by Orly Konig
I tap at Bruce’s number, then swallow hard as a particularly excitable butterfly threatens to send me running to the bathroom.
“Hello, Emma.”
The butterfly flops to the pit of my stomach at the sound of his voice. No happy-to-hear-from-you lilt in those two words. Not that I expected it. But still.
“Hi, Bruce.”
“I hope you’ve had a nice visit.”
My mouth opens to respond, then snaps shut. “A nice visit”? I’m here because my father just died. I’m here because I have a person’s life to close out. I’m not here to have a nice visit.
“I’m not exactly here on vacation.”
“No.”
Bruce’s usual clipped responses spark at my nerves. “I saw your e-mail to Howard.”
“Yes. Corporate changes. We needed someone to take charge.”
I am in charge. I was in charge.
“I’m away for one week, Bruce. And reachable by phone and e-mail.”
“Yes. But you’re busy with your personal life. We need projects to move forward.”
I push my fingers into the festering headache. We. He’d emphasized that word twice. “What other changes do I need to know about?”
“We announced a corporate restructure. Didn’t want to bother you while you were on vacation. It can wait until you’re back in the office.”
The butterflies morph into giant angry moths. “I’m not on vacation.”
“No. Of course.”
“Do I need to come back today? I’ve checked and I can be in the office by five P.M.” I swallow a lump, equal parts dread, fear, frustration, defeat.
The acidic burn of realization flames through me. I’ve put my heart and soul into this job. Allowed it to consume me. For what? For the pleasure of an ulcer?
For the pleasure of success.
Simon had asked what I thought defined success.
Status. Title. Money.
I have the status and the title and even the money. But none of that equals security. Or, I suddenly realize, happiness. That burning desire that once drove me has turned to embers.
“That’s not necessary. You’re back on Monday, right?”
“Monday,” I confirm.
We say good-bye and I close the computer on the unconfirmed flight.
Simon defined success as “fulfillment.”
“Were you fulfilled by your success, Dad? Because it’s sure as hell not doing it for me.” I release a breath and add, “At least not anymore.”
* * *
The familiar smell of cut grass greets me as I turn into the driveway. Tony waves as the tractor bounces along the strip of grass between the road and the fence. My feet become lead as I enter the barn and see the small cluster of people.
I may not have been excited about calling Bruce, but there’s one thing trending higher on the don’t-want-to-deal-with-this meter—dealing with Jillian.
But there she is, leaning against the open door to the barn office, arms tight across her chest, eyes anchoring me in the middle of the aisle.
“You’re back.” She doesn’t sound any friendlier than she looks. The two people she’s talking to scatter and I wish I could go with them.
“I’m back.”
“I thought you weren’t staying long.”
“Leaving in a couple of days.”
“Shouldn’t you be busy meeting with lawyers and stuff?” She waves a hand as though that clarifies the stuff I’m supposed to be dealing with instead of invading her world.
I don’t feel like defending myself. Not now. Not today. Not about being here.
“You can pretend I’m not here.”
“I’d prefer if you really weren’t here.” She tightens the pretzel of her arms, her ice-blue eyes drilling a hole through sixteen years of emotional fortitude.
Sixteen years during which time I replayed that damn day over and over. Show days were my favorite and this one was extra special. Jillian and I were going alone for the first time. Simon still wasn’t feeling well and said we were perfectly capable to school each other before the morning classes. Plus, Drew Ellison was going to be there. We’d been competing against each other for years and had become show friends. He went to a different school so I didn’t really know him outside of the show world. But like most of the girls, I’d had a crush on him. After a party at his house that Jilli had reluctantly agreed to let me tag along to, Drew and I went from show friends to show sweethearts.
It was the last jumper class of the day and of the three of us, I was the only one who’d qualified for the jump-off. Jilli had taken Tolstoy to the trailer where she could sulk in private. Drew stayed at the gate with me, talking about the jump-off course. He was tucking a stray wisp of hair from my face and giving me a good-luck kiss when Jillian returned.
