Seed

by Harlan Ruud

  'Girl,' he says, 'what am I going to do with you?'

  She continues to nibble at the straw, her legs curled awkwardly beneath her swollen belly. From her vagina protrudes the still, brown leg of her foal.

  'You don't even know you're pregnant,' he says, 'do you?'

  The horse looks at him and again looks away.

  'Well, okay then,' he says, as if in reply.

  I kneel, resting my hands on the dusty, wooden floor, and peer over the edge of the loft.

  Slowly, still crouching, my father unbuttons and takes off his shirt and then throws it, without looking, next to the dog. His huge, muscled chest rises, falls. Biting his lower lip, he rests on the stall's floor, shifts to his left hip, and moves next to the mare's haunches.

  'Now, you just be good,' he says softly, his bare back resting against the side of the stall. 'You hear me, girl?' he adds, looking down at the mare.

  Slowly, gently, he takes hold of her foal's leg; it does not move. Carefully, he slides his hand along the thin, bony leg and then into the mare, up to his wrist.

  Is it a colt, I wonder, or a filly?

  The mare, as if unaware of him, continues nibbling at the straw.

  'That's right, girl,' my father whispers. 'You just be good.'

  From behind him comes the sound of the dog whimpering, growling. My father turns, looking at the dog, and angrily whispers:

  'You be quiet.'

  The dog becomes silent.

  My father begins to push his hand deeper inside the mare until, finally, his bare shoulder rests against the underside of long, thick, black tail.

  Is he looking for something? I wonder. If so, what? Though I have seen him, and my grandfather, do this before, there is an unfamiliar calmness, even a gentility, to my father, and to the horse, that frightens me. Something is different.

  With his hand, he begins to shift the foal, to turn it around, within its mother's womb; perhaps, I think, it is somehow trapped. His face next to the mare's flank, my father stares intently, his eyes narrowed, at her slick, black hide.

  He begins to slowly slide his arm out of the horse.

  Startling me, the foal suddenly begins to exit its mother's womb. My father leans back as if frightened. I stare for a moment at his bloodied arm, and then watch as the foal slips with ease from its mother onto the mucky straw floor.

  'Jesus H. Christ,' I hear my father say.

  Is he afraid? I wonder. Or angry?

  The mare turns, her ears back, and begins neighing, her huge head rising, falling, in a rapid, jerking motion. My father, using the stall's side for support, struggles quickly to his feet and steps back.

  The foal, I realize, is deformed, its huge head twisted, misshapen. The right hind leg is missing.

  'It's okay, girl,' my father says. 'It's okay.'

  I watch, mesmerized, as the placenta and the uterus gush, dark and thick, slimy, from the mare's vagina. The foal, I notice, is not moving, and I know that if it is not yet dead, it soon will be.

  The mare kicks her legs out and struggles weakly to her feet, the dark, thick blood continuing to gush from her vagina, down her legs, and onto the stall's straw-covered floor.

  Her head rising, falling, swinging from left to right, right to left, she begins to frantically stamp her front hooves, neighing loudly, kicking with her hind legs against the stall's wooden side and bringing them down onto the soft, lifeless body of her offspring.

  My father turns quickly, stepping out of the stall, and closes the gate behind him. The dog leaps up to the gate, barking, whimpering, and my father angrily kicks it away.

  'You get out of here!' he yells.

  The dog turns, shifting back with its tail between its legs, but does not leave. Looking up at the gate, it continues to whimper.

  My father stands, his hands on the smooth wooden gate, and watches as the mare continues to stamp and kick, lowering and raising her huge neck.

  'C'mon, girl,' he says, as if to himself,. 'You be good; you be quiet.'

  Once again, the dog leaps up to the gate, and my father turns and kicks it in the ribs, yelling:

  'Goddamn!'

  The dog falls, then rises and runs, howling, through the narrowly-opened barn door into the yellow haze of sunlight.

  My father turns to the mare, watching in silence as her movements slow.

  'You lay down, girl,' he says, softly. 'Go on.'

  Her head falls but this time does not rise.

