Ripples Through Time (12 page)

She moved him to one of the bathing stalls and tied him up,
then she proceeded to fill a pair of buckets with warm water. The water heater
wasn’t the most impressive, so lukewarm would have to do. She carried the
buckets back over, splashing quite a bit of water onto her arms and legs as she
walked.

Noble Land Sam stood in the center of the bath stall, still
tossing his head, but his breathing had slowed to normal. He tried to nip while
she washed his legs off and she swatted him on the nose with a sponge.

Her father watched, leaning against the tack trunk and
folding his arms. This was only the third time she’d performed the cool down
routine without his guidance, and she knew he was making sure she didn’t miss
anything. These were living animals, he always told her.

It would be easy to forget something, to accidentally leave
some equipment on them. Or forget to water them. Or forget to feed them. So
many things to do that sometimes one would just slip the mind.

But forgetting that the horse needed water after a workout
was a dangerous mistake to make. ‘Like the difference between owning a
typewriter and a gun,’ her father always said. ‘Make an error with a typewriter
and you just stick another sheet in and start over. But if you owned a gun, the
stakes were higher. You couldn’t afford to make any mistake. Ever. The first
mistake you made could very well be your last.’

‘People are only worth what their responsibilities make
them,’ he liked to tell her.

Once the grooming process became habit, she knew, it would
be easy. But until then, she was terrified she would forget something. Or that
she would hurt the animal.

She used a concave scraper to squeegee excess water off of
him after his bath, and then she grabbed a towel to rub him down. It didn’t
really matter right now in this heat, but in the middle of the winter putting
him away dripping wet was a sure-fire way to make him sick.

Then she took out the Cool Green—it was mostly menthol and
camphor, her father had told her—and started rubbing it onto the horse’s legs.
She put it on all of the legs, even though she was only planning on wrapping
one. She loved the way the camphor smelled. Fresh and clean. It made her hands
tingle. 

“Here’s a wrap,” her father said once she finished rubbing
it on the horse’s legs.

“Front right?”

“Front right,” he agreed. She knelt down, first wrapping the
large padded cloth around the leg and then using a long black cloth wrap to
hold it in place.

Or at least that was the plan. She managed to make two clean
passes before the horse shifted his weight and took a step. She lost her grip
and spilled the wrap onto the floor. She tried to catch it and only succeeded
in tangling the entire thing.

“Tighter,” her father admonished, kneeling down next to her.
He gently took the wrap from her and rerolled it into a ball. “It needs to be
tighter or it won’t hold, but not so tight it cuts off circulation. If the wrap
comes loose in his stall when we aren’t here and he hooks it on something he
could really hurt himself.”

“Okay,” she said. He rolled it back into position and then
handed it back to her.

She knelt to her work once more. This time her father stood
by Noble Land Sam’s head to keep him from moving. She pulled the wrap as tight
as she could on each successive pass, ending by snapping it closed with the
Velcro strap.

“Good job,” her father said, stepping back to appraise her
work.

“Should I put him away?”

“Yeah, for a bit. I’ll call the blacksmith. I’m going to
have the driver’s blow the other three out one last mile and then call it a
day,” he said, reaching out and mussing her hair. “Then we can get dinner.”

“Sounds good,” Bethany said, grinning. She loved feeling
included when he talked about training the horses. He was in charge of the
drivers, and she was his assistant.

Calvin turned and disappeared into the drivers lounge. It
was a small cramped room with a couple of cabinets and tables. Bethany took the
lines off Noble Land Sam and guided him to his stall. She turned him around so
he was facing the front—her father told her to never let a horse go if his butt
is facing the gate—and let go of his halter.

He stared at her for a moment, tossed his head, and then
lowered his mouth down to her recently applied wrap.

“Hey!” she said as he bit the edge and started jerking. “Stop
that!”

She stepped in and grabbed has halter, yanking his head away
from the wrap. “Don’t chew that!”

He stared at her lazily for a second, snorted, and then
tried to bite her on the shoulder. She dodged back out of the way, and he
immediately dropped his head to the wrap again, chewing away.

She sighed, glancing back for her father. She was at a loss
about what to do, but knew without a doubt he wouldn’t want Noble Land Sam
chewing on his recently applied leg wrap.

A few minutes passed with her holding his halter. The horse
stood calmly, every once in a while butting his head against her arm or nipping
her shirt. Finally Calvin reappeared in the doorway. He saw that she was still
in the stall and raised an eyebrow.

