Sally Krueger-Wyman

A Breath of Hay

A breeze kicks out the burning smell of the school bus and brings in something dry, sweeter. My mom would be panicking about my asthma—the hay, the dust, the earthy animal-ness, but I don’t care. I breathe in as much of it as possible. Grace shrieks that the cows smell gross, but I just smell relief. Compared to the reek of mass-produced and over-cooked hospital food, cow muck smells like life itself.

“Brody, catch up!” Mrs. Hampton calls out to me. “Everyone gather round and listen closely!” She’s been talking about this field trip for weeks. Every seventh-grade class reads Steinbeck’s The Red Pony, she’d say, but does every seventh-grade class get to go and meet one? Each time, she’d raise her eyebrows like she expected us to cheer. Like she’d won teacher of the year or something. 

We’d taken a bus to a horse ranch about a half hour from school. The whole way here, Rachel wouldn’t shut up about how she’d been taking private lessons at the ranch for something called dressage. Rachel’s like that; her footing’s only secure on the very top shelf. Even George telling her how it explained a lot that she needed lessons on something so simple as dressing isn’t stopping her from parading around the place like she owns it. My horse this and My horse that. Apparently, she gets to spend her afternoons out here on a horse. Yesterday, I spent the afternoon doing my homework with my dad. It took three times as long, and I had to go back and correct what we’d gotten wrong once I got home. My mom actually apologized to me. She thanked me for being patient with him. It helps him to feel useful, she’d told me. Like he hasn’t been beaten by a brain tumor, his brain cut in and out in order to heal. 

“You all come on through here. I’ve got a horse that wants to meet you,” says the guy guiding the tour. He doesn’t look like the cowboys on TV. He introduced himself as Jake, which does seem like a good cowboy name, but his face isn’t wrinkled like he’s spent all his life in the sun, and it’s worn him down to a crinkled leather. He doesn’t even have a handlebar mustache. Instead, he’s got acne and a ball cap on. Maybe California cowboys don’t wear cowboy hats? 

He leads us further into the barn and through a row of horse stalls. I wait till everyone has stopped pushing ahead to follow. Knowing the odor has to come from somewhere. I look down as I walk. My blue converse are turning red and dusty from the dirt and hay all over this place, but that seems to be all the ground has to offer. 

“Keep in mind horses have a sixth sense,” calls Jake. “Their noses are so good they can smell what we’re feeling. Yep, that’s right. You’re happy, they can smell it. You afraid? Well, that’ll make them nervous too. Guess we got some funky chemicals in our body or some such. So it’s real important to be calm around these big guys. But hey, you’re all happy to see these here horses ain’t you? You’re happy, and they’ll be happy,” he says just as a horse swings its giant head out over a stall door. I find myself a foot or two back from where I’d been—my heartbeat’s drumming in my ears. I look around to make sure no one’s seen me jump. George smirks at me, but that’s nothing new. When he’s not chatting up some girl or perfecting his hair flip in whatever reflective surface is nearby, he’s smirking. 

The horse has started nuzzling at something Jake’s holding in his hand. “Well hey there, Candy. Guess who’s come to visit? Alright, now, y’all. Stand back. We’re going to take this here gelding out to the corral. Who wants to help me lead him out?” At least he talks like a cowboy. 

Most of the girls put up their hands and shout, “Me! Me!” Even the guys seem eager. It’s just me, Kartik, and George left hanging back. Kartik, who only wakes up when he’s got a joystick in his hands. George, who wouldn’t let himself look eager over something if it killed him. 

“Class!” Mrs. Hampton yells over the noise. “Remember how Jody talked to the red pony? He talked quietly—soothing. No shouting!”

Yeah, and a lot of good it did that horse. Talk as soothingly as you want: that horse still died. I hate that book. Don’t know why it was even written. Every bit of it was depressing. It was a damn stupid … it was a stupid book. Last week when I slipped up and swore in front of my dad, the look in his eyes—I thought he’d be mad, but he wasn’t. I don’t know quite what he was, but his eyes didn’t have any fire in them—hardly ever do anymore. But they had something that makes me never want to swear again. 

