A Feather in the Rain (2 page)

He rode out of the arena stroking the mare's smooth hide with his fingertips. He leaned low along her neck and spoke a soft apology.

There was a time when the mistake he'd just made would not have occurred. He'd have won the twenty thousand dollars and tossed his $400 hat like a boomerang and not care if it ever came back. That was when Zack was still alive. Before the hollow feeling, the paralysis that would overwhelm him, the red-hot impulses to lash out a cocked fist to the face of someone merely impolite.

He pulled off the bridle and shoved the saddle on a rack in the trailer. Abbie arrived on a gust, a turbulent swirl of woodfire hair,
freckles, and a flashing smile. “Bummer. Jesus, you guys were awesome, man, till that brockle-faced kamikaze dove right through you.” She'd moved straight to the sweaty mare and had her arms around her neck, kissing her nose. “You were a good girl, what a good girl.” She poured liniment and vinegar into a tub of water and plunged a sponge to the bottom. “You disappeared,” she said to Jesse. “I turned back for a second and you were gone.” She sloshed water on the mare with a practiced hand.

“If I hadn't had a brain fart, it wouldn't have happened.” He grabbed a beer from a cooler in the bed of the pickup and popped it as he moved among the horses softly with a hand stroke here and there as his eyes scanned for anything amiss. He heard Abbie saying, “You were such a good girl.” Unmindful of her clothes and the sopping hide, she nuzzled the mare and slapped the sponge on her neck splashing her own face.

Jesse stood at the head of a magnificent sorrel, a three-year-old stud colt. He nickered as Jesse's fingers lit on the small white star above his eyes as softly as a butterfly and circled the path of the hair. The colt's head dropped, his eyes began to close. With his other hand he stroked his ear, pulling gently, massaging the base. He ran his hands reverently over the powerful haunches. His registered name was Bueno Bar Tab. Jesse called him Buckshot. This was his Futurity prospect. When he first saw the colt struggle to its feet on wobbly legs glistening wet from the womb, he knew he had a good one.

Getting this colt to The Futurity was probably the best reason Jesse could come up with for going on with the business of living.

The rules for The Futurity prohibit a colt from being “shown” prior to it. So Jesse hauled that colt everywhere to get him used to the excitement, the sights and sounds of the cuttings. He'd ride him in the warm-up pens then tie him up and let him stand to learn patience. Jesse took a hold of the base of Buckshot's tail and let it slide through his hand as he moved to the gelding tied next to the colt and patted him softly. They were strong, agile, powerful athletes,
sensitive as raw nerves, delicate as fine porcelain. He could hear Abbie rattling on as she scraped water from the mare.

She had a natural feel for a horse and damn sure loved them, all of them, not just the pretty ones or the talented. When she first came to ask Jesse for a job she stood square in front of him, all five feet of her. “Mr. Burrell, I know you're one of the best. I'm a great admirer. I hear you're a hard guy to work for…” She broke into that wide-eyed grin, only a little embarrassed by her boldness. “But I think I could work for you and you'd be happy.” He liked her right off. He'd just fired a girl for taking off a bridle without care, letting the bit clang into the horse's teeth.

“Saddle that bay mare there.” She went right to it. Every move smooth, experienced, sensitive. He watched her step aboard and pick up the reins. She had a real light touch, no fear and a lot of feel. The mare was not one to do you any favors either.

That was three years ago. She was twenty years old and working toward a master's degree in psychology at Texas U part time. Jesse figured she spoke about a thousand words to every one of his. Though she'd never express it openly, it was clear she had a crush on him even though he was a couple of years older than her father.

He stepped up into the tack room. Abbie looked out from under the mare's belly. “Not a terrible day, Boss. Your two non-pros were in the money. Old Apple-butt is gonna be all over you now.”

“Man, you got a mouth on you. She could be walking up here any minute now. She heard you talk like that she'd pinch your head off.”

