Tacker

by Sawyer Bennett

  “Would you like something to drink?” she asks, and it takes me a moment to focus in on her question because I’d been so dumbstruck by her beauty.

  It’s not that I haven’t noticed females in the last fifteen months since MJ died.

  I have. It’s not been lost on me that Bishop, Erik, Legend, and Dax have all fallen one by one to beautiful creatures who captured their hearts. I can appreciate a woman’s form and face just as much as the next man, but that’s where my interest ends.

  It’s still MJ I think of at night before I close my eyes.

  “You still have an accent,” I remark off-handedly, remembering the tidbit on the website that said she had been born in Albania. “But it’s very faint.”

  In the few words I’ve heard her speak, it’s obvious she has a slightly different intonation and she rolls her R’s just a little. It’s hardly noticeable and yet, I feel like this woman is clearer to me than anyone I’ve met in recent history.

  Weird.

  She smiles. “I was born in Albania, but I’ve been in the U.S. since I was eleven. My accent sometimes comes out when I’m nervous.”

  “Nervous?” I blink in surprise. “What could you have to be nervous about?”

  Her eyes crinkle at the corners. “Taking on a new client is a great responsibility. I was born to help people heal, so I take it very seriously. But it still makes me a bit nervous when I first meet my new charge.”

  I can’t figure out if she’s bullshitting me. She sounds genuine, but that also seems a little corny and smells a bit like the horseshit aroma from the paddock.

  “I can see that puts you off,” she remarks, staring me dead in the eye. She doesn’t appear offended, though. “But hopefully, you’ll come to realize I mean what I say.”

  I don’t know how to respond to that. Trust doesn’t come easily. I’m a closed-off person. And even though I’m here and willing to do what’s being demanded of me, I don’t want to be here. I don’t look forward to any of this, and I’m not about to be charmed by some hippie horsewoman who thinks she can smile her way into my good graces.

  So I don’t say anything.

  She raises an eyebrow, giving me a chance to reconsider if I’d like to engage further about that little tidbit she’d offered where she attempted to humanize herself so I’d feel comfortable with her.

  When I don’t respond, she sighs and folds her hands on her desk. “I’m not sure why Mr. Carlson referred you to me.”

  “I have to complete counseling in order to stay on the team,” I tell her, realizing how vague that sounds.

  “Because?” she prompts.

  “I got drunk and ran my truck into a concrete barrier.”

  She seems taken aback. “Intentionally?”

  “Yes.”

  “And why did you do that?” she inquires, now in full-on counselor mode.

  I’m not ready to go there, so I ask instead, “How do you know Dominik?”

  “I don’t.” That catches me by surprise, and I jerk my chin inward. “He apparently read about my program, and he thought it would be a good fit for you.”

  “But you don’t know if I am a good fit,” I surmise. Because while this ranch and metal shack are quite different than the therapist I saw earlier, it doesn’t mean she’s different. “Why did you take my case?”

  Her expression remains open and amiable. Her answer shocks me. “Money.”

  “Money?”

  “Frankly, my schedule was pretty full, and I wasn’t actively taking new clients. But Mr. Carlson said you were particularly important, and he made a charitable donation to the ranch. It was hard to say no after that.”

  Well, I appreciate her honesty. It’s nice to know she can be bought, and I’ll tuck that knowledge away for potential future use.

  “Why didn’t the last place work for you?” she asks.

  My mind races, wanting to ask another question to forestall me needing to talk about something of substance. But I get lost in the expression on her face. Fierce and determined, I can see that while she’ll put up with some resistance from me, she’s going to be the type who will hammer me until she gets what she wants.

  With a sigh, I roll over and just lay it out there. “Look… it’s not easy for me to talk about things. I’ve been bottled up for well over a year, and I’m not looking forward to confronting my feelings about my past.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because I don’t like pain,” I mutter. “I mean… who does?

