Black Horse and Other Strange Stories

by Wyckoff, Jason A.

  Lyta woke up feeling refreshed, if unfocused. Missy had to ask her four times when they were going to go to the store before she remembered why her daughter was so insistent upon the errand. At least she wants to go with me, Lyta thought. David was another matter. He asked if he could ‘plan’ the new room arrangements. Lyta suspected her son didn’t have any particular ideas of how he wanted things changed, and that the reminder was more of a prod to remind her of her pledge to make those changes. Lyta felt too distracted to form a coercive argument why he should go with her and his sister to the store; if he was responsible enough to look after Missy without parental supervision, surely he was responsible enough to take care of himself by himself, right?

  Lyta made good time getting to the store, and, as they were only getting a few items this time (including two boxes of Lucky Charms), made good time getting in and out of it, as well. Missy was chatty, apparently having forgotten whatever concern caused her to cry the night before. As she loaded the bags into the minivan Lyta thought of the lanky man with the moustache. She would have welcomed the opportunity to have another cigarette if her daughter weren’t with her.

  When they got back to the lake house, David was sitting with his legs up on the couch and his hands in his lap, watching television. He was pale and, Lyta could tell, trying not to appear anxious.

  ‘You okay, buddy?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine!’ was his too-quick reply.

  Lyta couldn’t see anything out of place and wondered what David might have to feel guilty about. Perhaps he had thought to call his father while she was away, but the task couldn’t have been accomplished: Lyta made sure the landline was not working before they moved in, and she kept her cell with her when she went to the store. The properties on either side of hers were just distant enough away to not be neighbourly, and Lyta hadn’t seen any activity in any of them, anyway. She was sure David would not try to approach one of them on his own; even without his self-confidence undermined by his uprooting, it just wasn’t the sort of thing he’d try to do. David passed the most obvious test: he hadn’t changed clothes. Whatever it is, Lyta thought, it couldn’t be too bad.

  Lyta prepared a large bowl of cereal for Missy and cheese-and-pickle sandwiches for herself and David. When she told David his lunch was ready, he muttered something indistinct in reply and remained on the couch.

  She added a touch of command to her voice. ‘David, won’t you come join us at the table?’

  David got up and walked over, limping.

  Lyta noticed. ‘What did you do to yourself?’

  ‘Nothing. I stubbed my toe, that’s all.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re okay? You didn’t break anything, did you?’ Lyta was referring to David’s body, but he reacted as if she referred to the house or furniture.

  ‘No!’

  Lyta considered explaining herself, but chose instead to let the matter drop.

  After they ate, Lyta led Missy down to the lake shore; David shuffled behind, looking miserable and trying to lean on every tree he passed, frustrated by the low branches of the spruce. There was a short pier jutting out into the lake. Missy got down on her stomach and inspected the water on all three sides of the pier. She reached down to touch the surface of the lake, but the water was just beyond her fingertips. Lyta told her never to go out on the pier on her own, and never to let the water get above her knees if she walked in from the shore unless someone else was with her. Lyta smiled up at the sun, satisfied that she would be able to placate her children today.

  From the shore, David called, ‘I’m going back to the house.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Lyta pointed out to Missy a small powerboat farther up the lake moving towards the opposite shore. Missy jumped up and waved, but Lyta was sure they were too far away to be seen.

  When they went back to the house, David was back on the couch again.

  ‘What do you say, bud,’ Lyta said, giving his shoulders a shake as she came around in front of the couch, ‘Ready to move some stuff around?’

  ‘No, I don’t think I want to right now.’

  Lyta sat at the other end of the couch, past David’s feet.

  ‘Come on, David. You’ve been wanting to do this since you got here.’

  ‘I just want to watch TV right now.’

  Lyta felt exasperated. ‘TV can wait. Let’s do this.’

  Lyta slapped David’s foot; David yelped in pain and doubled over.

