leave on a halter!” he shouted. “She'll scratch her ear with her hind foot, get it caught, and end up breaking her damn neck!”

He was back out the next morning checking on Dijon before I got up. “Sarah! Wake up!” He pounded the bed on both sides of me. “What?” I screamed, sat straight up, and banged into his forehead. He acted like he didn't feel it. “The trainer's out there with that crazy filly. He claims he can have her shy-broke, saddle-broke, and ready for a trail ride by mid-afternoon.” He threw me some jeans and a shirt. “This, we've got to see.”

I'd barely dressed and grabbed a piece of toast before Michael was pulling me out the door. My forehead still hurt. But I forgot about it when we reached the training pen. It was round, about forty or fifty feet across—Jack would know exactly if he saw it—and the sides were tall without much space between the slats. The trainer stood in the center. He was small, no taller than me. His hat looked two sizes too big. He held a coiled rope, the coils in his right hand and the end of the rope in his left. He nodded at us. Dijon eyed him from across the ring. The morning sun shimmered off her back and and the curve of her neck. She was beautiful. And she was scared.

Pete, the blacksmith, was watching too. “Never get tired of seeing ole Norris work the round pen,” he said. “Best trainer we've had.” He spit on the ground. “Sorry,” he said to me. Then to Michael, “His work makes my job a lot easier.”

“But in less than a day?” Michael said.

“Half a day,” Pete said, “if he doesn't have an audience.” He looked at me again and winked. “Likes to show out a little.”

Michael slipped his arm around me, pulled me toward him. “We'll see,” he said.

Norris clucked at Dijon, more a cross between a cluck and a whistle. She perked her ears. He waved the coiled rope. She backed flat against the fence.

Then Norris clucked, lunged, and threw the coil of rope at her rump. Dijon took off running against the edge of the pen, circling Norris again and again. He moved in a tiny circle always facing her, drawing in the rope, coiling it, and throwing it again if she slowed down. “Can't train a horse that doesn't move,” he shouted in our direction. “Now we can start.”

The first thing he taught her was simply to reverse to the outside and run the other way. He'd take two steps toward her, cluck, and throw the rope at her front quarters. She'd stop, face the fence, spin around on her hind legs, and begin another circle. After that, he taught her to turn to the inside. He'd take a step back and throw the rope in front of her. If she turned to the outside, he'd throw the rope in front of her again. Back and forth, back and forth, like he was cutting cattle. She looked confused and frightened but she finally turned to the inside. He threw the rope behind her and let her run more circles. This went on until Dijon made all the turns the way Norris wanted her to.

“She's learning to make the right choices,” he shouted. “Now I'll teach her to come to me.” He let her stop running. She'd begun to lather. Steam rose from her back. But instead of calling her name or walking toward her, Norris made the same clucking noise that meant run. Dijon tensed. Then he waved the rope and she took off again. He let her run, but each time she stopped, he clucked to her. If she looked at him, he'd wait a few seconds before he'd make her run. Then he'd wave the rope and she'd take off. But she ran less and less and watched him more and more.

“She's tired of running circles,” Norris shouted to us. “Now she's trying to decide how to avoid it.” He waved the rope and she walked several steps around the edge of the fence, never taking her eyes off him. He clucked again. Instead of moving around the circle, she turned straight toward the trainer. She lowered her head and took a step. Then another.

“I'll be damned,” Michael said. “She's going to him.” But she stopped about ten feet before she reached him.

Norris clucked again, let her stand there a few seconds more, then threw his rope and sent her running. This time she ran less than half the circle. He clucked. She turned, took a step toward him, then another and another like she was walking on slippery ground. But she didn't stop until she reached Norris in the center of the pen. Her ribs shot out with each breath. He spoke to her softly and reached to rub her forehead. She jerked her head away but didn't run.

The blacksmith looked at Michael. “Well?” he said.

“He's good,” Michael said, “but she's still head-shy.”

Pete laughed. “That's next.”

Norris took the coiled rope and rubbed it against Dijon's neck. She bobbed her head but didn't move her feet. Then he ran the coil across her back, against her sides, up her chest, back to her neck.

She soon stopped bobbing her head. But instead of stroking her forehead like I thought he would, he waved the rope in her face. She shied, took several steps back, but she didn't run. He jumped at her, threw up his hands, waved again. She backed away. Norris turned and walked toward the center of the ring. Dijon followed. Then he whirled around shooing and waving like he was trying to run off a stray dog. She jerked her head back but didn't move her body. Sweat rolled down her neck in dark streaks. Finally, Norris reached out, rubbed her forehead. She didn't shy. He laid the rope coil over her ears like a crown. He turned and took several steps away from her. She followed. He turned and rubbed her head again.

Then he walked to the fence where Michael and I were standing, Dijon right behind him, rope still balanced around her ears. Michael let go of me and shot a hand out to Norris. “Where did you learn that?” he said, pumping his arm. Then Michael stroked Dijon's nose.

Up close, Norris looked more like a musician or an artist than a cowboy. His features were fine, his eyes a greeny blue like water, and his hands looked better suited for a piano than a rope.

“A fella in Colorado taught me,” Norris said. “He called it ‘reasoning.'” He slipped off his hat and wiped a sleeve across his forehead. His hair was damp and dented from the hat. “You keep them moving,” he said, “give them choices. Then you let them rest when they make the right ones. It's safe for the horse and for the trainer.” He put his hat back on. The brim bent down, shading his eyes, like Michael's. “God only knows how many horses I've broke like this,” Norris said, “and I've only had one to buck with me.”