  “You’ve moved from one therapist to another very quickly,” she points out, steeling her fingers in front of her face. “You do understand my way of doing things isn’t going to be any less painful, right?”

  “What’s the deal with the horses?” I ask, not because I’m all that curious. But because she’s starting to talk about pain, which is a feeling, and while we haven’t even brought up MJ yet, I’m starting to feel anxious.

  “They’re used in a lot of different ways. Distraction, building trust, showing kindness and love, and confidence boosting. It depends on what your needs are.”

  My needs?

  I need to stop dreaming about the crash.

  I need to know MJ—wherever she is—doesn’t hate me for killing her.

  I need to know if I’ll stop hating myself someday.

  But I don’t know how to say any of that to this woman.

  Nora looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to clue her in on why I’m here and what I need. My tongue feels glued to the roof of my mouth, though.

  For the first time since we met, her smile slides a little. Her eyes harden minutely. “You do realize the purpose of counseling is to share, right? Confront. Purge. That requires talking and Dominik did tell me that it’s a requirement you make meaningful progress in order to stay on the team. I intend to report truthfully to him.”

  I don’t need the reminder, nor her sanctimonious tone. “I’m fucking aware of that, lady.”

  “Nora,” she replies. “My name is Nora.”

  “I’m aware of that, too,” I mutter, rubbing my hand along my jaw. “Look… I’ll get there. Okay? I’m just not sure I’m ready to jump into the deep end right now.”

  “Fair enough,” she says, that genial smile back as she stands from her desk. Grabbing her hat, she nods toward the door. “Come on.”

  “Where?” I ask as she brushes past me to the door.

  We step out into the afternoon Arizona sun. Nora puts her hat on her head, and I make a mental note to grab a ball cap to wear the next time I come out here.

  I follow her past the paddock, then over to a weathered gray barn. We step inside, the shade making it incrementally cooler. There are four stalls on each side—all empty. The opposite side is open to the outside with another paddock beyond. Inside are three horses, a handful of adults, and several kids who appear to be preteens.

  “What’s going on out there?” I ask.

  “Just one of our basic classes on how to care for the horses,” she says. “In addition to counseling, we offer run-of-the-mill horsemanship training for low-income kids. Just to give them a different experience than what they are used to.”

  “Are you the only counselor here?” I ask as she snags a wheelbarrow parked outside one of the stalls.

  “The only full-time one,” she replies, grabbing a shovel as well. “I’ve got two part-time therapists who work here, but my other staff is mainly volunteer, except for Raul, my ranch manager.”

  Nora hands the shovel to me, and I take it without thought. After she opens one of the stall doors, she points inside. “You can get started here.”

  “Get started?” I ask.

  “Shoveling shit,” she replies with a bright smile. “If you don’t want to talk, you can work so my time isn’t wasted.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” I mutter.

  “Really not,” she says calmly, then gestures at the floor. “Shovel up the manure into the wheelbarrow, then dump it in the pile behind the barn. After, throw
down some fresh hay. It’s up above you in the loft.”

  The urge to spill my guts about MJ hits me, because I’m pretty loathe to do what she just ordered me to. But I’m also not above getting dirty or putting in manual labor, especially to prove I’ll get to talking when I’m ready to. I just met the woman, for fuck’s sake.

  Without a word, I move the wheelbarrow into the stall, then start the arduous and stinky task of cleaning it out. Luckily, there’s not a lot of shit in here, so it’s not going to take me long to complete the task, especially if the other stalls are similar to this.

  I get one last smile from Nora before she turns around and walks away.

  And I wonder if she’ll report this to Dominik.

  I’m thinking she will… and that he’ll think it’s funny as hell.

  For the next forty minutes, I break my back cleaning out the stalls. Given the cast on my left wrist, it was a little difficult to find a rhythm to my work, but I eventually got it figured out. I’d use my right arm only to do a scoop-scrape under the pile of shit, then I’d prop the shaft of the shovel on top of the cast on my left arm, using it to lift the load to the wheelbarrow.

