If Wishes Were Horses

by Robert Barclay

  By now, other students had gathered around. Trevor took no notice of them. His eyes still locked on Richardson, he again reached out his hand.

  “Give me my books,” he repeated, “or you’ll regret it.”

  “So this belt belonged to your father,” Richardson mused. “I hear that he was dead drunk most of the time.” Richardson suddenly grasped the irony, and he laughed.

  “Get it, horse retard?” he said. “Dead drunk! That’s funny, don’t you think?”

  That was the final straw. With no regard for the consequences, Trevor lunged at Tim. Just as he did, a booming voice called out from across the room.

  “What’s going on over there?” the head librarian shouted.

  Trevor turned to see Mr. Sanford approaching. He was relieved, but disappointed. He wanted his father’s belt returned, and it seemed that he would get it. But he would also be deprived of taking another whack at Tim Richardson, and he had wanted to.

  Sanford was a tall, burly man in his early thirties. He was the school wrestling coach and head librarian, and known for not taking any guff from unruly students. As Sanford neared, Tim smiled innocently.

  “I said, what’s going on here?” Sanford demanded.

  “Nothing, sir,” Tim said. “Powers dropped his books, and I picked them up for him.” He happily returned Trevor’s books and belt.

  Just then the period bell rang. Sanford gave Tim and his friends a harsh look.

  “This is over,” he said. “Get lost.”

  Tim sneered at Trevor. “Another time,” he said.

  “You bet,” Trevor answered.

  After Tim and his friends were gone, Sanford looked at Trevor. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “It wasn’t my fault!” Trevor protested. “Those jerks started it! All I was trying to do was get my stuff back!”

  Sanford nodded. “I believe you. Those three are real trouble. It’s a good thing this didn’t happen outside. You’d have probably gotten your lights punched out.”

  “Not without a fight,” Trevor countered. Suddenly regretting his comment, he gave Sanford a contrite look. “Are you going to report this?” he asked.

  Sanford shook his head. “No,” he answered. “But I’d love to, if for no other reason than to put those three on notice. I’m a friend of your mother, and I know how badly she wants you to stay in the New Beginnings Program. So as far as I’m concerned, nothing happened here.”

  “Thank you,” Trevor answered.

  Now that the moment had passed, Trevor suddenly realized how close he had come to being expelled and perhaps never seeing Sadie again. All the other times he had gotten into trouble, he hadn’t cared about the consequences. To his great surprise, a wave of relief ran through him.

  Sanford gave Trevor a quick smile. “Now scram,” he said, “before you’re late for your next class.”

  “WHOA THERE, HOSS!” Ram said. “If you keep that up, you’ll dig all the way to China! You got an ax to grind or something?”

  Trevor lowered the pitchfork and wiped his brow. His blood was still boiling from today’s run-in with Tim Richardson. Desperate to work off his frustration, for the last twenty minutes he had been flinging soiled straw into a nearby wheelbarrow as if his life depended on it. Because of the heat, he had removed his red Windbreaker and laid it on top of the stall door.

  Panting heavily, Trevor lowered the pitchfork tips to the stall floor and leaned down onto its handle. Under Big John’s watchful eye, Trevor had done his best to learn how to brush down Sadie. He had done a poor job of it, but it had been a start. Before Trevor started cleaning her stall, Big John had led Sadie from the barn and into an outdoor paddock.

  Like he had seen Big John do earlier in the day, Trevor took a handkerchief from his jeans and wiped the sweat from the inner band of his Stetson. With the hat back on his head, he finally turned and looked at Ram.

  “You been there long?” he asked.

  Ram smiled and leaned his forearms down on top of the Dutch door of Sadie’s stall.

  “Long enough to know that you won’t last at that rate,” he answered. “A fella has to pace himself around here. This work isn’t for sissies.”

  Trevor laughed derisively. “Oh yeah? That’s not what they’re saying at school.”

  Ram scowled. “What are you talking about?”

  “Never mind,” Trevor said. “It’s my problem, not yours.”

  Again reminded of his close call with Tim Richardson, he returned to his labors. He certainly wasn’t adept at handling a pitchfork yet, but that didn’t slow him down. As he hurried, sometimes more of the soiled straw went back onto the floor than into the wheelbarrow.

