Jethro

One of them fellers in the white outfits said, "Theo, you come up with the nastiest, most horrible thing you’ve ever done." He looked at me like he figured that’d be a challenge, or maybe like he was afraid to hear the answer.

But I ain’t afraid to hear it, and I’m not afraid to say it. I think about it just about every day. Every hour sometimes. That’s the truth.

I guess it was four or five years ago or so. I was living with my uncle out in the country. Sometimes I’d come walking home from school and I’d see old Jethro. He wasn’t really old. He was a horse of about, oh, maybe five years old. Pretty young and wily.

Mr. Sanders kept Jethro in this small pasture. Mr. Sanders was real particular. He didn’t like nobody messing with his pets, and he didn’t like messes or droopy things. He kept everything tight and organized.

His fence was as tight as a hung noose, six lines of wire across, metal posts at only twenty feet apart, a stay halfway between each post. To top it off he used four-barb-wire, which is more expensive but more likely to poke you if you brush against it. I heard that once a year he came around with a come-along and ratcheted up the tension so hard the veins stuck out of his neck. You walked up to his barbed wire fence and you knew you weren’t going to bend it an inch to climb under. You’d likely slice your hand open trying, or at least get your clothes torn and maybe a whupping later because clothes ain’t free, you know.

I always managed to sneak a carrot or an apple wedge out of the lunch room, or I’d grab a couple apples off somebody’s tree, for Jethro. I’d come out and give him a bite or two because Mr. Sanders didn’t keep much grass in that small field. Sometimes Jethro would have bloody scabs on his lips from scraping at the short grass--trying to get the little nubs because he’d eaten everything else. I always felt sorry for him.

One day I stopped by and he seemed to be in a fine mood. He came running across the field to see me, his legs kicking out like he was a tap dancer looking to put on a show. I had four or five carrots in my backpack, which maybe he smelled, but I think he mostly just was happy to see me. I can tell when somebody wants something and when somebody is just glad to be around you.

I stood on the log I always use to jump over the fence. I kept one on the other side too. Mr. Sanders had the barbed wire gate so tightly strung that there was no way I could open it, even with the two by four tied to it that you can use for leverage. To open a gate like that you have to be big enough to shove against the gate hard and lift the wire loop over the top of the gate post, and I was probably a good fifty pounds shy of being able to pull that off. Mr. Sanders had no problem with it himself--his lips never got scabby because he had to look hard for food.

I shooed Jethro away so he wouldn’t get hit, and then I put a hand on top of the wood corner post and leapt over. My legs had only gotten long enough to pull off the jump that year, and it was one of my favorite things to do back then. Some days, when Jethro was too buys eating or sleeping, I’d jump over that fence twenty or thirty times, pretending I was being chased by spies or Indians. Sometimes I’d do that jump and be a hurdler like in the Olympics; only they never dared to do it over a barbed wire fence. Sometimes I’d pretend I was flying.

He put me in a good mood, so right at the top of my jump I kicked my heels together like the leprechaun from the Lucky Charms commercial. I landed in a mess, but that never worried me none. You can’t always just go by how things end.

Jethro nibbled the back of my neck with his thick lips, and it made me get up right quick. I wasn’t going to have no part of being grass stubble, and I told him so before he got any more wrong ideas. He shook his head and stared at me, waiting for me to tell him what I wanted to do that day.

I pulled out the orange Frisbee from my back pack. Jethro gave it a sniff because it smelled like the carrots I still had stashed in there for him. I leaned against his neck and he blew snot on my elbow, like horses do when they want something.

He'd get his carrots, but I wanted to tell him about my teacher Mr. Wallace first. I threw my arm over his shoulder and whispered to him about that funny black man. Mr. Wallace was the only black feller I met until then. Uncle Theo always called him coon teacher, and told me I shouldn't listen to him no more than the government made me.

But the truth is I really liked Mr. Wallace. He was a huge feller, probably weighed twice what I did and was the tallest teacher in the school. I think he kind of scared a lot of folks because he was just so big and black. He didn't scare me none, though. I've never been scared of big people. I've seen a small gelding let loose in a pasture full of all kinds of big mustangs, and within a week be running the show. Success in a fight don't have nothing to do with size. It ain’t the horse in the fight, but the fight in the horse. I knew right off the bat that, like near everyone, he wasn't scary because he just couldn't get as mean as I could. When you know that about somebody, you don't get scared around them. Doesn't make it any easier to talk, though.

He ran a pretty good class, and nobody smarted off much. He called on me like all the teachers did at first, but just like the rest he pretty much gave up when I'd just keep on giving a little smile, not saying nothing. I always got good enough grades and I never caused nobody no trouble, in class at least, so teachers mostly went after other kids. And if a kid messed with me in class I would never do nothing until school was out and I could fix things with that kid on my own. Kids never messed with me for very long.

Mr. Wallace was with grownups like I was with kids, a feller who everyone got along with but who everyone was scared to death of. I don't know why he lived in Idaho where there weren't no more of his kind, but like everybody I guess he had his reasons. He always ate his lunch at his desk and not in the Teacher's Lounge, so I guess it wasn't because he liked the folks he worked with.

