When Horses Had Wings

by Diana Estill

  Granny Henderson and I spent the better parts of our fair-weather days sitting under the roof overhang and watching the traffic on Hawk Creek Road, a narrow county byway that bordered our drives with its two lanes of occasional use. Hawk Creek Road was Granny’s second best source of entertainment. No doubt, I was her first.

  Fumbling with her tissue, Granny anxiously awaited the day’s top story.

  “Not much I can say about it.” I settled into an Adirondack chair that, together with Granny’s porch swing, could have been the only property improvements any tenant had ever made to that duplex. The metal lawn chair didn’t exactly rock, but it had just enough spring in it to loosen my thoughts.

  A gravel truck passed by heading toward the quarry, going too fast, as usual. Its driver craned his neck and waved like he was thrilled to discover people actually lived out in these parts.

  I adjusted my denim cutoffs, ones I was proud to fit into again.

  Granny’s right hand went up and around and shook in such a way that I wasn’t sure that trucker ever was clear she’d properly acknowledged him. I stared at the vacant asphalt he’d left behind.

  “Well, I know your baby’s still in the hospital and doin’ okay,” she started again. “’Cause your daddy said so.”

  I sat forward and gave her a suspicious look. “When did you speak to my daddy?”

  “Other night.” She straightened her apron for maximum effect. “When he came a lookin’ to shoot yore husband. Least, that’s what he told me he planned to do when he found ’im.” She looked up and to her left. “Said he was gonna blast Kenny’s nuts to where they couldn’t cause any more harm.”

  I gave out a snort. My daddy talked like that? I could hardly believe it. “Well, you can relax,” I said, after I quit laughing. “All Kenny’s parts were there when he left for work this morning.”

  Granny wanted the rest of the story, in detail. To me, none of it seemed worthy of repeating. So I just sat there quietly, staring at the road, waiting for a chance to change the topic. Granny, however, didn’t let much time pass before she started up again.

  “You know, I’d never wanna be accused o’ meddlin’, but if you ask me, I think maybe you oughta let your momma and daddy work out their own problems—and you and Kenny take care o’ yours.” She was in the mood to lecture again. However, that day I wasn’t in a frame of mind to listen. “You got a child of your own, now.”

  Before I could reply, Granny’s screen door opened and out stepped Mr. Henderson, his thick hickory walking cane in one hand, black felt derby in the other. He shuffled past without speaking, navigated the porch steps, and staggered over to a vintage-model Chevy sedan. From the first time I’d seen that car, I’d been curious as to how an automobile that ancient could still operate.

  “Would you look at that?” Granny said loud enough for him to hear. “Past Easter and he’s still wearing that winter hat. I tell you, that man ain’t got no sense at all.”

  “Can he see well enough to drive?” I was more concerned with his safety than his sense of style.

  “See?” Granny gave out a laugh. “Not past that front bumper. Even drives with his cane.”

  “With his cane?”

  “Yeah, with his cane—instead of his foot. Says his legs get too stiff.”

  Amazed and happy to have found something else to talk about, I stretched this subject as far as I could. “Where does he go?”

  “Who knows? Who cares?” Granny shrugged. “When a man leaves, you gotta make better use of your time than t’ spend it asking pointless questions.” She studied the Chevy as it rolled backward fifteen feet, stalled, and then headed west on Hawk Creek Road. “Maybe a gravel truck will get ’im.” She sounded as if that would make her day.

  Whatever had made Granny so mad at her husband had to have been hugely memorable. If there was ever an affectionate word exchanged between the two of them, I never heard it. Mostly they just tried to stay out of each other’s way, except late at night, whenever their fights must have grown as exhausted as their decrepit bodies. Somehow they slept together in the same bed—without either of them finding a better use for their pillow.

  “You drive?” Granny asked matter-of-factly.

  “Sure.” I swatted at a gnat that threatened to violate my nose. “Got a driver’s license, anyway.”

  “I ain’t never seen you drive y’all’s Plymouth.” Granny sniffed and scanned the roadway for any signs of traffic.

