Salter, Anna C (11 page)

I heard the sound of feet running —Freight Train had gone back down the tunnel of trees, and Joe had seen him and pulled up. Then Joe was next to me saying, "Are you all right?"

I didn't answer for a minute. For some reason I hate that question. People always ask it when you get hurt before you even know if you are all right or not. You're supposed to say, "Yes, I'm fine," even if you aren't, so they can quit worrying. I couldn't seem to find enough breath to say anything, and Joe said again, "Are you all right?"

When I didn't answer he said, "Michael, can you move your legs?" That freaked me, and I said, "Of course I can move my legs," and then tried to move them. They did move, which was very reassuring. I sat up, and then it came to me.

"It wasn't Freight Train's fault," I said to Joe. "Something ran across the course right in front of him." Which was very weird, come to think of it. I had never heard of an animal running toward danger. I got a little more oriented and sat up, asking, "Is Freight Train all right?" The world started whirling when I sat up, and I leaned back on my hands and closed my eyes to stop the spinning.

"He's fine," Joe said.

"Well, go and check him," I said testily with my eyes still shut.

"To hell with Freight Train," Joe said.

"He's a forty-thousand-dollar horse, Joe. Go and check him. I'm all right."

Joe grumbled, but he went off, and I was glad for the moment alone to collect myself. I got up slowly and tried to brush the dirt off my back. I found I had to move very slowly to keep the world from spinning, and I walked over to the jump and leaned against it with my eyes shut again. Joe came back with both horses in tow, and I straightened up. "He's fine," he said.

I looked at the horses. Both had grass coming out from their bits where they had used their freedom to graze on the new grass just starting. Both looked totally unperturbed at my predicament. Horses are not big in the empathy department.

I tried moving again. The world had gotten reasonably stable. I walked over to Freight Train and started to get on.

"Are you all right?" Joe said.

"Of course I'm all right," I responded tersely. "You asked me that already."

"Well, you're getting on the wrong horse," Joe said. "It's the only reason I ask."

I looked at the horse I was getting on, and it was Joe's mare. I stepped back with whatever dignity I could summon —which wasn't much —and moved over to the other horse. Maybe I was in worse shape than I thought.

"We're going home, Michael," Joe said.

"You know Freight Train has to go over the jump," I responded. Joe knew you should never let a horse get away with not taking a jump for any reason. No matter what the reason for balking —except maybe sudden death —the horse went over the jump it refused before you went home. Joe knew that.

"Fine," Joe said. "I'll take him over."

"Joe," I said slowly, "I need to go over the jump too."

I could hear him sigh, but he didn't say anything. "Give me your crop," I said. He gave me the crop and a leg up on Freight Train. I held the crop down my leg where Freight Train couldn't see it. Ordinarily, it would be the last thing I'd need with Freight Train, but this time might be different.

We turned and trotted up the hill. I was not going to try to make the sharp turn from the tunnel in the trees again —no point in making this harder than it already was. I wiggled various parts of my body as I went, trying to figure out if everything worked. Everything seemed to, but I did not feel well and this was going to be a major deal getting over this jump. What the hell was it? A Goddamn psycho rabbit? What would cause a rabbit to run in front of a galloping thoroughbred?

Joe got on his mare and positioned himself to the left of the jump to discourage Freight Train from shying the same way he had before. Ordinarily I would have told him I didn't need the help, but this time I kept my mouth shut.

We trotted to begin with, the trees on our right and the jump straight ahead. One thing was for sure: I could throw away the left rein. Freight Train wouldn't shy toward the trees where the intruder had come from. Why had I thought that? It wasn't an intruder; it was just a stupid rabbit. If Freight Train went anywhere it would be to the left, like he had before.

