Like a Woman (20 page)

She ducked through a side door and headed over to the row of brass-plated hooks lining the tack room wall. A bright green halter and rope hung beneath the filly's nameplate: “Fancy Dancer,” out of “Shall We Dance.” Mrs. Gordon had told Taylor that Shall We Dance had been a seven-time winner at Santa Anita before pulling up lame and getting turned out to stud. They had high hopes for his daughter. “Fancy Dancer, Pain in the Antser,” Taylor grumbled, reaching for the halter. She tossed the lead rope over her shoulder and headed back out, stopping at the grain bin to fill her pockets with the hippie food she'd just learned rich people fed to their horses.
If I gotta be out there chasing some damn horse
, Taylor thought,
I'm damn well gonna bring me something good to eat
.

Taylor walked down the row of paddocks she had shoveled clean that morning, noticing that they all had steaming piles of fresh manure. The horses came up to the fence, curious, expectant. “What do you want from me?” Taylor growled. “Is this how it's gonna be? I feed it in one end and shovel it out the other? Three times a day. What a life.” Her boss's trail horse, Rusty, the old paint gelding in the end corral, gave a soft nicker as Taylor approached. She stopped to stroke his neck and rub behind his ears, hesitating before climbing into the corral with the wild filly. “Hey, why don't you just tell your girlfriend over there to come on over,” Taylor asked the gelding. He nuzzled her pockets for grain.

Taylor looked around to see if anyone was watching.

“Hey, maybe you'd let me practice this halter contraption on you a couple times before I try it on Miss Wild Thang out there.” She unhooked the halter's throatlatch and slipped it up over Rusty's head, catching one of his ears, tangling up his forelock. He pushed her chest softly with his head, protesting. She pulled his ear clear, tucked the headpiece down into the bridal path, and buckled the throat strap, straightening Rusty's mane. “Damn, this thing is a lot harder to put on a real live horse head,” Taylor said, stroking Rusty's neck.

The day before her interview she'd hitchhiked out to Calabasas Feed and Tack and practiced for an hour putting halters on the plastic life-sized model of Roy Rogers' horse Trigger. But Trigger stood still. Getting this halter on a moving target was a tricky operation.

Taylor practiced a few more times with Rusty till she had it pretty well figured. “Well, old guy, thanks for lending me your sweet old head. Guess I'd better go try this on your girlfriend over there.”

Fancy Dancer grazed in the next pasture, keeping an eye on the girl.

“Hey, Fancy Schmancy,” Taylor called out, climbing into the corral. “Let's get this over with so I can go back to bed.” The filly raised her head, watching the girl approach. Taylor moved slow, humming a Rolling Stones song, swinging the halter in her left hand, holding the lead rope in her right. When she got within twenty feet of the filly, Taylor stopped, unsure. She stood facing the filly. “Please don't make this difficult,” Taylor pleaded.

She held out the halter, raising it up in what she hoped was a beckoning gesture. Fancy Dancer tossed her head and bolted across the field, stopping a few hundred yards away. Taylor cursed and followed after her. Again and again the horse let Taylor get within fifteen or twenty feet of her and then took off, just out of range. Taylor limped after her, cursing.

Taylor began to sweat in the low winter sun. She wanted to cry. She wanted to shoot the damn horse or at least kick it with her stupid pointy cowboy boots. Her feet were killing her and she could barely stand up. The filly wasn't even out of breath. The girl and the young horse faced one another, about thirty feet apart, both braced, ready for the next thing. Taylor wished she had a rope, wished she knew how to cross the distance between them, wished she could somehow just fling out a circle of rope and have it land easy on the horse's neck like they did in the movies, pull her in, have something work for a change. She wished she didn't need this job so bad, wished she didn't feel it was all slipping away from her. Taylor took in a deep breath and started walking slowly toward the filly. When she got within ten feet, she stopped, and slowly raised up the halter. Fancy Dancer bolted.

“Goddamn stupid piece of shit horse,” Taylor yelled, throwing the halter after her. “Goddamn worthless mule. Why you fucking with me like this?” Taylor ran after the horse, picking up the halter, waving it in the air, chasing the horse away. “Go on, run away. See if I care. Just get the fuck outta here.”

Taylor ran, stumbling, crying, shaking the halter, swinging the lead rope over her head, driving the horse away. She fell to the ground, exhausted, beyond tears, wondering what would happen if she just laid there, never got up.

