Hank & Chloe

by Jo-Ann Mapson

  “Mother of God, that view’s about as ugly as a goat’s ass.” Gabe said, pointing his cigarette down toward the flashing city lights—pink, purple, lemon yellow, green. “I can’t remember when I’ve last been in pitch blackness. They’ll be putting a K Mart up here next.”

  She slapped his face. “I could have broken my neck coming up that cliff. Why didn’t you wait for me?”

  He shrugged off the slap. “I figured taking the hard way might cause you to start caring about your life again.”

  She balled up her fist and sent it toward his smart mouth; he caught it easily and held her at the wrist.

  “You go on and beat the living shit from me if that’s what it takes to make you feel better. You can hit on me till the sun comes up. Here, I’m letting go now. Start hitting.”

  She let her hands drop. Gabe pulled her close and sat them both down against that rock while the horses nickered nervously at her noise. He stroked her damp hair back from her face and waited for the tears to empty.

  An hour later, neither she nor Gabe had a dry sleeve left to wipe her face on.

  “You just save it all up for a lifetime and then cry one time, is that the plan?”

  She pulled away from the strong arms. “I’m going to be fine now.”

  Gabe gave her thigh a pat. “Good. You had me worried.”

  “Gabe? Why don’t we take off our clothes and make each other happy? We’ve done it before—we sure know how.”

  She heard his sharp intake of breath—he was tempted. There was nothing like the practiced hands of Gabe Hubbard for inducing temporary amnesia. He could make the body sing. He knew her. She knew him. It wouldn’t have to mean anything more than that. The gaping exit wound left by Ab needed a long bridge of bandages to stretch across it, and this could be the first one. He nuzzled her neck, kissed her mouth open, undid her shirt buttons clear down to her navel, and stroked a breast, groaning when she arched her upper body to meet his hands. But he stopped her hand when it slipped inside the waistband of his jeans. She’d assumed right—no underwear—just the furry slate of his belly.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I can’t.”

  “You’ve been after me for a year. Why not now, when I need it?”

  “It just isn’t right, Chloe. Someday you and I have got to face the facts.”

  “But we’re great together.” She wove the tip of her tongue between his fingers. “We fit like dovetailed cedar, you always said.”

  “Yeah, we did. But there’s a few more pieces to consider now. This professor, for instance.”

  “Don’t talk—just be here with me now.”

  He tucked her breast back into its bra cup and pulled the two halves of her shirt together.

  “Please. I’m begging now.”

  He took her face in his hands. “Chloe, Chloe. Tomorrow’s going to be a world of hurt no matter what we do with our genitals tonight. You can feel bad about one thing or you can feel bad about fifty, it’s up to you.”

  She laughed, and the sound came out flinty and bitter. “Don’t tell me the old skirt chaser’s growing a conscience.”

  “Hell, my daughters are growing it for me. Would you believe Cynthia had to fly over to Scottsdale and walk Nancy through an abortion last month? She’s only fourteen, for Christ’s sake. What do these kids think they’re doing, fucking at fourteen?”

  “Same as us, Gabe. Just trying to get through the night.”

  He smiled. “I told you a ride was just what you needed. You go home and saddle up that professor. Send him to the moon. That man loves you big time.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake.”

  “What’s the matter? Doesn’t he like sex?”

  “He likes it.”

  “Thank God.”

  The horses moved urgently through the darkness, flushing rabbits and mice from the trail. They wanted their stalls and routine back. Night rides were for war parties.

  “I know he’s at peace,” Chloe said when they were leaning back in their saddles, coming down the last hill to the stables, “but I have a hard time imagining life without Absalom.”

  “He was your last tie with Fats. That’s got to hurt.”

  “Well, no doubt there’s that to consider. But it’s more. He was my longest steady relationship, you know—like a marriage.”

  “So get yourself another horse.”

  She shook her head no and cleared her throat. “There’s a million horses in California, but there won’t ever be another Absalom.”

  “Not unless you’re doing the training.”

  Now she was quiet.

  “Penny for them, Morgan.”

  “Not worth a penny.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  “You never let up on me, do you?”

  “Only because I love you.”

  She was quiet. Love—that was the problem. Not that she wasn’t capable of returning it, but uncertain as to whether or not she ever wanted to open herself up like that again, to love anything as completely and so recklessly as she had that horse.

  Gabe tossed her car keys over and Chloe caught them in her fingers. “That’s why I’m through fucking you on hillsides, sweetheart.” He swung Casper wide and took the last fifty feet of trail at a hard gallop.

  The sting of fresh tears seared her eyes. She bent forward and laid her head against Billy’s neck, taking a deep breath of hard-worked horseflesh. He didn’t smell the same as Ab—horses each had an individual particular scent—but the smell of any horse was comforting. She gave him a loose rein, and he trotted right up to his stall, whinnying to his buddies, Here I am, I’m home, we made it back, guys.

  Francisco was unsaddling Casper. Gabe’s truck was gone. Kit had gone home with her dad, and the stablehands who lived on the premises were tucked into trailers for the night. She allowed herself one glance back through the breezeway. Down at stall number 72 the blanket was folded neatly over the rails, a corner of it waving like a small tattered flag in the night breeze.

