500 Acres and No Place to Hide

by Susan McCorkindale

  But I’m getting better, and Hemingway will, too. And when he does, he’s going to want his farm back. Believe it or not, I hope he’ll still let me help. Not only have I finally gotten the hang of some of this stuff; I’m sort of starting to enjoy it.

  And yes, I do believe that’s God I hear giggling.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  I’D LIKE TO HAVE A WORD WITH JOHN WAYNE*

  *Disclaimer: No animals were hurt during the writing of this chapter. The author, however, sustained a sprained wrist and a couple of contusions. But she had it coming.

  When I was a kid, my three younger brothers and I played tag and manhunt and war and, yes, I confess, cowboys and Indians. We didn’t know it was politically incorrect. We thought it was fun, what with all the scalping that occasionally resulted in somebody needing one of those Band-Aids that could double as a diaper, stabbing one another with spears fashioned from tree branches that occasionally resulted in somebody needing a tetanus shot, and hopping on one another’s backs and hollering, “Giddy up, bitch!” that years later resulted in the bitch (aka me) needing panties made with the kind of steel girders typically reserved for suspension bridges and definitely not sold by Victoria’s Secret.

  We also watched our share of John Wayne movies. I’m unsure what David, Nick, and Dan liked best about them—maybe it was the cattle drives, the fact that everyone was filthy and no one was threatening to take away their Tonka trucks if they didn’t take a bath, or the characters’ ability to get shot and then, in the next shot, smoke a cigarette—but for me, anytime some bad guy jumped on a horse bareback and rode it into the sunset, I was smitten.

  Not with the bad guy, mind you, but rather the whole bareback business. It just looked so freeing. So fun.

  So easy.

  I tell you this not to excuse my stupidity, but in an attempt to explain why, one day, when Hemingway was sleeping, the boys were in school, and I was at my desk trying to write but in reality just staring at the computer screen wondering whether I would ever again string together a complete sentence that didn’t have to do with doctors, Doug Ross and Derek Shepherd160 not included, of course, I decided I needed to clear my head.

  So I stood up.

  And walked to the door.

  And went outside. A move that’s still so unusual for me, I sometimes expect my skin to glisten and glow and get all translucent, like that Edward guy.

  If I may digress for just a second, I happen to think Hot Fangs and I would get along famously. He doesn’t like wine, so that would leave more for me, and if one of the cows, or hens, or goats (or even dogs, God love ’em) got out of hand, he could drink it. Not your typical farm-management technique, but then, I’m not your typical farm manager.

  In any case, I found myself out on the porch and I stood there for a moment because, truthfully, unless there’s a task I have to tackle, like shooing a cow out of the road and back into the pasture, watering Hem’s insatiable fruit trees, feeding the chickens, forcing the goats out of the garage, or making one of our tenant houses presentable for showing to a potential renter, I don’t know what to do outside.

  And honestly? I don’t understand the appeal of the place.161

  But on this particular day inspiration struck. Suddenly I was seized by the desire to embrace country life, commune with nature, befriend a hen.

  And ride one of the two massive, beautiful, Budweiser-commercial-worthy Clydesdales that reside on our farm.

  Bareback.

  Hey, blame it on Hem. Usually, when he’s not sleeping, he’s watching films that could give narcolepsy to an insomniac. But recently he’d been watching Westerns. Some with John Wayne, and others with a whole lot of “Let’s poach that pony and ride ’im bareback to the brothel!”– type stuff and, well, I’d been watching with him.

  And once again, I was smitten.

  “I could do that, you know.” I pointed with the stub of my Bachman pretzel rod at the old black-and-white film flickering on our new flat-screen TV.

  “Work in a whorehouse?” Hem looked at me out of the corner of his eye and kept munching. The two of us are totally addicted to pretzels. In fact, they’re the only carbohydrate I eat. I can go for weeks on salad and the occasional piece of chicken, but if I sit down to watch TV or a movie, it’s auf wiedersehen, Atkins.

  “No, silly. Ride bareback.”

