Candace Carrabus - Dreamhorse 01 - On the Buckle (9 page)

I grabbed my baseball cap and pulled my hair through the opening in the back.

Henrietta was nowhere in sight, which made me nervous, but I didn’t have time to look for her. Hank had parked the manure spreader at the top of the hill. His tractor looked more like a jolly green bulldozer with four back wheels taller than me and a scoop on the front-loader big enough to pick up a car. He shut the giant down when he saw me.

“We’ll hitch the spreader to the Laird’s Ford, and I’ll show you how to run it.”

“Sure,” I said, wondering about ear protection. Hadn’t anyone in the tractor business heard of mufflers? “Does everyone call him the Laird? Should I?”

“Hell no. He hates it. That’s why’s I does it. Ever since he came back from that school in Scotland. He was tellin’ me and Clara about it one night and the history and whatnot and I took to callin’ him that after. Pisses him off right royal, it does.”

“Why do you do it, then?”

“I known him since he was born. No need of him to start puttin’ on airs thirty-two years later. Just remindin’ him where he came from, is all.”

Made sense, in a convoluted way. Either that, or the fumes from the manure pile were getting to me.

“How often does he wear that kilt?”

Hank gave me a look, like he was trying to figure out why I asked. I knew the moment he found an answer he liked because it made him smile.

“Most the time.”

I could get used to most of the time. No, less distracting if he didn’t. Better to remember Malcolm was a prick the last time I saw him.

“We gonna get this shit moved today, or stand out here yammerin’ or what?”

“Let’s go,” I said.

Mr. Malcolm’s tractor sat under the shed along the north side of the barn. I hadn’t ventured over there yet. The gooseneck horse trailer was backed into the front of the shed, and in between sat a square baler. Or so Hank explained. Okay, so I’m a typical consumer. I’ve fed hay to horses all my life—bought, unloaded, and stacked it. I’ve never seen it baled and cannot figure out how this contraption does it.
 
Hank pointed out a hay rake, too, which didn’t look anything like any rake I’d ever seen before.

He showed me how to start the tractor and pointed out the clutch, gas, and brake. My truck was a stick, so I eased out the clutch and backed clear of the shed. Attached to long arms on the front of the tractor there was some other mean-looking farm implement with three, thick metal spikes—two short and one long—each with sharp points. I pointed at them.

“What’s that for?”

“Bale spear,” Hank answered. At my blank look he added, “To pick up them big round bales.”

I don’t know what I’d expected, but doing hay on the farm was not going to be it. I made a mental note to stay far away from the bale spear. That thing could skewer a person or two and never know the difference.
 

Hank jumped on the back, rode to where he’d left the manure spreader, and hitched it up when I got close enough.

“Okay,” he yelled.

I turned the gas down to lower the noise and cupped my ear to hear him better.

“Wait a minute, and I’ll bring up a scoop. Then, I’ll show you where to empty it.”

I nodded and gave him a thumbs up. For an old guy, he moved easily, swinging into the seat of his green John Deere with the flexibility of a much younger man. The diesel engine roared, and smoke poured from the stack.
 

I looked the spreader over while I waited. It had two long handles sticking up at the front that connected via cables to gears at the back. A chain connected the rear axle and gears. Three bars crossed the open back end—two with eight-inch rods along their length—a third had fan-like blades. I couldn’t wait to see the thing in action.

In a minute, Hank came up with a scoop full of steaming compost—the kind of stuff people back East pay gobs of money for. I’d read once that a pile like this could get as hot as one-hundred-seventy-five degrees. He dumped it, and the weight pushed down on the hitch, lowering the tractor an inch or so. I squeezed my eyes shut and pulled the neck of my tee-shirt over my nose.
 

Hank climbed onto the hitch behind me, and pointed toward the road between the riding ring and pasture. Now, I saw a trail of dark-brown straw and a few horse turds he’d left on the previous run. I stood to jam the tractor into second gear and followed the road through an opening in a barbed wire fence to a field. On the far side, I could see the roof of Hank’s house, over half a mile away. He told me to shut the engine off, and we both went to look at the spreader.

