Half Broke

by Ginger Gaffney

  “This one?” Randy asks.

  “No, dude, the next one. What, you can’t see the difference?” Tony interrupts. He’s been stone quiet so far today. Tony hangs onto control by believing he’s the smartest fish in this tank. And he may be, but that doesn’t necessarily make him a good man. Omar, Paul, and Rex all look away from Tony and back to me.

  “You want some help, Randy?” I’ve been holding myself in place, rocking my body back and forth, trying to suppress my desire to run in there and rescue him.

  “You want me to go in there, untie her, and do what?” Randy’s shaking a little, his lips no longer pinched tight but held apart and panting. “There’s no way I can go in there, Miss Ginger, no way,” he confesses.

  I walk over to the trailer with all the residents coming behind.

  “Everyone likes to say that we can’t show our horses any fear, but I disagree. What they need most is honesty. If you are truly honest about how you feel, your body will show it. The horses know the difference. You’ve got to let that fear leave your body, Randy. Slow down, take a breath. You can do this.”

  Randy steps into the thin space between the two horses, cursing “fuck this” a few times.

  “Lay your hand on her rump, Randy; let her feel you.”

  Randy lifts his arm above Billy’s tall rump and places his open palm on her bronze-brown coat.

  “Now, walk up to her head, allowing your hand to travel lightly along her back as you go. That’s nice, Randy. Good job.” Randy’s face hangs loose from its frame. His anger no longer able to cling to the usual bony attachments. I coach him up the lead rope. He unlocks the slip knots, releases each one down the chain. He is quiet now, gaining confidence in the steamy space between the two equine bodies. “Now, back her out. Take your lead rope, face her head, and walk into her chest. Don’t be too strong with your hands. Billy doesn’t need that.”

  Billy came to me as a rescue. Aggressive, protective, and skinny. I’ll never know her whole story. What I do know is, if you want a fight, she’ll meet you there. She’s quick to watch and read people. Over the last three years, she’s shown me how to be more patient, to listen, and to not be afraid to show my weakness. She has stripped me of my false pride. Billy is an amazing athlete, and she’s troubled. This combination demands complete honesty.

  Billy looks straight back at Randy, like a soldier to a sergeant. Her eyes stick to his face. Her hind legs ready themselves and shift back, as Randy takes his first step toward the middle of her chest. Together they pull out and away from the trailer, with Randy taking long deliberate strides, sweat pouring off his forehead.

  All the men, minus Tony, huddle around Randy and Billy as they clear the trailer. Slapping him hard on his back. “Good job, Randy.” Rex starts scratching Billy’s forehead. “She is beautiful, isn’t she?”

  Randy hands me the lead rope and bends over at the waist, hands on his knees, breathing heavy.

  “I gotta sit down, man. I think I’m gonna faint.”

  Marcus and Rex grab Randy under his shoulders and hold him up. They scoot him over to the edge of the road, next to a small irrigation ditch, and sit his weakened body down. I walk behind Randy, still holding Billy, and lay my left hand on his shoulder. I want to tell him how proud I am, but I hold back. Instead I stand in silence, behind him, watching his breath labor up and down.

  Rex, Marcus, and Paul have come alive and want my attention. They walk up the road together, each with their own unique style of ease, effort, and expression. They want to touch the horses like Randy has, and they’ll do whatever it takes to get that chance. All three of these men are athletes. Their ripped stomachs peek out from the thin space between their shirt hems and jeans. All have biceps rounding beneath their sweatshirts, the hidden shapes looking like overinflated tennis balls. Rex, the tallest, could be a runner. Paul, a football player. Marcus, soccer. Sober and clean for a year or two, their eyes sparkle white around intent pupils.

  Marcus walks up the road like he is gliding on air. He no longer looks like the tight body builder I met on my first visit. His body swings loosely, like a sailor who’s been off to sea for months. His hips undulate like waves. His torso rocks on top of that surface.

  “You look good today, Marcus,” I tell him. “I don’t know what has changed, but you look very relaxed.”

  “I start my work out tomorrow, Miss Ginger,” he smiles and tells me. “I have a few interviews already lined up.”

