Sally Would Be Home Tomorrow

Alan’s gray ‘92 Ford Bronco hummed down the dirt road to the Merriman farm. Damned shame what happened, all around. Dust plumes fanned out behind him, caught by the breeze and drifting off east. Randy Travis played at low volume on the radio, almost unheard beneath the tire-flung crunch of rocks and the blow of the Bronco’s heater.

On these country backroads, sheriffs had nowhere to hide, so of course Alan floored it. His mind whirled. His wife Alexandra remained in the hospital with a compound leg fracture and a concussion from the accident. She’d bought groceries at Harvey’s down in Logan, but she’d been rear-ended when she’d slammed the brakes to avoid hitting a deer. When the Camry buckled it crushed her extended leg.

Lucky she’s alive, at least, he thought. But now what am I gonna do? He’d spent the last two days at the hospital with her. The first night had been the worst while she was in surgery. No report came while they stabilized her leg and fitted it up with pins and a titanium rod. All he’d known was that she’d have a long recovery ahead of her.

Even before this, he’d offered to help Dave with checking on their farm. Keep the animals fed, walk the horse, that sort of thing. The accident had taken priority, and he’d only just remembered the Merrimans in his distraction.

The Merrimans. He grimaced.

Alan slowed as he approached the drive up to the main farmhouse. Nothing seemed amiss, and life carried on. Their cat Manx slinked away from the road through the grass, no doubt hunting a random mouse or vole. Chickens wandered about, which was unfortunate, as the rooster kept a lusty eye upon them. He’d have to round them up too.

He parked the Bronco in front of the Merriman house and turned off the engine. It gave an unwelcome choke as it died. “That’s the last thing I need right now,” Alan muttered. Tossing his keys onto the driver seat, he slammed the door and went to the house. Locked as expected. Alan found the key where Dave said he’d leave it, under the flower pot at the front of the porch steps. As he bent to retrieve it, he heard a clatter, a whinney, and a louder crash coming from the barn.

“Oh shit, Wilbur,” he muttered as he pocketed the house key. He thought of the last time Sally had ridden him down to his place to say hi. Unfortunate that they’d sold Francesca. None of this would have happened. Saddened, he walked to the barn. More slams and crashes came, and he sped up his pace.

“Too bad Dave never got around to fixing up this barn. It’s gonna be a hard sell,” he thought, looking at the disheveled roof and peeling paint. Dusty red flecks mixed in the dirt adjacent to its walls. Weather rot had eaten the bottom slats in many places, perfect for vermin to fit through in the winter. Shaking his head, Alan drew back the latch and opened the barn door.

***

Warming dawn flowed through the window above the barn door, brushing away the late October night’s chill as dust motes danced in the sunlight. Sally Merriman’s three year old colt Wilbur responded to daybreak by snorting, and stumbled up to his feet, struggling with weakness. Bare dirt covered the floor of his stall, and he’d eaten every scrap of hay and oat his eyes spied in the half-light. For the past three days, Wilbur had stayed away from the muck in his stall, and pushed it to the back.

He cocked his head at the barn door, expecting to see Sally coming in with food any moment. Swishing flies away, Wilbur’s white tail brushed his brown flanks as he stamped his impatience. Minute after minute passed while waiting.

Hunger gnawed in Wilbur’s empty belly, but his slimy trough could not slake his thirst nor fill his belly. He slurped each remaining drop his tongue could reach. The colt chewed at the wooden slats crisscrossing the sides of his stall, but made little progress. Its taste turned him off, plus it splintered, leaving painful bits of wood biting Wilbur’s gums and lips in spiteful revenge.

A rooster crowed, and the colt knew for another day Sally had forgotten him. Excitement gave way to disappointment, and the eager light faded from the colt’s dark eyes. She always came before the farm’s morning alarm, treating Wilbur with an open hand of oats followed by a nice rubdown of his flanks. Their morning ritual concluded with her putting on the saddle blanket and saddle, then taking him for a ride. Almost more than the food, he missed those rides the most, but not because of her.

Francesca’s stall next to him remained vacant, and Wilbur missed his mother. Sally’s father David had mirrored her ritual with their brood mare every morning, and it had been the four of them touring the farm, sometimes visiting neighbors while getting their daily exercise. One day, David had taken Francesca out, and Wilbur hadn’t seen her since. All that remained of her were memories stirred by the breeze when the barn door stood open, her scent wafting from her stall as a mixture of happiness and melancholy.

Wilbur craved even that breath of comfort, one more thing denied him by his confinement. Instead, that empty trough with its remnant of slime taunted him at last to desperation. The colt knew David kept a pile of hay across from his stall, and could just make out the shadowy mass in the dim light of the barn. He nuzzled the gate, trying to push it open, but Sally had locked it like she always had. Wilbur knew this and had tried anyway.

