Brotherly Love (32 page)

Peter stops the car near the stables. "That
isn’t what those guys do," he says, "make people happy."

Jimmy Measles takes the atomizer out of his coat
pocket and puts it deep into his mouth, as if he wants to swallow it.

A little later Jimmy says, "Michael isn’t
going to do his own friends for, what is it now, sixty-five
thousand‘?" He considers what he’s said, agrees with the
logic of it again.

"Sixty-five thousand, he’s lost that in an
afternoon."

"You shouldn’t count on being friends with
Michael," Peter says.

"I’ve seen him with that much in his pocket,
he doesn’t even know it’s there," Jimmy Measles says.

Peter says, "Michael doesn’t know anything
about business. He’s got strangers telling him what it costs to do
shit he didn’t know he wanted to do it. But where he tuned in, is
sixty-five thousand dollars. He knows it’s something that’s his,
and somebody else has got it."

"The insurance guy . . ."

"The insurance is just something else Michael
doesn’t understand," Peter says. "What he understands,
you’ve got something that’s his and he wants it back. You don’t
hand it over, to him you’re stealing."

Jimmy Measles reaches for the atomizer.

They see the clubfooted trainer then, leading Helen’s
Dream in the direction of his stable. All the horse’s legs are
bandaged today, and he is favoring the one on the left side in back
badly.

"Oh, shit," Jimmy Measles says, more to
himself than to Peter.

Peter watches the horse until he has disappeared
behind the line of stables. "What I think," he says, "it
might be a good idea if I drive you over to the High Speed Line, you
took the train back to town before Michael shows up."

But then he looks in his
rearview mirror and sees the limo coming through the gate behind him.
Leonard at the wheel. The early morning sun catches his glasses as he
gets out to open the door for Michael.

* * *

S
uch things happen,"
the trainer says.

Michael is standing just outside the stall, his hands
at his sides, staring at the horse. He does not give the impression
he is listening. There is a pitchfork in the corner, some blinders
hanging from a nail.

"We take him for the gallop this morning,"
the trainer says, "try to make everyone happy, get him into
shape so he can race like you said, a nice easy gallop and he pulls
hisself lame in the back leg. I have the vet to take a picture, and
he’s broke a bone.

Not too bad, it ain’t much of a break, but the
truth is, you know, this ain’t really a sound horse."

He steals a look at Michael. "I’m tellin’
you the truth, Mr. Flood. Such things happen."

Michael moves his gaze from the horse to the trainer.
Leonard picks up the pitchfork, feeling its weight.

"What you’re saying, this horse ain’t really
a racehorse."

The trainer shrugs. "He used to could run,"
he says. "It ain’t that he couldn’t used to run. But a
horse’s legs is a delicate thing and something happen. Maybe his
breeding ain’t right; maybe, you know, he’s just too fucking
big."

Michael turns away from the trainer and seems to
notice Jimmy Measles for the first time that morning. "The horse
is too fuckin’ big," he says.

"Might be that," the trainer said. "Might
be his father and mother."

"Might be," Michael says, looking back at
the trainer, "he’s been around you so fuckin’ long, he
thinks that’s how he’s s’posed to walk."

The trainer shrugs, Peter turns to look at the horse.

Its nose is wet and a muscle flutters down it’s
back, a minnow under the coat.

Leonard is playing with the pitchfork, lifting it and
dropping it so the prongs stab the dirt on either side of the toe of
his loafer. Michael reaches into his waistband and comes out with a
pistol.

The trainer freezes.

"You’re supposed to shoot these fuckin’
things, right?" he says. Leonard smiles, everyone else stands
dead still.

"You can’t shoot your horse," Peter says.
Leonard holds the pitchfork, poised over his alligator shoes, and
watches Peter slide farther away from Michael’s protection.

"I own the fuckin’ thing," Michael says.

Peter shakes his head. "All the time you been
out here, you seen anybody else shooting their horse?"

"I ain’t seen nobody else out here got a horse
that isn’t a horse. "

"There’s a lot of broke-down horses, Mr.
Flood," the trainer says.

"You already talked, told me the horse is too
big," Michael says. "My cousin’s talking now, telling me
I can’t shoot the motherfucker. When he’s through tellin’ me
what I can do, then it’s your turn again."

"They inject them," Peter says.

Michael thinks it over, the gun still in his hand,
the horse still dripping from the nose. Michael looks at the trainer.
"A needle?" he says.

The trainer nods, watching the gun.

"Go get it."

The trainer shrugs and heads off in the direction of
the barn; Michael puts the gun back inside his pants. The horse blows
and twitches, Jimmy Measles uses his atomizer. Leonard throws the
pitchfork into a bale of hay, trying to get it to stick.

The sun breaks the line of stables and touches the
top of the stall. Peter studies Michael’s mood, waiting for the
time to talk him out of killing the horse. He doesn’t want an
argument; if Michael thinks there is an argument, he will shoot the
horse to settle it.

Another trainer walks past, leading another horse.
Michael’s attention drifts, following the awkward, unsteady motion
of the animal’s rear legs; they walk as if they are on high heels.

"You know," Peter says, "there’s no
reason we got to do something right now. We could ship him back to
Maryland, have them take a look there."

"Look at what?" Michael says. "The
assholes stupid enough to buy him?"

"He isn’t a bad horse," Peter says. He
notices Jimmy Measles then, standing at the corner of the stall,
watching him negotiate for the animal’s life. Jimmy Measles doesn’t
seem to be breathing.

The horse nuzzles Jimmy’s coat for a carrot.

