Half Broke

by Ginger Gaffney

  When Moo gets like this, I know not to hold him back. I try to keep him on the trail, but he runs up a short hill, then stands at the top searching for Rootbeer. She and Marcus are walking below us on the trail, dirt bikers swirling on the hills above them. Moo lets out a scream when he sees her. Over here, he tells her. She looks up and mutters softly, letting Moo know she’s coming along.

  “She’s fantastic,” I tell Marcus when we meet up again. He has spent most of this day rubbing the mane on Rootbeer’s topline, back and forth.

  She can climb anything. Marcus takes her up one of the last barrancas, before we turn west, downhill to the river. She scales the sharp incline with her head low, her hindquarters digging and pushing up the sandy slope. The ridge is short and thin, her hooves send sand and rock tumbling off the edge. Her haunches look like a pair of skis tucked deep under her torso, as she readies herself to descend.

  “Tough but kind.” That’s what Tony said about her when I asked him to give me his opinion. Eliza said she was “smart and determined.” I said, “loving and independent.” It’s curious how we see everything from the same small perspective from which we see ourselves.

  MOO WADES INTO the four-foot-high water of the Rio Grande and takes a long drink. The water reaches his belly. Rootbeer looks concerned about dropping down the bank. It’s covered in tall grass and black, sinking mud. Marcus gives her time. He sets his reins down, right in front of the saddle horn. She snakes her neck left and right, looking for the correct route to get to the river.

  Rootbeer sniffs and snorts. She has her one brief moment of panic, weaving back and forth along the bank. Stepping forward, then rushing backward when the bank collapses under her hooves. Marcus just sits there, waiting for her to figure things out. In less than a minute, Rootbeer is belly deep in the river, with her nose plunged below the surface.

  JUST A FEW

  July / 2014

  The rain came down hard last night, an inch and a half in two hours. With the morning heat the humidity began to rise. It’s seven a.m. and the sweat drips down our backs as Marcus and I load the obstacle course into my trailer. The competition starts today at noon.

  Each trainer will have ten minutes to show their horse in front of the judge and the crowd. Tony and Eliza have designed and built the course for Marcus and Rootbeer to ride through. We’ve been practicing the pattern for the last three weeks. Rootbeer runs through the course with ease as Marcus barely steers her, the reins dangling from her neck. Marcus sits in the saddle as if he were sitting in a comfy chair.

  Rootbeer likes Marcus. She calls to him in a soft mutter when he drives onto the ranch in his older Chevy pickup. She mutters when he grooms her, when he saddles her, when he mounts her. She mutters again when he gets off. He’s just the right size for Rootbeer. They make a good-looking pair.

  Marcus drags two poles into my trailer. I follow behind dragging one. We need to stack all the obstacles in the front, to leave room for Rootbeer to load in the back. We arrange the poles in a tight bundle as moisture drips off our cheeks. Marcus smells like cologne and cigarettes. He’s been dating lately, and maybe last night he was out late. His perspiration smells like meat and sex.

  We finish loading and make plans to meet at the showgrounds by 10:30. We will have an hour to warm Rootbeer up before the competition.

  Eliza and Olivia have been cleared to leave the ranch and attend the competition. A guy named Charlie, whom I’ve only spoken to a few times, will be their driver and supervisor. Charlie’s been on the ranch for more than five years. He’s long been finished with his parole and prison term. He stays at the ranch to continue to mentor the younger men. Charlie is bald, plump, and very pale. I told him to make sure to bring a hat, some sunscreen, and something to keep him cool on this long, hot day. It is projected to rise over one hundred degrees.

  Tony and Randy were not approved to come off the ranch. I don’t know how or why these decisions were made. All I know is, Tony is heartbroken. He had tears in his eyes when he told me the news. I promised him that we would make sure to videotape Rootbeer’s ride. That didn’t cheer him up. It doesn’t feel fair, I thought to myself, as I wrapped my arms around Tony’s defeated body. I’ll have to trust Daniel and James’s reasoning. There are many things that happen at this ranch that I know nothing about.