  CHAPTER

  18

  Absalom’s dead.”

  Dragged upward from sleep, Hank slowly became aware that he wasn’t dreaming; it was Chloe on the edge of the bed, the glow from the bathroom light igniting her hair. She was a smeary mess from crown to cast, perfumed with horse, her features chiseled sharp in the semidarkness.

  “What?” He roused to one elbow. All night he’d waited for her to come home to go shop for the dress. Furious, he’d gotten into the Glenfiddich and drunk himself into a slow boil. Around eleven, he quit trying to wait up and went to bed. He’d called the stables countless times and gotten that idiot recording in the phony Western drawl: Sorry we missed ya, pardner! Undoubtedly that meant everyone was out drinking at Cook’s Corner, a local roadhouse Chloe pointed out on one of their drives. She and a bunch of other horse people had ridden down there on Absalom’s twenty-first birthday and bought him a beer. On Sundays the place was a dazzling sheen of motorcycle chrome—the weekend Hell’s Angels again. He’d called there, too, but no one had seen her. Every time he hung up, the phone rang back: the listener, punishing him for using his own phone.

  “He’s dead.”

  He echoed her words. “Dead?”

  She swiped at her eyes. “Gabe thinks it was poisoned feed—supposedly botulism—how come if the sons of bitches suspected this a week ago, they didn’t pull the feed then? How many horses had to die first? Why mine?”

  Hank pushed the covers back, sat up and laid his head against her shoulder, then wrapped his arms around her. He pressed his body against her from behind, one hand pulling away the denim jacket, the other pulling her close. “Shh,” he soothed. “Come here.”

  She stayed stiff in his arms. She did not like to be comforted the way other women seemed to and elbowed him away. “Shit, it’s not your fault.”

  “He was your horse and you loved him. Can’t I be sorry?”

  “Guess I can’t stop you.”

  “He had a good long life.�
�

  “I know that, too.”

  “You’ve been through a mile of shit this year. I don’t know how you manage. Wish you’d let me help.”

  She reached back to stroke his neck. To Hank the gesture felt absent-minded, the reflex of an old woman mired in loss but so used to comforting the move came naturally. The room was quiet, fairly dark, save for the outdoor lighting bleeding through the miniblinds. Chloe often complained that it kept her from sleeping deeply—They have this place lit up like a sentry post at a goddamn prison; how ever do you manage to sleep?—I just do, he’d said, not ever really considering what she meant until this moment. The bedside telephone rang. Neither of them jumped at the noise, they knew it was the listener. It rang seven times, then Chloe picked it up.

  “Whoever the fuck you are, we’re two regular people here, and we work for a living. Give us a break, will you? Call during the daytime hours. Just leave us the night.” She slammed the phone down.

  Hank rubbed his face. “The phone company said it was a bad idea to talk to them. That we shouldn’t anger them.”

  “Oh, fuck the phone company. How much good have they been to us yet?”

  “They said they’d get the tap on next week.”

  “By next week we’re liable to have murdered each other.”

  She got up and went to the bathroom, pulling the door shut behind her. Hank heard the water running, stop, then imagined she was stripped down, washing those parts of her body she could reach, swiping at others, her bathing still jerry-rigged due to the cast. The arrest, the dog, and now her horse. Why didn’t she trust him? Should he offer to buy her a new horse? Not right away, certainly. How much could they cost? For a simple woman she was getting to be rather expensive. He exhaled into his palm, turned, then lay back down in the bed. First he would buy her a dress, and they would have a day in court.

  “This is a great dress for somebody’s Aunt Gladys,” she said. “Why can’t we go to a thrift shop and get me a disposable dress? It’s not like I’d be wearing it more than one time. I’m not exactly a dress type of person.”

  “So I’ve noticed.”

  She gave him a pleading look: Can we get out of here? But he was definite. If it took all day, he would find her the dress that would tip the entire courtroom in her favor.

  All the department stores met with Chloe’s indignant smirk. Look at these prices! One by one, they were summarily dismissed. Hank nodded, steered her onto the successive doorways without comment. Then they found a small dress shop with a saddle in the display window—southwestern hype was seemed to be at an all-time high—Chloe stopped to look the saddle over.

  “That’s a nice saddle. Looks hand-tooled. I’d buy it if they were selling.”

  Hank looked at the saddle. It seemed to be in fairly decent shape, it didn’t have a great deal of silver on it, but what there was was polished to a high sheen. “Why don’t we go inside?”

  “I’m tired of shopping.”

  “You can ask about the saddle I’ll look at the dresses.” He could tell her leg was aching; she had that pinched mouth, but she wouldn’t so much as reach for a Tylenol. Eventually she’d cave in—he’d wait her out.

  “Last one.”

  He made the rounds of the racks with the salesclerk while Chloe chatted up the manager.

  “What did you have in mind?” the clerk wanted to know.

  He fingered the dresses in front of him. “Something conservative, with a fairly short skirt.” He blushed. “That didn’t come out right. She’s not an easy woman to dress.” He stammered and opened his hands. “Help me out here. I’m drowning.”

