Read Online Macadoo of the Maury River by Gigi Amateau - Free Book Online
Authors: Gigi Amateau
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the devil’s going on?”
I whinnied for him to follow me.
“Settle down, boy. Let’s get you back to your stall.”
Poppa didn’t need to hold my mane, for I led him back to the barn. Inside, he placed his hand on my shoulder and spoke with a winded voice. “Well. Now. What’s this all about?” He folded over, I think, to steady his breathing.
That’s when Izzy lunged out of the tack room. He held a glass bottle and shook his head at Poppa, as if Cedarmont had been too good to be true for all of us.
Poppa struggled to stay upright. “I . . . I, Izzy. I’m out of breath. I ran with Mac from the house without my cane.”
“Did you lie?” Izzy wanted to know.
Poppa shook his head.
Molly and Job stopped eating their hay. We’d never seen Poppa with a bottle but had watched him ready the house, chop a winter’s worth of wood, and ride out of the forest dragging the finest Virginia cedar — all for Izzy.
Poppa stood up straight. When he breathed in, a deep and terrible cough took over and his face turned dark.
“You promised me you would stay sober for Mac . . . for me.”
Poppa spoke clearly. “I am sober, Izzy. I am.”
“Then, what is this, Poppa?” Izzy shoved the bottle toward his poppa. “This is your drink. I remember. After Mom passed away, when I first came here, I found bottles just like this one everywhere, all around Cedarmont, until we got Mac. Why? Why now when everything is so good?”
Poppa rounded his shoulders and hung his head. He brought his hardworking hands to his face. He didn’t speak.
“Izzy, I can’t explain why I didn’t threw that last bottle away. I found it in the tack room yesterday when I was setting up your new saddle. I must have hidden it here some time ago — before you came, even. But I swear I have had not one drink from it. See my steady hands? Look into my clear eyes,” he said.
Izzy shut his eyes; he shook his head.
I think Poppa realized that Izzy was scared. He ran his hand through his hair. “Yes, the whiskey is mine,” he admitted. “I couldn’t pour it out, but I didn’t drink it either. I’m trying, Izzy. I’m trying.”
Izzy looked up at Poppa. He started to go to him, but instead he stopped and demanded, “Is there more?”
“Yes,” Poppa said.
“Get it and pour it out now.”
The old man sighed and shrugged.
“Poppa, please,” Izzy pleaded.
“I can’t,” Poppa said.
Izzy threw the whiskey bottle onto the floor. The glass shattered and the barn started to smell of spoiled corn. “We’re supposed to be a family! You’re supposed to take care of me and Cedarmont.”
Without a jacket or hat, Izzy ran out. I wasn’t sure how I could help Izzy and Poppa, but I was going to try. I followed my boy from the barn.
W e left Poppa, Job, and Molly behind. They didn’t follow. I caught up to Izzy, and we walked across the meadow and into the forest. The snow had stopped and the sky cleared just enough to let the winter sun slice through the bare sycamore trees, white like the ground now. At a boulder ledge near the Maury River, Izzy climbed onto me. I was big enough, strong enough, now to hold him for a little while.
Izzy didn’t speak. I understood that he was only a child, yet had been shouldering a terrible burden — a burden I was old enough to help carry. I stood facing the mountain while Izzy poured out all his grief and anger and confusion. I thought then how wrong my father was when he told me that there is no heavy work left for the draft breeds. This work was just different. Izzy’s heavy lifting had only just started, and I was his willing partner.
For a long while after his tears stopped, Izzy stayed silent and I did, too. Not grazing or even sniffing at the grass. After a bit, he lifted his head and sighed. “Thanks for coming with me, Mac. I wanted to be alone but not really.”
I reached back and touched my nose to Izzy’s boot, still wet from walking in the snow.
“Good boy, Mac.” He patted my
I whinnied for him to follow me.
“Settle down, boy. Let’s get you back to your stall.”
Poppa didn’t need to hold my mane, for I led him back to the barn. Inside, he placed his hand on my shoulder and spoke with a winded voice. “Well. Now. What’s this all about?” He folded over, I think, to steady his breathing.
That’s when Izzy lunged out of the tack room. He held a glass bottle and shook his head at Poppa, as if Cedarmont had been too good to be true for all of us.
Poppa struggled to stay upright. “I . . . I, Izzy. I’m out of breath. I ran with Mac from the house without my cane.”
“Did you lie?” Izzy wanted to know.
Poppa shook his head.
Molly and Job stopped eating their hay. We’d never seen Poppa with a bottle but had watched him ready the house, chop a winter’s worth of wood, and ride out of the forest dragging the finest Virginia cedar — all for Izzy.
Poppa stood up straight. When he breathed in, a deep and terrible cough took over and his face turned dark.
“You promised me you would stay sober for Mac . . . for me.”
Poppa spoke clearly. “I am sober, Izzy. I am.”
“Then, what is this, Poppa?” Izzy shoved the bottle toward his poppa. “This is your drink. I remember. After Mom passed away, when I first came here, I found bottles just like this one everywhere, all around Cedarmont, until we got Mac. Why? Why now when everything is so good?”
Poppa rounded his shoulders and hung his head. He brought his hardworking hands to his face. He didn’t speak.
“Izzy, I can’t explain why I didn’t threw that last bottle away. I found it in the tack room yesterday when I was setting up your new saddle. I must have hidden it here some time ago — before you came, even. But I swear I have had not one drink from it. See my steady hands? Look into my clear eyes,” he said.
Izzy shut his eyes; he shook his head.
I think Poppa realized that Izzy was scared. He ran his hand through his hair. “Yes, the whiskey is mine,” he admitted. “I couldn’t pour it out, but I didn’t drink it either. I’m trying, Izzy. I’m trying.”
Izzy looked up at Poppa. He started to go to him, but instead he stopped and demanded, “Is there more?”
“Yes,” Poppa said.
“Get it and pour it out now.”
The old man sighed and shrugged.
“Poppa, please,” Izzy pleaded.
“I can’t,” Poppa said.
Izzy threw the whiskey bottle onto the floor. The glass shattered and the barn started to smell of spoiled corn. “We’re supposed to be a family! You’re supposed to take care of me and Cedarmont.”
Without a jacket or hat, Izzy ran out. I wasn’t sure how I could help Izzy and Poppa, but I was going to try. I followed my boy from the barn.
W e left Poppa, Job, and Molly behind. They didn’t follow. I caught up to Izzy, and we walked across the meadow and into the forest. The snow had stopped and the sky cleared just enough to let the winter sun slice through the bare sycamore trees, white like the ground now. At a boulder ledge near the Maury River, Izzy climbed onto me. I was big enough, strong enough, now to hold him for a little while.
Izzy didn’t speak. I understood that he was only a child, yet had been shouldering a terrible burden — a burden I was old enough to help carry. I stood facing the mountain while Izzy poured out all his grief and anger and confusion. I thought then how wrong my father was when he told me that there is no heavy work left for the draft breeds. This work was just different. Izzy’s heavy lifting had only just started, and I was his willing partner.
For a long while after his tears stopped, Izzy stayed silent and I did, too. Not grazing or even sniffing at the grass. After a bit, he lifted his head and sighed. “Thanks for coming with me, Mac. I wanted to be alone but not really.”
I reached back and touched my nose to Izzy’s boot, still wet from walking in the snow.
“Good boy, Mac.” He patted my
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