The gate rattled, shaking on its hinges, a clattering metallic shudder blunted by aged wood. He had never tried testing his stall like this before, and had never needed to. Now though, survival purred in his heart, and starvation clung to his withering frame. Wilbur nudged again, harder, and still it did not yield. It seemed to growl back, becoming a menacing adversary, the opponent keeping him from a victory meal.

Wilbur remembered a time when he’d been out in the pasture grazing with his mother, and a lone wolf had stalked them. No doubt it too had been starving, hunting for anything it could get its jaw on. The colt had been too young to notice, but Francesca realized in an instant, her instincts urging her to turn, and strike. Her rear hoof impacted with the wolf’s skull, crushing it mid-air as it launched itself at Wilbur. Both horses remained unscathed, and when David arrived with Sally to return them to the barn later that afternoon, David had been quite impressed at their resourcefulness. Sally had given him extra oats that evening even though he’d done nothing but be unassuming prey.

Now, this memory of his mother encouraged him, and he turned, striking the gate with a fierce hoof. The frame of the stall bucked. Again he struck, and it shuddered back. Wilbur felt it weaken, and using both hind legs gave a double kick, leaning forward on his front hooves and attacking the gate with unrestrained ferocity.

The hinge exploded, causing Wilbur to stumble, twisting onto his side as the force of his strength carried him backwards. A raucous clatter reverberated through the barn when the gate impacted Francesca’s stall. For his reward, Wilbur stood back up and grazed at the nearest bale of hay, biting shreds from the packed bundle with his teeth and gripping them with his lips. The colt chewed, absent-mindedly shaking his hind legs one at a time. He felt the sting as blood trickled down, and yet it tickled all the same.

Light creaked across the floor of the barn, distracting Wilbur from his eager feasting. A man’s silhouette blotted the light, and it took a moment for the colt’s eyes to adjust. As his eyes became accustomed to the light, he saw that it wasn’t Dave, but a different man. Water leaked from his eyes as he approached.

“Oh Wilbur, I’m so sorry,” the man apologized, eyeing the wrecked stall. “Remember me? I’m Alan.”

***

Alan pitied the poor young colt, yet sympathized with it as well, for their misfortunes now aligned. He approached, quiet and slow to prevent startling Wilbur. The horse looked malnourished, with ribs visible through his skin. Still, Alan saw recognition in those eyes and relaxed. Maybe this would be easier.

To distract himself, he turned to the task of caring for the colt. He refilled the trough and mucked out the stall. Not that it mattered. Wilbur had pretty thoroughly destroyed the hinges and slide-bolt getting himself out. Francesca’s stall would suffice until the lawyers could settle things.

Alan determined that the cuts on Wilbur’s hind legs were just superficial scratches and wouldn’t cause any immediate harm. When the colt stopped feeding, Alan bridled him and led him out on a walk. Would Sally handle this differently? Or Dave? He sighed. Despite his wife’s accident, he knew he couldn’t put off this responsibility either. The newspaper this morning only made it more apparent.

Such a horrible way for the day to begin. The Merrimans were good folk, and didn’t deserve what happened to them. So many if only’s. If only they hadn’t sold Francesca. If only they hadn’t decided to reward themselves for the great harvest. If only they hadn’t bought those tickets. If only they hadn’t gotten on that plane.

If only it hadn’t crashed.

***

Wilbur had enjoyed the walk, stretching his legs after eating his fill. Alan had given him crisp, refreshing water and a rubdown. Alan was no Sally, and didn’t give him the same comfort, but it sufficed. Alan seemed distracted. The colt strayed through the pasture while the man busied himself, wrangling chickens and tending the other animals.

The grass danced with the wind, a cool breeze for midmorning. Nearby, the vacant, dirt-covered lane stretched from house to county road. Sally’s favorite path. Wilbur nipped at some blades as they tickled his nostrils, and chewed. It tasted better than the dry hay, though the short grass waned with the season.

Trotting through the field, the colt burned his nervous energy before building up to a brief gallop. Wilbur relished his freedom, and the memory of his abandonment faded like a bad dream while the sun approached its noon-day height. He wandered down closer to the county lane, where he relaxed when he saw Alan leave in his vehicle. He whinnied.

Wilbur was thankful that Alan had come by, and optimism filled him. Tomorrow would be even better. The colt could feel it. Wilbur remembered Sally riding him to Alan’s house, walking alongside Dave on his mother Francesca more than once. Alan had come to help. The colt watched, content, as the dust from Alan’s departure dissipated.

Sally would be home tomorrow.

Behind the scenes videos from writing this story here: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLvwllgOeaLLZ2EjIV0oDqPjpTeh7pNRG0