The Law of Moses

by Amy Harmon

Georgia flinched again, and her eyes filled with tears that she valiantly tried to hold back. We stood there, neither one speaking, each of us battling the emotion that had buffeted us from the moment our eyes met in a crowded elevator nearly a month before. Georgia was the first to give, and her voice shook as she gave me honesty in return.

  “I cry every day. Do you know that? I cry every damn day. I never used to cry. Now, not a day goes by that I don’t find myself in tears. Sometimes I hide in the closet so I can pretend it isn’t happening again. One day, I’m going to have a day when I don’t cry, and part of me thinks that will be the worst day of all. Because he will truly be slipping away.”

  “I never used to cry either.”

  She waited.

  “In fact, that was the first time.”

  “The first time?”

  “Out there, in the field. The first time I remember crying . . . over anything, ever.” I’d pulled the waters down to make it all stop, to hide the image of Georgia’s horrified face screaming Eli’s name, and for the first time, the waters had spilled from my eyes.

  Georgia gasped, and I looked away from her incredulous face, and felt the waters tremble and shift inside me and start to rise again. What was happening to me?

  “You think your tears keep him close?” I whispered.

  “My tears mean I’m thinking about him,” she whispered back, still standing so close to me I could have leaned forward and kissed her without taking a single step.

  “But all your memories can’t be sad. None of his are. And you’re the only thing he thinks about.”

  “I am?”

  “Well, you and Calico. And Stewy Stinker.” She laughed, a wet hiccup that she swallowed back. She stepped back abruptly, and I knew she was getting ready to pull away.

  “So do what you used to do. When you need to cry, do what you used to do.” There was a desperate note in my voice.

  “What?” Georgia asked.

  “Give me five greats, Georgia.”

  She winced. “Damn you, Moses.”

  “I’ve been thinking about it since you told me Eli was showing me his favorite things. You would be surprised how many times I caught myself making little lists of good things over the last seven years. And it was all your fault.”

  “I was such a pain in the ass, wasn’t I?” She laughed again, but there wasn’t much mirth in the short expulsion of air. “I drove you nuts. Buzzing around you like I had it all figured out. I didn’t know anything. And you knew I didn’t know anything. But you liked me anyway.”

  “Who says I liked you?”

  She chuckled, remembering the conversation from the long ago day by the fence.

  “Your eyes said you liked me,” she answered bluntly, the way she would have once. And then she nervously tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear like she couldn’t believe she was flirting with me.

  “Come on. Five greats.”

  “Okay. Um. Man, it’s been a long time.” She was silent for a minute. I could tell she was really searching. She rubbed her palms against her jeans, as if she was trying to wipe away the discomfort that was written all over her face, all over her body.

  “Soap.”

  “Okay.” I tried not to smile. It was such a random item. “Soap. What else?”

  “Mountain Dew . . . with ice and a straw.”

  “This is pathetic,” I teased softly, trying to goad her into a smile. She did smile a little, just a twist of her lips, but she stopped rubbing her hands.

  “Socks. Cowboy boots without socks would suck,” she announced, a little more confidently.

  “I wouldn’t know. But yeah. I can see that,” I agreed, nodding.

  “That’s five,” she said.

  “We aren’t counting ice and straws. They came with the Mountain Dew. Come on. Two more.”

  She didn’t argue about the disqualification of two of her “Five Greats,” but she was silent for a long time. I waited, wondering if she was done playing. Then she took a deep breath, looked at her hands, and whispered, “Forgiveness.”

  A burning ache rose in my throat that was both foreign and instantly familiar.

  “Yours . . . or mine?” I asked, needing to know. I held my breath, trying to hold back my emotion and watched as she tucked her hands in her pockets and seemed to gather her courage.

  “Both,” she answered. With a deep inhale, she met my gaze. “Will you forgive me, Moses?”

