Hands and Hooves

It was one of those August nights when it was simply too hot to sleep. Even with the windows opened and the fan going the apartment had to be at least 85 and the humidity hadn’t slacked off a bit. He didn’t want to turn on the TV because, somehow, Pam was asleep and a light would wake her up if he tried to read. A shower would feel good but then the running water would disturb Pam.

He couldn’t stand it another minute.

Easing himself out of the bed and the too hot sheets, Alec moved over to the window, hoping for a stray breeze, finding nothing. Giving up and slipping a pair of old gym shorts on he made his way downstairs to his office as quietly as possible. There was always paperwork he needed to catch up on; if he couldn’t sleep, he might as well get something done.

He started on the computer, checking the running expenses of the farm, comparing them to their projected income for the next six months and shook his head. It amazed him that no matter how much money they took in between racing and stud fees; they barely broke even every month. It was depressing.

Stopping, he glanced down at his hands, which were aching more than usual tonight. He’d been diagnosed with arthritis about a year ago and there wasn’t all that much that could be done about it, not really anyway. Mostly he just dealt with it. Pausing, he looked at his hands, really looked at them, studied them, turning them this way and that.

His skin was tanned from the long hours he was outside and unlike some men; he simply didn’t have much hair on the backs of his hands. He just wasn’t all that hairy. He felt his left palm with his right fingertips—the lower part near his wrist and the pads below his fingers were callused, tough and had years of dirt and grime worn into them. No matter how many times he washed them, or what he used, they never looked really clean. His mother always complained about that and was always telling him to go scrub his hands again.

His hands were thin but strong, like the rest if him and he could see the tendons, muscles and even the shape of his bones. The fingers were long, tapered and very strong, the nails cut short. He’d been riding for over ten years now, and working here at the farm and any number of tracks for most of that time, to. Much of it hard, physical labor hauling hay bales, mucking, endless grooming, washing horses, cleaning tack, in addition to miles and miles, hours and hours of riding. There were a few scars here and there, though nothing horrible—a small burn that had become infected, a slash where a knife had slipped and required stitches to fix. His hands were tough and privately he thought they were ugly. They did what he asked of them, but they were rough and he’d apologized to Pam more than once because of that.

They were workman’s hands. His hands looked like he was a mason or a carpenter or a welder or something. Sometimes he’d wear gloves but not to often—he preferred to feel what he was doing if it was at all feasible. In the winter he’d have to, of course but the rest of the time he didn’t bother.

He had rider’s hands.

Pam’s hands were different than his, the skin a lighter color and softer because she often wore riding gloves to protect them. Her nails were in better shape than his were, too and he’d only learned after they began living together that she used some kind of clear polish to strengthen them. She was always putting moisturizer on them, too and it seemed to make a different, at least for her. Somehow, despite how small Pam was her fingers were relatively long and graceful, at least compared to the rest of her. Her wedding ring looked like it floated on her slender finger.

But her hands were strong, despite their delicate appearance. Okay, she wasn’t as strong as he was, but he was also bigger and heavier so that made sense. She was strong, and he knew better than to offer to help her too much. Knowing she’d be annoyed at any suggestion that she couldn’t do something herself.

Her hands were gentle. Pam was gentle and they were part of her. He couldn’t imagine her ever hurting anyone or anything. It simply wasn’t in her and the way she moved her hands when she spoke or when they were together said that to him without a sound. Sometimes it seemed to him that her hands conveyed what words couldn’t because she chose to use a private language that was all their own. She’d see him sitting on the couch or standing by the window and would come over to him, put her fingers on his chest or shoulders or his face and he knew exactly what she meant and what she wanted.

She used her hands to speak to him without words and he understood.

The office was almost as hot as the apartment and a bead of sweat rolled down his cheek. Impatiently, he wiped it away.

Henry’s hands were old, worn. They had liver spots and sometimes they weren’t as steady as they used to be. Somehow, Henry’s hands conveyed confidence and ability to any horse he trained. He knew how to guide young lives, whether they were horse or rider—in many ways he’d steered Alec more than his parents had and he was grateful for that guidance, much as it was often difficult for him to accept that guidance. His fingers were as blunt as his words and his temper as short but the results were formed from experience and obedience. As Alec grew older and gained confidence he’d questioned Henry more often and they’d argued, strained their friendship and threatened their partnership but had always come around to renewed understanding and usually ended up shaking hands.

His mother and father’s hands were just, well, they were different, of course, but they seemed to him to be like their home, their family. They were comfortable, welcoming, hardworking and encompassed both his past and his future. When he wanted to try new things they had always let him go, tentatively though it sometimes was on his parents part. When he’d returned, sometimes alone, sometimes with some new horse and recently with his bride they’d opened the door for him, fed him and let him know that he was home. His father would proudly, sometimes joyfully shake his hand, too reserved to hug him while his mother had no such compunctions. She would slide her plump arms around his own slender waist, hold him tightly as though he was still five years old and home from kindergarten. Her hands would be on his cheek, his shoulder, his arm or smoothing his hair. They’d let him go on his own path, dangerous and uncommon as it was, whatever apron strings once held him were untied by his parents before he’d had reason to chafe against them.

Looking at his own hand again he knew he’d always think of how his mother’s hand smelled of cleanser, bleach and cooking. His father’s hands smelled of soap and paper—if paper has a smell. Long years of doing other people’s taxes and accounts had made his hands smooth, the pads of his fingers almost shiny with the constant shuffling of papers and so completely unlike his own hands.

His parents hand had always been there for him and he knew he counted on them always being there in the coming years—even if that might prove to be an empty wish. Their relationship had changed, as such things always do and now they treated one another more like equals than parents and child. They saw him—finally—as a young man successful in his chosen career and with the luck and blessing of a happy marriage. He knew that they looked forward to grandchildren and when he and Pam were ready…

They saw him as an adult, as strong and capable. In turn, he saw them as simply two people who happened to be his parents. They were intelligent, kind people, but he tended to see them more as equals than as the authority figures they were when he was younger.

He heard a horse’s foot stamping in its stall down the corridor. No hands, no, but…his life was also framed by the pounding of horse’s hooves and had been for years now. Hooves ringing on the cement floor of the barn. The soft thuds of hooves in a field. The thunder of hooves rounding the final turn on a track. Hooves striking on a van’s ramp. The quiet rhythm of hooves walking on a trail. Hooves almost silent, shuffling in thick straw.

A welcome stray breath of air came through the window. He glanced at the clock, it was almost four; he had to be up and working in two hours and he hadn’t accomplished anything sitting here, other than to daydream.

No matter. He needed to sleep or he’d be useless in the morning. He made his way out of the office, checking to see that all the horses were all right before he climbed the stairs. Somehow it seemed a little cooler now and a slight breeze had kicked up, taking the edge off. Pam was turned towards his side of the bed, her arm thrown across where he usually lay.

He’d be able to sleep now.

7/29/07

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