H-O-R-S-E

John Rodzvilla

About seven years ago, Malcolm decided to give up his dream of being a painter and decided to open the barn to horse boarders. He said we should use things for their original intent.

My mother taught me that every five horses required about thirty hours of work a week. We already had two that Malcolm used to pull a wagon around the property. But now Malcolm was giving me permission to use all 8 of our stalls and fill the main floor with hay. I calculated the costs the way my mother taught me when she was looking for boarders. We would need a part-time stable hand—a high school boy would do. It didn't make us any money, but it would cover what we were currently spending on our horses. Malcolm agreed to move his canvases and paints into the attic and I put out the word in town. Marcy suggested posting something on social media. I told her I couldn’t trust anyone who used social media.

The first boarders were the Lemmons, a family that recently moved here from upstate New York. Their daughter was training to be a show hunter, but the mother wanted a house where she could entertain. I don’t know why she thought she couldn’t have both. Still, they needed somewhere for their Welsh Cob and an American Paint. Hank Royale, the Welsh Cob, was a deep chocolate. It looked just like liquid when it moved but had an attitude. I thought it acted just like a horse from the East Coast. Mighty Quinn, a fifteen-hand American Paint, was mottled brown and white. She reminded me of my Juliette, the horse my mother “had” to sell when I was twelve. 

The family was perfect for us. The father never stopped by and the mother brought the daughter over every Saturday morning. The mother would just sit in her BMW out by the barn. I don’t think we ever said a word to one another. She even spent the money on a stamp to mail the check every month instead of handing it to me while her daughter brushed her Mighty Quinn.

I found a vet student from the local agricultural college to be a stable hand. In the morning, before his classes, he would come to move the horses out to the field. He was also out on the weekends cleaning the stables. Malcolm took care of everything else. He wouldn’t admit it, but he liked having the horses. He was painting again as well, small watercolors of the horses in the field.

About three months in, Marcy Lemmon, the daughter, fell off her horse and twisted her ankle. I saw it happen. It didn’t look like anything serious. I went out and helped Marcy up to our porch. I grabbed some ice packs and put them on her ankle. Tim, the vet student appeared from the barn and took care of Mighty Quinn, who looked more worried for the girl than her mother. Mrs. Lemmon didn’t even get out of the car. When I looked over she was on the phone.

Twenty minutes later an ambulance pulled up. The EMTs told me they were called out to this address. They examined the girl and told her it looked like she just twisted her ankle, exactly what I said. They wrapped the ankle but told me they didn’t have any crutches. I pointed out to the BMW and told them to tell her about it.

One of the EMTs walked over to the car and had to knock on the glass before Mrs. Lemmon would lower the window. They talked for a few minutes and came back to load the girl in the ambulance. The two vehicles kicked up dust as they left.

Marcy didn’t show up for the next three weeks. Tim was worried that Mighty Quinn was getting bored. He said the horse had started cribbing in his stable. He told me Mighty Quinn needed someone to take him out. He gave me a look that was clear he thought it my responsibility. 

I shook my head. It had been years. 

But two days later I put on the blankets and Marcy’s saddle. I brushed Mighty Quinn just like Marcy did. Just like I did with my Juliette. It had been years, but I mounted him on the first try. Just like riding a bicycle, I thought.

I didn’t even need to guide the Mighty Quinn. Once we were out, he ran the course he ran with Marcy. I didn’t need to do much other than hold on as he jumped the white board fences Malcolm made or the old chicken coops we dragged out onto the course. 

I can’t describe what it felt like being in the saddle again. It made me remember my Juliette. It made me cry thinking how I had missed this feeling.

A week later, Clive Lemmon, Marcy’s father called me. They were sending out a trailer for both Mighty Quinn and Hank Royale. They no longer needed our services. His wife had told him she didn’t think our stable was the right place for the horses, horses she had never even stepped out of her car to brush or pet on the nose.