The Marriage

Prologue

Farming communities are pretty much the same everywhere, but this one was different. Even allowing for the undeniable beauty of the country, this part of New Zealand was exceptional, and not only in a scenic sense; the land, rich and productive, had a welcoming feel to it. And the town was clean and well-ordered like most towns of its size. The King place was a few miles away, just inside the western edge of the county. Few people ever knew much of how it all came about, but one thing was clear, then and now: the whole damn world changed from that day for Joe King. The story rightly begins in the early spring of 1974, the day Joe received the news that Tony was coming home. There was a storm that night. Mike and he were the only ones at the stable. None of the other workers really tried to get through; that old bridge was too dangerous in bad weather. A howling wind was blasting in from the south, the rain was coming down in buckets, and Mike was worried about one of the horses …

1.

S heets of heavy rain blanketed anything that would normally have been seen of the farm. The only light came from thin slivers of misty ivory escaping from the rows of small windows that ran along both sides of the stable. A thunderclap rumbled away into the distance to leave the only slightly less violent sound of hard rain slamming along the metal roof. In the stable, overhead lamps glowed bright enough, but eerie white shafts cut through the building as the lightning flashes came and went. Mike called from one of the stalls, Joe, I think you’d better come over here.

Hang on a bit, I’m almost done,

Each of the stalls on both sides of the stable contained a mare in foal. A few of them became skittish each time the thunder blasted overhead, but the other forty or so animals were calm. Mike, just eighteen, was a redhead with a mass of freckles spread over an open face that usually held a wide grin, but not now. He was new to the job, and at the moment scared something might happen that he couldn’t handle. Joe worked fast. He wiped the mare off and tossed the towel behind him without needing to see it land accurately in the bucket as he jammed a hypodermic needle into the mare’s neck—all done, it seemed, in one deft movement. The horse threw her head around testily, but he managed her without much trouble. His actions were slick, decisive, professional.

Okay, Mike, I’m on my way.

Joe looked younger than his fifty years, and fifty didn’t seem to fit a man so lively. He was a touch above average height with a robust, outdoorsy look. A little gray threaded through his light brown hair and a few laugh lines around blue eyes added probity to a rather handsome face, and although not the most arresting feature, a scar ran from his eyebrow to the hairline. Another thing about him was that Joe King spoke with an accent; even after all his years in New Zealand, he still sounded American, and being from Virginia, it was even more apparent.

See, Joe—she’s real sick.

The vet confirmed it. Had it long before she came here.

But she’ll be okay?

Joe didn’t answer.

Joe?

I’m trying to get the foal.

I told you, Mike said, his voice rising. See? She’s real bad—

Mike!

Well, shit! I like her the best.

I know. Hold her down, Mike.

Controlling a large, struggling animal in distress is not so easy, and sweat began glistening on both their faces.

Joe, maybe … His voice fell off to a murmur. Gee, I like her the— Mike’s eyes opened wide. Look, Joe! She’s having it. She’s having it!

Keep her head down, Mike, like I showed you.

The mare grunted weakly. A grin broke on Mike’s face as the foal came all the way out. Still kneeling, Mike leaned in close to her.

You did it, girl. You …

The mare lay still. Joe looked at her for a minute and then moved quickly to take care of the foal. The beautiful filly would need a surrogate mother.

One in, one out, Joe said. I guess that’s fair enough.

Fair?

You’re right; it’s not fair. She was little, but her heart wasn’t. That’s class, Mike. Class.

A few minutes later, Joe was back over at the other stall looking at a newborn foal. The little colt was doing his best to get up but flopped back onto the deep hay with his first few attempts. Then, quite suddenly he was up on spindly legs and taking the mother’s milk. The mare looked at him, tossed her head, and whinnied.

Pretty proud of yourself, huh? he said. Well, okay, good job, and you too, little fella.

* * *

The main street looked pretty much like the main street of any New Zealand town. It was not a small town, but it wasn’t big either—the kind of place that has most things but not everything, small enough for people to be interested in the local goings on but big enough so that everyone didn’t know everyone else. Just a nice place to live and be neighborly if you wanted to but left to yourself if that was what you wanted. Several of the streets on the old side of town were tree lined, but it wasn’t like that over in the newer parts. Near the highway, it was busier; the bigger shops and business were located over there. A pickup with the words Joe King Brood Mares painted on the door rolled to a stop on the tree-lined side of town. It was old-fashioned and would certainly have been out of place in any modern town, but the little hardware store seemed somehow to be in its rightful place. It was patronized by just enough customers to stay in business, and the owner liked it that way. Joe was about to go inside but turned when he heard someone calling, a voice he knew only too well. Hey! Where’re you going, mister?

