Bright, Broken Things, page 7
“Sorry, I don’t have much to offer by way of refreshment.” He pulled a six-pack of Diet Pepsi from the bare-bones groceries he’d set on the counter. He wasn’t a big pop drinker, but every now and then it hit the spot. Today — another muggy Ontario day spent lugging boxes up those stairs — was one of those times. He offered a can to Emilie. “Sorry. Warm cola is kind of gross.”
She held up a finger and walked into the kitchen, opening a cupboard from which she extracted two plastic glasses. Then she peered into the freezer of the fridge, a white, no-name thing, and emerged with an ice tray, though she eyed it suspiciously.
“I’m not sure how long these have been here, but they haven’t completely sublimated, so that’s something, if you’re game,” she said.
“The acid in the Pepsi should overpower anything evil in them, right?”
“It’s not as if ice goes bad,” she agreed. “It just might pick up some undesirable flavours.”
He slapped the counter lightly. “Hit me, then.”
“It’s too hot in here,” she said as she cracked the ice tray, distributing the cubes between the two cups before pouring the Pepsi. She handed him one, the ice quickly melting as it bounced in the foam. “I opened the window earlier to air it out, but you might want to close it and turn that air conditioner on. We can sit downstairs.”
The picnic table set on a strip of lawn near the barn was weathered to grey and had a character all its own. Even though the sun was starting to drop toward the treetops, the heat was holding. The shade was nice. A breeze would be better.
Nate sipped from the glass. He’d been right — the chemical-sweet of the aspartame masked any peculiar flavours the aged ice might have contributed. Ice which was long gone, leaving the cola just cool enough to be almost refreshing.
“So what’s the deal? I don’t like to make assumptions, but I’m guessing you and your sister are both still in school?” It hadn’t seemed appropriate for him to quiz Emilie during his tour, but she seemed to be open to friendship, at least. He liked that he could ask her anything, when Liv was a total closed book. Would that change over time? Who knew? To be fair, he’d already spent more time with Emilie than with Liv.
Emilie nodded. “I’m in first year Environmental Toxicology, and Liv is in third year vet school.”
“Wow. A couple of smarty-pants, then.” He grinned.
She rolled her eyes. “I saw your resumé. You have to have half a brain to take kinesiology.”
“Only half, though.”
She snorted. “You’re not fooling me. Though I might question your sanity, leaving Alberta to come to Ontario. I’d love to go out there.”
Ironic that it was wanting to preserve his sanity that had made him leave. “It’s a nice place to visit,” he said. The only thing he might miss about Calgary right now was the drier climate from the higher altitude.
Her expression made him think she was inputting it all into her computer of a mind — his words, his face, the minutiae of his body language — trying to decide what to push, what to leave alone.
He and Emilie both turned at the unmistakable sound of an approaching horse, soon accompanied by the sight of Liv on a small bay with lots of white hacking out alone. The length of the horse’s tail, as well as the immature build, gave the animal away as a yearling, though the baby had a big walk for such a little thing, stepping out with confidence. Those legs were long. He’d bet that one was going to grow. Probably had a slow start for whatever reason — born early, maybe, because he couldn’t imagine anything on this farm not being properly nourished. She — because that feminine face had to belong to a filly — would catch up.
“That’s Claire,” Emilie said. “I’m not sure you’re going to get anywhere close to that one.”
The wry twist of the young woman’s lips made him wonder if her meaning was two-fold. “Obviously she’s been well-started already.”
“Hey, Liv,” Emilie called.
Liv turned her head, like she’d just seen them; smiled slightly and lifted a hand. Her gaze lingered on him, but she didn’t add words to it. No, get moved in all right? Or welcome to the crew. Whatever. Claire wasn’t the least bit worried about the two humans at the picnic table. She took them in with more interest and far less suspicion than her rider.
When he turned back to Emilie, she was watching him.
“Things to know,” she began. “If you’re silently watching my sister thinking she’s all intriguing and you want to get to know her and maybe date her, just get that out of your head right now. She’s not really that mysterious. It’s pretty straightforward, actually. She doesn’t date.”
“Did I ask?” He was partly amused, but a little insulted. He had no intention of putting the moves on Liv. He’d figured all that stuff out on his own.
“Just getting it out there, just in case.”
“Got it,” he said. “Now tell me something useful.”
“Liv’s best friend, Faye? Faye and her brother Dean have the farm just down the road, Northwest. Faye is pretty much Liv’s opposite. If you ever meet her, you can be pretty sure she won’t even wait for you to suggest anything. So if you’re looking for something, there you go.”
He chuckled. “Good to know.”
“And if you’re not? Just — hide, or something.” She sipped from the cup with a wave of her free hand. “You’re on your own with the girls on the farm.”
“I don’t date either.” Anymore. “So that solves that.”
“A life less complicated?”
“Absolutely. What about you?”
“Who has time for that?” She proffered her glass, and he met it with his. He felt like he’d found an ally.
She touched the screen of her phone, checking on the time. “I have to go. I’ll see you around when I come up for air from my study cave.”
He took her empty plastic glass from her and stood. “Thanks for the intel.”
