Four Dead Horses Read online

  Contents

  Four Dead Horses

  Copyright © 2021 K. T. Sparks. All rights reserved.

  Dedication

  SWEETHEART OF THE RODEO

  The First Horse: Buster

  The Second Horse: Chopo

  Seventy-Sixth Annual Conventional of Rotary International

  1.

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  Interlude

  The Third Horse: Zach

  The Fourth Horse: Hero

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  Helen

  Acknowledgements

  Four Dead Horses

  K. T. Sparks

  Regal House Publishing

  Copyright © 2021 K. T. Sparks. All rights reserved.

  Published by

  Regal House Publishing, LLC

  Raleigh, NC 27612

  All rights reserved

  ISBN -13 (paperback): 9781646030668

  ISBN -13 (epub): 9781646030910

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2020940213

  All efforts were made to determine the copyright holders and obtain their permissions in any circumstance where copyrighted material was used. The publisher apologizes if any errors were made during this process, or if any omissions occurred. If noted, please contact the publisher and all efforts will be made to incorporate permissions in future editions.

  Interior and cover design by Lafayette & Greene

  Cover images © by gvozdak/Shutterstock

  Regal House Publishing, LLC

  https://regalhousepublishing.com

  The following is a work of fiction created by the author. All names, individuals, characters, places, items, brands, events, etc. were either the product of the author or were used fictitiously. Any name, place, event, person, brand, or item, current or past, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of Regal House Publishing.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  For Mom and Dad

  SWEETHEART OF THE RODEO

  The devices on my chaps were hearts,

  One torn in two, the other red and full.

  A romantic take I thought, metaphor,

  For rodeo and loves, fits and starts.

  Back when I could spur the baddest buckers,

  I wrote on the rolls of my Salisbury

  Six-O-six roughout kack an inscription,

  Something from Ezra Pound, a translation

  From the Latin on the Medieval sword:

  If your heart fails you, trust not in me.

  Oh, words to live by! To say that you’re scared,

  Ain’t nothing wrong in that. But to flee

  In the face of chance? C’mon, cowboy,

  Roll ’em! Shake your face and let them have you.

  SHADD PIEHL

  The First Horse: Buster

  d.1982

  Martin Oliphant had always hated horses. Their staggering stupidity. Their unexplained, unexpected, and ever-explosive snorting. The way they twitched distinct patches of their skin to dislodge flies. The way they shied madly at the most innocuous occurrences: a golf umbrella at fifty feet; a leaf falling from, of all places, a tree; a bale of hay stacked exactly where it was supposed to be stacked and had been stacked for the last month.

  Martin Oliphant hated horses, but he didn’t, it must be said, wish horses dead. It must be said because horses died around him. Died or almost died. At Martin’s hand or almost at Martin’s hand. And it was horses, dead ones mostly, that blazed the trail to his life-forging passion. Horses brought Martin to cowboy poetry, and horses, live ones mostly, were cowboy poetry’s central theme.

  Martin saw his first dying, then dead, horse on May 1, 1982, on the beach at Twin Bluffs, the only resort in his lakeside home of Pierre, Michigan.

  He headed to Twin Bluffs that Saturday morning with his mom and dad, Dottie and Carroll Oliphant, and younger brother, Frank, in his dad’s week-old Lincoln Continental Mark IV Signature Series sedan. Martin sat in the back seat across from his mom. Between them, encased in plastic film embossed with the Josten’s logo, was Martin’s special order, plus-size high school graduation gown, a swath of tissue-thin canary polyester bristling with static. The ceremony wasn’t until the end of the month, but the XXXL robe had to be delivered early to ensure it fit. Martin poked at the bag, and the garment puckered and creased, like a time-lapse film of a lemon drying out. When he had seen the gown in the catalogue, he had thought that, draped in yards of shimmering gold, he might dazzle as he performed his one duty as the Pierre Public High School’s 1982 salutatorian: the introduction of Camilla Lutz, the valedictorian. Though his waistline neared sixty inches, it was, Martin told himself, in harmonious balance with his six-foot-ten frame. Some might call him fat, but he, like the Sears department in charge of labeling outsized children’s clothing, preferred “husky.” Sitting now with the reality of the robe, its bunchy seams and clinging rayon, he realized the thing would grasp at his buttocks, wedge between his belly and breasts, adhere to his wobbling upper arms. He would dazzle no one. If he could make it to the podium with no rips or visible sweat stains, he would count it as a win.

