Half Broke

by Ginger Gaffney

  I begin to swing the rope coiled in my right hand, over and under, in time with the tapping on the ground. And then Hawk turns and comes at me with all he has. I smack him across the forehead with my cane, then twice again in rapid succession across his shoulders. He rises off his front legs, rearing straight up into the sky and towering over me, refusing to retreat, pumping his front legs at my head. The sound that comes out of me is one I’ve never heard before: it’s a roar, fierce, determined, and clear. But I’m trembling. I thrash at his front legs with the bamboo, moving sideways but never backward, holding my ground. Down he comes and, on the way, he swings his rear end toward me, aiming. My rope is eight feet long, the lash of it stinging him across his back, his loin, his strong rear-end musculature.

  I jump left then right, trying to remove myself from his view. I crash against him with all the force I can draw from my small body. I swing my rope and smack, smack with my cane. He kicks out and spins his hind legs around again, tries to square my body in his line of fire. With a burst of effort, I whip my rope and lash him evenly across the back of his hind legs, giving him a good sting. He jumps forward and away from me. A tiny victory. Tap. Tap. Tap. Hawk walks away, ears pinned. I turn and climb over the top rail taking the pressure off—this a reward for his correct behavior. I drop my rope and pole and walk away from the horses. I try to catch my breath, then cover my mouth with my hands. A cold sweat drips down the back of my neck.

  The men mob me, whooping and hooting like I’ve just hit the game-winning basket. They shout over each other, in disbelief at what they have just witnessed, raising and swinging their arms, attempting a faded imitation of Hawk and his giant gestures. I’m not ready for the entertainment. I stand motionless, facing away from Hawk, knowing I must go back in that pen and try to make a friend.

  A sudden sadness comes over me, and I know it’s not coming just from me. I look around for Sarah and Flor. They are huddled together near the cottonwood tree, about fifty feet away. They’ve been watching from a distance, holding on to each other. Sarah’s face is red with worry. Flor has her mouth clenched. Her lips curl and disappear inside her face. This is why they called me, I hear a voice inside my head. The pain on their faces makes me wonder how long they have had to witness these horses’ distress.

  After a few minutes, I glance back toward Hawk. He’s standing alone where I left him, his head low with one leg cocked and resting. His ears are soft and placed lightly to the sides of his head. His whole body looks deflated, far less rigid. His eyes are half-shut, half-asleep. His mouth hangs loose, with his bottom lip in a droop. The other horses mindlessly eat the alfalfa, never looking up. I ask Marcus to open the gate and let the other horses out of the pen. One at a time they walk back to their pasture, calm and casual. Hawk stays resting.

  I climb back over the top rail of the pen and stand on the far side facing Hawk. This is our new herd, I think, just you and me. “If you don’t know what number you are,” one of my teachers once told me, “then you are number two.” Generally speaking, I think humans could learn to be number two more often, but in this situation I don’t have that luxury. I walk to the middle of the pen and pick up my pole, standing quiet and waiting. Hawk’s head rises a little, his legs straighten. In the corner of his eye there lies a question, a curiosity toward me. I take a step toward his hind legs holding my pole still. A light, clear “click” comes from the edge of my tongue. Hawk’s ears capture it and flick back and forth. I take one more step forward, one more “click.” Hawk steps forward and moves away from me. I follow behind at a safe distance. When he slows his step, I “click” and he returns to walking. When I stop, he stops. When I go, he goes. His breath becomes deep and noticeable. He blows out a long and wet tumble of air that cascades out his wide nostrils, then down toward the ground. His mouth and jaw roll his tongue around, he licks his lips. He is giving me a sign that he accepts me. I stop again and walk away, climbing out of the pen. I head over to the dusty old box that holds the halters and pick one out.

  Will you let me put this on? Can I get that close? Are you ready?

  I walk toward Hawk’s shoulder. He sidesteps away from me and curls his neck, staring at the black halter and red lead line like he’s looking at a hissing snake.

  Whatever happened to you before, it will never happen again.

