Daddy [mxm]

13

"Hi, dad." My shoulders droop with weariness as I address the cold, grey slab that now represents my father.

I open my mouth to say more but find there's an impasse in my throat. Guilt rushes hot as lava through my veins. My face flushes at the thought that he could've been looking down over me, seeing everything...including what I've been up to with his friend Rudy. What's the matter, son, I imagine him questioning me scathingly. My friend's dick got your tongue?

Bret steps up from behind me. He rests a hand on the small of my back, palm warming me through my dress shirt on this cool, windy morning of the anniversary of my father's death.

"You okay, man?" Bret murmurs under his breath.

"Yeah, just tired," I whisper.

Bret nods understandingly. We just got off double shifts.

"Mr. Meyer, sir." Bret clears his throat. "Evan's doing well, awesome, actually. He's training to race horses and will open a bookstore someday soon. I've been looking after him. He's well-protected and loved by all of us, so there's no need to worry. Your wife...Evan still calls her. She's doing better."

Mom moved out of state back to her hometown almost as soon as I turned eighteen. After dad died, she couldn't bear to be around everything here that reminded her of him - including me. She stayed for about ten years, but she checked out mentally long before that.

Still, I make it a habit to call her every couple of weeks or months just to check in. She's doing better with distance, working as a secretary. I hope she finds peace again, as much as I resent her for my shitty childhood. It took me a long time to forgive her for falling apart when I needed her to hold it together for me. Now that I'm more mature, I'm beginning to understand how devastating it can be to lose the love of your life.

"We miss you, and Evan still loves you very much. I promise he's in good hands. Rest in peace, sir."

It's a quiet ride back to the Palmer's, where I squeeze in a quick breakfast before Rudy drives me to Wilmot Mar. I follow him and Terry into the large, bright tack room at too-early o'clock in a sort of sleepy shuffle.

"Here," Terry produces a small, flat saddle from a blue-painted bin just inside the door. He offers it to me, and I'm surprised by how much lighter the tack feels in my arms. The leather is supple and smells freshly cleaned, with a sheen that speaks to great care. He explains, "the saddle's very different for racin' 'cause it's designed to be lightweight 'n' small, so that the load on the horse's easier 'n' the performance is better."

"Will Bella be okay with the sudden change of saddles?" I fret.

"She might be a bit off fer a few days," Terry replies as we make our way back out onto the yard, "but she'll get used to it."

As we head back to where I've secured Bella to a peg in the wall, I glance up at the sky. Dark clouds are gathering overhead, and the pale light of dawn barely filters through.

Terry helps me slide the proper tack on while Rudy nurses an extra large coffee, black as sin. Although Bella swings her head around to sniff curiously at the new saddle, she makes no attempt to resist as I lead her down the gravel path to the main training track.

"Evan," Terry begins as we near the busy ring. "Ah'd like ya to meet yer trainer while yer here, Matt Cardoso."

As he speaks, a tall, balding man in his late sixties turns from his position at the trackside to smile at us. The man's face is weathered and tanned, alluding to years of experience, and little fans crinkle at the corners of his eyes when he beams at us.