Half Broke

by Ginger Gaffney

  Paul releases me and turns slowly to face Tony. Omar stands in between Moo and Tony with his hand raised, ready to take the lead line. We are all there together staring Tony down. He huffs, jerks his head backward, and makes a gesture with his middle finger.

  “Go fuck yourselves,” he says, then drops Moo’s lead rope to the ground. He kicks the ground with his boot and walks away, heading back toward the men’s dorm. Moo lets out one long scream. The vibration of it makes the hairs on my arms stand up.

  Omar picks up Moo’s lead and walks him back to the trailer. Moo drops his head, licks and chews, with his jaw sliding sideways around his tongue.

  WHEN SARAH FIRST CALLED, she told me how the men were fighting with the horses. Pinning them in the corners of the corrals and tying ropes from their halters to their tails to make them submit. She told me how they left Willie, an older black Arabian, tied and curled around like this for so long he fell over and couldn’t get up. The ranch horses are fighting back. They kick, they bite, and they mean to cause harm. A prey animal turned, by force, into a predator. Men like Tony have punished these horses with their own pain for many years.

  I walk toward my trailer, my horses, slow and uncertain. It’s time to break for the day. Everyone needs to get cleaned up for dinner, for their GED class, or their parenting class. I load my horses, one by one, into the trailer. Moo goes in last. He stops at the trailer door, refusing to load, and bends his neck around looking for something. Then he lets out one last scream.

  STRENGTH

  June / 2013

  Willie was twenty-eight years old when I first met him. A dusting of white frosting sprinkled around his eyes. The rest of his body covered with the far distant color of the night sky. He’s lived on this ranch most of his life. There are photographs of him on the walls inside the dining hall, just above the bench.

  The founders brought the bench from Ellis Island. It’s a long narrow bench that sits facing the entrance to the kitchen. When someone sits on it, no one can speak with them. When the residents first come to the ranch for their interview, they sit on the bench, sometimes for days. Left alone in silence to try and figure out how they got into all this trouble. On Ellis Island, the immigrants sat on this bench waiting for their lives to begin again in a new land. Everything at this ranch is intentional. If you’re accepted into the program at the ranch, your journey begins on this bench. If you break any of the rules, the standards of the ranch, you return to the bench and wait for decisions to be made about the severity of your behaviors. To be put on the bench often means you are close to being sent back to prison.

  When I arrive each day, I enter the dining hall, walk past the bench, and check in at the front desk. Here I am given a list of names, those residents who should be down at the barn waiting for my instruction. I turn away from the check-in desk and face the bench straight on. The old oak planks of the bench hold a series of concave wells, ancient resting places, where the stain has worn through. Three or four people could easily fit along its straddle. Most days there is someone holding silent on the bench. A lifeless form. No visible sign of breath entering or leaving their body. Almost invisible.

  In the photographs above the bench, Willie looks much younger. His midnight-colored, shiny coat throws a polish on his lean and tight musculature. Now he is only a thin shadow of the horse in these photographs. His aged teeth are worn ivory slopes, too smooth to grind. Above his weathered eyes, deep recessed sockets have formed, as if his skull is caving in. Over twenty years ago, Willie was donated to the ranch. All the horses come here as “donations.” But there is no such thing as a free horse. Horses are given away because they are difficult, unbroken, contentious, and sometimes dangerous. In one photograph, I see Willie at the back end of a horse trailer, his black silhouette framed by a New Mexican blue sky. His head is high, knees and hocks lifting off the ground, tail arching proudly. In another photograph, a young man is riding him. He sits sloppily in the saddle, with an ill-fitting cowboy hat perched on the top of his head. The reins are gathered tightly around Willie’s neck. The rider’s hands are gripping, pulling the reins high into his chest. Willie wears a long-shanked, steel bit that extends six inches below his lower lip. The young man looks proud, and proud he should be. Somehow, he got Willie to stop long enough to have this picture taken. Though I have yet to ride him myself, I have been told by older members of the ranch that stopping Willie is a monumental feat. He has run the residents into trees, into corral gates, into fence posts, all in an effort to rub off his rider. There are many stories about Willie. He’s an ill-behaved legend.

