NO SECRET SO CLOSE is the story of a the most unthinkable betrayal humanly possible — at only 24 years old, Claire Dorotik’s father has been murdered, her mother arrested, and now, in a sinister twist of fate, Claire’s mother points the finger at Claire, accusing her of killing her own father. Battling the feelings of loss, abandonment, terror, and dissociation, and also learning about them, Claire struggles to stay in her master’s program for psychotherapy. However, when Claire’s brothers also betray her and side with her mother, Claire is left all alone to care for the 18 horses she and her mother owned. As the story unfolds, what is revealed is the horses’ amazing capacity for empathy in the face of human trauma, and the almost psychic ability to provide the author with what had been taken from her. Arising from these horrifying circumstances, the most unthinkable heroes — the horses — show Claire that life is still worth living.
Excerpt #30 from NO SECRET SO CLOSE:
“No offer refused” was what I had scribbled on a piece of cardboard with a permanent marker. We had eleven horses at the time and could only take five. That meant three trips in a two-horse trailer from Tucson, Arizona to Morgan Hill, California. My mom, my friend Kim, and I made at least twenty signs and posted them on any street sign we could find all over the east side of Tucson, Arizona. Kim wrote the “fire sale” signs, I wrote the “no offer refused” signs, and my mom wrote the “fine horseflesh” signs. I thought horseflesh sounded weird, but she insisted that people equated it to quality horses.
It was the no offer refused part that caught the attention of the middle aged Hispanic man who came and bought three of the horses. We had made a package deal. They were all nice horses, but it was the young stallion that he really wanted. Hispanic men seem to be attracted to stallions. They dress them up with fancy saddles and bridles garnished with silver, teach them to do tricks, and use them in parades. They call them charro horses. But they are not known for being nice to them, and he didn’t even want to ride any of the horses first. I knew that would be my last goodbye. And my gut told me their lives would not be easy. I made Kim promise to tell me if she ever saw them again.
It wasn’t cardboard I wrote the fire sale ad on this time. It was the Horsetrader magazine, and I chose the words “family emergency” to describe what felt more like a full blown panic.
“So how many do you need to move?”
That was the first question the woman who had responded to the ad asked as she stepped out of her BMW. She had come to see the horses with her trainer. He reminded me of John Kerry; he stood back, didn’t say much and seemed to be calculating things in his head.
“As many as possible,” my mom said, looking down. The silence that followed was broken by a neigh.
The woman turned around. “Who’s that?”
Nimo, the self-appointed official greeter, was standing at his gate, bobbing his head, his eyes fixed on us.
“He’s a two year old colt by Gonzo,” I answered quickly, “out of our R.P.S.I. mare.” I zipped my jacket against the cold.
The trainer turned back toward me. “Can we see him go?”
My mom and I looked at each other.
Nimo cantered out of the jump chute and spun around to face the group of us. He stood still, posed with his head up as high as he could and snorted loudly. “Jesus, he can jump,” the woman said. “What do you have him priced at?”
“We don’t,” I said. “He’s not for sale.” I walked over to Nimo and put the halter on.
The woman and the trainer looked at each other, “Well what is for sale?” she asked, looking pointedly at my mother.
We walked down the barn aisle and pulled each horse out of the stall. They stood back, the trainer with his arms crossed and the woman whispering to him. My mom and I took turns rattling off each horse’s accomplishments.
“Keeper was second out of 52 in the four year old jumper finals in Del Mar, Flying Cat did the Low Modified jumpers there, and then the High’s at the Oaks.
We took Darby to the same show and he was in the ribbons in the Baby Green Hunters.
Cappy went for practice, but didn’t show.
Cruiser has shown at the Oaks and Del Mar, he’s got a ton of jump but still gets nervous at the shows.
Holly hasn’t shown either but is a 10 jumper, and very easy to ride.
Grace is a house, ready to pop, never been shown, but a nice broodmare.
Classic is approved in all the warmblood registries and always throws tall, leggy foals.
And Sylvie, little Sylvie, she jumps like a loaded spring, won about everything, and is currently loaded down. About ready to pop too.”
“Who’s down there?” the woman asked, gesturing down the hill to the pastures behind the house where Boomer, Bien Vida, and Backstreet were running up and down the pasture fence, tossing their heads, leaping and bucking. Just for fun.
“What?” I had become mesmerized by them.
“Who are those horses?” Her voice was a bit louder.
“Those are the yearlings and boarders.” My mom pulled a Kleenex out of her pocket and blew her nose.
“Who’s the chestnut?”
“That’s Boomer, Nimo’s younger brother.” My mom stepped out from under the barn overhang and looked down the hill.
“Jump like his brother?” The trainer asked as the woman turned toward him.
“Well, he’s bred the same, so I don’t see why not.” My mom looked like she was mesmerized by them too.
“Can we see?” The trainer turned toward me.
I looked at my mom. She was still gazing at them.
Boomer greeted me at the fence line as I made my way down the hill. It was our little secret. From the time he was born, he always greeted me there, whether I was on a horse, or just walking by. He followed me over to the gate; the others still playing. When I pulled him out of the pasture and led him up the hill, they came running up to the fence, and stuck their heads over nervously. But Boomer wasn’t nervous. He marched proudly beside me, looking eagerly toward the barn. Finally, I had chosen him.
“Come on, bud.” He stepped over the rails I had lowered in the jump chute hesitantly. “A few more times.” We circled around again and walked back through the chute.
“I think you can make a little crossrail,” I called to the trainer.
I gave Boomer a pat and held the lunge whip behind him as I slowly unclipped the leadrope. “Okay, your turn.” I raised the whip slightly behind him and gave a little cluck. He took a few tentative steps then broke into a canter. As he noticed the crossrail in front of him, he paused. I quickly raised the whip and moved toward him with another cluck. He left the ground like a deer. It appeared absolutely effortless for him as he jerked his front legs way up under his chin and sprung into the air, his body at least four feet over the crossrail. A lighter version of Nimo. What Nimo had in power, Boomer had in elasticity.
“Would you do a package deal?” The woman looked at my mom.
She had been grinning. It was the first time I had seen her smile since she got home. Boomer jumps just like Nimo, she was thinking. “For who?” she asked, her eyes still on Boomer.
“Flying Cat, Cappy, Cruiser, Classic, in foal, and that one,” she said nodding toward Boomer.
“Well for what price?” My mother took her eyes off Boomer now, and looked back at the woman.
“Twenty thousand.”
My mom and I looked at each other, and shook our heads simultaneously. We were asking more than that for Cruiser alone.
“Are you serious?” I pulled the lunge whip in front of me.
“Well, I’m not going to pay retail prices for wholesale horses.”
Wholesale horses. Now I felt like using the lungewhip. “Ma’am, they’re not ‘wholesale horses.’”
As she stepped forward, I realized she was taller than me. “Yeah, and I don’t think you guys are in a position to negotiate.”
I gripped the lungewhip. I wanted to send this lady down the jump chute. Just then, I noticed my mom looking behind me. I turned to see Boomer making his way back toward me. He stopped behind me and nuzzled my shoulder softly.
“Well, what about that one?” she asked.
“What about him?” I reached my arm up to scratch behind Boomer’s ears as he rested his chin on my shoulder.
“What are you asking for him alone?”
I looked at my mom. A small tear made its way down her face, as she looked down. “Ten.”
“Take seventy-five hundred?”
My mom looked up. Boomer’s eyes were half open as he relaxed on my shoulder.
“I’ll give you eight, Mom,” I said evenly.
She looked at me surprised. “How?”
“I’ll sell my condo.”
She looked at me curiously. “Okay, Claire.”