She nodded at the cups. “There’s a blue recycling bin in the feed room. Don’t let me find those in the garbage.”
“Are you sure they’re recyclable?”
“Of course I’m sure. I bought them.”
“Environmental tox. Got it.” He grinned as she gave him a sideways smile and walked toward the house.
He was sorry he probably wouldn’t see much of Emilie, but not seeing much of Liv seemed like a good thing. Sounded like if they avoided each other, they’d both be happy.
He dropped the cups in the blue box and made his way upstairs, the hollow sound of his running shoes on the wooden steps leaving him feeling lonely. In the apartment, the picture window drew him, a lookout that let him survey his new world. He could see Emilie strolling along the lane, then Liv and Claire returning, the two sisters probably exchanging words as they passed. Then Emilie disappeared from sight, leaving him watching horse and rider.
Together the two of them made a pretty image, the young woman and her mount. Liv Lachance with her picture-perfect life. Must be nice, that life. The fancy house, the white-fenced farm with its rolling hills inhabited by well-bred horses. The clear career path, the bankroll behind it. Home sweet home.
How long before it felt like home for him? Or was it just a step on the road? A halfway house for wayward boys. He wanted Liv’s crystal-clear view of the future. He didn’t care what it was; he just needed the security of knowing he had some kind of purpose.
Following them until the window’s border ended the vignette, he turned to the piano, staring at it, then walked a wide circle around it to one of the boxes. He hadn’t taken the time to label anything when he’d packed back in Calgary. It had been a rapid sorting of what to take, what to leave behind.
Inside was an odd assortment of photos, framed eight-by-tens he had to wonder why he’d bothered to bring along. But buried beneath them was a six-by-eight, and now it made sense. The others had only been there to hide this. Too bad he’d forgotten.
It was one of those stand-up frames, not the kind with a hook to hang on the wall. He forced himself to look at the shot. He had his arm around Cindy. His older brother Phil was on her other side, his younger brother Tim next to him — all of them slathered with mud from some adventure race; all of them with huge smiles. Even Tim, who was the shy one of the bunch; sweet like their mother, reserved like their father.
He rubbed the film of dust from the frame, then set it on top of the piano, not exactly sure why. A reminder? A torture device? A prompt to do better? But better at what, exactly?
He slid onto the bench and stared at the keys. He should get it tuned. Lifting one hand, then the other, his fingers hovered, like they no longer knew what to do, where to go — an extension of the rest of him.
12
Sweltering September heat and three days of showing made for compliant baby racehorses. Liv helped Jake with the last-minute scopes, holding the yearlings with the shank in one hand and twitch in the other. The first day there had been a lot more fight in some of them. Who could blame them? It was probably the first time most of them had experienced someone guiding a long tube up a nostril and into their throat. All Liv’s soothing tones did little to pacify the ones who resisted. Today, everyone — horses and help alike — was just tired after three days of going in and out of stalls, walking up and down for viewings. The first day’s sales barn drama, which typically involved someone getting loose from a handler, and possibly an ambulance for an injured worker, had settled into a more placid routine.
Sales day was busy for all involved: Buyers taking one last look at their favourites, consignors jumping at their demands, grooms putting the final spit and polish on the early numbers. The yearlings all literally had a number glued to their left hip that matched their pedigree page in the sales catalogue, affixed that morning. Yes, glue. A total pain to get off.
Jake, with the box of the endoscope slung by a strap across his chest, slid the eyepiece toward Liv, holding it so she could view the upper airway of their most recent patient. He waited for Liv’s assessment.
“Left laryngeal hemiplegia,” she recited, recognizing a common upper airway dysfunction that affected the horse’s breathing. Jake nodded. Not good news for the seller; a potential deal for a buyer, though that savings would be used up by surgery to correct the issue.
“That’s it for a while,” Jake said as he stepped out of the stall, Liv releasing the horse. “Don’t turn your phone off.”
That was a vet’s life, wasn’t it?
There was always an air of anticipation when the day of sale arrived, even if the Canadian Thoroughbred Horse Society wasn’t on the same level as Keeneland September in Lexington, Kentucky, with its million dollar babies, which started next week. Past success stories graced the cover of the inch-thick softcover book listing the yearlings entered alphabetically by their mothers’ names, this year starting with the letter M.
She’d long since drained her water bottle, but some of the consignors were handing them out for free, and she gladly accepted one. Emilie would have chastised her for contributing to plastic in the landfill, not having the foresight to bring enough refillable bottles with her. The water was cool, though, soothing her parched throat. She wished she could dump it over her head to wash away the layer of dust that had settled on her skin.
With a loud crackle, the public address system started up, and the announcer began his spiel, going over terms and conditions — the dry reading that filled the pages at the front of the catalogue. The walking area was filling up with people as the first yearlings made their way over. It was always busier here than in the actual pavilion where the seats were.
Liv glanced around and caught sight of a familiar form. Bent over at the waist as he leaned on the railing, Dean Taylor studied an open catalogue gripped in both hands, the tips of colourful sticky markers jutting from its pages, designating horses he’d made notes on; maybe planned to bid on. Liv sidled up next to him. Even hunched as he was, the knee of one long leg popped so his left shoe rested on the ball of his foot, he was taller than her.