When Taylor finally looked up, the filly had circled back around behind her and was pacing back and forth, head low to the ground. Taylor slowly raised up to her knees, trying to keep her eyes low. Fancy Dancer raised her head, facing the girl. She flared her nostrils and snorted loudly, scaring the shit out of Taylor who had never heard such a thing. Taylor stopped, stunned, really noticing the filly for the first time. A tall, glossy bay, Fancy Dancer was almost black, her dark brown coat shiny, steaming in the cool air. Her mane and tail were jet black, as were her legs, except for a white sock on her front left fetlock. Her forehead was broad with a white lightning streak across it; her eyes, which Taylor saw clearly now, were large dark pools, filled with intelligence and spirit. “Damn,” Taylor said. “Who are you, anyway? You are so fucking beautiful.”

The filly widened her eyes and snorted again, sniffing for danger. Taylor reached out her hand and the horse bolted, hooves pounding, sending clods of dirt flying. This time, though, she circled tight around Taylor, keeping her inside ear up, open and flat, listening. Taylor stood still, in awe of the creature's beauty. She watched the filly's shoulder muscles lengthen, then contract with each stride. The young horse's uncut mane blew wild as she ran, her breath steaming the cool air.

“Yeah, you go on ahead and take off,” Taylor told the filly. “I don't blame you. People chasing after you all the time, running you down with ropes and halters. Why the fuck should you let me catch you, anyway?” Taylor took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “It sure would be nice if you did, though. If I lose this job, I gotta go back out on the streets and there ain't nothing but trouble waiting for me there. You think you got it bad here, shit, you oughta check out the streets. Here you just gotta stand around, look pretty, get hay thrown at you, and only every once in a while have some clown with a rope come in and mess with you. Out there,
everybody
be trying to mess with you, every minute of the night and day. Mess with you in ways you didn't even think was invented yet.”

Taylor looked down at the ground. The filly lowered her head, relaxing her neck. Taylor saw the movement and raised her eyes quick back to the young horse. Fancy Dancer jerked her head back up, tensing her neck, ready to run.

“I'm not gonna bother you none, girl. I already decided that. It's okay.” Taylor turned her shoulder to the filly and looked back toward the house. “Coulda been a cool job, too.” As the girl turned away, the horse moved in toward her a stride or two. Taylor looked back in surprise and the filly stopped, tensing. “You're kind of curious about me, aren't you, girl?” Taylor asked, her voice low, soothing. She lowered her gaze to the horse's neck and noticed Fancy Dancer relax again. “Okay, we got something going here. Maybe you're not so tough after all. Maybe you're just like me and all them other punks. Acting all tough on the outside, playing like don't nothin' matter, then movin' in to check shit out when we think no one's looking.”

Taylor kept on talking, keeping her voice low and easy, watching Fancy Dancer for clues. On a hunch, Taylor turned and started slowly walking away. The filly began to follow her. Taylor turned back to face her. The young horse stopped, ready to run but not running. Taylor saw the horse's mouth relax, making small chewing movements. Its eyes were wide, ears forward, alert. Taylor turned and continued walking away, Fancy Dancer following close behind. She turned and walked in another direction and the horse kept following her.

“Damn, I was right.” Taylor laughed. “I think you're just like me. I think you want some company. You just don't want somebody chasing after you, all rude and all. Hell, I don't want that either. Only difference is, you're a better runner than me. Me, I just gotta stand my ground and fight the motherfuckers.” Taylor looked down, kicking a little hole in the dirt with her boot. “Dammit, see, that's why I don't want to go back out there. Somebody gonna get killed. You understand?” Fancy Dancer pawed the ground a couple of times, then took a few steps toward the girl.

Taylor's breath caught. She turned and looked up at the filly. Fancy Dancer startled, tensed up, ready to run. Taylor looked away. “You don't like me looking straight at you, do you, girl? Yeah, I can understand that. I seen people like that before. Billy, this friend's pimp I know, you just try and look at that guy any way but below his chest and that sucker'll pull a knife on you quicker than you can spit. Hates people looking in his eyes.”

Taylor sighed. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the filly watching her, head low, mouth chewing, relaxed again.

