Disappearances

by Linda Byler

  Circling once more, she slid open the barn door. A lump built steadily in her swollen throat as she struggled to resign herself to Paris’s fate. She could no longer dismiss the grim reaper on the horizon who would come to claim Paris. She looked up as the door opened and Tim emerged, poking his arms into his coat sleeves, pulling on his beanie sloppily, as if he had to be somewhere in a great hurry. She was puzzled, this being Saturday.

  “Sadie! Sadie!”

  It was Anna, racing after Tim. Incredibly, Mark emerged, pulling on his clothes with every bit as much haste.

  “Sadie!”

  “What is going on?” she asked.

  “Drench! I remember that word! Aunt Hannah’s neighbor—he drenched his horse with mineral oil! He said it purges the bad bacteria that causes laminitis. Cleans the stomach! Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t. He cured Harry, his draft horse. He got laminitis from being too fat!”

  Tim was shouting, the veins standing out on his neck.

  “What?”

  “Mineral oil! Do you have any?” Tim was still shouting.

  “No. Oh, my! No, I don’t have any. Please, Mark, somebody! Go get some somewhere.”

  “Call a driver?”

  “Fred Ketty’s store?”

  “Go to town?”

  They quickly decided town was the most trustworthy. The driver was called, Anna riding to town to procure it while Sadie rubbed Paris down with clean cloths. Mark paced, unable to watch Sadie as she crooned over her beloved Paris, promising help. It seemed to take forever, but finally the four-wheel drive pickup came through the whirling whiteness, and with a glad cry, Sadie straightened and came toward them.

  Together they worked, pouring the oily liquid into a long-necked drenching bottle, deciding Sadie would be the one to open Paris’s jaws wide enough to allow the intrusion of the bottle to the back of her throat. Would Paris allow it? Some horses fought violently.

  It was heartbreaking to watch Sadie, the intensity with which she massaged the neck, speaking to Paris as if she were human, explaining every step, telling her to be good and let this mineral oil do its work. Her white scarf circled her face, and she had never been more beautiful in the light of the gray, white storm outside. She had eyes only for Paris, unaware of those around her. Paris stood, thin, breathing hard, yet her coat shone from the constant brushing. Slowly Sadie cupped her chin, put gentle pressure on it, enough to lift the face. It would be easier to get the bottle down farther if she lifted her face.

  “I need a stool. Or a bale of hay,” she said tightly, the only way they could tell she was under stress.

  Tim hurried to comply.

  “Just hold the bottle, and when I say, ‘Okay,’ put it in,” she said quietly.

  Mark nodded, gripped the bottle till his knuckles turned white. Anna looked at Tim. He raised his eyebrows. Up came Paris’s head. The horse barely resisted. It was as if she knew Sadie would make everything better. That, or she was so weak, she had no strength to fight against anything.

  “Okay,” Sadie said, evenly.

  Mark held the bottle as Sadie’s thumbs remained imbedded in the socket behind the jaw bone, enabling him to slide it into the well-opened mouth. They all watched, holding their breaths as the clear, oily liquid gurgled down the dying horse’s throat. They heard the swallows, saw the neck muscles contract, then broke out in triumphant cheers of accomplishment when Mark extracted the empty bottle.

  “She did it!” Anna cried, beside herself now.

  “We’ll try another bottleful if this one doesn’t work,” Sadie said. Mark looked at her, hiding the doubt he felt.

  They all leaned on the stable wall watching Paris. When she groaned, then heaved, her legs folding under her, and she settled down hard, they rushed into her stall. Mark stood helpless.

  Tim watched Sadie as she got on her knees beside Paris, stroking her neck, talking to her. Anna hid her eyes in her hands, peeping between her fingers. Sadie decided Paris would relax if they all left her alone for awhile, saying mares would foul best when left alone, so why wouldn’t this be the same? That mineral oil could churn around in there by itself. They would go to the house and make waffles for breakfast.

  When Mark put a protective arm around Sadie’s shoulders on the way to the house, Tim jammed both hands into his coat pockets to keep them from going around Anna to protect her from the cold and snow and to keep her by his side as long as the world revolved on its axis.