  IT IS THE FIRST Tuesday in June. I’m standing at the check-in desk, talking to Daniel. He wants me to wait for Flor. He says there is something we need to discuss. Daniel is considered an elder here. He’s been on the ranch for six years. He and James are the operating officers. They know everything that happens here, on an hourly basis, making endless difficult decisions about each resident. Flor comes from behind and taps on my shoulder, says hello, and takes me by the hand. She leads me over to the bench. There’s a shape sitting on the bench, a thick lump of a body: tall, broad, and female.

  “Ginger, this is Eliza. Eliza, this is Ginger.” Flor tells me that Eliza is the most recent woman to take up residency at the ranch. “Eliza, we’re trying to get you off this bench. Sit tight. We’ll be right back,” Flor tells her. Eliza doesn’t look up. She nods her head with the slightest movement.

  James and Daniel are standing in front of the check-in desk, and the four of us walk past it, through a narrow, rounded doorway only five feet tall. I follow the three of them, down a hall with a low-arching ceiling, not three feet wide, covered in mud plaster. It’s dark and musty with little air circulation. We wind past wooden doorways seemingly made for miniature people. The architecture is almost a hundred years old. Built in the early 1900s from materials found, gathered, and processed on the land around it. It feels like I’m heading to a dungeon.

  We make a turn to the right and open the door to our left. Everyone but Flor ducks to get in. The viga-lined ceiling is low, with piñon wood burning in the round kiva fireplace built into one corner of the room. It is early June, and the fragrance of piñon reminds me of the cold winter behind us. The chairs are built like square boxes. The Navajo-designed cushions rest on heavy wooden frames. Daniel asks me to sit down and gets me a glass of water.

  “We want to speak with you about Eliza,” he says, as he hands me the glass. “We may have to send her back if we can’t find another facility more equipped to help her.” I don’t know what he is talking about, so I sit and listen.

  “Eliza’s starting to self-mutilate,” James informs me. “She’s pulling out all the hairs around her face, her scalp, her eyebrows. She’s been warned, but she can’t seem to stop. She picks and gouges at her fingernails until they bleed. She’s despondent and incommunicative. It’s getting worse by the day.” Daniel bends forward toward me, rests his elbows on his knees, and cups his right hand over his chin.

  “We don’t take anyone who has a history of suicide. Eliza’s records don’t mention any mental health issues, but she has old scars on her forearms. She’s been here for four months now, and we’re starting to worry.” Daniel looks toward Flor. “Flor thinks she should join the livestock crew. She thinks maybe the horses could wake Eliza out of her daze. What do you think? Do you have much experience with this?”

  I’ve only been working with the livestock crew for three months. In that time, I’ve learned I have my limits. My relationship with Tony is still difficult. He’s aggressive, he’s angry, and he surfaces the worst in me. Outside of these sessions at the ranch, I mostly work with normal people, so-called “healthy” people. People whose biggest problem is choosing what to wear for a lesson and should they cancel in case of rain. Now Flor wants me to work with someone whose tendency is toward self-mutilation. I’m far out of my league.

  “I don’t have any experience with people like Eliza,” I reveal to Daniel. “
Where is she from? What’s her story?” If I listen to a person’s life experience, a horse’s background, I usually get hints on how to teach them.

  Eliza lived near Albuquerque, James tells me. From an upscale home in a gated community. She’s twenty-six and has spent the last five years in prison for drug use and related crimes. She’s been to four different rehabilitation facilities. In and out of them since she turned sixteen. Eliza’s family was a very successful, drug-dealing family. They worked out of a warehouse in a commercial district, operating as a legitimate business. Eliza worked for the family business since she was old enough to pack boxes, produce shipping labels, and run the computer. By the time she was fourteen, she was keeping the books. The family business was all Eliza ever knew. When she was fifteen, the family got busted, and her parents were sent off to prison. Eliza went to juvenile detention. She’s been bouncing back and forth between federal prison and rehab ever since. Eliza’s not seen her father or mother in five years, though her father writes her letters from prison—letters she collects but never opens.

