Newly Born

 
It is pitch black when I hear the front door slam and my Dad yell, “You better not be sleeping you worthless twit!”

He crashes into the marble statue of Venus to the right of the bottom of the stairs before cursing his way up the spiral stairs leading to our bedrooms. I get up and slam my door. Before flopping back onto my bed, I glance at the clock. Four thirty. No need to worry about sleep. School is still a month and a half away. A few minutes later, I hear a loud thump and then my Mom, whimpering. I grab my MP3 player from my side table put on my headphones and wait.

MP3 players RULE! If you do not already have one, I suggest you wake up and join us in the twenty-first century. I got mine last April; the last time my Dad paid me a midnight visit. I waited for him to slowly open the door, his head turned in the opposite direction towards their bedroom. When he crept inside my room, I threw a glass of Dr. Pepper at him. It hit him right upside the head. He froze. It was rough but I suppressed my laughter until he slinked out of the room trying to wipe the sticky cola from his cheeks. The next afternoon, he appeared at my door with a small box in his right hand and another huge one on the floor beside him. Beaming at me like some psychotic clown, he blurted out, “Princess! It is a DELL! And I got an MP3 player. Like you wanted?”  I let him slide the computer in my room. I said nothing. He finally looked at me like he does my mother and set the MP3 on the dresser and left. He hasn’t peaked in my room since.

I check the clock and realize forty-five minutes has passed. I slide one earphone off and check for silence. Bonus! I get up and put on my favorite pair of shorts. They are hot pink Daisy Dukes that my mother hates. Maybe because Dad really likes them. Maybe because I look perfect in them. Who knows? I throw on a white tank top and my sneakers and hop down the stairs three at a time. I linger for a moment at the entrance to the back living room and stare at my Mom. She is curled up on the sofa trying not to cry. It comes out as hiccups and loud sniffs. My stomach starts to tremble and shake. I want to run to her and wrap my arms around her. To plead with her, beg her to get up and walk out the backdoor with me. My stomach starts flip-flopping. I roll my eyes and head for the backdoor.

I emerge into a pink-stained morning sky. I love this time of the day, when the first birds start their sharp, ‘wake-up everyone!’ blurting. I sit on the back steps and wait for the next chorus, the answering birds, to start. Their short, shrill cries change into a symphony of harmonious but distinct melodies. Birds are the only creatures that made me think there might actually be a God. Well, birds and Mrs. Palmer. The music swells into an opera. I stand up, yanking my shorts down to relieve myself of a massive wedgie and wham! The stagnant, dripping summer air hits me like a Jet Li full- frontal assault. Freaking July in Virginia! Still, I’d rather be out here than in that house when my Dad comes to and discovers his beloved Glen Fiddich is gone!

I think he ought to pee in a glass and drink that every morning. It would be cheaper then real booze. Hell, the piss would probably be just as effective as a real shot. I imagine him drinking urine, tipping a full shot back, and laugh out loud. I jump off the stairs and make my way through our massive back lawn. Appearances. We, the Shultz’, have that down. Our lawn looks like that hotel in the movie ‘The Shining’, complete with our own foliage menagerie. I know that movie’s ancient. I still love it. Jack Nicholson rocks! He plays a wicked drunk better than anyone. Mom watches a lot of old movies when Dad’s at work. I like to sit and watch. Only thing she’s ever said is movies make life easier. She’s said that a few times. I think I get it. I think Mom would crawl through the TV if she could. We watched Forest Gump together. Dad wouldn’t take us to the theatre. Said he wasn’t going to pay twenty bucks to watch some retard. Mom and I rented it. It was good. Sad, but I made it the whole three hours. Mom cried when Jenny was praying in the cornfield for God to make her a bird so she could fly away. I got that too. I didn’t cry.