Joe walked around to the service alley. Buck was on the loading dock with a young local farmer. Joe stepped up on the dock to join them. Hey, Buck.

Where the hell you been? He went on without waiting for an answer, You know Brad, don’t you?

Sure. Hi, Brad.

Joe.

The three men chatted amicably. He told Buck about the horse.

That’s too bad.

Yeah, the owner didn’t know, otherwise he wouldn’t have got her in foal. Damn shame.

Brad, Buck said, turning to the other man, he’s the best. If Joe couldn’t save her, no one could.

Don’t listen to all his stuff, Brad, Joe said. He’s full of it.

I’ve heard that—about your horses, not about Buck.

You will.

My friend. Buck harrumphed.

They started to load Brad’s supplies. Joe pitched in. A few people who knew one or the other of them waved or called a hello as they put the things onto the flatbed truck.

What happened? Brad asked him. With the horse.

She was hurt at home. By the time I get them, they’re already in foal.

I thought yours was like a stud farm?

No, just mares, and the youngsters when they arrive. No boys, just the mares.

Joe’s place is sort of maternity ward for horses. Right, Joe? Buck said.

Mares and their foals. They leave when they’re old enough, and the whole thing starts all over again.

Some of the best breeders send their horses to him.

I handle maybe sixty or so. There’s other places like mine.

How’s the new kid—what’s his name? Buck scratched his head, ruffling thick gray hair.

Mike.

Yeah, Mike. Any good?

Very good. Joe nodded. And he’s a real good kid, knows what he’s doing and wants to learn. It’s rough when more than one mare starts to foal at the same time. I have other guys out there in the daytime, but at night—well, just lucky he was there to help.

You never lose horses.

It happens. I remember one time Kathryn was with me and— He stopped abruptly.

Kathryn, now there was a lady, Buck said. An all-around fine person.

Yes, she was.

Can’t believe it, Joe. Ten years?

Ten years.

I guess there are a lot of things that can go wrong, Brad said, when it comes to them foaling.

Not really. Joe shook his head. Horses pretty much know what they’re doing. Nature still takes care of most of it. The worst is a hip lock. Some folks call it a stifle. Hell, a mare gets one of those when she foaling, there’s nothing much else to do but put her down.

Never heard of that.

It’s unusual. The mare’s hind leg contorts, and she can’t deliver the foal. That’s about the worst thing can happen.

You get that much?

No, only seen one.

How about Tony—how’s he doing? Buck said. He turned to Brad. Joe’s boy. He’s in the army; he’s overseas right now.

That’s the big news, Buck. He’s coming home soon.

No kidding! That’s great.

Yep, I miss him like hell.

Is he a general yet?

Nope, still lieutenant, but I think he’s going to be getting out of the army.

Wait a second, Joe, Buck said. I’ll give you a hand with that one; it’s heavy.

Joe lifted the box on his own anyway, grunting under its weight.

What the hell is in this?

Nails. See, you never listen. Never known you to ever listen.

Lieutenant? Brad said.

Sure, good officer, Buck said, though in my day—well, you know.

I take it you were not an officer? Brad asked.

No, sir, just a soldier.

You sound a bit like you were a bit of a rebel.

Brad, Buck chuckled, it’s a man’s natural instinct to rebel against authority sometimes, and with soldiers, it’s almost a duty like… getting’ drunk.

The loading done, Buck pulled the tops off three beer cans, and they sat on the store loading dock.

I would’ve thought you would be—ah, nothing.

You were going to say I was too old? Well, you’re right. Most of ’em were just boys. Me, I was over forty, but I wasn’t the only one like that. Now, on the other hand, you take Joe here. He was just about the youngest in his whole damn regiment.

They make good cars now, the Japanese, Brad said offhandedly.

Well, let them have their crappy little cars, Joe cut in sharply. I wouldn’t buy one.

Long time since that war, Brad said.

Makes no difference to me, Joe snapped, losing the friendly tone.

Time goes by. Brad shrugged.

You mean like forget it? Joe said with a sharp edge to the words. Forget those little bastards? Not me and—

Hey, Joe, Buck cut him off quickly, how about the RSA tonight? They got a band or something, I think.

No. Joe looked away.

Come on—we got to celebrate Tony coming home, don’t we?

Well, okay, but not too late. I got mares ready to foal.

Fair enough. You drive.

I better get going. See you, Brad. Stop by the place if you’re passing.

Thanks.

