by Andrews
Brown pulled into the driveway, got out, looked at the horse, and listened to his belly again. “Let’s get a tube down his stomach. I don’t hear anything moving.”
I assisted by applying the twitch—a crude device that twisted Hlatur’s velvety lip into a knot, making any sudden move painful and thereby immobilizing him for safe treatment—as Dr. Brown put the long plastic tube down Hlatur’s nose and carefully moved it into his stomach, bypassing his lungs, since a tube mistakenly placed in the lungs could kill a horse. He pumped mineral oil down the tube and then, after what seemed an eternity, pulled the tube out. He gave Hlatur antibiotics and God knows what else.
Finally Brown said he thought we had a handle on it now and told us to watch him for a couple of hours.
Shaken and tired, we plopped down on the tack trunk across from Hlatur’s stall where we could watch him.
“Thank you,” Liz said weakly, then suddenly laid her head on my chest. Liz was as damp as Hlatur, so upset over her horse that she too had broken out in a sweat. “What’s wrong with him?” she whispered.
“We’ll find out.” I held her close, feeling how small and vulnerable she was underneath the competent exterior and momentarily forgetting all that had happened between us.
She glanced over at her horse. “He’s going down!” she said, jumping up.
I dialed Brown again, saying we were in real trouble this time. Without waiting for his return call, I called Maynard; I knew we needed to get Hlatur to a hospital.
“You’ve got to get up, Hlatur,” Liz pleaded. “Please, honey, come on. Come on, up!”
Hlatur slowly rose to his feet, off balance and swaying unsteadily, as Maynard’s truck entered the front gates. When Maynard opened the back door to his trailer, Hlatur staggered out to board it as if he knew this was his ambulance and time was critical.
We followed Maynard, peering over the hood of our car to see Hlatur’s body swaying in the horse trailer in front of us and praying to God that Hlatur wasn’t dying. This time I wasn’t so sure. I knew he was a very sick horse, and no one seemed to know what was wrong with him.
*
Hospitals of any kind are scary places late at night on emergency runs, but horse hospitals, in most parts of the world, are scarier, lacking comforting colorful décor and people in starched uniforms to signal that patients are in professional hands. Mostly horse hospitals look like the inside of an old concrete garage, where someone’s installed a set of horse stocks that keeps the horse from bolting and leaving. All the equipment looks primitive and, at best, like something that might be used under the hood of a car.
Dr. Brown, in blue jeans and an old shirt, said we’d better do a belly tap, and without further discussion, he began shaving the underside of Hlatur’s furry red tummy.
“What do you think it is?” I tried to sound calm for Liz’s sake.
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
“What will the belly tap tell you?” I persisted.
“What’s going on in this guy—infection, parasites, something.”
I sucked in my breath when the unimaginably long needle went into Hlatur’s sweet belly, and I let it out minutes later when the needle came out.
Liz had her arms around Hlatur’s big neck and her head buried in his thick mane, silent tears running down her cheeks. Perhaps she was trying to console him, but she also couldn’t bring herself to watch her precious horse’s belly being prodded with a needle as long as a sword.
“Okay.” Brown pulled back from his work. “We’re going to put him on IVs and watch him around the clock. I’ll let you know what the tests show tomorrow.”
“Is he in danger…?” I didn’t want to say of dying, but I knew Dr. Brown could finish the sentence.
“He’s a pretty sick boy. We’ll just have to take it a day at a time and see what happens.”
A wiry vet tech in her fifties, wearing faded blue jeans and a dirty work shirt, came out of the office and led Hlatur out of the garage-like examining room across a driveway and into a large open barn containing several oversized stalls in the middle of a dirt arena. The sides of the stalls were nothing more than rough wooden slats running from the floor to a height of seven feet, but there was plenty of soft bedding on the floor and fresh water.
“He’s so ill,” I said, following close behind her as a wind kicked up, swirling a fine, soft dust around our ankles, and for a moment the fragrant, balmy air that seemed to come from nowhere lifted my heart and gave me inexplicable hope.