  “No. I guess you wouldn’t have...and likely never will. Kenny won’t let me.”

  “Anybody that don’t drive gets driven.” Granny let those words hang in the air like they held some secret meaning. “Let somebody else drive you, you never know where you’ll end up.”

  I lifted a jelly jar at my feet and took a long swig of cold tea. I’d made the beverage for Kenny’s supper that evening, but I’d snuck a glass for myself. “Kenny says there ain’t no place I need to go that he or Momma can’t take me.”

  Granny’s eyes narrowed and she stewed on that for a bit. “If it was me, and it ain’t, and if I had me two good arms and two strong legs like yours, I just b’lieve I’d find me some place else to go then.”

  NINE

  I didn’t think much about driving during those first few weeks after Sean came home from the hospital, in part because Momma found about a billion reasons to visit. She’d found a crib for five dollars at a garage sale. I needed to go with her to buy some “bumper pads.” She wanted to take me to get Sean’s picture made. My baby needed more diaper shirts. And Momma needed to know that she spent more time than Neta Sue did with her grandbaby. But eventually Momma settled into grandparenthood with the same enthusiasm she’d brought to parenting, and she returned to her normal routines. That was when I caught a touch of cabin fever.

  Somehow, I had to concoct a scheme to get outside the house by myself, go away someplace where I could hear my own thoughts again. I was beginning to lose them the way I’d lost most of my ambitions. Gradually. Diminishing a little more each day, until over time I couldn’t recall that I’d ever had any.

  There’d have to be something in the deal for Kenny if he was ever going to let me drive. That much I could guess. So I decided to begin by asking to motor myself to the place he hated most: the Laundromat—on a Saturday. “You know, you don’t have to drive me this morning,” I said. “If you’d let me drive myself, you could keep Sean inside where it’s cooler. I’d be back in two hours.” I nodded toward Sean’s crib. “He’s just gone to sleep. He’ll be down for the first hour, at least. What would you think about me going alone?”

  Kenny peered through the doorway between the living room and the bedroom where Sean slept. The crib took up one side of the room, and our double bed occupied the other. “I was thinking about a nap, myself.”

  “Go ahead and take one, then.” I tried to sound nonchalant. “Give me the keys, and I’ll hurry back.”

  “You better,” he said, handing me the permission I needed. “And you better not go anywhere else. I can’t deal with a crying baby.” He paused, then added, “And I ain’t about to change no dookie diapers, neither.”

  I couldn’t have been any happier if I’d opened my front door and greeted someone from Publisher’s Clearinghouse. Not only did I regain the privilege to drive again for the first time in more than a year, but I got to listen to radio music, the kind I liked, and to lose myself in two hours of uninterrupted thinking. It didn’t matter that the Laundromat was filled with dozens of tired women and energetic children, or that the heat inside had pushed past the temperatures outdoors. For once, I’d driven myself where I wanted to go. Granted, it wasn’t somewhere exciting. Until I opened a dryer door.

  Right on top of a pair of Kenny’s freshly laundered jeans was a crisp, hot, twenty-dollar bill. The Laundry Fairy had visited me! The money couldn’t have been Kenny’s because he never carried around bills that large. We rarely had twenty bucks to our names unless it was payday. Regardless of its origin, that bil
l was now mine. All mine. No way did I plan to tell Kenny about it, which was why I later hid that cash inside my sugar canister. Everything would have been hunky-dory if Neta Sue hadn’t decided to bring us a gallon of strawberries.

  ~

  “These here strawberries don’t taste sweet,” Kenny said.

  I wanted to say, “How could they? Your momma touched them,” but instead, I replied, “It’s getting late in the season. Those probably aren’t from the Rio Grande. Maybe that’s California produce.” I set the lid on a pot filled with canning jars and turned on a burner before scuttling to retrieve a glass Kenny had left on the living room floor. Sean sat happily in his playpen, so I saw an opening to do some chores.

  When I returned to the kitchen to put away the glass minutes later, I met Kenny standing large in the middle of the room. He’d apparently been looking for a way to sweeten those berries. Now he faced me, pinching the corners of my prized twenty-dollar bill between his thumbs and forefingers. “You wanna explain this?” he asked in a way that was more of a dictate than a question.

