On the Buckle

by Candace Carrabus

  Wastrel had been my favorite ride of all time. On him, my connection was pure and open, and we could do anything. Only thing was, Wastrel didn’t enjoy jumping. Not the man-made competition jumps, anyway. A fence across a field, a log out on the trail, a ditch along the road, he sailed over all. But point him at a course in a ring, and he balked. Observers couldn’t see it. Only he and I knew. I tried to explain to his owner, but he pushed and pushed for the grand-prix prize. Wastrel could do it, and he did do it for me. Many times. But he'd grown tired of it.

  That day, our ride was going smoothly, well under time and no faults, until he launched himself at the square oxer in the middle of the triple combination. It was perfect, we’d hit the ideal take-off point. The next moment, all I knew was splintering wood, and the muted roar of the crowd, and the ground coming up, and the shock of it going wrong. He tried to keep me from getting hurt; I tried to help him get free. His freedom was hard won. He never got up again. I often wondered if it had been deliberate.

  In the dream, I sensed I'd been right. He was happy and intact and never had to jump unless he wanted to. In heaven, the fields were always green and the ponds clear and the trees shady. Somehow, he communicated that.

  Wastrel led me to a wooded hillside. There was Winterlight’s manure pile. It didn’t smell like heaven, not at all.

  “Yes,” I said. “We’re going to clean that up today.”

  He climbed to the top and whinnied, then struck and dug at the heavy pile with his forefoot, spewing wet straw and manure through the crystal air.

  “Okay, yes, I get it.”

  Why would a dead horse be worried about an oversized manure pile at a farm he'd never visited while living?

  Dreams are weird.

  Once I’d showered and gargled the pasty remnants of beer from my throat with four cups of strong coffee, I concluded I had not had sex with JJ.

  Relief left me boneless where I sprawled on the tack-room love seat after feeding the horses. Its musty smell reminded me I should check the mysterious contents of the washing machine, but I wasn’t up to it. And that got me wondering where Norman was. I thought he’d said this was his last week, but I didn’t know what his hours were supposed to be. Maybe he figured since I lived here he didn’t need to arrive any time in particular.

  I didn’t waste time with self-recrimination. I knew perfectly well what I’d been thinking the night before. More precisely, I hadn’t been thinking at all. I’d been tired and feeling unappreciated. JJ happened along at the right time. With any luck, his change of scene would happen soon, and I wouldn’t have to deal with him again.

  Henrietta jumped to my lap and purred when I stroked her back. Her belly stuck out like she’d swallowed a football. Probably have her kittens today. When I rose, she made a beeline for my apartment. Great. She might even have her kittens in my closet.

  There’d been a message on the answering machine from Malcolm that he’d finished his job early and would be home tonight. Crap. I’d wanted to have so much more done before he got back. He’d sounded surprised not to find me in when he called at nine at night. Surprised or disappointed? Hard to say, especially in my fuzzyheaded state. After our last encounter, I’d just as soon he stayed away. Unless, of course, he was wearing his kilt.

  And that was just the sort of sentiment that got me in trouble last night.

  If I hustled, I could get the horses worked, clean out a couple more stalls, and do my grocery shopping before Hank showed up with his front loader and manure spreader to start moving the big pile. That thing had been building for months and achieved a height of at least ten feet and probably double that in width and length. It was down a hillside and out of sight—just like in my dream. Out of sight, out of mind, for the people around here. Not for Wastrel.

