Chapter 18 Dropping Bombs
Dropping Bombs
The old green camping cooler Margaret had dug out of the garage weighed at least ten pounds all on its own. Filled to the
brim with ice, it probably tipped the scales closer to forty. Margaret hefted it from the back of the station wagon with a
groan.
“Let me help,” Viv said. “You can’t carry that monster all by yourself.”
Margaret tightened her grip on the handle. “Hands off, pregnant lady. I’ve got this. You and Charlotte bring the other stuff.
Charlotte? Don’t let her carry anything heavy.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
Charlotte touched the fingers that held her cigarette lightly to her forehead before tossing the butt to the gravel and grinding
it out with the toe of her alligator pump. Margaret rolled her eyes. Only Charlotte would wear high heels and a mink coat
to a horse barn.
Bitsy’s car was the only one in the lot. The paddocks were empty, and the horses were closed up in their stalls for the night.
Margaret lugged the cooler to the last stall on the right, the only one with a light on, then set down her burden and slid
the door open so the others could pass.
Viv entered first, toting a wadded armload of olive-green canvas.
Charlotte came next, tottering along in her heels with the handle of a wicker picnic basket looped over one arm and a blue wool blanket and pillow in the other.
Spotting the horse, Charlotte pressed her back to the stall’s rough boards, skittering sideways into the corner like a startled crab, keeping as much distance between Delilah and herself as possible.
Once the others were inside, Margaret carted the cooler through the door and set it down with a thud, then slid the gate closed and reached out to envelop Bitsy in a hug.
“We brought everything you asked for,” Margaret said, “plus a blanket and pillow and some food—cheese sandwiches, bananas,
apples, and a can of peanuts. Sorry it’s nothing more exotic. When it comes to vegetarian food, I’m a little out of my league.”
“That’s perfect,” Bitsy said, returning Margaret’s hug. “You gals are the best.”
Charlotte called out from the corner: “I made a thermos of hot toddies.” She pulled the mink closer around her body, shivering.
“Do you want one? It’s freezing in here!”
“Thanks,” Bitsy said. “Maybe later.”
“How’s she doing?” Margaret asked, looking toward the horse.
She didn’t know much about horses, but even Margaret could tell that Delilah, who was standing on a bed of sand with her hips
pushed slightly back, was experiencing some pain.
“About the same,” Bitsy said. “We just brought the sand in. That will help support the sole of the foot and should take some
pressure off. I’m changing her diet too, putting her on grass hay that’s been soaked in water to help leach out the sugars,
mixed with some herbs—dandelion, rose hips, and comfrey—to increase circulation. It’ll take some time to know if it’s working.
But we need to reduce the inflammation if we can. That’s where the ice comes in.”
Bitsy opened the lid of the cooler, then smiled up at them. “Thanks so much for doing this, really.”
Viv dropped the armload of canvas to the ground. “I’ve done a lot of sewing over the years. But I have never sewn socks for
a horse before. How’s this supposed to work anyway?”
Bitsy squatted down next to the green pile and grabbed one of the “socks” Viv had sewn according to her instructions, using fabric from an old pup tent.
It looked a bit like a concave canvas bucket, narrow at the top and wide at the bottom, with long ties sewn a few inches above the opening.
In theory the canvas was waterproof. But Viv had melted down some old candles and brushed the inside with beeswax, just to make sure.
“It’s a system my dad came up with,” Bitsy said. “We’ll put her feet in the socks, fill them with ice, and tie the top closed
to keep them secure. We could use regular buckets, but the socks cool the foot more quickly and don’t require as much ice.
Ice is hard to come by in a barn, so less is definitely more.”
Charlotte wedged herself even more deeply into the corner, looking alarmed. “What do you mean ‘we’? Look, I was perfectly
happy to come along and be a good scout, help support you in your hour of need and all that. But I’m not getting within ten
feet of that horse. Certainly not close enough to help put on her socks.”
Bitsy grinned. “Charlotte, don’t tell me you’re afraid of horses.”
“Of course I am! You would be too if you had any sense. Just look at her! She’s huge!”
“And gentle as a kitten. There’s not a mean bone in her body,” Bitsy said, walking to Delilah and stroking her nose. “Which,
present company excepted, is a lot more than I can say about most of the people I know.”
Viv moved closer and ran her hand down Delilah’s neck. “She’s beautiful. If Charlotte won’t help you, I will. What do we need
to do here?”
“Once a nurse, always a nurse. But I think it might be better if Margaret helps me,” Bitsy said, glancing toward Viv’s waistline.