  “Naked, like Lady Godiva?”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Me, too.” Tug hopped up onto the couch, and Mr. It’s a Dog’s World, We’re Just Living in It scooted over to give him room. To give him room on the butter-soft, chocolate leather, designer-name couch that cost, like, six trillion dollars. And I thought the pet beds at L.L. Bean were pricey.

  “It’s all about sex for you, isn’t it?”

  “You know what they say. Men think about sex every seven seconds. Unless you’re a man with cancer.” He snatched the bag from my hand, pulled out a bunch of broken pretzel pieces, and plopped them on his chest.162 “Then it’s every four. Sometimes three. We have a lot more time on our hands, what with chemo and bone scans and MRIs and all that time spent lying around being poked and prodded.”

  “I’m guessing you’re particularly fond of the poked—or I should say poking—part.”

  “I’ve taught you well, young Skywalker.”

  Great. Now I was sitting with the dog and Darth Vader. 163 “I really could ride bareback, you know.”

  “Something tells me you’re not referring to poking.”

  “You’re incorrigible.”

  “And you’re nuts.” He sneaked a hunk of pretzel to Grundy, who thinks he’s a throw rug and resides permanently under my husband’s feet. “You’d break your neck.”

  “First of all, I saw that. And second of all, I would not. I’d squeeze my knees really tight, and hold on to the horse’s hair.”

  “Mane. It’s called a mane.”

  “Details, details.”

  “You know they’re stuntmen, right?” Hem pointed at the television.

  “And you know they learned from the Indians, right? I mean, they didn’t learn from the Indians”—now we were both pointing at the television—“but that’s where it all started. Before there were saddles, people rode bareback.”

  “Suz, whatever you’re thinking, please stop thinking it.”

  “I’m not thinking anything, handsome. Just making conversation.” I sank back into our huge, and hugely overpriced, dog-hair-covered couch, and popped another piece of pretzel in my mouth. “Besides, I can’t do anything crazy. I have a husband to take care of.”

  And I would go back to taking care of him. Just as soon as he woke up.

  In the interim, I was going to pay the aforementioned Clydesdales, Molly and Maggy, a visit.

  If you’re thinking I’m a rookie, a neophyte, a greenhorn when it comes to horses, you’re wrong. I’m practically a master equestrian. Once, I fed and watered Maggy and Molly for a whole week. By myself. In fact, I got so good at it, I could write a book. Okay, maybe not a book. But definitely a short list, like this:

  How to Feed a Horse, Counterfeit Farm Girl Style

  1. Approach the stall while craning your head from side to side surveying the pasture. If you don’t see the horses, stop and shout, “Here, horsey, horsey, horsey! Time to eat, horsey, horsey, horsey!” Don’t worry about embarrassing yourself. You’re wearing a lowcut, skintight tank top, a pair of short shorts, and open-toed platform wedges. I’d say that ship has sailed.

  2. Step inside the stall, keeping an eye out for anything long, black, and slithery, or small, black, and sporting whiskers. Should you spy a creature such as I’ve described, scream. No one will hear you, or help you, but you’ll feel better. Then proceed to the garbage can164 containing the feed.

  3. Slowly lift the lid, keeping any eye out for anything long, black, and slithery, or small, black, and sporting whiskers. Should you spy a creature such as I’ve described, scream, slam the lid down, and hightail it out of there while tel
ling yourself in no uncertain terms, The horses can eat dog food or diet. It’s their call.

  4. Should you not discover anything long, black, and slithery, or small, black, and sporting whiskers, scoop lots and lots of food (because you want the horses to like you, right?) into the red plastic Hook-n-Feed165 containers sitting next to the garbage cans.

  5. Step out of the stall carrying said containers. Startle yourself silly upon discovering both breathtaking, massive mares at the fence, whinnying loudly for their food, and promptly drop the buckets. Shove the feed back in quickly, though not so quickly that you lose your balance, topple off your shoes, and take a few pointy pieces of hay, a discarded Gatorade top, a shell from your kid’s cap gun, a wheel from what had to be a Hot Wheels car, a couple of BBs, and some gravel to the knee. Not that this has ever happened to me, but I can imagine. And I’d feel guilty if I didn’t warn you.

