Flying Changes Read online

  I finally reach the quarantine barn and stagger inside.

  Maisie is the only horse in the barn, although the other stalls are set up and ready for the ones Dan is probably hauling behind him at this very moment.

  She's in a foaling stall, which is just two regular stalls with the partition removed. She's a black-and-white draft mare, mostly Percheron, with feathered feet and long whiskers framing her large-boned face. She's already been adopted, but her new family was nervous about having her give birth at their place, so here she is.

  I peek into her stall and find myself facing a large black-and-white rump. Beyond it is an enormously swollen belly. Her tail is wrapped, presumably to keep it out of the way of the action, and she's in deep straw instead of shavings so that wood particles won't get inside the foal's delicate nostrils.

  Maisie pretends she doesn't notice my arrival, but her ears flicker and then settle decidedly further back than they were. Her official greeting is to shift her weight and rest her right hind foot on its rim, daring me to come in.

  Since there's no way I'm opening the door with her foot cocked like that, I crouch down to investigate the foaling kit parked just outside her stall. Actually, I don't crouch down so much as topple over and crash to the floor, adding a bruised tailbone and wrenched wrist to my list of complaints. I thought I could lower myself on my one good leg, but I guess I haven't been working out enough. Or at all.

  Anyway, I end up on the floor by the foaling kit, which is a blue plastic laundry basket covered with a folded bed sheet and stuffed with all sorts of objects: short and long gloves, a tube of KY Jelly, iodine, Purell, a plethora of fluffy towels and canvas sacks, surgical scissors that must be sterilized because they're zipped inside a freezer bag, a flashlight, long bulb syringe, clamps, garbage bags, thermometer, stethoscope, loaded hypodermic needles, dental floss, and a cell phone. I extract and identify each artifact, filing it in my head. When I get to the bottom, I put everything back and rise, gasping at the pain that shoots through my lower body.

  Maisie still has her rear end to the door. I stare at her wrapped tail, wishing she'd flick it off to the side since it's blocking my view of the very thing I have to assess. But she doesn't. I look both ways down the aisle, wondering if I'm going to be discovered in the morning with my face missing.

  I push my filthy wet hair away from my face with filthy wet hands and slip the latch on the door. Maisie's eyes pop open. She adjusts her weight, still leaving one foot conveniently free for kicking.

  I stay put and click my tongue. "Go on, girl. Shove over. Go on! Go on!"

  Despite my clicking and pleading, she doesn't move. I open the door a crack, reach inside to the full length of my arm, and give her a little push. She pins her ears flat and I retreat.

  I look from side to side down the aisle, resign myself to my fate, slide the door open and hobble past the menacing hoof.

  Once I'm inside, she sighs deeply and cocks her ears in an unmistakable gesture of Oh, all right. Fine. Just get it over with and leave me alone. And then I begin to remember how I felt when I was hugely pregnant, and before long, I'm awash with pity for the poor girl and her heavy load.

  I approach Maisie's head with the intention of introducing myself, because I don't want to be like the rude doctor who came into my labor room and didn't think to tell me his name until he was in up to the elbow--and even then it was only because I reminded him rather sharply that I also had a head.

  I cup both hands beneath her muzzle and coo, but Maisie is not in the mood. Her ears swivel back and her eyes glaze over.

  All right, so she's grumpy. That's completely understandable for a lady as pregnant as she is. At this point she probably wishes she could be like the lazy Mayzie-bird and leave her egg for Horton to hatch.

  I stand by her shoulder--indeed, I brace myself against it since I don't want to risk keeling over again--and peer beneath her. Her udder is full, but doesn't appear to be leaking. There's also no evidence of wax, so I think we're good there. I approach her rear end somewhat more timidly and after a moment of contemplation grab her wrapped tail. This sets off a strenuous round of tug-of-war, with me yanking and her clamping, until eventually she gives in and lets me move it off to the side.

  I observe for a moment, cocking my head and assessing. Certainly things are more engorged than what I'm used to seeing on a mare; but then again, she is hugely pregnant, and a draft horse to boot. I take a last look--mental flash photography, if you will--and drop her tail. Then I go back around to her head and thank her for not kicking me.