Everyone else crowds around the giant horse as Jake opens up the stall and starts leading him out. The horse is brown with one of those white diamonds on its forehead. I’ve never been so close to something so big and alive. Probably weighs three times as much as Mrs. Hampton. And they’re all just standing around it. How do they know it won’t charge? 

The horse drops his head down and snorts. Amber, who reeks like a bong, asks hesitantly, “What’s he smelling?” The unlikely cowboy just laughs and says, “Oh, I think he’s just getting used to each of y’all’s scents. He’s just saying hello.” 

All I know is I wouldn’t be happy if I were tied up and everyone was surrounding me like that—even if they all smelled happy. That’d probably be worse. You’re surrounded like that, and they’re not laughing with you. They’re laughing at you. 

Suddenly that rough wood I’ve backed up against jostles, and the red-brown head of a horse swings over the door. I jerk away. My movement knocks me into George, who shoves me right back at the horse just in time for it to nip me. I feel his hot breath against my ear and his teeth pull at my hair. I whirl away, picturing blood dripping down my neck—pieces of raggedy ear dangling. Reaching up, all I feel is smooth skin and damp hair. There is more hair than normal for the horse to grab onto. Dad usually cuts it, and that hasn’t happened in a while.

“Come on, class, keep up!” calls Mrs. Hampton. I follow after George and Kartik, trying to focus on their conversation instead of checking to see if the horse is still looking at me.

“I don’t know, man, every day spent riding a horse. Makes a guy think she might be good at riding something else, ya know?” asks George as he punches Kartik’s arm. He notices me listening. “Bet you want a piece of that, don’t you, Brody? Bet if you told her your dad’s dying, she might take pity on you. Not that there’d be much of you to ride. Hell, a girl like that might break you.”

Kartik seems to have woken up at the thought. “Man, that actually explains a lot. She’s got those thiiick thighs.”

“Yeah, bet she’d be all bouncy, too,” says George.

The stale air of the barn is replaced by the dry smell of hot dirt, and I squint against the sun.  

“Alright, everyone. Who here has ridden a horse?” asks Jake as he leans casually over the horse’s saddle where they’ve paused at the opening of a corral. About half the class raises their hands. “Okay. So, we’re gonna give those of y’all who’ve never experienced it a try. Those of you who raised your hands, step back, alright? Everybody else, step forward.” 

I try my best to step back into the other group, but Mrs. Hampton calls my name. “Brody? Why don’t you go first?” This is the downside—well, another downside of having your father in the hospital. Adults think they’re doing you a favor by giving you special attention when really I’d rather they just forgot about me—left me alone. 

Everybody turns to look at me, and now there’s a clear path between me and the horse. My heart’s in my ears again. My breathing feels tight like my lungs are in a cage. I walk forward.

“Hey there, Brody. You see this?” Jake asked, pointing to something on the horse’s saddle. “This is called a horn. You’re gonna grab this to hold on, okay? And this, here? This is a stirrup. Now, you just gotta put one foot in there, grab onto the horn, and then swing your body over. Sound good?”

No. It does not sound good. What if the horse moves? It’s not even looking at me. Won’t it start if I suddenly leap onto its back? And then what? Does it just go?

“Umm … sure.” I step up onto the brown box Jake has put next to the horse. Gingerly, I reach out to the horn. The horse doesn’t even fidget. Fingers clutched tightly around the horn, I start to put my right foot into the stirrup but then realize that’s obviously the wrong foot. Heat rushes to my face as everybody behind me laughs. 

Swallowing, I rush to place my left foot into the stirrup and then do my best to kick my right leg over the horse. I catch the horse’s backside in my attempt, but she doesn’t even budge. I’m sweating now, and my breaths are coming fast and shallow.

“Looks like he’s going to puke!” George yells. 

“George, shush. If I see you picking on Brody again, I’ll give you detention,” says Mrs. Hampton. 

The blood drains from my face. Why are adults so stupid? I finally manage to sit down.