"We take him back, maybe they fix him so he can
run around the meadow," Peter says, "maybe let him fuck
little horses once in a while, that way the colts come out, they’re
the right size."

Michael looks at Helen’s Dream, thinking.

"l didn’t buy him
to run around the meadow and fuck other horses," he says
finally.

* * *

T
he veterinarian is
wearing tennis shoes and a stained shirt, and looks at his watch as
if he has someplace else to go. His hair is pulled into a ponytail
and he squints through rimless glasses, looking over the four men
gathered at the stall in an impatient way.

He reminds Michael of a kid named Butchie he used to
chase home from school.

The veterinarian sees Michael watching him. "You
the owner?" he says.
 
Michael
nods, noticing the tone of his voice. He thinks it has been too long
since somebody chased Butchie home.

The veterinarian opens his bag and comes out with a
piece of paper. "Owner’s signature," he says.

Michael takes the paper and signs it against the door
of the stall. The veterinarian takes it back and turns it over to the
trainer, who signs it too.

The veterinarian puts the paper into his shirt pocket
and stretches a pair of rubber gloves over his hands. He goes back
into the bag again, this time for the syringe.

There is something so sudden in the gesture that even
Michael feels it, a coldness. Jimmy Measles turns away; he does not
like needles.

The veterinarian studies the animal’s neck. "Hold
him," he says, and the trainer wraps his arms around the horse’s
face. The horse accepts the embrace.

The veterinarian runs his fingers along the neck,
finding the spot. He holds the syringe with his other hand, pointed
down and away from himself; a single, clear drop of liquid hangs from
the tip of the needle, and then drops.

He puts the needle in twelve inches beneath the head,
pointed in the direction of the brain. His hand stretches under the
rubber to accommodate the size of the syringe, and then he squeezes
his thumb and his fingers together.

The needle comes out and the veterinarian takes a
step back. The trainer holds on a moment longer. The horse begins to
blow, and then, as if there is something he’s forgotten, he
suddenly stops, and shudders, and drops.

The ground moves under Peter’s feet.

The horse lies still, his nose protruding a foot out
of the stall, his tongue a few inches beyond that, coated with dirt.

The veterinarian peels off his gloves and makes out
his bill. His fingertips are stained yellow and there is grime under
his nails. Two hundred and forty dollars.

Michael hands the bill to Peter; Jimmy Measles has
gone white. Peter pays the veterinarian out of his pocket, peeling
off the bills without looking at the man who is taking them. Leonard
sits down on a wooden fruit box near the animal, holding the
pitchfork between his legs.

"You want me to have somebody come get this?"
the veterinarian says.

The trainer looks at Michael, who does not answer.
 
"Yo," the vet says. "You
want me to take care of this, you want to have it done yourself?"

Michael examines him then, up and down, and in that
moment the veterinarian changes, as if he has spilled a little of
what he gave to the horse on himself.

"The thing is," Michael says, still
watching him, "I changed my mind."

Leonard stands up, showing the veterinarian the wires
in his mouth. He takes off his sunglasses and hangs them outside the
pocket of his shirt.

The veterinarian looks at the trainer, and then,
seeing there is no help, back at Michael.

"You hear what I said?" Michael says. "I
changed my mind."

The veterinarian starts to smile, tries it and then
lets it go.

"You said you . . ."

Peter steps between Michael and the veterinarian,
cutting off the line of sight. "Michael . . ."

Michael moves around him where he can see the
veterinarian again. "Leonard," he says, "gimme that
fuckin’ bag."

Leonard takes the bag away from the veterinarian and
hands it to Michael. He opens it, looking over what is inside, and
takes out a syringe that is similar to the one the veterinarian put
into the horse’s neck.

"Give him his bag," Peter says. "You
told him put the horse down, he put the horse down."

"He’s a big shot," Michael says.

"So now you scared him, he isn’t a big shot
anymore," Peter says. "Let him have his bag."

Michael cocks his head. "Tell me something,"
he says. "Since when do you decide? This ain’t your horse, and
it ain’t your business."

There is a noise then, Jimmy Measles behind the
stall, choking. His stomach empties and the noise keeps coming, like
an engine that won’t start.

The sun moves deeper into the stall. Peter takes a
quick glance at the horse. The flies have settled on him now, in the
eyes and nose, making electric noises as they touch each other and
move furiously into the air.

And then resettle, glistening green.

Michael is staring at the kid veterinarian. Suddenly
he smiles.

"Tell you what," he says, pointing to the
horse. "Why don’t youse kiss and make up?"

The noise from behind the stall stops as suddenly as
it begins, and a moment later Jimmy Measles reappears, red-eyed, his
mouth and chin glistening spit. "I haven’t been feeling too
good," he says.

"How you feeling, Doc?" Michael says to the
veterinarian.

The vet takes half a step backwards and bumps into
Leonard.

He says, "It’s Mr. Flood, right?"

Michael nods.

"Be careful with that shit, Mr. Flood," he
says, pointing at the syringe in Michael’s hand. "You got a
cut or something and that gets in it, it doesn’t take much."

Michael holds the syringe up for a closer look. "Like
one drop of this . . ." he says.

"It gets in your bloodstream," the
veterinarian says, "yeah."

Peter can see the veterinarian beginning to feel more
comfortable moving on to a subject which is not kissing the horse.

Michael says, "And so you put this into a person
. . ."

"They’d be dead before you could get it half
in," he says.

Michael nods, looking at the syringe. "How much
of this you got?" he says.

"How much you need?"

Michael drops the syringe to his side and turns to
Peter. "See? I like this guy better already."