I make it to the edge of our lawn and slip between the rose bushes that border our property and the Palmer’s yard. All is quiet on the southern front at the Palmer’s. They are cool, for a couple of geriatrics.  Sometimes I sit with Mrs. Palmer and drink tea. We eat these stale cookies she calls Biscotti, just a fancy word for over baked pastries if you ask me. You wanna know something wild? Birds actually land on Mrs. Palmer. We’ll be sitting there, quiet, and a bird will just light on her shoulder, hang out and then go when it pleases. She just keeps smiling. I really love being around her. Not sure why. She isn’t very exciting. In fact, she rarely talks to me but she always hugs me when I leave. I guess it is the birds. You have to be special when wild birds like hanging out on your shoulder.

Just past their estate is Deer Haven Farm, my favorite morning haunt. It is a vast spread of green pastures broken up and bordered with thick, brown wooden fences that are about five feet tall. The house is all the way at the back of the farm. Nestled up against the Blue Ridge Mountains, even that house looks like a shack. My family went to Colorado once and I was not impressed. Our mountains are way more beautiful than theirs. Ours look like Humpback whales diving into the sea. Their peaks rounded and fertile, not like the masculine jags of rock that top the Rockies. Oh!  They really are blue from a distance. Looking at Deer Haven, I realize it’s peaceful on the farm and all. The horses are funny to watch but I would jet for a city like New York or LA in a heartbeat. Just show me where to stash my carry on!

I jump the wooden fence to the main pasture area. I like to sit and think and watch clouds and stuff. Today, I immediately stop and stare. Rose had her baby! The foal stands by her side, her little snout all shoved up in her Mom’s boobs. It’s solid white. The foal is the color of untouched snow. Look, Rose is muddy-brown. The dad’s black. I am no cloner or anything, but how the hell do you get white out of that combo?

I lean back against the fence and think about it. Rose keeps turning her head and sniffing at her baby. Kinda sweet. I smile, my arms stretched over my head when my stomach starts with its damn cartwheels. Wait, I am going to puke!

Ok, back. No, I did not puke. What is it with my stomach? I never eat breakfast so that can’t be it. I feel my forehead, but it is so damp from the humidity in the air, there is no way to tell if I am running a fever. I feel OK otherwise. I start to think about my Mom back at home and the pain gets worse. Must be what my therapist calls anxiety. Shows how much she knows, I’m not anxious. I decide to drop the whole question and turn my attention back to Rose and her baby.

I guess little Rose finally got her fill, because she wobbles and tries to prance about. On her second leap she bails on the landing. Too funny! What a klutz! Rose watches her baby. The ignorant beast actually looks like she is smiling!

I yell, “Give it a rest, you stupid horse!”

I know that’s really going to help but then little Rose turns her head and looks straight at me. I swear I am not some delusional schizoid who goes around thinking that the toaster is sending him messages from space aliens. But, for a second, I swear, I see this silver, spiraled spike about six inches long sticking straight out of her forehead! The sunlight dances all over it and I can see swirls of color radiate out towards me before misting into silver light. She takes a couple of steps towards me and I climb backwards, up the fence, ready to jump back over and get the hell out of there. The foal stops and looks sad. This is getting silly! I step back into the lush pasture and try to walk towards her. She raises her head and it’s gone! The horn, the spiral thingy, whatever the hell it was, gone! She walks back to her Mother and she doesn’t wobble or weave one iota. Nor does she look at me again. After a few minutes, they walk away, leaving me sitting cross-legged on the ground, the morning dew seeping through denim, completely, utterly alone.

When I am sure they are not coming back, I head back to the house. The sun has climbed above the mountains and it’s getting too steamy for me. I can’t wait to get into the air-conditioning.  By now it should be blowing like the artic wind. I’ve heard about women getting hot flashes when they reach forty or so, but my Dad is the one with Menopause if you ask me. He should be a good half way down something by now. Ok, I did take a gulp of his scotch once. It felt like I drank gasoline or rubbing alcohol. I will never forget it; that warm burn building into a wrenching pain setting your whole digestive system into hyper drive. My father drinks it like Gatorade.

