The barn was totally quiet for a long but not uncomfortable moment. The sun, ignoring the frigid temperature, streamed through the windows of the barn with mid-July clarity.
“Thanks, Dan,” Maggie said. “What you said helps me.”
“I want to do that. I want to help you all I can. I mean it, Maggie.” Danny reached over Happy’s back and touched Maggie’s shoulder with his fingertips. Then, in a second, his face flushed and he withdrew his hand quickly. “I gotta go,” he said. “I’ll see you soon, OK? I just wanted to... I’ll see you soon.”
Maggie listened as the veterinarian whistled for Sunday, and then a moment later, to the grumble of his truck’s engine as he drove the length of her driveway. She began roughing Happy’s coat with a rubber curry comb, the familiar motions automatic. She was strangely unsettled by Dan Pulver’s visit, and she wasn’t at all sure why.
Maggie stood at her kitchen sink, running water over a cereal bowl. Outside her window the Montana sun played its duplicitous winter game: the light was exuberantly cheerful and the sky an impossible, welcoming blue, but the thermometer attached to the siding next to the window read four below zero.
She turned off the water and put the bowl and spoon in the drying rack. As she turned from the sink her eye caught a green spot on the shoulder of her work shirt. She looked closer. It was a strand of spittle—saliva mixed with bits of well-chewed hay—from Dusty’s nudge of greeting that morning. “Yuck,” she said aloud, reaching for a paper towel and cleaning away the deposit. Something ticked at the back of her mind as she tossed the paper towel into the trash can—something to do with the horses. She walked to the calendar tacked to the wall next to the telephone, but there was no entry made for the date. The horseshoer wasn’t due, she didn’t expect a hay delivery, and the supplement and sweet-feed barrels in the barn were full.
Maggie sighed. Some days are better, some are worse. It’s going to be a long haul. Time doesn’t really cure all ills, but it diminishes the pain—makes it bearable for longer and longer periods of times. At first it was a frantic, screaming thing—knowing Richie was dead but not accepting it. But now some acclimation is beginning—I guess. Or maybe it’s apathy. Maybe I just know my life is over.
Maggie did her best to shrug the thought away. The task she’d promised herself that she’d complete this morning nagged at her like a toothache. She picked up the three large cardboard cartons she’d gotten at the grocery store the day before and started up the stairs, balancing the boxes in front of her. She stood staring into the closet she’d shared with Rich for a long moment, motionless, her mind rushing with confused, sharp-edged images.
Her mother, standing in the doorway of the bedroom, had to speak twice before Maggie really heard what she was saying. “Can I help you, honey? With two of us working, we’ll finish in half the time.”
“Thanks, Mom,” Maggie said, turning to face her mother. “But I’d really like to do this alone. OK?”
“Sure, I understand. But if you need me, I’ll be reading in my room.”
Maggie turned back to the closet, willing herself to move yet remaining where she was. Rich’s uniforms hung neatly on the left side of the walk-in closet—his side—in line with the one nonmilitary suit and couple of sport jackets he owned. There were perhaps seven or eight short- and long-sleeve shirts, a couple of ties, a few pairs of trousers on hangers, and a pair of scuffed and haggard-looking running shoes on the floor next to his Western boots.
I can do this, Maggie told herself as her lips moved silently to reinforce the thought.
And then she did. She worked rapidly but not sloppily, at times through a mist of tears. She folded the shirts into a box, covered them with some sweaters from the dresser, and then added rolled pairs of socks. Underwear, a thick leather belt with a large horse-head buckle, a handkerchief, and two more sweaters filled a second box. The uniforms Maggie left on the hangers, along with the sport jackets. The trousers, three pairs of jeans, two USAF sweatshirts, and the Western boots went into the third carton. That one was the most difficult to close. Maggie pictured a down-and-out guy at the Salvation Army getting a new start with Rich’s things and then held on to that mental picture as long as she could as she sat on her bed and looked at the now seemingly cavernous closet.
