A Winter Dream(6)

“Maybe,” she sighed, “but it’s over. Everything’s going to be okay. They’ll get over it. Even Simon. I bet by Monday everything will be back to normal.”

“You don’t know my brothers,” I said. “This hurt runs deep.”

“Then it’s their problem, not yours.”

“Their problems are my problems.”

“No, they’re not. Their problems are their problems and your problems are your problems. You’ve got to stop carrying other people’s problems.”

“It’s just hard. I care about them.”

“Sometimes I think you care too much.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Sometimes it is.”

“Do I care too much about you?”

She grinned. “You can’t care too much about me.”

“I thought so.”

We kissed again. “You sure you don’t want to come inside? I’ll give you a backrub.”

“That sounds good. But it’s late. I told my parents I’d drive them to the airport in the morning. They’re leaving at six.”

She groaned. “Masochist. There you go again, suffering for others.”

“Okay, I admit it. I’m a pathetic pleaser.”

“Where are they going?”

“Phoenix. One of their golf trips.”

“I’m glad someone’s having fun.”

“He’s earned it,” I said. “I’ll call you when I get back from the airport.”

“All right,” she said. “And don’t forget about our celebration next week.”

“What day?”

“Any day’s good. You decide.”

“How’s Tuesday?”

“Tuesday’s good. We’ll celebrate then.”

“That is if my brothers don’t kill me on Monday.”

“They’ll be over it. And you’ll be in a better mood for our celebration.”

“As long as it’s just the two of us.”

“You can count on that.” She leaned forward and this time we kissed at length. When we parted, I said, “I love you.”

“I know. Ciao, sweetheart. Don’t forget dinner at my parents’ on Sunday.”

“I’ll pick you up at six.”

“Grazie.”

I opened her door and she went inside. As I walked to my car, I thought, no matter how bad things were, at least I had Ashley. And nothing could come in the way of us.





CHAPTER


Five


There can be no betrayal without trust. So should we not trust? No, to do so is a betrayal in itself.

Joseph Jacobson’s Diary





Not even five hours after laying my head on my pillow, I was up again, dressed and ready to drive my parents to the airport. I don’t know why Ben didn’t drive them, or why my parents hadn’t asked him to. He did, after all, still live at home. He would have driven, of course, if my dad made him, but the truth is, I think they just wanted to see me.

The Denver International Airport is an amazing edifice but so far from civilization it should have its own area code. Or language. Even without traffic it took us forty-five minutes to reach the airport.

The greatest controversy in Denver involves neither sports nor politics. It’s the giant blue horse statue at the Denver airport. Blue Mustang, by artist Luis Jiménez, is 32 feet tall and weighs more than 9,000 pounds. It has frightening, glowing, red electric-bulb eyes and is anatomically correct, which is also frightening. The statue is guaranteed to strike terror in the hearts of all travelers, which, considering how many people fear flying, makes me wonder what committee approved the beast’s creation.

The horse not only looks like one of the cursed four stallions of the Apocalypse, it has lived up to its frightening image by killing its own maker. Shortly before its completion, Jiménez was killed by the statue when its head broke off and fell on the sculptor.

Since its erection in 2008, the horse has been given many names, including: Demon Mustang, Denver’s Blue Curse, Old Blue, Zombie Horse, Blucifer, the Pale Horse of Death, and Apocalyptic Steed, to name a few.

From the beginning, the Colorado community has protested the horse, though state law requires that it remain for a minimum of five years. Still, a Facebook page was created to hurry its demise. There was even a haiku competition. The winning entry and my personal favorite was:

Enormous eyesore

Gives a silent horse laugh to

My fear of flying.

In the early morning’s dim light the horse’s eyes glowed eerily red. Looking back, perhaps I should have considered it an omen.

“That thing’s a monstrosity,” my mother said. “What was the artist trying to say?”