When Jack and I trotted out of the ring with the winner’s sash around his neck, neither Jillian nor Drew was there to cheer for us.
Marlene said she’d seen Jilli return to the trailer. Sure enough, Tolstoy was tied to the trailer, so Jilli would be there as well. Probably in the tack stall, changing clothes. There was a pyramid of empty beer cans on the cooler by the door to the tack stall.
I opened the side door to the trailer, arms full with my saddle and bridle, excitement bubbling. “Hey, Jilli, guess what?”
There was Jillian, on her knees, back to the door, one hand under Drew’s shirt. Drew’s hands were pressed against the wall on either side of his body, his legs slightly apart, eyes closed, mouth open.
He groaned and I gasped.
I’d dropped my load and slapped my hand over my mouth to smother the sob, then turned and ran. I heard Drew cursing: “Shit, Jillian. Emma, wait…”
Over the years, I’d fumbled through the puzzle pieces that had led us there. Why would my best friend hurt me? And not just stealing my new boyfriend. That had been just the beginning.
Maybe I’ll finally get an answer sixteen years later. I return her stare. “Why were you threatened by me? Why are you still threatened?”
“I’m not threatened by you. I never was.” The icy blue of her eyes grays.
“So what then? You went from being my best friend to hating me? Because of a couple of placements at a horse show? Because of a guy? What?”
Nothing in the way she’s standing changes, yet the change in her catches my breath. There’s no hate in her eyes. What I see reflected back is vulnerability.
The discussion with Simon replays in my head. The defiant person standing in front of me seems far less intimidating than she did a couple of days ago.
She shakes her head, shaking the ice back into place. “It was more than that, Emma.” She turns and walks away.
Maybe it was a mistake coming here looking for answers. But it’s the only place where I have a chance at getting any answers. I make my way to where Jack and his sidekick are mowing through a patch of grass in their paddock. They both look up but neither seems disturbed by the intrusion.
Unwilling to interrupt their peaceful companionship, I stay by the fence and watch. Jack bends his left front leg while his teeth grab at a patch of grass. His tail swishes at unseen flies and his ears twitch at unheard sounds. Jukebox hops to another grassy patch, keeping his beady eyes on me.
I let the lazy sounds take me over, losing track of time and movement until Jack ambles over and rests his muzzle on my shoulder, steady and soothing. Long, warm breaths melt into the fabric of my shirt. My head tips to the side until we’re touching, and we stand, taking comfort from a friendship that doesn’t require words or excuses or apologies.
Jukebox bleats and trots to the fence, keeping a safe distance from me. He stuffs his head between the wooden slats, sending another high-pitched greeting into the universe. It’s then that I notice a man leading a pinto toward the adjoining paddock.
“Sorry for interrupting. I’ll let Taco loose in his field and get out of your space.”
“You’re not interrupting.”
The com
mas at the corner of his mouth punctuate an expression that’s neither smile nor frown. The pinto named Taco yanks gently at the lead and moves a step closer to a tuft of grass. There’s the same prickly restlessness that I’d noticed in him the other day. He both unnerves and intrigues me.
The pendulum swings closer to unnerved and I break eye contact. “I’m Emma.”
“Michael. And you probably know Taco.” He gives the horse’s neck an affectionate slap.
“We haven’t had the pleasure of meeting. Taco?” I raise an eyebrow in question.
“Hard to explain. You’ll see in a minute. He likes to show off.”
Michael tugs the lead rope and Taco shuffles a few steps, keeping his head close to the ground, cropping as he walks. Michael unlatches the gate, leads the horse through, removes the halter, and steps back as the horse bolts and bucks, then with tail high he struts the perimeter of the paddock until he’s made a full lap. Back at the starting point, he stretches his neck and twists to the right, tongue sticking out the side.
“Wait for it,” Michael says, pointing at the horse without taking his eyes off him. “This is how he got his name.”
