Part 4: 8 - Can’t Let Go
Barb is pulled toward the past
Things That Can’t Be Broken is a novel presented as a live draft, one chapter every week.
Nine-year-old Dani makes a fervent promise that there will always be horses in her life, so when she finds out her next-door neighbor won a scholarship to an exclusive horsemanship program, she vows to win one too. She never gets the chance—but her short life has a lasting effect on a community.
Last week: Part 4: 7 - Gathering • An update from Dani
Part 4 | This Storm is Called Progress
8 - Can’t Let Go
Barb Ames
March 21, 2023
La Mesa, California
Heavy muck sucked at the heels of Barb’s boots as she tramped across the yard and up the stairs to the Allens’ front door. The doorbell was silent, not even a click when she pressed it. Horses of all sizes and colors ran past her like a river, she couldn’t count how many, but Barb was determined to get them all into a dry barn. She would clean the filth from their feet and legs if it killed her.
She felt the vibration of words in her throat, but she couldn’t get them out. Where are the f-ing halters? Where is the damned tack room? If she had a single piece of rope she could slip it behind a horse’s ears to lead her. If she picked the right mare, others might follow.
Barb knocked hard at the door. Nothing. She banged her fists against the wood, tried the handle. It wouldn’t budge. Where is everyone?
A fat spider descended from above and landed on her forehead. She waved her arms across her face and tried to move away. She couldn’t. Her feet were held fast to the doormat. Her hands moved down her legs, trying to free herself, only to find herself hopelessly tangled in—blankets.
Barb’s eyes opened to the black stare of death with whiskers, poised for murder. Pinball pounced. She hit the back of Barb’s hand with her teeth and bounced away. “Psssht! Get out of here, you furry little viper!”
Soggy hooves and mud remained splattered on the backs of Barb’s eyeballs. She could hear the slurping of the muck, feel its pull against her feet, less a dream than a nightmare. She stretched with a groan. Her eyelids felt like they were made of marshmallows.
When Pinball reappeared with kinder yellow eyes, Barb scratched the little black cat on the chin. Rising to her feet, her hands went to her own head. “The wine. Ugh. I’m boiling alive.”
Barb opened the window to let in some cool fresh air. It was as dry as ever out there, the sky blue and cloudless. Why this soggy dream again? It had become more and more frequent over the last several weeks. No rain in the forecast, and I haven’t touched a horse in over twenty . . . No. She counted the decades on her fingers. More than thirty years.
Her phone bleated a cheery tune and vibrated on the table. Crap. It was her landlord. She would have to talk him into another week. She cleared her throat and smiled in an effort to sound friendly. “This is Barb.”
“Hey Barb,” said the hesitant male voice on the other end. “Listen, I can’t wait for rent anymore. I need you out of there by the end of this month.”
Not this again. “Don’t worry, Jim. I’ll have money by the end of next week.”
“I’m sorry, Barb. It’s no good. That’s what you told me last week, and the week before.” His voice turned deeper than usual.
Barb cursed silently at the ceiling. “You know I lost both my jobs when the restaurants shut down. But things are opening up. I’ll be working again this week.”
Long pause. He seemed to be whispering to someone on his end. “It’s just no good, Barb. There’s no more rent protection, not for months now. And you still haven’t paid a cent.”
Someone was obviously feeding him lines, but he actually sounded angry. She almost believed he was serious. She kept up the friendly tone. “I keep the place up, do all my own repairs. I guarantee the yard has never looked better. Look, I know you don’t want to throw me out.”
“This is no fun for me either. . . But believe it or not, I still have to pay the mortgage. 30 days, Barb. Be out by the twentieth. I’ve been more than fair.”
Barb rolled her eyes. “I’ll have rent for you at the end of next week.” She tapped the red circle on her phone and instantly missed the satisfaction of slamming a handset.
Pinball judged.
“You’re right. I need to get out there and make some money. He isn’t going to kick me out though,” she told the cat, “Don’t worry, kid.”
But irritation buzzed its way down her arms. Barb wanted a drink. Instead, she grabbed the nearest dish and threw it hard at the kitchen sink. It bounced off the backsplash and rattled to the floor. Plastic. But poor Pinball skittered away in a flash.
“Oh no!” she crooned, one hand to her chest in apology. “Oh, I’m sorry, Pinny.” She found the cat under the bed, gold eyes wide. Poor kitty. All she wants is a warm safe place to sleep. Here I am throwing things around.
Barb rose from her knees and waddled to the bathroom, every joint sending complaints, head aching. Switching on the light, her hands flew up to her eyes. She squinted and dared a peek between them. There was that demon in the mirror, staring back at her, peppery gray hair ratted out in every direction, eyes swollen and red. She filled the red plastic cup next to the sink and downed the water. Then she slunk into the living room, dropped down onto the couch, and stared at her freckled hands.