  “Where’d you find that?” I asked, having all but forgotten about the hidden money.

  “Well, the sugar bowl was empty. So I thought I’d just get some out of here.” Kenny pointed behind him to the countertop where I kept a row of red plastic canisters. “Let me see, now… this one says ‘Flour.’ That one there says ‘Sugar.’ This one says ‘Coffee.’ And that one says ‘Tea.’” He turned back to me. “Tell me. Do any of those jars say ‘Money’?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “So where did this come from, and why is it in the sugar bin?”

  I eased past him and set the tumbler in the sink. “I found it. A long time ago. Honestly, I forgot it was even in there. I stuck it there and didn’t remember.”

  “You stuck it there,” he repeated, making a stupid face to mock me. “Maybe I oughta just stick my fist someplace so you’ll remember not to hide money. Don’t you think I know what this means?” His voice spiraled up an octave. “Don’t you think I know what you’re up to?” He lunged, dropping the bill onto the floor. Before I had time to brace myself, he shoved me backward against the counter. With one hand, he squeezed my jaw so hard I thought his fingers would poke right through my skin. Steadily gripping me, he hissed, “Any guy who’d want to screw you would have to double-bag your face first.”

  Across the room, the pot of boiling jars spewed steam into the air. I needed to turn off the burner before all the water evaporated from my Dutch oven. For some reason, that seemed critically urgent, even more vital than protecting myself from Kenny’s imminent eruption.

  Kenny loosened his grip. I tried to get past him, but he caught me full-throttle. His forearm struck me across my collarbone, knocking me backward into the stove. Instinctively, I grabbed for the pot handle, but I missed fully connecting with it. My back slammed against the oven door, sending the boiler and jars crashing onto the floor.

  I leaped back to dodge the falling threat.

  Hot water splashed from the Dutch oven, scalding me as the liquid seeped through my jeans. Screeching, I yanked open my fly and peeled free of my pants.

  Kenny tore at my clothing like it was on fire. I thought he was still raging, until he said, “Ohmigod, Renee. Omigod! I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  Stripped down to my bikini panties and peasant blouse, I stared at the aftermath beneath me. Miraculously, none of the glass had broken.

  Kenny used a dishtowel to retrieve two escaped projectiles while I switched off the stovetop and felt along my shins for damage. Only one burn. A red streak about four inches long. Probably wouldn’t even blister.

  Right then I thought about Sean. What if he hadn’t been in his playpen? What if he’d been sitting on the floor beneath me? The horrors of what could have been were too awful to imagine.

  Kenny dabbed the towel over the puddle before he looked up and saw my scalded streak. To him, maybe it resembled some kind of roadmap to redemption. He clutched my ankles. Kneeling there in the middle of the kitchen floor, he kissed the burgundy mark he’d caused me to suffer. His lips soothed my sting. As he inched his way up my injured leg, tracing the line well past the point where redness faded to more neutral tones, you could say he found his destination.

  It might seem crazy to want to make love to someone who has attacked you. On the surface, it was insanity. But I was out of my mind with grief and hurt. I wanted him to take it back, take it all back, through any means possible. And I could see no other way for him to do that.

  TEN

  I told Kenny that Sean was out of milk so one of us would have to step out and get some. I said it just like that, “one of us,” as though it would have been no stranger for the driver to have been me than him. He never even looked at me, kept right on watching The Rookies and tossed me the car keys. “I’m timing you. Don’t go nowhere but to the store and back.”

  The only other car I’d ever driven had been Momma’s Rambler station wagon, which didn’t have much oomph. The Fury, on the other hand, had enough engine power to give me goose bumps. On that muggy winter night, it was just me and the Plymouth for the next fifteen minutes. So I decided to open her up to see how long—like I’d heard so many commercials say—it would take to get from zero to sixty.

  After I’d reached fifty-five miles per hour, I noticed a car closing in on my bumper. I slowed to forty-five, reducing my fun to five miles per hour above the posted speed limit. But not in time.

