Dark Horse

by Dandi Daley Mackall

  I nod and stroke the cat with my finger.

  “Catman thought Kitten might have been born by water. So that made it her safe place. We were going to look in the old McCray pasture. But then Catman remembered that I’d told him how much Kitten loves Starlight. So we tried the south pasture first. I called and called for Kitten, but she didn’t come. We kept searching. And there she was, deep in that bramble bush.”

  “Is she okay?” I ask, trying to take it all in. “She looks okay.”

  “Kitten is groovy,” Catman says. “Her tail’s a little singed. Gives her character.”

  “She’s purring!” Kat exclaims. She clutches her cat and rubs her cheek against the scraggly fur.

  “Kat, it’s a miracle. I just can’t believe—” I stop myself. I’m tired of admitting that I can’t believe. I rephrase. “I can’t get over it.”

  “Sure you can, man,” Catman says, slapping me on the back before moving off with Kat. “Build a bridge. You can get over it.”

  * * *

  The rest of the day everybody works together on the barn frame, even Catman. Turns out he’s a whiz at carpentry. Kat’s cats trail him as he moves around the work area. Winnie and Dakota work side by side refinishing an old desk Gram brought over for the new barn office. Kat makes sandwiches for everybody and walks Wes’s dogs so he can help carry lumber.

  “Sa-a-ay!” Uncle Bart exclaims above the sawing and hammering. “Why did the turkey cross the road to work at Smart Bart’s Used Cars?”

  “I don’t know, dear,” Aunt Claire says.

  “Because,” Uncle Bart booms, “it was the chicken’s day off!”

  “Good one, Mr. Coolidge,” Aunt Claire says.

  I know Dad can’t let it go. Even when I was a little kid, I understood the joke wars would go on every time Dad and Uncle Bart got together, especially at Thanksgiving.

  Thanksgiving. I’d just about forgotten that tomorrow is Thanksgiving. How could I do that? If Uncle Bart hadn’t pulled out a turkey joke, I might have forgotten Thanksgiving until I saw the turkey on the table.

  “Why did the police arrest the Thanksgiving turkey?” Dad asks.

  Kat, still holding Kitten, takes time to back Dad up. “I don’t know. Why did the police arrest the turkey?”

  Before Dad can give the punch line, Uncle Bart hollers, “They suspected it of fowl play! Get it? Foul play, fowl play?”

  Dad doesn’t laugh. He glares at his brother for ruining his joke. Then he tries again. “What do you get when you cross a turkey with an octopus?” This time he rushes the answer before somebody beats him to it. “Lots of Thanksgiving drumsticks!”

  “I’ve got one,” Wes announces.

  We’re silent. Dakota shoots Dad a raised-eyebrow glance. Telling jokes isn’t exactly up Wes’s alley, but lately he’s surprised us with a couple. And they haven’t been that bad.

  “Go for it, Wes,” Dakota urges, “even though the joke competition is really tough around here.”

  Winnie laughs. She and I are working on opposite ends of the platform floor.

  “Okay,” Wes begins. “What do you call the feathers on a turkey’s wing?”

  Nobody ventures a guess.

  “Turkey feathers,” he answers.

  Dakota and Winnie crack up. They laugh on and off for the next few minutes.

  “Enough of barn work,” Dad says, getting off his knees. “Carry on! I have a couple of turkeys to prepare for tomorrow.”

  “How many people are we feeding tomorrow?” Dakota asks when Dad’s gone.

  “Hard to tell,” Mom answers. “But they’ll all be hungry. Ben and Roger are bringing their whole families.”

  I didn’t realize we were feeding the whole crew. I like Dad’s buddies, but I’ve seen them eat. Meals are social events—long social events. “Mom, they know they’re coming to work on the barn though, right? We only have tomorrow to get the barn frame up.”

  Mom sighs. “Even firemen have to eat, Hank.”

  We all settle back into the rhythm of work. Nothing but the sounds of sawing, scraping, and hammering can be heard for several minutes.

  I try to figure out how much of the work we have to get done before the barn raising. We have two more sections of the frame to build once we get done with the ones we’re working on now. We’ve been at it night and day, but we still have a long way to go. And we’re running out of time.