Some of my friends like to drink beer and smoke weed. I hate the taste of beer, but I kind of wish I did, because they get all happy and it is really fun to hang out and just make up stupid stories. Then when someone, usually Kevin, actually pukes, well it is all over then. Now, weed! I do like that. It makes you feel calm and I think up really profound stuff. Sometimes, I even come up with some really good ideas for school projects, like my English assignments. I really love English Composition. My teacher, Mr. Robinson is a fag. But he’s also downright hilarious and always makes sure to write something encouraging on my homework. I think I will be a writer one day. I cannot think of anything else that even sounds like it would be worth the time. I have enough trouble sitting through fifty minutes of class. How in Hades am I going to pull some eight hour shift working for some anal retentive loser? My Dad works all the time, well not really, but that is basically it. Work, Scotch and…

My face is starting to drip when I get home. I take my shoes off before I enter the back door. Mom gets bent when I track mud through the kitchen. Heaven forbid I ever hit the white carpet in the front room. I don’t even have a chance to make it through the kitchen when my Mom turns from the sink.
         
“Were you at Deer Haven?”

Her left eye is purple, rimmed with royal blue that always turns black. Her bottom lip is puffy. She tried to cover most of it with makeup. They don’t make a foundation that covers up purple and blue. Summer makes it easier for her to get things done. She has these Audrey Hepburn style sunglasses that usually cover most of the damage. How do I know about Audrey Hepburn? It is just about my Mom’s favorite movie, ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”  Even I choke up when Holly throws the cat out of the cab, into the rain, right at the end. Winter is the worst. Mom usually gets a lot of stuff delivered and just stays in her room.

“Yep,” I reply to her question concerning my whereabouts. “What are you doing?”
I push myself up to sit on the counter under the china cabinets.
“I am going to make Prime Rib tonight with baby carrots, spinach and that whole-wheat pasta, feta cheese side dish that your Father likes so much.”

She smiles but it is a thin attempt. She looks like a wax statue that had been left in the back of some warehouse. My Mom was really pretty, once. She still is I guess, if you look past the bump on the top of her nose and the mismatched cheeks. I wonder how much dough Dad has forked out for cosmetic surgery? Cosmetic surgery is what they call it. I saw the doctor’s card once. Reconstructive Surgeon. You figure it out. Anyway, looking at her I do not think he shelled out enough.

“Rose had her baby.”
“Rose?”
“The Coleson’s mare? Rose? Damn Mom, I have only told you a billion times she’s pregnant.”
“Well that is good; I know they were worried about her.”
“Yeah.  Mom?”
“What sweetie?” She is marinating the meat, her back turned. I take a deep breath and go for it.
“I think you need to call the police. I think they would take him right now. I mean, I can tell them. I will tell them all of it. You know Mom, all of it!”

My Mother whirls around and with one swift motion slams her fist into the island that lies vertically across the middle of the kitchen. I jump. I actually feel my ass leave the counter top.

“You will do no such thing! What is wrong with you? Do you know what would happen to your Father in jail? Your Father is a CEO. Not some street thug. Jail is for drug dealers and rapists and murderers!”
“But Mom…”
“I mean it. You tell anyone, anything, not one word, do you understand?”

Her eyes brim with tears and even though I know she is angry, I can also smell the fear on her. It reminds me of the kennel at the SPCA where I volunteer. Most of the dogs are barking and carrying on and then you see that one. That one dog that just lies there, curled up on the concrete floor, heart broken; knowing it is never going to see its owners again. Anyway, that weird smell of fur and fear is exactly what I get now. Even her voice doesn’t match her words. She talks in a heightened whisper, her eyes darting from me to the front of the kitchen. I can hear the TV in the living room; Dad.

“I already told Teresa.”
“I know that. She is fully aware that we will sue, if she tells anyone. I cancelled your next appointment. You were supposed to work on your attitude. Our family’s business is private. Besides, you are only getting worse. That woman is incompetent.”

