Bury Your Horses

by Dan Dowhal

  “Did you ride him?”

  “No, not really. He wasn’t that kind of horse.”

  “Why? Was he too wild?”

  “No, Opie was real tame. He’d eat out of my hand and let me pet his nose and stuff. But he wasn’t a riding horse — he was a working horse. You know, like those ones you see in the Budweiser commercials on TV?”

  “We don’t got no TV,” Vern interjects. He exchanges an antagonistic look with Tammy, and Shane understands that this is a point of contention within the household.

  “Well, anyway, Opie was a big horse, so tall he wouldn’t even fit into this room. My neighbour used him for hauling big logs from out of the woods.”

  “That sounds cruel,” Gracie protests.

  “Oh, no, Opie liked it. That’s what he was born to do. He used to pull this big logging sled, and it was quite a sight to see, especially in winter. The snow could be up to a man’s chest, but it didn’t faze Opie at all. ‘As good as a tractor, cheaper to fuel, and better company,’ my neighbour used to say.”

  “You hear that, Mommy? A horse is cheap.”

  Tammy ignores her. “Dinner’s ready. Here, hon. Give me them peppers, and you can dole out the cutlery. Sit down, everyone.”

  As Vern passes Shane, the boy runs a hand from the top of his own head and gauges where it lines up on Shane.

  “Wow, if snow was up to your chest, it’d almost be over my head.”

  Tammy gives Vern a shove from behind. “I said sit down, child.”

  Shane hovers, unsure what’s expected of him. Tammy’s eyes circumnavigate the kitchen table, and she finally points to the head of it. “I suppose you’d best sit there,” she says.

  The serving bowls are brought to the table, where they send up a cloud of steam that hovers over the scene like morning mist. By now Shane’s stomach is murmuring in anticipation, but no one has yet made a move toward the food.

  “I guess it would be fitting if our guest said grace,” Tammy announces. All eyes are on Shane. But if the invitation is meant to embarrass him, the gathering is in for a surprise. Shane spent two years of his junior hockey career billeted with a Baptist pastor and his family in Sault Ste. Marie and has learned this particular drill well.

  He bows his head and begins the benediction. “Praise God, from whom all blessings flow. Bless us, O Lord, and bless this bounty we are about to receive, and grant that, healthily nourished by it, we may serve you better.” Here, Shane adds a little improvisational sucking up. “And please, God, bless these good people, who as in the parable of the Good Samaritan related to us by Christ our Lord, stopped to show kindness to a stranger. We thank you in Jesus’s name. Amen.”

  “Amen,” the others echo, and before the last phoneme has faded, Vern has made a grab for the biscuits. While the others begin helping themselves to the food, Yolanda pulls out of her blouse an amulet that looks to Shane like a skull-faced Grim Reaper in a dress. She hastily murmurs a prayer in Spanish. Tammy’s face tightens, but she says nothing, instead turning to Shane.

  “That was a fine prayer, Shane. Care for something to drink?”

  “I’d love a beer … doesn’t matter what kind. I’m not fussy.”

  Down the table, Maybelline giggles. “No beer here,” she sings, like it’s an advertising jingle.

  “I don’t allow no alcohol in the house,” Tammy explains. “We’ve got homemade lemonade, or there’s ice water in the fridge.”

  “Lemonade’ll be fine.”

  Tammy fills Shane’s glass from a chipped china pitcher, then slides the chili his way. “Dig in before it’s all gone.”

  Shane anchors the serving bowl with his cast and spoons out a helping. The rice and biscuits are passed his way, and he adds these to his plate. Even if he weren’t practically starving, he would have found the well-spiced meal delectable. He is not used to eating without his denture plate and is grateful most of the food does not require a great amount of chewing. Even so, the pieces of meat he encounters, although tender, have to be moved around inside his mouth so his surviving teeth can chew them.

  “The deputy thinks the kid who robbed me was probably run off from some place around here called Holy Waters,” he says, in an attempt to start some discussion at the dinner table.

  “They’re not from around here. They’re holed up in a big spread up north,” Yolanda growls. “Pigs! Capullos!”