“Hey Dean,” she said, pulling her own catalogue from the crook of her arm. “Why are you here so early?”
He glanced up and grinned with brown eyes just like Faye’s, his dark unkempt hair falling over his brow, making him look boyish, though he was in his thirties. “Skipping school already? That’s setting a dangerous precedent, isn’t it?”
She grinned back. “I have a vet’s note.” She extracted her pen from where she’d jammed it between the pages and started absently drawing a line through the outs as the announcer listed the horses that had been withdrawn. “This is a justifiable absence. We never do anything important on the first day back, anyway.”
She and Dean were far more similar than she and Faye. Maybe it was the oldest sibling thing. They were the serious ones. And Dean was a prime example of someone who had given up school for racing. She’d learned from Faye that training racehorses was what he’d really wanted to do; that he’d felt banished by his father, who’d insisted he get a proper education. The racing industry was far too fickle. But according to Faye, Dean was so much happier now, even though they’d had more than their share of rough patches with their farm. Sad, though, that it had taken death for him to have the chance to pursue his passion. Wasn’t Dean a case in point for following her own?
Now that there were horses in the walking ring, the energy level escalated. Those sleepy yearlings were waking up, confronted with yet more unfamiliar sights and sounds and smells: the crowd, the barbeque just outside cooking burgers and hot dogs, the buzz of the PA, the bid spotters in their elevated pedestal in the middle of it all.
Dean’s eyes locked on the horse closest to them — hip number one — so Liv flipped quickly to the page to refresh her memory. She’d seen so many horses, and rarely had time to make notes, so there was nothing on this colt. But he piqued her interest because he was by Starway, Triple Stripe’s own stallion.
Being first in the ring was not a good thing for a seller, because inevitably some potential buyers were late. While it looked busy in here, it wasn’t as crowded as it would get. It gave a trainer like Dean — who didn’t operate with the same budget the big names did — the chance to snag a bargain.
Physically, Liv could see why Dean liked this colt. Like Starway, he was dark bay, so dark his black points almost blended with the rest of him. A bright white spot popped from the middle of his forehead, big and feathered into his coat colour at the edges. He was well balanced and had a handsome head and a pleasant expression. He was alert, ears, eyes and nostrils all taking in the bustle, but he wasn’t overly nervous. And he had a great walk, a sexy swing to his hips as his hind foot fell into the print of the corresponding front with a perfect cadence.
Even though it was extremely peoplely here — something that usually triggered her anxiety — she loved the atmosphere, the thrill of immersion in the possibility of it all. Another entry point to this sport she loved. Everyone was here to watch the horses, so she was free to observe unhindered. Dean was the perfect sales partner, because he was exactly the same. They fell into silence, watching the colt circle at the last stage before going into the ring. Then he was gone from their sight as the showman led him through the doors.
The announcer extracted every highlight from the colt’s pedigree as he talked the yearling up. Then finally, the auctioneer took over, and the rapid-fire ramble began. She and Dean shifted their eyes to the monitor that showed the view inside the pavilion.
The colt still held it together, though the small area in which the handler maneuvered him always seemed precarious to Liv. It was a raised platform in front of the auctioneer’s stand, and all that separated it from the drop to the concrete floor and tiered seats of the pavilion were strands of rope. Thick rope, sure, and she’d never seen a yearling go through it, nevertheless her imagination could picture it and it always made her hold her breath, her heart in her throat, until the final SOLD! came.
The showman walked the colt forward and turned him to present the other side. He stood, regally surveying his surroundings, an image that might inspire buyers to picture him posing in the winner’s circle. The bidding was healthy, the numbers on the board displayed both in Canadian and American dollars, tripping upwards, four figures leaping to five.
It didn’t really happen that you could inadvertently buy a horse at these things. People on the outside always worried or joked about that, afraid to twitch or scratch for fear of finding themselves with a horse they didn’t intend to buy. There were too many checks and balances in place. She watched Dean from the corner of her vision. Sure it was subtle — a raise of a finger, a nod as he made eye contact with the bid spotter — but should he end up having the highest bid, he’d have to sign a slip, which a runner would take to the sales office. His credit would be verified. If the office found an error, they’d bring the yearling back into the ring and sell the horse again. Not even the underbidder was automatically on the hook.
Dean was all business now, poker face in place. The auctioneer’s pitch had slowed. There was a rally back and forth, from one court to the other — someone in front was bidding against Dean here in the back, an intimate dialogue happening between the trainer and the spotter. Even though Liv knew all that stuff about inadvertent bidding, she kept herself still. The spotters knew who she was, the daughter of someone who had bought horses at this sale. She could be an agent. But as much as she liked this colt, she wasn’t here to buy anything.
The next yearling waiting to go in the ring jumped when the auctioneer punctuated his final declaration. “Sold, to Steve in the back for twenty-two thousand.” Steve was the bid spotter. Dean had got the colt.
“Congrats!” Liv said, patting him lightly on the back as her phone vibrated in the pocket of her jeans. She dragged it out and scanned the screen. Jake. “Gotta go.”
