Read Online Dante of the Maury River by Gigi Amateau - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Gigi Amateau
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head, he peered into her. Then he barked, “I’ll ask you again. How old are you? The truth this time.”
She wrapped her hand around my tail, anchoring herself to me. “Eighteen. I just turned eighteen, sir.”
Gary grunted. He spun on his heels and shut himself up in the office for a good little bit. Filipia let out a big sigh. Her breathing returned to normal, and she kept on with cleaning out my stall.
A few minutes later, though, who’s standing at my door but Gary. That’s right.
“I don’t know what to say. This is the craziest idea I’ve ever heard. What’s even crazier is that I’m seriously considering a yes,” Gary said.
Back he stomped to his office to hole himself up.
Filipia squealed and jumped up and down. Nobody who knew me a little would have had the courage or stupidity to make such an unruly high-pitched sound as that. Nobody who knew me a bit would have made such a fuss and explosion with their arms and legs all flying around. But Filipia knew me a lot.
By grain the next morning, it was decided. I overheard Gary talking to his assistant. “You should see her with him is all I’m saying.”
No sound at all came from either man except for the shuffling of papers on that clipboard that was permanently attached to Gary’s hand.
“Come on. We gotta do something.” He was trying his best to recruit an accomplice, it seemed to me. That way, if this radical experiment with Filipia went south, there’d be at least one other person to blame.
Sounded to me like old Gary had run out of big ideas and reasonable options.
Even before they gave us the official word, Filipia knew. She came bouncing into my stall. “Hey, Monkey! How are you today, Mister Racehorse?” She tugged a bit of my mane. I stomped for her to quit it. “Come on, we’re a team now. Right?” Filipia lowered her head and put her nose to mine, like Marey and Melody used to do.
“You’re okay, Monkey, and we’re gonna be great together. Do you want to know how I can be so sure? It’s like my grandma — my brothers and I call her Melon — like Melon used to tell me: ‘My darling, a good beginning is half the work done.’ You and I had a good beginning, Dante. Don’t you think?”
Like always, whenever she was working around me, Filipia started to tell me a story about her family and her island. Like always, her voice put me at ease. “You probably want to know why I call you Monkey,” she said.
She emptied a pitchfork full of soiled shavings into a wheelbarrow parked at my stall’s entrance. “See, I remember when I was five, the day my daddy left, Monkey. I loved him like the stars love the moon. He cried so hard, and we all cried so hard that I worried our little house would fill up with water and float out to sea with all of us. Daddy stretched out on the orange sofa, holding his head with his hands, and I was beside him. The night was so hot inside that my legs stuck to the plastic cushions. He begged Mama, ‘Please don’t make me leave. I’ll be a better man.’ She was frying bacon, ignoring his tears and mine, too.”
Nose to nose, she took my breath. How I wished I had a little something more than breath to offer her. But then again, breath is life, so I hoped maybe there was enough in our sharing that would keep her there and talking to me.
Filipia kissed the soft part of my nose. “Now, you might think that if I remember all that, my good monkey, that I remember all the bad things Daddy did to make Mama hurt enough to let loose a hailstorm from her heart. But I don’t remember those things. Not all of them.”
She turned silent for a good little bit. She stopped her story from growing any bigger and kept on mucking my stall. Filipia was the only one brave enough to do the work with me standing beside her.
I’ll say it again: she was good. She took her work seriously. She’d hunt down every wet stain, every bit of dung, any particle that might draw flies. So in return, I tried hard to do
She wrapped her hand around my tail, anchoring herself to me. “Eighteen. I just turned eighteen, sir.”
Gary grunted. He spun on his heels and shut himself up in the office for a good little bit. Filipia let out a big sigh. Her breathing returned to normal, and she kept on with cleaning out my stall.
A few minutes later, though, who’s standing at my door but Gary. That’s right.
“I don’t know what to say. This is the craziest idea I’ve ever heard. What’s even crazier is that I’m seriously considering a yes,” Gary said.
Back he stomped to his office to hole himself up.
Filipia squealed and jumped up and down. Nobody who knew me a little would have had the courage or stupidity to make such an unruly high-pitched sound as that. Nobody who knew me a bit would have made such a fuss and explosion with their arms and legs all flying around. But Filipia knew me a lot.
By grain the next morning, it was decided. I overheard Gary talking to his assistant. “You should see her with him is all I’m saying.”
No sound at all came from either man except for the shuffling of papers on that clipboard that was permanently attached to Gary’s hand.
“Come on. We gotta do something.” He was trying his best to recruit an accomplice, it seemed to me. That way, if this radical experiment with Filipia went south, there’d be at least one other person to blame.
Sounded to me like old Gary had run out of big ideas and reasonable options.
Even before they gave us the official word, Filipia knew. She came bouncing into my stall. “Hey, Monkey! How are you today, Mister Racehorse?” She tugged a bit of my mane. I stomped for her to quit it. “Come on, we’re a team now. Right?” Filipia lowered her head and put her nose to mine, like Marey and Melody used to do.
“You’re okay, Monkey, and we’re gonna be great together. Do you want to know how I can be so sure? It’s like my grandma — my brothers and I call her Melon — like Melon used to tell me: ‘My darling, a good beginning is half the work done.’ You and I had a good beginning, Dante. Don’t you think?”
Like always, whenever she was working around me, Filipia started to tell me a story about her family and her island. Like always, her voice put me at ease. “You probably want to know why I call you Monkey,” she said.
She emptied a pitchfork full of soiled shavings into a wheelbarrow parked at my stall’s entrance. “See, I remember when I was five, the day my daddy left, Monkey. I loved him like the stars love the moon. He cried so hard, and we all cried so hard that I worried our little house would fill up with water and float out to sea with all of us. Daddy stretched out on the orange sofa, holding his head with his hands, and I was beside him. The night was so hot inside that my legs stuck to the plastic cushions. He begged Mama, ‘Please don’t make me leave. I’ll be a better man.’ She was frying bacon, ignoring his tears and mine, too.”
Nose to nose, she took my breath. How I wished I had a little something more than breath to offer her. But then again, breath is life, so I hoped maybe there was enough in our sharing that would keep her there and talking to me.
Filipia kissed the soft part of my nose. “Now, you might think that if I remember all that, my good monkey, that I remember all the bad things Daddy did to make Mama hurt enough to let loose a hailstorm from her heart. But I don’t remember those things. Not all of them.”
She turned silent for a good little bit. She stopped her story from growing any bigger and kept on mucking my stall. Filipia was the only one brave enough to do the work with me standing beside her.
I’ll say it again: she was good. She took her work seriously. She’d hunt down every wet stain, every bit of dung, any particle that might draw flies. So in return, I tried hard to do
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