Still Life with Elephant Read Online Free PDF Page A

each other. And she disdains bread machines. “The loaves come out looking like apartment houses,” she says about bread machines. So, every time I visit her, I wind up kneading and rolling and shaping and braiding the compliant, warm, almost fleshy-feeling dough.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” she asked me, a variation of her earlier question. I couldn’t bring myself to explain the whole thing, it made me feel like the dough I was pummeling down, too soft, too vulnerable.
    â€œIt’s because you tune people out,” she said, taking the dough from me and kneading in four varieties of nuts. “I told you that a long time ago. You’re there and you’re not there. Sometimes it’s like talking to a wall. Maybe Matt felt it, too.”
    â€œDon’t defend Matt,” I said, handing her loaf pans, so the bread could rise again. I refused to think how symbolic it was, the bread taking a pummeling and rising again—I was beyond metaphors.
    â€œI don’t know what I’m defending him against.” She stopped and pushed her hair back. She’s attractive in a thin, hair-sprayed-mom kind of way. She and my father have been married for almost forty-two years and are happy. I have two brothers, the older happily married, the younger happily single. I had two sets of grandparents growing up, a happy foursome when they were alive. I have happy aunts and uncles. Happy, happy, happy. I think that’s what fascinated Matt. That we all like being in each other’s company, there were no major issues, except for my one brother liking to hunt. I grew up feeling loved and happy. I rode happy.
    â€œI thought you two had a cheese bomb,” she said.
    â€œCheese bomb?”
    â€œCheese bomb! Good God, Neelie.” She shook her head. “Deep bond. That you two were so happy. And that’s just what I mean about listening.” I watched her brush the loaves with egg white and put them in the oven. Her lips made a thin line across her face.
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    â€œTake a loaf home with you,” she said a few hours later, wrapping one in aluminum foil and sticking it into a bag for me. “Next time you come, I’ll make you some homemade jelly donuts. You’re getting too skinny. Aren’t you eating?”
    Actually, no. I had no appetite. I hadn’t done my donut run in two weeks. Okay, maybe I went twice. Instead of eating, I was drinking coffee all day long. I chewed gum. Or I would stick a strand ofhay in my mouth and curl it around with my tongue while I worked in the barn. It was because I was missing Matt like crazy, but we hadn’t spoken since the day I walloped him.
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    I got home just in time to meet with a horse client. She was in her truck, her horse trailer hitched to the back of it, and waiting for me in my driveway. I opened the gates and she drove her rig through. A brand-new truck and trailer, navy with red-painted doodads. She wore a navy-and-red sweater, navy britches, and horse bling: earrings with little rubies set in gold, and a gold horse sweater-pin. New horse-owner, I thought with some amusement. And I just knew that the horse’s leg wraps and blanket would perfectly match his owner’s outfit. Of course, all my stuff matched, too. After you’ve owned horses for a while, you can still match your clothes to your horse equipment, but in a different way. Everything you own is dirty and hairy with holes in it.
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    The horse was a bay gelding. Mahogany-brown hair, black mane and tail, two white hind socks. Very flashy. And very obnoxious. His owner’s strategy for unloading him was to unclip his head gingerly, drop the tailgate of the truck, and let the horse scramble out backward, while she screamed and ran for cover in the front seat. He finished his grand exit with a rear and strike, all duded up in his navy wraps, matching navy-trimmed red blanket, and red nylon halter.
    â€œCan you fix him in a month?” his