Horse Heaven

by Jane Smiley

  School would be over for everyone by now, so there was nothing to miss, but Jesse thought that he missed it anyway. What if Mr. Snowdon had forbidden Leo, had simply said, “No, Mr. Harris, I won’t let him go. I can’t let him go.” A showdown, like a movie. But as soon as he thought of it, Jesse knew it was impossible. Leo could do whatever he wanted to with him, and even a man teacher couldn’t stop him. Mr. Snowdon was someone else’s father. You could think of it this way, Jesse thought as they went up the ramp: there had been one chance out of however many to be Leo’s son, and nine chances to be Mr. Snowdon’s son, and he had beat the odds, in a manner of speaking. The car accelerated, and Jesse’s body was pressed against the back of the seat.

  OCTOBER

  44 / AN UNEXPECTED TWIST

  AFTERWARDS, Krista didn’t know what made her go out to the barn. It was cold and damp for October, and she and Pete were about to go to bed. At nine, when she’d checked the horses, everything had been fine. Now it was eleven, and Pete wanted to watch one last thing on CNN, but Krista was tired of listening to the TV. Maia was sleeping peacefully—she checked her on the way out. She had no inkling, no inkling at all—how could that be? The old mare, Wayward, was rolling back and forth in the corner of the pasture, colicking badly. She dialed Sam’s emergency exchange on her cell phone as she ran back into the house, and when she told Pete, he was on his feet in a second, heading out the door and putting on his coat. But they couldn’t leave the baby, could they? She ran back into the house and looked at Maia, then she ran out again, but as soon as she ran out again, she wanted to run back in again.

  The old mare was a sight to behold, on her back like a dog, snaking her head in the wet grass, her legs folded above her, slowly twisting and rolling from one side to the other. She was making a sound deep within herself, a groan like the creaking of her whole body that went on and on. Her belly, which didn’t seem that large when she was standing, spread out over her as she rolled, and Krista found herself paralyzed by the thought of the foal inside, shifting back and forth like that. Several months before, Sam had ultrasounded all the mares and Krista had stared at the ghostly little horses within, their threadlike legs wafting in the amniotic fluid, their upside-down heads and necks waving and floating. It was much stranger than the pictures of Maia had been. She seemed at home in the watery bath, rounded and curled like a fish, but foals did not—their legs were too long, made for running, not swimming. Krista approached the mare from the head and bent down over her, speaking softly. “Hey, Mama! Got a bellyache? Can you get up, sweetheart?”

  The mare noticed them. That was a good sign—when they were really far gone they noticed nothing, or at least that’s what the emergency-vet-care book said about colic. The mare was willing to get up, though. She rolled onto her chest, her legs folded, and let Pete snap on the halter. Then he patted her on the neck, and she got up with a different sort of grunt, not so much a groan. Krista answered the cell phone. Sam was in the neighborhood, on his way, and said not to make the mare walk. Then Krista went back in the house to check on Maia. The mare stood quietly enough next to Pete, with her head down. Pete scratched her ears. Krista came out again, stood for a few minutes, then said, “Maybe I should bring her out here. The baby monitor doesn’t really work this far.”

  “She’s asleep, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “She’s been sleeping through the night for four months—”

  Krista opened her mouth to say something, something irritable, but here came Sam, saving everything, even that, once again. Getting out of his truck, he was already pulling on his vinyl sleeve that went all the way up to his shoulder and greasing it with lubricant. He didn’t have to reach far up the mare’s anus. He said, “Uterine torsion, twisted to the right, clockwise.”

  “What’s that?” said Pete.

  “Well, the whole uterus—foal inside, of course—has flipped over. I can feel the left broad ligament on top and the right broad ligament underneath.”

  “Oh my God,” said Krista. “I’m wondering if I should get Maia—”

  “Well,” said Sam, “I need both of you. There’s a lot we can do, but four or five would be better than three.”

  “She’s fine,” said Pete.

  “Okay,” said Krista, but she felt doubtful. A baby’s loudest screams, it always seemed to her, came when the mother wasn’t there to hear them.

  Sam said, “Got a board, like a two-by-twelve, about twelve feet long?”