She looked at me over her shoulder, acknowledging my concern. “He is what you see,” she said, and while I thought her remark cold, I noticed her eyes were warm and as clear as crystals, and she had a gentleness about her that made me believe she would take care of poor Hlatur, whom she led into his hospital stall.
Overhead a pulley system held the hookups for large IV bags that would dangle above him out of his reach. The IV line and needle extended out of the sky and found its mark in his neck. I hadn’t stopped to analyze how horses have fluids administered through their necks. I would have thought Hlatur would have pulled the line out or that he would have flopped down and rolled on it, but he seemed to know it needed to stay in him, and he stood quietly.
I had to demand that Liz leave her horse alone that night, so I engaged the help of the vet tech, who assured Liz she would watch over Hlatur and that he couldn’t rest if Liz was in the stall with him, and I was again struck by her ethereal eyes and wondered how she had ended up with this mundane job. We kissed Hlatur good night and told him he must get well, we needed him—Liz, me, and Rune—we all needed him. Then I drove Liz home with me as she protested.
She sat on the couch, by the phone, for an hour, saying the vet tech watching Hlatur might call and praying Hlatur would survive, while I fixed dinner and thought about how tired I was. Late nights with the horses and early mornings at work were taking their toll.
And then there was the stress of Liz. I stayed in a state of heightened nervous energy whenever she was around, and she was around me every day. Maybe that energy’s the only thing keeping me on my feet now, I thought. Maybe she’s just a sexual battery to keep me charged. And why do I still have it when we both know there’s a barrier between us? She knows I have a quick temper and a sharp tongue, for one thing. And I know she’s stubborn.
Liz pushed her food around forlornly and stared at her plate.
“The vet tech said something strange about Hlatur. She said, ‘He is what you see.’ I was too upset to process that remark at the time, but I think she meant that what you see is what he’ll be. Believe he’s going to get well, and he’ll believe that too. And stop pushing your food around like a three-year-old. I don’t cook for everyone.” I’m beginning to have the hostess manners of Madge! I thought. That must be what living alone does to you.
For a moment the look on her face signaled we might have war, but she finally bent over her food and began to eat.
The phone rang, and I picked up the handset while we were at the table. It was Madge. I told her I was just thinking of her but couldn’t talk right now.
“She’s there, isn’t she?” Madge asked. “I just tune in to those kinds of things. Knew she was there!”
“I moved into a two-bedroom condo, remember?” I answered her unasked question obliquely. “Liz’s horse has been terribly ill, and we’ve been up with him for hours. But I know he’s going to recover.”
“And how about you?” Madge asked, completely unconnected from animals and the way their illnesses could tear at the heartstrings. “Sounds like you’ve recovered. Ain’t life grand?” She gave the phrase a hillbilly twang and told me to call her later.
“Gay friend wanting to know if we’re sleeping together?” Liz said in a matter-of-fact tone.
“Asexual friend wanting to know if anyone’s sleeping with anyone. I’ve put fresh towels in your room and clean sheets on the bed. You need to get some sleep. Your horse will live, Liz, I know that.”
> *
When I got up to go to the bathroom, the clock read 1:11 a.m. Do I only look at the clock when it’s one eleven, or is it always one eleven? I thought I heard Liz crying in the next room and walked down the hallway, hesitating, before opening the door to tap lightly on it. She sniffed and tried to conceal the fact that she was upset, drying her eyes quickly in the dark.
I crossed the room and sat down on the edge of her bed, putting my hand on her forehead and pushing back her curly locks. “Hi.”
She blinked and wiped more tears from her eyes with the sheet, and I handed her a tissue.
“I’m sorry about invading your office. I let the story get personal, and I didn’t respect your wishes because I knew you—which means, basically, I suck as a reporter.”