  The girl had a tattoo of an Indian chief on her shoulder. She laughed. “If it were up to men to dress us, which thank God it isn’t, we’d all be wearing Laura Ashley high-collared dresses with Frederick’s of Hollywood’s nasties underneath. You guys think we don’t have your numbers, but we do.”

  She started pulling hangers from various racks. Hank stood by the scarf rack, astonished at the price tags, wondering what one did with a ninety-dollar scarf nowadays.

  The clerk returned with two outfits—a navy suit with white piping in a western cut, made fancy by the ruffled jacket hem. He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Give it a chance. See it on her first.”

  The other dress was dusty pink, with tea-colored lace running up and down the front. It had a dropped waist and hung on the wire hanger as if it were so much sacking. Like some turn-of-the-century prairie woman’s Sunday best, the dress had a timeless charm to it. Hank fingered the lace. The clerk smiled. He knew if Chloe put that dress on it would transform her. He also knew she would have to be talked into it. He cleared his throat.

  “I know,” the salesgirl said. “Like it was made for her.”

  “Still, it’s not exactly right for the occasion.”

  “Let me just set it aside so you can think about it.”

  She knew her business better than a bait-and-switch used-car salesman. He knew he would buy the dress, regardless of Chloe’s yammering.

  The blue suit performed its job nicely She looked sedate but trim, the ruffle met the tapering skirt which proclaimed Oh! Poor Me! at precisely the top of the cast. Add the crutches and Marvin Mitchelson couldn’t have put her together any better. Dodge would cackle with approval. Hank didn’t listen to any of Chloe’s protestations—price and practicality be damned—he went ahead and bought her a small white purse and shoes to go with the suit. He bought the pink dress, too, even after she refused to try it on, and sighed when Chloe closed a deal on the window-display saddle.

  “It’s a perfectly fine saddle,” she said. “I have an old show saddle with a broken tree that would look even better in her window. I can use hers, she can use mine. It’s not about money. It’s barter, Hank, plain and simple.”

  “And here I stand with my silly toy dollars. Do I get to buy us lunch?”

  She took his arm and leaned her shoulder into his. “Two dresses, a purse I’ll never use, one shoe I can’t wear, and you won’t drive home to make sandwiches.”

  He ordered antipasto and an artichoke-and-prosciutto pizza from the outdoor Italian place. The sun was at their backs, pleasantly warm as it filtered through the tall glass windows. Chloe drank water; he allowed himself a glass of red wine and let the muddy darkness of last night slide from his tongue.

  Chloe gave him a look. “What if we just leave town right this minute?”

  “Where are we going to go?”

  “You’re the one with the atlas in his bookshelf. How about Europe?”

  He played along. “Where would we go first?”

  “I’d like to see Vienna.”

  “Vienna? That’s interesting. Most people want the British Isles the first time around. The security of the language and all that.”

  “Are you kidding? The Spanish Riding School—seeing the Lippizaners perform the airs above the ground?”

  “Everyone in your life comes second behind those horses, don’t they?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Will you get another horse?”

  She tore off a piece of crust and held it between her fingers. “Eventually, probably. When I find the right one. Gabe says I should start with a yearling, train it all the way up myself, but I don’t know. That takes a lot of time, a real commitment. I’ll have to see.”

  “You’re so calm.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He waved a hand. He didn’t want to say the name of her horse aloud. “Your losses.”

  She made a steeple with two hands and rested her chin on top of it. “They’re here, all right, burning inside me like little lumps of coal. But I learned a long time ago that it won’t bring anybody back if I kneel down and make a religion out of grief.”

  She was quiet for a few moments, the smile fading slowly from her face. The fountain nearby spilled its perfect columns of chlorinated water. Ferns grew green and lush in the nearby marble planter. Hank said, “Have you ever th
ought about looking for your parents?”

  “Have you been talking to Kit?”

  “Not really.”

  “Good. She’s young and full of ideas about a fairy-tale ending around the corner, waiting on me to stumble into it. No, I haven’t. Why should I feel beholden to the accident of growing in some woman’s womb because she got unlucky? You tell me.”

  He reached across the table and took her hand, stroking the palm lightly. “I’d say your conception was extraordinarily lucky for me.”

  She studied her plate for a few minutes, then looked up into his face. Her brown eyes were wet, threatening to shred her tough exterior. “Hank, we’re in a public place. Quit trying to get laid.”

  It was no big thing for him to dress in a suit and tie, but he marveled at the change in Chloe. She had her hair tucked up in a knot at the back of her head, and was yanking at her necklace. “I hate pearls.”

  “No one’s going to know they’re imitation.”

  “I don’t care if they’re real, they just feel like they’re choking me. You shouldn’t have bought them.”

  “Hush. I think I can afford twenty dollars for fake pearls. You look terrific. Is there any way I can get you in a dress again without involving the legal system?”

  She maneuvered the crutches down the wide hallways. “I wouldn’t go betting the farm.”

  “Well, isn’t that just my luck.”

  “I feel like a pig on roller skates using these stupid crutches.”