  I jingle the buckle on the halter. Hawk takes a few more steps away but doesn’t leave me. I reach out with my right hand and lightly scratch his withers, his shoulder, the middle of his chest. I move my arm up toward his face, his ears, scratching and humming a simple, wordless tune. His eyes soften. The halter now in my left hand, I pull it under and around to the other side where I rub, jingle, and hum some more. He doesn’t move away. Hawk is good; he’s comfortable. I pull the halter over his neck and bring it behind his ears. I lift it up and over his muzzle, buckle the bridle, and leave the lead line dangling over my left shoulder.

  Hawk stiffens when he feels the first tug under his chin. He braces his head upward and hops off the ground with his front legs giving a trivial effort to defy me. I bend his neck around and massage him just behind his ears. I lay my hand across the bridge of his nose and wiggle his head back and forth until it drops closer to the ground. I step forward. He follows, one slow step at a time. We walk around and then out of the pen, in the direction of his other herd. When we reach the pasture’s edge, I slide the halter off Hawk. We stand in silence as I groom him with the palm of my hand. Then, as I turn to leave, he bends his head down for the grasses. His left eye follows me into the corner of its socket, trying to keep me in his view.

  STRAY DOGS

  March / 2013

  I leave the horse pasture, gather my bamboo pole and rope from the round pen, and walk toward the corrals. The men have gone back to their dorm rooms to clean up. Sarah and Flor have left for the kitchen. The smell of food cooking sinks into the cool evening air. I throw my rope and pole onto the back seat of my truck and walk the ranch road toward the dining hall. The sun is high, it’s five o’clock, and sweat clings to my skin. I wipe my face with the clean edge of my shirttail and tuck the whole hem neatly into my jeans.

  Looking around, I don’t see any residents. I walk toward a cluster of buildings that are at least one hundred years old. There is not one crack in the old adobe walls. A landscape of simple desert plants surrounds the buildings, and two R. C. Gorman sculptures wrap around a small water fountain near a courtyard. A tall grove of cottonwood trees creates a lush shade over the buildings.

  When I push open the dining hall door, chile stings my eyes. I stand in the doorway, watching platefuls of food pass by with fresh tortillas stacked on top, staring out at a room full of eighty to ninety men. Every one of them is dressed in a suit and tie, with their hair cut meticulously short, trimmed tight around their ears. Most have missing teeth and tattoos drawn up their necks, next to their eyes, scrolled across their foreheads. Names like “Lisa” scripted in ink at an angle, behind their ears.

  Rex walks over and greets me. He beams down at me from his long, tall frame and I remember how he so willingly unbuttoned his shirt last Sunday to show me the hoof-shaped bruise on his chest. His face is clean-shaven, the sclera around his green eyes white as snow. As far as I can tell, he’s the only man so far not covered in tattoos. He shakes my hand and leads me to a table with a sign sitting on top that reads “Livestock.”

  “Everyone is still cleaning up. They’ll be here soon,” he tells me.

  I nod and smile at him as I sit down. I can feel the cracks of my sunburned lower lip split open as I fake a feeling of calm. The table is huge and so is the room. The space feels swollen with men: moving, sitting, talking, and eating. The clamor of plates and voices bounces off the low ceiling, built in traditional southwestern patterns of thin latillas thatched across enormous round poles, called vigas, which are sixteen inches thick. It seems everywhere I look the men are staring back at me.

  Flor and Sarah told me earlier today that they would be part
of the team cooking tonight’s meal. It is their “tribe’s” turn to cook this Sunday, they had said. They’re honoring a long-lasting ranch ritual to have a formal dinner once a week. Much like my own family did, many years ago, when my grandparents were still alive. They had invited me to join them and I agreed before asking any questions. I should have asked questions. I should have asked what formal meant. This room full of well-dressed men has my stomach turning. I’m dirty and have a faint hint of horse urine stuck to my boots, which I can smell over the flood of food. My shirt cuffs are stained orange from working horses in the clay of a different ranch. I haven’t been home since early this morning. My wind-whipped hair is tangled and stringy against my skinny, dried-out face. It’s the way I look at the end of every day. I self-consciously try to comb my fingers through the knots and roll up my sleeves to conceal the stains. My stomach gurgles and sends acid up my esophagus. I sit back in my chair and fold my hands. Try to remember to breathe.

