Knucklehead & Other Stories by W. Mark Giles

salmon backdrop of my eyelids floated the apparition of an upside-down horse, a dead charcoal-grey Appaloosa with x’s for eyes, a dead horse that opened its mouth and spoke to me a word in a language I had never heard but recognized, a word like the rending of flesh and bone, and before I understood it, the word turned to thunder and the horse flattened and the spots on its rump reared to life and charged towards me in a herd.
    I jerked my eyes open. My car was back on the right side of the road, swerving for the ditch. I could smell the tire smoke and burning brake linings from the motorhome. I came to rest a hundred metres later, the nose of the Mercedes slanted down, the tail jutting up onto the highway. The farmer from the truck following behind pulled open my door, shook my shoulder. “Are you okay?” he asked.
    I swiveled my head slowly. The world seemed washed with a brilliant yellow light, as if a spotlight brighter than the sun had been turned on. A steady rushing noise whooshed in my ears. The new hay and grasses on the hills radiated, luminescent. A wavering heat mirage billowed from the broken asphalt. The brim of the farmer’s cap almost touched my forehead. I stared at his full feminine lips, so out of place in the leathery face, and leaned forward wanting to kiss them. I smelled manure and sweat. The farmer’s lips moved. “Are you okay? Turn that damned radio off.” I realized it was the man speaking. I switched off the stereo.
    My eyes adjusted to sunshine. I noticed my shades on the floor. The rushing in my ears was the chirping of crickets and the wind beating the prairie grasses.
    Now comes another part of the story I lie about—or rather, never mention. A sudden urgent pain surged through my bowels. I struggled to free myself from my safety belt. “Easy does it,” the farmer said, just like his bumper sticker, but I hopped out. I lurched around to the front of my car and dropped my trousers and squatted in the caked mud at the bottom of the ditch. I clutched the bumper and stared where a pair of hand-sized swallowtail butterflies were flattened into the grille. I discovered what it means to have the shit scared out of you. As my body relieved its tension, I chanted to the butterflies, “Better you than me, better you than me.”
    As I relaxed, a wave of embarrassment washed over me. A crowd had gathered up the road, pointedly not looking my way. A car towing a trailer crept past; a boy stared out the window, then I saw him turn to his parents in the front seat, talking and pointing. The motorhome driver stood on the shoulder above and watched me. He held the same grim expression, but I thought I detected a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. I asked, “Could you get me the Kleenex from the glove box?”
    I clambered up from the ditch. I smoothed the front of my pants, made sure my shirt was tucked in. Picked up my sunglasses and covered my eyes. My hands were trembling. I closed them into fists. I have a trick from my boarding school days that I still use. When I was a boy it helped me when I was really scared—of the school bullies, the headmaster, of Parents’ Day visits. I call it the Fearless Raccoon. I close my mouth hard, and concentrate on how the muscles of my jaw feel. I imagine two walnuts in my cheeks, and that I’m a little fearless raccoon. Without being, conscious of it, I realized I was doing it that day. My breathing steadied and I controlled the shakes. The man from the Michigan motorhome and the farmer hitched a towrope from the truck to the Mercedes and hauled the car back onto the highway. When they crimped the rear bumper, I dismissed it with a wave of my hand. I thanked the farmer, nodded to the motorhome man and ignored the gawking crowd. Traffic crawled past from both directions. I climbed in the car, changed the tape to something classical, then sped away.
    II
    I was on my way to the Head-Smashed-In Buffalo Jump