Maggie stood from the bed, hefted two of the boxes, and carried them down the stairs. She stacked them in the living room just off the kitchen and went back upstairs for the third. Then she took Rich’s roughout winter coat from the closet and placed it on top of the cartons.
The telephone call to the Salvation Army was easier than she thought it would be; they’d have a van to her place in the morning. The man who answered the phone at the Salvation Army service center recognized the Locke name. “We’ll be right proud to share your husband’s stuff with those who need it,” he said. “Bless you, ma’am.”
She was still holding the receiver after a mumbled thank-you when she heard a vehicle in her driveway. She stepped to the window and saw Danny Pulver’s black GMC picking its way over the ruts toward the barn. A quick spark of irritation flushed her cheeks, and she was immediately aware of the fact that she no doubt smelled like a dockworker, that there was a sheen of sweat on her face from her efforts, and that she craved a shower infinitely more than she did a visitor. She pulled a sleeve across her forehead, retucked her shirt into her jeans, and went to the kitchen door.
“Danny,” Maggie said. “Nice of you to stop by.”
Danny had the slightly embarrassed look on his face that Maggie had come to recognize in the last few weeks, the “we both know your husband crashed his airplane into the ground and was killed, but let’s not mention it” look.
The vet looked flustered for a moment. “Uh... I was scheduled to examine Dancer and Dusty today. If it’s a bad time, I can come back in a few days. Or whenever.”
“Oh, Danny—I’m sorry. I completely forgot the postnatal exams. Things have been so... Well, how about this—you go check the horses, and I’ll make us a pot of coffee. Just come on in when you’re finished.”
“I don’t want to cause you any trouble. I can check them over and be on my—”
“How much trouble is making coffee?”
A smile cut through the concern on Danny’s face. “Great,” he said.
“Is Sunday with you?” Maggie asked. “Will he remember the electric fence?”
Danny’s grin broadened. “He’ll never forget it—I’ll guarantee that. He’s in the truck.”
“Why don’t you let him out then. He’s always welcome here—let him run.”
“Thanks, Maggie. He’s been in the truck most of the morning. He could use some exercise.” Danny began to turn away and then stopped himself. “His tail started thumping as soon as I turned onto your road. You’ve got a new friend.”
When Danny tapped on the back door forty-five minutes later, Janice Stuart let him in. “I’m Maggie’s mother,” she said. “Jan Stuart. Sit at the table, Dr. Pulver—Maggie’s upstairs. She’ll be down in a moment.”
“Please, Mrs. Stuart, call me Danny.”
“Only if you’ll call me Jan.”
The vet extended his hand, and Mrs. Stuart took it and they shook almost formally. “Hard times,” Danny said. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know Rich terribly well, but I liked him a lot. I was there at the church but didn’t get in the reception line. Maggie looked like she was ready to fall over.”
Jan sighed at the memory. “As you said, Danny—hard times. For all of us.”
Maggie’s steps on the stairs put an end to the conversation. Danny stood in place and smiled at Maggie; suddenly he felt self-conscious.
“Sit, Mom, Danny,” Maggie said. “The coffee should be ready in a minute. I put it on before I went to clean up.” Danny sat at the table and sniffed appreciatively. The heady aroma of good-quality, strong, freshly brewed coffee was beginning to infuse the kitchen with its warmth.
“How are the patients, Danny?” Maggie asked, taking cup
s and saucers from the cabinet above the sink.
“Fit as can be. Dusty’s fine—no pain on palpation, birth canal healing exactly as it should. She’s a textbook mother. The problem with the umbilical cord was an anomaly—nothing more.”
“And Dancer?”
“He’s an amazing little guy—has a chest the size of a wine barrel already, and I’ve yet to come across a more curious foal. He couldn’t be more healthy.”
Jan, still standing, looked as if she’d been waiting for an opening. “No coffee for me just now, Maggie. I promised to call your dad this afternoon.” She turned to Danny, who rose to take her hand once again. “Nice meeting you, Danny. Please come by again.”
“Same here, Jan. I’ll do that.”