“I know. I got my eye peeled. Besides, her perfume gives me a two-minute warning.” Suddenly, she dropped her voice. “Here she comes.” Then in a singing whisper, “She got spurs that jingle jangle jingle…”

Daryl Ann Henley, recently divorced from Brian Henley, head council for Omega Oil did step to the jingle of silver spurs on a pair of thousand dollar custom-made Paul Bond boots with tall green scalloped tops, six rows of multicolored stitching and red and yellow butterflies inlaid. Tight Wranglers painted on the Mackintosh butt
and a white silk shirt rippling over ten thousand dollar breasts, she moved with confidence, flaunting sexuality. Auburn hair sleeked back revealed a flawless arrogant beauty beneath the 20x black hat with the trendy cutter crease. “Hi, where's Jesse?”

“In the tack room. Nice job showing your horse, Mrs. Henley.”

“Thank you, Abbie. Ah've told you, you can call me Daryl Ann.”

“Thank you, ma'am.”

“Ma'am is not Daryl Ann. Abigail.”

She smiled, “Thank you, Daryl Ann.”

She climbed up into the tack room. Jesse was sorting equipment for the trip home. She stood so close he could feel her breath on his face. “Jesse Burrell, had some bad luck. You were lookin' pretty shiny till that brockle-face run through you like a train. Hey, let me buy you supper with some of the money I won.”

“Thanks, but I'm just gonna grab a couple of hours sleep and hit the road early.”

“Ah'm not takin' no for an answer.” She pushed him against the wall. Slowly pressing against him, she walked her fingers up his chest and around his neck. She tilted her face till her tongue could reach out to lick his lips.

He looked her dead in the eye. “Daryl Ann…” By God, there's a sweet smelling heat rising from her. “Any man in his right mind would kill to be in my boots right now. But I am not in my right mind. I wish I were.”

H
e shut the door to his room, peeled off his clothes, stepped into the shower and turned the water hot enough to kill a lobster.

Stretched out on the bed, a cold mass of aloneness crept over him like a flow of clay. He thought about his son, dead. Gone. How is that possible? Dear God. How do I ever get to understand this, live with it in some kind of peace?

Behind shut lids a squall of tears rose, spilled, and tracked his
cheeks to the pillow. He blinked and stared at the ceiling. His gaze slowly moved to the far corner, down to the shadowed wall of drapes. He ceased breathing.

Damien Zachary stood there, clear as day. Jesse bolted upright and blinked his eyes. The boy was there with that little half smile. Jesse whispered, “Zack…say something. I know this isn't a dream.” Zack's smile widened. Jesse heard himself say, “My God, I miss you so much.” He edged forward on the bed.

The young man looked as if he would speak. But language didn't come. The glow around him began to dim, the image soften, until he faded totally and was gone. Jesse left the bed and went to the spot where Zack had stood. He reached out to pull the drape aside. He looked down at the parking lot dimly lit, then up at the starless sky. He went to the bathroom and threw water on his face. Looking in the mirror, he thought, it's been a long time since I've owned a real smile.

T
he venerable entrance to the Plaza Hotel in New York was being used as the backdrop for a glossy magazine fashion shoot. Camera grafted to his face, the photographer, an amalgam of undefined creatures, clicked and crawled and cooed, climbing about the stone and marble like something primordial yet to develop legs. A woman in gray wool and a wine-colored scarf blown by a huge fan, was the focus of his attention.

Holly Marie Bassett's traffic-stopping, head-turning face had glamorized the covers of countless magazines. Her perfect legs had strutted the runways of Paris, Milan, Tokyo, and New York. She'd been wined and mined by royalty, shutterbug trash, and a yogi “guru.” Like most beautiful women, she required constant reassurance of the fact that she was.

Eric pulled the camera from his face and stood surprisingly erect. She smelled the cigarettes on his breath. “Baby, what's going on? There's something missing. You're not giving it to me. We're
losing the light. C'mon Baby, you gotta turn it on.” He whirled to his assistant. “Give me all you can on that reflector. Let's go!”

