The Isaac Project

by Sarah Monzon

  The sounds of Swan Lake coming from my phone interrupted whatever it was James had planned to say. Which was fine by me. I didn’t want to hear it anyway.

  Dr. Smuthers’s name registered on the caller ID. I stood and grabbed my almost empty Frappuccino and still-ringing phone.

  “I’ve got to go, James. See you later.” Hopefully much, much later.

  I answered the phone as I stepped outside. “Hello, Dr. Smuthers.”

  “Becky, we’ve got an issue. Mr. Bronson is having another horse confiscated, but animal control doesn’t have a trailer available for transport. Are you free to lend a helping hand?”

  I climbed into the truck and revved up the engine. “I can be there in about an hour. Will that work?”

  “Perfect. There should be an animal control agent there to oversee the pickup. Thanks, Becky.”

  “No problem.” I flung the phone onto the passenger seat and fired up the engine.

  ***

  Fifty minutes later, I pulled up to a long driveway with overgrown grass hedging both sides, ending at a rundown house. The paint was chipped off the wood siding and the roof sagged in certain places. To the left of the house, a rusted Oldsmobile Cutlass hid like a ravenous lion in the tall vegetation. The place looked deserted. There wasn’t an animal control vehicle anywhere on the property that I could see.

  Curiosity pushed me out of my truck, but life didn’t stir as I glanced around. Maybe I had the wrong place. I pulled out my cell, ready to make a call to Dr. Smuthers, when a soft whinny lured me past the house. My spine set rigid as I rounded the corner. Stuffed in a round pen meant for a pony, a full-grown Clydesdale pawed at the dust. His skin sagged from his back. Brown sugar-colored fur stuck out in dull patches. What was happening here? A draft of this size should be full, his coat should gleam in the sunshine, and he should not be shut up in a cage like a stuffed animal in a retail supply warehouse.

  The metal pen was so corroded, the original color was impossible to decipher. Running a finger across the oxidized surface, I wasn’t surprised to see the tip turn orange. Upon closer inspection, the desperate horse’s neck and shoulders also sported orange stripes.

  The ground in and around the pen was barren, made up of pulverized rock and settled dust. Not a single green shoot colored the harsh brown of the inhospitable earth. The horse, desperate for a morsel, tucked his enormous head between two rungs of the pen and stretched his neck, his lips extending even farther in a vain attempt to reach a blade of grass.

  I scowled as I speared the area around me with a searching glance. Where was the owner? How could people treat animals this way? Compassion and anger pulled me in different directions.

  I wrapped my hand around a fistful of grass and heaved. The ripping of California flora was like a dinner bell to the near-starved equine, and he lumbered to me, his upper lip curling around my offering, and his teeth grazing my open hand.

  “And just what do you think you’re doing, missy?”

  I turned and met the outraged glare of a man twice my size. While he didn’t have an overwhelming height, a few inches taller than me, his girth was that of what the horse beside me should have possessed. His sweat-stained John Deere hat shadowed his eyes and the rest of his face was covered in an unkempt bushy beard. Dark crescents stained his shirt under his arms. His overalls could have once been a denim-blue color but were now nondescript. A spray of brown tobacco-filled saliva shot from his mouth in a long stream and landed inches from my foot.

  He took a menacing step toward me. “This here is private property.”

  Where was animal control? Sent me here without backup? This could get ugly. I couldn’t take the horse without the proper authorities present, and there was no way I was going to leave without that poor emaciated creature loaded safe in the trailer.

  I pushed down the trepidation that gurgled in the pit of my stomach and squared my shoulders. Best to show no fear. “My name is Rebekah Sawyer, and I’m here to—”

  “I know who you is.” Another jet of chew juice ejected from the crude man’s mouth, this time landing a bulls-eye on top of my boot. “And you’ve no right to be here.”

  I opened my mouth to object, but the man, I presumed Mr. Bronson, took another ominous step forward. “If I was you, I’d get my skinny little behind back in my truck and hightail it out of here, or I might just think you were here to steal another one of my horses. Are you here to take Big Ben from me, missy?”

