Things I'm Seeing Without You Read online

  I shot him a look that I hoped said: do not make this horse funeral sound like a vacation because we both know that is a load. We sat quietly next to each other for the next few minutes. Finally, he leant over again and said:

  ‘I got my GED.’

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘You said I dropped out of high school. That’s not really true. I got my GED. It was important to me. I’m proud of it.’

  I stared at him.

  ‘I remember,’ I said finally. ‘Mom was so happy for you.’

  He didn’t break eye contact.

  ‘Eventually, you have to talk to me about what’s going on,’ he said.

  Maybe that’s true, I thought, but not right now. So, I put my earbud back in and picked up the newspaper from the seat in front of me. It was from Ocala and all the articles inside were horse-related.

  There was a round-up of recent victors in national races, profiles about historic farms, and, on the very front page, there was a long story about an outbreak of equine herpes. I read the whole thing, just to keep myself distracted.

  My takeaway: do not get equine herpes.

  When we landed, the ride to Leroy’s farm was long and slow. Our driver, Skip, whose head looked slightly too large for his body, took us down winding country roads bordered by wooden fences and historic horse barns. All around, there were brushed, shining horses galloping across sun-kissed meadows. They looked like they were auditioning for a nine-year-old girl’s wall calendar.

  ‘You loved horses when you were little,’ my dad said.

  I watched a glassy-eyed Appaloosa follow the progress of our car.

  Dad continued: ‘I spent hours watching that show with you. The one about the rainbow ponies.’

  ‘You used to watch My Little Pony with me?’ I asked. ‘Why did you subject yourself to that?’

  He shrugged and looked out the window.

  ‘I wanted to spend time with you. It was what you liked to do.’

  We were silent after that.

  Until Skip the Driver began to speak.

  ‘As you can see,’ he said, ‘we’re approaching Stoneshire Estates.’

  I looked in the mirror and found some life in his eyes. It was like someone had just plunked a quarter in him.

  ‘Located in the famed Golden Corridor of Ocala,’ he began, ‘this lush and opulent acreage is proof enough that Ocala is the true Horse Capital of the US.’

  A huge metal gate slid open, and our car entered a white gravel path. Inside was a secret garden overflowing with wild flowers.

  ‘This is all thanks to the stewardship of Mr Leroy Labelle, a second-generation Florida horseman with an enduring vision and an irrepressible spirit!’

  I hoped Skip got paid a lot of money to say these things because he sounded like a bit of an asshole. The car was reaching the end of the path, and we were approaching a New England-style home, painted the colour of fresh egg yolk. Surrounding it was a canopy of moss-draped oak trees.

  As soon as we stepped out of the car, a man began walking towards us, dressed in a butterscotch-coloured suit. He wore a pink dress shirt beneath the jacket and a pair of shimmering gold cufflinks at his wrists. My first thought was: what is Willy Wonka doing on a horse farm? Of course, it was Leroy.

  ‘There he is!’ he shouted. ‘The man of the hour!’

  He walked right past me and squeezed my dad’s hand in a desperate grip. He smiled and sucked his teeth. I got out of the car.

  ‘This must be your daughter!’ he said, and clapped his hands together. ‘Welcome to Stoneshire! Welcome to horse country! If God didn’t make this place, then who did? That’s what I want you to tell me, young lady.’

  I looked over the house and the lush lawn surrounding it.

  ‘Sorry for your loss. Apparently, I used to be really into ponies,’ I said.

  Leroy blinked. He had a sizeable moustache. It twitched.

  ‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘Of course. Thank you, sweetheart.’

  He turned back to my dad.

  ‘Skip will take your bags, and he’ll show the young lady around. But before we get started on the planning, there’s something we need to do. There can be no inspiration without it.’

  ‘Do you want to tell me more about Sarge?’ my father asked.

  ‘No,’ said Leroy. ‘I want you to see his body.’

  When I got to my room, Skip waited outside my door for a half hour straight asking me to come out for a tour. He had been ordered to show me around pony town, and he wouldn’t take no for an answer. I could only stall him by pretending I didn’t know what to wear.