  Krista ran and got one, from the stack of boards they kept for fixing fence, and dragged it over. It was dark, and she stumbled several times, but didn’t fall. Sam was giving the mare some shots. He said, “That should take a moment or two.” He sounded rather calm, actually. Krista couldn’t tell if this was because a uterine torsion wasn’t all that serious, or because he was just Sam the vet, professionally serene in every crisis. Then he stood by the mare’s shoulder and gently bent her head toward him. The mare’s legs began to buckle at the knees. He pulled her head a little more toward himself, then pushed her shoulder away. The front went down first, then the back end. She sank onto her sternum, then eased over onto her right side. Her eyes were half open, and Sam lubricated them with something, then tucked a towel around them. The mare’s legs extended. She was now laid out flat. Sam took the board and placed it like a seesaw, with her belly as the fulcrum, one end resting on the grass and the other sticking past her spine about a foot and a half. Then he said to Krista, “Sit on that, honey.”

  “What?”

  “Sit there on the board, right on the mare, about halfway between the spine and the midline. Pete and I are going to roll the old girl over, and your weight is going to keep the baby in place.”

  Krista and Pete exchanged a glance.

  “I wish we had one other person,” said Sam, “to handle her head.”

  “Its midnight,” said Krista. “Margaret Lerner might be up, but she—”

  Sam stared at her for a moment, then said, “I think I can do it. Get me some more towels.” Krista, who was reluctant to sit on the mares belly to begin with, ran for them. Too soon, she was back. He built up a little stack of them under Wayward’s head, lifting her nose in the direction she would be going. He said, “Don’t make any noise. We don’t want her to wake up.”

  “Now?” said Krista.

  “Now,” said Sam.

  Krista and Pete exchanged another glance, but she sat down on the board. She could feel the mare’s belly give underneath her weight. Then Pete and Sam each went to a set of legs, Sam in front, where he could monitor the head, Pete behind. They began slowly to lift. Krista sat still, trying not to think of the pressure of her weight on the foal inside. They paused and Sam did something with the head, then they resumed lifting the mare’s feet and knees. Krista sat. They lifted. Krista sat. They lifted, heaving, groaning, breathing hard. The mare showed no distress, breathed, in and out, softly. She was on her back. The two men skittered sideways, grunting, Sam stepping carefully over her head and neck, and then they lowered the legs, bit by bit. “Jeez,” said Pete. Sam switched the stack of towels to the other side just before the mare’s hooves came down on the damp grass, and she was facing the other direction. Sam and Pete paused to catch their breath. “Jeez,” said Pete, again, panting. “Heavy load.” Krista stood up.

  “Four or five hundred pounds apiece,” said Sam, who was also panting. They stared at each other, catching their breath. Then Sam got his rubber sleeve on again, and knelt down behind the mare and inserted his arm. He was shaking his head as he pulled it out. He said, “Still twisted. Let’s try again.”

  They lifted off the board, and, with Krista holding the head, they rolled the mare back over.

  The second time was easier. Everyone knew what to do, and did it. Whereas the first time it had seemed to Krista that she was sitting on the board for hours on end, the second time went quickly, possibly because she dreaded what Sam would say when he palpated the mare again. He said what she dreaded, �
�Nope.” Then, “Once more.”

  They did it once more. Now the time was scudding by to Krista, because she knew what the end would be—something horrible, like death.

  When Krista stood up this time, she closed her eyes and waited for that to come up.

  Instead, Sam said, “She’s waking up. That’s good. We’re going to try one more thing.” He cleared his throat and put his hands in his pockets, waiting. Pete said, “Maybe one of us should check on the baby.”

  Krista nearly jumped out of her skin. She had forgotten about Maia, another thing to be ashamed of. What if—She ran for the house, where the baby slept on, quiet, revealing nothing. Krista bent down in the dim light of the nightlight and checked her cheeks for drying tears. Nothing.