Jan’s exit left an uncomfortable void. Danny sensed that Maggie was also aware that the last time they’d been together in this room, Rich had been with them.
Danny cleared his throat as Maggie brought the coffeepot from the stove and filled their cups. “I saw your ad in Horse Trader, Maggie. You’re selling most of your stock?”
Maggie sat across from the vet. “It’s not what I want to do, but I have no choice. I can earn more training horses for barrel racing and cutting horse events and giving lessons to riders, and there’s almost no overhead on that other than my time. I like the breeding aspect of it, but for now I’ve got to cut back. If I can stay here, maybe later on I’ll be able to—”
“You’re moving away?” Danny’s words came a bit too quickly.
“No—at least I hope not,” Maggie said. “But I have a few financial... difficulties. It’s nothing I can’t handle, but it’s tight just now. I’m planning to breed Dusty and two of the mares I’m keeping, and I’ll be campaigning Dancer if he lives up to what he shows now.”
“He will. You can bet on it.”
Her smile looked forced. “That’s pretty much what I’m doing.” She paused. “If I have to, I’ll sell the six or eight acres of timber on the west line of our place. I don’t want to, but it may come to that.”
Danny nodded.
Maggie stood and stepped to her purse on the counter near the stove, taking out her checkbook. “Before I forget, what do I owe you for today?”
“Look, Maggie...”
“Don’t start that nonsense with me. I’m not a starving widow, and I pay my bills. You have to make a living just like everyone else.” Her tone wasn’t exactly heated, but it wasn’t far from that, either.
“Whoa!” Danny said. “That isn’t what I meant at all. I was thinking of a barter. I’ve been looking for a riding horse—a gelding or mare I can poke around trails on. A pleasure horse, really. Sunday and I both need the exercise.”
“Good for you. But I don’t know what you mean about a barter.”
“Well, the thing is, I know the anatomy and I can pick out a good, healthy horse with no major flaws or physical problems. It’s temperament I’m concerned about, and I don’t know anyone more skilled at reading a horse than you. I thought that when I find one I like, I’d ask you to spend an hour or so on him—or her. I just want to hack around on horseback, but I don’t want to spend money on a horse that’s silly or lazy or has bad habits. See what I mean?”
Maggie sat again and sipped at her coffee. “With some horses I could tell you what you want to know in twenty minutes, Danny. With others I’d need some time—at least a full day, maybe a couple of days.”
“OK. I’ll pay you for your time by doing routine stuff on your horses.”
“And I’ll pay you for yours by checking out horses for you? That could work. But not for today’s fee. What do I owe you?”
It was Danny’s turn to drink from his cup to buy a moment of time. “Fair enough. The barn call is thirty-five, and the exams—”
“Don’t get cute, Danny,” Maggie said, but this time with the beginning of a real smile. “I know your barn call fee is forty-five.”
Danny shrugged, feeling the heat of embarrassment coloring his face. “OK—the total is seventy dollars.”
Maggie opened her checkbook, placed it on the counter, and took a ballpoint from her purse. She wrote and signed the check and met Danny’s eyes. “No more games—please. This is business. Anything beyond exams I’ll pay the same that any of your customers do. Agreed?”
Danny accepted the check, folded it in half, and slid it into the pocket of his blue work shirt. “Agreed.”
That night, Maggie turned on the light on her bedside table after almost two hours of seeking sleep that consistently and cruelly eluded her. She pushed back the now-twisted sheets and blankets and sat up, feet on the floor, shoulders slumped, hands in her lap. Her clock radio glowed 2:47 as if it were mocking her. Her eyes focused on her Bible on the shelf of her bedside table. She leaned forward to pick it up, and the worn leather cover felt gritty under her fingertips. She hadn’t held the book since Christmas Eve, when she and Rich had taken turns reading from Luke, as they’d done faithfully each December 24 of their married life.
