When Horses Had Wings

by Diana Estill

  “I s-s-saw fhar!” she insisted. “I heard it explode!”

  “What happened? Are you okay?” I asked.

  “Well, is there or ain’t there a fire?” Kenny asked, no doubt irritated his football game had been interrupted.

  “No. No. I done put it out with some flour,” Mr. Henderson huffed. He waved us off, then tottered back inside. Granny and I followed him.

  “Crazy old fool. I told you don’t light the pilot that way,” Granny scolded.

  “Oh, shut up. Nobody wants to hear you talk.” The old man mumbled as he made his way to the back of his house to inspect the damage.

  From the looks of the place, Mr. Henderson had turned on the propane and let it build before he’d struck a potentially lethal match. He’d leaned inside his oven, which had once been white but now appeared charcoal, and been thrown backward by the blast, flames licking at his face. That sonic boom I’d thought I heard had been the Henderson’s kitchen window exploding into shards. It now lay scattered along the easternmost side of their house.

  “Lookee here what he’s done,” Granny said, her head gyrating from palsy. “If he can’t kill me, looks like he aims to kill our stove.”

  ~

  Some days I could have sworn our duplex was haunted, both sides of it. The spirits of others who’d stared head on into the eyes of misery seemed to want to share their despair. Those ghosts whispered to us and made us angry; at hard living, I supposed, but we took it out on each other.

  One March afternoon after we’d returned from having Sunday dinner with Neta Sue, who I generally tried to sidestep the way I do spooks, Kenny’s woes must have outstripped his patience. He parked his near-dead car in our front yard, and then we both sat there, too full and unenthused to get out. Overhead, a blanket of cucumber-colored clouds threatened to break our monotony—though the storm was still a good half-hour away by my calculations. Being seven months pregnant, I had no inclination to rush anywhere until my water broke.

  For the past several minutes, Kenny had been recounting his good fortune at having recently run into an old girlfriend from high school. “She invited me to go to church with her tonight,” he said, as though he might be contemplating the offer.

  “Really? That’s great.” I finally found enough initiative to hoist myself from the vehicle. Grunting, I tumbled out into the thick afternoon air. “I’ll go with you.” If anyone needed to ask for penance, it was Kenny. I surely didn’t want to let a petty thing like spending an evening with an old flame get in the way of his salvation.

  “No you won’t,” he said, lumbering behind me. “I’m going by myself.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “’Cause it’s gonna to storm.” He pretended to study the sky. “Besides, you got no business out runnin’ round at night. You’re pregnant.”

  “I’m not dumb, you know. I can tell you’re up to no good. Maybe you want to be with someone you didn’t get pregnant—yet.” I turned my back and strutted ahead of him in my unlaced bowling shoes, the only footwear that would fit my swollen feet.

  “Don’t you accuse me of cheating, you stupid bitch!”

  Before I could respond, something knocked me off my feet. One minute I was looking at our front porch, and the next I was examining pea-gravel at microscopic range. The ground had risen to meet my nose before I’d even sensed I was falling.

  That was how it began, with what otherwise might have been a simple shove had I not been so top-heavy that I’d ended in a prostrate sprawl.

  Kenny glared as I righted myself. “How was I supposed to know you’d fall?” he asked, seemingly offended by my accusing look.

  I considered his remark. Perhaps I was even clumsier than I was unattractive. How could I have been so foolish? Why wouldn’t Kenny be tired of spending every evening with me? I was grotesque. Wasn’t I simply fortunate to have someone as cute as Kenny Murphy speak to me, let alone take me as his bride?

  This teen-idol look-alike had chosen me, the mongrel, out of all the other girls at County Line Skateland, to slow dance with him. We’d swayed to the Bee Gees’ To Love Somebody and suffered an ache that you might say short-circuited both our brains, a primal yearning so strong that, afterward, we hid shamefully in the dark recesses of the rink, breathing deeply.

  Ever since I’d been fifteen, Kenny had teased and flirted with me. He had swallowed me with kisses that promised passion but had led instead to bitter resentment. If I was sure of anything in that moment in the gravel, it was that Kenny Murphy didn’t know what it was like to love anybody.

