Rough Ride on a High Horse

Why was I racked with guilt over something I wasn’t guilty of? What can I do to exorcise the ghosts of the past so I can live free in the bliss of the present? I have come to believe that fear of the past ferments the sweet wine of my friendship with Hugh into acidic vinegar. Those were my thoughts, when I awoke about two in the morning. I was happy, lying naked beside Hugh, my late husband Billy’s younger brother, until I remembered that it was now the third anniversary of Billy’s death. Beside Hugh in the dark of night, I enjoyed the gentle quietness that filled the room. A May breeze puffed at the curtains in the open window. Cooler now than earlier, it didn’t call for more than the sheet which lay haphazardly over our bodies. I looked at Hugh, sprawled on more than his half of the bed, and smiled that he relaxed as completely as Cleo the Cat. She had spread herself lengthwise at the bottom, her head half hanging off. I gazed at the ceiling, awash with conflicting feelings of pleasant debauchery, contentment and nostalgia for our long gone youth. Life had been simpler then. Or is it only that at sixty-three, I’m not so sure I know what I want? Last year, Hugh and I had launched this fling on the premise of it being friendship with privileges, but no complications. We were both consenting, unattached adults and lonely. I guess I was intrigued a bit at defying convention during a life of conformity. After almost two years of widowhood, at the New Millennium, I had felt it appropriate when Hugh suggested that we become lovers. I didn’t feel guilty about that. It was time for me to enjoy the freedom of a new life. I had been happy ever since ─ except for the recent intrusion of the memory of Billy’s terrible death. This happened most often when Hugh and I were together. Last night my happiness was shaken by ambivalence about the nature of our friendship. Tonight, I tried in vain to escape the memory of the afternoon that I found Billy near death by pressing my face against the back of Hugh’s neck and breathing his unique scent. But the memory persisted. The pungent smell of newly turned earth. Across the field, Peg hangs clothes. I wave. She waves back. I spot Billy’s John Deere Ripper. His red flannel shirt on the ground. Running, calling his name, I fall to my knees, grit grinds into them. His eyes, intensely blue against the pallor of his face. His hands icy as I clutch them. His lips curve in a smile. He whispers my name. “Minty, love . . .” “Billy!” I scream. Blood soaks the ground, jeans torn, his legs pinned by the teeth of the ripper. “I’ll get help−” “No.” His hand clutches mine. “Stay . . . Stay, love.” Each word a gasp. His grip slackens, a weak smile, a gurgle. His eyes fade. The awful silence . . . I shuddered as the dreadful wail of anguish, which raked my throat raw, echoed again in my mind. The horror of witnessing his death, so much blood, the appalling feeling of helplessness, guilt and terror still chilled me. Only vaguely could I remember the aftermath; my indifference to the commotion of activity that followed. I was absorbed in the numbness of disbelief for months. Why now was all the emotional turmoil of the past churning through my brain? The image of Billy’s death hadn’t dimmed nor had the ravages of aftermath diminished. Too troubled to sleep, I eased out of bed and went to stand in front of the open window, letting the clean breeze of night cool my skin and calm my soul. Diligently, I masked the memory with a counter-irritant: reviewing my marriage. Billy and I had been married nearly forty years when I first learned of his faithlessness five years earlier. What I had considered our ‘happy marriage’ had been a delusion. For years, apparently, Billy had been indulging in a series of infidelities. I don’t know how I endured the humiliation of my ignorance, as I speculated on which of our friends had known the truth before I did. When I discovered Billy’s betrayal, I had ordered him from my bed. I was stricken equally by his fecklessness and the mortification of my naiveté. Nevertheless, I faced the community with my head held high. Even the ritual ceremony, the gathering of mourners, failed to alleviate my searing embarrassment and shame. The funeral had been for me a masquerade of condolences. As they embraced me, kissed my cheek or shook my hand, I wondered which mourners had known of Billy’s adultery before I did? Wearing my mask of sorrow, I had expressed appreciation for their words. Later, secure only in the affection of my dearest friends, with Hugh, Philabelle, Lynn and Sarah, could I acknowledge my unhappiness. At the time of his death, Billy had been retired from his law practice less than a year. “I’ll have time to raise goats,” he had said, enthusiastically, when he brought home Edna, a young female pygmy goat. “We can make our own cheese, maybe enough to sell.” At the time, I had asked myself ‘And will I be making the cheese?’ As I gazed out at the field where he died, I wondered why I hadn’t divorced him when I first learned of his philandering and gotten it over with. Instead, although I booted him out of our bed, I had let him sleep in the small back bedroom. It was still a mystery ─ as was the question of why − whenever I reflected on my love affair with Hugh, Billy’s death came to mind like an unwanted ghost? Witnessing his death had changed nothing. The scar from his cheating still hurt as sharply as my recollection of that ghastly scene. My damaged self-image was confirmed with each anniversary. Soothed by the quiet night air, as silently and as gently as possible, I slid back into bed, easing the sheet and a cotton blanket over Hugh and myself. Still asleep, Hugh shifted. I put my arm around him, pulled myself closer, needing his palpable body to keep me in the present. Sometimes the degree of affection that I felt for Hugh worried me. I didn’t want to get too emotionally dependant on him. I was ten years older than he and, in addition, if a husband of almost fifty years found a woman unattractive, how long would that delightful fancy last? In view of all that, I knew positively that I wanted our relationship to stay just as it was − the pleasure of friendship enhanced by good sex. I had had enough of love and romance with my faithless husband. The Whitman brothers, Billy and Hugh, had remarkably different personalities. Hugh bore a physical resemblance to Billy as both were tall, with sturdy physiques and dark hair. But instead of Billy’s intense blue Whitman eyes, Hugh’s were a warm hazel. Billy was Hollywood handsome. Hugh’s nose was not quite straight, his mouth a bit wider. The effect was less plastic than Billy’s looks − more rugged. Billy had been an educated and competent attorney. Socially, he had acted the role of the traditional gentleman of antebellum days. But with his peers he was just another brash, hard drinking, good ol’ boy, who roared at scatological jokes and bragged about female conquests. I must have been an idiot to believe that he would change when we married. Hugh didn’t make that kind of social splash, but he was far from ordinary. A true southern gentleman, with a quick and dry sense of humor, he was also a staunch friend, compassionate and insightful; qualities that earned him respect and admiration as Whitman’s senior physician. The same attributes had earned my deep esteem. Sharing a sense of silliness, and secure in our mutual affection, Hugh and I could disagree without damage to our companionship. Our times together enriched our lives. It was Hugh who had healed my troubled soul the first year of my widowhood. Thanks to his patience and support, I learned to enjoy the freedom to live life on my terms instead of Billy’s. Consequentially, I valued my independence.