Remember My Beauties

by Lynne Hugo

  “You think I’m here now ’cause I won the lottery? Dragged in on my ass and elbows, man. Figured the folks for some dough, but the old man’s”—Cal held up a clenched fist—“tightwad would be generous compared to him.” He took a deep slug from the can he held, his head tipped back, eyes closed.

  “So what’re ya gonna do?” Eddie said after Cal finished swallowing.

  “Dunno.”

  “How much you need?”

  Cal shrugged. “Y’know. Living money, beer money, travel money. A stake to get started again.” He briefly looked at Eddie with a small question on his face.

  “Got nothin’ like that much, man. My kids …” Eddie said, a slight shake to his head. “Rocky—he’s my son—livin’ with us now, too. Already had my girl there.”

  Cal shrugged and pulled a bag of pretzels from the top of the nearest bag of groceries. His hair was greasy, in separate hanks against his neck from the heat, and his skin shone with sweat and oil. In the light from the kitchen door, Eddie could see where Cal and Jewel resembled each other—Jewel would doubtless slap him upside the head were he to say it to her—and it was an echo of Louetta’s family height, the heft of her bones more than weight. Jewel had her mother’s round blue eyes, too, but Cal’s were more like the indeterminate color of dusk. Eddie didn’t see Hack in Cal, though he did in his Jewel, in the pronounced high forehead and cheekbones that made her whole face look horsey. These thoughts wove through his head, braiding with another: he was conspiring with the enemy. He figured, hey, you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do to take care of your kids. That’s always the right thing. He was sure that’s what his mother would say. His concern was whether he could get away with it.

  “Jewel took the classes, tests, all that crap, got the certification and home care license. She could’ve worked more hours here at the house, y’know, agency’s authorized fifteen more, so she could bill more hours, but no way, not with her regular job,” Eddie said.

  “So, shit. And your point? She’s here zero hours now. Place is fallin’ apart and me about to blow my own brains out. Won’t have to call Jewel t’ do it for me. Folks’ll end up in a nursing home in another week when some agency inspector shows up and goes to court about it, and there goes every last cent with ’em.”

  Eddie had no idea if Cal knew what he was talking about, but he couldn’t immediately discount what his brother-in-law was saying, which made his head hurt. His first thought had been to get Cal to move on; he figured that once Cal was gone, Jewel would soften up, and the agency would give her the job back, thrilled not to be teeing up new workers for Louetta to drive out. Once Louetta and Hack were in a nursing home, though, he doubted they’d ever come back out. It just didn’t work that way, sure never had in his family. He felt a load of guilt about that, even if it was probably where Louetta and Hack belonged. Seeing what Jewel did for her parents made him question what he’d done for his. They’d died before he knew Jewel. She kept hers in their own house, not that they ever said anything but kiss my ass and we’re out of toilet paper in gratitude. It occurred to him for a moment to wonder who would take care of him if he was crippled, blind, old, if not Jewel. Chassie? She wasn’t looking like a great candidate.

  Eddie paced back and forth uneasily. “Why don’t you put this stuff away?” he said impatiently. “A bunch of it needs to be in the fridge.” Jewel would make sure he had a slow, pain-wracked death, he thought. Then she’d divorce him and take the house. On the other hand, he didn’t see any other options, and he had his kids to think about.

  “Listen, man. Jewel and me, we count on her money from the agency for the house payment. Got my daughter with us, and now my son movin’ in, too.”

  “So you said.”

  “Can’t do without the money.”

  “She’s your wife.”

  “Can’t make her do it. Already tried to get her to. You need cash. I gotta have the income. What if you call the agency, tell ’em you’re Hack, tell ’em Jewel’s back on the job. She’s got the certification, all that crap, like I told you. They don’t send inspectors after her. You take care of stuff here. I’ll help, I’ll bring you food. When they got appointments or whatever, I’ll take ’em. When Jewel comes to her senses, then she and I won’t have lost the house, she won’t have lost the job, Hack and Louetta won’t be in the nursing home, you’ll have enough money to leave, whatever. We’ll split the check.”