  Flor is Eliza’s mentor. She was assigned to take care of her when Eliza first entered the ranch. The residents who have been here long enough take responsibility for the newcomers. Flor’s been here over two years. She’s learned how to greet people, to look them in the eye, and to be gracious and thoughtful when spoken to. She’s always neat, her hair combed perfectly, and her clothes suitable for a young professional. She has the power to influence Daniel and James’s decision, and she’s determined to do so.

  “I know you both haven’t been down to the horses lately, but there are many things we’re trying to change.” Flor turns in her chair and faces Daniel and James. “The way Ginger is teaching us about the horses and ourselves, it could be good for Eliza.”

  Both Daniel and James shoot questions at me. “What’s the plan? Who will be keeping an eye out for Eliza? How long should we try this before it turns, you know, dangerous? And, Ginger, are you willing to be Eliza’s strength if things go badly?”

  It is the last question that concerns me.

  Flor moves closer to me. “Ginger’s already been our strength down there. She’s helped me and Sarah. She’s helped Randy, Paul, and Omar, too. She’ll take care of Eliza.”

  “I’ll be honest,” I say. “I don’t know how this will go. I’ve never worked with someone inclined to injure themselves. But I do know a lot about horses, and I trust they’ll let me know how Eliza’s doing.”

  “The horses?” James asks. The doubt is obvious in his tone.

  “Maybe you guys can come down and watch a little,” I say. “It’s hard to explain.”

  Flor and I leave the room together and head back through the hall. Flor hustles ahead of me. I feel sweat bead up and drip down my temples. Here we go again, I think to myself. One more person to keep a close eye on. I sigh, then rush forward to catch up with Flor.

  When we get back to the bench, Sarah is sitting next to Eliza, her arm wrapped around Eliza’s shoulder, waiting for us to finish with Daniel and James. She has her boots and gloves on, ready to go down to the horses. Sarah knows not to go to the corrals alone. The women must always be in groups of two or more when they walk across this ranch. Everyone is watched closely. No flirting is allowed. No touching. If a man or woman gets caught making advances, they are automatically put back on the bench.

  “How did it go?” Sarah rises from the bench.

  “They said they’ll let us give it a try.” Flor smiles and gives Sarah a fist bump.

  All three of us reach down for Eliza and pull her off the bench.

  DOWN AT THE CORRALS, the men are waiting for us. They have Willie, Scout, Estrella, and Hawk groomed and tied to the pipe railing under the cottonwoods. Luna’s in her pen. The crack in her face has shrunk over the last few months and her eye is open once again. I asked Paul and Tony to work together and clean Luna’s face once a day. I thought it would be good for Tony to learn to take care of someone other than himself. Teaming Tony with Paul gave me confidence that things would go well. They’re able to halter her, lead her up to the pipe corral, and groom her. A few weeks ago, we started working with her in the round pen.

  I’ve carried over my farrier tools: new hoof knives, nippers, and a rasp. The horses’ hooves are all overgrown. As far as anyone knows, these horses’ feet haven’t been trimmed in over a year. Scout and Hawk stumble along and frequently trip when we work with them. Estrella has a two-inch crack above her quarters. I haven’t felt comfortable working the horses hard with feet this long. Willie is the worst. Being Arab predisposes him to mule or club feet—tall, upright hooves that make him look like he’s walking on high-heeled shoes. Willie’s the smallest horse we have and, since he’s the oldest, I’m hoping he’s had some experience getting his feet trimmed.

  Randy unties Willie and leads him to the group. Looking around for Eliza, I see she’s standing next to Sarah, who still has her arm wrapped around Eliza’s back. I ask Omar if he’d like to be the first to try and trim a hoof. Omar’s one of the youngest residents at the ranch. He lost his mother to cancer when he was fifteen. He started smoking pot, drinking, and quickly became addicted to meth. When his father remarried within one year of his mother’s death, Omar left home and began living on the street. Within a month, he was in juvenile detention for stealing food from Walmart.

