Chapter 10
MAGGIE
There are people at the fence. Seven of them and two with actual cameras, the kind with long lenses. Five are younger, maybe late teens, holding up phones. One of them has climbed over my gate and is standing on my driveway.
"Fuck," Sloane mutters behind me. She's stopped at the bottom of the porch steps, her hand covering her mouth. "I didn't think they'd come all the way out here. I thought Duster was too far from anything for the press to bother."
"Apparently not."
The photographers lift their cameras and the shutters fire. The teenagers start jostling for position, holding their phones higher, angling for the shot. One of them waves.
"Sloane! Over here! Can we get a photo?"
"Princess Pigpen!"
I look at Sloane. She's frozen with her jaw tight and her arms crossed and she looks like she wants the ground to swallow her.
"Go back inside," I say, amazed that even I'm capable of feeling a tiny bit of sympathy for her. "I'll deal with them."
I walk across the yard toward the fence. The photographers track me with their cameras, which irritates me because I'm not the story. I've never been the story, and I don't intend to start being the story.
"Can I help you?" I say when I reach the gate. But I don't wait for an answer. I look at the boy on my driveway — a kid in a backwards cap with his phone out. "You. You're on my property. Get off. Now."
He opens his mouth to say something and I point at the gate. He climbs back over without a word.
The taller photographer, a man in his thirties with a press badge clipped to his shirt, lowers his camera. "Hi there. I'm from the Bakersfield Californian. We're doing a piece on —"
"I know what you're doing a piece on. This is private property."
"We're on the road, ma'am. This is a public road."
"Your feet are on the road. Your lens is over the fence and technically on my property, so back off or I'll call the police."
"We just want a few photos," the photographer says. "Five minutes. It's a human interest story."
"There's no human interest here. There's a woman doing court-ordered community service, which is a legal matter, not entertainment. And there are animals on this property who are easily stressed by noise, strangers, and cameras. So back off."
"But —"
"No interviews. No photos. This is not a zoo and it's certainly not a reality show."
They shuffle back a bit but don't leave.
I turn and walk back to the house. Sloane is sitting at my kitchen table with her head in her hands, crying.
"I can't go back out there," she says without looking up.
"You'll have to. I don't have any other volunteers today and I can't do everything on my own."
She wipes her face with the back of her hand and looks at me and she looks exhausted and sunburnt.
"You can do Hank first," I say. "He's currently roaming behind the house. They can't see you from the road back there."
She nods and pushes back the chair and follows me out the back door without a word. Hank is standing under the oak tree, watching us approach with his one good eye.
"Never approach him from behind. He'll need some time to get used to you." I give Hank a kiss on his nose and scratch him behind his ears. "Hank, this is Sloane," I say. "Sloane, this is Hank. He's nineteen, he's missing an eye, and he doesn't like sudden movements or loud noises."
"Does he bite?" she asks.
"Only if you deserve it." I chuckle. "Just kidding. Hold your hand out. Let him smell you."
She extends her hand — arm fully stretched, body leaning as far back as possible, fingers trembling. Hank sniffs her hand. He takes his time about it. Then he loses interest and goes back to staring at nothing.
"Now touch his neck," I say. "Gently."
She places her hand on his neck, two fingers first, then the whole palm, flat and stiff. She holds it there like she's taking his pulse.
"He's so dusty," she says, pulling her hand back and looking at her palm.
I look at her. Her white T-shirt is brown and there's straw in her hair. She also has a smear of something across her forehead that I'm choosing not to identify. "You're one to talk."
She looks down at herself and something crosses her face that might be the beginning of a smile, but she kills it before it gets anywhere.
"Wait here," I say. "Just stand there and let him ignore you. He's good at that."
I walk to the shed and grab the grooming box — a plastic crate with a body brush, a dandy brush, a curry comb, and a hoof pick that Hank tolerates about once a month if he's in a generous mood.
I pull a few carrots from the bag in the feed store and bring it all back.
Sloane hasn't moved and Hank hasn't moved.
They're standing three feet apart in mutual suspicion.
"Here." I hand her the body brush. "Long strokes, following the direction of his coat. Start at the neck, work your way back. Don't go near his hindquarters until he trusts you, which won't be today. Give him a carrot first so he knows you're worth something."
She takes the carrot and holds it out at arm's length again. Hank immediately takes it.
Sloane puts the brush to his neck and moves it about two inches. She looks at me.
"Keep going," I say. "He's a donkey, not a soufflé. You're not going to break him."