“Remember what I told you, okay? First take the reins over his neck and take hold of them real firm.”
I did.
“Now get your left shoulder against the horse and look down toward his tail.”
I did.
“Okay, now move back toward Fafnir’s shoulder.”
I did. That’s when the script went wrong and Fafnir suddenly moved and a sharp pain jabbed my butt. I hollered like a stuck pig and jumped forward, letting go the reins. I thought for sure the next thing I’d hear was Trey’s hysterical laughter at his horse biting me in the ass.
Instead Trey stood there, shaking his head and not laughing while I rubbed my jeans where Fafnir had nipped me. Fafnir regarded me without an ounce of pity and snorted, stepping away awkwardly.
“What’d I do wrong?” I muttered.
“Nothing. Faf’s being particular.” He took the gelding by the reins and walked him around the barn, murmuring to him and patting his shoulder. I watched, wondering what you said to an ornery horse.
When Trey led Fafnir back up to me, I fidgeted. “I don’t know, Trey. He doesn’t like me much.”
“He just ain’t used to you. He’s a good horse, and you’re gonna ride him today.” A faint smile touched his mouth. “Less you’re too sore to sit in the saddle now.”
“Shut up.” I took the reins again, faced the horse’s end, turned the stirrup, and swung up and into the saddle. Fafnir didn’t budge. I sat in silent amazement for a moment, forgetting what I was supposed to do next.
Trey smiled, and I let myself bask in the glow of his approval. “Now there, young master Jordan. Weren’t so hard, was it?”
“Once we got the ass-biting out of the way, no,” I observed.
“Yeah, I just hope ol’ Faf doesn’t the from that bite. He’s probably been poisoned if he broke your skin.”
“Very funny. If he does it again, I’m calling the glue factory.”
“He’s gonna be just fine. So’re you.” Trey rubbed Fafnir’s shoulder with real affection. I decided not to make any further glue-factory remarks.
Trey walked alongside me, showing me how to urge Fafnir into action. Once I was in the saddle, Fafnir proved willing enough and he didn’t give me much trouble. He was a good horse, like Trey promised.
I surveyed the springtime peacefulness of Hart Quarlander’s horse farm. The live oaks that dotted the banks of Grunewald Creek swayed with their laden branches in the brisk breeze, and the grass gleamed that peculiarly strong green that always follows heavy spring rains. The air smelled fresh and clear and ripe with horse. “The world looks a little different from up here.”
“Don’t it, though? How come you never mentioned wanting to ride before? I’d have taught you long ago.”
I coughed. “My daddy hates horses. He got thrown by one when he was little and broke his arm. He won’t let Sister or me near ’em.”
“But you’re riding today.”
“What Daddy don’t know won’t hurt me.” I laughed.
“Don’t you worry. If he finds out, I’ll tell him it was my idea.”
Daddy and Trey got on like a house afire. Trey’d sweet-talked me out of more than one escapade by conferring with Daddy. Mama remained somewhat suspicious of Trey, but mamas are like that.
“Too bad Arlene didn’t come today,” Trey said, taking in the overarching blue sky. “I guess she’s too snooty to take a riding lesson from a freshman.”
“She’s sweet on Billy Kiblett.” I shrugged. “She spends all her time with him.”
“Billy Kiblett can’t do jackshit ’cept throw a football.”
“Yeah, but in Mirabeau, that’s a highly prized skill. You know that.”
“Bastrop kicked our asses last year ’cause holy Billy Kiblett couldn’t connect with his receivers. What’s so special about him?”
“Hey, Trey. You act like you’re in love with her.” If he could tease me about getting my butt bit, I could retaliate with the suggestion of amorous intentions toward my sister. Who would wriggle more?
“Naw, I ain’t in love with Arlene. She’s a pain in the neck.” He looked off at the line of live oaks near the creek and straightened his hat. “When you’re a better rider, we’ll go for a ride along the creek. It’s real-” His voice broke off. I turned to where he looked.
A man staggered out from the trees in the creek, weaving and walking as though yanked every few moments by invisible strings. Hatless, he kept one chambrayed arm over his eyes against the springtime brightness. He shuffled along toward the main house, barely staying on his feet I saw a leaf tangled in the man’s dark hair and suspected that if I was closer, I’d smell cheap whiskey.
I didn’t say anything; I stared down at the saddle horn. Fafnir snorted.
“Trey-”
“Never mind, Jordy.” There was ice in his voice. “Shit. And it ain’t even noon yet.”
I watched Trey’s daddy yank open the screen door to the Quadlander house and totter inside.
Sitting on the horse made me feel bold. “Why does Mr. Quadlander put up with it, Trey? Why do you?”
He might have punched any of his other friends for such bluntness, but instead he looked up into my eyes and then quickly averted them. “Hart’s a good man. And Daddy only gets drunk some of the time, it ain’t always.”
I remembered when Mama’s uncle Buell drank too much at Christmas a few years back and then was gone from town for a while. Sister and I’d finally found out he’d gone to a rehab place in Bryan, where he quickly dried out and found a new addiction to Jesus. Well, better that than whiskey. Sober and sanctimonious was preferable to drunk and disorderly.
“Trey, listen to me for a minute. There are places your daddy could go, help he could get-”
“Get off the horse, Jordy, I got to go tend to Daddy.” He stared at the house.
“Trey-”
“Look. I know you mean well. I do. But this is my problem. It ain’t yours.” His bottom lip vanished into his mouth and his face couldn’t hide the anguish. “Please.”
I swung down from Fafnir. “I’m sorry. I just want to help you.”
“I don’t need your help, Jordy. Go back to your perfect father and let me tend to mine.” He took Faf’s reins from my hands. “Why-why don’t you just wait out here? I’ll get Faf situated and I’ll call your folks to come pick you up.”
“I could help you with your daddy,” I said softly. “I could brew him some coffee. I remember when Uncle Buell-”
“I don’t want your help!” he screamed at me, and Fafnir whinnied, eyes rolling in panic at the noise. The horse’s reaction brought Trey back. “Please. I can take care of my own problems. I don’t need anybody’s help. Just wait out here.”
“All right.” I turned toward the oaks and creek. I wondered how many bottles of whiskey Louis Slocum had emptied, sitting between the gnarled roots of the trees. Then I heard the gunshots.
I whirled around. The world shimmered with unreal light. The farm was gone. The grass was gone. Fafnir was gone. There was only Trey, a grown man, dying, lying with three wounds in his back, staring helplessly at me through a mask of blood.
I snapped awake in bed, the gasp of horror caught in my throat. Dim moonlight silvered my bedroom. Long, shuddering breaths emptied my chest. The November chill pressed against the window and I felt the uncomfortable dampness of sweat cooling the sheets. I pushed the bedclothes away and pulled on a robe. I sat by my window and stared out at the crescent moon, hanging like a cut nail above the fingers of the trees. The clouds had scudded away, to take rain and darkness south toward Victoria and Corpus Christi.
I put my face in my hands. The dream had been eerie in its exactness, more like a half-waking memory than some Jungian exercise in symbolism. Why on earth would I remember that incident now? It had teen the first real time I’d gone horseback riding, the first of many happy hours riding with Trey. It’d also been the first time Trey’d spoken openly of his father’s drinking. The drinking that had finally put Louis Slocum in his grave five years ago, nearly a year to the day that Trey walked out of all of our lives.