  DRIVING ONTO THE SHOWGROUNDS, I see that the large outdoor arena to my right is completely flooded from last night’s rain. It’s a five-hundred-foot oval, and the middle of it looks like a swimming pool. Both ends are dry and there is a dry path around the perimeter, but the middle has at least four inches of standing water.

  I recognize the two trainers working their horses around the giant puddle. Donna is from Albuquerque, a western trainer just learning about dressage. She’s working a small gray gelding who looks at least part mustang. He has a short neck and back, big bony legs, with a long flowing mane and tail. Donna’s working him from the ground at the edge of the makeshift pond. She’s trying to settle him down, but he’s not sure about all this water.

  Laurie and Pete are at the other dry end of the arena with a long-legged chestnut mare who looks two hands taller than Rootbeer. I’ve known Laurie for years. I gave her lessons on her Missouri Fox Trotter when he was young and very excitable. The mare they have for this competition is visibly talented. She trots around Pete with her knees and hocks bouncing off the ground; her back barely moves. I bet she’s a smooth ride, I think to myself.

  It is good to see my fellow trainers, my friends, with their horses from the shelter. I have been looking forward to seeing how their horses are doing. We have all been working hard to make this day successful.

  I look up and see Eliza waving me over. She, Olivia, and Charlie have set up a tented booth with a hanging banner across the front announcing the DS Ranch. They have tables filled with brochures about the mission of the ranch. They brought a big, white cooler full of water and juice, and enough chairs to have a small party. Olivia and Eliza are beaming with excitement.

  I park near an empty corral, and we unload Rootbeer. She gets off the trailer slowly, then looks around the fairgrounds like she’s been here a thousand times. Eliza and Olivia want to take her for a walk to show her around. They look beautiful. Their hair is down and unrestrained, and it drapes across their shoulders. They are both dressed in stylish western blouses with brand-new, donated Wrangler jeans. I have never seen them in makeup before. Today there’s blush, eye shadow, and lipstick. Just looking at them, together with Rootbeer, makes me feel like we’ve already won.

  Charlie helps me unload the obstacles. The event organizers come by our booth and ask to see Rootbeer. Olivia and Eliza have walked her into a swarm of adoring people over by the food trucks. Everyone is trying to touch her.

  “She’s over there,” I point her out for the organizers. “It looks like she already has some fans.”

  I wave to Eliza to bring Rootbeer back. We need to brush her down, comb and braid her mane, and wipe her body down with Showsheen, a liquid product that will make her coat look shiny. The organizers said that they are expecting over three hundred people today. The cars and trucks keep rolling in. I look at my phone and see it’s already eleven. Marcus is late. The announcer makes a call across the loudspeaker.

  “Trainers, the arena is open. You have forty minutes to warm up your horses.”

  We finish dolling up Rootbeer, and Eliza gets her saddled. Olivia goes to the trailer and brings me the bridle. I’ll have to warm her up until Marcus arrives. I go to the tack room for my boots and hat, then mount Rootbeer, and head to the arena.

  We turn right past the gate and walk the rail heading toward the covered grandstand. Huge speakers blare country music into our faces. The stands are filling quickly. There are umbrellas, rowdy children, and older women wearing floppy hats. A large man carries two identical chihuahuas on his shoulders. There’s a guy hanging an oversized American flag along the front of the grandstand. He looks like a monkey hanging off the rail.
Rootbeer walks by all of it. She turns and faces the crowd. Her ears flip sideways: tall, pointy, and curious. Three little girls come running down the aisle, reaching through the fence barrier, trying to pet Rootbeer’s nose. I ask her to step up toward the little waving hands. She moves into their touch without hesitation.

  The other trainers are trotting by behind us. I turn in the saddle to watch them go. Maybe it’s this special day. Maybe it’s the crowd coming in. Maybe it’s me being romantic. But every one of these horses takes my breath away. I feel so grateful to be on top of Rootbeer, just for these few moments, before Marcus arrives. I click Rootbeer into a trot, then up to a lope, and we roll away from the grandstand heading left. We cut across the middle of the pond, splashing through the water in a three-beat rhythm. Ta ta spash. Ta ta splash. Ta ta splash. Rootbeer never looks down at the water. We head over to the far wall, where the bright, waving sponsorship banners are hanging. The breeze picks them up and lays them back down. Rootbeer walks beside them unconcerned.