One day when the bell rang for lunch, I just stayed and sat at my desk when all the other kids got up to leave. I don't know why--I guess I was bored of walking around the edge of the field by myself. He was pulling his sack lunch out of his desk when he looked up to see me. He smiled and asked, "What's wrong with you, son? You want something?"

I gave him my easy smile and shrugged just a little, then put my head down on my folded arms on the desk. I just gazed out the window, because I didn't want him to think I was just staring at him.

"Are you just going to sit there? You know, you're not supposed to be in here during lunch unless you did something wrong."

I looked back and shrugged again. He shrugged back--I think he meant it to be funny--and pulled out his Walkman. I could hear the tinny music from where I was sitting, and I carefully watched him out of the corner of my eye as he pulled out an apple. He looked up at me again and said (a little too loud, because of the headphones), "You want my apple?"

I smiled a little and didn't say anything. He turned down his headphones and walked to me with the apple in his huge dark hand. He sat on the desk next to me, and his giant body just covered the desk like a big quilt. He set the apple on my desk as he looked at me. "Here. My wife always packs me two of them. She says that if she keeps giving me lots of apples she can be teacher's pet. She thinks that's funny."

I stared at the big bright red and yellow apple on my desk. I hadn't eaten since the oatmeal I had yesterday. I didn't want him to think I was just trying to bum some food, but I was pretty hungry. I decided I'd eat half of it and then give the rest to Jethro along with the carrots I had. That way I wasn't really begging.

"You're a funny kid, aren't you? I been teaching a long time, and I've seen some quiet kids. But you might be the best I've ever seen at keeping your mouth shut."

I don't let my guard down much, but I couldn't help showing how proud I was to hear him say that. I gave a little honest smile.

"I KNEW it. I just knew that wasn't your real smile. Don't worry--I won't tell anybody. Your secret's safe with me." I didn't let on that I was worried, and I put the other smile on as quick as I could, but I was pretty bothered. You start showing one real thing and pretty soon people get an idea of what you're about. Then you're in for trouble.

He seemed to let it go, which made me plenty relieved. "You like music? You ever hear of Bob Marley? I guess not, you little cracker." He smiled some, like he just told his own little joke. I didn't get it, but sometimes you don't have to in order to enjoy it. "Here, put these on and tell me what you think. Or don't tell me, which you probably won't." He leaned over me and his giant blackness ate up all of everything. When he pulled away the headphones were on my head.

It was the most beautiful sounding voice I'd ever heard. A lot of the words didn't make sense because he talked so funny, like he was from Venus, but two lines jumped out at me. "Everything's going to be all right" and "No woman no cry." He said them over and over, and when the song finished I hit the button to repeat it. It was the happiest and saddest song you ever heard, all at the same time.

After I heard the song a third time, I opened my eyes and Mr. Wallace was back at his desk and eating lunch. He was reading a paperback. I listened to that song until lunch was almost over, and then I slid it onto the corner of his desk and sat down before any kids came in. As I walked away I heard him laugh a little and say "Little cracker" again. I liked the way he said it.

I whispered all this to Jethro. Then I picked up a stick off the ground and propped up the Frisbee to my neck. It probably sounds dumb, but I started dancing around old Jethro, dragging that stick across the Frisbee like a violin. I hummed real loud a tune I made up that seemed to fit-cheery but a little sad too, and full of summer days and Bob Marley-and I played and played for him, dancing and humming.

He looked at me funny at first, but he knew me and trusted me and he surprised me by getting into it himself. He danced around the field too, kicking out his hind legs and snorting at the ground, his long black tail swishing hard as he ran and ran. His big white head raised up real high, then he’d throw it down and his Appaloosa rump would fly into the air.

He teeter totter danced so hard that I just forgot to keep playing and I fell in a heap in the middle of the pasture, laughing and rolling around on the dusty ground so I could keep watching Jethro. He was as strong as an elephant and happy as a bumblebee. He was stupid and fast and not careful and not embarrassed and he made me laugh so hard that my sides hurt and my eyes watered. I ain’t laughed so hard since then, I think. I’ll never forget how happy he looked, no matter what happened after that.

I like to think I’m a pretty smart feller, but even smart folks can do something that’s kind of stupid. I think I, well, there ain’t no doubt about it, I was pretty stupid that day. I got it in my head that it didn’t make sense that Jethro had to be wearing out his lips on that small pasture when he could be even happier and all loose and free. But I knew I couldn’t open up that gate myself to let him out and get some grass.

So I thought to myself, "He’s all jumping and dancing and happy. Maybe I could get him to jump that fence."

I went running around in circles in the pasture, and he followed me here and there. When he got right behind me I ran right up to the fence and stopped and he just stopped too. He didn’t want to hit the fence. It didn’t work right.