  Omar approaches Willie, whom Randy is trying to hold still. Willie circles around Randy, already in a panic about the possibility of containment. I show Omar the position he will have to hold so that he can trim Willie’s feet. I take the lead line momentarily from Randy, halt Willie in place, and hand Willie back to Randy. I pick up Willie’s right front hoof, pull it through my legs from behind, and place it just above my knees. The muscles in my upper thighs squeeze together and hold his hoof in place. Willie starts hopping three-legged around Randy. I hop with him and once he stands still for a moment, I release his leg down. When I look up, Omar’s shaking his head.

  “No way am I putting Willie’s leg that close to, well, you know, between my legs, Miss Ginger,” Omar tells me.

  “You don’t want to try? It’s not as dangerous as it looks,” I say.

  This ranch pushes the residents to try and build skills while they’re here. They learn to cook, build cabinets, drive the moving trucks, wait tables, and do engine repair. Saying no to learning something new is not acceptable.

  “Once. I’ll try it once,” Omar concedes.

  Omar bends down and picks up Willie’s leg. He places it quickly, right above his knees, and pinches down lightly. Willie rips his leg free with no effort and stands in place next to Randy. I look around for Eliza, remembering I must keep her in my sight. She’s in the back of the group now, twirling her hair into thin knots, then tugging on them. Eliza’s a large woman, six feet tall and weighs about 185 pounds. With big bones and broad shoulders, she carries the frame of an athlete, with the face of a model.

  “Eliza, look up! Have you been watching? Are you paying attention?” I shout at her.

  “A little,” she whispers, then looks back at the ground.

  “Come up here and get closer. Omar, would you mind if Eliza gave it a try?” I ask.

  Omar’s thrilled he won’t have to do it again and resumes his position back inside the group.

  Eliza walks forward slowly, dragging her toes across the dirt road as she moves past the others. She reminds me of myself back in grade school, high school, college. Passing through groups of fellow students, trying hard not to be noticed. Her silent, ghost body brushes past Sarah, who takes hold of Eliza’s hand and walks her right up next to Willie’s shoulder. I hear Sarah repeating herself, over and over, “You can do this, Eliza. You can do this.”

  Eliza takes her place in the front of the group. Her face holds no expression, a blank white page. We have to wake her up, I think, and wonder if anyone ever felt that way about me. I step her through the procedure. Bending down again, I pick up Willie’s hoof, put it between my th
ighs. I close my grip on him for fifteen seconds as he hops around Randy’s large body. When I place it back on the ground, I give Willie a good scratch on the neck, and turn my attention to Eliza. She’s right behind me, following my every step, though still dull and distant. I make sure she understands everything. The position, holding on with her thighs, being able to take a pull when Willie starts feeling the pressure, and releasing his leg down once he comes to a standstill.

  “Are you ready?” I ask her. She tilts her head forward trying to say yes.

  I trail behind her, with my hands resting on the back of her hips. She feels wide and solid, like a tree. I put her in position next to Willie’s shoulder. When she reaches down to pull Willie’s leg through her thighs, Willie’s already ahead of her. He throws his leg high into the air and lands it with a great big stomp. Some of the men chuckle, but Eliza doesn’t notice the humor. She bends over again and grabs Willie’s leg with her thick arms, pulls it through her thighs, and pinches down hard. Willie feels the grab and tries to pull away. Eliza stays with him. Hopping backward with Willie as he rears his front legs, trying to run forward and rid himself of her. They take two turns around Randy before Eliza loses her balance, landing face down with a thud. Both Flor and Sarah draw in a worried breath, then run toward her.

  “She’s got a busted lip,” Flor reports. Eliza sits up, covered in dust, a trickle of blue-red drips from her upper lip. I send Omar off for ice.

  “We’re not going to quit here,” I say. “Are we, Eliza? You had him. There is absolutely no reason you can’t do this. Now it’s a contest. Who’s going to win?” I’m down on one knee, looking straight into her eyes, like a wrestling coach screaming, get up, get up!

  GLENDA ALWAYS REMINDS ME of the day she realized I needed a horse. It was a cold autumn morning in North Carolina. I was riding Belle on the track Bob had mowed for us through his cornfield. The dried stalks crackled and swayed in the wind on either side of us. Belle and I were at a slow lope, just getting warmed up, when a deer shot out of the cornfield and took off ahead of us. Glenda was watching from the hill behind our cabin, which bordered Bob’s land.