"Fall off a horse?" he said, referring to the faded bruising under my right eye.
"No." I edged past him and started down the aisle toward the tack room.
"I'll be in the lounge," he called after me. "And, Cline?"
I stopped and pivoted around. "Sir?"
"I want a dropped nose band and a Dr. Bristol bit, and this time get it right."
Get it right? Who was he kidding? I turned away from him and wondered when he'd grow tired of his stupid little control game and give it up, always asking for one thing, then telling me I'd gotten it wrong when I hadn't. Trying to make me look stupid. Maybe he wouldn't stop until I reacted. Got myself in trouble.
"Cline?"
I slid my hands into my pockets and turned around. Movement behind him caught my eye. Marty. Marty bouncing into the aisle, swinging a lead rope in his hand.
"I didn't hear you," Whitcombe said.
I refocused my gaze on Whitcombe's ugly face. "Yes… sir."
He smiled as he spun around and headed for the exit. Marty suddenly became interested in the floor. As soon as Whitcombe passed him, Marty looked up at me and grinned, and I could have killed him. He caught up with me, glanced over his shoulder, and whispered, "The asshole likes to ride more than horses, don't he?"
"Marty, don't." I cradled my arm along my ribs and tried not to laugh. "It hurts too much."
"Awh, Stevie, don't cry."
"Damn it, Marty, stop." I walked into the tack room and heard his footsteps behind me. "Don't you have something to do?" I said over my shoulder.
"No."
I spun the combination on the supply locker.
"I can see it now," Marty said. "One day you're gonna let 'im have it and get your ass fired."
"Won't happen. He's not worth it." I creaked the door open and stared at the pile of brushes, curry combs, rub rags, and cans of hoof oil. "Help me out, Marty. Grooming's a pain right now."
"Sure."
"Hope Bethany's not too dirty."
"She's turned out."
"Oh, shit. I forgot."
"I'll go get her," Marty said.
"Thanks. Bet that's why he wanted to ride her in the first place, 'cause he knew getting her ready would be more work."
"The guy's a genuine, fu-" Marty glanced at me and shut his mouth. "Be back in a sec."
He ended up doing most of the grooming and all the tacking up. When he was finished, I led Bethany into the indoor and waited for Whitcombe. I could see him in the office, talking to Mrs. Hill and one of the boarders. He saw me but pretended he hadn't-typical Whitcombe. I was ready to walk over and tap on the glass, when he pushed out of his chair and walked around to meet us.
He carried a crop in his right hand and absentmindedly slapped it against his boot. Bethany moved away at his approach, subliminally voicing her opinion of who was preparing to climb on her back. I steadied the mare while he checked the girth and stirrups, gathered up the reins, and stood next to the horse with his knee bent, waiting for a leg-up.
Damn. The guy weighed a good one-eighty, and-
"Give me a leg-up, Cline."
"I can't… sir."
"What do you mean, you can't?"
"I, eh… hurt my ribs," I said, trying to keep the distaste I felt for him from showing and conscious I wasn't succeeding.
"You're stinking useless. Here." He jerked on the mare's mouth. "Hold her by the bleachers."
Whitcombe stepped onto the plank. I held Bethany in position, put pressure on the stirrup so the saddle wouldn't slip, and wished he'd get on with it. The ribs were hurting more than I cared to admit. Whitcombe grunted as he hauled himself into the saddle. He swung his leg over the mare's back and almost kicked me in the face.
I glared at him as I stepped back. He wisely didn't look at me, but busied himself with getting organized. He'd done it on purpose; although, to anyone watching, it would have looked like a careless accident.
I left before I said or did something I'd regret.
I went home early, and around eight o'clock, Marty showed up unannounced at my door with a cardboard box loaded down with an assortment of booze.
I fingered a cheap bottle of Gordon's Vodka and whistled. "What's all this?"
"Ale for what ails ya."
He thunked the box down on the counter by the sink, and I shook my head.
"Contrary to what those boys in white think, the medicinal qualities of alcohol are highly underrated. This'll have you straightened out in no time."
"Let me guess. Jessica's at work."
"You fuckin' slay me." He hefted two twelve-packs out of the box.
"Christ," I said. "You intending to break the world record for alcohol consumption, or what?"
"Hey, I knew you wouldn't have shit in this joint."
"Just some wine."
Marty rolled his eyes as he popped the top of what I determined was his second Budweiser. An empty lay in the bottom of the box. He'd gotten a head start on the drive over. I watched as he rooted through the refrigerator and cabinets, found what he wanted, then grabbed a spoon out of the drawer by the stove. He dumped a quart of Land O' Lakes sour cream into a bowl, followed by two packets of dip mix.
"Hungry, are we?" I said.
Marty lifted a bag of UTZ potato chips out of the box, looked at me, and grinned. "Not for long."
I sloshed some vodka into a tall glass and topped it off with some orange juice.
"You always put your mail in the trash?" Marty had dropped the empty sour cream container into the can and was holding a letter from my father between his fingers. "You forgot to open it."
"I didn't forget."
He looked up from the envelope. "Damn, Steve. Don't you wanna know what it says?"
"I know what it says. 'Come back home and go to this college and major in that subject, and I'll get you in at Johns Hopkins or Yale or wherever, and you can have whatever you want as long as it suits me.'" I sat cross-legged on the floor.
"Ain't nothin' wrong with a little bribery, as long as you get what you want in the end. So what if he wants you to follow in his snotty, condescending, ivy-leagued, scalpel-wielding footsteps."
I thought I was going to choke. "How'd you like somebody telling you how and where and when to take a piss?"
Marty shrugged. "Depends what I get in return, I suppose."
I picked up the remote and turned on the CD player.
"Why didn't you finish school, anyway?" Marty said. "With your smarts, not to mention your old man's connections, you could've gone anywhere, done anything, even if you did have to kiss his ass from time to time."
"That's exactly why I didn't." Not to mention the fact that I had felt rudderless, without purpose, and most devastating to me… without passion. Then there was that sour taste I knew I'd have in my mouth if I let him run my life. I swallowed some orange juice, set the glass on the floor, and closed my eyes. I didn't know what I wanted to do with my life, just knew I didn't want to live his.
Marty dragged a kitchen stool around onto the carpet, then perched on it with his heels hooked on the lower rung. "Plus, you'd still have that sweet, motherfuckin' ride of yours. Hell, I would of stayed just for that."
I stared at him and wondered where all this shit was coming from.
"I can't believe he kicked you out just 'cause you quit school."
"He liked control, Marty. Quitting college was only half of it. What really pissed him off was that I went to work on a horse farm. It didn't go with his image, having one of his sons slinging shit for a living. What would his colleagues think? Guess he figured if he kicked me out, I wouldn't make it on my own, and before long, I'd be back home, following his marching orders like a good little boy."