  Lyta looked down at David’s tennis shoe. ‘I thought you said you just stubbed your toe.’ David started to cry. ‘What did you do?’ Lyta grabbed David’s calf and the heel of his shoe and tried to pull the shoe off his foot. David cried out as Lyta worked his ankle free from the shoe with difficulty. His sock was crunchy with dried blood on the top and bottom; the bottom was still sticky and wet with blood pooled down under the arch of David’s foot.

  ‘I stepped on a nail,’ David cried.

  Lyta worked the sock down over David’s swollen foot. On top of his foot was a purple spot the size of a silver dollar with a red and black puncture centred in the middle.

  ‘Wait—you got a nail stuck in the top of your foot?’

  ‘N—no—,’ David sobbed.

  Lyta’s children got to hear her curse loudly for the second day in a row when the engine sputtered and stalled on the way to the hospital. Lyta used inertia to guide the car onto the right of way and braked to a halt. With all the running around she’d been doing over the last two days, she hadn’t had a chance to fill up the gas tank. Lyta called her insurance company for roadside assistance. The operator took Lyta’s information and told her that she’d put a call in to have a locally contracted mechanic come by with a gas can, but given the somewhat rural location and the fact that it was Sunday, the operator expected it would be an hour until someone might arrive. When Lyta indicated it was an emergency and she was taking her son to the hospital, the operator asked her if Lyta would like an ambulance sent out to retrieve them. Well, that would be one way to blow through my deductible, thought Lyta. She decided to wait and hope for the best.

  ‘Looks like we might be here for a little while, guys.’

  David sniffed and whimpered faintly in the back seat. He was trying not to cry again.

  Missy leaned forward in the front and looked up at the treetops. ‘Do you know that birds come from dinosaurs?’

  The interior of the minivan seemed stifling to Lyta. She rolled the window down and promptly realised that that was not the type of air her lungs needed. She opened the door to get out.

  ‘I’m going outside for just a minute. You guys stay here.’

  ‘Don’t leave us!’ David begged.

  ‘I’m not leaving! I’ll be right here. Around the back.’

  Lyta got out and went around the back of the minivan. She took out a cigarette and lit it. She knew she wasn’t fooling her children, and that Missy was sure to ask why she was smoking, but just for the moment she didn’t care.

  About halfway through her cigarette, a state highway patrol cruiser drove up from behind and pulled off in front of the minivan. Lyta flicked the butt to the ground. She came around the front of the minivan as the trooper got out of his cruiser.

  ‘Car trouble, ma’am?’

  ‘I ran out of gas.’ Lyta flushed with embarrassment at the sound of the words; she thought it such a stupid thing to do: Who can’t read a gas gauge?

  The trooper leaned to the left and looked past Lyta. ‘Got your kids with you?’

  The question made Lyta feel nervous. In a flash she understood that asking dumb questions was the easiest way to make someone guilty act nervous, because no one would ask such dumb questions of someone they thought guiltless. Technically, she hadn’t kidnapped her children, but how she absconded with them was sufficiently questionable that Jack could cause legal trouble for her if he felt spiteful.

  ‘Yeah,’ she answered belatedly.

  ‘Where you headed?’

  Shit, Lyta thought. She sh
ould have told him that right away.

  ‘We’re on our way to the hospital. My son stepped on a nail.’

  ‘Did you call for help?’

  Jesus, Lyta thought. ‘Yeah. My insurance company’s got roadside assistance. I just called a couple minutes ago.’

  ‘Huh.’ The trooper leaned to the left again and waved at Missy. ‘You might be waiting awhile. Why don’t I give you a lift?’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t impose.’

  ‘Glad to do it. No sense in letting your son suffer more’n he has to.’

  Lyta realised the trooper’s last sentiment left her without a choice in the matter: she would have to let him drive them to the hospital.

  ‘But—what about the car?’

  ‘I’ll let dispatch know what happened, and they can pass it on to the mechanic. They’re sure to send a wrecker. I don’t think any mechanic out here can’t do a tow. We’ll have him bring it on to the hospital.’

