Read Online Matt & Zoe by Charles Sheehan-Miles - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Charles Sheehan-Miles
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thud to a stop at the bottom of the stairs. “I don’t have much,” she says. “Can I do it after dinner? I want to ride Mono.”
“I don’t know, Jasmine….” My voice is hesitant. I don’t like that—I rarely hesitate when making decisions. What’s the right thing to do here? Her eyes begin to well up with tears.
I sigh. “Yeah. Okay ride until dinner time if you want.” I need to muck out the stalls anyway. Which raises another issue. How the hell am I going to take care of three horses while I’m in school? It’s nearly four in the afternoon, and the horses haven’t been out of the paddock to graze today, though I fed them hay first thing this morning.
Mom pretty much spent all her time with them… feeding them, taking care of their stalls, of their food, of their every little need. I don’t know how I’m going to manage, because horses need a lot of taking care of.
By the time I get to the stable, Jasmine is already on her way to the paddock with her saddle.
“Make sure you run the other two.”
She nods. Jasmine is short of words lately.
I sigh when I step inside the stable. All three stables are soiled, of course. Shoveling out the stalls is a familiar task. Scrape it down to the bottom, then lay out a new bed of shavings. I dump and scrub the water buckets and refill them. The last few days I’ve been able to let them spend a lot of time either in the paddock or grazing, but soon enough winter will be here and they’ll be in their stalls a lot longer during the day and night. And that means mucking out the stalls twice a day, because muddy or wet conditions mean infections.
Shovel in hand, I get started. The thunder of hooves outside tells me Jasmine is running Mono hard, with the other two horses on tethers. In the meantime, I shovel. I scrub. I sweat. I’ve been in the Army five years, and I’m in better physical condition than the vast majority of American women. By the time I’m finished, my shoulders hurt. Shoveling out stalls and scrubbing requires a different set of muscles than I’m used to using.
Maybe I should sell Nettles and Eeyore. I’d hate to see them go, but I’m not sure how I’m going to take care of them.
Selling Mono, however, isn’t an option.
Finally finished.
I step outside of the stable and look down the hill.
Our land stretches nine acres, running mostly behind the line of houses along College Street. Jasmine is down there at the far end, where our land abuts Paul Armstrong’s. Mono is still moving quickly, Jasmine bouncing in the saddle, the other two horses right behind. I turn to walk back to the house, stretching my arms and shoulders. It’s 5:30 and I haven’t even started dinner.
I look in the fridge with a frown. I’ve never cooked dinner much—living in the barracks in Tokyo, I didn’t have to. Plus, for the last few days, we’ve eaten casseroles and other food dropped off by well-meaning faculty friends of my father’s. That’s all gone now.
When I was in Tokyo, we all ate in the mess hall or on the economy. I have Mom’s old recipe book, though, and sometimes when I was teenager she made me cook with her. And options are limited—all that’s left in the fridge is chicken legs.
Fried chicken it is. I wash my hands and get the meal going, noting that I’m going to have to go grocery shopping. One more thing I’m not equipped to do.
I bread the chicken, then carefully drop the pieces into the hot oil. Despite my caution, a drop of oil burns my wrist.
The phone rings.
I walk over to it and pick it off the cradle, then walk back to the stove, the cord stretching across the kitchen.
“Hello?”
“Hey, it’s Nicole. What are you doing?”
“Cooking dinner.” As I answer I open up a bag of frozen green beans and pour them into a pot of hot water. No potatoes. Or rice. I’ve got half a loaf of bread. No butter, but… best I can manage right now.
Nicole launches into a story. “Okay, so classes start on Monday, and all
“I don’t know, Jasmine….” My voice is hesitant. I don’t like that—I rarely hesitate when making decisions. What’s the right thing to do here? Her eyes begin to well up with tears.
I sigh. “Yeah. Okay ride until dinner time if you want.” I need to muck out the stalls anyway. Which raises another issue. How the hell am I going to take care of three horses while I’m in school? It’s nearly four in the afternoon, and the horses haven’t been out of the paddock to graze today, though I fed them hay first thing this morning.
Mom pretty much spent all her time with them… feeding them, taking care of their stalls, of their food, of their every little need. I don’t know how I’m going to manage, because horses need a lot of taking care of.
By the time I get to the stable, Jasmine is already on her way to the paddock with her saddle.
“Make sure you run the other two.”
She nods. Jasmine is short of words lately.
I sigh when I step inside the stable. All three stables are soiled, of course. Shoveling out the stalls is a familiar task. Scrape it down to the bottom, then lay out a new bed of shavings. I dump and scrub the water buckets and refill them. The last few days I’ve been able to let them spend a lot of time either in the paddock or grazing, but soon enough winter will be here and they’ll be in their stalls a lot longer during the day and night. And that means mucking out the stalls twice a day, because muddy or wet conditions mean infections.
Shovel in hand, I get started. The thunder of hooves outside tells me Jasmine is running Mono hard, with the other two horses on tethers. In the meantime, I shovel. I scrub. I sweat. I’ve been in the Army five years, and I’m in better physical condition than the vast majority of American women. By the time I’m finished, my shoulders hurt. Shoveling out stalls and scrubbing requires a different set of muscles than I’m used to using.
Maybe I should sell Nettles and Eeyore. I’d hate to see them go, but I’m not sure how I’m going to take care of them.
Selling Mono, however, isn’t an option.
Finally finished.
I step outside of the stable and look down the hill.
Our land stretches nine acres, running mostly behind the line of houses along College Street. Jasmine is down there at the far end, where our land abuts Paul Armstrong’s. Mono is still moving quickly, Jasmine bouncing in the saddle, the other two horses right behind. I turn to walk back to the house, stretching my arms and shoulders. It’s 5:30 and I haven’t even started dinner.
I look in the fridge with a frown. I’ve never cooked dinner much—living in the barracks in Tokyo, I didn’t have to. Plus, for the last few days, we’ve eaten casseroles and other food dropped off by well-meaning faculty friends of my father’s. That’s all gone now.
When I was in Tokyo, we all ate in the mess hall or on the economy. I have Mom’s old recipe book, though, and sometimes when I was teenager she made me cook with her. And options are limited—all that’s left in the fridge is chicken legs.
Fried chicken it is. I wash my hands and get the meal going, noting that I’m going to have to go grocery shopping. One more thing I’m not equipped to do.
I bread the chicken, then carefully drop the pieces into the hot oil. Despite my caution, a drop of oil burns my wrist.
The phone rings.
I walk over to it and pick it off the cradle, then walk back to the stove, the cord stretching across the kitchen.
“Hello?”
“Hey, it’s Nicole. What are you doing?”
“Cooking dinner.” As I answer I open up a bag of frozen green beans and pour them into a pot of hot water. No potatoes. Or rice. I’ve got half a loaf of bread. No butter, but… best I can manage right now.
Nicole launches into a story. “Okay, so classes start on Monday, and all
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