  Ram could sense something was amiss. Two nights ago, after visiting the barn with Wyatt and Gabby, Trevor’s mood had been joyful. But today he was clearly troubled.

  Despite the short time he had known Trevor, Ram had come to like him. It had been a long time since Wyatt and Morgan had been boys, and having young people swarming over the ranch helped make Ram feel vibrant again. Moreover, Trevor possessed the same brooding attitude that Wyatt had once had, and those dusty memories tugged at the old man’s heart. Ram could see that Trevor was hurting, and, like Wyatt, he wanted to help.

  “That’s good enough,” Ram said. “This is a barn, not a surgical ward.”

  Trevor shook his head. “I’m not done,” he answered as he sloppily slung yet more soiled straw toward the old wheelbarrow, some of it hitting the wall instead. The stall was already satisfactory, but that didn’t seem to matter.

  “I own this ranch, young man,” Ram said, “and I give the orders around here. Now put down that pitchfork. Wheel the barrow out into the aisle and then bring in some fresh straw, just like Big John taught you to do.”

  Trevor shrugged his shoulders. After wheeling out the barrow, he lugged four fresh straw bales into the stall. He soon realized that he had no way to cut the bale strings. When he had done this job for the horse that had been assigned to him, Big John had cut the strings.

  Ram smiled and fished around in his Levi’s. After producing a pearl-handled pocketknife, he handed it to Trevor.

  “Flying B rule number two,” he said. “Always carry a knife. Wyatt and Morgan have knives just like that one, and they wouldn’t be caught dead without them.”

  “What’s Flying B rule number one?” Trevor asked.

  “I already told you,” Ram answered. “I give the orders around here.”

  Trevor looked at the knife. It was old, but still beautiful. When he unfolded the blade, he saw the letters RB engraved on it. After cutting the bale strings, he folded the knife and offered it to Ram.

  Ram shook his head. “It’s yours now.”

  Trevor’s jaw fell. “I can’t accept this! It looks like you’ve had it for a long time.”

  Ram winked at him. “That doesn’t matter. I don’t do this kind of work anymore, but you’re going to be doing a lot of it. It belongs in your pocket now.”

  Trevor beamed. “Thank you,” he said.

  “You’re welcome,” Ram answered. “Now finish your work. Sadie and her unborn foal are counting on you.”

  Trevor pocketed the knife, then scattered fresh straw all around in Sadie’s stall. When he finished he grabbed up the pitchfork and his Windbreaker, shutting the door behind him. Ram took the pitchfork from him and leaned it against the wall.

  “Come with me,” Ram said.

  When they reached the end of the aisle, Ram motioned for Trevor to sit in one of several weathered Adirondack chairs near the barn’s western exit. Trevor was more than happy to oblige. He was tired and hungry, but in no hurry to go home. Ram sat down beside him and stretched out his legs.

  Trevor took a moment to look around the barn. Although he was still new to the ranch, he already loved this huge old building. Its unique smells, sights, and sounds provided a comforting feeling that he found nowhere else. And of perhaps even greater importance, it was becoming a sanctuary where he could be around
horses and escape his troubles for a while. Then the memory of Tim Richardson seeped in again, and he scowled.

  Ram casually crossed one booted foot over the other. “So tell me,” he said, “how was your first real day of New Beginnings?”

  Trevor looked down at his boots. “Okay, I guess.”

  “It’s time you learned Flying B rule number three,” Ram said. “Men always look into each other’s eyes when they talk.”

  Trevor sat up and looked squarely at Ram. That’s better, Ram thought. Ram crossed his arms over his chest.

  “How’d your first group-therapy session go?” Ram asked.

  Trevor shook his head. “It was weird! We were supposed to talk about our feelings, but I’d rather shovel horse manure! The girls talked a lot more than us boys. They seemed to want to, for some reason. Jesus…”

  Ram laughed heartily. “You’d best get used to that! It’s the way of the world, my boy!”

  Just then Jim Mason walked by, carrying an old saddle and bridle. When Jim tipped his hat, Ram replied by doing the same. When Trevor did not, Jim stopped and waited. Guessing that he should respond, Trevor did his best to imitate Ram’s gesture. At last Jim smiled and went on his way.