  Chapter 18

  THE WAFFLES TURNED OUT light, perfectly caramel-colored. They’d be slathered with soft butter and soaked in maple syrup. Anna fried small patties of sausage, swallowing her hunger, dreading the act of pulling up a chair to Sadie’s table, inserting a fork into that lard-laden sausage and putting it to her mouth. Couldn’t she just have a poached egg? Eliminate the yolk the way she did at home? Mam allowed it.

  Mark manned the orange juice pitcher. Tim sat on the recliner, put up his feet, and said there was no use four people tried to make breakfast, three were enough. Mark set down the pitcher of orange juice, made a mad dash for the recliner, grabbed Tim’s ankles, and pulled with all his strength. Tim yelled but was pulled across the glossy oak floor at an alarming speed, until they both crashed into the dining room table, dangerously rocking the orange juice pitcher, which brought a resounding “Hey!” from Sadie.

  After “patties down,” Anna took a small sip of juice, then shifted her fingers between the knife and fork, nervously trying to portray some semblance of normalcy. Sadie helped herself to a large waffle, topped it with an outrageous amount of butter, and called across the table for Tim to please pass the maple syrup.

  Anna slanted her eyes in the direction of Sadie, who was swallowing as she lifted a huge forkful of waffle to her mouth, leaning over her plate to avoid the dripping syrup. Anna took a deep breath. Sadie stopped eating, reached over, and calmly picked up Anna’s plate. She placed half a waffle on it, then dabbed on a small amount of butter and a drizzle of syrup. She cut a sausage patty in half, added a small amount of scrambled eggs, and plopped the plate back in front of Anna.

  “Eat.”

  Anna looked to Tim for help.

  “Go ahead, Anna. I would love to see you put on 20 or 30 pounds.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Of course.”

  Slowly she inserted the fork and pulled away with a sizable chunk of waffle attached. Anna’s hand trembled as she lifted it to her mouth, but she put it in, chewed, swallowed, and closed her eyes as she savored the taste. Tim smiled at her, the corners of his brown eyes crinkling exactly the way Mark’s did. She never thought she would be able to do it, but she ate everything on her plate and wanted more. She sipped juice, then pushed back to go to the bathroom and get rid of all the lard-and-calorie-laden waffle. Then she remembered.

  Paris was in her stable, struggling to stay alive, the mineral oil slowly churning in her intestines. Without its help, she would die. Without calories, so would she. She needed to talk to someone.

  They all acted as if they weren’t aware of her eating, talking and laughing as if she wasn’t present.

  Clearing her throat, she said, “I ate everything, Sadie.”

  Sadie looked, then put a hand on her shoulder. “Good, Anna. You know you can do this.”

  Nothing effusive, no big fuss, just sincere encouragement. And when Anna leaned over the commode and purged all of it, she was pleased that some of it stayed in her stomach, but also pleased that she had shown all of them who was the boss. That’s what they got for acting as if they didn’t care, the way they talked and laughed, ignoring her totally. Tim didn’t care nearly as much as he let on. He never loved her. They had only just met.

  That evening Sadie walked to the barn, her shoulders drooping wearily. The thing was, the mineral oil wasn’t working. She had lost her temper at Mark when he said to wait to administer the other bottle till morning, telling him Paris would be dead by then. What was he thinking?

  Tim was upset about some
thing, and Anna had suddenly grabbed her duffel bag and gone home, as if she couldn’t get out of there fast enough. So now Mark was pouting, averting his eyes, not going to the barn, and as usual, her whole world had gone black the minute she knew Mark’s dark mood had descended.

  Why, oh, why could she not learn to keep her mouth shut?

  Paris was standing. That was unusual. Just when her hope soared, Paris grunted, heaved, her legs folded, and she rolled into a heap, then stretched out on her side, her breathing coming in hard gasps. Was it fair to allow an animal to suffer this way? In addition to her three infected hooves, her stomach was churning and roiling with the slimy mineral oil. She should be walked, which would help her digestion, but on those feet, it just was not feasible.

  Opening the gate, Sadie lowered herself, then slipped Paris’s head in her lap. This time she would be strong enough to say good-bye. She would call the vet in the morning, and she’d stay with her as he plunged that needle into her neck. The last thing Paris would feel would be Sadie’s touch. She’d have to let go.