  After the first stall was complete, the smell of shit became less noxious. I tell myself this is a good workout, and I won’t have to go to the gym later.

  Just as I’m finishing the last stall, the older man I’d seen hanging out near the paddock leads one of the horses inside the barn, guiding it into one of the clean stalls strewn with fresh hay. To me, he lifts his chin and makes a grunting sound of acknowledgment.

  Ignoring him, I finish my task.

  When I’m done, I return the wheelbarrow and shovel to where Nora collected them from. As if she timed it perfectly, she comes strolling into the barn then. I wipe the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. I hadn’t come dressed for manual labor, but the jeans, t-shirt, and tennis shoes worked fine. Of course, I could use a long, hot, and soapy shower right now.

  With a smile, Nora starts striding the length of the barn, peering over the doors of each stall to inspect them. I have no clue whether my work will be up to her standards… because I don’t know what her standards are.

  All I know is this woman is responsible for reporting back to team management on how well I’m complying, so I’ve got to play her game right now.

  Oddly, even though this is not how I would have liked to spend my afternoon, I still find this preferable to Gordon Dumfries by a million miles.

  “Great job,” she praises as she moves my way. “What days do you think will be good for you to start sessions with me? You need to do twice a week, right?”

  “Um… yeah,” I mutter, pulling my phone out of my back pocket to check my schedule. “It’s going to vary week to week, depending on away games, but I’m not going to start traveling with the team for two weeks yet. So working around practices, it looks like I can do any days between noon and five PM.”

  “Let’s make it Wednesdays and Fridays then,” she replies, and I wonder if she’ll remember that. She doesn’t bother to check any schedule. “So on Friday, just so you know what to expect, I want you to be ready to share.”

  My gut tightens at the prospect. Because I’ve gotten good at being a sullen asshole over the last fifteen months, I have to battle back my urge to fight against her. So I press my lips flat, forcing myself to stay quiet.

  It does no good, though. She can see by the expression on my face that I don’t like any of this.

  “Tacker,” she says softly, reaching out to put a hand on my forearm in a reassuring manner. “I know you think this is going to be awful, and, yes, some of it will be… especially if you haven’t talked about your pain yet. But I promise you, there are brighter days ahead. With a little care and devotion to the counseling, to opening yourself up and purging your demons… you can find the sun again. And love and happiness. You can find worth in smiling again—”

  Jesus Christ. I wince from the pain her hokey-ass words are causing me right now. Sunshine, optimism, and a Pollyanna attitude is not the way to reach me.

  “Fuck,” I snarl as I shake my head in disbelief. “Do you really believe that word vomit you’re handing me? No one can be that fucking optimistic.”

  “I think you’ll find I am—”

  I cut her off again. “Look… I’ve got to do the fucking counseling and it seems like I’m stuck with you since Carlson just paid you a buttload of money to take me on. And I get I have to share and make some progress, but you can pack up that sunshine, lollipops, and rainbow shit right now. It’s lost on me. Never going to get there, and you’re a fool to think you can make it happen.”

  Nora’s mouth sags a little in disbelief, and I can actually see I’ve hurt her feelings deep within her eyes.

  I have a flash of guilt, but I push it aside.

  Nora merely inclines her head, a subtle acknowledgment she has heard my complaints. Taking a step backward, she says, “I’ll see you Friday. Three PM.”

  Then she pivots on her heel and walks out of the barn, leaving me alone with my thoughts, which are bordering on a mix of guilt and disgust.

  “I’m going to give you a pass on that one,” I hear a voice say from the stall. It’s a heavy Latino accent, the words coarse and gruff. I’d forgotten about the old man in there with the horse.

  He steps out, eyes hard from under the brim of his straw hat. “You talk to Nora like that again, and I’m going to whip your ass, muchacho.”

  “Won’t be an issue if she keeps that hippie love and sunshine shit to herself,” I mutter, not cowed in the slightest by his threat.

