Buttercup the mare delivered the fold without any issues, although she certainly took her sweet time doing it. It always amazed me how animals just instinctively knew what to do while humans needed a team of doctors and nurses and classes and books to have a baby. More amazing to me is how quickly non-human babies get up and move on their own. Buttercup pushed the fold out of her womb and within minutes the fold was standing up on its spindly, wobbly legs.
Mr. Gibbs and I watched from outside the stall because unlike human women who wanted their husbands hovering over them during delivery, and every living relative waiting in the hall to tell them how cute their ugly baby was, mares did not appreciate human intervention when they gave birth. It made restless. It was as if they were thinking, “Just leave me alone and let me do this.” So, I waited and watched from afar. I’d only get involved if the mother or fold were in distress.
Buttercup had been restless for hours, indicating that she was getting ready to give birth. Mr. Gibbs said she would lay down, then stand up and tromp around the stall, then do it all again. When she started sweating and lay down on her side, I knew the fold was about to come. After twenty minutes and one good push, the fold gushed out of her in what looked like a giant condom. Buttercup lay quietly for a few minutes, resting, catching her breath, getting her heart and blood pumping again. Finally, she got to her feet and started licking and cleaning the placenta off the fold. I stepped in to make sure mommy and baby were fine, then stood outside of the stall with Mr. Gibbs to watch them bond.
“It’s a beautiful thing,” the old man said lovingly, using a long, bent finger to push back the brim of his worn Stetson on his high forehead. He was tall and thin to the point of being gaunt, but his skin was the color and texture of saddle leather after decades of baking in the hot Texas sun. His bushy eyebrows and the stubble that covered his pointy chin and hollow cheeks were as white as the hairs curling out over his ears from beneath the Stetson.
“What’s that?” I asked.
He let his head bob as he watched Buttercup and her baby. “The bond between a mother and child. Nothing like it on earth. It’s a true miracle.”
“It is,” I said, resting my arms on top of the stall and setting my chin on them. I stifled a yawn on my arm and wondered what time it was. It was dark outside. I felt as if I’d been up for days.
“Speaking of, how are your folks?” Gibbs asked.
“They’re fine,” I said, watching the mare as it cleaned afterbirth off its baby’s sleek nose. “They’re both retired. Mama keeps busy keeping daddy in line. And daddy is just as ornery as ever. All he wants to do is hunt and fish and get on mama’s nerves.”
“Huntin’ and fishin’ can keep a man young,” Mr. Gibbs said, chuckling as he scratched his whiskered chin. “Oh, did you hear that Irene Mavic passed away yesterday?” He said it matter-of-factly, as if he were just asking me if it rained at my house yesterday.
I blinked at him because I had not heard the news, which was odd given the small-town gossip chain that ran through Gulf Breeze like a super highway. Irene Mavic was Shane Mavic’s mother. Shane was my high school sweetheart, at least until I caught him with Juju Wheeler at the end of our senior year. Seeing them together like that, her big tits hanging out, her mouth around his cock, his hand fishing around inside her… well, that pretty much drove a stake through my heart and killed any feelings I’d ever had for Shane Mavic. I never spoke to him again, although I still thought about him from time to time. I reckoned you never forgot your first love, no matter how badly they screwed you over or screwed you up.
It did not escape me that Juju had serviced both of the men I’d loved while they were supposed to be faithful to me. Juju was the class slut, though she strutted around with her nose in the air like she was belle of the ball. She had been spreading her legs for the boys since she was old enough to sprout hair between her legs. She was a total cunt that didn’t care who got hurt so long as she got whatever she wanted.
Supposedly, she had found Jesus while I was away at vet school and had changed her ways, but I knew better. Once a slut, always a slut. Only now when Juju cried out for Jesus while somebody else’s man was fucking her the Good Lord might answer the call with a lightning bolt or two. The next time she brought her little Maltese in for its shots I’d have to ask her how Jesus was since he never paid me much mind.
