The Scar Rule

by Heidi Vanderbilt

  “For what?” the man asked.

  “For the show to start?” she answered.

  “Naw,” he said. “Soon.”

  Billie sat back and looked around. She sat in a football field ringed with bleachers. Huge screens at either end overlooked the venue, already flashing advertisements for local businesses. She realized that riding here in this arena was the dream of every walking horse owner and rider who entered their horse in shows. To get here, they had to win competitions all year then compete against each other until the final twenty or so horses and riders—polished, lacquered, groomed, sored—swept through the in-gate into the lights, slamming against a wall of cheers from the audience.

  The stands filled steadily. Capacity, she guessed, would be about twenty-five thousand people, but she should check to be sure. People arrived carrying folding stadium seats because they knew the bleachers didn’t have backs. She hadn’t known and hadn’t brought anything to lean or sit on.

  “What time’s the first class?” she asked her neighbor.

  “Seven-thirty.”

  “I thought you said it was about to start,” she said.

  “Time’s relative,” he replied. “I’ve waited all year for this. An hour is nothing.”

  So there was plenty of time to explore. She stood and sidestepped to the stairs then descended until she spotted an EXIT sign. She left the arena and passed a little park where a group of musicians performed country music. Their audience clapped and swayed, stamped, and at the end of each song, shouted “more!”

  Billie headed over to the rows of barns. Dozens of identical buildings were tricked out in banners and decorated with flowers and fake lawns. The whole area teemed with trainers, riders, and grooms. Walking horses were being led, ridden, washed, brushed, tacked up, and untacked.

  The phone in Billie’s pocket buzzed. Without looking to see who was calling, she pressed decline, opened the camera app, and snapped a shot of the scene before her. She texted it to Frank then checked her missed calls.

  Richard. She was redialing when the voice mail light flashed.

  “Billie, are you here at the show? Call me.”

  She tapped call back. “I’m here,” she said when he answered.

  “Meet me at the fried pickles.”

  “The what?” but he’d hung up. For a moment she wondered if she should give up on Richard, just let him go. But he could probably guide her better than anyone, if he would.

  When she found him, he handed her a Diet Coke and offered her a taste of his fried pickles. She declined, reading the menu board aloud. “Fried Snickers? Fried Oreos? Fried butter? Why did I think you were joking?”

  “Best food in the South here. Did you see about Bo?”

  “What about him?”

  “Look up!” He pointed to the massive screen facing them at the far end of the arena displaying Bo’s name.

  “He’s going to play the national anthem at the start tonight.”

  “Will he sing it?”

  “Nope. Fiddle it.”

  “Seriously? I knew he played but I didn’t know he was that good.”

  “Seriously good,” Richard said. “He loves it.”

  While they talked, she took pictures. Of the menu. Of overweight people lined up for fried butter. Of people in souvenir hats. Of hardworking hands—calloused, wrinkled and stained—gripping programs. Of fathers with toddlers on their shoulders. Of corn on the cob. Of Richard.

  “Hey!” he objected.

  “Just for me,” she promised. “Where’s Sylvie?”

  “With Dale. Getting her horse ready.”

  “How can you reconcile being against soring and having your daughter ride sore horses?”

  “Is this an interview?”

  “I guess.”

  “Well, I can’t reconcile it. And I can’t do anything about it. Sylvie is almost eighteen. I can’t stop her. I may not agree with what she’d doing, but she’s too grown up now for me to control. Doesn’t mean I sanction it. She’s my daughter and I love her.”

  “And the rest of your family?”

  “I can’t speak for them. We all grew up soring horses. I’ve quit and I’m speaking out against it. That makes me unpopular with my own kinfolk. But I’m doing what I think is right. And so are they.”

  “They think soring is right?”

  “Let’s say, they think it’s their right. Billie, can we quit this interview and just be ourselves for a while? It seems I’m on stage all the time now. Press and media interviews and then all of it all over again. I’d like to just be with you, not your editor, not your iPhone, not your notebook. Can we?”