  Since she still hasn't forgiven me for having the social ineptitude to show up without so much as a carrot, I ask her nicely to please not have her baby until Dan gets home, skulk past her cocked foot, and stumble off through the mud and pelting sleet to Dan's trailer.

  The stairs are difficult to manage, particularly since I have to avoid the rotten middle one. When I fling the screen door open, it bangs against the outside wall and stays there. I stagger inside, ready to weep with relief at finally being indoors and able to stay there. And for not having to dig mud out of anybody else's feet, or rub anybody else down, or check anybody else's udder.

  I peel off my boots and socks, leave them at the front door, and hobble down the pumpkin orange carpet to Dan's bedroom. I change into a pair of his sweatpants and a T-shirt. The extra material gathers in rolls on my legs, but I'm warm and I'm dry and my mood is infinitely improved.

  I decide my clothes are too wet to put inside his laundry hamper and head down the hall to the bathroom to toss them in the bathtub. I almost reconsider after finding algae-like stuff growing around its edges, but since the floor is no cleaner, I drop them in anyway.

  Then I dig through the medicine cabinet looking for painkillers and trying to ignore the mildew spot beside it. I find all sorts of medicine, but, alas, none of it seems to be for people. And so I go in search of alcohol.

  I thump across the kitchen with my eyes glued firmly on the refrigerator, awash with guilt and for good reason. I set Dan's kitchen on fire last year, and his strategy for repairing the damage was to "air things out a bit," buy a secondhand stove and range hood, and finally--the coup de grace--to throw a coat of paint over the blackened walls and ceiling. He repeats this at regular intervals because the greasy streaks eventually work their way back to the surface of the paint; as indeed, they're doing now.

  I wanted to have the kitchen redone, but Dan refused. I begged him to at least let me replace the stove, but he refused even that.

  And so now he has a rust brown 1980s era coil-top stove in place of the avocado green 1970s one I set on fire.

  I reach the fridge, having successfully avoided looking at either the stove or the recurring black streaks. My eyes sweep its empty shelves quickly and with increasing desperation: there's a large jar of Klaas pickles, which, upon closer examination, turns out to be a single pickle swimming in generous brine, two bottles of Odwalla soy protein drink whose swelling sides suggest they're of questionable vintage, a box of baking soda--whose vintage I know because he threw the previous box on the flames--a squeeze bottle of French's mustard, a baffling jar of Kim Chee, and Oh! Merciful Gods! Three cans of beer! Boddingtons, too, bless his heart.

  I remove one of the tall yellow tins and get a glass ready. I learned the hard way that one has to be prepared when opening a Boddingtons--the cans contain a floating thing called something like a sprigget or a widget, but as far as I can tell its purpose in life is to make the beer explode forth and spill over the sides of the can the second you open it. And so I prepare, setting the glass next to the can, sliding my thumbnail under the tab, and leaning so my lips are within slurping distance.

  Just as the seal breaks and the beer surges forth, the phone rings. I glance at it, back at the quickly rising foam, and decide to take care of business first. I snap the tab completely open, lean over, and suck the beer as it rises from the can. With the situation thus under control, I wipe my lips with the back of my hand
and stump, wincing, to the phone.

  "Hello?"

  There's a shuffling at the other end.

  "Hello?" I repeat, glancing at my beer, which is still rising. My stomach gurgles, and I'm reminded of my dim dinner prospects. Perhaps he has cereal or something stashed away in a cupboard? Macaroni and cheese? Anything?

  "Hello?" I say again.

  I'm just about to give up when a female voice says, "Oh...uh...Who's this?"

  "Who are you trying to reach?" I say, propping the phone between my head and shoulder and reaching oh-so-far for my beer.

  Success. I snag the glass with my fingertips and tip it, pouring the beer slowly down its angled side. It's a lovely rich brown and its foaming head cascades down the interior in rolling waves. I'm drooling like Pavlov's dog, but I think I'm entitled--I've had what Eva would call "a day." Besides, I need some Dutch courage if I'm going to spend the night alone in the trailer with all the mold and fungus, not to mention the rodents underneath.