  “Listen up, everyone. We have a guest this evening.” Rex stands in front of the room and speaks loud enough to quiet the crowd. “Ginger Gaffney is joining us for dinner. She is the horse trainer who has come to help us with our horses. Everyone, please welcome her.” With that, the men stand and form a line that quickly swings in my direction.

  “Thank you for coming, Ginger.” The first man in line reaches out to shake my hand. “My name is Alan. We are grateful for your help.”

  Alan is tiny. His head might come up to my shoulders. The knot on his tie is loose and folded backward. The cuffs on his suit coat come down past his wrists, to the middle of his hands. I glance down and see the hem of his pants dragging the ground. I stand up to greet him, and remain standing, greeting those in line for the next twenty minutes. Every man in the room comes over to shake my hand and tell me their name. It’s a parade of faces and bodies, of smells and touch, of ink drawn on wrinkled skin, of shame and pride. The urine on my boots seems to drift up into each handshake. I feel the shape of my eyes and mouth change with each new man. I’m like a mood ring. Our hands squeeze, and I feel the texture of skin. The firmness of contact carries its own emotion, its own language. At first, the grip of their hands feels coarse, like holding a hammer. Then it softens into flesh on flesh, and we fit together like well-worn gloves. I see the folds of crescent moons form around the corners of their eyes when I smile at them.

  Some of the men are seasoned and professional. They’ve been on this ranch long enough that they know how to greet and be greeted. Others fake it. The most recent arrivals can’t look me in the eye. They are the stray dogs scraping for food and running for cover. I often feel like a stray dog when I meet new people. I’m a coward, but I’m hungry. I’m curious. This roomful of men intimidates me. I’m uncomfortable, and I’m fascinated. This balance of opposites always draws me in.

  When I finally finish the formal greetings, I sit back down. The men from livestock have come to join me at the table. To my right, left, and across the table, I see the faces of the men who watched as I worked with Hawk this afternoon. The low-hanging chandeliers begin to dim and every man in the room rises to their feet on cue. I follow like I’m at church. From the corner of a hallway that seems to lead toward the kitchen, ten women walk out into the front of the room, all dressed in kitchen whites with differing shades of red chile splattered on their aprons. I recognize Sarah and Flor through their hairnets. All eighty-some men give them a standing ovation. The women beam back at them. One of the women walks forward and announces the meal they have prepared: fresh tortillas, frijoles with guacamole, carne asada, and calabacitas. More cheers erupt from the men, with fist bumps and high fives waving around the crowd. Then the men sit down, and the servers pile out from the hallway with more loaded plates of food.

  “You must be hungry, Miss Ginger?” the man to my left asks me.

  He is the short, quick one. Thin and agile. I remember him from last Sunday’s gathering. He ran out from the shelter like a second baseman, crouched over and bent at the knee. The hay looked like a glove in his hand, swinging side to side as he ran. Then, in one fluid swoop, he tossed the hay into the trough and ran back toward us still bent down from his waist.

  “I’m starving,” I say. “Haven’t had much to eat today. But I’m sorry, can you tell me your name again?” I reach out to shake his hand. “Hey, guys, all of you, can you remind me of your names, please? And maybe, while we wait for our food, can you tell me a little about yourselves? How you got here?”

  “I’m Omar,” the young man to my left says. “But I don’t think we’re supposed to talk about ourselves, Miss Ginger. Our pasts, you know, how we got here.”

  “I think we can tell her. She’s not one of us. I’ll go check with James and be right back.” Rex gets up from the table and walks to the front left side of the room, to a table filled with men much older than everyone else.

  “Who’s James?” My eyes follow Rex across the room to the table of six men who all turn around and stare at us while Rex leans over to ask his question. I see one man nod a quick yes, then turn back to his plate of carne asada.