She set the book on her lap and gently brushed the dust from its cover. I’m empty. Where there’s supposed to be feeling there’s none—it’s exactly as if all life and love have been plucked out of me and I’m a husk that moves around and pretends it’s alive but isn’t. And I’m alone. Even with my mother in the next room, I’m alone.
A concept—an image—that Rev. Traynor had used in a sermon a couple of years ago flitted into her mind. He’d said, “I have no idea where or when I read this, but it’s one of my very favorite concepts. Imagine if the moon were made of the hardest substance known to mankind—that it was the same size as it is now, but instead of dust and rubble, it was a gigantic, impossibly huge diamond. Now, imagine a little dove. Watch in your mind as the dove begins a flight to the moon and after countless years reaches it. As she passes by she gently touches one of her wings to the diamond moon and then flies back to earth, where she begins the trip all over again.” The reverend waited for a long moment. Then, he said, “When that grand, gigantic diamond is gone, rubbed away to nothingness by the sweet touch of the dove’s wing, eternity will barely have begun.”
Maggie choked then, and the Bible thumped to the floor in front of her, between her bare feet. That’s how long I’ll feel like this, and that’s how long I’ll love Richie. Tears came then and stayed with her until the soft pastels of dawn began to play in the eastern sky.
Taking care of animals didn’t allow Maggie a lot of time for grief, and her domesticated horses required more hours and effort than most large animals except perhaps dairy cattle. There was feeding to be done twice daily, stalls to be mucked out, fresh straw to be spread, and well-trained, high-maintenance barrel-racing horses to be exercised at least three times per week.
Maggie did what she had to do, and it filled some of the hollow places in her days. The work was essentially mindless: lift, carry, rake, shovel—and there was no joy to it. At one time Maggie had reveled in the scents of the barn and the personalities of her horses. Their need for attention and affection had touched her, and the carrots and half apples she offered the horses on a flattened palm were gifts of love. Those benefits—the sweaty pleasures of working with the animals—seemed to have drifted off into the sky with the smoke from Rich’s X-417.
She slumped down, sitting on a bale of hay outside a stall, and let her pitchfork drop from her fingers. If we’d had a child, there’d be something left of Rich other than pain and longing. A vision of a toddler in tiny jeans and Western boots and a shirt with little pearl snaps appeared in her mind. Maggie saw herself holding out her arms to her baby, but when the baby turned, the face was Rich’s.
She stood quickly, angrily, and snatched her manure fork from the floor on her way up. I can’t do this. I won’t do this—I won’t let myself slip into becoming a delusional, whining widow. I won’t be a crazy lady sitting in a corner, twisting a Kleenex to bits and feeling sorry for myself. I always knew that flying those things was a gamble, a roll of the dice, every time he w
ent up. She eased herself down to the cement floor of the barn again, this time on her knees, and set her pitchfork aside.
But, Lord, it’s so hard...
The prayer stopped there. She had no words, no images, nothing to convey except her bleakness and despair. This time, not even tears would come.
Maggie had both anticipated and dreaded the day her mother left. Forcing smiles and rehearsing chitchat were heavy and unnatural burdens for Maggie, but when her mother was gone, her love and her very presence were deeply missed.
Six weeks had passed since Maggie had driven Janice to the airport, and the following days had blended into one another, like spilled paint of different colors taking on a drab sameness, a dull monotony.
Maggie stood outside Dusty and Dancer’s stall with Dr. Pulver, marveling, even through the lethargy that had become as much a part of her life as breathing, at the rate of growth of the colt. His legs, still spindly, seemed ludicrously long for the size of his body. But his hips were filling out, beginning to take on the breadth of the quarter horse butt—the powerful launching pad that provided the breed with its lightning acceleration. Danny reached out and scratched Dancer between the ears. The colt grunted with pleasure.
His head and muzzle had grown too—Dancer no longer had the deerlike quality of a very young horse. His eyes, liquid, shiny, and insistently curious, drew the gaze of anyone who looked at him. And Dusty’s grooming, her constant licking and nuzzling, kept her foal’s coat show-ring perfect.
Changes of Heart Page 4