Gift Horse (6 page)

I led Scar back to her stall. Nobody objected, not even Scar. But when I let her go, her ears shot back, and she tried to bite me again.
Like owner, like horse.

When I came back to the arena, Richard was talking to Dr. Stutzman.

As soon as Richard stopped for a breath, I jumped in. “Dr. Stutzman, I need you to come by my place.”

“New problem horse?” he asked.

“I've got a horse I'm pretty sure is close to foaling. But she's not in good shape.”

He packed up his doctor's bag. “I'll be right over and—”

“You're not finished here,” Richard interrupted.

Doc snapped his bag shut. “I thought that was the last of them, Richard.”

“Two more in the hot walkers,” Richard said, picking up Doc's bag and walking out to where Spidells kept their “exerciser.” That hot walker looks like a big wagon wheel turned on its side, with the rim kicked off. Horses tied into it plod around in little circles. That way nobody has to ride them. When I worked at Stable-Mart, I made it my mission to free as many horses as I could from that contraption. I didn't work there long.

Summer, still on the other side of the arena, shouted, “You should stay and make sure those shots don't cause ugly lumps.”

Doc scratched his head. “Sorry, Winnie. I guess it will be a while before I get to your barn, but I'll get there.”

It was as good as I was going to get. “Thanks, Doc.”

Outside, Nickers had pulled Catman almost into the stable. I cupped my hands and gave him a leg up. Then I climbed on in front. The temperature must have dropped 10 degrees.

“Can we stop by my pad?” Catman asked.

I knew Richard would keep the vet as long as he could, so there wasn't any rush. I headed Nickers toward the Coolidges'.

We took the back roads through pastures, across a creek, and up the hill to Coolidge Lane. When Coolidge Castle came into view, Nickers snorted. She'd seen the place before, but even I'm never quite ready for the old house. The first time I saw it, I was sure it was deserted and maybe haunted. All three of its stories need a coat of paint, and a few of the windows are boarded up.

Nickers pawed the ground and pranced in place as we got closer.

“What's wrong, girl?” I asked.

Then I saw what had her spooked. It wasn't the house; it was the Christmas decorations. On the strip of lawn where Mr. and Mrs. Coolidge proudly display lawn ornaments for every season, were more Santas than I'd ever seen. More than existed in the whole town of Ashland. More than the whole state of Ohio, maybe.

“Your folks have outdone themselves,” I told Catman.

Not all of the Santas were your typical North Pole variety. I recognized the Seven Dwarfs I'd seen carrying shovels and tools for Labor Day. They sported Santa suits now. There were Santa mice, squirrels, porcupines, foxes, wolves, and a moose. And in the middle stood a Santa bear the size of Rhode Island.

“They've only just begun,” Catman warned, sliding off Nickers' rump before I could tell him not to.

“Calvin!” Mrs. Coolidge's voice drifted around the house from the backyard. “We're back here!”

I slid off Nickers, and Catman pulled out some hay he stores under his porch just for Nickers' visits. We left my horse happily munching alfalfa as I followed Catman to the back of the house. There we found Mr. and Mrs. Coolidge, dressed from head to toe in matching red snowsuits. They were patting snow onto the tiniest snowman I'd ever seen, about the size of a colt's head. With only a dusting of snow on the ground, it was amazing they'd been able to pull together enough snow for even that.

“Winnie!” Mrs. Coolidge ran at me, flinging her mittens off as she crossed the back lawn.

I was glad I had my stocking cap on. Claire Coolidge works at a beauty parlor in Ashland, where they still use curlers and make you sit under a hair dryer. For some reason she loves my wild, bushy hair.

“What I wouldn't give for just
this
much hair!” she exclaimed, fingering the ends of my hair that stuck out of my cap. “One of these days when your back is turned, Winnie, I'm going to cut it all off and glue it onto my head!”

Note to self: Never turn your back on Claire Coolidge.

Bart Coolidge, owner of Smart Bart's Used Cars, walked toward us, a camera blocking his face. “Say ‘Chevy'!” he commanded. He looked different with his bald head covered by the red hood. But I could see the top of his Tweety Bird tie peeking out of his snowsuit.

“I take a lousy picture,” I warned. “What's with the mini-snowman?”

Mrs. Coolidge gasped and dashed back to the snow figure as if it were a child she'd forgotten about. “Contest,” she explained.

Catman says his parents earn more from winning contests than from his dad's car business.

Mr. Coolidge knelt in front of the snowman, turned the camera in all directions and snapped, like a modeling session, only the model didn't move. “Vacation for four in lovely Aspen—all expenses paid! First prize for the best snowman. Deadline tomorrow. Not to worry . . . magnifying zoom lens.”