  “It would be so bogus to forfeit to Garth,” said Frank. The nominal reason for this rare all-family outing was to cheer on fourteen-year-old Frank in the semifinal match of the Kiwanis Youth Tennis Round Robin. In truth, none of them, including Frank, who had dispatched this particular opponent the month before (6-0, 6-1, 6-0) in the Rotary Classic, had any interest in watching the rout. Frank had been complaining since they’d taken the detour to pick up Martin’s gown.

  “Why couldn’t you have gotten it while you were at school?” Frank asked for the twentieth time.

  “I forgot,” said Martin, which was a lie. He could have done so yesterday, but he hadn’t wanted to cart his enormous saffron cloak of shame through the halls to his locker.

  “If I have to forfeit, it will probably be the first and last time Garth ever wins a match. He plays with a wooden racquet,” Frank said and tapped his own metal T2000, Jimmy Connors’s weapon of choice. Frank’s other hand inched his dad’s martini toward his lips, as if he thought being slow were equivalent to being invisible. The antiseptic stink of gin overwhelmed the smell of the new leather interior.

  “Put it on the dashboard, dear,” said Dottie. “And don’t be a snob.”

  Not a trace of irony crossed Dottie’s mask of Erno Laszlo cosmetics, applied in the au naturel style favored by the wives who lived out by Pierre Woods Country Club. Led by their high priestess, Bitsy Newport, these women and their husbands—doctors, lawyers, white collar executives, heirs of the founders of The American Glass Co., Pierre’s one remaining industry—were what passed for society in Pierre. For years, Dottie had circled and buzzed around them, as if she were an angry fly launching an assault on a sealed jar of honey. Most of the group’s communal activity revolved around tennis, so they called themselves the Fuzzy Balls. They played even when lake-effect snow enveloped Pierre in five-foot drifts. They would gather at Twin Bluffs’ courts, protected by an overheated and under-oxygenated canvas bubble, for mixed doubles then fondue after at t
he nearby Swiss Shack.

  Several years ago, while waiting for Frank to finish a lesson at the bubble, Dottie had been invited by Bitsy Newport to make a fourth for doubles. Dottie had not brought her racquet and was dressed in what she described as a “poop-brown corduroy jumpsuit from Penney’s,” her go-to outfit for errands involving her children. Still, she’d been ecstatic about the encounter and, at that evening’s celebratory coq au vin family supper, declaimed again and again: “They were so nice to ask.”

  Since that day, Dottie had sought every opportunity to accompany Frank to the bubble. She always wore full tennis whites and carried two Prince Pros, lest a string break on one. So far, Bitsy Newport’s invitation had not been repeated.

  Dottie snapped open a compact and scraped with her pinky nail at some microscopic imperfection in her buff lipstick. Martin watched her and wondered why they weren’t closer. Who better to understand him? He’d survived a Midwestern public education as an overweight bookworm with neck acne, one who could recite pages of Locke from memory but could name only three of the teams in the Big Ten. Both he and his mom were stuck on the lowest rung of this small town’s social hierarchy.

  Martin had always wanted to speak to his mom about their common exile. Not even speak. A knowing glance. A wry smile. A shared sigh from the front seat of her Oldsmobile Custom Cruiser station wagon as they watched the Fuzzy Balls families spill onto the Stainbrook-Borden Public Beach for another exclusive bonfire sing-along. They both longed for a bigger life, a yearning neither his dad, with his business, nor Frank, with his tennis, could comprehend. Perhaps the problem was that she thought she could find it in Pierre. Martin knew he had to get out.