“He’s biting his wrap,” she explained.

“Then don’t let him.”

“I’m not.”

“Good,” he said. She waited, but he didn’t say anything
else. He just stared at her, smirking slightly.

“Should I stay here all night?” she asked finally, a little
angry.

“Do you want to?”

That sounded a lot like a ‘smart-ass comment’ to her. She
decided not to point that out.

Instead, she said: “Should I take the wrap back off?”

He shook his head. “We want the wrap on. Here,” he said,
walking to a nearby tack trunk and taking out a canister of petroleum jelly. He
walked over and handed it to her. “Put this all over the front of the wrap.”

She opened the canister with her free hand. It was reddish
and had something else mixed into the jelly. She sniffed it. “What is it?”

“Cayenne pepper.”

She scooped out a dollop with her fingers and knelt down,
rubbing it across the front of the wrap. Distracted, Noble Land Sam finally
managed to get a hold of her shirt with his teeth.

He gripped the cloth between his teeth and then jerked. Bethany
fell off balance onto her butt. The horse snorted, shaking his head. She looked
up angrily, and she would swear he was grinning at her.

Her father laughed.

“Gotta watch him,” he said.

She stood up, brushing the straw off her butt. “Apparently.”
 She swatted him on the nose again.

“Come on,” Calvin said, holding the gate open. She slipped
outside and he latched it. Together they watched the horse bend down again and
grab the wrap with his teeth.

This time he immediately let go, jerking his head up and
curling his lip in surprise. Apparently he wasn’t a fan of the hot pepper
jelly. He shook his head, snorting again, and looked at Bethany. His eyes were
full of accusation.

“I had one horse,” Calvin said, stepping back from the
stall. He took his hat off and wiped the sweat from his brow. “And only one
that cayenne pepper didn’t work on.”

“Really? Why not?” she asked.

Calvin shrugged. “He must have liked spicy food. Come on,
let’s head back to the track.”

He pulled the watch from his pocket. “Can I time them?”
Bethany asked. Calvin shrugged, handing it over.

“Do you know how it works?”

“I can figure it out.”

They walked back to the stand. She fiddled with the dial and
button, stopping and starting it, and then taught herself how to reset it. “Simple
enough.”

She watched the three horses walk to the track, practicing
her newfound timing skills. “Who do you think will win?” she asked, picking a
spot on the third row.

“They aren’t racing,” Calvin replied, sitting down next to
her.

“Yeah, but if they did,” she said. “Who would win?”

He shrugged. “Golden Anchor and Deborah’s Dream are both
pacers. Deb is a little faster in a sprint but Golden Anchor has better
endurance. In the stretch Deborah’s Dream would blow him away.

“But if I were a betting man, and if you put a good driver
behind Golden Anchor, then by the time they reached the stretch she’d be too
tired to sprint. He’d just run her into the ground.”

“What about Maribeth’s Dream?”

“She’s a trotter,” Calvin explained. “There’s a reason we
don’t race them against each other.”

“So she isn’t as fast?”

“Not as fast. But prettier to watch. There’s a grace to
trotters that pacers could never match. But when trotters get tired or
frustrated they break stride and start running. And when that happens, they
lose all of their speed.”

“Maribeth won’t break and run,” Bethany said, absently
clicking the watch.

He shrugged. “She hasn’t yet in any of her races. Part of
why she keeps winning. Get ready. They are about to start.”

She stood up, clearing the time on the watch, and waited. The
three horses started picking up speed, heading for the pole that denoted the
start of the mile.

“Okay…alright…and…now!” her father said. She clicked the
button.

She alternated her eyes back and forth from the watch to the
horses. They hit the first quarter in just under forty seconds, gradually
picking up speed. They were going to need to pick up the pace a bit to hit the
two-ten mark.

She clocked the half-mile marker at just over a
minute-eighteen. “They’re a little slow,” Bethany said. Her dad nodded. As they
came around the grandstand he shouted at them:

“Pick up the pace!”

Whether they heard him or not she couldn’t tell. However the
lead driver, the one on Golden Anchor, laid the whip against his rump and the
pack picked up speed. She imagined what it would be like in the driver’s seat,
feeling the wind whistle past. Her father told her that she could drive a
horse…just as soon as her feet could reach the stirrups. Right now her legs
were too short and she would just fall through the frame.

“Don’t forget to stop the watch right at the finish line,”
her father said.

She was too focused on the horses to really hear him though.
She watched, thumb wavering over the button, and clicked it just after they
passed the finish pole. Two minutes twenty-one seconds.