  “Can you tell me how Alice Dean is?”

  “She’s home now. She’ll be fine.”

  “I’m glad. Yes, we’ll just be us.”

  “I’d kiss you if I could.”

  She watched his lips as he spoke, imagining them, remembering them and the shape of his earlobe, the taste of his neck.

  “Stop it,” he grinned at her.

  “Can’t.”

  He leaned forward to whisper, “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it last night. Can I see you later?”

  His breath fluttered the hair at the nape of her neck.

  “I’m working,” she said.

  “You have to stop sometime. Call me later.”

  “Maybe,” she said, aware of glances their way. “I’ll be sure to watch Bo’s performance.”

  Billie finished her Coke and tossed the paper cup into a trash bin. She descended a flight of metal stairs to the ground floor where the horses were prepared to enter the arena. She caught a glimpse of Sylvie leading her horse through the massive metal double doors into the enclosed inspection area. Billie tried to follow, but a guard told her it was closed to the public. She pulled out her press pass.

  “Inside then,” he told her. “But you have to go up to the landing. No one on the floor except competitors, their teams, and the inspectors.”

  She climbed the stairs to a balcony crowded with reporters. Bored by what seemed to be nothing going on below, they were chatting with each other, telling stories of other assignments. Billie apologized her way to the front, where she could see over the rail.

  Below her a half dozen horses were being led in tight circles around traffic cones. The horses tripped and stumbled over their padded shoes. Each horse was attended by a handler or two and a trio of inspectors who palpated and swabbed their lower legs and hooves.

  Dale stood beside Sylvie, holding her horse’s reins. From where Billie stood overhead, the horse looked profoundly miserable. He squatted on his haunches and shifted his weight from one front foot to the other. As the inspector bent to examine the horse’s legs, it pulled away. Dale extracted a cigarette from his pocket and lifted it toward the animal’s eye. The horse froze and remained motionless during the rest of the inspection.

  Billie expected someone to comment on what she’d seen, the horse intimidated into immobility, cued by the cigarette—just like in the video of Dale that Charley had given her.

  The babble of reporters gossiping continued around her. A fan roared. The inspector said something Billie couldn’t hear. No one was going to mention the cigarette.

  “He’s stewarding that horse with a cigarette,” she yelled over the voices, into the fan’s roar.

  Dale’s head swung toward her. Sylvie looked up. And so did the inspectors. And the other competitors. Immediately Dale started talking to the inspectors, making not-me gestures.

  Billie spent the next half hour watching, marveling at what the inspectors seemed to ignore. Then she wandered off to find the restroom. As she left the toilet, she was startled when Eudora stepped quickly up to her. The older woman stuck out her hand, and as Billie reached to shake it, she grabbed Billie’s hand and pressed something hard and round against her ribs.

  “Stay close to me,” Eudora said. “Or I will shoot you.”

  CHAPTER 27

  THE GUN—BILLIE HAD no doubt that it was a gun—pr
odded her foreword, but if she moved too fast, Eudora tightened her grip and pulled her back. They left the arena and made their way outdoors through a drizzle past throngs of people to Dale’s barn.

  Eudora shoved Billie into a heavily draped stall where horses were taken for the final prep before going into the show ring. Someone slapped a thick wad of cotton over Billie’s eyes, tied a rag over that to completely block any light, and dug her phone out of her pocket.

  “You are a serious problem, my dear.” She recognized Dale’s voice. “I’d hoped we could manage you—for your own good as well as ours. But that’s not working out.”

  He grabbed her wrists and yanked her hands behind her back. Pain sizzled through her shoulder as he wrenched her rotator cuff. She felt it tear, a growing agony filled her world, worse and worse. She screamed. He slapped his hand over her mouth then hit her on the side of her head, one sharp crack.