“I would never agree with that assessment,” I said, and looked into her teary blue eyes. I don’t know what caused it: the childlike vulnerability, my guilt over having yelled at her, the fact that I just wanted to touch her so badly I couldn’t sleep, but I found my lips speaking the words, “Come on.” I took her hand in mine and hoisted us both out of the bed. “Follow me,” I said, leading her down the hallway and entering my bedroom.
“Climb in,” I said, indicating the bed as she gave me an odd look. “If I had a teddy bear, I would have just tossed it in there to you—but I don’t, so you’re going to stop crying over Hlatur and get some sleep. It’s all going to be okay, I promise.”
Liz wrapped herself around me, let out a sound somewhere between a sob and a sigh, and fell asleep almost immediately.
I, on the other hand, was now wide-awake. Liz Chase’s body seemed a natural fit, curving into mine as if we had once been molded of a single piece and had somehow become separated. And she smelled heavenly, damp tears and all. At this moment, I began to wonder if four years with Liz Chase wasn’t better than forty years with someone else. I buried my lips in her hair much as Rune had put hers in mine, and I comforted Liz Chase like a mare might comfort a frightened foal.
*
Liz was up and dressed when I awoke. We had slept together—that intimacy made me feel awkward and exhilarated. When I stumbled into the kitchen, she handed me coffee as she dialed the vet.
A male technician said Hlatur looked about the same, reportedly didn’t move much all night, but at the moment was eating a little hay and grain. We took his improved appetite as a much better sign than I’m sure it was. Liz called in to the station and arranged for someone else to anchor, saying her eyes were so swollen no makeup would cover the damage. I had to go to work.
“Thanks,” she said, and ducked her head. “You’re definitely a full-service friend.”
I wanted to tell her I would enjoy rendering services beyond those already delivered but clamped my lips shut, merely smiling and nodding.
*
I arrived at the office and moved quickly through the roster of issues Jane outlined for me. I took four meetings, rifled through research papers on audience numbers, and returned calls. I was operating at a heightened level of efficiency while being virtually out of my body.
How could horse ownership transition from being such a great experience to being such a nightmare? Hlatur’s illness and possible death made everything at the office seem even more ridiculous.
I was aware from Jane’s questioning that she was trying to be sympathetic but even she thought my anxiety over a horse a bit excessive. When I turned down an invitation to have dinner at Anselm’s home, she looked at me with furrowed brow, as if to say I was putting both of our livelihoods at risk since executive admins are often buried with their dead leaders.
But I knew Anselm wasn’t asking me to dine because he enjoyed the pleasure of my company. He wanted hours of uninterrupted time to probe me on areas of the company with which he’d been out of touch, or to get the inside scoop on certain employees, or even more importantly, to find out what Walter Puckett was up to. Best case, Anselm would confide in me about whether we were being corporately merged or purged. Whatever the evening might hold, it was meaningless in the scope of time. Meaningless.
“Please tell him I feel bad about having to decline, but that one of my horses is very ill and could even…die. If I were to attend the dinner, my mind would be elsewhere and I wouldn’t be good company.”
Jane took on the look of an executive secretary who had been briefed sufficiently to understand the issue, absorb it, empathize with it, and relay it in the most poignant of terms.
“He’ll understand,” she cooed. “It’s like having a baby who’s ill.”
“It is,” I said, hoping this epiphany wouldn’t launch her into ideas of get-well horse showers.
I realized, as Jane turned to leave, that a change had taken place at the center of my being. In that instant, I had chosen something else over the corporation to which I had always pledged my allegiance. I had chosen the horse—a horse that was not even mine—a horse that belonged to a woman who was not even mine. I wondered what that decision might mean for my future.
*
After work I pulled into the vet clinic driveway, bringing Liz something to eat, and received the latest medical reports. Hlatur’s white count was still high; his T cells were off; his temperature flared. Liz stood in his hospital stall and stroked his tortured neck, whispering quiet words of encouragement into his big, fuzzy ear.