  The blood continues to gush, thicker now, darker, almost black, from her vagina. She stamps her front hooves slowly, swings her head to the left, her nose just inches from the ground, and looks at the lifeless, bloodied form of her foal. With her right hind hoof, she kicks at it lazily, pushing it into the corner of the stall. It is, I now see, a colt.

  My father watches in silence, his hands clenched tightly across the top of the gate.

  The mare's front legs buckle beneath her and she falls forward to her knees, her head smashing sideways against the stall's side.

  She remains still for a moment, breathing deeply, her muscled haunches raised until finally her hind legs buckle as well, and she falls, with a heavy, wet thump, to the stall's floor.

  She raises her huge head, slowly, then rests it. Still she bleeds.

  'I'm sorry, girl,' my father whispers.

  I watch the slow, then slower, rise and fall of the horse's belly.

  'There was nothing I could do,' my father says. 'There was just –'

  He abruptly turns and walks quickly out of the barn into the hot afternoon sun. Behind him, the dog slinks back into the barn and trots quickly to the stall door. Sniffing about, it scratches lazily at the dirt and begins again to whimper.

  By now, we are no longer high; we are, however, drunk. Maggie sits on the edge of the bed, smiling at me, and lets her sandals fall to the floor. I turn off the light and walk to the bed.

  'This room is awful,' she says. 'It's like being in a Depression-era hospital. You should see our room; it has a terrace and high ceilings, a private bathroom. Except the walls are white, and white walls depress me.'

  I put my finger to her lips and whisper:

  'Shut up.'

  As I reach for her shoulders, she pulls away from me, falling back across the bed, and holds her arms up, out. From outside the opened window, we hear the sudden cry of what sounds like a cat, fighting.

  'Is that a baby?' she asks, craning her neck and looking out the window.

  'I think it's a cat,' I reply.

  'Oh, God,' she says, hugging herself. 'Could you shut the window, please? It gives me the creeps.'

  I do as she asks, then return to the side of the bed and begin to unbutton my shirt. She sits up, resting on her elbows, and watches me, I notice briefly, as if she were a politician and I, her whore.

  Though the room is dark, a shaft of light from beneath the door illuminates me as I slowly undress, then stand, naked, looking at her.

  'Your turn,' I say, holding my erection in my hand.

  'Where'd you get that scar?' she asks, looking at the thick, smooth scar beneath my belly button.

  'In the war,' I reply.

  'Which one?' she asks, giggling.

  'The one inside of me,' I answer.

  She rolls her eyes.

  'Can you dance for me?' she asks, not moving.

  'Are you serious?' I ask. 'Or is this another of your jokes?'

  'My jokes? You're the one with the jokes, mister.'

  I say nothing, watching her.

  'I'm serious,' she replies. 'I want you to dance for me.'

  'Well,' I say. 'I don't know if I can dance with – with this.'

  I hold my hard cock and gently shake it.

  'Try,' she says.

  I expect her to smile but she does not

  'C'mon,' she insists. 'Dance.'

  I look at her; arching my back, then standing straight, I extend my left leg into an arabesque. She smiles. Bringing my leg first forward, then into a developpe, and final
ly into a turnout, I stop, still looking at her, and execute a quick plié and then, rising, a fouetté.

  My cock still erect, I stand, wobbling slightly, and look at her.

  'That's a fouetté,' I shrug. 'It's normally for women but I – I figured I'd give you a treat.'

  She says nothing for a moment, then smiles softly and replies:

  'Well, thank you kindly. But is that all you do? Ballet? You don't do anything more – more modern?'

  I look down at my erection, which is beginning to soften, and say:

  'Yeah, I do something more modern. Let me show you.'

  She opens her mouth as if to say something sarcastic, then stops.

  I move toward the bed and, taking her by the arm, gently pull her to her feet. With the head of my cock pushed up against her belly, I slowly raise her arms and slip off her top. She does not resist. I bend down and slowly undo her skirt, letting it fall to the floor.

  She is not wearing panties. I lean forward, kissing her gently below her belly button; she shivers, putting her hands on my bare shoulders. I stand, kissing her as I rise, and look at her face. She closes her yes and leans forward, resting her head against my chest.

  'You have no hair on your body,' I hear her whisper, as she lightly traces her hands down my back and across my ass.