  “Let me guess,” Trevor said. “That was Flying B rule number four.”

  “Number six, actually,” Ram answered.

  “How many rules are there?” Trevor asked.

  “Can’t say,” Ram answered. “Nobody ever wrote ’em down. Besides, don’t forget that we’re also a family of lawyers. If the Flying B rules were written down, I couldn’t change them whenever I wanted. After all, if it wasn’t for lawyers, the world wouldn’t need any.”

  Silence passed between the old man and the boy for a time, as horses occasionally whinnied and the Florida sun started to dip below the western horizon. It was nearly time for Ram’s nightly appointment with Butch, Sundance, and Jack Daniel’s.

  Ram gave Trevor a knowing look. “So what’s eating you?” the old man asked.

  “What makes you so sure that anything’s eating me?” Trevor asked.

  “I’ve raised two boys, and I can tell when something’s wrong. So fess up. Maybe I can help.”

  With great reluctance, Trevor told Ram about his dustup with Tim Richardson. Ram nodded thoughtfully.

  “Horse retards?” he said. “That’s a new one.”

  “Tell me about it,” Trevor said.

  “There’s no boy in the world who hasn’t been bullied at one time or another,” Ram said. “The question is not whether it will happen to you, but how you deal with it.”

  “But I don’t know how,” Trevor answered. “Except for fighting, that is. I’m pretty good at that. I don’t have anybody to talk to about stuff like this. No man, at least. I sure as hell can’t talk to my mother about it. She’ll just tell me to take it and do nothing—especially with Principal Marshall gunning for me.”

  “Yeah,” Ram said. “It’s been tough on you since the death of your father. Would you like some advice?”

  Trevor’s expression turned needy. “Yes,” he said quietly.

  “Then I’ll tell you the same thing I told Wyatt and Morgan when they were being bullied,” Ram said. “It helped them, and it will help you.”

  “What is it?” Trevor asked.

  “It’s simple,” Ram answered. “Never wrestle in the mud with a pig.”

  “Huh?”

  “Imagine this Richardson kid as a muddy, ornery pig,” Ram said. “From the way you describe him, that shouldn’t be too hard, right?”

  Trevor laughed. “Right!” he said.

  “There are two reasons you should avoid wrestling in the mud with the ‘Richardson pig.’ Can you imagine what they are?”

  Trevor scowled. “Not really.”

  “The first reason,” Ram said, “is that you’ll both get dirty.”

  “That’s true, I guess,” Trevor said. “And the second reason?”

  “It makes the Richardson pig happy,” Ram answered.

  Trevor didn’t fully understand Ram’s meaning, but he nodded anyway. “Are you saying that I should never fight?” he asked.

  Ram shook his head. “No! But I’m not surprised that you’re confused. In this day and age, some boys are taught to never fight. That’s the worst advice in the world. If you’re attacked, you must defend yourself. It’s the honorable thing to do. But starting fights isn’t.”

  “So what about the Richardson pig?” Trevor asked.

  “When the time comes, remember what I told you,” Ram answered. “Most likely, you’ll understand it then. But never believe the fairy tale that hitting a bully will always make him give up and leave you alone. That’s pure crap. Truth is, he might get right back up and beat the hell out of you. So avoid him if you can. But if you must fight, fight to win. Even if he wins, at least you tried to give as good as you got.”

  Trevor remained quiet for a time, trying to digest the old man’s words. “Understanding this is going to take a while,” he admitted.

  “That’s okay,” Ram said. “Wyatt and Morgan didn’t get it right away either. But they eventually did, and so will you. Don’t worry about it. Just remember it when the time comes.”

  To Ram’s surprise, Trevor tipped his hat to him. This time, he did a more proper job of it. “Thank you,” he said. “For everything.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Just then they heard voices, and they turned to see Gabby and Wyatt approaching. Night was falling, causing the sky to change from Florida turquoise to deep indigo. Here and there, twinkling stars started puncturing heaven’s canopy. As Gabby and Wyatt entered the barn, they smiled.

  “We were wondering where you were,” Wyatt said to Trevor. “Did my old man kidnap you?”

  “Yeah,” Trevor said. “But that’s okay. I learned something today.”