I knew she was begging him to live. I assumed she was telling him again that Rune was waiting for him if he would only get well. Hlatur looked at her with faraway eyes, and neither of us knew whether he wanted to leave this earth or stay.
Wanting reassurance about the condition of Liz’s horse, I sought out the woman tech who’d cared for Hlatur. A vet assistant told me she wasn’t here; in fact, he’d never met her personally, their schedules just didn’t seem to cross, but occasionally clients would tell him that she’d saved their horse’s life, so she must be good.
On that note, Hlatur suddenly pulled away and slammed his body into the stall wall, yanking out his IV, blood trickling down his thick neck as he paced around in a nervous state. After Liz opened the stall gate to run for help, I shouted for her to watch out as Hlatur bolted past her into the parking lot. Two attendants joined us as we attempted to circle him, arms widespread trying to divert him from the busy highway only a few hundred feet away.
Hlatur reared up and spun around and threatened to run over us, and I made up my mind that I would be hospitalized before I would let Liz’s horse die on the freeway behind me. Liz screamed as he headed for it; I could hear semis whizzing past, but I stayed focused on him. Is this horse trying to commit suicide, unable to withstand the indignity of capture and incarceration?
An attendant ran inside the building and returned with a lariat. Hlatur whirled, bucked, snorted, and came to a complete stop, just as the cowboy was getting ready to lasso him. We hadn’t seen him show that much energy or interest in days.
Liz approached him slowly and stroked his neck, then slid a halter onto him and led him back to his hospital stall, his sides like bellows and his nostrils flared.
“That’s a good sign.” The attendant beamed. “He’s trying to leave. Your horse is feeling better!”
Liz and I got Hlatur settled down before heading to the car, where we sank into the cushy leather seats. I let out a long sigh, my heart still pounding.
“It’s just every fucking thing every fucking minute. I am so fucking tired of life being so damned hard.” I came close to whining.
“Do you know how many times you’ve said ‘fucking’?” Liz smiled slightly.
I sighed philosophically. “‘Fuck’ is an interesting word. We’re all trained to recoil when someone says that word, but legend has it ‘Fuck’ is an acronym meaning Fornicate Under Command of the King. It was an order to procreate. The king could have commanded that everyone engage in Conjugal Licentiousness Under Command of the King and the acronym would have been ‘Cluck.’ Then we’d be going around saying, well, they were caught clucking in the back of
his car. She was just clucking her brains out. Well, clucking A! He’s a complete cluckhead. Cluck cluck cluck—”
“Brice.” Liz patted my leg. “You just need rest, that’s all.”
Chapter Fifteen
The vets had finally reached a diagnosis. Their best guess was peritonitis—the deadly inflammation of the stomach lining that Hlatur had most likely had for some time and which had lain relatively dormant until this episode that had nearly killed him.
Now having it under control, they pronounced Hlatur a candidate for home care, as long as he rested and stayed destressed. His white count was still up and, as the doctors would continually repeat, he wasn’t out of the woods by a long shot, but they felt that part of his healing would involve getting back to his normal routine and his mare.
When Liz met me at the barn the following afternoon, I was still in my office attire. Nowadays my Amalfis always had mysterious pieces of hay wedged inside them, and the pockets of my business suits held horse cookie crumbs. I was a double agent, living a corporate life with country longings.
“Hlatur, you’re home!” I exclaimed. “Give me a kiss.”
Hlatur puckered his upper lip and punched it up against mine.
I laughed.
“Don’t kiss him on the mouth!” Liz giggled. “We don’t know for sure what he has.”
“What he has is great lips, don’t you, big guy?”
Hlatur nodded his head up and down vigorously, and Liz giggled more.
“He knows everything you’re saying. He’s the smartest horse,” she exclaimed.
“Do you hear that, mare?” I opened Rune’s stall. “You’re the most intelligent horse on the planet. Women are always brighter. That’s why smart horsemen always leave a mare in charge of the herd.” I whispered to her as I stroked her long nose. “If there’s danger, the mare will get them out of it.”