  “They say the leaders keep a dozen wives apiece, some of them barely fifteen years old,” Tammy adds. “Oh, they keep the women covered in them ankle-length dresses when they got them out working the fields all day, but you can be darn sure those dresses come off fast enough at night.” The subject is clearly a sore point with Tammy; her face tints with anger as her words come louder and faster. “The church owns everything, so they don’t even get paid for what they do. They’re breeding like rabbits up there — must be a thousand of them now. The old goats want the women all to themselves, so they send the young bucks packing as soon as their juices start to flow. The elders say it’s what God wants. Funny how the guys at the top always claim they got a direct private line to God’s lips. Well, I hope they hear it loud and clear when the good Lord tells them to go burn in hell.”

  She practically shouts the last sentence, and a shocked silence descends on the gathering.

  Gracie looks up from her food, wide-eyed. “Mommy, you swore.”

  “No, I didn’t, sweetie. I was talking about H-E-double-hockey-sticks, the place bad people go when they die. I wasn’t using it as a cuss word.”

  Vern is stuffing a third biscuit into his mouth, but his eyes widen. “Hockey sticks?” he asks.

  “Oh, you and your confounded hockey,” Tammy scolds. “How many times have I told you not to talk with your mouth full? And, dad gum it, boy, leave some of those biscuits for the rest of us.”

  The rebuke makes Vern slump in his seat, as though the words were blows that physically beat him down.

  “You like hockey?” Shane asks the boy.

  Vern instantly perks up. He starts to say something, but realizes his mouth is still full, so he nods vigorously instead.

  “Who’s your favourite team, then?”

  Vern rushes to finish chewing so he can answer. “The Odessa Jackalopes! They’re awesome. My dad used to take me to see them.” He gives his aunt an uncertain glance, but keeps going. “The kids at school say I should cheer for the Mustangs ’cause they’re from New Mexico, but I’m not gonna.” He pauses for a second to catch his breath. “I guess I like the Killer Bees, too,” he adds.

  Shane has never heard of these teams and is uncertain how to react. He does know, however, that there is no such thing as a jackalope. Once, on a road trip to play the Dallas Stars, some teammates convinced him that the jackalope, a cross between a jackrabbit and an antelope, really did exist, and thereafter he was regularly teased about it in the dressing room — until he was traded to yet another team. He is also pretty certain that Odessa is a city in Ukraine, although he has often encountered instances of duplicitous geography. Still, something in the boy’s earnest manner makes Shane believe he is sincere.

  “Wow, I didn’t realize hockey was so big this far south.”

  “I think hockey’s the best! There’s been a whole bunch of leagues around here … the Central Hockey League, Southern Professional Hockey League, Southern Hockey League, Western Professional Hockey League, International Hockey League. We still got the East Coast Hockey League and the North American Hockey League. That’s the one the Jackalopes play in.”

  Gracie has been listening impatiently to her cousin, and now she interjects. “I like the Mustangs because mustangs are horses and because they’re from New Mexico. That’s why they’re better.” She punctuates her declaration by sticking her tongue out at Vern.

  “Are not. The Jackalopes made the playoffs this year. The Mustangs were almost last.”

  “I don’t care. Horses are way better than a bunch of crazy rabbits.”

  “You’re the one tha
t’s crazy.”

  “That’s enough, you two! Eat your supper,” Tammy scolds, and the children fall silent but continue to glare at one another. She turns to Shane. “I expect hockey’s real big up in Canada.”

  “I’ll say. It’s huge, from coast to coast to coast. Sort of Canada’s religion.”

  “Sure, ’cause it’s always covered in ice there,” Yolanda chimes in. Her tone is derisive, but Shane just smiles. He is used to American misconceptions of his homeland.

  “Brrr. I don’t know how you stand it,” Maybelline says. “We had snow this winter and I pretty near froze my derrière off.”

  “Snow? Here?” Shane is skeptical.

  “Oh, it happens regular upstate in the mountains, especially ’round Christmastime and into January,” Tammy confirms. “And from time to time, it blows down here, too. We usually get a dusting or two a year. But Maybelline’s right — that storm last year was as bad as I’ve ever seen it since I moved here. Couldn’t imagine dealing with that all the time, but I guess everyone’s got to live somewhere.”

  “Personally, I’ll take snow over that stuff blowing outside,” Shane replies, “but I guess in the end, a man can pretty much get used to anything.”