“Delilah is gentle, but she’s also hurting. She won’t understand what we’re doing and why, so it’s better not to take any
chances. Margaret, do you mind?”
Margaret picked up one of the canvas socks and stepped forward.
The horse made a sputtering sound and tossed her head as she approached, but after Bitsy let her give the canvas a good sniff, murmuring comforting words in a low voice, Delilah calmed down.
Bitsy leaned down and nudged Delilah’s left front leg behind the knee, and the horse picked up her foot long enough for Margaret to slip the sock over her hoof.
Viv scooped ice into a metal pail. Charlotte extricated herself from the corner and carried the pail across the stall to Margaret and Bitsy, who packed the ice into the sock and tied it closed.
They then repeated the process with the right leg.
The whole thing took less than ten minutes. Not long after they finished, Delilah seemed to relax, shifting her body forward
slightly and half closing her eyes. Bitsy patted her on the neck. “Feels better already, doesn’t it, girl? Hopefully it’ll
ease the inflammation too.”
Charlotte took a step out of the corner. “How long do you need to keep the ice on?”
“Seventy-two hours,” Bitsy said. “That’s what Dad always did, so that’s what I’ll do.”
“You’re not really going to sleep here, are you?” Charlotte clutched the blanket to her chest and looked around at the stall,
eyes landing on a pile of hay that would presumably serve as Bitsy’s bed. She wrinkled her nose. “It’s cold. And it smells.”
“I doubt I’ll get much sleep. The ice needs to be replaced as it melts. But yes, I’ll be here all night. And for as many nights
as it takes until I know she’s improving. As far as the smell,” Bitsy said, “nothing wrong with a little good clean manure.”
“Why isn’t anyone here to help you?” Viv asked. “You’re not the only stable hand around here, are you? What about Mrs. Graham?
It’s her horse. Why isn’t she here?”
“She wanted to stay, but she couldn’t. She’s got some family problems right now. I’ll be fine.” Bitsy squatted down next to
the picnic basket, chose one of the cheese sandwiches Margaret had packed, and took a big bite. “Thanks, Margaret. This is
really good.”
“It’s Kraft slices on white bread with mayo. I’m not even sure it’s real cheese.”
“Well, it tastes good to me. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
As Bitsy ate, Margaret decided to address the elephant that was not in the room.
“Where is King?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care.”
Bitsy’s delivery was taut, clipped, and utterly un-Bitsy-like. She unwrapped another sandwich and took a bite. “We had a fight.
He said some horrible things, embarrassed me in front of Mrs. Graham. I returned the favor. Then he got mad and left.”
Margaret shot a brief but meaningful glance toward Viv and Charlotte, then sank down next to Bitsy, sitting cross-legged on
the hay. Charlotte offered a hand to help Viv, who was a bit more unwieldy than she had been only a week before. Then she
lowered herself to the ground as well, smoothed out her skirt, and rolled onto one hip, knees pressed together and angled
to the right, as if riding sidesaddle.
Bitsy devoured the second sandwich, tearing off bites and gulping them down with a ferocity that wasn’t necessarily linked
to filling her empty stomach. When she reached for an apple, Viv dipped her head, trying to catch Bitsy’s gaze.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No, I do not.”
Bitsy bit into the apple. Charlotte sucked in an enormous breath, pressing her shoulders up to her ears, then let it out in
one dramatic whoosh.
“Well, thank heaven for that! Is there anything as boring as listening to the transcript of somebody else’s marital squabbles?
Or as pointless? Besides, in situations like this, there’s really only one sensible thing to do.”
Charlotte reached into the basket to pull out the thermos, poured a glug of warm whiskey and lemon-scented liquid into paper cups, and passed them to the others. Bitsy tossed back her drink in one big gulp, then crushed the cup in her hands, closed her eyes, and hung her head.
Margaret reached out, resting a hand on her stooped shoulder. “This is about more than arguing with King, isn’t it? Come on,
Bits. What is it? You can tell us.”
“Nothing. It’s just . . .”
She lifted her head, looked at her friends with wide, anxious eyes. “I saw Dad treat laminitis, but I’ve never done it myself.
What if I didn’t catch everything he did? Or misunderstood it somehow? I could end up making Delilah suffer even more, and
Mrs. Graham too. She’s been so kind to me, and I want to help, but . . . what if I’m just making things worse by giving her
false hope?”
Bitsy looked around at the three of them as if she genuinely expected answers. Margaret had none to offer. Charlotte was quiet
too. But Viv leaned forward, pushed Margaret’s hand away so she could place her own two hands on Bitsy’s shoulders, and looked
her in the eye.