He stood up suddenly. “Sa-a-ay! What did Smart Bart say to Santa as the famous used-car salesman, in his '64 Mustang, passed the jolly man and his reindeer on Christmas Eve?”

I was already cracking up. “I give.”

“‘You
slay
me!' Get it? You
sleigh
me?” Mr. Coolidge's laugh came in windy puffs, like a horselaugh.

“Time to split,” Catman announced.

I tried to follow Catman, but Mr. Coolidge wouldn't let me.

“So,” Mr. Coolidge bellowed, like he was playing to a comedy club, “Santa Claus moved to the rain forest and traded in his sleigh for a Chevy convertible from Smart Bart's Used Cars. ‘It will be just the thing,' Santa explained, ‘for delivering presents all over the world on Christmas Eve!' Mrs. Claus shook her head, obviously not convinced. ‘Only if it doesn't
rain, dear.'
 ” Mr. Coolidge laughed so hard he choked, and his wife had to whack him on the back. “Get it?
‘Reindeer'?
I got a million of 'em!”

Once inside Coolidge Castle, a dozen cats swarmed past Catman as he made his way toward the phone. I looked again at the closed red velvet drapes, the huge chandeliers that shone light on the wood floors, the winding staircases, and the old-fashioned furniture that always makes me feel like I've stepped inside a 100-year-old book. Then I ducked down the hall, past tapestry-covered walls, to visit the newest litter of kittens.

I recognized three of the four kittens who came to greet me—Hanson, Griffin, and Miffin. Believe it or not, they're named after the first presidents of the United States. Catman taught me that. Under the
Articles of Confederation,
eight men were elected president for a one-year term each. John Hanson was “the first President of the United States in Congress Assembled.”

Catman finished his phone call. Then we took off. I let Nickers trot and even canter back to the barn. I didn't want to miss the vet, just in case he got away from Spidells' sooner than expected.

But when we got there, nobody was in the barn except the poor mare. While I cooled off Nickers, Catman jumped into the stall with Gracie and brushed her.

When I finished with Nickers, I joined Catman in Gracie's stall and examined her for myself again. “I think she's really close, Catman.” When horses are about three weeks away from dropping foal, the udders swell with milk, then go down again. Hers were staying swollen.

When the vet finally showed, he went to the house first, and Lizzy and Dad walked him out to the barn. Doc looked the mare over, took her temperature, and drew blood.

“I'll take this back and run it through the lab,” Doc said, holding up the tube of dark red blood. “I could do an ultrasound, but we don't need it. “I think it's safe to say Winnie's right. She's with foal.”

“Sweet!” Lizzy exclaimed. “A baby horse! Not that I'll want to cuddle it. I know it's silly, but they still scare me, even the little ones. Still, this is just so . . . so . . . Christmasy!”

“Well, don't get too hopeful,” Doc said, stroking the mare's neck. His face looked pained, like he'd seen too much already.

It's what people say about me sometimes. “I can see the pain in your face, Winnie,” Pat Haven had said only a week after we'd moved to Ashland.

“I knew it,” Dad muttered. “That horse isn't going to make it, is she, Doctor?”

I glanced at Catman. Then we both turned to Doc Stutzman. I could feel my heart pounding like horses' hooves against my chest. “Tell Dad he's wrong,” I whispered.

Doc pressed his lips together, turning them white. “I'm sorry, Winnie. This poor mare is used up. I don't think she can deliver the foal alive. I'm afraid you're going to lose both of them.”

“You're wrong!” I screamed. “She's not
that
sick! And the foal—”

“The foal may be fine now,” Doc admitted. “But that doesn't help us much if the mare's too weak to give birth. And she
is
too weak. I think you know that, Winnie.”

I wanted to hit him, to make him stop.

“Is there anything you can do?” Dad asked.

Doc shook his head. “I could try a C-section, but the mare would never survive cutting the foal out. And even if we were willing to sacrifice the mare for the foal, I don't think it would work. As malnourished as this mare is, her foal needs every possible day in the womb if it's going to survive outside of the womb.”

“Man. Bummer. Downer.” Catman paced the stall like a nervous Thoroughbred.

Doc rubbed the mare behind the ears. “They've got a facility at Ohio State that does some experimental procedures. But it's a lot for a mare to go through.” He glanced at Dad. “And your bill would be in the thousands. I'm willing to do whatever you decide, hear? I don't like losing an animal any more than you do.”

I wanted them all to leave. Even Catman. I couldn't stand seeing the pain in
his
face.

The vet told us to talk about it and let him know if we needed him to “take care of it.”