Pleasant. Concerned. She couldn’t remember the last time someone called her ma’am.
He reached in to help her out of the seat. “Easy now.” Like she was a horse or something. Like she would start flaring her nostrils and snorting, paw at the ground. She stood and followed his directions. First step on the right foot and it hurt like hell. She stumbled forward and he grabbed her.
“Okay, le’me give you a hand here.” He-er, a slight two syllable sound.
“I think I just sprained my ankle.”
“Let’s get out of the rain and we’ll take a look. Think you can make it to my truck?” A little flag went up about getting into cars with strangers, but they didn’t ever say that there was anything wrong with strangers who had horses and it was probably okay when it was raining really hard.
He was holding her up on the right side, like a human crutch. He opened the door and the passenger seat was instantly drenched with water which beaded up on the leather seats.
The smell of a new car, new leather. Like her BMW, when she cared about that smell. Like Chris’s Volvo before the kids stunk it up with food and juice.
Chris never cared. Within a year of getting the car it smelled like a kindergarten classroom. Not the Beemer. No food or juice was the rule. Clear liquids only. As if they were in the recovery room or something. They needed to learn to take care of nice things. Not like Chris’ car. That would only lead to a lifetime of sloppy cars. There was always syrupy goo around his cup holders.
She would let them eat a whole fucking Happy Meal in her car now if they wanted to. They could eat all of the stinky foods, like Cheetos and Cornuts if they wanted to. They could leave the half empty bags in her car. Leslie remembered the hash brown potato bags in Chris’ car in the junkyard. Silent sentinels of carefree eating. They weren’t among the valuables collected and given to her by a clerk at the police station. Who defines “valuables” anyway?
The truck had a step on the side and she had to climb up on the seat. He helped her in, shut the door and ran around the front to the other side. The truck was warm. The engine had been running. Diesel fuel. Dad always said it was cheaper to keep a diesel truck running rather than turn it off and on. Was that true or just diesel folklore? The engine was loud, but not like dad’s. More like a deep, smooth rumbling. White noise. She felt warm and comfortable.
The door opened, letting in a rush of rain and noise, the engine, the wind. He hoisted himself into the seat and slammed the door. “Man, can you believe this rain? Your car is bad. I can’t believe you only sprained your ankle. Are you sure we don’t need to get you to the emergency room?”
She smiled. “No, I’m fine, really. That was so weird. What happened? What happened with your trailer?”
“Well, I’m not sure, but, maybe I was going a little fast into that turn, and when I applied the brakes, well, it’s kinda hard to explain, but the dually with those tires, they just don’t have the same kind of traction as regular tires and they locked up on me. Then here comes the trailer. It can’t go over me, so it just starts to swing out to the side and since the road was wet, it just went sideways. It may have looked weird to you, but I’m looking out my side window at the mirror, and here comes my trailer. Well you know you’re supposed to turn in to a spin so that’s what I did. Fortunately, no cars were coming in the other lane, or we’d’ve been dead. That was pure luck for you. As soon as I started turning in to the spin, the trailer began to come around. Then, I swung back straight and figure I’m home free, except for you’re in that spot, and you know the rest better than me. You’ve been behind me a while and I didn’t really realize just how close you were. God, I’m sorry. I should have been paying more attention, with the rain and all. I’ve got my horses back there too. I’m sure they’re going, ‘damn.’ ”
“Damn” was a melodic two syllable word.
As he was talking, Leslie began to relax. She felt safe, and a familiar sound and sensation filled the cab. Horses, in a trailer, attached to a truck. They move, stomp and shift their weight. That movement is transmitted to the truck. It’s a good feeling. A sign that they’re there, and okay. Some horses get anxious standing still. They think it’s time to unload. They might kick the side of the trailer, just like one was doing now.
“That’s Gomez. He can’t stand to be stopped. I keep sayin’ I’m gonna have to hobble him in the trailer, but I just can’t do it. Imagine if he’d been hobbled tonight! I need to check ‘em out. Be right back.” He lowered his head and looked at her as one would look over the top of glasses. “Sure you’re okay?” He hesitated briefly for an answer and hearing none he continued, “Listen, I already called nine-one-one, and they’re sending a tow truck, but it’ll be a little while.”
The door opened and he jumped out, letting in another blast of diesel noise and rain. She looked around. Looked for hints of life. No hash brown potato bags. A black felt hat turned upside down on the back seat. Some kind of access sticker on the driver’s side of the windshield under the inspection sticker. She felt the slight shift in weight as he stepped up into the trailer. Very slight. Two hundred pounds compared to thirty-five hundred, if he had three horses. The horses began shifting. They think they’re unloading. Where were they going? There were two starched shirts hanging on the hook in the back and a canvas duffle bag on the floorboard. Standard issue key chain. Everything was clean. Spartan.
He was back. “Horses okay?”
“They’re fine. Listen, I’m Regan. Regan Wakeman.” And he put out his hand to shake hers.
She handed him hers. He had a firm handshake and she returned it. He smiled, “and you are…?”
She sighed. “I’m sorry. Leslie Cohen. Pleased to meetyou, although maybe not under the circumstances. This is so strange. I can’t believe we’ve had this big wreck and we’re just sitting here, uninjured.”
“You got that right. For a second, I thought about giving up. I figured the worst was going to happen anyway. It was like slow motion. Me and my horses were going to die. That’s rich. Me and my horses. Like a cowboy’s way to go.”
“So you’re a cowboy?”
In the distance lights were flashing, coming toward them. Reflecting off raindrops on the windshield, there were lots of tiny yellow sparkles. She could hear a siren. Now a police car with its red, white and blue lights flashing. Her question went unanswered.
“Here we go.” Regan reached down and flashed his lights. “We should exchange insurance information.” He reached in his glove compartment and handed Leslie a neatly laminated insurance card. “I guess I kind of lost control of my vehicle. You can copy this stuff down while you’re waiting and I’ll help them get your car situated. Paper and pen’s in there.”
She reached forward to open the glove compartment again.
“Is your insurance card in the car?”
She nodded.
“You stay put. I’ll go get it after I talk to this guy.”
“Listen, I’m probably at fault since I’m the one who ran into the back of your truck.”
“Well, I lost control of my rig.” He looked straight ahead, then turned to Leslie. “It all happened so fast.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Hey, that’s what insurance companies and the police are for. We’ll tell them the story. One of us will probably get a ticket.