  Cal rolled his eyes. “Carley was right.”

  “What?”

  “You are a moron.”

  Eddie bristled at Cal, even as he filed away what Carley had called him. “Fine. What’s your plan?” His armpits were wet, his face sticky, and he was aggravated because Cal stood there drinking beer, eating pretzels, and making no move to unload the groceries. The bottom of one of the bags was wet now, the edge of something poking a hole in it. Eddie started pulling packaged food out: bread, macaroni and cheese for the microwave, peanut butter, seedless strawberry jelly, salami, iceberg lettuce, baby carrots, potato chips, chicken pot pies, apples, bananas, Popsicles. “I don’t know where this stuff goes, man.”

  “And I do? I don’t have a plan. I’m just not dumb enough to think we could pull this off. Jewel may be a cow, but she’s not stupid. What about the agency? I mean, she’s gotta turn in records n’ stuff like that. You’re gonna end up busted for fraud, man. Been there, done that when I was like twenty-three, and I had a hell of a better con going, too.”

  Eddie guessed he was supposed to punch Cal in the mouth for calling Jewel a cow. He spoke slowly, devising. “We only have to pull it off until you have enough money to move on. She’ll likely come back then. Or until she cools down and gets worried enough about the horses and the old people. Either way, it’s gonna happen. Could be a while, though. I dunno. Never saw her like this before. I’ll go through her stuff at home.” He was gathering momentum, convincing himself to convince Cal. “Yeah, she’s got forms to fill out, just check marks. Easy stuff, I can do it. And I’m the one who turns in her forms and time sheet anyway, ’cause I pick up her check at the county office. They got her signature on file so I can, ’cause I get outta work before the bank closes. Agency office people see me all the time. They’re used to me, nothin’ new about that.” He paused and put his palms up flat in the air. “It’s all we got.”

  Cal mused for several minutes while Eddie kept silent. At different times, they finished their beers, and when Cal emptied his, he got out two more. Without asking he handed Eddie one, and without comment Eddie took it.

  “I ain’t doin’ this by myself,” Cal said, breaking the silence. He started emptying the bags that rested on the kitchen table and righting the groceries that had spilled from the torn bag. “Come on, man. I don’t know where this shit goes, either. And I’m goin’ on record that I do believe you’re gonna go down. Count on me to say I had no idea what you was pullin’. I was just here tryin’ to help out, like a good son.”

  “Just don’t call my house. Ever. I’ve got a cell phone.” Eddie tore off a piece of brown bag and rooted through the unwashed dishes and groceries on the counters for something to write with.

  Carley stuck out her lower lip to blow her hair back, more to indicate disgust than to cool her face. Another goddamn therapy group. Harder to completely tune out than the Drug and Alcohol Awareness group, in which patients were expected to just listen. This had to be the biggest waste of time since high school and the people sitting in this stupid circle the biggest losers. How do you feel, Carla? What’s your responsibility in this, Carla? I think you’re making reservations right now, Carla. You’re planning where and how you can get high. Listen up, Carla: Roland is your process, you realize, just as much as what he supplies, Carla. What better plan can you make for your life, Carla? You can do something different now, Carla. How do you feel about what Heather observed about your possible delusions, Carla? One more of their pick-pick-pick questions and she’d blow. She couldn’t breathe without someone up her ass about it. Her
social worker accused her of not investing in her recovery. If that chick only knew.

  “You with us, Carla? I mean here, in the room? What do you want to say on that subject? Have you started your letter?” Matilda said. Matilda wasn’t her name, which Carley regularly let herself forget. The aide was fat and very black with enormous boobs and just looked like someone who should be named Matilda. Carley used group time to picture Matilda naked on top of some short white guy, a lawyer probably, the guy having made a serious strategic sexual positioning error and now being crushed to death.

  “Uh, nothing right now,” Carley said. Too late.

  “What was the subject, Carla?”

  “I’m, uh, sorry. I’m not sure. My tooth is really hurting. I have a dentist appointment this afternoon.”

  “You went to the dentist a couple of days ago.”