That muddy dream wouldn’t leave her. She was waiting at the Allens’ door again with a river of horses rolling by. It pulled at her. All those horses needed her attention. All she could think about was getting them somewhere clean and dry. She leaned over to scratch Pinball. “Your mama’s nuts, Pinny. We’re talking about a dream here, not an emergency. I’ve got to move on. And yes, I need to get a job. Today.”
Barb lugged herself to the bedroom closet to look for something job-search-worthy. She pulled out her newest pair of jeans and chose a button-up blouse. A patch of denim on a jacket sleeve caught her eye. She tugged it. There’s that old ratty stable coat. Why on earth do I keep that thing?
Pinball padded over silently, watching closely while Barb fumbled under the pile of flats and tennis shoes until she found the old red thoroughbred boots in a corner. Ancient dirt clung to the edges of the soles and dust bunnies rode the toes. She wiped them roughly with an old sock. On impulse, she went to pull on the left boot and discovered her old hoof pick inside.
She had a clear picture in her mind of the last time she had that hoof pick in her back pocket. It was also the last time she had passed through the Allen Haven Ranch gate. It felt like last week. Pinball stared meaningfully. “It’s still early,” she said to the cat, “I’ll feed you soon, before I go.”
It had been a while since she drove out to the pepper tree by the gate. She hadn’t been up there since the day she found Pinball. If she took a drive out there, half an hour out her day, maybe she could put this dream bullshit out of her mind for a while.
Every time she closed her eyes now it was there. That closed door. For that one minute, she was the innocent eighteen-year-old girl standing there. That girl was so sure her happy trail was laid out in front of her forever in the form of a job at Allen Haven Ranch. But what did she find behind door number one? Todd Allen. But not the one she knew.
Mr Allen was always happy, always joking, always smiling. It may have been mostly Mrs Allen’s riding program, but Barb had followed Mr Allen around like a starved puppy, lapping up any tidbit of knowledge or skill he could impart. After four years in the program, Barb believed she could be him, he taught her so much. It was all that girl at the door wanted.
She shook her head at herself.
That dream ended the day they found poor Dani Cartwright’s body buried outside of the Allen Haven Ranch gate. Dani was the real victim that day, and her family. Barb was just looking for a stupid job she probably would have ended up hating later. Well, maybe not, but it was only a job.
Barb blamed Veronica Stevens and her horse-beating daughter, Vera, for the end of the horsemanship program. Veronica’s broadcast all but accused Todd Allen of murder. Vera’s friends with their mascara smears and crocodile tears, their nasty posters suggesting Mr Allen was a child molester, sealed it. The story was fire. It did exactly what Veronica intended. It turned most people deeply suspicious of Mr Allen for a long while, even after the real killer was found. People judge quickly and rarely change their minds.
It all came out in the wash, if a little too late. When Vera excommunicated one of her gang of poster-makers, Gina Gambino, the following school year it was probably over a boy. Gina got Vera back. She knew about Vera’s thrashing on Moonjem and she spilled the facts on social media. Everything comes around. No one likes a horse-beater.
Barb semi-accidentally learned a few things while scrolling. It turns out Veronica Stevens had been envious of her cousin Maeve since they were children. The implication of Todd Allen as a suspect in Dani’s murder was not so much a news report as a personal attack. Everyone says unbiased reporting is dead, but Veronica lost her job when the truth came out. No one in San Diego would hire her for anything. She had to move to get work.
Scrolling was just one of Barb’s post-pandemic bad habits. She was also a binge-watcher. And last night’s wine and popcorn dinner had become a common activity. It was so easy to let time wash over her while trying to forget the world. It was just Barb and Pinball these days,
She had Serge evicted not long after those last two kids stayed over. Barb had called the Sheriff’s office. Though the man who picked up the two kids was able to somehow verify he was their uncle, Barb still had her doubts. Serge was not the smartest, but if he had been involved in transporting kids to a trafficker, she was sure he was not aware of it. It didn’t matter. No more straw on this camel’s back. Serge had to go.
To be fair, if it hadn’t been for old Kiko, Barb might not have thought too much about it, either. How many kids get lost into slavery like that? No one seemed to have a good guess. Life can be cruel.
Barb and Pinball moved into the one-bedroom apartment just in time for the pandemic to shut them in. Lower rent was a good thing, because both of her jobs quickly dried up and blew away with the wind. Or lack of wind. If either of the restaurants had had access to any outdoor space, they might have been able to get through it, since the virus was afraid to go outside when people were eating.
Serge kept calling for a while, looking for handouts, so she changed her phone number and only gave it out to family—and Serge’s son, Bubba. He ended up being a pretty good kid, and computer-whiz smart. There were few people she needed to hear from these days.