He looked at the watch, then nodded at her. “Good,” he said,
“good job.”

She beamed. “How’d they do?”

“Much better this trip. Come on, let’s head on in and start
cleaning them up for the night.”

They jumped off the bench and headed back toward the barn.

“How’s school?” her father asked as they walked.

She shrugged. “Fine.”

“You always say that.”

“I know,” she said, “but it’s always fine.”

He smiled at her, then turned his attention back to the
drivers. She watched him give orders, first to strip the horses down and then
clean the gear. It took a good forty-five minutes to finish, but she didn’t
mind. All good things took a lot of time, she knew.

Jarod didn’t return for another half-hour with the recovered
shoe for Noble Land Sam, and he only beat the blacksmith to the barn by a few
minutes. Mr. Rhodes came in with the blacksmith and they negotiated a price to
fix the shoe. Neither man wanted to give an inch on the price.

Bethany and her father sat on a tack trunk and watched them
argue. Her father leaned toward her and whispered: “You know how to tell when a
good deal’s been struck?”

“How?” she whispered back.

“No one’s happy when it’s done.”

She giggled. A few minutes later they finished the deal. The
blacksmith began angrily banging the shoe back into position and Mr. Rhodes
strode angrily out of the barn.

“Come on, let’s go get dinner.”

They headed back out to her father’s truck. It was a beat up
old Ford, faded blue with dirty seats. It smelled like burnt metal and hot
leather. She jumped in and they headed down the road to her father’s favorite
restaurant: Road Kill Café.

It was a small restaurant on the corner out in the middle of
the country. The place looked dirty and was old, but the people who worked
there were some of the friendliest she’d ever met. She debated between the
Possum Burger (freshly scraped!) and the Skunk Sandwich (now only half as
smelly!) and then decided to go the Chicken-That-Didn’t-Make-It salad. She
liked their Italian dressing.

They shared a plate of French Fries too.

“Thanks,” her father says as they finished eating. She
cocked her head to the side and stared at him. “For coming with me today.”

“I love going to the barn,” she replied.

He nodded. “You’re a damn good kid, you know?”

She beamed.

“Come on, let’s go home.”

“One of my favorite memories,” Calvin says as he finishes
his story, “with Bethany. It wasn’t long after that when I couldn’t go to the
barn anymore.”

“When you got sick?” I ask.  I want to check my watch and
see what time it is, but I know it hasn’t been too long.

Maybe I should call Bethany?

…not yet, I decide. I’ve got him talking, so I don’t want to
push my luck just yet.

Calvin nods. “For a few months. Stress, the doctor said. I
think I was just getting older. My body couldn’t handle it anymore.”

I can’t help but smile at the memories. I wish like hell I’d
been able to work with horses. I don’t know if I would have been any good at
it, but that isn’t really the point. The point is that it’s just something I
never got to do.

Calvin did. I’m jealous as hell about that.

I mean, I’m good at what I do. Computer engineering. I was
lucky to go to a good school. Not many high schools teach languages or coding. I
personally think every school should focus on computers, and not just how to
use them for social networking.

Not anything too complex. I’m not saying teach kids machine
code or C, but something higher level. Java or Ruby. Or maybe Python for good
mathematics scripting. And SQL. Everyone should learn at least the most general
pieces of a database.

That’s the problem with this new generation. Kids are
masters at using their phones. They can navigate the menus, play games, send
messages, and do virtually anything…as long as it’s part of the interface.

But ask them how the phone works to send a message through
satellite routing, or how a battery powers the circuit board and they stare at
you like you’re crazy. This new generation of kids just isn’t interested in
understanding how stuff works.

We think we’re smart as a nation. As a world. Advanced well
beyond anything this planet’s ever seen before. But I’m not so sure. In the
grand scheme of things, we live balanced on a knife’s edge. Almost all of our
food is genetically engineered, so what happens if suddenly our bodies can’t
process these new super vegetables anymore? It would take barely weeks to have
mass starvation.

Don’t get me wrong. I know about the Bill and Melinda Gates
Foundation’s seed vaults, but that’s beside the point. That won’t save us all.
We, as humans, are not making a conscious effort to ensure our food supply.

And that’s because we are selfish and want to impose our
will on those around us. We just do things without thinking about them. Like
developing a fossil-fuel based economy without ever caring how much it will
hurt us later on. Or pumping harmful chemicals into the atmosphere without
caring that they make it difficult to breathe.

