He played shortstop on the high school team, which was where Dorry met him when he was a senior. McLain played Leakesville, and on one sultry spring afternoon, Dorry and I went to watch the game.
Tommy got a scholarship to the University of Southern Mississippi, where Dorry decided she was going. She tried out for the college dance squad, the Dixie Darlings, and ensured herself a place in Tommy’s line of sight. But there was another girl with the same idea. Lucinda Baker knew a good thing when she saw it, too.
Never one to act in haste, Tommy vacillated between the two girls for most of his college career. He’d date Dorry, until she got too demanding, then he’d switch to Lucinda for a while. When she disagreed with him or began to expect a certain kind of treatment, he dumped her and went back to Dorry.
As Tommy’s college days at USM drew to a close, and it was certain he’d go to medical school in nearby Mobile, Alabama, on a very nice scholarship, Dorry gave up. She started dating a young man from Hattiesburg. Tommy proposed instantly. They were married within a semester of Dorry graduating from college. Instead of a college degree, she got pregnant with her first child.
“Tommy loves his work. He operates almost every day now in Mobile. There’s no one else who can perform the delicate surgeries that he does.”
I drifted back into the conversation as Dorry gathered up the cake saucers, sweeping mine away before Mother could comment. “I thought he was opening a clinic here in Leakesville so he could spend more time with the kids.”
“He’s going to, as soon as he can find time,” Dorry said, a hint of defensiveness in her tone.
“Tommy doesn’t have the kind of career he can just drop,” my mother said.
“What about some music, Dorry?” Dad asked. “The two of you. It’s been a long time since I heard you play together.”
The blood must have drained from my face. “I don’t think Carson’s up to it,” Dorry said quickly.
“I haven’t played…in a while.” Not since Annabelle died. We’d played duets together, just as Dorry and I had done when we were children.
I stood up. “I’m really tired. I think I’ll lie down for a while. Strange will be here early in the morning to trim the horses’ hooves.” I knew Strange Yoder didn’t like to work on Sundays. He did it for my dad, who’d been good to his sick mother. Sundays were the days Strange liked to fill his ice chest with beer, get some luncheon meat and go to the river to fish in solitude.
“Good night,” Dad said, effectively releasing me.
“Do you need Emily to help in the morning?” Dorry offered.
“No, I can handle it. I’d welcome the company if she’s up.”
“If she comes home from Susie’s tonight, I’ll tell her.” Dorry went into the kitchen to help Mother wash up after the meal. Such an action exemplified her status as the perfect daughter. I went to my room and picked up an old paperback that I’d bought more than twenty-five years before. I couldn’t believe Mom kept all my junk. I held the book and thought that at the time I was reading it, five girls were still alive on the Gulf Coast. Five women were probably dreaming the same dreams that I’d once had, of a future with a happy family and career. I’d tucked into my bed in Leakesville with a book, and they’d gone out for an errand or to meet a friend or to a party. They’d died. The randomness of life was inconceivably cruel.
8
Strange Yoder was a man of indeterminable age. When he bent or moved, he seemed young. He was thin, like a teenager, and he wore his hair long. Quick, alert eyes belied the lines in his face. He was older than me. I knew this only because I’d known him all my life. He had a gift when it came to horses’ feet, and though he was one of the best farriers in the nation, he chose to stay in Greene County, where there were still long stretches of piney woods and the slow amble of the Leaf River.
Strange didn’t talk a lot. Mostly he looked. He could watch a horse walk and know exactly how to trim a hoof or shoe it or what treatment to prescribe for thrush or founder. He did it not for the money, but because he liked to help animals. He’d been my brother Billy’s best friend. He’d come back from Vietnam; Billy had not.
Morning light shafted into the old barn through cracks in the east wall, and I sat on a hay bale holding a slack lead rope. Strange crouched in the center of the aisle with Mariah’s left rear leg resting on his thighs as he used nippers to trim off the overgrown hoof.
“She’s lookin’ good for an old girl,” he said of Mariah.
“She seems to feel good. I don’t see arthritis, but I’ve got her on some joint supplements anyway. I’m glad I didn’t jump her too hard.”
“She jumped what she wanted,” he said. “You didn’t push her and she knew what was right for herself. If more folks listened to their horses, there wouldn’t be the trouble there is today.” He shook his head. “Damn quarter horse people just about ruined ten generations of horse breeding for those little tiny feet. Like putting a fat woman in ballet toe shoes. Damn bastards.”
Strange didn’t earn his name because he was normal. He was opinionated, but about animals, which was the only thing he ever talked about. I could remember Strange when he was called Dustin and had a crooked smile and a twinkle in his eyes. He left those things, and his sense of humor, somewhere in the jungles of Vietnam. He’d held Billy as he bled out, unable to stop the flow of blood. Billy had been hit by a piece of shrapnel in the femoral artery. Had a medic arrived in time, my brother could have been saved. That was the midnight image that came to visit Strange when he slept—my brother, trying to smile and not panic as his blood soaked the jungle floor. Strange never talked about it after he’d told me this.
Strange trimmed Mariah all around and started on Hooligan. “Needs shoes on the front. His toes are chipped slam off,” he said, going to his truck to get horseshoes. “I hate to shoe ’im. If he gets down in the back pasture with all them roots, he’ll tear ’em off.”
“I’ll tell Dad to keep them up in the front for a few weeks.”
He nodded and went to work. Hooligan was half snoozing as Strange hammered the iron shoes to his two front feet and trimmed the back.
“Now for Bilbo.” I got the gray pony, a cross between a Shetland and a Connemara. For Annabelle, Bilbo had been a dream pony. He didn’t hold me in the same regard, but Bilbo was always good for Strange, saving his practical jokes and shenanigans for me. Mariah and Hooligan were snuffling at the last morsel of grain in their stalls. For the first time in months, I felt a shadow of peacefulness slip over me.
“This pony needs ridin’,” Strange said. “He misses your daughter.”
“I miss her, too,” I said. With Strange, it was okay to talk about painful things.
“Maybe I could send someone over to ride him.”
I hesitated, and though no word was spoken, Strange stopped his work, stood and looked at me.
“Your daughter wouldn’t mind. She’d be glad someone was giving the pony attention.”
“You’re right,” I said, trying not to tear up. “Please, if you know someone, ask him or her to come over. I’ll tell Dad. I think he’ll be relieved.”
