Guns & Magic

by David Michael

Thirteen year old Stevie Buckbee twisted in her seat, trying to find a comfortable position, but not really expecting to find one. The velure of the seat had been cracked by years of sun, and the springs worn out by Aunt Mary’s oversized behind.

“Do you need to use the bathroom?” Uncle Rick asked.

“No,” Stevie said. She didn’t look at Uncle Rick. She continued to stare out the window of the car at the passing Oklahoma countryside.

Ninety minutes into the trip home, and the only words Uncle Rick had spoken to her in all that time had been whether she had to pee. Once, just before they pulled out of Uncle Rick’s and Aunt Mary’s Tulsa driveway. And just now.

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by David Michael

“Did you forget your key?” Blake asked, pushing open the glass door and holding it for her. He gave her a smile, a peace offering.

Stevie looked at him. She rejected the peace offering and didn’t smile back. “I have my key,” she said. “I’m just not sure this is the home it goes to. Not my home, anyway.”

“Don’t get pissy,” Blake said, his smile fading.

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by David Michael

Stevie’s ankle improved over the afternoon, after a shower and sitting still while unpacking, her leg held straight in front of her on her bed. But her ankle still made her take the stairs down to supper very slowly.

“Are you going to take all night, Stevie?” Dad called out from the dining room.

Stevie made herself stand up straight at the foot of the stairs. “Coming,” she said. Then she forced herself to walk normally. After two painful steps, she settled for limping as little she could.

Half of the long dining room table had been cleared, and three plates set. Dad and Blake had already taken their seats, leaving the seat farthest from the door for Stevie. She suppressed a groan, and tried not to limp too noticeably around to her place.

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by David Michael

Stevie looked at her forehead in the mirror and poked the small spot of bruise that remained. She winced. The bruise might be smaller, but it still hurt. The bruise on her right elbow looked much the same way. And the scrape on her shoulder seemed to be healing quickly, as well. White scar tissue had formed under the scabs, contrasting with the tanned color of her skin.

Not as tanned as it would be by the end of the summer, though. And maybe she would get enough sun to wipe out the scar, as well. One could only hope.

Her ankle still hurt. She had noticed that when she walked barefoot from her bedroom to the bathroom. The good news seemed to be that the pain had been reduced to a dull ache.

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by David Michael

 

 

Stevie dialed Michelle’s number, her hand shaking but her fingers finding and pushing the buttons from long practice. She pressed the cordless phone to her ear only slightly harder than necessary and listened to the ringing. She took a deep breath and let it out. Over the railing of the porch, lit by the afternoon sun, she could see the northern half of the Buckbee Horse Ranch, from just inside the main gate, past the northwest pasture and practice pen to the big barn, and from there to the empty corral and the tractor barn and the nearest of the northeast pastures.

 

The corral was empty now. Only one horse was visible, standing near the gate from the corral into the north pasture. Stevie knew which horse it was, and refused to look at her.

 

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by David Michael

 

 

“I’m sorry, Stevie.” A man’s voice. Dad’s voice?

 

In her dream, Dad held her close, a hand on the back of her head, stroking her hair as he apologized, like he always used to do when she needed comforting. “Things will be back to normal,” he said. “Soon.”

 

Then they stood in the practice pen, and Dad held Jack Rabbit’s reins while Stevie mounted. The practice pen became an open field, with the sunlight washing over them–

 

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by David Michael

 

 

After three weeks of breakfast alone with Blake, Dad still sleeping heavily in his room despite the dawn, Stevie had become used to Dad’s morning absence. She hadn’t thought about Dad’s new habit for the last week.

 

She thought of it today, though, as she chewed her buttered toast, barely tasting it, not remembering that she had forgotten to layer it with jelly until she had eaten half of it. She couldn’t believe Dad would miss her first race. It didn’t seem possible.

 

She couldn’t believe she had forgotten the jelly either. She had been telling herself all morning she wasn’t nervous. I’m not nervous. Over and over, like a mantra. The toast made a liar of her.

 

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by David Michael

 

 

“Good job,” Dad said when Stevie posed in the door of his office, trophy held up in her right hand. He even smiled, and stood up to give Stevie a congratulatory hug. Stevie hugged him as tight as she could without hurting her wrist too much. She didn’t mind. Good job and a hug from Dad almost made up for him not being there.

 

Then she put the trophy on his desk and then ran back outside to help Blake get Jack Rabbit out of the trailer and into the pasture with the other horses.

 

She had trouble grooming Jack Rabbit with just one hand. It wasn’t impossible. Just awkward. Even more so because Jack Rabbit wouldn’t stand still. He wanted to get to the pasture, to the other horses. Like her, Jack Rabbit wanted an audience to tell his story of winning.

 

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by David Michael

 

 

On Monday, Dr. Weaver looked back and forth from the x-ray of Stevie’s wrist taken a week before, and at the x-ray he had just done. He shook his head. “Amazing,” he said. “Maybe I’ve underestimated the benefits of country living.”

 

Stevie didn’t know about country living being all that great, except as it related to horses. So she cut to the important part. “Does that mean I can ride?” she asked.

 

“Hmm?” The doctor looked at her, as if he had forgotten she was there. “Oh, yes, I can’t see any reason why not.” He looked back at the x-rays and said something else Stevie didn’t catch. Because she wasn’t listening.

 

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by David Michael

 

 

The wire handle of the five-gallon bucket of paint dug into Stevie’s palms as she carried it. The weight of the bucket forced her to hunch her shoulders and shuffle, and she could only manage three or four steps before she had to set the bucket down. The first bucket had been easier. But not by much. She took deep breaths, as if she had been running, and massaged the aching red line imprinting deeper and deeper into her palms. Then she picked up the bucket again and pushed forward a few more steps.

 

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By David Michael

 

NOTE: It’s possible that this chapter has some disconnects in relation to the previously posted chapters. The earlier chapters have been significantly edited, but those changes haven’t been posted to the blog.

 

 

Stevie came to, hearing Jack Rabbit’s scream and the sounds of the arena and men shouting. Rough hands were pulling her away from the warm, thrashing bulk of Jack Rabbit. His pain was muted now, but only in her mind. Just beyond a veil of her own shock and grogginess, she knew Jack Rabbit was in agony. She tried to fight the hands, tried to crawl back to be with Jack Rabbit.

 

I need to go to him, she tried to say. Jack Rabbit needs me. I can help him. But all she managed to do was cough out a gob of dirt and gravel and blood.

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By David Michael

 

 

Stevie clenched the reins and looked out at the bright arena. The floor was covered with dirt churned up by hundreds of hooves, and the three barrels were arranged and waiting for her. She listened to the sounds of the crowd and the blare of the announcer. She smelled horses and sweat and manure. Her stomach had climbed up into her chest and she wanted to throw up. The last time she had felt this nervous had been her first race of the summer. She had managed to not throw up then, she told herself. She would not throw up now.

 

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