  “More times than not it’s the woman who’s used, and expected to have to get used to it,” Tammy shoots back. She looks around at the other women. “Just ’cause a body can get used to something don’t mean they got to — assuming they can find someplace else to go. These ladies here will testify to that.”

  Tammy rises and clears her plate from the table. “Eat up, everyone, we don’t want to see it go to waste.” She turns to Shane. “We ain’t got nothing sweet to nibble on tonight, but I’ll put on a pot of coffee anyway, and then we’ll see about getting you squared away for the night.”

  Shane takes another helping of rice and chili. Seeing only one biscuit left, he gestures for Vern to have it and is rewarded with a big smile of thanks. Together, they sit munching their food, looking up at each other periodically, and grinning.

  Yolanda finishes her own meal, but stays at the table and watches Shane eat. The malevolent glimmer in her eye unnerves him. Since she offers no conversation, he avoids looking at her. Finally, when he has shovelled down the last of his food, she speaks up.

  “That’s quite an appetite you have. You liked it?”

  “Yeah, everything was really delicious. Thanks.”

  “Know what kind of meat that was in the chili?”

  “Not really.” His intestines wobble in anticipation of a rude surprise.

  “It was rattlesnake.”

  Anger and the contents of his stomach begin to rise, but he chokes them down. He refuses to give Yolanda the satisfaction of acknowledging she has landed a damaging shot. Besides, everyone at the table ate the same meal; it’s not like he was singled out for a prank. Perhaps this is some kind of an initiation rite. If so, it’s far from the worst he has ever endured.

  “No kidding. Well, it went really good with the spices. My compliments to the chef.”

  Yolanda tries to call his bluff, pushing the chili bowl toward him. “Sure you don’t want to finish it off?”

  “Gosh, no. I wish I could, it was so delicious, but I’m stuffed. Thanks, anyway.” He grins affably in a way that will not expose his missing teeth and locks onto Yolanda’s brown eyes with an unwavering stare that says, I can take anything you can dish out.

  Evidently having hoped for a bigger reaction, Yolanda looks away first and rises to start clearing the table.

  “Coffee’ll be ready in a minute,” Tammy announces. “We’ll put it in a travel mug so you can take it with you to the stable. It’ll help warm you up until you get under the blankets. Gets cold mighty fast, now that the sun’s gone down. Maybelline, round up a sleeping roll and a pillow. Vern, if you’re done stuffing your stupid face with biscuits, go fetch a hurricane lantern and show Shane where he’ll be sleeping.”

  SIX

  Outside, the wind is still sandblasting the landscape, and no stars penetrate the darkness. Head down against the blowing grit, Shane follows Vern’s bobbing lantern. When they reach the outbuilding and step inside, relief from the swirling dust is instantaneous. In the lantern’s light, Shane discerns walls covered in rough-cut slabs of unpainted wooden siding. There is a faint scent of manure in the air, but the odour is far less pervasive than Shane had feared. A central gravel corridor runs the length of the building, and a half-dozen partitioned stalls branch off on each side.

  “The toolroom’s at the back,” Vern says, heading down the pathway. “There’s electric lights in here, but they ain’t working.” Their boots crunch audibly on the gravel underfoot. As Shane notes with curiosity that the stall doors are all fully open, a strange sound like a small orchestra of quaking tambourines sweeps through the stable.

  “What’s that noise?”

  “Aw, they’re just riled up. They always get antsy before feeding day, especially at night, but Aunt Tammy says we get more juice out of them if we hold off feeding till after they’re milked.”

  As Vern’s lantern light sweeps across the interior, Shane sees that the stalls do not contain any kind of farm animal, but rather stacks of cages, each one containing a very agitated rattlesnake. He realizes there are hundreds of the vipers housed in the stable.

  “Holy fuck! You keep snakes?”

  Vern turns his head and stares at Shane quizzically. “Sure, what else? Rancho Crótalo — Rattlesnake Ranch.”

  “Why the hell would anyone keep rattlesnakes?”

  “Some for meat and hides, but mostly we milk ’em for the venom.”

  “The venom? What for?”

  “They use it to make antivenom, you know, for folks who get snakebit. Well, more for animals … dogs and horses and cattle ’n’ such.”

  “There’s money in that?”