Joe gave Buck a healthy slap on the back, nodded to Brad, and stepped around to the front of the store. He decided to leave the pickup where it was and walk on down to one of the other stops he had to make. On the way back, he ran into another farmer and chatted with him for a minute before getting into the pickup. Brad had watched him as he walked away and shook his head.

Hell, what a change in a guy. Joe had caught him off guard with his sudden change of attitude. Nice as pie, then wow. I mean, you’d think he’d get over it after all these years.

You haven’t been here all that long, Brad. You came here what, couple of years ago?

Almost four years. He got real upset, kind of angry.

Four years, huh? Time sure flies, Buck said. You came up from the south, right?

Yeah, about Joe, I was—

You know, seems to me like everybody has something about them. Now, you take me for instance—

Kind of odd though.

Don’t worry about it, Brad.

* * *

The crowd in the returned soldiers’ hall was a little noisy that night. There was no particular reason. Usually, it was a pretty staid bunch of veterans and others who sat around and talked, caught up on news with friends, or played one kind of game or another. But that night it was a little noisy. There seemed to be more than the usual number of people; well, there was a band. And it was loud, but the music was pretty good and appealed to the crowd. There were a number of guests. The boys in the band took a break, and dancers drifted back to the tables and settled down. Joe and Buck were with a group of men sitting around a table talking. Most of the stories they told each other led to an easy laugh. Occasionally, talk turned back the years, but most of it was current, relevant. They were generally a pretty conservative bunch. One of them asked about a man from their past.

Oh yeah, old Jim.

You know, it’s funny, someone said. We say old this one or old that one when he was just a youngster—hell, we were all youngsters.

He was a great guy, always had a joke or something going on. What happened to him?

He joined up with an occupation unit in Japan. He got hit by a truck and killed.

Really? I never knew that.

Yes you did, you just forgot.

I suppose.

Rotten luck, one of the others agreed, to get through the war and then get killed that way.

A truck, a damn truck, another of them said.

He wore an expensive suit that set him somewhat apart from the other more casually dressed men at the table. Larry Johnson was not liked by everyone, one of those people who tend to rub people the wrong way with a kind of self-important personality.

Huh, Johnson went on, so they got the poor bastard anyway. Well, we got them in the end.

What’s with the we?

The feet, Bert, Johnson protested. The feet. You know they wouldn’t send me over because of my feet, posted me to Fort Dorset in Wellington. You know that—the feet.

I thought it was the mouth, Bert said, not trying to conceal the fact that Johnson was not on the top of his best friends list.

No, Bert, the feet, Johnson said, ignoring—or more likely, not recognizing—the gibe.

You know, in the army, Buck said on reflection, you got to have good feet. Without good feet, you’re in trouble.

Although he was not one of his favorite people either, Joe was glad that Buck had taken Johnson off the hook, Buck had no interest in making him look foolish.

* * *

Later that night in the busy pub, Buck had one more drink. It was not the classiest establishment around, but Buck was in that kind of mood—the kind of mood when classy wasn’t necessary and you just wanted to drink and talk with a friend. They sat at a table near one of the exits. It was a go-to-the-party-but-dance-near-the-door kind of joint. With a couple drinks on board, Buck was a little talkative and was recalling an incident that had happened during the war, something he hardly ever did. Maybe it was the conversation at the hall that had stirred old memories. He did that every year or so when he got it into his head. But only to Joe. If the war came up in conversation with others, he just cracked a joke and moved on to something else. But if he said anything, it was sure to be about some funny thing that had happened; like most people, Buck tended to forget the gray skies and remember the sunshine—not that there is all that much sunshine in a war. Joe was different. He carried a lot more of those days in his head. Visible scars were nothing when compared to the scars that could not be seen. Buck more than anyone knew the depth of Joe’s buried feelings.

He was English, Buck was saying.

Uh huh.

One of those really toffy buggers, upper crust, talked with a plumb in his mouth.

To tell you the truth, Buck, I couldn’t hardly understand any of them, the limeys or the Aussies.

Yeah. Buck laughed. And most of ’em couldn’t understand you either.

That’s true. What do you say, Buck? Let’s go.

In a minute. Buck lowered his voice. You know, in a war you meet some strange people. Macallan, now—he was an asshole, a twenty-four-carat asshole.

Joe sat silently, leaving him to his memories for a few moments. Then he spoke quietly. Buck, it’s late, and you’ve had—

Buck became a little indignant. I resent that implication. I, sir, am not drunk. He belched loudly. Not yet, anyway.

Never said you were, but now that you mention it, Buck, let’s go. I have to get up real early.

"Joe, do you know that there have only been forty years in recorded history when there has