  “It’s abscessed. He’s doing a … root canal, then I get a crown thing. It’ll take like three or four appointments.”

  “You didn’t bring us a note about antibiotics.”

  “I’m not here court-ordered. I take them at home.”

  “Don’t play me, Carla. Do you want recovery, or don’t you?” They weren’t supposed to confront individuals in group, but Matilda exempted herself from that rule, and Annie Brooks, the blond social worker who professionally outranked her, let her get away with it, possibly because her whole head would have fit into one of Matilda’s bra cups.

  Carley almost put her head down but saved herself by keeping it up. “Yes.”

  Matilda kept at her like a woodpecker. “Then follow the rules. Don’t give up. Be here. Be at meetings. Don’t keep those reservations you’re making.”

  “I’m not. I just have to go to the dentist. I’ll be back for the last group.” She’d need to make sure she wasn’t late for that, or she’d face another round of interrogation and exhortation.

  Matilda gave her a hard narrow-eyed stare, but Carley met it.

  Pamela Goodie-Goodie, who must have been in treatment for seventeen years, stuck her two cents in from across the circle. “Could the dentist take you after four-thirty?” Carley wanted to do bodily damage to her, sticklike, scarred-up, and as earnest as a poster announcing, I’m here to help with your recovery ’cause if we don’t help each other, none of us will get well. A few people nodded in agreement, but the ones Carley appreciated were in a different zip code, sprawled with their butts ready to slide off the edges of their chairs and feet emerging like tree roots from under the tables that formed a large, conference-like oblong in the room. Unlike Pamela Goodie-Goodie, they had baseball caps pulled low over their eyes. It made a certain sense; the lights were interrogation-room brightness. A white dry-erase board in the front was smeared with red marker notes from an earlier Alcohol Awareness class, and until now Carley had been entertaining herself by rearranging what words were still legible into dirty sentences.

  “No, Pamela, the dentist closes early. He’s like, old.” Carley wanted to puke.

  “Let’s remember to stick to I statements,” Annie the social worker said, and for a fleeting moment, Carley liked her. Her eyes were green, and she had long legs and fingers. No piercings, not even her ears, and her clothes were pretty colors that made Carley sad for herself. “Carla, I hope your tooth feels better soon,” she added. “I want to emphasize part of what Donna just said. Remember what you’ve learned about how long withdrawal takes and be strong. If you’ve made a reservation, don’t keep it. Come to group and be honest. All right, let’s move on. Does anyone have a letter ready that they’re willing to read to the group?”

  The letters were what they were supposed to write to their process, the treatment buzzword for whatever addicts use that’s become the best friend/lover, whatever is destroying their family, their credit, their health, their sanity and landing them in jail to boot. They kept talking about how sometimes the process is wet like alcohol, and sometimes it’s dry like crack. For some people it’s both, and for some it includes a person. (“Like Roland,” Matilda shot at Carley. “Take your blinders off.” Annie finally shot Matilda a look that said shut up.) No matter, in every class and every stinking group, they all kept saying You have to say good-bye and you have to grieve. That’s what the letters were for.

  What a crock.

  I have to see my horses. I’d already put in for a half day of vacation time today. Mama and Daddy have eye doctor appointments; I know because I made the appointments myself, well before Cal came back to open old graves and new ones. The agency worker will have to take them, and I’m betting that Cal will take the chance to ride into town to buy booze and score whatever else he can. I didn’t tell Helen in personnel to cancel my time off, though. At lunchtime, I’ll use the bathroom here to change into jeans and boots and drive out past Mama and Daddy’s house. If it looks as empty as it should at two o’clock, I’ll park a quarter mile down the road, walk the fence line, and go through the back pasture gate. No one’s been standing behind the fence banging on a grain bucket to call them in, loving them by hand with carrots and apples and lumps of sugar hidden in a pocket, no one brushing them down, using a hoof pick, checking eyes and ears, applying fly repellent. No one’s been working them out, crooning Good boy, good girl, good, good, so good. Surely they miss me.