  I brushed the finer bits of rock cinders from my maternity smock, the one that Momma had recently sewn for my seventeenth birthday. Checking my stomach for abnormalities, I found none. My baby and I were okay. For now.

  Though I could readily dismiss my immediate hurt, I couldn’t shake several stubborn questions: How could anyone shove a pregnant woman to the ground? What did that forecast for my or my baby’s future? If Kenny would risk harming his own child, what else might he be capable of doing?

  I opened the screen door leading to our living room.

  Kenny had already made himself comfortable in front of the television, his butt squished down into the fake-leather sofa cushions like a potato trying to take root. “You aw-right?” he asked.

  I eased my way between Kenny and the most important thing he owned. “It ain’t me I’m concerned about.”

  “Aw, now, don’t be stupid, Renee. You know you’re aw-right.” He paused, then yelled after me, “Gimme some tea, will ya?”

  Later that night, Kenny put one arm around my shoulders and said, “Just to prove I didn’t mean to hurt you, I’ll cancel my plans. I can always go to church some other time.” He kissed my forehead and gave out a horselaugh. “They ain’t missed me being there yet!”

  I was delighted to have won back his devotion. He’d stayed home with me when I knew he’d fancied being with someone else, someone much more physically attractive.

  I didn’t tell anyone what Kenny had done, not even Granny Henderson, who, at the time of my fall, had likely been cooking on what was left of her stove. I didn’t share the news with Momma, who probably would have simply felt bad about it, or Neta Sue, who’d have denied that her son would ever purposefully do such a thing. The whole episode was too atrocious to admit, too shaming. If I didn’t talk about it, maybe it would go away, pass right out of my memory like my childhood had, and then maybe I’d stop dreaming about deformed babies dying of malnutrition.

  ~

  For several days, Kenny called me “Woman” but acted like he’d said “Sugar-Pie” instead. He only laughed one morning when I overslept and forgot to pack his lunch. And later that afternoon when he returned from collecting garbage, he even brought me a gift.

  “Here, I found this today. Thought you might like it.” He dangled a heart-shaped golden locket like a pendulum in front of my face.

  I stood over our stove, stirring a pot of pinto beans and wondering whether he was trying to impress or hypnotize me. Possibly a little of both, I decided. “What is it?” I stopped the locket in mid-swing.

  “I dunno. You put pictures in it, I guess.”

  “Pictures?” I laughed. We didn’t own a camera.

  “Oh, you know what it is.” Kenny let go of the chain and unbuttoned his uniform shirt with the KEN insignia on it to help everyone, including me, remember who he was. He took a few steps, then stumbled and grabbed at the kitchen doorjamb.

  “You okay?” I asked, setting down the necklace.

  Kenny staggered to our bed and then caved onto it. He lay crosswise on his back, his legs hanging limply off one side of the mattress, an arm thrown over his forehead, eyes closed. “I’m fine,” he said. “Got a little dizzy all o’ sudden.”

  I turned down the flame under the beans and joined him in the bedroom. “You want me to get a cold rag?” I reached to touch his mottled cheek.

  He caught my hand and caressed it. “Would ya?”

&n
bsp; Lifting his legs, I righted him and positioned a pillow under his head. “I’ll be right back with a wet towel and some ice water.”

  Kenny patted my arm and smiled. For the first time in many months, I thought he actually saw me.

  When I returned, I dabbed at his face and neck with a damp cloth, wondering at his almond-shaped eyes and dark lashes. Those were the orbs that had lured me in and invited me to dance, kiss him, and eventually have sex. And there I was, about to have his child. Gently, I pulled him from his shirt, loosening one sleeve at a time.

  Within a few months we’d be parents, however unprepared either of us might be to fulfill our roles. I vowed to make the most of it. After all, as Momma had said, this was “my bed to lie in.” With that thought, I wrapped the spread around me, encasing the two of us inside a Chenille cocoon. Maybe we could emerge transformed into the perfect family I’d fantasized.