  Mr. Bronson pulled out a hunting knife from one of the side pockets of his overalls. With a quick flick of his wrist, the knife snapped open, the sun glinting off the steel of the blade. He caressed the knife’s edge between his thumb and forefinger, all the while looking at me in a way that set my teeth on edge.

  “Animal control.” The words were strangled by my rising fear. I cleared my throat and grasped at confidence I didn’t feel. “Animal control has asked me to come, Mr. Bronson. Big Ben obviously needs some help, and I am willing to give it to him.”

  Mr. Bronson snarled like a wild beast as he advanced upon me. Like horses, I possessed that natural survival instinct of fight or flight. And like the beautiful prey animals I loved, the muscles in my legs coiled, preparing to flee from the onslaught of impending danger.

  “Ho there!” A voice rang out. “This is animal control.”

  Mr. Bronson cursed under his breath but quickly folded his knife and put it back in his pocket.

  Relief washed over me in a torrent strong enough to rival Yosemite Falls. “We’re over here.” Get over here. I waved my arms in a wide arc. I didn’t want to be left alone with Mr. Bronson for a second longer.

  The officer high-stepped the overgrowth. My knight in shining armor. Except instead of shining armor, he wore black slacks and a khaki button-up shirt with a name tag over his chest and a badge patch on his shoulder. He didn’t have a gun at his hip, but he did have the power of Inyo County behind him.

  I left the officer to deal with Mr. Bronson and went back to the trailer to get a halter, lead rope, and a bucket of feed. When I made it back to the round pen, Mr. Bronson was gone, and the officer nodded to me, indicating all was well to proceed. The gate pin was nearly rusted shut. I grasped hold of the metal rail and shook. All I got for my effort were copper flecks and streaks on my hands. Grabbing the pin again, I planted my feet and pushed, using all my weight to coax it open. A little more pushing and jiggling and I was finally able to step inside the round pen.

  Big Ben’s nostril’s flared as he smelled the food at my side. I opened the halter above the bucket, and the Clydesdale obliging placed his nose through in order to get to his meal. After buckling the strap behind the horse’s ear, I snapped the lead rope beneath his chin and lifted the bucket in the circle of my arm. Big Ben was more than happy to follow me wherever I led, even into the dark, scary cave of the trailer. Of course the few flakes of hay I’d thrown in there probably helped as well.

  As I drove back up the long gravel path to the main road, I was incensed. Granted, it didn’t look like Mr. Bronson had a lot of extra money. If he had, then I was sure his house wouldn’t have been in the condition it was in, and his own personal appearance would’ve been a bit more presentable. But the man’s land itself was a viable smorgasbord for any livestock, including horses. Why didn’t he just let his horses out of the pen to eat down some of the grass that had taken over his property? It didn’t make any sense.

  I shook my head. Mr. Bronson was just another man who I didn’t understand.

  28

  Luke

  THE EXPANSIVE LAND extended before me. To the left the ground was black as a moonless night, smoke drifting like dragon’s breath and floating away on the breeze. Dotting the shadow of the earth sprang hot spots of glowing red flames. A marked blazing line separated the scorched land from that of the living prairie grass to the right. That column moved at an incredible rate, consuming life in its wake.

  My job in today’s exercise was that of a spotter. I watched, my eyes
ever scanning, for outbreaks of hot spots, new fires that start outside the perimeter of the main fire. Not far in the distance, another line etched the terrain. Instead of red flames, this queue was made up of fellow firefighters, clothed in sunny yellow Nomex jackets and hard hats, bent at the waist, brandishing their weapons of shovel and brush hooks upon the ground at their feet. They were creating a barrier, removing all burnable fuels in the fire’s path.

  Another group of men and women were even closer to the approaching flames, setting a burnout fire of their own. Their objective was to consume all the fuel between the control line and the edge of the fire.

  We each had our assignments, although I chafed that mine was not all that exciting. The lack of adrenaline wasn’t entirely to blame for my dreadful mood, however. A whole week of training, and I’d not once heard from Becky. Not a phone call, not a text. Shoot, I’d settle for a message in a bottle or some good old-fashioned smoke signals. Anything would be better than this blasted silence.