  And come September, he would. He’d been accepted into the University of Chicago Class of 1986. Come September, his course would carry him across Lake Michigan and into the faux-Gothic sanctuary established in 1890 by John D. Rockefeller and the American Baptist Education Society to meet the new millennium’s demand for classically educated Nobel Prize winners, millionaire Adam Smith aficionados, and economic advisers to Latin American kleptocrats. This was Martin’s tribe, one that might take him to Wall Street or Michigan Avenue or the LSE graduate program in international relations or Harvard Law, but never back to Pierre. His mom, on the other hand, would die here. And all the way to the graveyard, she’d worry about whether Bitsy Newport had sent flowers.

  Carroll, who was now juggling his martini, almost missed the crooked and faded wooden sign indicating “Twin Bluffs, Surf and Tennis and Petting Zoo Family Fun, 1 mile.” He banged onto the gravel drive, muttering about “dinging up the undercarriage.”

  On either side of the one-lane road to the bubble and beyond to the Twin Bluffs cottages and beach, uncut grass fluttered around piles of dune sand and the detritus from failed Twin Bluffs’ attractions: A tipped chicken-wire cage that once held a dancing rabbit and a boa constrictor, and then just a boa constrictor; the broken wooden fence through which a probably rabid deer had crashed and led his mangy flock to freedom through a sea of screaming eight-year-olds from the YMCA summer vacation day camp; several tilting Styrofoam monoliths that were to form the heart of the never-finished Chicago Skyline putt-putt course.

  These and the other piles of jungle gym parts, ripped badminton nets, and unmatched lawn bowling pins, represented the efforts of the owners of Twin Bluffs, three generations of Pierre’s only Italian family, the Dozzis, to keep their resort afloat. They did a decent summer tourist trade for the two, maybe two-and-a-half months of Pierre’s annual respite from the subzero winds blasting in off Lake Michigan. But they struggled to bring in any business the rest of the year. The putt-putt, the playgrounds, the animals, and the bubble were all attempts to attract paying merry-makers during the off season.

  Of these, only the bubble survived and drew a steady stream of tennis enthusiasts. It couldn’t be enough to keep Twin Bluffs solvent, and Martin knew his dad was moving in for the kill. Carroll Oliphant was a small-time corporate raider, a sort of Main Street Michael Milken. He specialized in foreclosing on family businesses. The local Schwinn bike shop or the independent lighting fixture showroom. Places run into the ground by the sons and the grandsons of the original owners. Twin Bluffs had been in his sights for over a year.

  Carroll set the emergency brake, threw back the last of his martini, and turned to the backseat.

  “I gotta go talk to the Dozzis,” he said.

  “I think I’ll stay in the car,” said Martin. The smell inside the bubble, compressed air and aged sweat, nauseated him.

  “He should have to watch me,” said Frank. He popped open a can of tennis balls and huffed into the cylinder, the kerosene odor his drug of choice this year. “We went with him to pick up his dress.”

  “Gown,” said Martin.

  “Nightgown,” said Frank.

  “Why that’s Bitsy’s Jeep.” Dottie grabbed Martin’s hand, squeezed hard, then pulled away quickly, as if she’d picked up the wrong purse off the pew at church. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just, really. What a coincidence.” She shifted her weight left and right and drummed her feet. She patted his hand once, then pushed open the door and trotted up the path to the bubble. Frank followed, yelling over his shoulder, “Make Martin watch me.”

  Carroll stepped out of the Lincoln and rapped on Martin’s window. Martin sighed and joined his dad on the gravel pavement. “I’ll go with you then.”