  6. Carry the containers to the fence, hook them to the top board, and stand back. You’ll know the horses are finished with their meal when one or both feeders land at your feet.

  7. Return the feeders to the stall and close the door. You don’t want anything getting in (or anything you might have missed getting out) while you’re giving the horses water.

  8. Lift the latch for the water and wait. And wait. And wait. Entire seasons, elected officials, and OPI nail color collections can change while you wait for the water, which I’ve a strong suspicion is piped in from the Pacific via Mother Russia and then routed through at least a hundred thousand miles of hose and a couple of colons before it comes out the other end and into the horses’ trough. To fight boredom, multitask: Catch up on your reading, wonder what people who live in places where there are other people are doing right now, or clip your nails. (And now you can appreciate the brilliance behind my choice of open-toed footwear.)

  So I really am almost a master equestrian. A self-taught, almost master equestrian who’s watched way too many Westerns (and a little Lone Ranger, you know, in reruns).166

  And there’s really no reason a self-taught, almost master equestrian who’s watched way too many Westerns and a little Lone Ranger can’t ride a six-foot-tall, two-thousand-pound Clydesdale bareback.

  Except for the fact that it’s a spectacularly bad idea.

  Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, Susan, have you missed your medication? Wake up, woman! You could be killed or suffer (additional) brain damage. Or worse, you could lose one of your brand-new Steve Madden sandals. Sandals you were lucky to find in a size seven. I mean, every woman in the free world is a size seven! And you got them on sale online, no less. This is no time to go ’round the bend, blondie. No good can come of this. Your husband is sick. He needs you healthy to take care of him. And your children! If you’re hurt, who will keep your children in cheese puffs, Chips Ahoy!, and the rest of their favorite breakfast foods? Be strong and tell yourself, I will not give in to this insane fascination. There’s too much at stake.

  Ooh, steak. With broccoli sautéed in olive oil and a nice tossed salad. Beats the hell out of the hot dogs we ended up having that night. But I find it’s best to make something simple when you’ve got a migraine.

  And ringing in your ears.

  And a bruised hip.

  And a wrist so painful you should probably have it X-rayed. Right after they rule out internal bleeding and arrange a psych consult.

  But to do that you’d have to be in a hospital. And to be in a hospital, you’d have to confess to having done something as stupid as cajoling a couple of horses to come to you by proffering carrots and apples and a squished Almond Joy that you actually didn’t share because animals should eat chocolate about as frequently as they should find hyper blond women with impulse-control issues on their backs, and then scaling a four-board fence and climbing atop the smaller167 of two huge horses. Just to see if you could.

  Which as it turns out, I could. And I did. And I’ll tell you how, but only if you promise not to try this on anything other than a carousel or rocking horse, or maybe one of those stick horses preschoolers love (and people like me should be limited to).

  I dropped the snacks to the ground and the horses bent to eat them. Maggy, the more diminutive of the duo, was, most conveniently, pressed up against the fence. It was like a sign from God saying, “Go for it, girl!” Thinking I’d better move fast before God changed His mind or somebody showed up to question my sanity (or simply cart me off to an asylum), I scaled the boards as quickly as my platform wedges would allow. And then, just as I swung my vampire-white leg over the horse’s expansive, chestnut brown back, I stopped.

  Something was missing.

  Something more than a saddle and the good sense not to try a stunt like this.

  Something like . . . reins.

  Oh, shitty, shit, shit, shitties, I thought. Where did I get the cockamamie idea that I’d ride bareback holding on to the horse’s hair—I mean mane? And how did I miss the fact that good guys, bad guys, cowboys, and Indians alike used them in the film Hem and I watched the other night—not to mention the John Wayne Westerns and the Lone Ranger reruns my brothers and I couldn’t get enough of as kids?

  Not being a detail girl was going to get me killed.

  Quickly, I revised my plan. No reins, no riding bareback. I’d simply sit bareback, for just a second, and climb off. I’d come this far, and I couldn’t bring myself to just give up, chicken out, walk away.