We started cantering halfway down the hill, and I could feel Freight Train's body tense as we got closer. This time I was sitting as far back in the saddle as I could get in case he did balk. I saw him cut his eye toward the trees, looking, no doubt, for another rabbit. I was holding the right rein so tightly he couldn't possibly move his head to the left, but his hindquarters started drifting. Freight Train wasn't even thinking about the jump ahead. He was expecting trouble from the trees.

I had the crop in my left hand, but Freight Train didn't know it. I took the reins in my right hand and cracked him sharply on his left hindquarters. Surprised, he shot forward —the trees forgotten for the moment.

The jump was right in front of him, and he wasn't ready. I hit him again, more sharply this time, and he took off, awkwardly and late, but he did take off.

He wasn't exactly balanced, and I didn't feel like I was flying—more like falling. He stumbled when he landed on the other side and almost went down on his nose. I fell forward on his neck when he stumbled.

Freight Train caught himself, and so did I, and neither of us went down, although it was close. We were over. I pulled him up, more relieved than I wanted to admit, and Joe came trotting up, probably more relieved than he wanted to admit.

I considered whether I could get through the rest of the course. I just hated to call it quits, but I felt like shit. Freight Train would do fine, but could I get through it? Luckily I didn't have to make the decision. "We're going home," Joe said, and started off on his mare before I had a chance to argue. To be truthful, I didn't really want to.

I followed behind, and we walked back to the barn. Neither of us said anything. When somebody got hurt, Joe always got angry —from worry, I think, but it wasn't pleasant to deal with. I'd given him enough flak about it over the years that he'd learned —at least around me —to keep it to himself For my part, the vertigo kept coming and going, and I was working at just staying on the horse.

I Started to unsaddle Freight Train at the barn, but Joe took the saddle out of my hands. "Go home, Michael," he said tersely. "You look like shit."

I didn't even think of arguing. I just headed for the car. I looked back and saw Joe watching. He was probably wondering if I'd get in the wrong car. For Christ's sakes, I was moving under my own steam. How bad could it be?

I got in the car and headed for the highway, but once out of sight of Joe I turned onto a logging road that went up by the crosscountry jumps. There was something I had to do, and tomorrow would be too late. I drove as far as I could, then got out and walked up the hill. I headed for the thicket of trees that had spooked Freight Train. It seemed to take a long time to get up the hill. You don't realize how much ground you cover on a horse.

I pulled aside some bushes and headed into the bramble, looking at the ground the whole time. It took me a few minutes, but I found what I was looking for —sort of. Surprised, I knelt down and touched the ground with my fingers.

There in the soft, wet dirt was a footprint. But it wasn't a large male who had stood in the thicket. There was the imprint of the ball of somebody's foot—small, about the size of mine—but where the heel should be there was only a small, deep hole. A woman had stood in the thicket, a woman who hadn't expected to be there and who was no doubt cursing her shoes as she stood. It just couldn't be Willy, not unless he had crammed his feet into a small woman's spike heels, which, come to think of it, I wouldn't put past him.

I stood up, completely mystified, and thought about it. Willy was famous for attracting female admirers. I had even run into one leaving once when I went in to see him. Had he conned someone into keeping an eye on me? It couldn't be a casual hiker. Nobody wore spike heels on a hike.

I put my hand on my back while I thought. It was beginning to hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, and when I put my hand on it, I felt a knot right in the middle of my spine. I put my fist next to it and compared them. The knot stood out roughly as far as my fist.

I swallowed hard. I'd played b-ball too long to be upset by the average sprain or broken nose, but the memory of Christopher Reeves could send me into near hysteria. With a knot like that, the ED was calling my name.

I was relieved to see it was Jack who finally walked into my cubicle in the ED. Ordinarily I avoided him. Jack and I had spent some time together, back before I got religion, or my version of it, anyway, and quit going out with married men.

Right now I didn't feel like avoiding him. He was a very good doc, and he'd take good care of me, and at this moment that seemed like a big deal. Jack wouldn't miss a cracked vertebrae, say, the kind where you go to sleep feeling fine and wake up after it severs your spinal cord.