The horse folds his tongue in half, the shape oddly resembling a taco.
“How does he do that?”
“No idea.” Michael laughs, a deep, full, confident sound.
Now I’m back to intrigued. I can’t say why I was expecting someone sad or reserved. Ben hadn’t given me any indication why Michael was in the therapeutic program. And yet I’m surprised by the shift from the weary, calculating way he first assessed me to the ease and affection in the way he looks at the horse. He’s older than I originally pegged him to be. And that intrigues me even more.
I’d always somehow imagined that with age came a settling into who you are. That the insecurities and doubts that fueled our youth are put to pasture. Yet maturity has succeeded only in changing my insecurities and doubts. So why does it surprise me that a man ten or fifteen years older would have need of a therapeutic program? Who knows what his background is. And anyway, isn’t that need for comfort why I’m out here snuggling with Jack?
“Is he yours?” I nod at the pinto, who is now shoving his folded tongue in Michael’s face.
“No. I wish he was, though. I come a couple times a week.” He hesitates a breath. “I’ve been part of the therapeutic riding program for about a year. Taco and Rena saved my life.”
I certainly wasn’t expecting him to be so forthright.
He turns from the horse and assesses me before asking, “Are you a new client here? Lessons? Boarder?”
“None of the above actually.” Under the lock of his gaze, my nerves lose their hold on my mouth. “I rode here when I was a girl but haven’t been back in sixteen years. I had to return on personal business and, well, here I am.” I lean into Jack, needing reassurance that it’s okay for me to be here.
“You’re the girl in all those pictures with Jack.”
I nod.
“Nice.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“You don’t ride anymore?”
I pull my mouth into a line and shake my head.
“You should.”
“If only it were that easy.”
“It is. You love horses. You ride.”
“That easy?” Jack’s breath tickles the side of my neck.
“He doesn’t do that, you know.”
I turn to look at Michael, bumping Jack off my shoulder in the process. He snorts and repositions, sending a warm breeze down the front of my shirt.
“Jack. He’s not a touchy-feely horse. With Simon somewhat, but he tends to keep to himself with other humans. He’s good with the therapeutic clients although he seems to prefer that fool’s company.” I follow Michael’s outstretched finger to where Jukebox is attempting to sit on a large yellow rubber ball.
I laugh at the crazy goat, then turn back to the warm brown eyes inches from mine. “He’s always been like this. When he was a foal he’d sleep with his head in my lap. Just a big lovable puppy dog, aren’t you?” I hug Jack’s muzzle.
“Then why did you leave?”
“It’s complicated.”
“That,” Michael waves a hand wrapping an invisible bow around Jack and me, “that’s not complicated. Me? I’m complicated. The bond you have with that horse, not so much.”
“You don’t know anything about me.” Jack’s head whips up and I wince at the sharpness of my tone. I hadn’t meant it.
“True. So tell me why you left.”
“History. Anyway, I’m only here for a couple more days.”
“He’ll miss you.” Michael nods at the horse but his eyes stay on me.
“I’ll miss him but my life is in Chicago. Not here. I have a job to get back to.”
“Your aura tells me otherwise.”
“My aura?”
He doesn’t react to my disbelief. That was the last thing I expected from a man who looks like he’s just walked off a marines recruiting poster.
“Before you noticed me, your aura was clear. You were at peace. It” —he circles his hand, palm out, fingers splayed— “got murkier as we talked. At the mention of your life in Chicago, it darkened to a storm cloud.”
“Is this where you try to recruit me into your cult?”
He laughs. A larger-than-can-be-contained presence fills the space between us. I shift my weight, pushing my back into the wood fence.
“I’m not in a cult. Well, not really. I know it sounds crazy. I’m sorry if I wigged you out. I spent six months living with a holistic healer in a hut in Tibet after getting out of the marines. It wasn’t one of my better decisions. But I wasn’t making many good decisions back then.”
