Forward: I have never enjoyed the process of writing more, than diving into this first fiction piece. I hope you might take a look at The Jacket from the beginning. I breathe-in the world with Susana. A complex, yet radiant, heroine, living out the real life stories of so many.
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“If today was not a crooked highway
If tonight was not a crooked trail
If tomorrow wasn't such a long time
Then lonesome would mean nothing to you at all”
Tomorrow Is a Long Time — Bob Dylan
The jacket, tattered in shades of dirty whites and brown peppered grays, like her own hair, had been a gift, or so she thought, from Tony, just before he dumped her. Susana suspected he’d been having an affair and she knew it when the jacket swallowed her like a thrift store bargain. There was a washed-out price tag, like her, still hanging on. The deeper she reflected, the more she realized he never paid any attention to the details that made her her. Having Mark around, Susana realized, in the most unassuming way, what it actually felt like to “be seen.” It was just there gnawing at her tough exterior. With every day that passed, she slowly eased away from the wall.
“She's no longer the forgotten dog in the corner. She's my shadow, my joy, my friend."
— unknown
Tony’s past was obviously blurred by their whirlwind romance. Why didn’t I question it. Get to know him better? she thought. The high school prom Queen to Tony’s King. Was she the woman who Tony sued? Who was this Queen? she thought. They obviously got back together, or never really broke apart, as high school sweethearts tend to do.
And Melanie. His wife? Susana couldn't shake the image of the pathetic woman with Tony — or five years ago, when she picked up that damn jacket, dumped on the street in front of her home, wondering where the Amazon woman in the tire pile went? Susana wanted her to be Tony's lover. It justified her anger toward the hoards of animal abusers. And Tony.
She remembered throwing the dirty jacket in the back of her truck, with some other giveaways — then driving them to the Goodwill in Bakersfield.
And what about Mark’s sister? Or the young man he hired to watch over the family farm? Susana lived halfway between believing in goodness and constant suspicion.
Mark once described Susana to Jake (the kid who worked for him at the wood shop) as a person who truly believed that a famous animal advocate or movie star, would actually write her back, or pick up the phone. She spent countless hours reaching out for animal placement, once telling Mark about an equine rescue she was on, where a famous actor showed up to help transport these tortured horses to his ranch in Malibu. “She did that. With the worst internet service too. Ran back and forth to the library when she got a lead. Wrote emails. Filled out forms. Susana bugs everyone she can get her hands on. She believes in goodness you know?”
“She’s a real life heroine Jake. She’s the real deal,” Mark said, furiously sanding his latest creation.
“Absorbed in this world, you’ve made it your burden. Rise above this world.
There is another vision.” — Rumi
Susana’s trips to Clovis were weekly now, as her brothers called more often to say Papa was getting worse. Her beloved animals were also aging it seemed. Just like me, Susana thought, with an all too depleting wave sweeping over her again. More grief on the horizon. She was grateful Mark was there to watch over her beloved rescues, otherwise she wouldn’t know what to do? It’s not easy caring for discarded souls. She wasn’t easy either. She had become a tool, an audience to every thing and every one. Endless calls for an animal in need of placement kept her awake at night. Single handedly Susana worked to get fosters, mostly from her church, where she started a program that worked with the local shelters. Some fosters turned into foster fails, while others were adopted or sent back to the shelter to live out whatever days they had left. High kill was an understatement. Historical, in fact. It just about broke Susana’s already troubled mind, but she never gave up.
How ironic I married a breeder, but became a rescuer, her mind upside-down as usual.
But like anything, that gets generalized, the entire pet industrial complex has been a mix of many failures. From lack of due diligence by authorities not adhering to laws on the books for illegal breeding, over breeding, licensing, abuse, etc., social media fame/influence. The price of standard healthy pet care, on top of an animal industrial drug and food complex, has skyrocketed. Supply and demand. Pet grooming costs are now akin to human grooming costs as well. Fluffy must look good for his million likes and rep all those expensive products. You can’t just fall in love with a shelter animal, take it home and expect to be able to afford it’s care. In many cases this leads to dumping or shelter returns.
Used to be a teenager could adopt a “first” pet and work a paper route to care for it.
