Read Online Funerals for Horses by Catherine Ryan Hyde - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Catherine Ryan Hyde
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in shrill voices, and the dogs’ hackles rise.
I roll up my sleeves two turns, which I normally would not do, because he and his wife have seen the scars anyway.
“You know,” Rick says, “you really can’t walk across Death Valley barefoot. Or just about any other way. Temperature can get up to one thirty-five by day. You wouldn’t make it, even starting out in good shape. You couldn’t carry that much water.”
“I’ll be out of your hair as soon as I can,” I say.
“You’re not bothering us any. Stay till you’re ready to move on. But let me drive you to Vegas. You can get a bus from there, hitchhike, whatever you need to do.”
“If you’ll let me buy the gas.”
“It’s not that far,” he says. He tells me a few old Death Valley ghost stories. Predictable ones, punctuated by yawns. Then he excuses himself and goes in for the night.
I don’t bother to tell him that I damaged my feet so badly walking out here, I wouldn’t dare walk in again. I’d rather spend the night out in real life, anyway. I gaze up at the man in the moon and wonder if Simon tried to walk across Death Valley. I wonder if anybody found Simon, put a hand behind his neck and poured water into his mouth. But the moon doesn’t say what it knows.
Its light floods my eyes, bigger than life, and I realize the tunnel is gone completely, and I cry. Because Simon would be so proud if he were here, that I came through so well. Then I realize he’d be proud of me for crying, and I cry harder.
How do you stop crying, Simon?
THEN:
Mrs. Hurley died in Las Vegas, a little over a year after Simon and I found her again. We were there. The trip was an eighty-seventh birthday present, her own special request. The night before she passed away, she gave us an enormous handful of money that she’d won at the crap tables.
She said it was because she never would have won it without Simon to blow on her dice. I think she knew she’d have no need of it where she was going, and although she seemed ready enough to move on, it must have troubled her to leave us to our own devices.
The last thing she said to me was this: “Take care of that brother of yours.” My mouth fell open. Simon needed no care that I could see, and surely I’m no caregiver. Her voice fell a little thin then, but I heard her loud and clear, though it took me a while to sort out what I heard. “I always worry about the ones say everything’s okay.” I’m still not sure I completely understand.
Simon tried to give the money back to Mrs. Hurley’s daughter when she flew out to make the arrangements, but she wouldn’t hear of it.
“If she gave it to you,” she said, “she wanted you to have it.”
We drove back to Columbus for our things, and for the funeral. Simon swears I attended, but I remember nothing to this day.
I know I’m leaving out a chunk of history, the whole year we lived with Mrs. Hurley, but at this point in time I remembered not one day of it, so I feel it does not rightfully belong here.
We moved to L.A., where Simon got a job as a gardener. By then he’d had experience. Simon was a good gardener. Plants couldn’t wait to grow for Simon. He inspired them.
Simon found us a furnished room to rent in a private house less than two miles from Griffith Park. He enrolled me in school but I rarely attended.
He dropped me at school every morning on his way to work, and from there I usually walked to a stable at the edge of the park and stood in a corral with the horses. They accepted me immediately. Unlike people, they don’t judge much by your outsides. They knew I was one of them.
Problem was, when one of the employees came around to ask what I was doing there, I was pretty caught up in being a horse, and I spooked. I felt my eyes widen, showing white all the way around, as I pictured it, and I flew straight up and came down dancing. And the other horses, they followed my lead. I considered that a high compliment, that they would stampede on
I roll up my sleeves two turns, which I normally would not do, because he and his wife have seen the scars anyway.
“You know,” Rick says, “you really can’t walk across Death Valley barefoot. Or just about any other way. Temperature can get up to one thirty-five by day. You wouldn’t make it, even starting out in good shape. You couldn’t carry that much water.”
“I’ll be out of your hair as soon as I can,” I say.
“You’re not bothering us any. Stay till you’re ready to move on. But let me drive you to Vegas. You can get a bus from there, hitchhike, whatever you need to do.”
“If you’ll let me buy the gas.”
“It’s not that far,” he says. He tells me a few old Death Valley ghost stories. Predictable ones, punctuated by yawns. Then he excuses himself and goes in for the night.
I don’t bother to tell him that I damaged my feet so badly walking out here, I wouldn’t dare walk in again. I’d rather spend the night out in real life, anyway. I gaze up at the man in the moon and wonder if Simon tried to walk across Death Valley. I wonder if anybody found Simon, put a hand behind his neck and poured water into his mouth. But the moon doesn’t say what it knows.
Its light floods my eyes, bigger than life, and I realize the tunnel is gone completely, and I cry. Because Simon would be so proud if he were here, that I came through so well. Then I realize he’d be proud of me for crying, and I cry harder.
How do you stop crying, Simon?
THEN:
Mrs. Hurley died in Las Vegas, a little over a year after Simon and I found her again. We were there. The trip was an eighty-seventh birthday present, her own special request. The night before she passed away, she gave us an enormous handful of money that she’d won at the crap tables.
She said it was because she never would have won it without Simon to blow on her dice. I think she knew she’d have no need of it where she was going, and although she seemed ready enough to move on, it must have troubled her to leave us to our own devices.
The last thing she said to me was this: “Take care of that brother of yours.” My mouth fell open. Simon needed no care that I could see, and surely I’m no caregiver. Her voice fell a little thin then, but I heard her loud and clear, though it took me a while to sort out what I heard. “I always worry about the ones say everything’s okay.” I’m still not sure I completely understand.
Simon tried to give the money back to Mrs. Hurley’s daughter when she flew out to make the arrangements, but she wouldn’t hear of it.
“If she gave it to you,” she said, “she wanted you to have it.”
We drove back to Columbus for our things, and for the funeral. Simon swears I attended, but I remember nothing to this day.
I know I’m leaving out a chunk of history, the whole year we lived with Mrs. Hurley, but at this point in time I remembered not one day of it, so I feel it does not rightfully belong here.
We moved to L.A., where Simon got a job as a gardener. By then he’d had experience. Simon was a good gardener. Plants couldn’t wait to grow for Simon. He inspired them.
Simon found us a furnished room to rent in a private house less than two miles from Griffith Park. He enrolled me in school but I rarely attended.
He dropped me at school every morning on his way to work, and from there I usually walked to a stable at the edge of the park and stood in a corral with the horses. They accepted me immediately. Unlike people, they don’t judge much by your outsides. They knew I was one of them.
Problem was, when one of the employees came around to ask what I was doing there, I was pretty caught up in being a horse, and I spooked. I felt my eyes widen, showing white all the way around, as I pictured it, and I flew straight up and came down dancing. And the other horses, they followed my lead. I considered that a high compliment, that they would stampede on
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