  Cherry and blue lights swirled across my rearview mirror. I pulled off onto the road shoulder and waited to see what might be coming next.

  A uniformed officer approached my car, his hand on one hip. “Evenin,’ ma’am. May I see your license?” As if I could have said no, and he’d have gone on his way to the nearest coffee shop.

  I reached for my purse, fumbled with its zippers, and handed the policeman my driver’s license. The ID still listed my parents’ address and my maiden name.

  “Your car’s riding a bit low,” the officer observed. He’d already begun writing.

  “I guess.” I didn’t know exactly why I felt the need to agree with him. I wondered what the legal limit was. My hands trembled. Grasping the steering wheel, I tried to steady my shakes. Kenny would never let me drive again if I came home with a ticket. “Is this going to take long?”

  “You in some kind of rush?”

  “Well, yeah...kind of.” I looked away and then back at the patrolman. All I could think to say was, “My baby’s at home with my husband, and we’re out of milk.”

  “Young lady, driving fifteen miles an hour over the speed limit could make your baby out of a whole lot more than milk.” The deputy pushed his pen against the front brim of his Stetson, setting his khaki-colored hat slightly askew. “Step out of the vehicle, please.”

  I climbed from the driver’s seat. “I’m sorry, Officer. But I really do need to get back soon. Could you please just let me go without giving me a ticket?”

  He ignored my question, strolled to the rear of my car, and kept scrawling. “Carrying anything in your trunk?”

  Good Lord, I had no idea what was in that trunk—probably some soda bottles, tire tools, and maybe somebody else’s trash. Kenny had a knack for hauling home stuff he found on the job. I shrugged.

  But before I could respond, the officer asked, “Mind if I take a look?”

  “No. Go ahead.” I stood back to one side of the vehicle, curious myself.

  The officer motioned toward the trunk. “Open it.”

  I slipped the key into the lock and popped the latch.

  The policeman shined his county-issued mega-light inside the storage cavity and shook his head. “What do you plan to do with all...this? They printing good nursery rhymes in Hustler these days?”

  I moved to get a better view. Sure enough, there they were: hundreds, maybe thousands, of glandular freaks, women with bosoms so large that they must have had feet like kangaroos to keep from falling on their faces.r />
  From the way it looked, Kenny had been digging those magazines out of trashcans for months. A few of the cover pages had what appeared to be grape seeds stuck to them. The front of one issue pictured a topless blond woman in a pair of unzipped hot pants seductively leaning over a hardened pool of catsup. If Kenny had emptied an adult bookstore, he’d have collected less material than what was inside that trunk. His wish books had so completely filled the Fury that, with the rear compartment closed, there couldn’t have been more than two inches remaining between the trunk lid and the top layer of breasts.

  The patrolman must have been expecting something more or less exciting, depending on how you define that adjective, than what he’d uncovered. He flipped through a few magazines, and then handed me a warning slip before saying he had to respond to a call across town.

  At home, Kenny tried to explain away his secret stash. To hear him tell it, he was only being an astute businessman. “Guys pay good money for those magazines. Even used ones.”

  “So you’re telling me you sell these things?” Good grief, he’d been running a cottage porn industry from his vehicle. And all I had to show for it was a lone twenty-dollar bill I’d stuffed in the sugar bin.

  “Mostly. Get a dollar a piece for ’em, too.” He smirked. “Not counting the ones I give Ricky for free.”

  ~

  Some mothers record their baby’s first milestones in satin-covered books chockfull of candid photos and cute phrases. But I didn’t document all that much because I didn’t own one of those books and didn’t possess a camera. The sum total of what I recall about Sean’s first years are that he crawled at age seven months, took his first steps at fourteen months and, despite my best efforts to the contrary, learned to say the word “Daddy” before he could mouth anything else.

  Kenny kept right on hauling trash for both the city and his private business while I lollygagged away my days, tending to Sean, dodging Kenny, and looking forward to nothing more than a decent night’s sleep. Granny filled in the gaps.