  Maybe she was seeking forgiveness for Eli because she hadn’t yet forgiven herself. But I didn’t blame her for Eli, I loved her for Eli, and I wanted to tell her there was nothing to forgive. But that wouldn’t be the truth either, because I had other things to forgive. No one had ever wanted me, starting from the day I was born. But Georgia had wanted me. And because she had wanted me when no one else did, I had immediately been suspicious. I had immediately distrusted her. And I had always held it against her.

  “I forgive you, Georgia. Can you forgive me?”

  Georgia nodded, even before I finished asking. “I already have. I didn’t realize it. But I’ve had a lot of time to think over these last couple of weeks. I think I forgave you the moment I saw Eli. The moment he was born. He was such a work of art. Such a little masterpiece. And you created him. We created him. How could I not love you, even just a little bit, when I saw him?”

  I didn’t trust myself to speak. So I nodded, accepting her forgiveness. And she smiled. I was too emotionally raw to smile back, afraid that parting my lips, even just a little bit, would re-open all my old cracks. So I touched her cheek, softly, gratefully, and let my hand fall back to my side.

  “That’s five greats then, Moses,” she said. “Your forgiveness. And mine.”

  Moses

  I DIDN’T LET THAT FORGIVENESS go to waste. I brought flowers. I fixed dinner and bought cupcakes. And I kept drawing pictures. Not hearts, but pictures. I didn’t think hearts were subtle enough. Georgia’s parents were gone, which made it easier, and three evenings in a row, I found myself at her front door. And she always let me in. I didn’t stay as long as I wanted. I didn’t kiss her. But she let me in. And that was all I could ask for.

  I’d gotten her permission to draw a mural in the indoor arena that had been added onto the barn. In the winter, all her therapy sessions and classes would be held there, and I wanted it done before the weather turned. The mural was similar to the mural on her bedroom walls. Georgia said her work was about transformation, and she thought the story of the blind man freeing himself through the use of the horse was perfect for what she and her parents did.

  I was bent over, mixing paint when Georgia slid up behind me and thwacked my rear end, hard, causing me to lurch and sloshing paint on my shoe.

  “Did you just slap my ass?” I rubbed at it, completely offended, more than a little surprised.

  “It was in my way. And it’s kinda hard not to look at.”

  “It is? Why?” My incredulous voice squeaked in a very unmanly way. Eli was watching us, his little shoulders hunched, his hand covering his mouth like he was laughing. I wished I could hear him. I wanted to slap Georgia’s butt right back, but thought maybe this whole interplay wasn’t really appropriate for my son to watch—and the thought made my heart turn in my chest.

  “It’s a great-looking ass. That’s why,” Georgia didn’t sound particularly happy about it, honestly. But she sounded like herself, like the Georgia who was a little wild, more than a little blunt, and full of life.

  “It is?”

  “Don’t sound so surprised. I love the way you look. I never could resist you. You were like crack to me.”

  “Your own little crack baby?” I grinned, thrilled that she couldn’t resist me, and that she was admitting it.

  I had a sudden image of Georgia tickling Eli as he howled with laughter, trying to get away from her. He managed to squirm free, but came right back and went on the attack, concentrating his little fingers on her rounded behind as she fled. She shrieked as loud as he had done, swa
tting at his pinching hands.

  “Stop, you little stink! My butt is ticklish!”

  Eli wrapped his arms around her waist and sank his teeth into her left butt cheek, which was right at eye level, and Georgia screamed and laughed, flopping onto her bed, yanking him up by his armpits, until she had him locked in her arms. His face was flushed with laughter, his curls floating with static electricity, as they giggled and tickled, each trying to gain the upper hand. Georgia tried to be serious once, saying, “You cannot bite my butt, Eli, it isn’t appropriate,” in a very stern voice, but they both collapsed back into snorts of laughter almost immediately.

  “Moses? You’re doing it again,” Georgia said, mildly.

  I looked back at her, the memory Eli had shared leaving a smile on my face.

  “You’re spacing off. Day dreaming again.”

  “I was thinking about your ass,” I responded, truthfully. I walked toward her, ignoring my dancing angel boy who trotted along beside me.

