Percival Everett - Half an Inch of Water - Stories

“And your husband?”

“How do you know I have a husband?”

“Wife? Partner? Associate? I don’t know. Somehow I imagined you attached to someone.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” she asked.

“Neither. A lazy assumption.”

“Construction. My mister is in construction.” She looked at her tea. “Do you think I’ll ever be a good rider?”

Jake shrugged. “What do you mean by good rider?”

Sarah didn’t like his answer; it was not the one she was looking for. He could tell by the way her gaze did not rise from her tea. Finally she looked up and across the pasture.

Jake glanced at his watch, measured his time for the day. “Come on, let’s go for a ride,” he said.

“What?”

“Let’s saddle up and pop some brush. A trail ride.”

“Wynn is no good on trails.”

“Sure he is. Let’s go.”

Jake rode a sturdy quarter horse he called Trotsky. He was a good hand shorter than Sarah’s big Hanoverian. They rode through the tractorway between the pastures toward the hills. The horses and the mule raised their heads to watch, then went back to grazing. They started up the slope.

“Last time I took this guy on a trail ride he balked at every little thing,” Sarah said.

“Well, it’s a different day. If he balks, he balks.”

She nodded.

“If it rains, it rains,” Jake said. “Has he ever run away with you?”

“No.” But the question unnerved her.

“That’s a good thing.”

They crested the ridge and looked down a little coulee. Trotsky sneezed. “Allergies,” Jake said.

“It’s beautiful.”

The trail was clear to see from where they stood. It meandered through low brush, disappeared into the trees at streamside, then showed itself again on the far side of the water and climbed steeply up the next ridge.

“So, what do you see?” Jake asked.

“The creek,” she said. “Wynn doesn’t like water.”

“You just sprayed him with a hose.”

“That kind of water. He hates to cross water.”

Jake stared at the creek with her for a few seconds. “How deep do you reckon that stream is?”

“I don’t know.”

“As high as my knee?”

“Not that high.”

“So, you mean to tell me that if there was a hill of carrots on the other side of that water, your horse wouldn’t cross it?”

“No.”

“He could and he would.”

“Okay.”

“Where are we looking to go?” He didn’t wait for the answer to his rhetorical question. “We’re going to the top of that next ridge.”

“Okay.”

“We’re not going to the edge of the creek. We’re not going to the downed log on the other side. I can sit here and find obstacles all day. And if I find them, so will the horse.”

“I understand.”

“I’m sitting on a behemoth with a brain the size of a Brazil nut. He can only process so much. All he needs to know is that I’m going over there.” He pointed with his chin.

“That’s easy to say,” Sarah said.

“True enough.”

He led the way down the trail. Sarah’s horse was of course more comfortable with another horse in front of him. Some clouds passed in front of the sun. They got into the trees and Jake pulled up ten or so yards from the creek.

“Let’s go around that way,” he said.

“Why?”

“Snake on a rock.”

Though she did not see the snake, Sarah’s body tensed up and the horse felt it. The Hanoverian hopped and kept hopping. Sarah lost one stirrup and nearly lost her balance. Jake watched her. He did nothing. There was nothing to do. She regained control of the horse.

“Let’s go,” he said, without pause, without acknowledging what had just happened.

Twenty yards downstream they crossed the water without incident. Jake still said nothing, but inside he was yelling at himself. He had been frightened that Sarah was going to have a wreck. Having a wreck was not a bad thing in itself, but it was a bad place to have one. He was content to let her think he thought nothing had happened. Her horse hopped a step and moved slightly to the side, but that was it.

They finished the ride without mishap. Wynn crossed the creek again on the way back. Sarah seemed better for the time on the trail. Jake helped her load her horse and watched her trailer bounce away down his drive.

He helped Adolph with the feeding and checking of the paddocks, then stood with him as he fell in behind the wheel of his truck.

“Out riding with the ladies,” Adolph said.

“I’m a player, what can I say.”

Adolph laughed.

“Is she nice?”

“I just took her out for a lesson.”

“A lesson,” Adolph repeated. “How much did she pay you?”

“You should be going,” Jake said.

“I’ll be late tomorrow. Gotta take my cat to the vet.”

Jake nodded.

In his kitchen he fried a steak the way he knew he was not supposed to and sat alone at his table to eat. He imagined he was indulging in very patient suicide. He thought about the day. He didn’t know what had gotten into him. When Sarah had said her horse was spooked on trails, he should have listened. It wasn’t the horse’s fault, what had happened. It wasn’t Sarah’s fault, nervous as she was. It was his. He’d been cocky and for that there was no excuse. He was confused by it. Perhaps he was lonelier than he imagined and so just showing off for the attention of a woman. He’d talked too much and had not thought enough. Luckily, nothing bad had happened. It was a bad day when you had to depend on luck.

Clouds crept in during the night and the pouring rain was a surprise in the morning. He fed the pastured animals under the sheds. He took the shovel and dug some channels to let water run out of the paddocks. The horses always managed to mound the dirt up under the pipe corrals and so the water would stand. He then went back inside to feed himself. He wanted to take the new mule out, lunge him a bit, but even if the rain let up, the round pen and the arena would be too muddy. It wasn’t possible anyway; the rain came harder. He listened to it on his roof. He ate his eggs and bacon, drank his coffee, and read the paper. He picked up a book he’d recently purchased at a discount bookstore. It was about Pickett’s Charge at Gettysburg. Jake had never had much interest in the Civil War, but he thought he might as well develop one. He had just understood the landscape of the battefield when the phone rang.

It was Sarah Daniels. “I’m sorry to call you,” she began.

“That’s not the best icebreaker I’ve heard,” he said.

“I know you’re busy.”

“It’s fine. I don’t know what it’s doing at your house, but it’s pouring over here. So, I’m not doing much.”

“It’s pouring here, too.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Okay, shoot.”

“Not on the phone,” she said.

“Pardon?”

“Will you meet me?”

“Sarah?”

“I just need to talk.”

Jake looked out the window at the rain that was not letting up.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called.”

“No, no, it’s okay. Sure, you can come over.”

“No, I want you to come meet me at the Big Boy.”

“Bob’s Big Boy?”

“Yes.”

“Sarah, I don’t know.”

“I’ll treat you to an early lunch.”

Jake looked at the clock. It was ten. “Eleven okay?”

Jake hung up. He felt uneasy. He decided to combine the trip with a stop at the vet supply store so he could pick up deworming paste. Maybe he’d step into the tack store beside it and look at the saddles he would never buy.

At Bob’s Big Boy Jake sat in his pickup and watched the sun come out. He wanted to be at home instead, but things still needed more than a few hours to dry out. Later that afternoon maybe he could at least take the mule out for a walk. He glanced at his rearview mirror and saw Sarah enter the restaurant.