  The smell of burning beans soon awakened me, the pungent odor a roiling reminder of dinner and my limitations. I slipped out from underneath the covers and scurried on tiptoes into the kitchen, grateful, for once, that it was only five steps away. Dousing the pan with tap water, I managed to save our supper.

  The locket was where I’d left it on the stovetop. I lifted the piece for inspection. My fingers traced the tarnished necklace as I imagined the accessory made of 14-karat gold, a gift purchased from one of those fancy mall jewelry stores—the kind where couples with hopeful eyes hover around dazzling display windows. What would it be like to plan a future instead of succumbing to fate? I longed to know. Maybe I could start setting goals instead of idly waiting to see what each day might deliver. Maybe I could salvage my situation the same way I’d saved our supper. Maybe that was what Kenny had been trying to do when he’d brought me the necklace.

  It was a good gift, a thoughtful one. Later, I’d have our family portrait made. And inside it, I’d keep a photo of the three of us: me, Kenny, and our baby. Smiling at that image, I split the pendant open and noticed the clasp was broken.

  FOUR

  The smell of baby oil permeated the bedroom even with both windows open. I’d been greasing my belly because Granny Henderson had sworn that if I kept my stomach and breasts anointed, my stretch marks would vanish along with my pregnancy. And I’d believed her on the grounds that anyone who’d had seven babies ought to know. However, most of what Granny Henderson told me was suspect. Like when she said that if I stared at that stray dog, the one that had been run over in front of our house, I would mark my baby. “Your child’s gonna have a birthmark shaped like that flattened mutt.” But I’d looked anyway, out of pure identification with the victim.

  “Wanna see Mr. Wiggly?” Kenny said, stroking himself. I didn’t know why he felt the need to name his privates.

  “No. Really. I’d rather not. I don’t feel well.” I rubbed at my belly, hoping he’d notice, then climbed into bed, socks and all.

  “You never want to do it with me anymore,” he fumed. “Ever since you got pregnant.” He said it as if pregnancy was something I might have purchased through mail order or found packaged inside a cereal box. Rolling onto his side, Kenny walled himself against my assorted ailments, sneering under his breath, “You ought to be glad I still find you worth screwing.”

  He was right, I figured. Nobody but Kenny would take a second look at me. On a regular basis, he reminded me of that. “You think anybody besides me would want your fat ass?” Then he’d add, “But I’ll keep you, I guess. You’re still young enough to train. Like they say, old enough for bleedin’s old enough for breedin’.” But he saved that kind of talk for intimate times like these.

  “I’m sorry.” I traced his lower back with my fingertips. The apology turned him around. Substituting my hands for his, I took up his rhythm, hoping that he might settle for something less than expected. But he didn’t.

  Two hours later, I felt a tightening in my abdomen and pressure mounting along my spine. A steady squeeze gripped me like a python. The torturing pains tapered off, only to return again within twenty minutes. My middle grew rigid; my toes curled under. I held my breath, but that only made things worse. If this was labor, I wanted none of it.

  “Kenny?” His back was turned to me, in typical fashion. I nudged him with one elbow. “Kenny, wake up.”

  “Nnn. Huh? Wha’da you want?”

  “I think I’m in labor. We’ve got to go to the hospital. Now!”

  He turned his face away and pulled a pillow over one ear. “Go back to sleep. It’s nothing.”

  Right then, more than ever, I wanted Momma. If only she were there to protect me, take my hand and guide me through this mysterious passage, I’d be okay. I needed to grasp the palms of someone experienced, someone comforting and compassionate. While that might not have fully described Momma, it didn’t remotely identify Kenny Ray.

  The contractions rolled over me in waves. I tried telling myself that each one would be the last. Midnight. Any minute, the pain would stop and I’d go to sleep. But no amount of denial could make the spasms cease.

  I checked the clock: two a.m. Had I dozed off? I couldn’t be sure. My insides rose and fell like the seas. At any second, I feared it would be high tide. If only I could hang on a little longer maybe the moon would free me from its gravitational spell.