“Nice job, Brody. Go ahead and give Candy a pat on the shoulder there, just to tell her she’s done a good job holding steady.” 

Her fur—hair—is both soft and coarse. It’s warm beneath my touch, and I can feel the animal beneath. Oh God, she’s moving. 

“Okay, good. So I’m just going to lead you around the corral,” says Jake. He explains to me how to tell a horse to stop and start, go left and right, but I’m not taking anything in. I’m just concentrating on breathing in and out. I catch a whiff of the worn leather beneath my hands. And suddenly, I’m not sitting on a horse but running to my dad as he gets home from work. Throwing myself at him, my face smashing up against the small silver conchos on his favorite leather belt. Feeling his briefcase bounce softly against my back. His laugh as he wraps his arms around me. Breathing in the smell of worn leather and my dad. It’s an old memory, one I’ve since outgrown. 

Is this how it will be? I’ll get these random reminders of my dad out of the blue? How long till the new scents replace the old memories—the ones that matter the most? When I went to hug him last week, he smelled different. Like medicine—some metallic, overclean scent. Afterward, I stole his old terrycloth red bathrobe out of his closet. It smells more like him than he does now. I hug it to sleep at night. I’m afraid it’s going to lose his scent.

“Alright, Brody, I can help you on down,” says Jake. Somehow we’re back in front of everyone, and I’ve survived the ride. My shoulders hurt like I’ve got a knife between them. I’ve been holding them so tight. I swing my leg over the horse, aiming for the brown box, but my other foot gets caught up in the stirrup, and I start to fall. Jake catches me, pulling my foot out of the saddle at the same time. “Whoa–you don’t weigh a bit, do ya?” I’m all but in his arms, and the entire class is roaring with laughter. 

“You got it,” says Jake, as he steadies me on the ground. I push past Rachel who’s snickering behind her hand, George who’s howling and pretending to rock a baby, and Grace whose pretty smile makes me want to not exist, and head to the back of the class. My body feels like it’s on fire or it’s numb. I wait a minute till Mrs. Hampton sees me standing in the shade of the building. Then, as she turns her head, I slip back into the barn. My eyes are burning, and there is no way I’m letting anybody see me cry. 

As I look for a place to be alone, I walk past a small office where two guys are playing poker. One of the guys has just put down his cards and is grinning like it’s the winning hand. 

“Aw, come on, man, not again! What’s your trick?” complains the other guy. 

“Just lucky, my friend, just lucky.”

Dad started teaching me to count cards last summer. Told me I could never use it in a real game at a casino or whatever, but there was no harm in using a little math to keep my friends in line. I didn’t ask him what friends. I tried playing gin rummy with him last week. He couldn’t remember the rules. It wasn’t even poker. I got so upset that I couldn’t remember either. He’d taught me to play, and now he couldn’t even … of all the things to not be able to handle, a card game. 

I walk past the office without the guys seeing me. My stomach’s all twisted, and my breaths are sharp and fast. I’m walking down the aisle of horse stalls when that horse that bit me sticks his head out again. He’s huge. I try to move past him, towards the big barn door open beyond him, but just as I move, he kicks at the door again, sending it rattling. His head rears up as he kicks, but his eyes don’t leave me. He’s staring right at me. Just as that stupid book said they never do. His face is so big. He’s got eyes on the side of his head, but somehow they’re both fixed on me. Must have been a real big vulture to eat that red pony’s eye. Why won’t he look away? His nostrils flutter. He huffs out a breath like he’s smelled something foul. Like … like he smells me. He sniffs … his lips move back from his teeth. He rears and kicks again. The jarring noise of the door’s rattle rings in my ear as I race down the corridor and out of the stables. A nickering echo of laughter chases me. 