  It’d been hard to concentrate all week. Each lesson in fluctuating weather patterns and changing topography only brought to mind the unpredictability of Becky’s behavior. Each drill with the chainsaw a reminder of her sharp wit and cutting actions.

  “Masterson, get your head in the game and your eyes on the line!”

  Rightfully chastised, I shook the wayward thoughts from my head, wishing they were as easy to erase as the doodles I used to make on my Etch A Sketch as a child. Distractions, mental or otherwise, could be the difference between life and death at the scene of a fire. Although this was only a drill, it needed to be treated as serious as the real thing.

  A few hours later, the training instructor’s voice rang out. “That’s a wrap, folks.”

  We all helped clean up the equipment and store it properly away in the trucks. Hot and sweaty, some of us more streaked with black soot than others, we were all ready to return to the training center and shower.

  The drive back to the city was uneventful. Conversation buzzed around me, but I wasn’t in the mood to contribute. I had kept to myself most of the week, and there wasn’t much of a point in changing that pattern now that it was the last day and we’d all soon be heading back to our own stations.

  “Masterson,” the training director called as soon as I stepped out of the truck at the center. I walked over to the man who could have rivaled Arnold Schwarzenegger in size.

  “Sir?”

  “You’ve done good work this week, Masterson. I’m going to fax over your certificate of completion to your chief as soon as we’re done here.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Now go get cleaned up, pack your bags, and hightail it out of here.”

  I grinned. “Yes, sir!”

  I strode toward the large bay doors but paused and turned when the director called my name again.

  “One more thing,” he said as he closed the gap between us. “You’ve been a bit distracted while you’ve been here.”

  He held up a hand to stop the protest forming on my lips.

  “Now, I didn’t say anything before because you were able to perform your duties and excel in your studies. I assume it’s a personal matter, and it needs to stay just that, personal. Which means, don’t let it bleed into your professional life. Work it out. Figure it out. Do something. But as soon as you put on that uniform, make sure your head is where it needs to be, focused on the job at hand. You understand me, son?” His gaze bore into mine.

  “Yes, sir. I do.”

  “Then that will be all.”

  I turned and continued my path toward my bunk. I needed to get this situation with Becky sorted out. Stuffing what few personal belongings I brought into my bag, I slung the strap over my shoulder and left the center. My need to see my wife, talk with her, and resolve this issue overrode my desire for even a shower. Some things could wait, and others could not.

  I cranked up my Jeep and rolled down all the windows. The weather was still hot, but not as stifling as it had been when I first came to California almost two months ago. Going seventy down the interstate created a rushing circulation of wind in the vehicle, the tumultuous noise of displaced air drowning out any other sound.

  On a whim, I exited the highway and stopped at a Walmart. Flowers were always a good way to say you’re sorry to a woman, weren’t they? Granted, I didn’t know what I was apologizing for, but it was obvious I had done something wrong to garner Becky’s wrath. The gesture couldn’t hurt anyway.

  Standing in front of the open cooler, I wished I was in a flower shop with a knowledgeable florist. I was smart enough to know that certain flowers held specific meaning, but I was a man. And there wasn’t a man alive I knew who could tell me the significance of the blooms in front of me.

  I grabbed a dozen roses. Classic. I should be safe with a classic, shouldn’t I? But what color? They all looked pretty to me. After inspecting the bouquet I held in my hand, I returned them to the cooler. The white ones were pretty, but they were beginning to turn brown around the edges.

  Growing impatient, I grabbed the bunch closest to me. Twelve long-stemmed red roses were clutched in my hand. They were beautiful. Vibrant. Delicate. At least two of those qualities I could contribute to Becky. I didn’t think I’d call the feisty independent creature delicate though. I shook my head. The flowers weren’t meant to be a reflection of her attributes. They were a peace offering. Or at least something to buy me enough time not to get the door slammed in my face if Becky hadn’t cooled off in the week I’d been gone.

  I paid the cashier and continued home.