  The dream followed me through the morning. Every detail stuck with me. What it meant, I had no idea.

  ~~~

  The nearest grocery store was fairly new—a testament to civilization inching into the country. Progress, some people would call it. It was also small and limited in its offering. No organic anything. I wheeled a cart down the canned goods aisle. Good selection of baked beans.

  I felt more clear-headed since riding, and my sense of purpose grew as I got to know the horses. Gaston, Malcolm’s new mount, had a big trot and a rolling canter but was lazy to the jumps. We’d work on that. He’d be bolder going cross-country than in the ring. Ciqala knew his job and moved efficiently. Miss Bong should have been called Miss Boing. She did everything with lots of bounce.

  Cali had lugged on the bit, swished her tail, and called to the horses in the pasture. Fergus answered, Smitty raised his head, and the rest kept to cropping grass. She wanted out with them, but I was cautious. No sense endangering Winterlight’s other occupants unnecessarily. So far, I'd let her out in the riding ring only. I rode her on the buckle, let her stretch her topline through trot and some canter, very relaxing for us both.

  I’d taken some aspirin. Still, my head had a persistent, throbbing ache, and I had to keep consulting my shopping list to remember what I needed. What had I come down this aisle for? There it was, green beans.

  Wastrel kept edging into my thoughts. After the accident that left him dead and me on a respirator for a few days while my fractured sternum popped back into the correct position, I tried to put the memory behind me, drowned it in alcohol, but the dream brought it all back. So, on top of being hung over, feeling stupid for getting drunk and nearly having sex in a river, I had to contend with a dream horse intruding on my ride time. At least the old feelings of grief and remorse, guilt and anger weren’t as strong as in the past. Seeing Wastrel in one piece and not upset with me helped.

  I was choosing between regular and French cut beans when a cart careened into mine and pushed it over my foot.

  “Oops, sorry,” the other woman said.

  Pink-camouflaged lady smiled in recognition. Was I doomed to injury every time she got close? Her hair hung over her shoulders in ratty waves that had been bleached and permed so many times it looked like it might break. Now that I had a moment to study her, I realized she was younger than I thought, maybe early twenties. Her clothes today were relatively respectable—plain tee-shirt and baggy shorts. Still, there was no hiding her size-D chest.

  “Hey, you’re—” she started.

  “The new girl,” we both said together.

  “How’s it going?” she asked. “I’m Sandy Houseman, by the way. Sorry about what happened.” She hunkered down a bit. “How’s my wittle Fawny-Wawny?” she asked in a little-girl voice. “She being a good girly?”

  “Uh…yeah. It’s going okay.” I glanced down at her bare legs. “But I won’t be wearing shorts anytime soon.”

  She straightened and spoke in a normal tone. “That bad, huh?”

  “I’ve had worse.” Before she could ask for details, I changed the subject. “Fawn could use a little more exercise. How often do you ride?”

  “As often as I can. But I have to work to support it. I’m on break from the vet’s office right now. Can I come over later?”

  Sandy worked for a vet. Always a good person to know, but I almost said no anyway. The baby talk made me grind my teeth. Maybe if she didn’t direct it at me, I’d survive.

  At my hesitation, she added, “I need to see Norman about something anyway.”

  “Sure. Hank and I will be moving manure all afternoon. After that will be good.”

  Two older ladies walked toward us, each carrying a small basket rather than pushing a cart. They were deep in conversation, heads tilted toward each other, so we moved over until they went on, but they stopped at the canned gravy. Sandy did an eye roll that had me afraid her eyes would get stuck inside her head, then picked out a can of corn niblets and one of creamed, and appeared to consider.

  “Well,” the first lady said, “when Fred went down to the bottom to count head this morning, some of them was in the river. He almost had an apoplexy when he seen his prize bull.
”

  “What’d he do, Melba, get himself stuck in a hole again?”

  I started to back my cart. Without looking away from the corn, Sandy put one foot on it to keep me from moving off. I returned my attention to the green beans.

  “Oh goodness, no. Fred thought he’d gashed his face open or tore off an ear. Lordy, his whole head looked bloody.”

  “Oh dear, it wasn’t one of the cows, was it?”

  “No, no, no. Now, just let me tell it.”

  Melba wore a striped dress, pantyhose, and faded Keds with the toes cut out. Support-hose clad toes showed through the openings. She had short, white hair and Delft blue eyes. Edna looked like her twin except she wore green polyester pants and black slip-on shoes with her plaid cotton blouse. Her swollen ankles and feet overflowed the top edges of the shoes.

  “Look, Fred’s favorite gravy is on sale,” Melba said. “Buy two get one free. Oh, but I can’t use that many.”

  “I’ll take the free one,” Edna said. “Even though it’s only me, sometimes I invite Herbert over.”

  I sighed in exasperation, exchanged a look with Sandy. What in heck happened to Fred’s bull? She put a can of creamed corn in my basket.

  At my squinty-eyed stare, she whispered, “Try it, you’ll like it.”

  Melba gently elbowed Edna. “I think Herbert’s sweet on you.”

  Edna hid a giggle behind an embroidered hanky. “Now, tell me about that silly bull of yours.”

  “Yes, well,” Melba cleared her throat and leaned closer. “You won’t believe it. Turns out it was a pair of red lace underpants stuck on his horn.”

  - 7 -

  Sandy burst out laughing when Melba made her announcement, and I stared at them, dumbstruck.

  “Was they Fred’s?” Sandy asked. “Or one of the cows’?”

  Melba and Edna lowered their identical gray brows at us and moved along without another word. Sandy turned to me, still laughing.

  “If that don’t beat all.” She wiped a tear on her shoulder. “You see the looks on their faces?”

  “Yeah. Hilarious.” I headed for the checkout.

  “Tell Fawny-Wawny I said hi, okay?”