  * * *

  After dinner, we all go back to work on the barn. Dad and I are the last two still working several hours after the sun went down. Finally Dad lays down his hammer and rubs his back. “Well, we’ve made a lot of progress today. We should be fine. We can finish in the morning before the guys come. I think we could all use a good night’s sleep.” He groans as he gets up off his knees and brushes sawdust from his pants.

  When I don’t stop hammering, he comes over and puts his hand on my shoulder. “Hank, we’re doing all we can. God will do the rest.”

  I know he wants to say more. He wants me to say more. “Go on. I’ll be right in.”

  He sighs, then heads toward the light of the house.

  When I finally give in to exhaustion, I head inside and go to bed. The lights are out downstairs except for the night-light over the sink. Plates and silverware are stacked on the dining table, along with bowls and dishes we see only on Thanksgiving and Christmas. The dog-and-cat tablecloth has been replaced by a turkey tablecloth.

  I get cleaned up and fall into bed, but I can’t sleep. My windows are open. The air is cool enough, but there’s no breeze. The night is storm-still, with no sounds filtering in from restless birds or other creatures. Then I hear a low rumble in the distance.

  A storm’s coming. The next rumble rattles my windows and gets louder and longer. We’re in for a big one, and it’s moving in fast. If I’d been paying better attention when I was outside, I could have sensed the storm on its way.

  And then what? I couldn’t have done anything about it. Starlight and the rescues in the south pasture at least have the shelter to stand in if it gets bad. Cleopatra and Blackfire have nothing to protect them from the storm. Neither does Nickers.

  Twenty

  A burst of thunder shakes the whole house. I can’t just lie here and do nothing. I pull on my boots and hurry downstairs. The wind has kicked up, howling through the cracks of the house.

  When I step outside, I’m pelted with a barrage of leaves. The temperature’s dropped, and the wind feels edged with ice. Tree branches crack and groan. Behind the screen door, Wes’s dogs bark to get out, then change their minds and quiet down again. The moon and stars have disappeared, as if they’re scared of what’s coming.

  I take off jogging to the south pasture. I have to make sure my horse is all right. I’ve brought along a flashlight, and I shine the beam in front of me. The path is covered with limbs and debris. When I reach Starlight’s pasture, I wave the flashlight back and forth, but the beam’s too weak to see anything. The batteries are low.

  “Starlight?” I call. I climb over the fence and turn off the flashlight, letting my eyes adjust to the tiny bit of moonlight peeking through the clouds. “Starlight?”

  My horse comes trotting from the lean-to. She trots straight to me, as at home in the dark as she is in the light—one of the few benefits of blindness. She snorts and prances, excited by the chilly, electrically charged air and the scent of the storm.

  “Good girl,” I tell her, scratching her high on the withers. She follows me to the lean-to. Blackfire is huddled to one side, with the two rescued horses gathered at the other end.

  I feel a splat on my head, then another big drop of rain on my arm. In an instant, the sky opens fire, shooting pellets of rain. Starlight and I squeeze into the lean-to. Rain and sleet pelt the corrugated roof, crashing and banging against metal. Blackfire whinnies and paws the ground. I try to calm him, but he’s pretty much a one-woman horse. I know Dakota must be sleeping through the storm, or she’d be right here with her horse.

  I
put my arm around Starlight’s neck and press my cheek to hers. She’s damp, and the smell makes me think of rides we’ve had in the mist or gentle rains.

  How long has it been since I’ve ridden my horse? I’ve barely seen her since the fire. “Sorry, Starlight,” I mutter. “I love you, girl.” She probably hasn’t felt my love since the fire, though. She leans into me and rubs her soft muzzle on my neck. “I love you, even though you haven’t felt it,” I tell her.

  The thought rolls around in my head. Love. I don’t think I’ve felt God’s love since the fire. And even before that. I know enough, believe enough, to realize that God’s love for me hasn’t changed any more than mine has for Starlight. But it feels like it has.