“Squeeze this handle and pull this lever back to here, see?”

When I nodded, he continued, “Make sure it hits this notch.” He pointed to a knobby half-circle then led me to the back. Somewhere between the front and back, I zoned out while he explained the machine’s intricacies. He showed me how to set the lever that engaged the axle, then glanced at the sky. The day had turned cool.

“Be good to get some rain over top of this. Let’s get it spread before it starts.”
 

I hopped onto the tractor and fired it up.

“Slow and steady,” Hank yelled.

The spreader started as soon as I moved forward. I thought the tractor was loud. This thing clanged and clanked and thumped and jangled like an army of one-man-bands trying to outdo each other. The pile inside slowly moved to the back, and then, the shit hit the fan. Literally. Manure flew through the air and out to either side for twenty feet. It was fabulous. I laughed, then had to jerk the wheel before I drove into a ditch on the side of the field.

Off to the west, a heavy gray line of clouds edged over the tops of the trees. Maybe Hank was right. I hadn’t turned on a television since I arrived, had no idea what the weatherman was calling for.

I’d never been so out of touch, but rather than being nervous, I felt calm. The drone and vibration of the tractor were mesmerizing. And the slow but steady pace—was this the right speed to take life? I could easily view my surroundings at this rate, and still think…once I got earplugs.

I made a wide turn at the far end and headed toward Hank again. That’s when the spreader shuddered and screeched like a blender trying to puree wet wood. The whole mechanism stopped.

“Something’s stuck,” I shouted to Hank.

He jogged across the field. “Shut it off.”

I did and climbed down to inspect it hoping no one had ditched something stupid into the mix. Good, hot, compost can decompose almost anything. Which is great, but it doesn’t necessarily mean you’d want it spread on a field used to grow food.

Hank joined me. He lifted his MFA cap, stroked his bald head, scratched his neck, then dropped the cap into place. “Probly a gotdamned chain broke.”

I flicked bits of straw and manure from the spreader’s edge with the back of my hand, wishing I’d put on gloves. Nothing obvious showed in the large hump of compost still inside the box. I continued around the back. Sunlight flashed on something shiny beneath the bottom row of blades. My eyes registered the image before me, but my brain refused to process it.
 

It was a toe guard.
 

The kind found on the point of a western boot.
 

Like the ones Norman wore.
 

This toe guard was still attached to a western boot.
 

A black fake alligator western boot like Norman had been wearing the last time I saw him that now had one of the spreader blades cutting into it.
 

Beyond the top of the boot, I could see an inch of blue jeans, a leg that disappeared beneath the ponderous load, nothing else. The fine hairs on the back of my neck lifted, and the air crossing my sweaty skin suddenly felt icy.

Hank edged over, picking up on my vibe. He did what I should have, but couldn’t. He poked it—with a big screwdriver he pulled from his belt. Like you would poke a snake or anything else you didn’t want to touch. There wasn’t a screwdriver in the world big enough to make me willing to poke a boot sticking out the back of a manure spreader.

Hank’s voice, when he spoke, sounded like two emery boards scraping together. “Still attached,” he said.

I covered my mouth and forced myself to breathe, took a step back. “You think—”

“I think there’s a foot in there, but that’s all I’m willin’ to specalate on. Stay here. I’m callin’ the sheriff.”

“Oh, no. I’m not staying alone with…could he be…?”
Alive
was what I was thinking. That seemed impossible.

Hank went to the spreader’s box, paused a moment, scooped a handful of compost away, then another. He turned to me, and I saw his age on him for the first time. His eyes lacked their usual spark, and his tattered-linen-shirt-face was more threadbare than ever. He shook his head.

“He ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

I stumbled after him. We left both tractor and spreader where I’d stopped. The breeze picked up behind us, bringing the clouds closer, but for the moment, the sun still cast our shadows to the side.
 