My Mom turns back to the meat; her voice monotone, devoid of anger and fear, flat like the sea before a big storm.

“Teresa is the only fucking person that gives a damn about me. You bitch! Now who am I going to talk to? That bastard you call a husband has ruined me and is going to fucking kill you! Do you even care? Mom! If you care at all, turn around! Dammit, look at me!”

She doesn’t turn around. She starts to cry. I hear my Dad holler something from the living room and then heavy footsteps as he bee lines it for the kitchen. I tear out of the kitchen and run up the stairs. I lock my bedroom door and start to throw some clothes and my hiking boots into my black leather backpack. I want to grab my jewelry. I could try and get someone over eighteen to pawn it, but I hear a loud crash come from downstairs and my Father screaming at my Mother. I grab my favorite baseball cap from the back of the door and sprint down the stairs and out the front door. I run. When I reach the end of the driveway, I stop to see if anyone is following me. I can’t hear the 4-Runner. No voices ride the wind. I head west towards town. I walk about a half a mile before I decide to go back to Deer Haven and see the foal one last time.

I have to cut through the Municipal golf course. You know those gold courses, the ones for people who love the sport but cannot afford the fat-cats’ club and their membership fees. We belong to Wiltshire Country Club. I used to play tennis there all the time. Now, I basically swim in the summer and my friends and I run up huge tabs in the restaurants and coffee shop. Dad never says a thing. Well, not to me. I heard him talking to my Mom once, about the time I took some friends that were not ‘parental approved.’ He could give a rat’s ass that it took a four hundred dollar chunk out of his wallet. No, he was pissed off that Andrew was black and that Cindy was one of ‘those Beamers!’ What right did they have to filet mignon and a pair of sweat suits? You know, nothing was ever said, said to me that is, but Andrew and Cindy started to avoid me at school. That is the first sign that a phone call, maybe even a letter has been launched from Mom to their parents. You would think my lovely Father would handle the veiled threats in my family. Nope, it’s Mom. I read a letter she wrote to the school. I found ten of them, copies of what she actually sent. I only could take one before I heard her calling. She was concerned with the Art class I was taking and wanted to make sure nothing ‘urban’ would be introduced. Mrs. Iman never said anything. Instead we started working on Batik. It is Indian and awesome. It’s like tie-dyeing, but you use wax to outline whatever design or picture you want and then you use dyes in various succession. The outcome is magical. I keep the dress I made in the bottom of my hope chest. I never showed to anyone except Mrs. Iman. Damn, I left it.
         
Screw it, I will just move to India or maybe Nepal. I hear they have it going on. Well, then again, I also heard it’s really poor in India. But you know what? I don’t give a damn. I am going to just wander the globe with my back pack; maybe buy a few composition books and then when I am a great author I can turn my parents away at book signings. The whole idea makes me feel taller. Empowerment was a word Teresa taught me. That started shortly after I let her in on the truth behind my family’s facade. Was this empowerment? If so, I like it.

I make my way across the golf course. I guess it is too hot for golfers today because it is empty. When I get to the club house, I cross over the rope partition and turn left towards my best friend Karen’s house. If I go through her backyard and then cut the corner of the William’s estate; Deer haven is only about a half a mile. I could have backtracked to my house and been there way quicker. I think we covered why that is not an option. I start to feel guilty that I cursed at my Mom, but then I see every black eye, every flammable kiss my Father gave me. And…my mind shuts down when I hit the ‘and’ part. It always does. Sometimes there is such a thing as too much information.

I finally reach the farm. This route takes me close to the Coleson house. I stay outside the fence and make my way to the back pasture where they keep the mares that have foaled. This season it is only Rose. Most of their horses are on the show circuit. Rose is a champion Hunter. She even won the Cup at Devon two years ago. That is probably the biggest horse show in the country, if you are not hip to the whole horse thing. I was supposed to start training for real this fall. I ride, but just once a week. My Dad had finally agreed to let me train with T. J. Malone. He is a retired Grand Prix rider who owns a training center about forty minutes from my home. I guess I will have to find another way now. Maybe, I will traverse the country working on horse farms or race tracks. Then when my long lost parents run to the winner’s circle at the Derby, I can tell security to escort them away.