  “I need to check on Cleo,” I tell Starlight. “You take care of these guys.” I give her a final hug, then dash out of the shelter and into the torrential downpour. In seconds the icy water has soaked me through to the bones.

  My boots slosh through puddles and mud as I tread across pastures and fields, heading toward the old McCray pasture and Cleo. The rain slants into my face. I have to shut my eyes partway or I can’t see. When I get close, I hear a whinny, then another. Nickers is still in the pasture with Cleo. At least they’re together.

  I reach the pasture and see that the horses aren’t alone. Winnie has both of them on lead ropes. It looks like she’s trying to get them to head to the gate.

  “Winnie!” I holler. Thunder booms at the same instant I shout.

  Winnie looks to the sky, then keeps struggling with the horses.

  I run toward her. She wheels around, startled. “What are you doing?” I scream above the wind.

  “What are you doing?” she screams back.

  Cleo gets nervous when I get too close.

  “Easy, Cleo,” Winnie mutters. The horse calms and quits pulling against the rope. “I want to move both horses to the paddock, where Nickers was before. That okay with you?”

  It’s a good idea. I don’t like Cleo being this far out. And Nickers is good for her. I want to keep them together. “Yeah. Good.” I swipe at the water trickling down my face.

  “You take Cleopatra!” Winnie shouts.

  “No way,” I answer. I know I’ll just make things worse for her. “That horse has given up on me.”

  “Fine!” Winnie snaps. “So you’re giving up on her? Is that it? You’re just quitting and—”

  “Hey! Who are you to tell me I’m giving up?” I’m yelling, and it’s not just the storm that makes the words come out hard and loud. “That’s really funny coming from you!”

  “Me? I’ve been down here every day!” she fires back. “I haven’t quit on that horse!”

  “Well, you’ve quit on all other horses then! You didn’t even get to vet school before you dropped out. I’d call that giving up!” The words come out with a power of their own, and I can tell they cut deep. I don’t even know why I said it. She’s not the problem. I am. “Winnie, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “Take her!” she shouts, holding out Cleopatra’s lead rope to me.

  Cleo paws the ground, splattering Winnie with mud.

  I shake my head. “I’m making her nervous. I better not get close.”

  “That’s the problem with you, Hank!” Winnie shouts. “You need to get close.”

  I reach for Cleo, but she backs away.

  You need to get close. Winnie’s words swirl in the air with the rain and sleet and leaves. They’re dancing around me, battling to get in. I haven’t been close to anything or anyone since the fire. I’ve kept God so far away that He’s had to send the words swirling in the wind to get my attention.

  I reach for Cleo again. She jerks her head away, but I take the rope. “Easy, girl.”

  “Let’s get out of here!” Winnie shouts.

  I nod. I want to get the horses to the paddock. I want to get out of this storm. I want to get my head straight. I want to get close. These thoughts are the nearest I’ve been to prayer in a long time.

  I follow Nickers and Winnie, and Cleo follows me. Twice she tries to get ahead of me. But I circle her, and she’s fine.

  The four of us slip and slide through pastures until we make it to the paddock. Winnie puts Nickers in first, and I follow with Cleo. We shut the gate, and it starts raining harder. I wouldn’t have thought it was possible. Sheets of rain slap me from all sides. I’m shivering with the cold.

  But somehow it’s okay. God has broken through with words that can calm a storm. You need to get close.

  Twenty-One

  Winnie Willis

  Nice, Illinois

  “Come inside, Winnie!” Hank shouts as he walks toward the house.

  The storm rages around us, and I want to be sure Nickers is settled before I leave her. “Not yet!” I shout back, even though I’m freezing. He says something else that’s lost in the wind. But when I glance up, I realize that for the first time since I’ve come to Nice, Hank is looking me straight in the eyes.

  “Go on! I’ll be right behind you!” I wave him on.

  Finally he runs inside.

  Cleo’s already sidled next to the shed, using the side of the building for shelter. Nickers and I huddle together in the sheets of rain. She nuzzles me, and I stroke her behind her ears.

