Regan Wolfrom - Catholic Guilt and the Joy of Hating Men

“Then what am I supposed to do with her?”

“Feed her to the pigs.”

Cadance bobbed her head up and down. “Like… just throw her in alive and everything?”

“Can you guys stop talking like I’m not even here?” I asked.

The man sighed. “That was meant to be a joke. Ms. Shannard wanted me to bring her confirmation before she gives me further instructions.”

“I don’t care about her stupid instructions,” the girl said. “You should be talking to my father.”

“No, you should be letting me go,” I said.

“Your father isn’t in charge,” the man said. “It won’t be up to him. Just keep an eye on this one.”

“I’m not a babysitter.”

“No, you’re a grown-up now, Cadance. Try to act like one.”

He stared at me for a moment. He licked his lips and stared a little more.

He opened the stall and walked out, grabbing his duffel bag as he left.

He hadn’t closed the gate.

I ran out past Cadance and turned towards the nearest door, the opposite way from where the man had gone. I pulled the sliding door open and stepped outside.

I looked back to Cadance, who was following me, but about as slowly as a person could walk. She looked more disgusted than worried; I’m tall but I’m not really that scary looking.

I kept running anyway, heading past two huge trucks and horse trailers, toward paddocks teeming with well-bred warmbloods.

I opened the first gate I came to, pushing past a few curious horse noses and continuing towards the distant tree line. I knew enough about Vermont to know that if i kept running long enough I’d end up somewhere with a crowd of syrup-guzzling tourists and their cell phones.

Cadance was still behind me, but the gap was widening quickly.

Something didn’t seem right.

I climbed over the fence into another paddock, one field closer to the woods.

I didn’t want to think about the muck that was collecting on my shoes.

I reached the end of the paddock, only a few feet from the trees.

And then I saw the real fence.

It was at least ten feet tall, and it bent inward at the top like the ones you’d see on National Geographic prison shows. I didn’t have to figure out a way of squatting sideways and peeing on it to know that it was electrified.

That’s why Cadance had no reason to hurry.

“There’s nowhere to go,” she said to me once she caught up. “You’re locked in, Amanda.”

“Where am I?”

“ Gawd . You’re in Vermont. What are you, like mentally challenged?”

I basically growled at her. “I might not be able to escape… but there’s nothing stopping me from kicking your ass, princess.”

“I have a cattle prod, too,” she said.

I looked her over. “Where?”

“Dammit. The tack room…”

I’m not proud of it, but it did feel good.

I gave Cadance Snobbybritches probably the worst beating of her life. Like almost to a needing stitches level.

Well, okay… it was more like two punches to the mouth. But I’ve never hit anyone before. Usually a glare and some kind of huff is enough to send the right message.

I left her hunched up on the paddock fence and I made my way back towards the stables. There were six buildings in a row, with gray brick walls and a general look of despair. It was like some kind of horsey Auschwitz; I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to board their horse in a place like that. I picked a different stable building to check, using my nose to find the semi-sweet smell of manure. Just hay and water, as my aunt used to say.

As I neared I could hear the snorts and hooves. There was something calming about the sounds.

There was a large ‘D’ painted on the door with blood red paint.

I opened the sliding door slowly, hoping that whoever was inside wouldn’t notice. Of course, that’s near impossible in real life, and it squeaked like a field mouse on a hard diet of performance enhancing drugs. I stopped opening it about halfway, which was probably a useless gesture.

There were at least a half dozen men inside. But not one was looking over to me.

They were mucking the stalls, slowly and methodically and in complete silence, all dressed in old t-shirts and ratty blue jeans with holes in all the wrong places.

I don’t know how to put this, but a couple of them looked like they could work in a barn, like illegals maybe, like the Fitzsimmons’ have working for them at their barn up by Pine Plains. The rest didn’t seem to fit in, two black guys, two whites and a very large man who was probably Chinese.

Most of the grooms my aunt had hired were teenage girls who couldn’t quite afford the boarding fees. Working in a stable is like gymnastics with horse poop, whatever the opposite of a sausage fest happens to be. Some kind of party with hot dog buns…

I watched them work for a minute as I stood half in the door; they were acting like robots, picking up the manure and the soiled shavings and throwing them in the long wooden cart, without so much as a grunt. It’s unnerving to see mucking without the chatter; I don’t know what guys talk about when they work together, but I figured they’d talk about something.

I didn’t feel frightened by the men… I felt more unnerved. I slowly walked towards the first stall being mucked, by one of the black guys. He was wearing a Florida Marlins t-shirt and jeans with an unexpected flare at the bottom.

He didn’t seem to notice me standing beside him.

“Excuse me… sir,” I said, trying not to sound condescending to the man with a shovel-load of horse shit.

No response. I figured he was just waiting for me to just get on with it.

“I need some help,” I said. “I’ve gotten myself a little turned around in here.”

He didn’t even look at me.

I turned to look at the others. No one was bothering to acknowledge that I exist. I’m an eighteen year old girl; I’m not used to older men ignoring me outside of church.

“Hello? Are any of you guys going to talk to me?”

Nope.

I walked on past him, toward the other end of the stable.

Usually a girl in basketball shorts gets some kind of notice, like a guy or two checking out her ass, at the very least. I’m not a volleyball player, but still.

For a moment I almost thought I saw the Chinese guy glancing at the back of me as I walked by, but when I turned to look he was still scooping horse poop like before.

At about four guys deep, the other door opened and another woman stepped in, maybe around twenty or so. She was dressed in breeches and boots.

“What are you doing in here, missus?” she asked, looking at me. “You shouldn’t be in here alone. And why are you dressed like a rugger?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Hold on a tick… who are you?”

I didn’t know what to say. About who I was, or why she was speaking like she was British with a New England accent.

“Uh… who do you think I am?” I asked.

“You’re not a boarder. Why the devil are you here?”

“I was just leaving.”

She started walking toward me. I wondered if I was going to have another mouth to punch.

“Don’t be daft,” she said with a smile. “I’ve gotten all to cock in here sometimes. I’ll help you find your way back.”

“Uh… thanks.”

We walked together down the aisle, the men still paying no attention to me. They didn’t seem to notice her, either.

“These blokes are on work release,” she said. “Minimum security and all that, but it’s still not a terribly smart idea to be in here by yourself.”

“You were about to come in here by yourself.”

“Oh, I can handle these lags. I know the tricks.”

“Where are you from, anyway?”

She smiled. “From right here. I’m trying to sound posh… you know?”