  “Oh, Marcus, that’s great. I’m so happy for you. I’ll get you my phone number. Please, let’s stay in touch,” I tell him.

  Paul holds out his wrist on his return. He wants me to look it over, see if it has healed enough to work with the horses today. Two weeks ago, when Hawk mauled Paul during the evening feeding routine, he knocked Paul down in front of one of the big cottonwood trees and then went about eating his hay. Paul caught his fall with his right hand. He’s lucky he didn’t break that wrist. Today, it’s still a little swollen around the joints, but he no longer needs to wear the wrist brace the doctor gave him. I hand Billy’s lead rope to Rex and ask Paul to put his right hand in mine.

  “Gather around, you guys. I want to show you something.” I walk Paul over to the center of the group, still holding his hand. “Paul, will you take me for a walk, please? I’ll be the horse, and you’re the trainer. How will you ask me to come along?” With his good hand, Paul squeezes hard around my palm and pulls me forward. I resist. My arm strings out in front of me. Paul’s pulling and laughing. My legs are fence posts pounded in the ground three feet deep.

  Being a fourth-generation prisoner, Paul’s not accustomed to subtlety. He walks like a gangster, with his shoulders rolled forward from his thick neck. His hands are the size of plates. Arms as wide as my thighs. I watch his legs waddle up the road, like a body builder on steroids.

  “Don’t pull on me. Give me a signal, something that tells me you’re getting ready to walk. You know, give me a gesture.”

  Paul leans forward from his waist, taking my hand in a lighter hold, and presents himself as a partner would, asking me to dance. His skin takes on the texture of a kiss. I follow his suggestion, and we walk up the road. As he walks, I can feel every hesitant, self-conscious step. It is strange to feel such doubt in a man who has had to be so strong to survive. I reflect back to him his own uncertainties by pausing momentarily. He stops and gestures again to move us forward. We move, melded together, back to the group.

  I stand next to Paul, talking to the other members of livestock. Teaching them about the complexities of communication with horses. How they see, feel, smell everything. I still have Paul’s hand. I can’t let it go. Our palms wrap so softly, they hold themselves. Buoyant and free, like someone else’s childhood.

  “Now, Paul, take Billy’s lead rope into your hand.” He slips away from me as Rex gives Billy over. “Ask her to walk, the same way you asked me.” Billy has her head low, resting and waiting for a signal. Paul grips the black lead rope and pulls it forward with one quick jerk. Billy’s head swings up and resists. He laughs at himself again and looks over to me.

  “I did too much, I know. I mean, that’s . . . that’s . . . what we’ve been doing, you know, making these horses do stuff instead of asking them. They’re pissed at us. We’ve been too hard on them.”

  “Bullshit,” Tony busts in. “They’re fucking out-of-control monkey shitters. We don’t need to treat them like babies.”

  “Don’t start, Tony.” Flor takes a stance that shows she has the power to kick him back to the maintenance crew if he doesn’t shut up. “We’re gonna learn a different way. You either get in or you’re out.” Tony loads his fists into his pockets and looks away.

  “Will the ranch horses ever respect us, Miss Ginger?” Randy walks up from behind, looking flush and rested.

  “If you change, they’ll change,” I say and motion back to Paul to try again. This time, he pauses a moment to reflect. He scratches the cowlick on Billy’s forehead; she drops her
head. He leans his torso forward, pushes his leading hand out in front of her, and begins to take his first step. Billy slides along right next to him, down the road and back.

  Flor steps forward and asks Paul to show her how to work with Billy. I send Rex, Sarah, and Tony for the other three horses tied to the trailer. Rex gets Joker, an eight-year-old warmblood gelding. Sarah releases Izzy, my ten-year-old Lusitano. Tony picks Moo, my fifteen-year-old Morgan. I watch as my horses’ ears face sideways, taking in their new person. I show the residents how to use the shape of their human bodies as inflection. Go, stop, turn. They lean forward; they twist sideways; they breathe loud enough I can hear them. One animal to another.