My head felt like someone was hitting it with a hammer, and I smiled bleakly when he walked in. "So," he said. "Up to your usual quiet life, I see."

"There was this rabbit with a pocket watch," I replied. "Kept saying he was late. Fool ran right in front of my horse."

Jack took my face in his hands and lifted it. I closed my eyes for a second against the pain. Any movement was starting to make my head feel like an anvil had been dropped on it. ''Headache?" Jack said.

"More or less," I replied.

He looked back and forth from one eye to the other. "Are they all right?" I said, trying to sound casual. I knew pupils of different sizes were not a good sign.

"More or less," he said. "Any nausea or sleepiness?"

"None," I said. "Just good old-fashioned pain."

"So what else is wrong with you?" he asked.

"This." I got up off the examining table and turned around. I lifted my shirt up to show Jack my back.

"Impressive," he said. "We'll need to get a look at that." He put his hand on my back and ran it over the bump. Even in the pain I was aware of how gentle his fingers felt. That man did have nice hands. I sighed inwardly. The estrogen vote was coming in again. If I ever became a multiple personality, it would be a running battle between the quasi-reasonable part of me and my estrogen-steeped, who-gives-a-shit brain stem.

"Have you seen this?" he asked.

"No," I replied. "I just felt it."

"Take a look." He turned and got a mirror and held it over my shoulder where I could turn my head and get a look at it. My entire back was discoloring from one side to the other. The knot in the center looked as bad as it felt.

"Oh, boy," I said.

"Lady," he said, "whatever you're trying to prove, you've already proved it." I laughed. Jack was quoting something a guy who played in the pick-up basketball games had said to me one time.

"Could be I should stick with the less dangerous sports." It just slipped out, and immediately I wanted to hit the "undo" button and take it back.

Jack didn't respond. Things between us had gone beyond that kind of flippancy. Worse, it was a kind of painful reminder of the difference in how he saw the affair and how I did.

He sat down and filled out the paperwork for the X-ray. It seemed to take him a long time. Finally, he handed it to me. "If you ever want to put something on the line beside your tush." he said, "call me. Otherwise, I've got a rowing machine."

It hurt, but I deserved it. I took it without reply.

I got through the wait for the X-ray and the wait for the radiologist to interpret it and the wait for Jack to come back and tell me it was fine. I'd banged myself to hell and back, but I hadn't actually broken anything. I had a concussion —even I had figured that out—but it looked like I hadn't fractured my skull or done anything permanent to my precious little brain cells. This was good —I was very attached to those little cells.

By the time I got home, my head hurt so badly, I had to put it on the steering wheel and wait for a lull before I could get out of the car. By then I was nauseated, but I was pretty sure it was from the pain.

I locked the door behind me and more or less glided up to the loft. It hurt less if I walked very smoothly. I lay down carefully on the bed and didn't move. I had onty taken Advil at the hospital, but I found that I was drifting off in some spacey, exhausted way.

The phone rang, and I didn't even think about answering it. The machine was turned up, and I could hear Marv's voice. "Michael." he said, "I need to check in with you. Something came up in a session that you should know about." His voice sounded somewhat urgent, but I didn't care —not in the slightest. I didn't care what anybody said in am^ session. I didn't much care about anything. I was too damn tired and in too much pain.

Time passed. A whole day and night of it, and I only got off the bed when I had to. I tried to brush my teeth, but it jarred my head too much. I woke up every time I turned over in the night because turning my head would start it throbbing again.

Marv had called again, and it sounded like whatever it was, was important to him, but it still wasn't to me. My whole world had been reduced to a focus on keeping my head as still as possible.

Besides, if I spoke to Marv, he'd know immediately how hurt I was: There was zero chance I could fool him. Then he'd tell people, and they'd come out and scurry around. I'd have to deal with them, and I just didn't have the energy. The only call I answered was from Jack; I was afraid he'd come out to check on me if I didn't.