Whiskey Midnight
Everyone loves a good horse story! Here's one I wrote last summer and still just love, but am not sure what to do with. For now, enjoy!! Please comment with suggestions!
It was dark, finally. Too dark to see her bruises, once
again dark enough that she could pretend they weren’t there. She breathed as
quietly and motionlessly as she could, willing herself to be completely still
so as not to wake him. He didn’t like to be woken up, not at all, and she
didn’t think she could take another one of his rages tonight.
Sylvia was a black-haired twenty-something, slender and
feminine in every way. Her soft looks contrasted sharply with the harsh and ugly
struggles she endured. The man she had married five years ago in the throes of
young love had transformed into a monster, and had dragged her down into his
misery with him. She didn’t know a safe way out, and she was too afraid to tell,
too afraid to leave.
But she wasn’t entirely alone in her troubles. She always
had a place to retreat to in her mind, a beautiful place of dewy pastures and
floating manes. She would go to this place, built on the memories of her
childhood, anytime his words became too stinging, his blows too rough. Sylvia
loved horses, had owned them and played with them when she was a girl, and she
desperately longed for their understanding gaze now.
They lived in a crummy cheap apartment, not far from the
local racetrack, Walther Downs. Sometimes, if the wind was just right, Sylvia
could hear the cheers from the crowd carry to their tiny lopsided balcony. Just
knowing there were horses only a few miles away was a comfort to her, though
her longing to be near them again remained ever unfulfilled.
She worked at a local bakery that she could walk to from the
apartment. It was always a relief to escape the home that had become a prison
to her. At work at least she was safe from Jackson’s drunken stupor. The job
left much to be desired, though, paying just over minimum wage, with uncaring employers
who had enough troubles of their own. The inside of the bakery was stark, getting
just enough customers for coffee and pastries to keep its doors open. Sylvia
was too afraid to look for something better, too afraid that if she left she
might not be able to find something, and then he would get mad at her. He would
get mad and she would regret trying to make things better for herself. She
knew; she had tried enough times.
It was a gray afternoon and Sylvia was replacing croissants
in the display case when the gentlemen walked in. She looked up, greeted them, and
put her head back down to work. They were speaking emphatically about
something, and a few key words caught her attention.
“That filly’s gotta do better than she’s been doin’, with
that sire she’s got. I’ve gotta get a different rider on her, see if we can’t
get somethin’ more out of her,” the first man said.
“Well, you never know in this business. Racing’s a fickle
lover,” the second, shorter man responded.
Sylvia was watching them with interest now. People from the
track didn’t usually come in here; there were closer bakeries and even gas
stations that probably had better baked goods nearer the track.
“ . . . I just had to get away from it for awhile . . .
couldn’t stand to run into Smith out there this morning. He never misses a
chance to rub a win in my face.”
The men ordered coffee- black- and a piece of pound cake
each. Sylvia rang them up with a smile, hoping they might ask her if she
followed racing, or some similar invitation to their conversation.
They didn’t, of course, and instead sat down at one of the
flimsy two-seater tables along the wall. Sylvia’s mind wandered to the feeling
of galloping bareback through the pasture on her childhood mare, Susie Q. She
missed those days so much it ached. However did she end up here, living this
kind of life?
“ . . . Well, I’ll be up at ol’ Barn C tomorrow mornin’ to
check out that colt Jensen wanted me to look at. Glad to have him for a
neighbor ‘stead of Smith, that’s for sure. He’s a stand-up guy, that Jensen,”
the taller man said.
His friend agreed with him, and scraped his chair back to
stand.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said to Sylvia. “Have a good day,
now.”
“Thank you; you too,” Sylvia replied with her soft smile.
Horse people were the next best thing to horses most of the time. They tend to
say what they mean and Sylvia could appreciate that.
A few more long hours passed in that workday, and Sylvia
served a few more lone customers before it was time to close up once again. She
had been thinking about what those men had said. Who was that filly who they
seemed to think underperformed? They hadn’t mentioned a name. And Jensen, and
Smith, those other men they had talked about . . . now that she had characters
and faces to identify with Walther Downs, she couldn’t seem to stop thinking
about it . . .
To be continued