Shit. Norman did not burrow into the manure pile on purpose. Someone put him there. Some time since the day before. Some time…while I’d been out? It had to have been. Noire would have barked if she’d heard anyone. Then again, given the stupor I was in, I might not have heard her.
 

Inside the tack room, Hank dragged a rotary phone from under a pile of notebooks and magazines. I hadn’t had a chance to tidy or dust this area yet. I grabbed the stack from him and realized what I held were ledgers and records for Winterlight. They felt real and substantial, and I hugged them to my chest. But it didn’t help. I dropped onto the loveseat, then stood. I just couldn’t get past imagining Norman cooked in the manure pile. Imagining what had happened and why and who. And knowing it had all gone on right outside my window. Jesus, why was I spooking myself like this?
 

“That’s right,” Hank said into the phone. “The Malcolm place. We’ll be here.”

He put the receiver down. “You okay over there?”

Through the window, I could see three vultures circling the field. “No.”

He dialed the phone again. “Clara? Get over here, pronto. Huh? Hell no, I ain’t hurt. I’ll explain later. Bring some tea.”
 

Hank and Clara were crazy if they thought a glass of iced tea could fix this. Unless it was a Long Island Iced Tea.
 

He hung up, dialed more numbers—long distance. “That you Dex? We got a sit-ee-ation here. You catch it on the scanner? Might could help if you come on out. Figured you’d already be on your way, anyways. Sure, call him, that’d be good.” He paused, listening. “Huh? How the hell should I know if she’s freaked?” He spat the word like it tasted bad, pressed the receiver to his chest, and addressed me. “You freaked?”

Freaked didn’t begin to cover it. This was going to take a whole case of chocolate whipped cream. Maybe two. I shook my head no.

“No, she ain’t freaked. Not yet, anyways. But hurry.”

- 8 -

For a few minutes, light streaked through the barn windows and lit dust motes floating in the air. Then, the lowering clouds swallowed the sun, and the interior of the barn dimmed. First, I found Noire and held her close. That helped ease the tightness in my chest, but I longed for Penny to put my arms around, or, more specifically, to put her arms around me.
 

I began cleaning a stall, shoveling dirty bedding as hard as I could pump my arms until I was so out of breath, I had to stop and lean on the shovel. Noire stayed near and thumped her tail each time I looked at her. That was her way of offering encouragement.

Clara appeared and handed me a plastic cup of iced tea. She wore sweat pants that showed off her cellulite and bulges. Despite that, for a woman of at least seventy years, she looked in good shape, not unlike her husband, Hank. By the dirt on her knees, she must have been digging in the garden when he called her to my rescue. I forced the drink past my dry tongue so fast it dribbled over my chin. It had too much sugar, and it didn’t fix anything, but it hit the spot. Only then did I realize the futility of my frenzy. No way was I going to push the wheelbarrow outside or anywhere near the manure pile.
 

I handed Clara the empty cup. “Thanks. You think it’s okay if I go upstairs?”

She smiled a motherly smile. “Of course, sweetie.” She patted my arm. “You’ve had a terrible shock.” She shook her head, glanced in the direction of the…situation. “Terrible. We’ll let ya know if we need you. I brought some pie. You want and take a piece up with you?”

The thought of Clara’s sickly-sweet pie made my head spin. What I needed was to lie down. “I don’t think I could eat just now. Maybe later.”

“You sure you want to be alone?”

“Just for a while. I’ll be all right. Thanks.”

Numb, that’s what I was. I’d never seen a dead body before. Not a human, anyway. Okay, so all I’d seen was a foot—boot—but that was enough. A dead boot. I hadn’t even tried to see what Hank uncovered. Later it’d sink in, and I’d have some other reaction, but right then, I didn’t feel a thing. I trudged up the steps to my apartment, went straight to the refrigerator, grabbed the chocolate Reddi-wip, and filled my mouth.