  Paris heaved, her breathing labored, then relaxed, breathing more shallowly. Sadie stroked her neck, braided her mane. She put pink ribbons in it, then said good-bye.

  “I have to go to bed, Paris. Mark is mad at me, which I’ll just have the rest of my life, I guess. It’s his way. Just so you know, you’ll never be replaced. I’m never getting another horse as long as I live. It’s only you, Paris. This is good-bye. I won’t leave you in this pain after tomorrow. I love you, Paris. Good night.”

  One final kiss on the sunken eyelid, with tears raining down her face, she struggled to her feet, closed the gate blindly, stumbled out of the barn, slipped and fell into a snowdrift, then just sat there crying. Her whole world had never looked darker. If she hadn’t married Mark and all his stupid complexities, she would have been a lot better off. Smarter for sure. She wished the horse thieves would have kept Paris. Why let her come home to put her through all this? She cried on.

  Tim was in a foul mood the following morning, which was still pleasant compared to Mark. He drank black coffee and grunted instead of saying good morning, his nose stuck in Outdoor Life. Sadie decided she had nothing to lose and told him he’d be better off applying himself to his Bible to find out how to get over something.

  She felt completely unpeaceful, her eyes swollen from last night’s crying, her mind made up to call the vet, Sunday or not. They would pay the bill when it came in the mail. Crows were wheeling about the pine trees by the barn, which was a bad omen. Crows always gave her the shivers. Big, black with greedy eyes, stealing eggs from pretty birds’ nests, they reminded her of harbingers of evil.

  “Go away! Shoo! Get on out of here!” she shouted.

  They merely settled on the top branches, opened their long, black mouths, and cawed fiercely.

  Resigned to her fate, accepting the crow’s bad prophesy, she opened the barn door. A repulsive odor, so strong it made her hand go to her mouth and nose, slammed into her senses. Paris would not have decomposed so suddenly in winter. Gasping, she slid back the bolt, her eyes adjusting to the dim light in the stall. An unbelievable amount of excrement lay steaming in the far corner of her stall. The stench was worse than anything Sadie had ever smelled. She looked at Paris. She caught her breath. Paris was up, still in pain, there was no doubt about it. But there was a difference. She was lipping her feed box, making that snuffling noise Sadie loved so much.

  “Paris!” she cried.

  As if in answer, Paris lifted her tail, hunched her back, and expelled a stream of foul liquid, sending Sadie gasping for air, the latch sticking stubbornly as she struggled to get out of the barn. How could one beautiful horse smell so disgusting?

  Racing to the house, she flung open the door and stopped, breathless.

  “Mark! Tim! You have to come see! Quick! It’s Paris! She’s making an awful mess. The mineral oil is working.”

  For a moment, she thought Mark was going to ignore her, but he dutifully laid down his magazine, shrugged on his coat, and walked to the barn. Tim followed on their heels.

  “Sure enough!” Mark said.

  “Pee-yoo!” Tim backed out the door, refusing to come back in.

  Mark shoveled the odorous mess out the door, spread clean straw, lifted Paris’s hooves, shook his head.

  “Should we … give her more?” Sadie asked, lifting pleading eyes to Mark’s face.

  “I don’t think so. Let’s see how she’s doing tomorrow.”

  Paris was chomping hay on Monday morning. Her ears were pricked forward, and she let out that soft, rumbling nicker when Sadie opened the barn door. Her hooves were still hurting, but not as badly. Mark lifted her feet and said he would put on four new special shoes to aid in the healing process. Sadie threw herself into his arms and kissed him so soundly he had to pick up his straw hat afterward.

  “Thank you, Mark. You’re too good to me,” she called as she went out the door, hearing Jim Sevarr’s pickup truck turning into the driveway. Her whole world had turned from a despairing blackness to this vibrant, sunshiny, color-infused day.

  “Jim, she’s better!” was her way of greeting.

  “Aw, no! Ya mean it?”

  Jim was so pleased he actually took the toothpick out of his mouth, rolled down his window, and threw it out before thinking what he’d done.