  Two minutes later, they were on the road again; Lyta sat in the back of the cruiser with David, his feet up on her lap, while Missy sat in front with the trooper, leaning forward and looking up at the sky again.

  ‘Usually I carry a gas can in the trunk,’ said the trooper. ‘Just bad luck I took it out, I guess.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have no luck at all . . .’ Lyta murmured.

  ‘What’s that?’ the trooper called back, but Lyta didn’t answer. He looked over at Missy and noticed her behaviour. ‘What’cha lookin’ at, there?’

  ‘Daddy’s up in the sky.’

  Oh, great, thought Lyta. She knew it was just Missy’s imagination, but she knew how the trooper would take it.

  ‘She just means he flies a lot,’ Lyta offered pre-emptively. ‘He’s probably flying on his way back from Vegas right now.’ Goddammit, Lyta! She cursed herself.

  ‘Dad’s coming?’ David begged.

  ‘No, I didn’t mean that,’ Lyta corrected him.

  ‘Their father’s not with you?’

  ‘We’re separated.’

  ‘Oh,’ nodded the trooper. To David: ‘How’d you manage to step on a nail?’

  David looked at his mom first as if unsure if it was alright to answer. Lyta was sure the trooper saw it. ‘I was just looking around our new house.’

  ‘Just moved in, did you?’

  Those questions, stewed Lyta. Her building anxiety was like a vice closing on her temples. David was squirming in her lap.

  ‘Y—yes,’ he answered.

  ‘So close to the end of the school year?’ the trooper pressed on.

  ‘They’re home schooled,’ snapped Lyta, lying unnecessarily.

  ‘MOM!’ cried David, bending forward and clutching her sleeve in his hand.

  Lyta looked down and realised she was squeezing his foot. She stared down at a fresh patch of red stickiness on her palm.

  It was already dark when they finally got back to the lake house. David was pumped full of antibiotics and painkillers, and he’d been given crutches and strict instructions to stay off the wounded and wrapped foot for the next week. David was woozy from the drugs, but Lyta thought he should eat something and heated up a can of tomato soup, which David promptly threw up on himself. He cried and shook as Lyta helped him out of his clothes.

  ‘What’s the matter now?’ she asked.

  ‘I d-don’t want you to be mad.’

  ‘I’m not mad,’ she said unconvincingly. She was vexed; it had been a trying day. She exhaled her anger and tried again, more tenderly: ‘Sweetie, it’s not your fault. We’ll put you to bed and forget about it.’ That wasn’t quite right either, Lyta thought, but she couldn’t decide how to correct herself, and let it go.

  She took him up and laid him in bed. He still smelled of tomato soup and hospital sterility when she pulled the covers up to his neck. Lyta was thankful that the painkillers would knock him out for the rest of the night.

  Missy went to sleep early as well. She’d had a long day of discovery at the hospital, interacting with anybody who’d oblige. Her mother allowed it; it made passing the hours fretting uncomfortably on an overstuffed vinyl chair in the hospital lounge a little easier for Lyta. And when there was no one for Missy to talk to, she would look out the windows and see whatever it was her imagination would tell her to. Occasionally Missy would turn to point out something to her mother, but would see Lyta staring dully at the insurance forms in her lap and decide against it.

  Lyta received two more calls from her divorce lawyer that she let go straight to voicemail. About an hour after the second call, she received the first of five calls from her home number; Lyta figured that either Jack had cajoled the divorce lawyer into giving him her new cell number or simply charmed it out of one of the legal assistants in the office. No matter. She ignored those, too. The one call Lyta took while waiting for David to be treated and released, and waiting for her minivan to show up at the hospital, was a call from the lawyer handling her aunt’s estate. Lyta had been so proud when she’d planned her escape of that one, special detail: She did not yet own the lake house. She had convinced the lawyer handling her inheritance to allow her to take possession without taking ownership until after the divorce papers had been served to protect the property from Jack. Whatever pride her machinations had inspired before had dissipated by the time Lyta sat drained and anxious in the hospital lobby, but she went ahead and scheduled an appointment with the lawyer at the lake house for early afternoon the next day.