“So you like it when I talk, huh, girl? Okay. I can keep talking. That's one thing I know how to do real good.” Taylor talked low, keeping her eyes away from the filly. She crouched back down and tore off a small branch of chaparral, pinching off the thin needle like leaves. “So, what you want to know, anyway? Wanna know my pitiful life story? Wanna hear how I fight the bums out behind Montgomery Wards each night for the privilege of sleeping in a cardboard box? How I raid the dumpsters for food? How every night I wake up to find some guy's dick poking round me, looking for a hole? Nah, that shit don't matter. I can take care of all that.”

Taylor felt the filly move in closer.

“Okay, you probably wanna know what I
can't
handle. Besides you, that is. I'll tell you what I can't handle. I can't handle that I'm turning out just like them. I can't handle that the other night I almost killed someone. No, I can handle that. What I can't handle is that I almost liked it. I was getting ready to blow this trick in his El Dorado down on Sunset, had the clown's money and everything, hands on his pants, ready to go when the asshole starts talking about how much I look like his daughter. Now, I've heard that shit a hundred times before, but somehow this time it just works me and then the motherfucker puts his hand on my tit and starts calling me his little girl and next thing I know I got my knife up against the john's throat, screaming at him, ‘If you ever touch your daughter again I'll kill you!' I watch his face get all pink and blotchy, eyes bulging out, his fear stink filling up the car, piss leaking out, staining his fancy pants, staining his fancy leather seats and I want to cut the motherfucker so bad it hurts. You understand? I
want
to do him.”

Taylor snapped the branch and looked over at the filly. Fancy Dancer was about ten feet away, head down, moving closer. Taylor kept her shoulder turned from the filly, her eyes down a little. She stayed totally still, silent, and let the horse approach her. Fancy Dancer came slowly up, a step at a time, till Taylor could feel the filly's hot breath blowing on her cheek. The filly lowered her head, nuzzling into her shoulder. Taylor slowly let out her breath. She felt Fancy Dancer's lips pulling at her pocket.

“You like this hippie food, too?” Taylor asked real soft, slowly reaching for the grain. She pulled out a handful and let out a small sigh at the feel of horse lips soft against her palm. Taylor raised her other hand up and began to gently rub the filly's neck. It felt warm and solid. “Girl, this might just work,” she sighed, moving her hand up, stroking the crest of Fancy Dancer's mane.

Taylor moved away a few more times, letting the horse come to her, giving her grain, stroking her head and neck. Keeping her voice low and easy, Taylor picked up the halter and began to rub it against the filly's neck, letting her smell it, nuzzle it, mouth it.

“That's it, girl. Easy now. I'm just gonna slip this on over your head. We gonna be friends. You gonna help me keep my job and I'm gonna make sure nobody else messes with you. Easy, girl.” Taylor slipped the halter on Fancy Dancer, buckling it quickly under her neck, still rubbing her head, talking easy.

Taylor began walking toward the house, the young horse following close behind, nuzzling her right shoulder. When they got close to the paddock area, Taylor clipped the lead rope on, again letting Fancy Dancer smell and mouth it first. The horse stayed close, the lead rope slack. Taylor saw Dutch standing on the front porch, pointing her out to Mr. and Mrs. Gordon. She tried not to limp as she walked the last few hundred feet up to the fence.

The Gordons came up to the corral, looking in awe at their transformed horse, the filly tucking her head into Taylor's back, nuzzling her shoulder. “How did you ever do that?” Mrs. Gordon asked. “That horse has been wild since the day we got her. No one has been able to even get a halter on her. She just about killed Carl, you know.”

Taylor looked down. “Aw, I don't know.” She shrugged. “Just something I was born with, I guess. Yeah, I got me a pretty special way with animals. We speak the same language. Maybe it's some thing I picked up from my daddy. He was real good with horses, too, you know. He had him a bunch of 'em back home. Yeah, guess I just got me a natural gift.”

Taylor noticed Dutch sitting on the porch rail, laughing, shaking his head, shuffling some cards, catching her eye.

of species, class & gender

a neighbor called today. she said she' d seen tracks. she said a rancher across the valley had seen two mountain lions mating. she said she'd called in her cats, her child, her dog, and that we should do the same. i watch as her dog, a large, standard-bred poodle, dances away from her call. white, ethereal, absurd against the chaparral, he floats off into the hills. down the road mr. decker tells how a lion killed a doe right out in his apple orchard. “i didn't know a deer could scream so loud,” he said, shuffling out some hay to the two spotted fawns standing wobbly legged under the trees, nibbling on fallen fruit. refusing to leave the place they last received their mother's nuzzle
.