  "Never mind," the woman on the phone says. "I'll try again."

  "But--"

  There's a click at the other end.

  I shrug, hang up, take a long sip of beer, and head for the living room area, progressing carefully because I'm off-kilter and don't want to spill my beer, which may well be the closest thing to dinner I get.

  It takes me a while, but I reach the couch with my beer intact and set it on the coffee table beside the television's remote control. At Mutti's house, I'd use a coaster; but I'm not at Mutti's house, I'm in Dan's trailer, where the coffee table is made of something that only looks like wood.

  I pull my ailing leg up onto its laminate surface and settle back into the couch cushions. Then I reach for the remote control, determined to figure out the foal-cam.

  The screen zaps to life. A man is holding a long floppy tube-like thing, tearing chunks off with his teeth with obvious and great disgust. Whatever it is, it's tough and stringy and he chews with his lips pulled back and eyes scrunched shut. The people around him scream things like "Puke! Go on! You know you wanna!" and then groan, looking as though they're going to do so themselves.

  I realize--with immense and overwhelming horror--that I'm watching Fear Factor, Eva's favorite TV show, and that the current competitor is attempting to eat some type of disembodied penis. I scan the remote control frantically for the Input button so I can make it go away.

  But there is no such button. Judy's words--"the big clicker"--come back to me.

  "You can do it!" encourages the show's host, although even he's grimacing. He recovers with a shudder. "Three more minutes!" he shouts in a raw baritone. "Don't listen to them! Force it down! Just think of the fifty thousand!"

  I scan the room quickly for the big clicker, and then dive elbow-deep into the couch, frantic to find it.

  "Think of where it's been, dude!" shrieks another contestant, then apparently does so himself because his face contorts and he spins so that his back is to the camera, clutching his chest and stamping his leg up and down like a country fiddler.

  I'm now gagging. I sweep my hands beneath the cushions with increasing desperation and encounter nothing but encrusted bits of God-knows-what, a couple of energy bar wrappers, and some coins. Since I'm now in serious danger of actually throwing up, I grab the smaller clicker so I can just turn the damned thing off. Just as I poke the power button, the phone starts ringing again. I leap to my feet, still feeling distinctly ill, and hobble toward it. But apparently I pressed the power button with such force that I double-clicked it, because the television has turned itself back on. And on it must stay, because I'm almost at the telephone now, clutching my hip and gritting my teeth in pain.

  "Hello?" I shout into the mouthpiece, plugging my other ear to keep out the groans of disgust coming from the other room, which is really only separated from the kitchen by a counter.

  "Oh, crap," says the same distant voice. "I've done it again."

  "Who are you trying to reach?" I ask impatiently. I can't help it--my hip is seizing, people are eating penises behind me, and a most horrifying thought about female callers who don't want to identify themselves when I answer Dan's phone has just occurred to me.

  "I was trying to reach the horse rescue," she says.

  I shut my eyes with relief and make the sign of the cross, even though my Catholicism is definitely of the lapsed variety. "Then you've succeeded. This is the Day Break Horse Sanctuary."

  "In that case you should say so."

  My eyes spring open in surprise. "The phone line is also for a residence. Is there something I can do for you?"

  "I have to get rid of my horse."

  "Uh, okay," I say, frowning. That's a mighty strange way of putting it. So strange, in fact, that it puts me on alert. "Let me get some information from you. Hang on while I find a pen." I yank the handle of Dan's junk drawer, which sticks shut because of the multiple layers of paint. When I finally jerk it open, loose batteries, screwdrivers, computer labels, and a tube of bute--an equine analgesic--crash to the floor.

  I scrabble through the remaining Banamine granules, expired coupons, hoof picks, and assorted other junk until I find a pen and Post-it notes.

  "Okay, I'm ready," I say, scribbling on the top sheet to get the ink flowing. "What's your name and number? I'll have the owner call you when he gets back." I glance back at the television, which has fallen blessedly quiet, the penis apparently consumed.

  "What do you mean? When's he getting back?"

  "In a couple of days. He's up in Canada getting a load of horses."

  "I can't wait that long."