  I drifted into a twilight sleep and dreamed I’d fallen overboard from a ship. Above, passengers milled around, sipping cocktails, and nibbling hors d’oeuvres. “Hey!” I called. “Down here! Help!” Didn’t anyone notice the woman bobbing in the waters below? Why didn’t somebody hear or see me?

  Caught up in the vessel’s wake, helpless, I watched the crew sailing farther away. Darkness rendered me invisible as the ship drifted beyond any chance of reach.

  A sudden sting in my right side startled me from the nightmare. Five a.m.

  Soon Momma would be awake. She’d rise to make Daddy’s, and later Ricky’s, breakfast, though it was Saturday, and she could sleep in if she wanted. If only I could get to her, everything would be better.

  Momma was a creature of habits, mostly good ones, a woman to whom routine brought security and a sense of purpose. She was predictable to a fault. And in my immediate need, I recognized that predictable meant reliable, too.

  “Kenny!” I pushed him hard. “I need to go to Momma’s.”

  “Hmm? What?” He peered at me through narrow slits. “You wanna go to your momma’s? Now? What time is it?” He propped himself on one elbow and then collapsed back onto the mattress.

  “It’s five o’clock. I’ve been awake all night.” A pain stole my next breath, spiraling through my chest and ribs. “Please.” My voice weakened and climbed to a new range. “I need to see Momma. Please, get up and take me there, then you can come home and go back to sleep.”

  Kenny rose, becoming a bit more coherent. “Aw-right, aw-right,” he growled. “Just let me get dressed first. If that ain’t asking too much.” He scratched his buttocks and then shimmied into yesterday’s crumpled uniform. “Might as well wear this, bein’ as how you’re making me work on a Saturday.”

  By the time we arrived at Momma’s, another hour had passed. She took one look at me and asked, “When did you have your first pains?”

  “Around ten o’clock.”

  “Ten o’clock?” She looked confused. “Last night?” Her normally stoic expression evaporated. “And you’re just now thinking of going to the hospital?”

  How could I tell her that I’d married a deadbeat, a good-for-nothing, irritable oaf who bullied and ignored me? How could I let anyone know that I’d pulled this guy out of the gene pool and chosen him, of all the men in Limestone County—not that there was a large selection to choose from—to father my child? What kind of statement would that make about me? I’d only end up looking more foolish and wretched than Kenny, if such a thing were possible.

  “I didn’t believe, right away, that it was labor.” Something warm and moist escaped from underneath my housecoat before I could finish explaining.
I stared with disbelief at what had broken free and pooled beneath me. It didn’t look like pee with all that white stringy stuff laced through it. Nothing had strained the liquid. I hadn’t bothered to put on any underwear because I’d feared I might go full-circle and wind up giving birth right where I’d conceived: in the back seat of Kenny’s car.

  Momma grabbed a dishtowel from her kitchen counter and threw it at me.

  I paused, not knowing whether to clean up the mess I’d made or wedge the cloth between my thighs. Before I could decide, another spurt gushed out.

  “You take off,” Momma ordered Kenny. She snared her purse from the kitchen table. “I’m right behind you.”

  ~

  At the hospital, Momma sat with me in a holding room where I remained until my baby’s head crowned. “This’ll soon be over and you’ll have a beautiful baby to hold,” she cooed. But I didn’t care if I delivered a possum or if I croaked right then and there. Whatever it took to stop this backbreaking punishment, I’d have gladly welcomed. I considered my limited options. I couldn’t afford anesthesia. And to my dismay, no one would administer a lethal injection.

  My parents were the only ones fortunate or unfortunate enough, depending on which one you asked, to share my son’s birth experience. Kenny’s momma didn’t come to the hospital right away because nobody thought to call her. I guessed Kenny didn’t contact her because he was too busy pacing the halls and eating that king-size candy bar he’d purchased first thing after I’d been admitted. I heard him say to Daddy, “Comfort food,” followed by the sound of wrapping paper crunching, and then, “I need it to get through this ordeal.” I believed if a contraction hadn’t hit me right then, I’d have screamed a string of obscenities at Kenny that would have given my daddy yet another reason to feel sorely ashamed of me.