I arrive at the back pasture and find it empty. My heart feels like a boulder being dropped in a rock quarry. I lean against the fence and close my eyes. I have not said a single prayer since I was five. Dad used to kneel with me by the bed, that sweet, sick odor of Scotch coming off him like a bad batch of cologne.  We said the Lord’s Prayer every night. That was a good time. The last good time I could remember. My nightly educations started shortly after that. I can not really remember the whole prayer but I try.

“Our Father who is in Heaven. Thy name. Thy kingdom done on earth and heaven.”

Ok, I am really botching this up. I open my eyes and stare at the empty field. Lush and green like invisible emeralds growing on short blades. Then, I see the foal. One minute an empty field, the next minute she’s right in the middle. She walks towards me. I wait until I knew she’s real and not my mind faking a mirage. I climb up the fence and before I can swing a leg over. The foal is standing right in front of me. I never saw her run. I did take my eyes off of her for a second to climb, but how in the hell? I start to back down and she stamps her small, perfect little leg. Then, I see it. This time there is no doubt. It is about a half a foot long. The main color is creamy white, like ivory, and it looks carved into clockwise turning ridges that spiral upward into a neat point. The light of the sun is behind her but the horn glows. It radiates a silver bath of color that I do not think I have ever seen before. The effect is like the full moon on water but even clearer, brighter. I climb all the way to the top of the fence and swing both legs over and sit still, perched, waiting. Little Rose, or whatever she really is…I am not going to say the U word…sidles up to me and stops horizontal to the fence. The U word, you know it. I mean, I know you are already laughing your head off as it is, so we will just keep on going with the whole Roses’ Baby idea.

Anyway, I am not in control anymore of my body, my mind, nothing, nada, zilch. I know she is way too small to ride but I climb on anyway. It is like hearing that voice in your head. No, not voices in your head, that one voice. I can hear it telling me to ride her. Just do it. Get on and ride her! I find myself trying to not put my full weight on her slender back when she starts to change. She fills out, growing larger, to the point where I can feel my thighs moving outward and my seat becomes melded in place. She is strong and soft, no longer a filly.

Ok, I have got to tell you, while this is happening I can’t think, only feel. I can feel me melding into her and her into me and then she leaps from a complete standstill to a full out gallop. Fear washes over me and I lurch forward, grabbing her mane. I feel I am going to fall off, but with each stride getting longer and faster, joy floods over me. Joy, I can not believe it. I actually use the word joy. But, no way around it, this is exactly what’s happening. I let go of the mane, bonded to the creature between my legs. My hair is flying; my whole body feels like lightning. Not like when you are trying to plug something in a wall outlet and get that nerve wracking jolt. This is light waves of energy entering and leaving. Each wave slowly turning my joy into this ecstatic feeling and I can feel the wind on my teeth. I am smiling. Me, smiling?          

Then I taste salt. I can feel my cheeks getting wet. I lick my lips and realize the salt is coming from tears. Joy? Ecstasy? Smiling? Tears? I am speechless. I cannot tell you much more. I laugh and cry and ride this beast, no Angel, until she finally brings me back to the fence and stops. I know now. I know exactly what I have to do. Nepal could wait. The roaming alone could wait. I climb off the Unicorn. Ok, deal with it. UNICORN! I stand in front of her and watch as her horn slowly fades back into the unseen world it came from. Her eyes are blue, brilliant and she fills me with that empowerment ordeal again. She walks away and I climb back over the fence.

I know Mrs. Palmer will let me use her phone. I am sure she will know what to do, if I just tell her. She will know exactly who to call; probably the Police first. After that, maybe they will let me sleep in one of their guest rooms. I practice the words I need to say, “My name is Sally Shultz and I am calling about my Father, Patrick.”