The Limp
Admiral Biscuit
When she was younger, people noticed it. Sometimes they’d ask her what had happened—there was just something . . . well, un-American with a good-looking slender blond woman limping in the rain.
She waved them off. If anyone pressed her, she’d mutter tersely, “car accident,” and leave it at that. It was believable; such things happened.
Time flew on; once she was in college, the questions weren’t asked so much any more. One of her boyfriends was curious about the scar. No, not curious . . . more obsessed. He liked to run his finger across the puckered flesh that ran up the outside of her right leg, tracing it across the knee joint. She thought it felt weird. She broke up with him and never regretted it.
By the time she got her diploma, it was just another part of her. it had been like that for so long she just didn’t think about it much. There was too much life to live. She started her career and started a family. She finished paying off her student loans and financed a new car.
Two decades later, she finally convinced her husband to buy a large piece of property out in the country. Their young daughters would appreciate the space, she said, and exposing them to some of the responsibilities of a homestead would do them good.
And on rainy days, she’d sit in the La-Z-Boy recliner and look out the window at nothing. As often as not, she would set a mug of tea on the end table, take a few sips, and then let it grow cold.
Her husband was a good man, and one thing that a good man knows is to respect his wife. He asked about it once, and she replied that she did not want to discuss it. He let the matter slide . . . but he always got a little worried when she was one of her ‘brooding’ moods. He’d occasionally look in at her, and at the faraway look in her eyes, and he’d wonder what she was remembering.
He knew about the scar, of course. He’d asked her about it, too. Not right away; not until years after they were married, in fact. It had just sort of come up in conversation.
“I was kicked,” she’d said. “By a p—by a horse.” Even then, he knew her well enough to know that she was holding back. It was the way she moved her shoulders. “It was a long time ago.” She’d set a plate of pancakes in front of him. and the conversation was over.
Every Christmas, four identical stockings would be hung from the mantlepiece. She’d brought them from her parent’s house and hung them up shortly after their second daughter was born.
All four were identical; red woolen socks with a ruff of fur. He suggested writing their names on them with a Sharpie and she’d recoiled at the idea of defacing them.
He was not a stupid man. As far as he was concerned, the socks were dumb, but they were her idea, and they held some special meaning to her, and that was that. One day she would explain it, or she wouldn’t. But after she’d gone to bed, he looked at them very closely. Besides being oddly shaped—more like closed tubes than actual stockings—all four had been worn. There was an almost U-shaped wear pattern on the bottom of each sock. And one of them—the one that was hers—had a brownish stain on the bottom. It could have been anything, but he knew that it was blood. And he knew that it was hers.
That night, he did not sleep well. He tenderly pulled the covers off her leg and examined the scar in the moonlight. He did it carefully and cautiously, knowing that he would have a difficult time explaining should she wake. But she did not.
He could almost see how it had happened . . . almost. There had been something sturdy inside that sock, and it had swung across her leg—probably by accident, probably when she was very young. Some game gone wrong, perhaps. But a game didn’t feel quite right . . . there was one piece of the puzzle missing.
~ ~ ~
Time goes by, as it always will. They’re older now; their daughters are married and live in cities on different sides of the country. They come back for Thanksgiving and Christmas, and occasionally other times of the year, too.
He’s thought about selling the house and moving somewhere closer to town—any town, really. But he’s never broached the subject. He knows she loves it here.
He’s never discovered what she sees when she stares out the window on rainy days.
“Where’s Minty?”
Star Catcher frowned. “I dunno, I thought she was with you. Silly filly’s gotten herself in trouble again.”
Megan’s heart sank. That’s what she was afraid of. Minty had a heart of gold, but she was clumsy and impulsive. She probably shouldn’t be left alone ever. She jogged back down the path . . . maybe Minty had gotten distracted by something bright and shiny, or something that wasn’t quite level.
Sadly, that wasn’t the case. Minty was stuck rump-first in a hole by the path, futilely pawing at the dirt with her forelegs. Megan ran up to her. “Are you okay?”
“I got stuck,” she explained simply. “Can you help me?”
Megan looked at her dubiously. The ponies were heavier than she was. “Can you move your hind legs?”
“I think so?” Minty struggled for a moment. “Kind of. I can sort of push off the wall, but then I slip and get stuck again.”
“Let me help.” Megan walked around and wrapped her arms around the pony’s barrel. With a grunt of effort, she pulled as hard as she could. Even at her age, she knew this probably wasn’t good for her back.
She could feel Minty’s powerful muscles shifting under her hands, and with an almost audible pop the pony was loose, and then she was scrabbling up and out and one of her hind legs slipped again and kicked back against Megan, sending the girl sprawling.
She didn’t have to even look to know it was going to be bad. The side of her jeans was torn open, and she could already see blood seeping out onto the ground. There was no sense in looking at it before they got back to Ponyville, though. She struggled back to her feet and put an arm over Minty’s withers for support.
“Thanks for helping me out of the hole. You’re such a good friend.” She looked at Megan admiringly, but her expression quickly turned to concern. “Hey, what happened to your leg?”
“I . . . hit a rock.”
“Ooh.” Minty led her along in silence for a while, then stopped just before town. “I bet socks would make you feel better. Everyone loves socks.” She pulled off her socks and gently tucked them down Megan’s shirt. “There, isn’t that better?”
Megan looked into Minty’s hopeful lavender eyes. Of course the socks didn’t make it better—they didn’t stop the bleeding and they didn’t stop the pain. They wouldn’t mend her torn jeans. She stroked Minty’s mane reassuringly. “Thank you. I’ll treasure them forever.”