The hotel room was jammed with equipment, designer clothes on rolling racks, makeup and hair paraphernalia. The people that went with it all were packing up. Holly sat in the bathroom blotting tears. Eric leaned against the door talking to her in the mirror. “I think we got it. But, Jesus, Holly, it was like pulling teeth. What's the matter with you?”

“I don't know…Maybe I need a rest…”

“A rest? Who rests in this business? You rest when you're dead. Go home. Drink a half bottle of Merlot and get some sleep. Your eyes look like two slices of pepperoni.” He kissed the top of her head, lit a cigarette, and left.

The rent on her puny one-bedroom apartment on the East Side was about the same as a mortgage payment on a Texas ranch. Not much of a place to call home, but it kept the rain off a gypsy's head. The kitchen was a sink, a two-burner stove, and a half-pint fridge lined against a wall. It was almost never used. Mainly Cokes, bagels, and an occasional dose of brown rice fueled her.

She leaned against the wall as if she'd been clubbed, her face streaked with tears, her legs about to fold. As the last of her strength ebbed, she slid slowly down the wall and dropped her head on her knees.

Tony stood there in his slickness wishing he could be anywhere but where he was.

“What makes me think?” She said it to the floor, then wearily raised her head as if it were a great weight and behind a cascade of tears looked at him with tired eyes and said, “I don't think…I know. I know because she told me. She told me the things you said about me while you were screwing her. ‘I'm frigid because I'm really in love with my dead brother.' Am I making that up? It's written all over your face.”

“Well, maybe if you'd let go of your brother, I wouldn't be screwing somebody else.” Tony brushed a hand lightly over his hair
as sleek as a blackbird's breast and glanced at his watch.

“You're such a low-life.” She sobbed, “And my brother's got nothing to do with it. I knew it. I've known from the start what you are. I deserved you for being so stupid. My brain must have died with my brother.” She struggled to her feet and walked slowly toward him on unsteady legs as she reached deep inside of herself for just enough power to pummel his chest and beg him to leave. Tony covered his head as she raised her arms in an incomplete gesture. “Get out…please…get out. Get out!”

With his slamming of the door, she summoned the energy to get to the bedroom, gather his stay-over clothes in her arms and rush out to the empty hallway. The elevator light indicated its descent. She leaned over the handrail at the stairwell and tossed the clothes and sneakers. She watched them tumble twelve stories to the lobby floor. He appeared from the elevator next to the heap. When he looked up, she was gone.

She spread her forearms on the mantle and put her cheek on her stacked hands and wept. She raised her watered eyes to gaze at the tousled head and lopsided grin of her brother Brad in a silver frame. “I want you back…” she said, releasing a plaintive wail from a tortured heart. “Everything I ever hoped for…it's all gone. Oh, God…”

I
t was 6:30 a.m., a threatening cloudy dawn. Jesse backed the truck into position under the trailer hitch and got out.

Five horses stood tied outside the trailer. Abbie was wrapping Buckshot's tail. Jesse stepped up, coffee in hand, looking dazed. Abbie, grinning behind Buckshot's butt said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Burrell, sir. Hmm, looking pretty sparky this morning.”

“You don't shut up, I'm gonna choke you to death.”

“Uh-oh! Is this gonna be a long ride home? Should I take a bus?”

“Let's load 'em up.”

“Think it'd be a good idea to hook up the trailer first? Be hell if we stop for gas and find out we left the horses in Houston.”

He took a last swallow of coffee, shook out the cup, and threw it at her. “I am gonna kill you.”

It was close to four hundred miles from Houston to his place on the outskirts of Bandera. Behind dark glasses, though the day was dark, he drove in silence, watching the left front fender swallow the
broken white line. Respecting his clear desire for solitude, Abbie had her headphones on and her eyes shut. His glance fell on her. Instantly her eyes popped open and she smiled at him. He grinned and turned back to the road. A minute later he stole a glance at her again. Her eyes opened. When he turned away they closed. He began to think about the little dynamo curled next to him and what a treasure she was.