  ‘Are you done yet?’ he asked for the fifth time.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m totally naked. Go away.’

  ‘You’ve already been in there twenty-five minutes.’

  ‘I’m giving myself a Brazilian,’ I said.

  He turned the handle and opened the door.

  ‘I could have been totally naked,’ I said.

  ‘But you aren’t.’

  ‘But I could have been . . .’

  ‘C’mon,’ he said. ‘The golf cart’s waiting.’

  And it was. Just sitting there, puttering away as golf carts do. So we got in and sped over the gravel road. And Skip started up right where he left off.

  ‘Stoneshire has had just about every breed of horse you could imagine at one time or another. We’ve had Paso Finos, Quarter Horses, Arabians. Warmbloods. Every kind of horse. And we’ve bred ’em all!’

  Now that I was next to him, Skip seemed younger than he did earlier, maybe closer to my age than I first thought. And he wasn’t terrible-looking actually. I hadn’t noticed his masculine jaw at first. It was strong and coated in a light amount of stubble. I could imagine him nursing a calf back to health with a baby bottle before going inside to have wholly unselfconscious sex with a beautiful woman. And the sex would definitely make a baby. A stupid, angelic baby.

  ‘This right here is the thoroughbred training track. This is where we get our young horses in shape and teach ’em to race. Our young bloods are broken to ride in September, and they can gallop a mile by December. You can bet on it!’

  The problem with Skip, I decided, was that he said things. Also, he probably believed that the world was a beautiful place. But I could forgive him that if he would just stop speaking. If you could just watch him smile and frown as he drove various vehicles around, he might be OK.

  ‘They got this machine in there called a vibration plate. Wiggles around like crazy to get the circulation going in a horse’s legs. It’s hard to get them to stand on . . .’

  I don’t care, I thought. I don’t care about this at all.

  Skip hit the brakes, and the cart bucked to a stop. I jolted forward in my seat.

  ‘Well, jeez,’ he said, ‘if you want me to stop bending your ear, you could be a little nicer about it.’

  I covered my mouth with my palm.

  ‘Shit,’ I said. ‘Did I say that out loud?’

  Skip gave me a puzzled look.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You definitely did.’

  It was hard to tell if he was hurt. He seemed more confused.

  ‘Well, the cat’s out of the bag, I guess,’ I said. ‘I don’t really care about horse training or breeding or . . . any of this. I think it’s sad and weird and sad. And if it didn’t exist I would be fine. I might even be happier.’

  I was sweating all of a sudden, and breathing heavily, a couple of sure signs that I was about to welcome a passing spell of dread. The golf cart was idling in a field of old oaks. The horizon beyond was so endless it was a little frightening. I stepped off the cart and plopped down in the grass. I closed my eyes and took long deep breaths.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Skip.

  ‘Just give me a minute,’ I said. ‘I just have to wait out the terror.’

  A cool breeze kicked up and blew my hair against my cheeks.

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Terror.’ I said, ‘You know, the ter
ror that humans feel. You don’t have any weed do you?’

  There was a long pause. I kept my eyes closed and my breath started to normalize a little. I pulled my hair into a ponytail and held it with a worn tie from my pocket.

  ‘You don’t feel good?’ said Skip.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ I murmured.

  I heard the golf cart lurch forward behind me.

  ‘Why didn’t you say so,’ he said, ‘I got just the thing!’

  ‘Is it medical-grade marijuana?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Then I don’t want it.’

  The cart was coming closer to me. For a second, I wondered if he might hit me with it. Maybe that was his plan. To put me out of my misery.

  ‘You don’t even know what it is,’ he said.

  The golf cart was chugging away right next to me now. ‘I don’t need to. I don’t want just the thing,’ I said. ‘Whenever anyone says that, it’s something terrible.’

  I finally opened my eyes and looked back at him, smiling in his miniature car.

  ‘Come on, now,’ he said, ‘get in the dang cart. It’s on the way back.’