  “James is the boss, along with that guy sitting right next to him. His name is Daniel. They make all the decisions around here. They’ve been here the longest.” The man sitting across from me stands, then reaches out to shake my hand. “I’m sorry; I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Paul.” I notice the wrist brace he is wearing. He’s the one Hawk trampled a few weeks ago. As he leans across the table toward me, I see his broad shoulders and thick chest muscles stretch his suit coat tight across his torso. He takes my hand softly into his and looks straight through me with his piercing dark-brown eyes. “My family has been in prison for four generations,” Paul tells me as he holds my hand as gently as if he were holding a kitten. “I’ll be the first to get out and stay out.” He still has my hand in his. He’s still leaning across the table. I take a deep breath and we both nod our heads in agreement.

  “Yes. You will be the first. And let the others in your family follow your lead.” I don’t know where that thought came from, but it shot out of my mouth before I could stop it.

  On my first visit, Sarah and Flor had told me this whole ranch is run by addicts and felons. I couldn’t understand at first, but now I see it. Everyone in this room has lived a life of trouble.

  “It’s cool,” Rex says on his return and sits down. “James said to keep our stories short.”

  “I’ll go next. My name is Marcus. I’ve been here for almost two years. I have three more months till I can start working out.”

  “Working out?” I question, hoping for an explanation.

  “Once we are finished with our term, we are given four more months to go into town and get a job. Make some money and return to the ranch every night to check in. It’s a test period, to see how we’ll do.”

  The servers interrupt and lay massive plates of food in front of us. Nobody reaches for a fork. I’m thinking about Marcus. His words and his body don’t match. His eyes dart around the room as he speaks, while his knees pop up and down in a rapid, nervous twitch. He’s clean-cut and speaks well. But I wonder how he will do holding down a job, five days a week, eight hours a day. Is his sobriety strong enough to hold up to that pressure? Being sober and drug-free looks like this new suit he’s wearing—not yet worn in.

  “Let’s eat,” I say. Everyone picks up their forks and digs in. Flor and Sarah arrive at the table, and everyone slides down a chair on either side to make room. They are still dressed in their white kitchen clothes, the messy kitchen aprons removed.

  “This looks fucking awesome!” A large man sitting to the far left side of the table chomps on his homemade tortilla. “You gals get the award. Best fuckin’ meal this month.”

  “Thanks, Randy,” Flor and Sarah reply in unison. They are a beautiful team in their white uniforms, with their hair freshly combed and out of their hairnets. They sit quiet and take in the compliments. Both are bright-eyed. I can see why they’ve been chosen
to head the livestock crew. They don’t know much about horses, but they know how to get things done and work as a team. I’ve worked on plenty of ranches where those two skills never managed to come together.

  “Hey, I’m Randy.” The man still chomping his tortilla turns and faces me. “I’m not supposed to be here. I already served my time. Four years in that fuck hall. It’s my wife; she sent me here. After my last release, she told me to get control over my anger, or else. I got me a daughter who’s a senior in high school this year. She’s smart. On the honor-ey role. She’s gonna be speaker, the val-dic-tor-an of her class. She graduates in May. I fuckin’ won’t be there.” Randy drops his fork in his calabacitas and leans over his plate.

  “Keep it short, Randy,” Rex cuts him off. “I’m in voluntarily, also.” Rex turns and faces me. A not-too-wide smile forms on his face. “Been here six months so far.” He takes a long breath, looks past me, and gathers himself. “I just started with the horses when Paul got hurt. I’m grateful you’re here to help us.”

  “So, what made you come here instead of, you know, some other rehab facility?” I ask him.

  “I’ve been to five rehab facilities. Nothing held.” He looks down at his boots and shuffles them around for no apparent reason. “I finally, finally knew—I was going to die an addict. If I quit using, I would die. If I kept using, I would die. This is my last shot at staying alive. I know now that I can’t do it on my own.”

  “This ranch is our family, our home,” Flor breaks in. “We work together, reach out to each other when we’re struggling. Most of us don’t have a family that can help us change. We’ve run them off or they’re addicts themselves.”

  I want to ask Flor about her family, what happened to her that made her choose drugs. I stop myself. I think about my own life. All the wrong turns I have made. How lucky I was just to be sitting here, acting as if I could actually be of some help.