Nausea’s roiling up inside me as I finally escape the musty darkness of the stable. I throw myself in the dirt against the stable wall. Nobody’s out here but me. The sun’s hot as it beats down. Red dirt’s swirling around me from where I kicked it up. It burns my throat, but I can’t stop breathing it in. My chest feels like it’s caving in, collapsing around my heart. And now I can smell my fear too. It’s sour, and I want to throw up. It’s all over me, stuck on me. Months of fear just layered on me. That horse could smell it. I close my eyes. There’s the red pony lying in the field, blood dripping from its eye. Jody crouched over him, useless. Just useless. I’m just useless.

I was almost at the top of the stairs when I heard my father call out. I couldn’t understand what he’d said—just some garbled noise. I rushed back down the stairs, calling out to him. He yelled, “Go back upstairs, Brody,” his voice a disjointed mess. I didn’t listen. When I reached the living room, he was shaking uncontrollably. Like his body was having an earthquake. His face was all tense—one eyebrow raised and the left side of his bottom lip pulled down. There was spit coming from his mouth, just dripping down as he shook. “Dad!” I moved toward him, but he spat out a gruff “Stay back.” His hand slapped at his chest, and he slumped to one side, still shaking. “Mom!” I screamed, “Mom!” 

Useless. I should have helped him. Done something. I hack out some red dirt. The spit looks like a splatter of blood on the earth. Even the smell of hay and horse can’t cover up the sour of my fear, my guilt.

“Brody! What are you doing out here?” calls Mr. Thompson, the teacher’s aide. 

“Nothing. I’m–nothing.” My voice is tight, and I think I might throw up. I don’t want to be here. 

“Are you alright?” he asks, coming closer. 

“I’m fine. Just leave me alone.” I swipe at my face. My nose is running, and the dirt has settled in my eyes. 

“I’m calling your mother,” he tells me, his voice full of a kindness that just makes it all worse.

Like he thinks he could understand. “Hold tight.”

I give up trying to clean my face and just sink my head onto my knees. He’s going to call my mom, and my mom’s going to worry. She might even tell Dad.

Twenty minutes later, my breathing has calmed down to the occasional hiccup, and my mom’s car is pulling up. In the background, I can hear everybody cheering from the corral behind the barn. My mom pulls up, and I yank at the door handle before she can get out. I raise my eyebrows at her, telling her I want in. I can’t hear it, but I know she sighs as she unlocks the door. I just want to leave. 

“Brody, what happened?” asks my mom as I sit down.

“Just an asthma attack,” I tell her, “All that dirt and hay must have set it off. I’m fine. Sorry to worry you.” I buckle my seat belt, praying she won’t demand to talk to my teacher. 

“You used your inhaler? You’re breathing okay now?” Her eyes have taken on a different sort of panic.

“I’m fine, Mom. I took care of it. Let’s just go.” 

“You’re sure? You’ll tell me if you don’t feel well again, right? Okay. We’ll just head to your father’s then. You ready?” 

“Yeah. Sounds good.” Your father’s. As if the hospital room is his. Not just some daycare waiting room he’s been forced into till he dies. 

Mr. Thompson waves as we drive off. Mom hands me a package of wet wipes from the glove compartment. 

“For your face, honey. You’ve got a little dirt there.” 

She hands me a light blue package of wet wipes. It’s got that soft plastic coating that I know will leave an echo on my fingertips even after I’m no longer touching it. There’s the smiling face of a baby staring up at me from the label–wide brown eyes and round cheeks that dimple. I glance up at my mom. She’s facing the road, clenching her jaw and making those lines that have shown up around her mouth and cheeks look even more permanent. I look back down at the package. The baby’s pudgy little hand reaches into the air, grasping at nothing. The label reads “extra sensitive, fragrance-free baby wipes.” Bubbly script advertises “A Clean Promise!” I rip open the lid. 

Sally Krueger-Wyman (she/her) is a writer of fiction, memoir, and poetry. She holds a B.A. in English from Arizona State University. Her work appears in About Place Journal, Canyon Voices Magazine, and Lux Creative Review. She is currently writing a graphic novel script for the climate education nonprofit Earthshot. Sally identifies as chronically ill and is co-director of the Los Angeles Dysautonomia Network. You can find her on social media @sallyv_kw or at www.sallykw.com.