  Oh, no. I was lucky to limp away.

  Maggy let me sit on her for about a tenth of a second before she said, and I quote, “Yo, Daisy Duke, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” and took off like a shot. To be honest, I think that’s what she said. I really couldn’t hear over the whole pleading and praying thing I had going on.

  “Maggy, please stop. Oh, God, please make her stop. If you make her stop, I promise not to do anything this dumb ever again. And that includes putting collars on Cuy’s bull calves. Or at least not pink ones. Really, Mag, there’s no reason to run. You can get just . . . as much . . . exercise . . . walking. And it’s easier on the joints. It would certainly be easier on mine right this moment. What the . . . ? Was that . . . ? Oh, my God, I think I got a bug in my eye. What if it’s a mosquito? Or a bee? I’ll go blind! Blind because I had to ride bareback! Oh, sweet Jesus, please make her stop running. Or maybe she’s galloping. That’s it, she’s galloping! God, I’m good. Sorry. That just slipped out.”

  And then I slipped off. Definitely not the kind of graceful dismount I’ve seen in the movies. But then, those riders had reins.

  Not to mention brains.

  I was lucky, though. A whopping pile of decomposing cow poop smack in the middle of a nice, stagnant mud puddle and occupied by a big old lumpy toad who was none too happy to have me, quite literally, drop in, broke my fall, and neither Maggy nor Molly gave me the good, swift kick I so deserved. In fact, when I staggered to my feet, wincing at the pain in my hip and wrist, both horses seemed to shake their heads and sigh as if I were trying their patience.

  And then I remembered my patient and set the record for the two-hundred-yard dash in four-inch, mud-soaked, broken-strapped, bought-for-a-song, impossible-to-find but now ruined-beyond-recognition, size-seven Steve Madden sandals.

  “What are we watching tonight?” Hem asked while the kids finished their hot dogs, I took another two Excedrin with another vodka tonic, and he made himself a vanilla milk shake. “We got a whole bunch of Netflix today. Sherlock Holmes, Zombieland, True Grit.” He added one more scoop of ice cream, hit “blend,” and I thought my brain would bleed right out onto the table. He didn’t notice, which is nothing new and is certainly fine with me. He can miss my aneurysms anytime, as long as it means missing my shopping bags every time. “John Wayne, babe,” he prodded, raising his eyebrows, tucking his chin, and giving me the thumbs-up.

  “I was thinking we could save True Grit for tomorrow night—”

  “And watch your boy Robert Downey Jr. tonight,” Hem teased. Then he fina
lly, mercifully, stopped the blender, poured the shake in a glass, and rifled through the pantry for a bag of pretzels. “You got it. Sherlock Holmes it is. Come on, Tug,” he added, giving the dog the high sign and heading for the den, “let’s go fire up Mommy’s detective movie.”

  Whew. At least for the time being I was safe from Westerns and John Wayne. And that probably saved my life. I mean, any more inspiration from the Duke, and I might just win myself a Darwin Award.168

  Chapter Thirty-two

  FAILING CAREGIVING 101

  I’ve failed Caregiving 101. True, final grades aren’t out yet, but my interim progress report is piss-poor.

  It all started when I miscounted Hemingway’s pain medication and instead of making it through the weekend, we ran out on Sunday at the start of the Giants game.

  “Guess we’d better pray they win, right, Mom?” Cuy whispered as I ripped through the bottom shelf of the kitchen cabinet that once held my favorite coffee cups, my honey’s massive, and I mean birdbath big, Bucknell University tea mug, and an assortment of Twinings teas no one drank but which smelled so sweet I just couldn’t throw them out. These days it’s home to the McPharmacy. Open the door and the happy scent of Orange Spice still spills out, followed by about four hundred prescription pill bottles, powdered medications, liquid medications, aspirin, Advil, Motrin, and empty sample packs of stuff that worked and we may want again but, dammit, no Dilaudid.

  “You bet, bud,” I replied. Where the hell was the Dilaudid? Take eight milligrams every four hours and you won’t feel a thing and you won’t care if the G men beat the Bucs.