  Fifteen minutes later we were speeding towards a barn. You couldn’t spit without hitting a barn in this place, and the one we were approaching was the usual burnt-red colour. Skip pulled the cart up and parked it beneath an overhang. Then he got out and walked over to the entrance, waiting for me to follow.

  When we stepped inside, I immediately breathed in that hay-and-pee smell of animal barns I’d walked through at the state fairs of my youth. I made my way down the middle of the stalls in a dim, dust-choked light. From around me came a few high-pitched whinnies and the occasional muffled snort. I found myself walking closer to Skip. The animals seemed to surround me on all sides.

  ‘She’s just down here,’ said Skip in a hushed voice that made me even more nervous. What the hell was in this barn?

  ‘What the hell is in this barn?’ I asked.

  ‘Just relax,’ said Skip. ‘And see for yourself.’

  Skip came to a stop a few steps ahead of me and then just stood there with his arms folded over his chest. I walked up and peered through the slats of a metal gate into a large stall strewn with fresh sawdust.

  First I saw the sleeping body of a large mare, its chestnut coat expanding with breath. Then I heard a soft rustling, and out of the shadows of the far corner something small stirred and came forward.

  It was a little creature. The tiniest horse I had ever seen. ‘This is Linnie,’ said Skip. ‘Our newest foal. She was born just two days ago.’

  I slowly bent my knees and met the foal’s eyes in a low squat.

  ‘Linnie,’ I said.

  The little horse took an unsteady step towards me, its bulbous black eyes searching my face. It was piebald, spattered with white across its forehead, black along the muzzle and ears. It walked closer to me, right up to the metal bars.

  Without thinking much, I reached out my hand and unfolded my fingers. Linnie extended her muzzle and began to explore my hand with her lips. They were spongy and delicate, like a baby’s, as they moved over my fingertips. I closed my eyes and waited for the clamp of teeth on my fingers.

  ‘She doesn’t have her milk teeth yet,’ said Skip. ‘She can’t hurt you.’

  I looked over at him and found him grinning as usual. But, this smile seemed like more than his usual display of life satisfaction. He looked heartened. His faith in the beauty of the farm had persevered in the face of a crazy girl’s scepticism.

  I traced my fingers over the foal’s forelock and then down her muzzle. Though I guess I had gone through a brief horse phase as a girl, I’d never had the desire to own one until now. I wanted to take this wobbly beanpole and smuggle her home in my duffel bag. That was all I needed to be happy. A pony.

  I watched as Linnie gambolled around her stall, kicking up sawdust, eventually scrambling up her mother’s flanks until she found a place to suckle.

  ‘Just so you know,’ said Skip, behind me, ‘I have some weed, too. If that’s what blows your hair back.’

  I’ve only been high a handful of times. I’m not going to claim stoner status like the boys at Quaker school who only put down the video game controller long enough to take a monster hit off a vaporizer. But as far as self-medicating goes, it helps take the edge off the anxiety sometimes. And it transforms microwave burritos into the food of the gods. This time, though, I was in a little over my head.

  Out behind the barn, I smoked a joint the size of a Pez dispenser with Skip. Then we took the golf cart joyriding. So there we were, racing over the vast pastures of the estate, laughing like idiots, when out on the fringes of the property, I saw a square aluminium building.

  It looked like a mausoleum from the future. Something to house the cryogenically frozen heads of the Labelle family scions . . . or, as I realized immediately, their horses.

  ‘Keep going!’ I shouted. ‘Onward, Captain!’

  As we drew closer, I saw two figures standing outside the cube building. They popped into focus as my dad and Mr Labelle. And it didn’t look like they were getting along very well. Leroy’s voice hitched itself to a current and I heard him shouting.

  ‘. . . because I’m pretty surprised!’ he said, ‘I didn’t expect any squeamishness from a man in your business, Fowler! What did you think I was going to do with him, let him rot? Have you ever smelt a decomposing animal? That’s not the note we want to hit with Sarge’s ceremony.’

  My father was slumped against the aluminium walls, massaging his temples. His ponytail was loose, and strands of grey-black hair danced in front of his eyes. He looked like he’d just seen a ghost. Which, OK, maybe he had.