  I look back toward the gate for Marcus and see Eliza heading into the muddy arena with her nice clean jeans dragging on the ground. Rootbeer and I hustle over to meet her.

  “Marcus is here,” she tells me. “I think, I mean I don’t know, but I think he’s drunk. He’s wearing this bad cologne. Olivia said she smelled alcohol.” I remember the cologne, the cigarettes, the sex smell from this morning.

  “Where is he?” I ask.

  “He’s in the bathroom. He’ll be right out.”

  I wait for Marcus by the gate. People I don’t know are coming over to tell me how cute Rootbeer looks. I stare straight at them but can barely speak. If he’s drunk, what will I do? What if I can’t smell it? Should I ask him flat out if he’s been drinking? He’ll probably deny it. A young woman walks over and puts her hand on my knee to get my attention. She’s looking for a new horse and asks me how old is Rootbeer. I feel the touch of her gentle hand on my knee. She would be perfect for Rootbeer. This hopeful thought relieves me from my sinking desperation.

  Marcus walks over and stands beneath me. His eyes are clear, and he’s smiling. He’s dressed nicely, in black jeans with a neatly pressed white button-down shirt. He’s wearing the free cowboy boots the ranch gave him before he left on his work out. There’s a gold chain around his neck, and his curly hair is neatly combed and off to one side. I can’t smell anything except his cologne. He looks totally sober.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he says. “I got stuck in traffic in Pojoaque. There was a bad accident.” He turns and addresses the young woman next to me. “She’s a great horse,” he tells her. “I’ve been riding her for about a month. It has been so fun.” He reaches over to Rootbeer, scratches her behind her ears, and she mutters to him.

  I decide to let him mount and take Rootbeer around the arena. I still can’t smell the alcohol. He isn’t acting any different than he has over this last month. He walks along the rail, staying out of the mud and the swimming-pool areas. He takes Rootbeer around the perimeter of the oval, walking past the other trainers and introducing himself.

  Eliza and Olivia are standing by my side as we watch them walk along.

  “I couldn’t smell any alcohol,” I tell them. “I don’t know what else to do.”

  Marcus and Rootbeer walk past the banners on the far side and start into a trot. I’m watching every movement of his hands and legs, looking for something that seems out of character. They round the far wall of the arena and head along the rail toward the grandstand. As they approach the grandstand, Rootbeer comes to a dead halt. Marcus taps her with the heel of his boot. She won’t go. He taps her again, and again. Rootbeer takes her right hind leg and swings it far under her belly and knocks Marcus’s right boot out of the stirrup. Marcus looks back at Rootbeer’s hind leg in surprise. He looks up, searching for me in the crowd of people. He doesn’t know what to do. He can’t get her to take another step. He bends her neck around and tries to face her the other direction. She won’t budge.

  I run through the gate along the rail and past the grandstand, now crammed with hundreds of spectators. I stop next to Rootbeer’s shoulder and lean in close. Marcus is right above me. The sun is high, it must be ninety-five degrees. The armpits of his clean white shirt are soaked. The cologne has worn off. I smell alcohol seeping from his body.

  “You’ve been drinking,” I tell him.

  “Just a few, nothing much,” he shrugs off my accusation.

  I know Marcus’s father is an alcoholic. He has told me this over these last few weeks.

  “He’s a functional alcoholic,” Marcus told me. His father has held a retail job for twenty years. Last year his boss put him on leave and encouraged him to get some help. Marcus said his father has cut back on the Jim Beam, but he still drinks a six-pack a night, along with a bottle of wine. He said his father is back to work and doing just fine.

  “Drinking’s never been my problem,” Marcus told me on the trail two days ago. “Heroin is what got me messed up.”

  I realize now that Marcus believes he can be a functional drunk, just like his dad. He thinks he can drink as much as he wants and still hold down a job, still be able to ride a horse. Rootbeer thinks otherwise.

