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.'
'I don't know,' Marty said. 'It just don't figure. You'd've thought you'd whacked somebody, the way he treats you. Here you get the shit beat out of you, and you can't even talk to him, can't even go to your own parents for help or-'
'Marty…'
'— support. He's an asshole. He should be proud of you instead of-'
'Marty, quit.'
'You're even defending him, for Christ's sake. And all because you made the wrong fucking career choice.'
'I'm not-'
'He pisses me off. Doesn't he care?'
I was on my feet, and I think that only then did Marty realize what he was doing. 'No.' I glared at him. 'He doesn't care.' I walked over to the audio system, cranked up the volume to some rock 'n roll, and said under my breath, 'He only cares about himself.'
Marty was behind me then, and I hadn't heard him. He put his hand on my shoulder, wanting me to turn around. 'Steve?'
I shrugged him off. I felt like hitting him, but it wasn't Marty I wanted to hit. I stood there and stared at the throbbing green and red lights arcing across the panel in sync with the music. If I stared at them long enough, they blurred together, everything else in the room dissolving into nonexistence.
'They killed him, Marty.' I said softly.
'What?'
'They went to steal some horses, and they killed him.'
I told him about James Peters and watched the animation die out of his face.
At some point, I must have drifted off, because I woke on the floor, in the dark, with a stiff neck. I moved to check my watch and realized Marty had dropped a blanket on top of me. Two o'clock. I staggered to my feet and saw him lying on my bed, on my pillow, under my blankets.
'Fuck.'
Well, at least he'd had the sense not to drive home. I took some pain pills, which I probably shouldn't have, pulled out my sleeping bag, and went back to sleep.
It took all of Sunday to recover from that stunt, but by the time Tuesday morning rolled around, I was halfway to normal. Even the rib pain had settled into a dull ache, noticeable, but no longer annoying.
Like clockwork, Foxdale's farrier bumped his pickup down the lane at precisely seven-fifty-nine on the first Tuesday in March. He swung the truck around, backed up to the barn door, and braked to a halt.
'What've you got for me today, Steve?' Nick asked as he lowered the tailgate.
'Thirteen. You've done them before.' I pulled a crumpled sheet of paper out of my back pocket and handed it to him.
He skimmed the list, grunting at a name or two, then tossed it back at me. I leaned against the barn door and watched him rummage through an assortment of shoes, pads, and nails. Anything an equine athlete might require to produce a winning performance.
Nick was a short, compact man with wiry black hair and a heavily-muscled back from years spent doubled up under the bellies of countless horses. I'd never seen him without a twisted bandanna tied around his head, even in winter, and his thick neck always looked sunburned. Unlike Foxdale's last farrier, Nick always had what we needed in stock, even for the most complicated job. But what I appreciated most was the fact that he actually liked horses. I'd known more than one farrier who behaved as if they didn't like horses at all.
Nick hopped off the tailgate, reached back into the bed, and dragged the anvil toward him. The resultant screech of metal against metal caused me to grit my teeth. When he switched on the forge, I brought out the first horse, a bright chestnut gelding with exceptionally thin soles. He had been one of the most difficult horse I'd ever held for Nick.
'Well, this ol' boy's finally come round,' Nick said, reading my thoughts.
'Thanks to you,' I said.
'No… I think it was your singin' that did it,' he said straight-faced.
I groaned. 'Don't remind me.'
'Well, come on now,' Nick drawled in a hillbilly twang that I had long since concluded was mostly act. 'It was torture all right, but it calmed 'im down. Must have a twisted sense of music.' He ran his hand down the gelding's neck. 'He's finally recovered his trust. Who did 'im before me?'
'Barren.'
'Well then, that explains it. He's screwed up more of 'em than a hooker on a Saturday night.'
I snorted.
We were on the second horse of the day when I heard the hay truck pull down the lane. Since Nick was working at the forge, I cross-tied the mare and told him I'd be back in a minute. I ran outside and caught up with Marty before he got to the truck.
'Marty, wait.'
'What's up?'
'I want you to supervise the unloading. Get some of the guys to help you. Count every bale they throw off that truck. And,' I paused and caught my breath, 'I left a scale in the implement building. It's hung up and ready to go. I want you to weigh bales, say, at twenty-bale intervals. Let me have the figures as soon as you're done.'