  I never thought it would come to this. I thought it would hurt Daddy so much not to have me take him out to his beauties he would make Cal leave. I thought Mama would never put up with agency people. Now, instead, I have lost what I love and I’m going to have to deal with winter, when the horses can’t fend for themselves, contently pastured. September is scorching in Kentucky, and it can fool you into thinking summer lasts, but I remember.

  Everything I really want is in the barn, but an old bridle that was in the trunk of my car is looped over my shoulder, and I’ve got a plastic grocery bag with eight carrots and four apples. Sugar cubes in my pockets. I bought a new halter and lead rope, curry brush and hoof pick at the tack store, and they’re in a second bag with a new bottle of fly repellent that’s supposed to last fourteen days, though I know that’s unlikely. I wish I could put fly masks on them now, but it would be a dead giveaway that I was here.

  The sun is a bare lightbulb in the sky. I’m shocked at how dry the pasture is, tousled and weedy, though I drive by miles of pasture every day. It’s different when your boots are on it and you feel the brown grass crack underfoot, too much dust in the air. The ponds must be low, though I know the horses have enough water. There! My heart runs high when I spot them, desultory in the heat, along the far line where the fence holds back the woods. They’re in a ragged circle in the shade, tails at work: Moonbeam swishing flies off Red’s face, Spice relying on Red’s tail and protecting Moonie’s face and withers. Charyzma is just approaching them, returning from the bigger pond where there’s also a three-sided run-in shelter; sometimes she likes that shade, but the others rarely use it for that. They like the trees better, it seems. Still, when it storms, it’s always comforted me to know they’ve got it.

  I bang the shanks of my wedding rings on the hard plastic bottle of fly repellent, but I’m too far away, and it doesn’t carry but Spice’s head alerts, and his ears flick forward. The sun is searing the back of my neck and the tops of my shoulders, making my underarms sticky as liniment and putting sweat between my breasts. The bags rustle against my thigh. I think I will die in these jeans and boots, but I wanted to ride so badly that I wore them against all reason. It’s too hot to give any of them a good workout; I can’t wipe them down properly afterward. If I left them sweaty it would dry in a hard white crusty mess.

  On the horizon, roadside trees and the top two-thirds of the barn impose themselves next to the roofline of my parents’ house. My mind’s eye has Carley’s car still in the drive where we left it in that terrible dusk. Even if people were in the house, I think they’d need binoculars to see me from this distance, and I’m keeping to the natural declivities, not that they’re great or deep. I rarely spot the horses in th
e back pasture from the kitchen steps. There are small rises in the land, and the larger pond, the one they gravitate to, is in a lowlying area. I’m afraid to shout to the horses, which is ridiculous, but I trudge on to get within certain earshot.

  All the horses’ heads are up now, ears inclined toward me. “Spice, Moonie, come on! Get up here, Red! Get your apples. Charyzma! Come on, you beauties!” I hold up an apple and break into tears.

  Spice knows it’s me. He breaks away from the circle and jogs. Charyzma is crowding him for the lead, and usually he yields but not today. Red’s coming from the other side, too. Moonie considers from where she is, then catches right up.

  I’m crying, my arms around Spice’s neck, kissing him. “My sweet boy, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I love you.” I try to caress each one as they crowd me for the apples and carrots. Now Spice is at my back pocket, nosing for sugar. Flies circle all their faces, and I swipe at them ineffectually.

  Like the Pied Piper, I lead them back across the field to the shady fence line by the woods, talking to them steadily: “How have you been? I’ve missed you so much! Did you know that? Did you miss me, too?” as if we’re carrying on a conversation and I’ll get a sentient answer. Spice pauses to urinate, and I stop the procession to wait for him. I can put the halter on one at a time, clean hooves, check for sores, brush, and wipe them down with repellent. I can talk and sing and love. Each will keep his or her ears toward me, listening. Each will stand through every attention I give and will not turn away. I’ll slip the bridle on each and use the fence for a leg up. Fifteen minutes for each of a light bareback workout: walk, trot, canter, figure eights with some flying lead changes. Each must be cooled down in a walk and then brushed again to make sure I’m not leaving any sweat. Then I’ll have to go. It won’t be enough. Not for them and not for me.