  “Time to go, young man,” Gabby said. “Tomorrow’s another school day.”

  Everyone heard the clip-clop of horse hooves, and they turned to look. Big John was leading Sadie back to her freshly cleaned stall.

  “Can I take her?” Trevor asked.

  “Sure thing,” Big John said.

  He handed Sadie’s bridle lead to Trevor. After stroking Sadie’s head, Trevor walked her into her stall and closed the door behind him. “Good night, girl,” he said. Sadie poked her gray head out over the stall door and whinnied.

  Ram gave Wyatt a sly look that Wyatt didn’t fully understand. “What’s Aunt Lou cooking for dinner?” Ram asked.

  “Pot roast and blueberry pie,” Wyatt answered skeptically. “But my guess is you already knew that.”

  “And have all the other teens and parents left the ranch?” Ram asked.

  “Yes,” Wyatt said. “But I suspect you knew that, too. Because Trevor has taken on this extra work with Sadie, he and Gabby will probably always be the last ones to leave.” Wyatt raised an eyebrow. Ram was up to something, but he couldn’t figure out what it was.

  Ram gave Gabby a smile. “Why don’t you and Trevor stay for dinner?” he asked. “Everybody else is gone, so nobody will know but us fellow conspirators. After all, you have to eat.”

  Gabby was unsure. “Uh…well…we really shouldn’t,” she said. “We wouldn’t want to impose.”

  “Impose, hell,” Ram answered. “What’s the matter? Don’t you like Lou’s food? If not, then you can march right up to the big house and tell her yourself. I’ll buy tickets to that!”

  Searching for reassurance, Gabby again looked at Wyatt. “Of course you should stay,” Wyatt said. “Believe me, Aunt Lou always makes enough.”

  “Well, I guess that we could,” Gabby said.

  Ram clapped his hands together. “Then it’s settled! Let’s go!”

  As Wyatt and Gabby walked out of the barn, Ram held Trevor back. “Let’s give them a little breathing room, shall we?” Ram asked.

  Trevor wrinkled his brow. “Why? I’m hungry!”

  “Oh, I have my reasons,” Ram answered. A few moments
later, he started escorting Trevor out of the barn.

  “Now then,” Ram said to him. “About that knife I gave you. It has a long and storied past…”

  As Ram and Trevor walked across the grass, night fell in earnest.

  SEVENTEEN

  GET UP, MR. WYATT!” Aunt Lou shouted. “It’s Mr. Ram! This time he’s really gone crazy! He’s gonna kill himself for sure!”

  Wasting no time, Aunt Lou grasped the single sheet covering Wyatt’s naked body then pulled it off him and onto the floor. Wyatt snarled something unintelligible and instinctively reached for the sheet, but Aunt Lou had been quicker. When Wyatt finally realized that she was glowering down at him, he covered his groin with both hands.

  “Jesus Christ, Lou!” he protested sleepily. “What’s going on?”

  Lou threw a pair of jeans and boots at him. “Get dressed!” she shouted. “And stop wasting time covering yourself! I raised you, for God’s sake!”

  Wyatt jumped from his bed to quickly pull on the jeans and boots. When he ran to fetch a shirt, Lou threw up her hands.

  “There’s no time for that!” she bellowed. “Come on!” Quick as a wink, she bolted from the room.

  Wyatt was amazed by how fast the big woman could move. He chased her down the staircase, through the foyer, and onto the front porch. Lou immediately hurried Wyatt across the dew-laden west lawn and toward the white-rail paddocks. When she finally stopped, she raised an arm and pointed.

  “That’s what I’m talking about!” she panted.

  As Wyatt looked across the lawn, his jaw dropped. “Son of a bitch…,” he breathed.

  Dawn was fast approaching. The Flying B was quiet save for a lone horse and rider, galloping across the dewy west lawn. The horse was a black stallion named King, and Ram sat on top of him. King’s shoes had unearthed hundreds of dark gouges in the wet grass, ruining much of it. Ram had equipped King with an English-style saddle and bridle, and he held a leather riding crop in one hand. Wyatt watched in horror as Ram slapped King’s haunches with the crop and galloped him straight toward an empty white-railed paddock.