  She awoke to the stench of urine and manure and pain that nearly overwhelmed her. Her head hurt, and her shoulder screeched. When she tried to move, she couldn’t. The effort exploded in her rotator cuff, and her effort to suck in air to scream alerted her that she was gagged as well as bound and blindfolded. Claustrophobic panic made her struggle. She fought herself to stillness, made herself barely inhale, made herself still.

  She didn’t know where she was, if she was alone. What, besides horse waste, did she smell? What, besides pain, did she feel? If she made her breaths inaudible, she could hear a PA system in the distance, announcing something. She must still be at the show. She wondered how long she’d been unconscious. She heard voices coming closer. Terror washed through her. She heard a horse snort nearby. She smelled more manure, fresh. The horse was as terrified as she was. The handle of a door turned, the voices suddenly came very close to her. She forced herself to lie completely limp.

  Footsteps approached, paused. Dale said, “She’s still out.”

  She waited for the answer, but there wasn’t one. He must have turned from her, because when he spoke again, his voice sounded farther away. “You want to buff those boots before you go,” he said. “Just because they almost disqualified you in the last class doesn’t mean—”

  “I know! Where’s the fucking rag?” Sylvie snapped.

  “Behind you, on the shelf.”

  “What’s he need?”

  Billie didn’t understand the question at first, but Dale replied, “Three drops left front, two on the right should get it done.”

  “Which bottle?

  “That one.” The horse started to scrabble, trying to get away.

  “Quit!” Dale growled at him. “God damn you son of a bitch. Get in there, Sylvie, and get it done.”

  “No!” Billie tried to shout, but at most she made a soft grunt behind the gag. The restraint made her crazy, and she thrashed on the floor, desperate to stop them, desperate to get loose.

  A boot landed on her neck, compressing her larynx and cutting off her air. She tried to twist her head away and heard Sylvie laugh.

  “What’s going on?” Richard’s voice.

  “We found your girlfriend, Dad.”

  “Get that horse ready,” Dale said. “I’m not telling you again.”

  “Make her do it,” Sylvie said. “I want to see her do that.”

  “We don’t have time for this crap, Sylvie. You’ll miss the class, and you’re already in trouble.”

  Dale grabbed Billie by her sore arm and stood her up, unknowable agony buckling her legs. She swayed, and he shoved her backward until something hit her behind the knees, forcing her to sit down. She turned her head, trying to find the tiniest bit of light beneath the blindfold. Searing jabs shot from her head, bruised where Dale had punched her, and her neck where she had been stepped on. She tried to swallow but couldn’t.

  “Give me the juice,” Richard said. “I like to use two drops on the right and three on the left. Suit you?”

  Eudora’s voice answered. “Put some of this on his pasterns and use those chains.”

  Billie realized that Richard was soring Sylvie’s horse, dripping chemicals on its legs like the old pro he was. His protestations that he was out of this life, the interviews he’d given about seeing the light and changing his ways, his damnation of all things Big Lick—all lies. She had believed him, stupidly in love. The media had believed him. Still did. The light of righteous reformation shone on his head, but it was all false.

  When they finished with the horse, Billie heard the thud of its padded hooves on the stall floor, approaching her, passing her by.

  “You’re on your way,” Eudora said. “Dale’ll be right behind you.”

  “We want to be there when Bo performs,” Richard said.

  “I’ll try to get there too,” Eudora replied. “And Dale. Don’t want to miss him.”

  “What you going to do with her?” Richard asked.

  “Put her there.”

  Billie wondered where there was.

  “Make sure you lock it,” Richard said.

  Billie felt the last shred of hope leave. Then return. Maybe he’d come for her later when he could.

  Without a word, Eudora lifted her from her seat on the tack box, opened its lid, and shoved her in, slamming it closed. Billie heard the hasp close, then the metallic fumble and click of a padlock. The space was smaller than the trunk of a car, and far from empty. She lay on something curved and hard that dug into her hip—a stirrup or some grooming implement. She was folded tightly, her knees to her chest, her hands tied behind her, and she lay directly on them. Everything hurt. There was no room to maneuver into a more comfortable position. The box stank of liniments and chemicals. She wondered how much oxygen was in there. The realization that she might smother made her force herself to breathe slowly, evenly, counting her in and out breaths. Doing that calmed her a little. Tiny breaths. Light tiny breaths. There was nothing she could do about the pain, not in her shoulder, her head, neck, or wrists. Her world was pain, but she concentrated on leaving it behind. Not my pain, she thought. Doesn’t matter. She wasn’t completely successful, but she was able to get the sensations to seem less important.