  I’m beyond cold now, beyond wet. This whole night feels like a dream. When I woke up in the middle of the night, I could almost hear Lizzy’s voice in the thunder: “God loves you, Winnie. . . . I’ve been wondering if maybe you forgot.”

  That’s when I got out of bed and headed for Nickers’s pasture. I had to make sure she and Cleo were okay. The whole journey to the pasture before the storm broke, Lizzy’s words played in my head. I picked up speed. My feet hit the ground to the tune of those words. My heart beat to them all the way to the pasture. “God loves you, Winnie.”

  And then Hank showed up. Hank. And his angry words crashed into Lizzy’s, somehow mixing with them and making them stronger.

  “Hank was right,” I whisper into Nickers’s wet, fuzzy ear. “I did give up.”

  When did it happen? When did I give up? My earliest memories are of hanging out with horses and watching my mom bandage forelegs and treat cuts. I’ve always wanted to be a vet.

  So when did I give up on that dream? Was it the same time I forgot “God loves you, Winnie”?

  I blow gently into Nickers’s nostrils. She bobs her head. Water flies from her forelock. I blow again. And then I get her answering blow back.

  “Nickers, I still want to be a vet.”

  The wind howls. Thunder roars.

  I gaze up through slanting rain into the sky and beyond. “God!” I shout. “I still want to be a vet!” It feels good to say it, to finally admit it, to let God in again. Rain covers me, washing away every objection—the application, the money, the lack of a scholarship. I’m not sure how any of it will work out. But God loves me. And that’s the answer.

  I kiss Nickers good night and race into the house. I kick off my boots and socks in the porch. Dripping wet, I tiptoe upstairs to Wes’s room, where Catman is sleeping. “Catman?” I whisper. Then “Catman!” a little louder.

  The door opens, and Wes frowns at me. Rex and Lion try to get out, but Wes shuts the door except for a crack. “It’s night,” he says.

  “Sorry. I have to talk to Catman.”

  The door closes. I don’t know if Wes has gone back to bed or what. I’m about to knock on the door again when it opens.

  Catman stands in the doorway, his hair spread out like a blond cobweb. He rubs his eyes with his fists and squints at me. “Hey, Willis.”

  “Hey, Catman.”

  He comes out into the hall with me, slides to the floor, and pats the floor next to him. We sit side by side, leaning against the wall, listening to rain pound the roof and branches scrape the house.

  “You’re wet,” he observes.

  “And cold,” I admit.

  He puts his arm around my shoulders. We sit like that for several minutes, not talki
ng. It’s one of the things I love about Catman. There’s no such thing as an awkward silence with him.

  Finally my words start coming, and I let them, not taking time to put them in order, just letting them spill like rain between us. “Lizzy wrote me that God loves me and that’s the answer.”

  He nods. “Heavy.”

  “And she thought maybe I forgot that.”

  He nods.

  “And I think maybe she’s right about that.” Again, there’s a long silence. “I want to be a vet.”

  “Right on!” he shouts.

  I put my hand over his mouth so he won’t wake the whole house. “And I’m going to go to Ohio State because they’ve got the pre-vet classes.”

  “All true,” he says, like he never doubted it.

  I lean into him. He smells like soap and rain. “You knew all along, didn’t you?”

  “I believed all along.”

  I hug him, and he hugs me back. And it feels good and right. We just sit there in the hallway, while I tell God how thankful I am. I’m thankful for my horse, my family, my life—I’m going to be a vet!—and my Catman. I’m totally thankful.

  Suddenly I remember what day it is. “Happy Thanksgiving, Catman!”

  “Right on,” he agrees. And he kisses me.

  Note to self: Never forget this moment.

  Twenty-Two

  Hank Coolidge

  Nice, Illinois

  I can’t sleep. I listen to the rain pounding the roof. Branches scrape the windows like they want in.

  I guess I fall asleep because when I open my eyes again, it’s morning—barely. I get dressed and head outside. The scent of slow-cooked turkey fills the house.

  Outside, it’s still dark. A bank of gray clouds shields the horizon. I feel like I’m being drawn outside, but the strings drawing me are pulling at me from every direction. For a minute, I don’t know which way to go—the paddock, the south pasture, the barn.