  "Well, I'm sorry, but that's when he's coming back. I can get the ball rolling, though. Do you have a fax number where I can send the surrender papers? Or do you want to pick them up?"

  "I'm selling him, not surrendering him."

  I put the pen down on the pad. "You realize this is a rescue center, yes?"

  "Yes."

  "We don't buy horses."

  "What about them PMU mares? You buy them, don't you?"

  "Well, yes," I say, frowning. "But that's only so they won't go to slaughter."

  "That's why I figured you'd buy Squire. The dealer I talked to said he'd give me three hundred and fifty for him."

  "Which dealer?" I say with a sinking feeling.

  "Jack Harrison."

  "He's a killer buyer!"

  "Well, exactly. That's why I thought you'd want first shot," she says matter-of-factly.

  "Listen," I say, pressing the heel of my hand to my forehead. "I don't think you understand the way this place works. It runs on a shoestring. We depend on donations of hay, wormers, grain--everything. Farriers donate their work for free. Volunteers do the barn work. I highly doubt we even have three hundred and fifty in the bank. We'd be happy to take your horse and give him a good home, but we can't pay for him."

  "Well, I can't afford to give him up for nothing, so I guess that's that."

  I press my lips together and rub my hand back and forth across my forehead. After a long pause I say, "Okay. Call him back and tell him the deal's off." I'll pay for the horse myself and consider it a karmic opportunity to pay Dan back for the stove.

  "So you'll take him?" she says, brightening audibly.

  "Yes," I say.

  "You'll have to come out tonight."

  "Why?"

  "Cuz the dealer's coming first thing in the morning."

  "Just tell him the deal's off."

  "How do I know you won't back out?"

  I sigh deeply, grievously. "Okay. Fine. Where are you?"

  "You won't be sorry. He's a real nice horse. A fifteen-hand Appy, although he's built more like a Thoroughbred. Real slim, real athletic. He'd make a good sport horse."

  "I said, where are you?"

  There is silence on the other end of the line.

  I take another deep breath and force my voice to soften. "Please tell me how to get to you. I'll come out tonight."

  "With four hundred?"

&n
bsp; My jaw drops. "You just said Harrison offered three fifty!"

  "Well, I figured being a rescue and all you'd pay a bit more," she says coyly, "so that...you know..."

  "Okay. Fine," I say wearily. "Just tell me how to get to you."

  And then she does, interspersing her directions with assurances about how I won't be sorry to have this horse because he's such a nice horse and worth so much more than I'm getting him for and it's just killing her to give him up but right now she really needs the money and all sorts of other stuff that I don't hear because I've tuned her out.

  It doesn't matter a damn what kind of horse he is. I'd go get that poor creature tonight if he were a llama.

  Chapter 3

  Forty-five minutes. That's how long she told me it would take to get to her place. So far I've been on the road for an hour and a half, and I still haven't seen the designated landmark--a large maple with a black lightning mark on its trunk.

  I finally catch sight of it--in my side-view mirror as I sail past. I pull off on the practically nonexistent shoulder, throw the car into reverse, and back up to it. This is only possible because I'm not hauling a trailer--the second I stepped outside at Dan's place, I realized I'd driven the Camry and therefore had no way of hauling a horse. I figured I'd better come anyway, pay the woman, write up a bill of sale, give her a stern warning about the legal ramifications of double-selling and how much more than seven hundred and fifty it would cost her if she tried, and then return in the morning to claim the horse.

  At least the rain has stopped. The road is narrow and twisting, hemmed in by thick and tangled trees. Fat disks of pale fungus cling to their trunks up near where they split into branches. I've always thought of them as tree mushrooms, although I have no idea what they're really called.

  The driveways are hard to make out, unpaved as they are and with night falling. I lean forward in the driver's seat, squinting and trying to count. I turn into what I think is the fourth driveway, discover that it's the beginning of a trail, and reverse back out to the road.

  I stop tentatively at the mouth of the next possibility (two wheel tracks that lead into the trees), and turn. It snakes sharply a few times, then opens onto a clearing that is so muddy I hang tightly to the tree line, circumnavigating the lot in an effort to keep at least two of the car's wheels on solid ground.