  Rex’s long stride is equal with Joker’s, who stands almost seventeen hands tall. Both have a bounce and lift to their gait. Izzy is busy trying to adjust to the new curves of Sarah’s body. His ears twitch in all directions, trying to keep up with her irregularities. Moo is flat-footed, and Tony is, too. Neither of them look at each other. I’m struck by how quickly my horses’ personalities have changed to blend with their new person.

  “Let’s go, Izzy,” Sarah sings out in a high-pitch tone. Izzy, who usually drags behind, is automatically enamored with her exuberance. He’s walking briskly along, almost trotting, next to Sarah who is heading across the field, skipping and humming a favorite tune.

  “I’m fine,” I hear Flor yell behind me. Paul’s giving her instruction, but she’s shutting down. She and Billy haven’t taken one step. I walk over, out in front of Flor and Billy, and look into their eyes. Blank. Dull. Gone. I’ve seen Billy like this before, but not Flor. Trauma pushes everything out of a body. I try to bring them back.

  “Flor, what’s the color of the comforter on your bed at home?”

  She pauses, looks at me, then down toward her shoes. “Blue.”

  “What’s the last meal you remember with your family?”

  “Baked chicken. Fry bread. Pintos and green chile in the Crock-Pot. It was my stepdad’s birthday.”

  “Let’s take a walk. From your bedroom to the kitchen and sit down to eat a great meal. What do you say?” I take her left hand and send her forward. Billy follows on her right, stride matching stride. When Flor turns back, Billy follows, with her head resting at the height of Flor’s waist. On their return Billy takes a deep blow, the mist of it tickling Flor’s forearm. She giggles.

  Behind her, Tony is having an argument with Moo. He has Moo by the lead rope, grabbing it right under Moo’s chin. Moo’s neck stretches out three feet, with his front legs planted in front of his head and his back hooves pulled up under his body. He’s not moving.

  “You are one mother fuckin’ stubborn mule. Get your ass up here, you donkey.” Tony starts to swing the end of the lead rope. I take off at a run in their direction.

  Moo is my most dominant horse. He runs my herd back home. My horses take one look at Moo and walk the other way. No ear pinning, tail swishing, or squealing. Moo eats at whichever trough he wants, he sleeps out in the softest patch of grass and sun whenever he wants, and he claims the run-in shelter when the rain and snow fall hard. No one ever challenges him because he is unquestionably in charge.

  I catch the end of the twirling rope from behind Tony. He snaps and turns in my direction.

  “This horse is for shit. Why’d you bring something like this over here? We’ve got enough of this shit already.” Omar and Paul run up the road behind me. I stare at Tony as my face feels like it’s on fire. I could meet his darkness. I have that in me, too.

  Minutes pass. Moo holds his position like a dead-weight tractor. Any minute I expect him to scream. Moo always lets me know when trouble is near.

  Only once have I met a creature as messed up as Tony. It was a horse down in Ocala, Florida. A winning Thoroughbred mare who refused to race, who had lashed out violently and injured her jockey and handlers.

  I had gone to Florida, in my early thirties, to ride and study with a horse trainer named Danny Martin. Other cowboys told me about Danny, a horse trainer who took on very difficult cases. Sport horses. Expensive horses. Dangerous horses. Horses who had chased off or wounded a half dozen other trainers.

  The mare arrived the second day I was at Danny’s. She came off the trailer loaded with muscle, stud like. She had a double chain wrapped around her muzzle for control and to keep her from biting us. Danny asked me to put her in his indoor ring. It’s an oval-shaped ring about one hundred feet long and seventy feet across. He handed me a leather strap, sewn with fleece on one side. He placed a raincoat in my other hand.

  “Put the hobble on her right front leg and get the hell out of there as fast as you can. You’ll want that raincoat, too. Believe me.”

  Hobbles are used to wrap a horse’s leg in a bent position, making them bear weight on just three legs. Hobbles are often used in the mountains, in overnight pack trips, so horses can’t run away from camp. Danny used them differently. “Most of these horses I get are just looking for trouble. People don’t mean a thing to them. If they could, they’d eat us for lunch. I try to find ways they can fight themselves. Then, I leave ’em to it.”