  ~~~

  I'd put my three bags on the seat of the truck before I began to see the humor in the situation. So long, that is, as no one ever found out the panties were mine.

  Back at the ranch, I put groceries away quickly, loading the two cans of Reddi-Wip into the door of the fridge. I’d gotten one plain, one chocolate. The chocolate was for extreme stress. Emergency provision only. I took a hit of the creamy white stuff, closed my mouth, then swept my tongue through it a little at a time, letting it dissolve at its own pace. Tension slipped away like water from a leaking trough. After a deep breath, I took another quick squirt and headed outside, feeling renewed. Who needs yoga and meditation when there’s whipped cream in a can?

  I grabbed my baseball cap and pulled my hair through the opening in the back.

  Henrietta was nowhere in sight, which made me nervous, but I didn’t have time to look for her. Hank had parked the manure spreader at the top of the hill. His tractor looked more like a jolly green bulldozer with four back wheels taller than me and a scoop on the front-loader big enough to pick up a car. He shut the giant down when he saw me.

  “We’ll hitch the spreader to the Laird’s Ford, and I’ll show you how to run it.”

  “Sure,” I said, wondering about ear protection. Hadn’t anyone in the tractor business heard of mufflers? “Does everyone call him the Laird? Should I?”

  “Hell no. He hates it. That’s why’s I does it. Ever since he came back from that school in Scotland. He was tellin’ me and Clara about it one night and the history and whatnot and I took to callin’ him that after. Pisses him off right royal, it does.”

  “Why do you do it, then?”

  “I known him since he was born. No need of him to start puttin’ on airs thirty-two years later. Just remindin’ him where he came from, is all.”

  Made sense, in a convoluted way. Either that, or the fumes from the manure pile were getting to me.

  “How often does he wear that kilt?”

  Hank gave me a look, like he was trying to figure out why I asked. I knew the moment he found an answer he liked because it made him smile.

  “Most the time.”

  I could get used to most of the time. No, less distracting if he didn’t. Better to remember Malcolm was a prick the last time I saw him.

  “We gonna get this shit moved today, or stand out here yammerin’ or what?”

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  Mr. Malcolm’s tractor sat under the shed along the north side of the barn. I hadn’t ventured over there yet. The gooseneck horse trailer was backed into the front of the shed, and in between sat a square baler. Or so Hank explained. Okay, so I’m a typical consumer. I’ve fed hay to horses all my life—bought, unloaded, and stacked it. I’ve never seen it baled and cannot figure out how this contraption does it. Hank pointed out a hay rake, too, which didn’t look anything like any rake I’d ever seen before.

  He showed me how to start the tractor and pointed out the clutch, gas, and brake. My truck was a stick, so I eased out the clutch and backed clear of the shed. Attached to long arms on the front of the tractor there was some other mean-looking farm implement with three, thick metal spikes—two short and one long—each with sharp points. I pointed at them.