  By the time she got outside again, the mare was lifting her head. Krista removed the towel from around her eyes, and saw that she was wide awake now. Then the old girl got up, with a grunt, and braced herself, all four legs spread a little wide. She shook herself. She seemed perfectly alive. Krista couldn’t help imagining what that would be like, having your uterus and baby simply turn 180 degrees to the right. She had never heard of its happening in a woman, though. Thank God for that.

  She said, “Does this, uh, happen more with older mares or anything?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. The problem with horses and big dogs is that everything is pretty loose in there. Gets to rolling around.”

  Pete said, “I thought maybe I missed some signs at feeding time.”

  “She was probably totally fine at feeding time. You know, some things in life, you see them coming. Other things pop out of nowhere. A hole opens up right where you’re standing, and something unexpected is present.” He shook his head, and said, “Let’s lead this mare over into the light, here, and then rig up something, some kind of light source. I want to be really able to see what I’m doing.”

  It took about ten minutes to find a couple of utility lights. By that time, the mare was fully awake and looking around for some hay, still full enough of painkillers not to worry about the potential inner catastrophe. But Krista was worried. She was worried that this easy moment right now would be the last easy one for a long time, that she would look back at this very moment and remember it so clearly as the peak she might never climb again, if the mare died, and the foal died, and there were bodies to get rid of and grief and regret and another chance to say, “Well, that’s horses.” She imagined the foal as a corpse, known and recognized only for a moment. Himself was a chestnut; the mare was a bay. All those Nearco-Nasrullah-Bold Ruler-line horses were bay or brown, so the foal would be one or the other, no doubt. But maybe Himself would have thrown a bit of color, a little star or a blaze, a white sock or two. You never knew. Krista imagined herself looking at the baby—so little at this stage, maybe the size of a large rabbit, lying there in a little dark bundle, a white marking standing out on his forehead like a moon.

  “Okay,” said Sam. “You’ve got a set of stocks in the stallion barn, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  Let’s go.

  They went. The only horse in there now was Himself, and when they turned on the lights, he blinked. When they led the mare in he came fully alert and began to give deep, impassioned snorts. Pete closed the top door to his stall, but they could see his nose over it, trying to get a whiff or a look or something. “Stand her in the stocks there, then rig these two lights up so that they shine right on her hip.” He went out to his truck and returned in a clean white coverall and surgical gloves. He had four syringes in his hand and a mask around his neck. The mare entered the stocks with perfect willingness, clop clop, and now she stood there, looking over toward Himself. Now Sam looked at Krista and said, “Krista, do you want to call the owner and tell him I’m about to do a three-thousand-dollar operation on her?”

  “I should. Can the foal be saved otherwise? Or the mare?”

  “Nope.”

  Krista closed her eyes. If he balks, she thought, we’ll pay somehow. She felt a profound rush of financial vertigo. Then she said, “Do it.”

  “You’re on, sweetie. Don’t worry.”

  He gave the mare the injections, two in the neck and two in the spinal column. He said, “Ever heard of an epidural?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, she just had something like that. I want her wide awake and standing up, but not feeling anything. Now watch her spine.”

  Krista watched. After a few moments, it got a curve in it, almost a wave, toward the right. “See that?” said Sam. “All the nerves are blocked on this left side, but not on the right. That’s what causes that effect. It’s not permanent and it doesn’t hurt. Ready?”

  “For what?”

  “For something you may never see again.”

  “I’m ready.”

  Sam took his clippers out of his pocket and shaved the mare’s side, from the hip forward, then scrubbed it three times with three different scrubbing sponges. Then he stepped back, looked for a moment, and stepped forward. Now he produced a scalpel and, in one fairly quick motion, cut a vertical incision into the mare’s side, maybe eight or ten inches long, exerting some effort to get through the grid of muscles as well as the skin. The incision opened up, but didn’t gape. Not much blood came out. Krista stared. Inside, revealed by the lights, was the buff-colored mass of the uterus, swollen and glistening. “There we are,” said Sam. “Take a look.” Krista took a look, and Pete came around and took a look, too. Actually, Krista expected to see more, maybe the outline of a hoof or a nose. Still, it was intimidating to think that only one membrane, like the membrane of a balloon, separated the foal from the world.