  Vern shrugs. “Some, but you’d have to ask Aunt Tammy about that. She keeps the accounts. It’s not like we’re rollin’ in clover, I can tell you that much.”

  “Aren’t you afraid of them?”

  Vern grins bashfully. “I sure was when they first brought me here after my folks got killed. But Gracie, she grew up handling them, and she don’t shy away from the rattlers at all. Well, I wasn’t gonna let a girl show me up, was I? Once you get used to them, they ain’t so bad. Got to be real careful-like, that’s all, ’cause they’re quick. It’s all in how you handle them.”

  “I can’t stay here,” Shane protests.

  “If you’d rather sleep outside, you’re welcome to it,” Vern says with a shrug. “But don’t go thinking you can bunk in the ranch house. Heck, they don’t even let me sleep inside. I got a cot in the potting shed back of the kitchen, and they send me out there and lock the doors … like I’m a dog being put out for the night. No, sir. Only womenfolk allowed.”

  “I … I hate snakes.”

  “Well, they ain’t too fond of us, neither, I can tell you that, but hopefully you’ll all calm down after a spell. C’mon, I’ll show you where to sleep.”

  They resume walking, and with every crunching footstep, the snakes rattle their displeasure. At the end of the corridor is a room where tools and hardware lie in a clutter, including several rusty, worn implements that qualify as antiques. A large, chaotic workbench dominates one side of the space, and the smell of paint and gasoline hangs in the air.

  A mattress stands against one wall, behind sheets of plywood and corrugated metal. Vern and Shane wrestle it out into the open, pound the dust off, and let it drop to the floor. The bedroll, once loosened and spread out, at least looks warm and clean, and the pillow completes Shane’s vague hope that this will be a suitable place to sleep. Without bothering to undress, he flops onto the bed with a sigh.

  “Okay, then. I’ll be getting to bed myself now,” Vern says and turns to depart.

  “Can you leave me the lantern?”

  Vern hesitates, then sets the lamp down on the floor. “I expect I can find my way back in the dark. C
areful you don’t go knocking it over during the night.”

  The sound of his exit stirs up the caged rattlesnakes, and it takes a long time for the reptiles to settle down. Even afterward, there is never complete silence, but always the sound of one or another moving in its cage, scales rubbing against the wires, strumming them like some discordant string instrument. Shane finds his heart will not stop pounding.

  “Snakes! Why did it have to be snakes?” he quotes aloud. He did once handle a garter snake as a boy during a visit to his mom’s relations in Quebec, but he did it to frighten a girl cousin, and pride suppressed his squeamishness. But these needle-fanged, venom-dripping, demon-eyed, diamond-headed monstrosities squirm into the darkest recesses of his psyche and rattle him to his core.

  His broken arm has begun to throb, so he fishes out some Percocet and washes down the drug with coffee. His mind briefly nags about the nighttime effects of oxycodone and caffeine, but he decides there is little chance of sleep, anyway. Too bad I don’t have a shot of something a little stronger to go with this, he thinks, or a nice fat joint to smoke … that would take the edge off.

  He closes his eyes and tries to relax. His body begins to numb as the narcotic goes to work, but his brain will not follow suit. His thoughts dash frantically from one end of his mind to the other, like some cornered animal. At one point he manages to doze, then he jerks upright, convinced he heard something slither into the room.

  He cautiously hoists the kerosene lantern to illuminate the space around him. He hates the fact that the mattress is on the ground, right at snake level. Although logic tells him a rattler’s bite wouldn’t penetrate the protective wad of his bedroll, his gut remains unconvinced. The clutter in the room only makes matters worse, offering a hundred shadowy recesses where a viper could hide.

  Although no slinking menace reveals itself, he rises to search for a defensive weapon. He rules out a hatchet, deciding its short length would bring him too close to a striking rattlesnake, and opts instead for a pitchfork with four nasty-looking tines. He places the weapon alongside his mattress.

  Having thus garnered some peace of mind, he lies down again, shuts his eyes, and tries to calm himself, but the accident out on the highway keeps replaying itself in disturbing detail. The images are worsened by the guilt-soaked knowledge that he was at fault for his carelessness and excessive speed. But something far more menacing is gnawing its way into his consciousness, and despite his best efforts, he cannot suppress it. Why was I going so fucking fast anyway? What if I was really trying to kill myself? Again?