I got a better idea. I pulled out the carrot from my back pack and started clicking my tongue at him. He trotted behind me to the opposite end of the field from where I first jumped over, and I let him eat the carrot. When he got halfway done, I pulled the half apple I had left from lunch out of my pack and I started clicking my tongue a lot louder, waiving it in front of his nose. At first he just slowly wandered after me, but after I ran halfway across the field he kicked in and started galloping after me.

I sprinted right at the fence, and we both forgot about the apple and violins and dancing and stubby fields. We ran at that fence, running for freedom. I could hear his blowing pants and his beating hooves right behind me, and when I reached my jumping log I didn’t look back. It felt like I’d climbed right into his head. We both knew he was going to make it. We were both going to be free, at least for a little bit.

I planted one foot squarely on that log, grabbed the wood post and hurled myself over the fence. I did it just right. I could hear him just behind me, stomping after me, and as I hit the ground hard I was already rolling to get out of his way.

I lay there for just a half second, face down in the dirt, before I heard the most horrible metal screeching I’ve ever heard. It sounded like a dozen women screaming into a mail box. After that came wheezing and stomping, and then metal winding around itself like a giant Slinky dropped from a ladder. Then it got quiet, and then the wheezing and grunting came again. Finally there came a slow, steady drum beat. I lay there face down in the dirt, too scared to look.

In front of me an ant crawled over a blade of grass and then down a dark hole. The drum kept slowly, softly beating.

I finally looked over my shoulder, somehow thinking that if I didn’t turn my whole body maybe it would only be half as bad. It didn’t make a difference, though.

Jethro had made it most of the way over the fence, but he hadn’t got his back legs through. They were tangled up in the wire where his ankles had got stuck between the second and bottom rung. Bone was popping out of the skin of one of them.

The top line of the fence had snapped, but the second line had stayed tight. It had sawed about halfway into his belly before Jethro had stopped moving. Some of his gut hung out a little, but mostly it just oozed blood.

The worst part was his head, though. With his hind quarters hung up on the fence and one of his front legs plainly also broke, he kept trying to lift himself up by the head. He’d heave it up off the dirt for a second, keep it hanging in the air a foot off the ground, then give up and let it plop to the ground.
Thump…………thump………thump.

His tongue hung out of his mouth the whole time like a bloody pot roast waiting to cook. Bits of half-chewed carrot floated in the blood. His eyes were wide open and quickly searched every way for an answer, whether his head was up or down.

I crawled across the ground and sat next to him. I put my hand on top of his head and pressed down, and after a couple of half-hearted tries he just let it sit there in the long grass.

That god damned Mr. Sanders. He could put together a mean barbed wire fence.
Jethro’s eyes kept rolling around to see if he could just get back to where he was. There was blood dripping off the barbed wire and staining his white flanks. I ran my hands through his coarse main, and just stared at his rolling bloodshot eye.

It was my fault. There wasn’t no one I could really blame. I get mad at Mr. Sanders at times about it, but he was just being the way he was. Keeping things tight and tidy. I was just being the way I was. Screwing things up.

My head began to unfreeze and I started to think for a bit. I couldn’t just leave him there. I stroked him gently on the neck, trying to keep him relaxed as best I could. I thought, "Well, I could go and get Uncle Theo. Get him to go and shoot this horse." But Uncle Theo is drunk and mean, and he’d whup me. And it wasn’t his problem. He’d made enough problems on his own that he didn’t fix. It wasn’t very likely that he was going to be excited about fixing one of mine.

I could have told Mr. Sanders, but that man was just evil. Besides, I didn’t think I could look him in the eye.

Finally I fished out my Swiss Army knife. It was pretty dull because I never sharpened it and I was always cutting into stuff that it wasn’t meant for. Kids always find stuff to cut into. I cut into tin cans, dirt, aluminum cans, tires-just stuff.

I stroked that beautiful horse and I quietly sung to him. "Everything's going to be all right. Everything's going to be all right. No woman no cry." It didn't really matter, but it made it easier for me. I took the apple that was still in my hand and put it on the ground in front of his nose so he could smell it. Apple has kind of a nice smell. His nostrils opened and closed at the apple, maybe out of habit or maybe because it was taking his mind away
.
I took the dull blade of that knife, and really quickly jabbed the point of it right behind his windpipe. His neck tensed up under my arms, but before he could squirm much I tore it forward and broke through his windpipe and the big vein there.

His good front leg kicked at the ground and his good back leg twisted in the barbed wire, but I set my whole body on top of his head to keep him from fighting anymore. Blood came gushing over my elbow, but I just ignored it. His skin shook hard, and every muscle seemed to jerk in a different direction than where it should. The shaking was bad for what seemed like forever. I been in an earthquake down here, and it was a little like that. Out of control and not natural, lifting and jerking me on top of him and jarring my teeth. Not meant to be done. For just a second his head lifted me off the ground.

Finally I could feel the fight leave him, so I sat back and looked into his eye. We stared at each other for a long time, and he shared with me a secret about dying, a secret he was just learning himself.

I laid my head on his neck and I didn’t move until the next morning.

More stories about Theo at www.ikilledabunchoffolks.com.