  ‘And you might be interested to know that I got an email this morning,’ Leroy barked, ‘from a trusted colleague!’

  We bounced over the minor bumps and dips in the paddock and braked to a stop. My father cocked his head in my direction.

  ‘What kind of email?’ he asked Leroy.

  ‘He sent me a little news story about a funeral in Nantucket.’

  ‘Oh,’ said my dad. ‘That.’

  Skip shot me a questioning look.

  ‘Yes,’ said Leroy. ‘ That. It sounded like a disastrous funeral is what it sounded like. Like it couldn’t have gone any worse if the devil himself had shown up, crapping fire!’

  I looked at my father. I could already see him retreating, planning his escape route. I knew how his mind worked. When something started to go wrong, he was out of there. Gone.

  I hopped out of the cart, a bit unsteady on my feet, and walked up to Leroy and my father. My head felt like it was full of helium. And it sounded like there were power lines criss-crossing my brain. I had no idea what I was going to say until I said:

  ‘Everyone. I have just had a revelation.’

  They looked at me like I was from another planet.

  ‘Tess,’ my dad said quietly, ‘you should head back and pack up your stuff. It’s time to go.’

  A lone giggle escaped my mouth.

  ‘Ha,’ I said. ‘You’re all serious and everything.’

  I took a breath and tightened my face into a more pensive, sober look.

  ‘Seriously,’ I said. ‘I have an idea. Hear me out.’

  I watched my dad steal a glance at Leroy. He didn’t seem to be going anywhere. All eyes were now on me.

  ‘Are you ready?’ I said.

  I waited a second or two and then I said: ‘Ponies.’

  There was a lengthy pause. My father stared into my pink eyes. No one seemed to find my idea as amazing as I did.

  ‘I don’t follow,’ Leroy said.

  ‘Well,’ I said. ‘OK. Not just ponies. But the horse babies. They’re at the heart of this. Because they kind of symbolize the whole idea.’

  ‘What idea?’ my dad said.

  I looked at Leroy.

  ‘This place is all about bloodlines, right?’

  He just stared.

  ‘Cycles of these amazing hor
ses making more amazing horses. Then those horses make more horses, and everything just keeps cycling. Right?’

  ‘Sure,’ Leroy conceded. ‘I suppose.’

  ‘And so I was thinking . . . that, in a way, these horses don’t really die. I mean, they do die, everything dies, but there are all these little baby horses running around with Sarge’s blood coursing through their little pony veins making them these incredible little racers! And if there’s a horse that’s truly astonishing, a one-in-a-million horse, then this can happen for ever. He can outrun the grave. So, we need to get all of Sarge’s babies and we need to let them just run like hell, you know, to show that Sarge is not dead. He’s still running. He’s running so fast even right now. And he will always be running, you know? Always.’

  I took a deep breath and opened my eyes wide. Leroy watched me. His expression had not changed at all. He sucked his teeth. His moustache twitched slightly at the corners of his mouth.

  ‘I think they should pull him in,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ said my father.

  ‘We’ll build Sarge a coffin and put it on a carriage. And all his children will pull him into the ceremony. Then we’ll unhook them and let them run, like you said.’

  ‘I like it,’ I said. ‘They’ll bring him home. To rest, right? Then they show that he still goes on.’

  Leroy nodded. He squinted off into the distance, as if he were imagining the whole thing, visualizing every detail. And when I looked, I could almost see it, too: the horse-drawn carriage, maybe a band playing, bold flags and tapestries hanging from the oaks while the procession marched underneath. Leroy tapped his foot. Then, eventually, he smiled.

  ‘OK, then,’ he said. ‘Let’s get started.’

  Somehow, the horse funeral was a success.

  By the light of a pink moon, they swung Sergeant Bronson’s frozen body through the sky with a crane to get him from the freezer to his enormous coffin. The next day they thawed and embalmed him. Then they groomed him and made him look like a show horse. Mid-afternoon, a jazz marching band walked a procession route lined with yellow and white carnations. And when the time came, the trumpet call sounded, and the little horses were untethered one by one.