Go back. Rewrite. Smooth it out. Too much tragedy all at once. Fix it.
The one time I’d be happy to edit.
Mary Shelby, who I only started calling Mary after I turned twenty-five, had always been in my life. Literally. There were pictures of her holding me hours after my birth—her grinning, me squalling my head off. She’d been the parish administrator, a wife, a mother, someone who never failed to send you a birthday card that arrived exactly on the day of, a woman who loved horses and riding them. And now she was dead.
I slowed the car as I came up around a steep curve, Mary’s driveway being a blind approach directly on the other side. It was almost noon, the sky a cerulean bowl, and I had the window down, letting the air course over me. A blue jay called in the woods, and the gravel of Mary’s drive crackled under my tires. No matter how much sensory input I registered, nothing felt real.
Two bends and the little ranch came into view. That’s what she always called it: her little ranch. A few chickens, a cow, two dogs, a cat. And of course, her horses. I couldn’t accept that they had been the cause of her demise.
The house stood to the left, tucked into the small clearing overlooking a meadow. On the right was the barn and stable, both a matching faded red. There was a light-gray sedan parked beside Mary’s SUV in front of the house, no doubt belonging to her only son, Robert.
I pulled in beside the SUV and climbed out at the same time the door was opening on the house. Robert Shelby was a tall, willowy man who had started losing his hair in tenth grade, the last of it disappearing sometime in college. He wore a sport coat over a sweater, perfect attire for an accountant.
He tried to say something when we were a few steps apart and failed. I hugged my friend.
Inside Mary’s house, he made us a pot of coffee, even though I was sure if I had one more sip, I’d lift off like a rocket. Robert fumbled around in the kitchen with the gaucherie of someone cooking in a stranger’s house. He wiped away a few tears when he couldn’t find the coffee filters. We looked for them together.
“I’m so sorry, Robert,” I said for the second time. “I wouldn’t have come right over except Kel told me you were here.”
“No, no, I appreciate it. I got in late last night, and the quiet is . . . eating me up.”
We discovered the filters behind a set of mixing bowls, and when the brew was finished, we took our cups into the living room. There was a hot coal perched on the back of my tongue, searing my throat shut. Every time I thought of something to say, the coal would flare and my eyes would begin to water. It didn’t help that the living room was decorated with dozens of pictures. Mary at church. Mary with Robert, his wife, Lisa, and their two kids. Mary on vacation in Hawaii. Mary with her arms around my sister and me when we were teenagers. Mary with her horses.
I stared at the last picture for longer than I should have, and Robert noticed. “Yeah, I know. I told her she should’ve started boarding them somewhere else,” he said quietly. “Then none of this would’ve happened.”
“I still don’t understand . . .”
He sighed and set his untouched coffee down. “It was Hocus. He was loose inside the stable when they found her. I guess Father Mathew sent Jill Abernathy over to check on her when she didn’t show up for work and there was no answer on her phone.” Robert struggled for a moment, then went on. “It looks like she was getting ready for a ride sometime Thursday evening. She let Hocus out into the main area, and he must’ve spooked. He kicked her.” Robert gestured to his face. “One time. That was it. Pocus was still penned up.”
I could see what had happened. Mary letting the big black stallion out of his pen, maybe feeding him a handful of oats as I’d seen her do hundreds of times over the years. Then grabbing the saddle and walking up behind him, and wham.
That’s not what happened.
“I know. Freak accident,” Robert said, noticing my expression. There was a tremor in his voice as he gazed around the room full of pictures. “I couldn’t believe it when they told me. Still can’t.”
“Has either of the horses ever kicked her? Or each other?”
“No. Not that she ever told me.” He laughed. “Not that she would. You know how she was.”
“Tough as nails.”
“Tougher. All I can think is she was distracted. She’d been a little scatterbrained on the phone the last few times we talked. Made a mistake the one time, and the one time was all it took. That’s why mistakes are bastards; you only have to make one of them.” He shook his head. “I haven’t been home to see her since Christmas. Isn’t that terrible?”