side-view mirror as I sail past. I pull off on the practically nonexistent shoulder, throw the car into reverse, and back up to it. This is only possible because I’m not hauling a trailer—the second I stepped outside at Dan’s place, I realized I’d driven the Camry and therefore had no way of hauling a horse. I figured I’d better come anyway, pay the woman, write up a bill of sale, give her a stern warning about the legal ramifications of double-selling and how much more than seven hundred and fifty it would cost her if she tried, and then return in the morning to claim the horse.
At least the rain has stopped. The road is narrow and twisting, hemmed in by thick and tangled trees. Fat disks of pale fungus cling to their trunks up near where they split into branches. I’ve always thought of them astree mushrooms, although I have no idea what they’re really called.
The driveways are hard to make out, unpaved as they are and with night falling. I lean forward in the driver’s seat, squinting and trying to count. I turn into what I think is the fourth driveway, discover that it’s the beginning of a trail, and reverse back out to the road.
I stop tentatively at the mouth of the next possibility (two wheel tracks that lead into the trees), and turn. It snakes sharply a few times, then opens onto a clearing that is so muddy I hang tightly to the tree line, circumnavigating the lot in an effort to keep at least two of the car’s wheels on solid ground.
I climb out of the car, glance down at the deep and slippery mud, and reposition my feet on little islands of rotting leaves.
The house is small and weathered with a dilapidated porch. It was white at some point, but the color is now merely suggested by streaks of paint embedded in the grain. There’s a small paddock on one side, and its fence is a mess; some of the boards are missing entirely. Others are broken in half, their splintered ends resting on the ground. There’s no way it could contain a horse.
I look around with widened eyes, wondering where the hell he is. There are a few small outbuildings, but nothing that looks like it could house a horse. It dawns on me that if he’s not in one of the buildings, he must be wandering free. I’m starting to seriously regret not making a detour to get Mutti’s pickup and trailer.
I approach the house, taking in the broken windows and toothless blinds with growing trepidation.
A little girl sits on the front porch. She’s no morethan three, with dark curly hair, a yellow dress, and a bleached-out blue snow jacket that is unzipped. She has shoes on, but no socks. She’s manipulating a Barbie doll with a crew cut. More disturbingly, Barbie has no clothes. The peach-colored body, with its wasp-waist and oh-so-perky breasts, is covered with ballpoint pen marks that look like varicose veins. Upon closer examination, Barbie is not entirely naked—she’s wearing pink rhinestone-encrusted high heels.
The girl looks up at me, startled.
I lean over. “Hi, sweetie,” I say, conjuring up my warmest smile. “Is your mommy home?”
She clambers to her feet and runs past me into the house. The screen door, with a two-foot rip in it, slams shut behind her. Its springs hang free from the hinges, which are crisp with rust.
A moment later a woman comes out the front door. She is small, with dark hair pulled back into a messy knot. She looks frail and wan, nothing like I expected.
“Hi,” I say, stepping forward and sticking my hand out. “I’m Annemarie Zimmer. From Day Break.”
“Hi,” she says. All bravado is gone. She offers me a limp-fish hand and stares at the floorboards of her porch. “Eugenie Alcott.”
“So,” I say, putting my hands on my waist and looking around for something positive to comment on. “Is that your little girl?”
“Yes.”
“She’s adorable,” I say.
“Thank you.” There is no proud smile, no cute anecdote, no offering up of a name. “So I suppose you want to see
At least the rain has stopped. The road is narrow and twisting, hemmed in by thick and tangled trees. Fat disks of pale fungus cling to their trunks up near where they split into branches. I’ve always thought of them astree mushrooms, although I have no idea what they’re really called.
The driveways are hard to make out, unpaved as they are and with night falling. I lean forward in the driver’s seat, squinting and trying to count. I turn into what I think is the fourth driveway, discover that it’s the beginning of a trail, and reverse back out to the road.
I stop tentatively at the mouth of the next possibility (two wheel tracks that lead into the trees), and turn. It snakes sharply a few times, then opens onto a clearing that is so muddy I hang tightly to the tree line, circumnavigating the lot in an effort to keep at least two of the car’s wheels on solid ground.
I climb out of the car, glance down at the deep and slippery mud, and reposition my feet on little islands of rotting leaves.
The house is small and weathered with a dilapidated porch. It was white at some point, but the color is now merely suggested by streaks of paint embedded in the grain. There’s a small paddock on one side, and its fence is a mess; some of the boards are missing entirely. Others are broken in half, their splintered ends resting on the ground. There’s no way it could contain a horse.
I look around with widened eyes, wondering where the hell he is. There are a few small outbuildings, but nothing that looks like it could house a horse. It dawns on me that if he’s not in one of the buildings, he must be wandering free. I’m starting to seriously regret not making a detour to get Mutti’s pickup and trailer.
I approach the house, taking in the broken windows and toothless blinds with growing trepidation.
A little girl sits on the front porch. She’s no morethan three, with dark curly hair, a yellow dress, and a bleached-out blue snow jacket that is unzipped. She has shoes on, but no socks. She’s manipulating a Barbie doll with a crew cut. More disturbingly, Barbie has no clothes. The peach-colored body, with its wasp-waist and oh-so-perky breasts, is covered with ballpoint pen marks that look like varicose veins. Upon closer examination, Barbie is not entirely naked—she’s wearing pink rhinestone-encrusted high heels.
The girl looks up at me, startled.
I lean over. “Hi, sweetie,” I say, conjuring up my warmest smile. “Is your mommy home?”
She clambers to her feet and runs past me into the house. The screen door, with a two-foot rip in it, slams shut behind her. Its springs hang free from the hinges, which are crisp with rust.
A moment later a woman comes out the front door. She is small, with dark hair pulled back into a messy knot. She looks frail and wan, nothing like I expected.
“Hi,” I say, stepping forward and sticking my hand out. “I’m Annemarie Zimmer. From Day Break.”
“Hi,” she says. All bravado is gone. She offers me a limp-fish hand and stares at the floorboards of her porch. “Eugenie Alcott.”
“So,” I say, putting my hands on my waist and looking around for something positive to comment on. “Is that your little girl?”
“Yes.”
“She’s adorable,” I say.
“Thank you.” There is no proud smile, no cute anecdote, no offering up of a name. “So I suppose you want to see
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