Flamethrower - Maggie Estep [8]
“Sorry, doll,” he shrugged and tried to look handsome.
Triple Harrison was a likable drifter who lived in a mold-eaten house across from Coleman’s barn. Like Ruby, he owned a former racehorse. A bay mare named Kiss the Culprit who’d actually won a few in her day but was now fat, lazy, and unspeakably happy to be Triple’s pet.
“How are you?” Ruby asked, knowing it was a loaded question. Triple never gave the expected answer of Fine. He liked to report, in detail, exactly how he was. Usually, this involved some sort of drama at his job. He worked as a lifeguard at a swank health club all the way over in Park Slope. For some reason, he couldn’t simply mind his business and make sure no one drowned. He was endlessly tying to befriend the swimmers and, now and then, dating a female swimmer. It invariably ended badly, and Ruby had to hear all about it. Lately, it had occurred to her that Triple told her all these grisly details to invoke pity so that maybe she’d sleep with him. She wouldn’t and had told him as much a few times over, but he never listened.
“I’m fine,” Triple said, uncharacteristically.
Obviously, something was wrong. “What’s the matter?” Ruby asked.
“I’m low.”
“Why?” Ruby asked.
“I’m just low.” He said in a small voice, “Can I have a hug?”
Ruby rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I guess.”
Triple was a hugger. You wouldn’t expect it to look at him. He was tall with gangly limbs he’d never grown into even though he was at least thirty-five. His arms were covered in faded jailhouse tattoos, and his hair was shaggy. Ruby was sure his toenails were jagged and that he liked women who threw plates at him as a prelude to sex.
Ruby let him hug her for a few seconds then took a step back.
“Where’s that boyfriend of yours?” Triple was looking Ruby over head to toe.
She shrugged. “He got a really good two-year-old to train. It’s consuming him.”
“I’m all for being consumed by a horse, but it don’t mean I wouldn’t be keeping an eye on my girl,” he said, his grin growing to shit-eating proportions.
“Shut up, Triple,” Ruby said. For three seconds, she toyed with the idea of telling Triple about the leg. After four seconds, she realized this was an incredibly bad idea.
“Always a pleasure chatting with you, but I’ve got work to finish in the barn,” Ruby said.
“Want some help?” Triple asked.
“I’m almost done, it’s okay. But thanks.” Ruby said. She opened the gate to the paddock and snapped a lead rope onto Jack’s halter. She wanted to get her horse back in the barn before Triple started in on his favorite refrain.
“When you gonna ride that hoss?”
Too late.
“Soon,” Ruby said. She was tired of people asking when she was going to ride the damn horse, for the simple fact was that she had no idea when she was going to ride the damned horse. She was terrified at the prospect. She had first been around horses in her early twenties when she’d worked as a groom for two years outside Tampa, Florida. She’d learned how to ride but would never be a very confident rider. The idea of getting on a Thoroughbred who didn’t know how to do anything other than gallop around a racetrack wasn’t exactly compelling. She was putting it off.
“How soon?” Triple persisted.
Ruby looked right at him. There were tiny snakes of red in the whites of his eyes. He had a pimple on his forehead. “Soon,” she repeated.
“Okay, okay.” Triple put his palms out in a defensive gesture. “No need to get angry.”
“I’m not,” Ruby lied. She was. At herself. Hated her own chicken-shittedness. Usually, she didn’t see herself as a chicken, but then things like this came up. Things that were evidence of cowardice. It was awful.
As Ruby led Jack toward the barn, Triple wished Ruby a nice day. She grunted without turning around.
Once she’d finished her chores, Ruby spent a pleasant half hour grooming her horse. He was an agreeable, friendly horse. His niceness, his very horsiness, soothed Ruby. Almost enough to take away the image of the severed leg. Almost.
It was dark by the time Ruby wheeled her bike out of the stable yard and locked the gate. She stood