It would have been nice if she could have avoided calls from landlords named Jim. Which reminded her. . . Barb went to the kitchen to find the bottle of her favorite gin. She had hidden it from herself behind the shortening. Never works, does it? Pinball presented her judgiest cat stare. “Okay Pin. I’ll save it for later.”
After showering and dressing, Barb felt more like her better self. She greeted the bathroom mirror with a cheesy smile. “Hello, I’m Barbara Ames. You have a very nice place here. Are you hiring?”
Pinball stared. “Well, Miss Pin,” she said to the cat, “If I was my mirror, and desperate enough to put this ugly mug on the floor, I’d give me a shot. But I see you already have complaints about the service here.” She grabbed a can of Fancy Feast and cracked it into Pinball’s bowl.
Picking up her phone with the intention to search for nearby restaurants, she instead typed “Allen Haven Ranch” into the map app. It appeared as a blue dot. “Well, the map thinks it’s there.”
She found two restaurants to look into nearby. The Corolla was on a donut after one of the bald tires blew out last week. She checked her credit cards. One probably had enough space for at least two of the cheapest tires. She could call some restaurants while she waited for the tires. Barb picked up Pinball, gave her a kitty hug, dropped her gently on her feet, and headed out the door.
She had four fresh tires and a nearly maxed out credit card in less than an hour. No go on either of the first two restaurants. There was still an IHOP and a Denny’s, but she was not feeling it. A lump was growing in her throat. Instead, she drifted onto the Dehesa Valley exit, past the Circle K and on down to Blue Haven Lane.
In the three or four years since she had last ventured out there, a new gas station had sprung up across the bridge on the Indian reservation. Blue Haven Lane was freshly paved, clean as fresh licorice. No more rutted old dirt adventure trail. She almost regretted investing in the new tires so soon.
When she reached the top of the hill Barb blinked several times. The Allen Haven Ranch gate was open and shining newly-painted green, pushed away from a weedless layer of fresh gravel on the drive. Barb shook herself. The gates of heaven were open. When did she pass through the portal to this new dimension? Everything was so different, but the pepper tree was still there. Its willowy branches waved hello. All she had to do was drive up the lane to Allen Haven and say, “I’m baa-ack!”
Her heart suddenly shriveled and dried up under her ribs. Her throat became so tight she could hardly breathe. She gripped the steering wheel and forced air into her lungs, her hands shaking.
Back home she burst through the door and went straight for the gin, downed a shot and went for another. Waited a moment. Had another. Whatever it took to anesthetize that thing fluttering in her rib cage. But when sleep came, so did the dream. She drank more. She slept. She was wading through mud, unable to save the horses, while standing in front of the Allens’ closed door.
Pinball woke her the third time, crying. She was crying. Yowling. She never yowled. “Oh, baby kitty. What is it?” She sat up and petted the cat against her chest until she purred. The rain was still happening in her head. The muck. The horses needed her and she was failing them. She was failing her friend. Failing to see what was running up behind her. Again. Pinball tucked her head under Barb’s chin and purred like the world depended on her doing so.
The bottle was empty. No more. No more. “Okay, Miss Pin. No more.”
A cool shower. Lots of water. Barb watched her hands make a sandwich as if they were her mother’s hands, as if she could remember her mother making her a sandwich. More water. She slept again. This time the dream started when she saw Dani running to her that first time, “You have a saddle!” And then came the rain, the horses, the door.
She awakened sober. And determined.
Eleven on the clock. Six hours until dawn. One more dream of rain and mud and Barb promised herself she would drive through that gate and walk up to that door. Mr Allen could slam it in her face again. Or maybe a new stranger lived there now, and they could chew her out for waking them.
Whatever happened, she had to go to that door.
Next week
Part 4 | This Storm is Called Progress
9 - Rising
Behind-the-Scenes Extra
This chapter was one of the first short stories that morphed into waypoints after I decided to map it out as a novel. At one time, Barb was going to be the main character of the book, presented in first person. The short story didn’t change as much as you might think when I edited it into a chapter, but I did cut it down by about a thousand words.
And here we are, with only four more chapters to wrap up this novel draft. It’s an anxious time. Pinball isn’t the only one judging. I almost look fondly on those messy middle days. I want to get it right, to lead you readers to a place where you can be happy with the ending. You’ve given me so much time and trust. I value that immensely and I want it to pay off for you in the form of a good read.
I will take a short break once this draft is complete, during which I will take a nap. 😉
In the meantime, the remaining podcasts of chapter readings will continue until they are all released. And I want to do an update of my Substack site and graphics/logo. After that, I’ll start sharing warmups for what comes next, including some short fiction and analysis of some favorite books and videos, while I put space between this novel draft and the editing.
Keep an eye out. I’ll give you more details by the time you read the final chapter of this draft of Things That Can’t Be Broken.