Ex-marine. I was right about one thing at least. Despite the unease, I find myself relaxing. He’s not dangerous.
“Anyway, you should rethink going back. This place may have uncomfortable memories for you, but it’s pretty clear that this place is also your homecoming.”
Jack pushes down on my shoulder, apparently agreeing.
“How did you go from a holistic hut in Tibet to Jumping Frog Farm in Maryland?”
“I had to do something to save my life.” Our eyes meet and I see a mirror of myself. Someone grasping for a why and a how, someone searching for a way home.
Jack gives me a nudge, breaking the contact between Michael and me.
“When I got out of the marines, I wanted to die, I deserved to die, for what I’d done and what I hadn’t done. My wife threatened to leave me if I didn’t get help. Said I’d never see my child again. So I left her. Them. I followed a marine buddy to Tibet. Five months later he killed himself. A month after that, I came home but Angie refused to take me back. Said I was as fucked up as when I’d left. Maybe more. She’s a psychologist at one of the area hospitals. She said to try this program, that Rena had a reputation for helping people who weren’t helpable.”
“You thought you weren’t helpable?”
“I knew it. I came those first few times because I couldn’t die with the disappointment in Angie’s eyes being my last memory of her. Her last memory of me. I wanted my daughter to know I’d at least made an effort to be the kind of father she deserved. One week led to two, led to a month, and here I am a year later.”
“Have you and Angie gotten back together?”
“No.” He gives his head a sad shake.
“Do you see your daughter?”
“Not as much as I’d like. She’s fifteen and every bit the moody teen. She’d rather be with her friends than her parents. Especially her fucked-up dad. I scare her friends.”
“Do you still want to die?”
“Sometimes.”
“What do you do then?”
“Come here.” Michael’s upper body turns so slightly that I almost think it was the wind ruffling his shirt. He watches Taco slurping water from the metal trough in the corner of the paddock.
“I wonder if that’s what my mom did.”
I hadn’t realized I’d said that aloud until Michael asks, “Your mom?”
I nod, the cotton ball in my throat stopping any attempt at speaking.
Michael lets me off the hook. “I rode a few times when I was young. Vacations mostly. It was fun but I never imagined it becoming part of my life. Until I had no life. A horse doesn’t judge what you’ve done wrong. They give you the opportunity to do right. Here, it doesn’t matter who I was. Michael the marine doesn’t exist. I can’t think about those days. If I do, Taco reminds me to stop. Through him I can feel my tension and I can find my peace.”
“I wish my mom had had a Taco.”
“Maybe she was more of a sushi girl.” He winks.
Despite the weight of the tears, I feel the corners of my mouth lift.
“Maybe. I’m glad you have Taco. And Rena.”
“Me too. You have Jack and Rena. And Simon.”
I nod.
“That’s your reason to stay.”
21
March 1995
“Are you done with that magazine?” Jilli points a pair of scissors at the Practical Horseman magazine Emma has been leafing through, looking for the perfect picture for her collage.
It’s been pouring outside and is still winter cold. The kind of early-spring day that makes you doubt Mother Nature remembers how to make warm and sunny. Emma is ready for spring. She loves spring.
She listens to the rain pounding on the metal roof. She wishes it would ease up. Usually riding in the indoor arena with rain pinging on the metal roof feels cozy, the sounds almost hypnotic. But the downpour this morning had made it hard to hear Rena and had unsettled the horses. It hadn’t been one of her better lessons. And that always leaves her feeling out of sorts.
Emma slides the magazine to Jilli and reaches for another one. Her collage isn’t moving nearly as fast as Jilli’s. Then again, Emma’s collage has a theme and each picture is neatly trimmed and glued in place. Jilli is taking an everything-goes approach to hers.
The phone rings and Rena answers on the second ring. After abbreviated pleasantries, Rena’s voice jumps with alarm, making both girls stop in mid-cut or paste. “But you’re okay? Well that’s more important. Of course, of course. We’ll manage. Don’t give it another thought.”