  In her mind she made herself smaller, then smaller still, bringing herself toward a center she visualized, a place where she was all right, where she could move. Her fingers felt around the tiny area they could reach. Her T-shirt, the waistband of her jeans beneath it, the stitching on a hip pocket. She felt a small round rivet, softened a bit by the T-shirt.

  Infinitesimally, she coaxed the shirt up. From the arena, she heard an announcement, cheers. A voice intoned the Lord’s Prayer, followed by applause.

  “Please, now,” Billie heard, “all y’all rise and place your hands on your hearts for our national anthem played for us by Shelbyville’s own rising country fiddler, Bo Collier!”

  The single opening note of the anthem, achingly sweet on the violin, reached her as the tip of her middle finger slipped just past the rivet and barely inside her hip pocket.

  She felt nothing but fabric. She didn’t even know if there was anything in the pocket she could use. Her fingers were numb from loss of circulation, but she often carried things—not even really aware of them—a pen, some baling twine, a knife. If only she had a knife, she might, just might be able to…to what? She couldn’t escape the locked box, but that didn’t matter, any iota of relief she could manage, she would take. A looser twist of whatever bound her wrist, a slight wiggle to move herself off the sharp edge of whatever she lay upon. She forced herself to move her finger deeper into the pocket, ignoring the agony it caused her shoulder. What the fuck? The shoulder was ruined. She had nothing to protect.

  The tip of her finger touched something hard and narrow. She tried to remember what was in there but couldn’t. Might be a credit card. She flattened it against the outside of the pocket and tried to work it up. Her finger slipped. She wriggled it back down, pressed against the object, tried again to slide it up.

  Bo was elaborating on the tune with riffs of fast notes
. She wanted it to last, perhaps his playing was keeping Dale and Eudora and Sylvie away from her. When he stopped, they might return. With Richard.

  She managed to get her index finger inside the pocket and to get a tentative grasp on whatever the thing was. She had it, lost it, got it again. Pressing the pad of her middle finger down and the nail of her index finger up, she held onto it long enough to get its top edge over the top seam of her pocket.

  She had to stop. Just for a minute. She had no more strength and no more feeling in her hand. She wasn’t even certain that she still held on.

  Outside the barn, she could hear people talking, horse hooves passed by, the rev of an ATV engine.

  The anthem ended to cheers. They’d be back soon. She had to get whatever it was out of her pocket. She heard herself grunt and thought she might have it in her hand. She felt tingles but nothing that told her for sure. As fast as she could, she raised her shoulder and removed her hand from her pocket, praying that she held whatever it was in her hand.

  She explored the shape with her deadened thumb and despair flooded her. It was just a credit card. She remembered sliding it into her pocket when she paid for her ticket.

  Her hands had moved a bit in their ties as she struggled to grasp the card. She didn’t know what her bonds were made of, rope or baling twine or wire. She didn’t hear Dale’s voice until he was close by.

  “Grab the other handle, okay? Let’s take this out to the trailer.”

  There was no answer, but she felt her feet rise higher than her head. Whoever had grabbed that end wasn’t strong enough, and dropped it. Somehow Billie managed not to make a sound when she hit the ground.

  “Use two hands,” Dale said.

  Whoever they were lifted the tack box with her in it. She felt them half-stagger out the stall door then around to the side of the barn where the trailer was parked. The metal door banged open, and she was heaved inside. Someone grabbed a handle and dragged the box away from the door. Every bump sent jolts of pain through her, but she kept quiet, holding her moans inside.