  'Neither do you,' I reply, putting my hands on her hips and beginning to rub gently up against her firm belly.

  'You're just saying that,' she replies, giggling, 'because you like me.'

  'Maybe,' I whisper, kissing her neck, her jaw.

  She lowers her hands, sliding them across and around my thighs. With one hand, she lightly cups my balls; with the other, she grips my cock.

  'That tickles,' I say.

  'Does this?' she asks, tightly squeezing both her hands.

  'No,' I reply, wincing. 'That hurts.'

  'Good,' she says, squeezing even tighter.

  It is a cold, windy afternoon as I take the hay bales from the back of the pickup truck and stack them in the barn. I move quickly, arranging them neatly in rows of three and stacks of five; I will soon be done.

  With perhaps seven bales left to stack, I watch as my father walks into the barn and stands next to the truck. He is wearing his overalls, a red kerchief around his thick neck, and an old, sweat-stained cap. His face is dusty, with a smear of dirt or oil across his brow. I look at him and think, I hate you.

  'What are you doing?' he asks, taking off his cap and scratching the back of his head.

  I look at the stack of bales behind me and the ones remaining in the truck, then say:

  'What does it look like? I'm stacking the bales.'

  'I know you're stacking the bales, smartass,' he replies, putting back on his cap. 'Why are you stacking them so close to the door? I told you to put them in the back, next to the last stall there.'

  I slide another bale off the back of the truck and put it atop the stack.

  'It's easier for me to get to them there,' I reply. 'And they're not in the way. So what does it matter?'

  He steps closer to the truck.

  'It matters,' he says, looking at me, 'because I say it matters. Now, I want you to move them where I told you to put them in the first place.'

  I look at him and, again, I think, I hate you.

  'You can't be serious,' I say. 'I'm almost done!'

  'Well, maybe this'll teach you to listen to me,' he replies. 'Now, go on; get busy.'

  I look down at the dust and loose hay at the bottom of the nearly empty pickup.

  'No,' I say, looking up at my father, who has already turned to leave.

  He stops and turns around.

  'What did you say?' he asks, looking at me.

  'I said, no.'

  He opens his mouth, slightly. After a moment of silence, he says:

  'You sure you want to do this, boy?'

  I look at him, not sure what he means. The muscles in my stomach begin to tighten; immediately, I am frightened.

  'I just don't see what the big deal is,' I reply, looking slightly to the left of his face. 'If I'm the one who has to –'

  Suddenly, as if by magic, he is next to me.

  'Alright,' I begin to say, 'I'll do it the –'

  With one hand, he holds me, pushing me back up against the side of the stall; with the other he punches me in the face, breaking my nose.

  Later that night, looking at my bruised and swollen face, my grandfather says:

  'You were too pretty, anyway, boy.'

  Maggie and I are in bed, sleeping, when I am awakened by a knock at the door. My eyes still closed, I turn my head toward the door and yell:

  'Who is it?'

  'Is Maggie is in there?' I hear Jonathan ask. He sounds upset.

  'Yes,' I reply. 'And she's sleeping.'

  I open my eyes and look at her; she is awake, staring up at the ceiling. Like a corpse in a coffin, she lies perfectly straight, still, her hands folded on her stomach.

  'Good morning,' I whisper, kissing her lightly on the cheek.

  She remains silent, not moving. Is she angry? I wonder.

  'Well, wake her up,' I hear Jonathan demand. 'I need to talk to her.'

  Suddenly, Maggie sits straight and yells:

  'What do you want, Jonathan?'

  There is silence as she turns and looks at me.

  'Good morning, heartache,' she whispers, smiling.

  'I need to talk to you!' Jonathan yells.

  Shaking her head, Maggie throws the blankets off, gets out of bed and, surprising me, walks naked to the door and opens it. In the light of day, I notice, her body is flawless, a fine, brown frame.

  'What do you want?' she screams.

  Jonathan stands in the doorway, his hands in his pockets, and looks at her, at me, then again at her.

  'Jesus, Maggie,' he says, 'put some clothes on.'

  'Oh, fuck off,' Maggie replies. 'You've seen me naked before. Now, what do you want?'