  She laughed right out loud, and I caught her around the waist with one arm and began to tickle her in earnest.

  Eli had the best ideas.

  We fell over in the straw piled against the wall separating the barn from the arena, and Georgia fought back, squealing, trying to tickle me too. But I wasn’t especially ticklish, and before long I had her breathless and begging, shouting my name. It was the best sound in the world, and it definitely didn’t make me feel like laughing.

  “Please, stop!” she shouted, clinging to my hands. There was straw in her hair, straw in my hair, and we were flushed and untucked and generally looked like we’d been up to a lot more than tickling when her dad came strolling through the barn.

  Well, shit.

  The look on his face had me dropping my hands and stepping away, recognizing the fury stamped all over his features for exactly what it was. I was in trouble—even Eli fled in terror, there one minute, gone the next, the warm stream connecting us suddenly dried up. Georgia’s back was to her father, and when my hands dropped she stumbled a little, grabbing at me. I gently set her aside, but I let her father come without protest or warning.

  I didn’t even lift my hands. I could have. I could have easily dodged the clumsy fist that connected with my jaw, but I took it. Because I deserved it.

  “Dad!” Georgia shoved herself up between us. “Dad! Don’t!”

  He ignored her and stared into my eyes, his chest heaving, his mouth hard, his hand shaking as he pointed at me.

  “Not again, Moses. We let you in. You ransacked the house. And worse, there were casualties. This isn’t happening again.”

  He looked at Georgia then, and the look of disappointment he leveled at her was far worse than the anger he’d directed at me. “You’re a woman, Georgia. Not a child. You can’t act like this anymore.”

  She deflated right before my eyes.

  “You hit me all you want, Mr. Shepherd. I had that coming. But don’t talk to Georgia that way. Or I’ll kick your ass.”

  “Moses!” Georgia’s eyes flashed, and her spine was straight again. Good. She could be angry at me. Anger was better than defeat.

  “You think you can come in here and get away with murder again? You think you can just get away with it?” Martin Shepherd said, outrage making his voice hoarse.

  “None of us are the same people we used to be, Mr. Shepherd. I was one of those casualties, too. And I didn’t get away with anything. Neither Georgia nor I got away with a damn thing. We’ve paid. Just like you’ve paid. And we’ll all keep on paying.”

  He turned in disgust, but I saw his lips tremble, and I felt bad for the man. I wouldn’t like me if I were him. But it was better that we air it out.

  “Mr. Shepherd?” I said softly. He didn’t stop. I thought about what Georgia had given me. I thought about the five greats. About forgiveness. And I passed it along.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Shepherd. I am. And I hope someday you can forgive me.”

  Georgia’s dad missed a step, stumbled, and stopped. There was something powerful about that word.

  “I hope you can forgive me. Because this is happening. Me and Georgia. This is happening.”

  Georgia

  I SPENT THE AFTERNOON in the small indoor arena conducting an equine therapy class with a group of kids with behavioral problems that were brought down from Provo, about an hour north of Levan. It was a smaller group than usual, maybe six people at the most, and all of them people I’d spent time with before. As I finished up the sun was starting to set and Moses was finishing up in the indoor arena. I’d followed my dad out of the barn after the awkward blow-up that morning. I’d needed to make sure he was okay and I’d needed to catch my breath.

  “This is happening. Me and Georgia. It’s happening,” he’d said. And my heart had done a fat somersault and landed with a slosh in my churning stomach. It was happening. I believed him. And I was suddenly a little scared. So I’d left, following my poor dad out of the barn to help him come to grips with seeing his daughter engaging in tickle games and Moses being back in my life. But that was yesterday and now, here we were, alone in the quiet of the indoor arena. I’d just finished conducting a class and Moses was painting the long wall that connected the arena to the stable, and I wasn’t sure what to say.

  “You’re good at that, you know. I heard some of it. You’re impressive,” he said easily, and I stared at him blankly, not sure what he was referring to. My brain was still stuck on tickling and the emotional conversation with my dad.