  “What’s that for?”

  “Bale spear,” Hank answered. At my blank look he added, “To pick up them big round bales.”

  I don’t know what I’d expected, but doing hay on the farm was not going to be it. I made a mental note to stay far away from the bale spear. That thing could skewer a person or two and never know the difference.

  Hank jumped on the back, rode to where he’d left the manure spreader, and hitched it up when I got close enough.

  “Okay,” he yelled.

  I turned the gas down to lower the noise and cupped my ear to hear him better.

  “Wait a minute, and I’ll bring up a scoop. Then, I’ll show you where to empty it.”

  I nodded and gave him a thumbs up. For an old guy, he moved easily, swinging into the seat of his green John Deere with the flexibility of a much younger man. The diesel engine roared, and smoke poured from the stack.

  I looked the spreader over while I waited. It had two long handles sticking up at the front that connected via cables to gears at the back. A chain connected the rear axle and gears. Three bars crossed the open back end—two with eight-inch rods along their length—a third had fan-like blades. I couldn’t wait to see the thing in action.

  In a minute, Hank came up with a scoop full of steaming compost—the kind of stuff people back East pay gobs of money for. I’d read once that a pile like this could get as hot as one-hundred-seventy-five degrees. He dumped it, and the weight pushed down on the hitch, lowering the tractor an inch or so. I squeezed my eyes shut and pulled the neck of my tee-shirt over my nose.

  Hank climbed onto the hitch behind me, and pointed toward the road between the riding ring and pasture. Now, I saw a trail of dark-brown straw and a few horse turds he’d left on the previous run. I stood to jam the tractor into second gear and followed the road through an opening in a barbed wire fence to a field. On the far side, I could see the roof of Hank’s house, over half a mile away. He told me to shut the engine off, and we both went to look at the spreader.

  “Squeeze this handle and pull this lever back to here, see?”

  When I nodded, he continued, “Make sure it hits this notch.” He pointed to a knobby half-circle then led me to the back. Somewhere between the front and back, I zoned out while he explained the machine’s intricacies. He showed me how to set the lever that engaged the axle, then glanced at the sky. The day had turned cool.

  “Be good to get some rain over top of this. Let’s get it spread before it starts.”

  I hopped onto the tractor and fired it up.

  “Slow
and steady,” Hank yelled.

  The spreader started as soon as I moved forward. I thought the tractor was loud. This thing clanged and clanked and thumped and jangled like an army of one-man-bands trying to outdo each other. The pile inside slowly moved to the back, and then, the shit hit the fan. Literally. Manure flew through the air and out to either side for twenty feet. It was fabulous. I laughed, then had to jerk the wheel before I drove into a ditch on the side of the field.

  Off to the west, a heavy gray line of clouds edged over the tops of the trees. Maybe Hank was right. I hadn’t turned on a television since I arrived, had no idea what the weatherman was calling for.

  I’d never been so out of touch, but rather than being nervous, I felt calm. The drone and vibration of the tractor were mesmerizing. And the slow but steady pace—was this the right speed to take life? I could easily view my surroundings at this rate, and still think…once I got earplugs.

  I made a wide turn at the far end and headed toward Hank again. That’s when the spreader shuddered and screeched like a blender trying to puree wet wood. The whole mechanism stopped.

  “Something’s stuck,” I shouted to Hank.

  He jogged across the field. “Shut it off.”

  I did and climbed down to inspect it hoping no one had ditched something stupid into the mix. Good, hot, compost can decompose almost anything. Which is great, but it doesn’t necessarily mean you’d want it spread on a field used to grow food.

  Hank joined me. He lifted his MFA cap, stroked his bald head, scratched his neck, then dropped the cap into place. “Probly a gotdamned chain broke.”

  I flicked bits of straw and manure from the spreader’s edge with the back of my hand, wishing I’d put on gloves. Nothing obvious showed in the large hump of compost still inside the box. I continued around the back. Sunlight flashed on something shiny beneath the bottom row of blades. My eyes registered the image before me, but my brain refused to process it.