If we even miss one generation of education and technology,
we would lose it all. The ability to make computers, our knowledge of medicine,
our scientific advancements. Just imagine the effect on our libraries: if they
are purely digital and we lose our power supply we would lose all of our texts.

Computers think in strings of binary digits we can’t comprehend,
perform calculations in seconds that would take us years or lifetimes. There
would really be no recovery for thousands of books.

I love hearing people talk about how we’re harming the
planet, and that we need to change so we don’t destroy Earth. If we all died
tomorrow, do you think in two thousand years the planet would give a damn about
how ‘advanced’ we were? In a million years, would the next civilization look
back and applaud us for our computers.

No, I think it’s kind of arrogant to think we’re special. Or
that we’ve done something amazing by discovering new technologies. The math
behind computers exists even when we aren’t here. Gravity doesn’t need our help
to keep us on the ground. We barely even understand what science is capable of.

And we definitely don’t know what happens when we die.
Religions offer us answers and demand faith in return. Most beliefs are based
around fear. I’ve met Christians who tell me every single day that God will
provide for them. They’re the first to run to the doctor and demand that she
save them from any health related issues.

We want to be comforted. We want people to tell us we are
okay and that everything will be okay. But that’s the thing. We
can’t
have the answers. We
can’t
possibly know the truth about life and death,
so we base all of our social norms off of our own selfish decisions.

Who the hell am I to tell Calvin he has to go on living?

…

Shit
, I hate when my mind does that.

“Edward?”

“Yeah,” I reply, forcing my mind back into the moment.

“I asked if you were hungry,” Calvin says. “It’s about lunch
time.”

I check. It’s past two, actually. “I’m starving,” I say. “I
only had a yogurt for breakfast. You hungry?”

Calvin chuckles. “No. I can’t really think of the last time
I felt hungry. Or thirsty.”

“So how do you know when to eat?”

He shrugs. “Habit. Same thing with pissing. Sometimes I
don’t really know I have to, so I just do it when I remember.”

I shake my head. I am not looking forward to getting old.

“I think I have some bread inside. And peanut butter.”

“Jelly?”

He shakes his head. I shrug. I suppose I’ll live.

I start to stand up, then hesitate.

He looks at me, then chuckles. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“You aren’t?”

“No,” he says. “I give you my word. But you’re still my
guest, and it would be remiss not to ask you to eat something.”

“How do I know you’ll stay put?”

There’s a flash of anger in his eyes, bright hot, and I
realize I touched a nerve.

“I gave you my word, Edward,” he says. I bite back a wince
and nod my head, regretting the comment. I shouldn’t have said anything. Calvin
came from a generation where his word was his bond. The days when a hand-shake
might as well be a signed contract.

There weren’t many worse insults than asking if he meant it.

But nothing I can do about it now. I head inside and put
together a plate with three peanut butter sandwiches and two glasses of water. It
is white bread, not wheat, but it’ll have to do.

The kitchen is sparse and almost empty. There’s a can of
soup about three years old tucked in the back and eggs in the fridge, but not
much else. The only beverage is tea: Earl Gray and Irish breakfast. I’m more of
a green tea man myself, or white when I want caffeine, but to each his own.

When I bring the sandwiches outside Calvin’s eyes are
distant. He looks tired and old, staring at a tree in the yard. He jolts a
little when I set the plates down, and turns his attention to me.

“You’re turn,” he says.

“Hmm?” I ask, biting into a sandwich. The peanut butter
isn’t bad, but I prefer crunchy.

“To talk. Unless you were planning on leaving.”

“No chance.”

“Then start talking,” he says.

“About what?”

“Your family. Your brother. The man that married my
daughter.”

I swallow and then sip some water. “You know basically as
much as I do.”

He shakes his head. “Bethany doesn’t really talk a lot about
her family. Just little things. She never was one for spilling intimate
details.”

I can’t help but laugh. That sounds about right. Bethany is
a closed lip person if there ever was one.

Which is exactly the opposite of Adam. My brother is what I
would call an ‘over-sharer’.  If one of his kids scored well on a test you’d
bet I got a call about it with all the deets.

I always looked up to Adam. He was a good brother. He was
the one who took care of Jenny when my parents couldn’t. And he loves Bethany
unconditionally.

“I didn’t think she would marry him,” I say, taking another
bite of the sandwich.

Calvin is silent for a long minute, chewing…

“Neither did I,” he said. “But, when I heard they were
engaged it was one of the proudest days of my life…”