“What does that mean?” I ask.
Cal steps away from the horse, nudging Hank along with him.
“Hind legs instead of front are coming first. Not ideal, but we can work with it.” Cal strips off the flannel he’s got on over a t-shirt and tosses it to the corner of the stall then snaps on gloves. “Hank, we need more buckets of warm water. Two, maybe three.”
Hank wags his head at the other man. “You heard him.”
Cal doesn’t take his eyes off Jasmine as he says, “No, you go Hank. When you bring them back, leave them, then stay out of sight. The more people we’ve got in this stall, the more nervous Jasmine gets, and the more danger she and her foal are in.”
“Fran, open my kit and take out the black case.” Cal gives orders like we’re having a conversation over coffee about something as predictable as California weather, and I follow them just as calmly, even with my pulse racing.
I assume Cal’s “kit” is the hard case he’s carried in. I open its fold out layer to find the smaller black case. When I hand it to Cal, he shakes his head. “Open it up.”
Hank is less interested in following Cal’s directions than in following him like a lost puppy. “I should be here, Doc.”
The words fall flat against Cal’s calm, steady energy as he takes a giant syringe from the case I hold open. “No, you shouldn’t. Now hurry up. We haven’t got time to argue.”
As if to prove the point, Jasmine makes a noise only an animal in pain could make, shakes her head so hard the man holding her loses his grip. Her belly contracts, and she makes the same terrified noise again.
Hank nods, but Cal ignores him, and he quietly leaves.
“Grab a swab packet for me and open it, please,” Cal directs, and I hurry to the overturned bucket where he’s set up a makeshift supply table.
“What’s your name, kid?” Cal asks, and I take a closer look at the other man, who’s not a man at all.
“Max,” he says in the low, uncertain way of a teenage boy who’s still getting used to his deeper voice.
“You work here?” Cal asks.
“Hank’s my grandpa.”
“You’re doing a good job with Jasmine. Keep talking to her while I sedate her. I need her to stop pushing for a minute, and this will help,” he says while running a hand over Jasmine’s neck.
As I open the packet, the smell of alcohol fills the air, mixing with the sharp scent of manure and the sweet undertones of hay. Cal pinches the swab out of the packet and wipes a spot on Jasmine’s neck before injecting the syringe. He keeps a steady hand on her neck, petting her as her breathing slows and her body relaxes.
In the five minutes since we arrived, the air in the stall has softened from the snapping of an approaching lightning storm to the calm that comes with a light summer rain.
Hank walks in carrying two more buckets of water, and Jasmine’s eyes dart to him.
“Set them in the corner. I’ll come get you when the foal’s here,” Cal says quietly without looking away from Jasmine.
Hank opens his mouth to say something, but with a look from Cal, his words turn into a soft huff, and he leaves.
“There’s a couple of pouches in my kit, labeledlube,” Cal says to me. “Mix the powder into one of those buckets until it’s thick and cloudy and feels like Vaseline.”
I do what he’s told me. I’ve grown up taking orders. First from my father. Then from directors, and now customers. On the outside, I’ve been compliant—mostly.Inside, though, my gut clenches when I’m told what to do.
But the way Cal gives orders, I feel needed. Trusted, instead of manipulated. Useful, instead of used.
I dump the powder from the pouches into the bucket of warm water while he walks to his bag, moving as calmly as if he were taking his normal seat at the diner instead of dealing with an emergency. He continues to give Max gentle instructionsand encouragement while I use a wooden spoon from his kit to stir the powder into a slick goo.
“Keep her calm, Max. Epidural is next, then I’ll position the foal,” Cal explains while readying a second needle and giving Jasmine an injection with steady hands.
“Looks good, Fran,” Cal says over my shoulder, and I realize that’s the second time he’s called me Fran instead of Frankie.
I wonder if it’s out of habit or purposely to protect my identity around Hank and Max. I’m surprised by how much I want it to be the second, and by how unsurprised I’d be if it was. I’ve never been around anyone like Cal who can narrow in on small details and, at the same time, be more aware of his surroundings in a high-stake situation.
“Scrub your hands with the water and disinfectant,” he says to me while taking two boxes of gloves from his duffel.