  “A few is a few too many for me, Marcus.” I ask him to dismount. “You’re either totally clean or I can’t help you. I can’t let you ride.” I’m not angry. I look right into Marcus’s eyes, still trying to reach out so he can see I’m not turning my back on him. “You took a wrong turn, man. I hope you can see that. You know how to get back; you can figure this out. I know you can. But you need to get some help.” My voice is low, I speak so no one around us can hear. I want to show him the respect he’s earned, but I must tell him the truth.

  The three of us walk toward the gate together, Marcus and I staring at the ground. I wonder what Rootbeer knows and how she knows it. She felt the cloudy, self-destructive edge of our humanity and refused to participate. I wish I was more like Rootbeer, I wish I could be that clear. Maybe, if I keep doing the work I’m doing, maybe one day, I’ll get close. I watch Marcus turn left away from me, walking out of the arena with his neck and shoulders rolled forward and over his chest. I haven’t seen this round, defeated shape of a body in many months. I pinch away the tears forming in the corner of my eyes.

  The announcer’s voice squeals out of the loudspeaker. “Riders, you have five more minutes.”

  WAVES

  July / 2014

  I walk Rootbeer back to my trailer where a crowd of my horse clients have gathered. They have heard me talk about Rootbeer for months and now, finally, they get to meet her. Becky, a client from Austin, Texas, takes the lead rope from my hand and starts grooming the dust off Rootbeer’s coat. Janet and Sue are gushing over how cute she is. Francine, who owns a huge warmblood, keeps saying how much she’s always wanted a small horse. Glenda, my partner, has also arrived. She can see in my face that something’s wrong.

  “I’m going to ride her,” I tell her. “Marcus has been drinking.” She takes a big sigh. She knows how disappointed I must be.

  There is no time to wallow. I have five minutes to clean myself up, brush my hair, and get the obstacles ready. Eliza, Olivia, and Charlie rush over.

  “Where’s Marcus?” Eliza asks. I point toward the food truck, where Marcus is talking on his cell phone. He is still folded forward in a slump. I hope he stays for Rootbeer’s ride. I hope that somehow this day will help him figure things out.

  “Can anyone drive a stick shift?” I ask the three of them. We need to load the obstacles into the bed of my truck. We will drive them into the arena when it’s Rootbeer’s turn to go. They have allowed us only five minutes to prepare the arena for our demonstration.

  “I can drive the truck,” Charlie tells me. We load all the obstacles into the back of my truck, and Charlie drives it to the arena and parks it near the gate. Eliza and Olivia know the pattern by heart, they can set up the obstacles, one at a time, while Charlie puts the truck in four-wheel drive and mak
es his way around the ring.

  Becky walks Rootbeer over and meets us at the gate. All the competition horses and their trainers are standing nearby. We draw straws. Rootbeer and I will go third. That gives me a little time. I go to the back of my truck and pull the bright, multicolored parachute out of its bag. The wind has picked up and blows the crackling sheet of fabric into a giant bubble. All the horses start to spook. All except Rootbeer. I get the rope from the bag, attach it to the parachute, and hand it to Eliza.

  “Meet me over by the back of the grandstand,” I tell her, swinging up on Rootbeer. Rootbeer and I practice dragging the parachute behind the bleachers at a walk. I’ll enter the arena at a lope, dragging this puffy, billowing bunch of fabric behind me. Rootbeer has been dragging it for weeks now and couldn’t care less. I wrap the rope around the horn and trail the parachute off her right hip.

  “Ginger!” I hear someone call my name from up above.

  It is Carla and John, clients of mine who live in El Dorado. Carla told me last week during our lesson that they would be at the event. They are looking for a new horse for John. I told them about Rootbeer. How I thought she would be a great horse for the trail. John is older, and he needs something low to the ground and steady.

  “Is that Rootbeer?” Carla screams over the noise of the crowd.

  I wave to her. Rootbeer keeps trucking along, dragging what looks like a deflated monster behind her. John and the two guys sitting next to him turn around in their seats and stare down at us.

  I’m thinking about the pattern. When to drop the parachute, and where I start the obstacle course. I lay my calf softly against Rootbeer’s side. She bends and turns right. I lay my other leg against her. She bends and turns left. In one hundred days, Tony and Eliza have brought Rootbeer further than any colt I’ve ever started.