  Carroll didn’t say no right away, and that thrilled Martin, who had always thought he might have an aptitude for the M&A game. He’d even considered talking to his dad about a future joint enterprise. Maybe after an MBA from University of Chicago, a little microeconomics from Milton Friedman, a little finance from Eugene Fama, he could help take Oliphant Investments global. Oliphant and Oliphant. Oliphant and Son.

  “I don’t think so, Martin. It’s hard to close a deal with a fat guy in the room. Not enough air.”

  Martin shut his eyes a moment and then chose to take that as a compliment. His dad had at least considered it. Weight could be lost.

  Martin’s mom jogged back from the bubble, swinging her head side to side.

  “Have either of you two seen Bitsy? That’s definitely her car.”

  “Maybe she’s riding,” said Carroll. “The Dozzis brought in trail horses. Not that there are any trails around here. Dozzi Junior saw something like it in Honolulu. Horses on the beach. What he was doing in Hawaii when his old man is about to lose the farm is another…”

  The wind died for a moment and a squawk floated over the dunes and down onto their confab, then another.

  “What’s that?” said Dottie, on the toes of her white Keds, eyes blinking like castanets.

  “Seagull,” said Martin.

  “Bitsy,” rasped Dottie.

  “Horses on the goddamn beach,” continued Carroll. “What next? A luau?”

  “Bitsy,” said Dottie again. “She needs me. I’m going to the beach.” She headed at a speed walk toward a cut-through between two boarded up A-frame cabins.

  “Go see what your mother thinks she’s doing,” said Carroll to Martin. “I’ll be hula-hulaing with the Dozzis, if you need me.”

  It was the alewives that Martin first noticed as he crested the dune that separated the Twin Bluffs’ beach from the rest of the resort. The smell of them. It hit him with the same force as the frigid wind off the lake, stippled with splinters of stinging sleet. Since the 1950s, the alewives, a North American shad native to the West Atlantic Ocean, had made their way through the Welland Canal into Lake Michigan, where they expired in massive numbers after a half-hearted attempt at breeding. They died of osmosis, lake water seeping into their every cell and their kidneys too small to process it out, like freshwater fish do. From spring to autumn, on beaches public and private, from Michigan to Wisconsin, rotting alewives served as an unavoidable reminder of the mortal danger of being a fish, if not out of w
ater, then in water of the wrong sort.

  So Martin knew what the shoreline would look like before he could spot it through the beach grass: the tiny expired shad would form a boundary between the mud-brown sand and the slate-gray waters that, were there sun, would glitter like heaps of well-polished filigree.

  But there was no sun, and when Martin could finally make them out, the alewives resembled only their unromantic essence, a whole lot of dead fish. In any case, he hardly noted them, transfixed by the rest of the scene spread out below him. There was his mom, moving up the beach and toward him with great strides but little speed, her feet sinking to the ankle in snow-melt-wetted sand. With every lunge forward, she would keen, “Bitsy’s been thrown, Bitsy’s hurt, we must help Bitsy.” A riderless roan horse followed her at a stroll, dragging its reins. Beyond her, just above the line of dead shad, stood Bitsy Newport, in hip-boots, water-soaked jodhpurs, and a tight azure blazer, her left foot lifted just an inch or two off the ground. She didn’t look hurt. More like a great blue heron deciding if it were worth it to bend down and eat an alewife. And beyond her, in the roiling Lake Michigan waters, a slight teenager, Bitsy’s youngest, Julie, danced dangerously close to the flailing hooves of a second horse, this one tar black. As she waved her arms and screeched commands to the beast to rise, it rolled in the shallow surf, throwing up sand and fish bodies and banging its head into the waves.

  Martin lurched down the dune toward his mom, who reached out to him and panted, “It’s so terrible. An awful accident.”

  “What happened?” Martin asked, putting his hands on his mom’s heaving shoulders. She seemed near hysteria, and he considered shaking her to stop her compulsive gulping.

  “She was thrown. The horse is wild. It should never have been rented out by those stupid, stupid Dozzis.”