  The ride to work was a joy. She prattled on and on, describing the whole emotional roller coaster to Jim, who promptly put on his dark glasses, saying that sun on snow was about more than he could handle, his eyes were getting old. But Sadie knew better. They all loved Paris.

  Richard Caldwell said he’d heard about mineral oil. He just figured it wouldn’t work as long as she’d been sick. He warned her that Paris might never be the same; her hooves would always be a little iffy. Sadie said that was all right, she wasn’t the young girl who raced around the field of wildflowers anymore either. At least she had Paris.

  Dorothy rejoiced with Sadie the way a true friend will do. Erma Keim said her dad had a “Belgiam” draft horse that they had to put down. Foundered, he was.

  Dorothy winked at Sadie, said the word was “Belgian,” not “Belgiam,” and they got in such a fierce argument, Sadie crept into Richard Caldwell’s office and looked in his enormous horse book, then had to lug it all the way to the kitchen to show it to them both.

  Of course, instead of being a gracious winner, Dorothy’s eyes gleamed, and she let out a resounding, “Aha! Told you!”

  Erma Keim ducked her head and acknowledged her mistake, leaving Sadie open-mouthed with admiration. My, what a change Steven Weaver had brought about!

  Before the day was over, Dorothy told Erma it was a fair mistake, a lot of people said “Belgiam.”

  Erma smiled such a smarmy grin that Dorothy stayed suspicious all week. Until she found out Steven had proposed. Steven Weaver actually asked Erma Keim to be his wife. The wedding was only six weeks away, so they could move and have everything completed and tucked into their home before spring planting.

  If Erma had seemed quiet and reserved before, tiptoeing about in all her righteous goodness, she was elevated to an almost angelic height now. She sang, hummed, and whistled. Her feet slid quietly along the floor, a sort of studied gait that made her appear to float a few inches above the linoleum. She took on every menial task that no one else wanted to do. She scrubbed, cleaned, peeled, chopped, all without complaint, until Dorothy took to calling her Cinderella, which sent her into hysterical giggles, finally saying yes, her prince had arrived. After much eye-rolling and sighing Dorothy told her to go peel some onions, marriage wasn’t exactly living happily ever after, so get down off yer high horse. The whole kitchen was a delight.

  Sadie helped Erma scrub the dining room floor. Together, on their hands and knees, Erma became very serious. “Sadie, do you think I’m too excited to be married to Steven?”

  “No, Erma. I’m so happy for you. Of course not.”

  “But you’re thinking things
you’re not saying, right?”

  Sadie paused, then sat on the floor, throwing her rag into the bucket of warm, soapy water. “Erma, marriage is a good thing. I love Mark with all my heart and soul. But it can be tougher than anything you’ve ever encountered. Personally, I don’t think it’s fair to us young girls to read books that portray an unrealistic version of living happily ever after. It just isn’t true.

  “But then I live with a man who had a very unusual childhood, and he’s flawed, although only sometimes. We have many good times, but it’s not the way I always imagined it to be. I read so many happily-ever-after books, and I think for some people, it is almost true. But for me … I know we will always have our dark days.”

  “But … ”

  Erma lifted miserable eyes to Sadie’s. Oh, my. Something personal. She hoped she would have the wisdom to deal with it.

  “But … do his feet smell okay when he takes his shoes off?” Erma whispered this, a bothersome question that had clearly bugged her for some time.

  Sadie kept a straight face and told her Mark did not have a foot odor problem, thankfully. Erma rolled her eyes, then launched into a colorful account of Steven’s foot odor, until Sadie’s eyes were squeezed shut and she was holding her sides laughing.

  “The poor guy!” she gasped, finally.

  “Well, if it’s all right, I plan on doing something about it. He’s not going to sit in my living room with his feet propped on a footrest, smelling like a skunk.”

  “Talk to Steven about it.”

  “I can’t. I’m afraid he won’t marry me then. And I do so want to be Steven Weaver’s wife.”

  When Sadie arrived home from work that evening, there was a message on the voice mail, Mam’s speech hurried, breathless, saying they were coming over for the evening. She’d bring ingredients to make soft pretzels.

  Mam dropped the bomb only five minutes after they arrived, when Dat was still out in the barn with Mark. Kevin and Junior had both proposed. But they did not want a double wedding.