  “The therapy. The kids. All of it. You’re good,” Moses explained with a small smile.

  The praise pleased me, and I turned my face to hide my pleasure. I was way too easy. Too needy. I didn’t like that about myself very much. But Moses seemed genuinely interested, asking me questions about this and that until I found myself talking freely about what I did while I removed the horses saddles and brushed them down.

  “Horses reflect the energy of the people in the session. Did you see how down Joseph was? How quiet? Did you see how Sackett stuck his head in there and practically laid it on his shoulder? And did you see how aggressive Lori was? She gave Lucky a little push and he pushed her right back. Not hard. But then he stayed in her space. Did you see that? It’s subjective, I get that. But there’s something to be said for going head to head with a 1200 pound animal, moving it, leading it, riding it. It’s incredibly empowering for people who have relinquished the power in their lives to drugs, alcohol, sex, illness, depression. Or in the case of kids . . . to those who have power over them, to those who control their lives. We work with autistic kids a lot. The horses unlock those kids. Everything that’s bottled up seems to loosen up. Even the movement, the gentle rocking motion, connects with people on an elemental level. It’s the same motion we feel when we walk. It’s like we become one with something so powerful, so big, that for a moment we take on that sense of supremacy.”

  “I thought you were going to be a vet. Wasn’t that the plan?” Moses asked quietly, cleaning his brushes as I finished up with the horses.

  “I grew up watching my parents work with animals and work with people. And after Kathleen died and you left, I didn’t want to do rodeo anymore. I didn’t even want to be a vet. I wanted to figure out how to unlock you, just like I saw so many others be helped.”

  “Unlock me?” Moses looked shocked.

  “Yes.” I met his gaze frankly, but I couldn’t hold it. Honesty was hard. And incredibly intimate. “So that’s what I did. I got a degree in psychology. And then I got a master’s degree on top of that.” I shrugged. “Maybe one day you’ll have to call me Dr. Georgia. But to tell you the truth, I’m not interested in doling out prescriptions. I’d rather just train horses and help people. I don’t know how I would have survived the last two years without my work.”

  He was quiet for a minute, and I didn’t dare look at him.

  “Are horses really that smart?” he asked, and I gladly let him change the subject. I didn’t especially want to tal
k about myself.

  “I think smart is the wrong word, although they are intelligent. They are incredibly aware. They mimic, they react. And we only have to watch them to find clues about ourselves. And because of that, horses can be powerful tools. A horse will run a half mile out of blind fear. Nothing else. They aren’t thinking while they run. They’re just reacting. Dogs, cats, people— we’re all predators. But horses are prey. Not predators. And because they’re prey, they are instinct-based, emotion-based, fear-based. They are very in tune with heightened emotion, wherever it comes from. And they react accordingly.”

  Moses nodded, as if he was buying what I said. He walked toward me and the horses didn’t react at all. He was calm. They were calm.

  “Come here,” I insisted, beckoning him closer. I suddenly wanted to show him.

  “Georgia. You remember what happened last time,” Moses protested, but he kept his voice soft.

  “Hold my hand.”

  He reached forward and slipped his fingers through mine, palm to palm, and I took a step toward the horses.

  “Are you afraid, Moses?” It made me think of that first time, when I’d taunted him to pet Sackett. But I wasn’t taunting him. Not at all. I wanted to know how he was feeling.

  “No. But I don’t want them to be afraid.” He looked at me. “I don’t want you to be afraid.”

  “I’m not.” I answered immediately. I heard Lucky whinny behind me and Sackett snorted as if he doubted the veracity of my claim.

  “You are,” he said.

  “I am,” I admitted on a sigh. “This is important to me. So I’m nervous.” And as soon as I owned it, the fear left me. I reached for his other hand so that we stood facing each other, our hands locked.

  “We’re just going to stand right here, and you’re going to hold my hands,” I said.

  Moses put his chin down on his chest and took a deep breath.

  “What?” I asked softly.

  “I feel like a child. I don’t want to feel like a child with you.”