  Not knowing why, I put on the raincoat and headed into the ring, hobble in my left hand, mare in my right. I picked up her right front leg and bent it back from the knee. Wrapped the leather hobble, fleece side down, around her pastern joint and forearm three times, tight. Unsnapped the chains around her face and ran out the gate. When I turned back to check on her, she exploded. Running wicked on three legs, faster than most four-legged horses I know. As she galloped, she sprayed piss all over me. Whipping her tail and shooting the smelly, thick, yellow urine every few strides. Piss that shot out like pellets against my face, pinging off my raincoat. A kind of piss I’d never seen before, like piss could be used as a weapon. Having one leg completely restrained sent her into a tantrum. I watched her run around the oval like a deranged devil. Her eyes bulged, crackled red lines squiggled across the white. Her body took on the shape of something that only knows hate. Every muscle in her body bulged with rage.

  We watched the show for about ten minutes before Danny said, “Let’s get back to work.” We left her in misery and started working the other twenty or so horses Danny had in training. Every chance I got, I’d look in on the mare. She was steamy hot with sweat, and vapors that rose off her back. Still trying to trot or gallop away from the total ruin of her forced containment. All day long I could hear the whirl of her inside the ring, scraping against the wooden walls in a crazed frenzy, as troubled as a spinning dog, trying to eat his own tail.

  Danny worked us into the evening, horse after horse, until eight o’clock, when his wife called us for dinner. We shared a meal while I sat distracted. I was thinking about the mare and the possibility of leaving her like that all night. As I went to leave, I tried to be casual when I asked Danny if he’d like me to check on the mare in the indoor ring, trying not to appear the emotional woman who cared too much, who wasn’t tough enough for this kind of work. He told me that if she was lying down and resting, I could take off the hobble. Otherwise, leave her the way she was.

  It was dark in the ring, and I didn’t yet know where to find the light switch. But the moon was bright enough that I could make out her shape. She was lying on her side. Her head and neck raised, but the rest of her curled up, like a deer bedded down for the night. Her hobbled right foreleg was facing the ceiling. I unlatched the gate, but she didn’t startle. Moving in close, I tried to soothe her with warm tones, ahhh’s and ooo’s, but mostly they were for me. In case she tried to jump up, I came from behind her, letting her know I was there verbally. Kneeling to her height I stroked her neck, the back of her head, between her ears. All I saw was a serene and resting silhouette. I reached over her back and unbuckled the hobble. She stretched her leg out stiff and leaned back into me, lengthening her neck. She laid her head to the ground while I caressed her whole body. Her hair was matted and whipped dry from all her efforts. Her breath held the rhythm of something that had
been ill for some time, but now could finally settle.

  TONY’S KNUCKLES ARE turning white from pulling on Moo’s face. His hair is fried from the many years of meth addiction. It looks like he’s been electrocuted. He has one incisor left on the top of his mouth and two teeth below it. His fat tongue squeezes out around them as he clenches his jaw and leans backward, straining to force Moo to step forward.

  “Release the pressure, Tony,” I tell him.

  “Give me the goddamn rope back,” he shouts at me, then jerks the end of the lead rope out of my hand. He wraps the rope twice around his forearm and takes a stronger hold, forcing Moo so far off balance he stumbles forward.

  “What the hell is wrong with you. Let go of my horse!”

  Moo gathers his hindlegs under and pulls back against the rope. He resets the pressure. He’s never giving in. Paul and Omar come closer. Paul stands over six feet tall and must weigh over 230 pounds. He has a tattoo across the back of his neck that reads BACK OFF. Paul, who asked me to dance just moments ago, places both his hands gently on the front of my shoulders, trying to settle me down. He gives me a faint smile.

  “We will take care of this, Ginger,” he tells me. Each word measured out, slow and exact. “Tony, give that horse to Omar.” Paul motions to Omar to go get Moo. Flor, Sarah, and Rex have gathered around us. They stand with their arms at their sides, legs spread, ready to jump in and help if they’re needed. No one says a word except Paul.

  “Let go of that horse, Tony.” Paul has his back to Tony, still holding his hands on my shoulders.

  Tony snarls, his upper lip pressed upward exposing his toothless gums.