  ***

  “Becky?” I stuck my head around the front door and called into the house.

  No one answered.

  Stepping more fully in to the room, I called again. “Becky? You here?”

  Still no answer.

  Her truck was parked in its usual spot, so I knew she was around somewhere. Time to check the barn and pastures. I traipsed to the barn with the flowers held behind my back.

  Scraping noises came from the far end of the building. The handles of a wheelbarrow stuck out of a stall door.

  I didn’t call out this time as I moved closer, but watched as she thrust a pitchfork under a mound of manure and lifted. When she turned, she froze at the sight of me. She didn’t lower the pitchfork but held it in front of her like the weapon of a militiaman from the Revolutionary War. Pointed as it was at my midsection, I began to feel like Benedict Arnold under her accusatory gaze.

  Remembering the flowers clutched in my clammy hands behind my back, I pulled them forward and brandished them as my own weapon of defense.

  Her eyes glanced down at my proffered gift and then darted back up to my face. Tilting the pitchfork over the wheelbarrow, the contents fell with a thud. Becky let the tines rest on the ground but didn’t make any move to accept the roses. She stared, waiting for me to speak.

  I swallowed and lowered the flowers. I guess the bouquet wouldn’t work as an armistice after all. “Becky, we need to talk. I’m sorry for whatever I—”

  “I want a divorce.” Her voice was steel.

  I was incredulous. “What?”

  “Or an annulment. I don’t want to stay married to you.”

  I made to step toward her, but she shifted her weight back and gripped the pitchfork with both hands.

  I held up both my hands.

  “It has to be after Poppy”—she swallowed hard, then lifted her chin— “after Poppy dies. Then we don’t have to pretend anymore.”

  “Pretend?” My voice rose. “Is that what you’ve been doing? Pretending? Was this all some sort of game to you?”

  We glared at each other, her knuckles white as they gripped the pitchfork’s handle. Her whispered “no” was barely audible, but I heard it. The one word doused the fire of my rising anger.

  “Becky, talk to me. What is really going on? Before I left for Michigan, I thought things were going in the right direction.”

  Sparks shot out of Becky’s e
yes at the mention of my home state. She didn’t voice a complaint, but at least now I knew the origin of the problem. The origin was all I knew, however. I still didn’t see the problem. I had asked her, and she had said I should go. Should I have asked her to come with me? I had just assumed it would be too much trouble finding someone on such short notice to take care of Lady, Mittens, and all the horses. Maybe she felt like I had left her behind.

  “Is that the problem?” I asked. “Did you feel abandoned that I left you here?”

  “Ha! That’s a laugh.” Sarcasm twisted her features. “I’m an independent woman. I have my own house, my own business, and my own life. I would never feel abandoned”—she spat the word—“by some man.”

  A sucker punch to the solar plexus wouldn’t have left me more breathless…or disoriented. I tried not to take offense at being referred to as some man but was losing the battle. I shook my head. Stay focused. “Okay. Sorry. Bad choice of words.”

  I still felt like I was missing something. It was obvious Becky’s anger was masking a deeper hurt, but I had no idea what I had done to cause it. And it didn’t look like she was going to tell me any time soon. My only option was to keep probing and hope I eventually stumbled upon the answer.

  “If you were fine with me leaving, then something must have happened while I was in Michigan that made you so angry.”

  Her eyes flashed again before her shoulders slumped.

  I would have preferred the fiery fighting Becky to the defeated one who now stood before me.

  “Look,” she said, her voice soft and resigned. “It doesn’t matter what did or didn’t happen, okay? All that matters is that after Poppy dies, you sign the divorce papers.” She turned her back and continued scooping and dumping. Conversation closed. For now. I’d not had my last word.

  ***

  Desperation found me walking the halls of Grandview. No firefighter entered a burning building without a man on his six, and I found myself in need of such support.

  Rita had already waved me through, informing me Mr. Sawyer was in his room reading. I found him there, a copy of C. S Lewis’s Mere Christianity in his hands. He put the book down on his nightstand and indicated I sit in the only chair in the room.