  That night, Lyta did not lie down in bed. She turned the light off and sat on the edge of the bed near the bottom and stared at the space where the mauve blot appeared the two previous nights. When the barest haze of colour began to coalesce, Lyta stood in the middle of it, hugged her shoulders, lowered her head, and closed her eyes.

  A low, wavering humming sound began to build in her head. Lyta soon recognised it to be music, a fugue played on a pipe organ. She opened her eyes and the sound crashed over her in full force. The melodies wove through each other with the complexity of Bach, but they created odd dissonances as they rolled against each other, and they never resolved, instead staying in suspension as the motion of the lines surged forward. Lyta was in a grand cathedral. She did not recognise it, she had never been in it, but she knew it was European by the arching Gothic architecture of the nave and the ornate intricacies in classical design evidenced in the stained-glass windows—even if the figures and scenes there were unfamiliar, as if depicting characters and bible fables she’d never learned in her youth. She floated down the aisle of the nave and saw the organist at her station: Her Aunt Sally. But her benefactor was not playing the organ; instead, she sat at an old telephone exchange, pulling out the jacks and plugging them back into the board. Lyta heard her Aunt say something, but she couldn’t understand it. Whatever it was, it made Lyta giggle, then laugh, then roar with joy until she fell up and away from the church and out into velvet, purple night.

  Lyta pulled away from sleep slowly, drawn back by the repeated sound of a short shuffling followed by a soft thud. When she was certain she’d heard at least three repetitions of the rhythm, Lyta opened her eyes and sat up. It was morning. Her vision was indistinct; she felt like she was wearing a thin veil. Rubbing her eyes to wipe away the opacity, Lyta found herself confused by the touch of her hands on her face, as though the two were not parts of the same body. The sound repeated thrice more. Lyta got up and went into the hall and crossed to the landing. David was going down the stairs; he was seated, easing himself forward to the edge of each step, then dropping down to the next.

  ‘What time is it?’ Lyta called down after him.

  David jumped at the sound. He looked back at Lyta.

  ‘I don’t know. I think almost ten.’

  Lyta was startled by the suggestion and turned back to her room to get dressed. When she went downstairs, David was pulling himself up on to the couch.

  ‘You want eggs?’ Lyta passed into the kitchen without waiting for a reply. She came upon Missy, eating an overstuffed bow
l of Lucky Charms, slopping cereal and milk on the kitchen table. ‘I see you got your own breakfast.’ Missy smiled up at her with self-satisfaction.

  Lyta’s cell phone buzzed. The call was from the real estate office. Lyta didn’t feel ready for a conversation with Doris, but she knew she shouldn’t dodge her calls this early in her new position and she answered. Doris needed Lyta to show a house in an hour. Could she do it? was the not-quite a question. Lyta sighed and assented. No way was this a sale, she thought. Sunday was open house day, so Monday might mean a follow-up; doubtless Doris remembered these prospective buyers and had already discounted any possibility of them actually finalising a purchase. Lyta grumbled to herself about the time she was wasting as she hurriedly set her hair and threw on a little make-up. She left David on the couch watching TV and took Missy with her.

  The house was a Tudor cottage topped by a steep-sloped cross-gable roof with brick exterior around the ground floor giving way to painted rafters delineating squares of cream-coloured plaster above. The landscaping was dense and closely manicured; globes of shrubbery huddled close to a cobblestone path. The curb appeal was through the roof, Lyta noted. The people who came to see the house were a young couple, married a year, wife pregnant, who pulled up in a late model caravan with some body damage. Lyta saw the problem immediately: the gulf between offer and acceptance was going to be insurmountable. That’s why she was the one doing the showing.

  She introduced herself to the couple, who immediately cooed with delight at the landscaping and the picturesque exterior.

  ‘You could live in a storybook,’ said Lyta. She grimaced at the comment; she felt again that she was having trouble vocalising cohesive thoughts. She followed it up with: ‘Please ignore my daughter. I wanted to leave her.’