“Irene Mavic died?” I frowned at him. “I hadn’t heard that. How? When?”
Gibbs blew out a long breath that smelled like chewing tobacco and rye whiskey. “I reckon she’d been in a home in Galveston for a while now. She got lung cancer a year or two after Clint passed on, you know. Second hand smoke, the docs said, because she never smoked a day in her life.”
“Clint smoked like a chimney,” I said without bothering to hide my disgust for the man from my voice. “He beat the poor woman for years and killed her with his cigarettes. It’s a goddamn shame.” I realized I was thinking out loud. I glanced over to find Gibbs staring at me from under his bushy eyebrows. I huffed a tired smile to excuse my behavior. “Sorry. It’s been a long day.”
“That’s okay,” he said with a grin that was missing its front teeth. “Everybody knew what a mean sumbitch Clint Mavic was.”
“And yet nobody did anything about it,” I said, rubbing my eyes till they were red.
“Not much you could do,” he said, quietly.
“I guess.” I could picture Irene Mavic’s downtrodden face in my mind. I don’t think I ever saw her smile, not that I was around her more than a handful of times. Shane rarely let me come to his house and only did so when his daddy wasn’t home, and even then, he wouldn’t let me stay long. He never talked about what a house of horrors it was, though I knew something dark and evil lived there. The few times I asked him about the bruises on his back and ribs he’d just blame it on football.
“Well, his boy tried to do something about it,” Gibbs said, his head bobbing on his long neck. He cleared his throat and spat tobacco juice in the dirt. “And look where that got him.”
“Yeah,” I said, watching the fold struggling to get to its feet. “Look where it got him.”
CHAPTER 5: Shane
Gulf Breeze, Texas, population 6,273 according to the faded sign on the highway leading into town, was a little nothing spot on the Gulf of Mexico (where there was always a breeze, duh) just south of Freeport and north of Matagorda. The old folks liked to say that Gulf Breeze was in the middle of nowhere, but had one hell of an ocean view. Old folks said the stupidest things sometimes. I knew the number on the sign was wrong because my old man and my mother had died since it was last updated. Probably a lot of other folks, too. The population never went up in Gulf Breeze because old citizens died faster than new ones could be born.
I
was born and raised in Gulf Breeze by a dad who spent his life working on oil rigs and a mother who spent most of her time trying to keep the fuck out of his way.
My old man, Clint Mavic, was only 5’9 and smoked three packs of Lucky Strikes a day, but he was built like a Texas bull and had the temper of a nest of hornets. He was short and stocky, but I’d seen him lay-out men six inches taller with one good punch and not break a sweat. You never worried about anyone bothering you when you were with him in public. People gave Clint Mavic a wide berth because they knew he could go off like a stick of dynamite with a short fuse at any minute.
His old man beat the living shit out of him in the name of good parenting and he did the same to me, although his beatings had nothing to do with teaching me right or wrong. They were just him taking out his frustration and anger and meanness on the person who seemed to get on his nerves the most. He’d beat me until I couldn’t take anymore, then start in on my mother. And if that didn’t get it out of his system he’d go to a bar looking for a fight.
I walked on eggshells all the time when I was a young, skinny kid, I was so afraid of pissing him off. It was a waste of time because you never knew when he was gonna blow. He was like a volcano that would erupt without warning. Calm one minute, punching you hard in the face the next. He was careful never to break any bones or do anything that would leave a permanent mark. He never hit me in the face until I joined the football team in high school. I guess he figured the black eyes and busted lips could be blamed on a tough scrimmage.
He never touched my little brother Kenny, but I was his punching bag from the time I was old enough to walk and get knocked down and get back up again. He beat the living shit out of my mom, too. I’d seen him grab her by the neck and shake her till she turned blue. Then he’d toss her aside and head toward me again if I was coming to. I got really good at playing possum. I’d lay there like Texas roadkill and let him kick me in the back without screaming till he tired himself out.