  He's seen her naked before?

  Suddenly, Jonathan seems embarrassed; he looks down at the floor, then up. On the verge of saying something, he glances again at me, then at Maggie, and still remains silent.

  'Oh, brother,' Maggie groans. 'What are you? Shy? Just go back to the room; I'll meet you there in five minutes. Okay?'

  Jonathan nods his head, and Maggie slams the door, turning to look at me.

  'What was that?' I ask, sitting straight.

  'It's a long, boring story,' she replies. 'Maybe one day you can read the book.'

  She walks to the bed, sits, and begins to dress.

  'Hey,' I say, touching her lightly on the shoulder, 'look at this.'

  As she turns her head, I pull the blanket from my lap and reveal my erection to her.

  'Yeah, I know,' she says, turning away. 'I've seen it before.'

  'Oh, okay,' I reply, laughing softly. 'So that's how it is this morning.'

  She becomes still, then giggles softly and says:

  'Don't worry, sailor; I'll be back for more. But I have to go – go deal with Jonathan first.'

  'You two aren't a couple,' I ask, pulling the blanket back across my lap, 'are you?'

  She stands, pulling up her skirt, and faces me.

  ''Get real,' she says. 'Do you think I'd be over here with you if Jonathan and I were a couple? I already told you: he's not my boyfriend.'

  'Well, he sure acts like he is,' I reply. 'Not that I care, really; I'm just curious.'

  She slips on her top.

  'No,' she says. 'You wouldn't care, would you?'

  She bends, picking up her purse, and walks to the sink. She pulls back her hair and ties it in a lazy twist at the nape of her neck; with a leather barrette from her purse, she fastens it. Bending forward, she turns on the tap and begins splashing water on her face and neck.

  I get out of bed, slip on my pants, and walk to the window, opening it. The day is bright and sunny, and the narrow streets and Petit Socco are bustling with people, with noise. I am startled by the c
all for prayer as it crackles, then booms, from a loudspeaker somewhere on the other side of the building across from me.

  'Allahu Akbar,' the deep, strong voice calls. 'Allahu Akbar.'

  I turn, looking at the small travel clock on the table next to the bed; it is nearly noon.

  'Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar.'

  Maggie shuts off the water, pats her face dry with my towel, and turns toward me. Looking fresh and well-rested, she smiles.

  'I'm going to get a coffee with Jonathan,' she explains, brushing a loose, wet strand of hair behind her ear. 'See what crawled up his ass. What are you going to do?'

  'I don't know,' I reply. 'Maybe go take a shower.'

  'Well, I'll leave our door open; if you want, you can have a shower there. Better than that rat trap downstairs.'

  'Sure,' I say, envisioning the downstairs shower. With neither a towel rack nor a shower spigot, it is really only a small, tiled room with a water tap and rusted drain in the center of the floor.

  'Give me a few a minutes,' she says, walking toward me.

  Putting her hand in the center of my chest, she kisses me.

  'No problem,' I say, watching as she grabs her purse, returns to the side of the bed, slips on her sandals, then walks to the door. Opening it, she looks over her shoulder at me.

  'Thanks again, sailor,' she says, winking. 'Come back here after you're done showering. Okay? We'll do something.'

  I nod my head, watching as she leaves the room, closing the door slowly, quietly, behind her.

  Listening to the sounds outside my window, I walk to the bed and pull back the thick, dark blue blanket; the sheets are still clean. I make the bed, neatly folding the corners and smoothing its surface.

  Once done, I do fifty push-ups and fifty sit-ups. While doing them, I think of Maggie, of our night together, and I soon get an erection. I think of Maggie and Jonathan together, and my erection softens.

  There are two subjects worthy of a serious mind, Yeats once wrote: sex and death. Finished with my exercises, I stretch back on the cool, brown-tiled floor and look up at the ceiling. He was wrong, I think. It is not sex and death that are worthy of a serious mind; it is what we do to either achieve or avoid them.

  Although I'm tired, I soon sit up and then stand. I grab my towel and shaving kit, then leave the room, locking the door behind me. Barefoot, shirtless, I walk quickly down the hallway; I open Maggie's and Jonathan's door and, once inside, close it behind me.