  Now Sam had his long rubber sleeves on again, on both his arms this time. Once again, he said “Ready?” But it seemed as though he was saying this to himself more than to her. He faced front, bent down against the horizontal bar of the stocks, and reached the nearest arm into the incision, carefully but firmly. With his other hand, he grabbed the bar of the stocks and balanced himself. He muttered, “Got it.”

  “Got what?”

  “The, uh—” He was concentrating. Now he leaned against the side of the mare, and his shoulder seemed to Krista to press in an alarming way into the incision. “The, uh, the horn of the uterus. Okay, baby, easy does it.” There was a pause. Krista could see the cords of his neck stand out, and what had not looked like a lot of blood before looked like quite a lot as it spread around his collar and over his white front. He bit his lip. He said, “There’s the ligament. Oh, ouch, baby. No wonder that hurts, Mama. Good girl, stand still.” The mare seemed utterly indifferent to what was happening to her. She didn’t even look around. Pete was stroking her neck on the other side, crooning into her ear, but Krista could only watch Sam. Now Sam said, “Okay, I’ve got something.”

  “What?” said Krista.

  “Oh, I’ve got some part of the foal. Haunch, maybe. That’s what I like to get.”

  The mare began to shift from side to side slightly, in a rhythm, and Krista realized that Sam was rocking her, rocking her uterus back and forth, the way you rock a car back and forth that has gotten stuck on ice. She said, “Omigod.” But quickly, so as not to break his concentration. Now she couldn’t watch the mare’s flank, so she watched Sam’s face instead. His eyes were wide and lips were pursed with the effort of exerting strength and kindness at the same time. The mare rocked. Sam’s arm moved back and forth. Sam rocked. Krista wanted to moan, it was taking so long. She glanced at Pete, but he had leaned his head against the mare’s, and the two of them seemed to be in a humming trance, with Pete mumbling, “You’re all right, honey. You’re all right, baby. Good girl, good girl, good girl.”

  Sam crooned, “Come on, my love, come on, my darling,” his voice pressed out with the effort, but gentle, too.

  Suddenly, the vet pulled one harder stroke. Then his face relaxed into a smile, and he stood up, withdrawing himself from the incision. “There we go,” he said. “Up and over.”

  “You’re k
idding,” said Krista.

  “Nope. She’s fine. The ligaments are good, no tears that I can feel, and the uterine wall seems to be intact, and the foal is moving around in there normally, though we’ll ultrasound him tomorrow or the next day just to be sure. Whew!” He stretched his arms above his head and rolled his shoulders, then closed his eyes and twisted his head and neck from side to side. “The hardest thing about this is trying to move that weight with your arm extended. Between the foal and the fluids and all, it must be fifty pounds. If you could just get in there with both arms. But you can’t do that. Well, hot dog. Good one. Better sew this mama up. What time is it?”

  “After two,” said Pete, yawning. Then he handed Krista the leadrope. “I’ll check on Maia.”

  She said, “You should go to bed.”

  He nodded. He had work in the morning, and anyway, it was better for one of them to be in the house. She wondered if she would remember to get a better baby-monitor in the morning, or whether everything else would come up and overwhelm that thought, until the next time she was going to wish she had it. Sam was now taking neat little stitches. The mare seemed unconcerned still. Sam said, “I haven’t seen one of these since vet school.”

  “Of course it would be here. Does it have to be a straw that breaks the camel’s back, or can it just be your usual truckload of large boulders?”

  “Big established farms have emergencies, too, Krista.”

  He didn’t sound unkind. In fact, he sounded deeply kind, but embarrassment seared her anyway, and she refrained from further whining. It was three-thirty by the time he drove away.

  A half-hour later, she checked on Maia and finally got to bed. Actually, she thought, if you watched your baby sleeping through the night moment by moment instead of obliviously sleeping though the night yourself, it was all that much more amazing. Already, she could hardly remember what she had seen. What Sam had done seemed so unbelievable that her memory denied it, turned off the lights that lit up the scenes one by one, so that the normal darkness of an October evening enclosed it, shrank around it, finally covered it over. Pete was snoring, a comforting sound in its way. She closed her eyes.