  “Be honest with yourself,” he answers, stepping fully out of the stall and latching the door closed. “That’s not really what you object to.”

  “Pardon?” I ask, slightly offended he’s trying to shrink me.

  “You don’t like her offering you any hope of a better future because you don’t think anyone could possibly understand what you’ve been through.”

  I grit my teeth. He’s not far off the mark. I get she has education and experience in handling people like me, but it’s insulting she thinks she can put me in a brighter spot without knowing a fucking thing about my pain and misery.

  It’s going to be hard to trust her now for just that reason.

  “Trust me, amigo,” the old man says as he ambles toward me. When we’re a few feet apart, he tips his head and pushes the brim of his hat back a bit. I can now see his eyes clearly. “Nora has suffered horrors you can’t even imagine. I don’t know what your issues are, but don’t think that woman doesn’t understand pain. She’s lost more than a human being should be made to and suffered more than anyone deserves, and she’s come out of it still smiling and hopeful. You should give her the benefit of the doubt.”

  I have to widen my stance just a tad, so my knees don’t buckle under the weight of what he just said. He hadn’t divulged one damn personal thing about Nora, yet I can tell by the tone of his voice that something horrific has happened to her.

  It’s not something I’d considered.

  Do I think I’m the only person in the world who has suffered?

  Fuck no. I know I’m not.

  Had I thought the woman with the bright smile and eternal hope of healing had survived something brutal?

  Not in a million years, and now I don’t know what the fuck to think about her.

  CHAPTER 5

  Nora

  While I’d have preferred to ride Starlight or Ming up the hill to the tiny cemetery, the four-wheel gator does the job in a pinch. I turn it off, engage the safety brake, and climb out.

  It’s not much of a cemetery, just a handful of old grave markers for the family that held this ranch for a few generations before I bought it at auction. It sits under a copse of palo verdes, which provide enough shade that sparse grass grows.

  Set off to the side from the other plots is the one I’ve come to visit.

  Helen Wayne

  June 7, 1958 – April 23, 2017


  Beloved Mother and Savior.

  “Hi, Nënë,” I murmur as I sit cross-legged on her grave.

  Helen Wayne was as American as apple pie, but when she first met me, my English was incredibly broken as we just didn’t use it a lot. She asked me to call her Nënë—Albanian for Mother or Momma—and it never felt strange to me. Even though I’d had a mother at one point in my life, I never questioned calling her that.

  I would have done anything she asked of me.

  “I had a busy day today,” I say quietly, picking at a blade of thin grass. “Got two interesting new clients. Terrance is just a kid—a real punk, actually. You’d totally love him. He’s so hungry for genuine contact, but he’s scared to move on it. And Tacker is this guy who has some deep-seated issues he doesn’t want to talk about. He’s been forced into counseling, and you and I both know that often doesn’t end well. Regardless, I made him shovel shit today since he wouldn’t open up.”

  My mother would have so appreciated that but then again, she pretty much thought anything I did was the best thing ever. Not sure there could have ever been a prouder mother in the world than Helen Wayne, and I can feel her presence looking over me at all times.

  I can’t feel that with my original family. Not that strongly, anyway. Because of my faith, I believe they are in Heaven, right alongside Helen, but the bond fades a little more every year. Probably because I’d spent so long blocking their memories out.

  My eyes don’t water up with grief anymore over losing Helen, my adoptive mom. We had a good, full life together, and she was in a lot of pain from the cancer at the end. It was a blessing when she slipped away, clutching my hand in hers.

  But, God, I miss her so much. The woman who is personally responsible for all I am today.

  The woman who actually saved my life, then built it into something that was far greater than I ever could have imagined based on where I’d come from.

  In the distance from the direction of the main ranch house, the dinner bell clangs. Smiling, I push up to my feet. Raul loves ringing that damn thing, even though he could have just as easily sent me a text to tell me to come on in and eat.