She often remembered her favorite old vet, Dr. Ray, as he was known, when she was growing up in the 70s. His office remained untouched until the day he was forced to retire — 55 years after he came back from Vietnam, where he served as a veterinarian, and dog handler of over 70 working labradors. A museum time capsule of musty smells, spindled antique chairs, wood paneling, an artifact table with bones, rocks and gem collections scattered in dust under lights, walls layered with articles and pictures of him walking waist high through murky water, his wet war uniform, dogs swimming by his side — his office was loaded with life. Proudly showing off the latest catch on the river with old buddies, delivering calves and foals, out on the local farms. You could have stayed in Dr. Ray’s office all day and not seen enough interesting things. His old secretary would write up an invoice, ripped from a small pad, and you’d never leave that office over $50, medicine and all, usually bottled by the doc himself, straight from his supply. Before he closed shop, the most anyone had ever paid was 85 bucks. Spay or neuter? 20 bucks. He would always give you a good, healthy talking to, while staring long and hard at your dog — or whatever animal you’d bring him. Farm stops? $40. Susana knew this because Mama had called Dr. Ray one day when a young, pregnant, stray dog had wandered onto their citrus farm right in the middle of birth complications. Poor thing. Luckily mama was outside hanging laundry. Doc came right away, saved the mom and most of the babies. In fact, this is where Susana remembered the idea of getting dogs fostered or adopted. Mama called all the ladies at church and talked most of them into taking a puppy — once they were ready.
Susana was digging through a shoe box of memories. Holding a hand-typed note, it read, “I am sorry for your loss. Rudy was a beautiful cat and very loved by your family. May you rest knowing he is now at peace,” With sympathy, Dr. Ray.
“We have multiplied our possessions, but reduced our values. We talk too much, love too seldom, and hate too often." — George Carlin
Then there’s the illegal street breeders. Cities, like Clovis, riddled with puppies for sale in cardboard boxes, or lying helpless on the sidewalk, mothers tied-up or living in cages too small, separated from their babies, ready to be force-bred again, while their homeless people are splayed out convulsing over their drug of choice. Or the backyard unlicensed breeders who pile puppies into crates and drive them to the public shelters, in the back of their open trucks. Unwanted. Bad batch. No sales. No bueno. Goodbye. Many ripped from their mothers before being fully weaned. Ask a local rescue how many of these babies, and often their used up parents, are dumped at their gates late at night? — while the law abiding, inspected, license paying professional breeders continue to supply brand new easy pets. $5k? $10K? No problemo. Plenty of money for their food, outfits, care, and spaw treatments.
Vet schools are full of wide-eyed students, hoping for a medical doctor’s lifestyle, and many a wise business person has caught on, leaving the average Joe unable to afford anything but a goldfish. “Think about it. How easy and affordable is this?” as Susana advocates to local veterinarians, and city shelter staffs, to offer inexpensive wellness checks and free spay/neuter clinics once a month and a shelter catch and release program for wild cats. “The good you could be contributing to — to protect so many animals from more abuse, more dumping, more euthanasia.”
Lately, she was reading about the wild horses. More anguish. Couldn’t there be a spay and neuter program for them too? is this rocket science? she thought. Dart guns vs. sickening overly expensive helicopter chases and the nefarious obliteration of our most treasured. Our most free.
“How did we get to a place where we are this desensitized? this void? this sick, this evil?” Susana asked Mark, upon returning home from her walk. She was getting ready to head out to Clovis again. “Whoa, that’s a lot,” he said. “Lack of faith? the spirit of goodness? I mean, you said it Susana. I don’t know. Life isn’t different. History keeps repeating. But there’s something so hollow about people today — you know?” he said. “It’s like their souls have been torn out.”
“Yeah, I spend so much time talking or thinking about what I actually see, and you know? it’s the stuff that goes on behind closed doors that I have to stop seeing. I have to pray more at night to shut down the nightmares,” she said. “Like what,” he said. “Remember that house in Caliente? the one where over 100 dogs and cats were found dead a few years ago” she went on. “God rest their souls. Starved to death, mostly in cages, all tucked inside a small house, way out on some huge property, nothing around it. It took a delivery worker to call the police. The guy was so overcome with nausea, when the owner opened the front door, he told the news outlet he got in his truck and lost his stomach” Susana was shaking her head. Mark went silent.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I could have done better. I didn’t need to stay away for such long periods of time. I should never have been so trusting. It hurts bad Susana,” Mark’s face was staring down at Sarge.
“Make it make sense Beauty?” she said, not looking at Mark, but at Beauty’s blue eyes staring back at her. “Miha, with the most loving, gentle eyes.” Susana wishing she had had a child of her own. She wished she was a better domestic person. A better cook. She wished she had someone to surprise. Her mind trailed off. “Oh how I adore you,” rubbing Beauty’s soft ears. “And you know I appreciate our friendship Mark. I really do. I don’t know how I’d see my family, Papa, without you. Thank you. I mean it.”
The cats were wandering in, one by one, after their usual mouse chase following Susana and the dogs through the neighborhood.
Heading to the car, she looked back at Mark and shouted, “you know I’d love you if I weren’t so old!” He turned towards her trailer with the glint of a smile. He knew what she meant.
If only he could feel the flush of her face. What on earth did I just say? driving away as fast as she could.
Papa wasn’t so good. Francisco Jr. and Carlos came to meet Susana and told her that his heart was giving out. The possibility of a stroke or heart attack was imminent. They warned her he was saying little to nothing anymore. She hugged them tight, took a seat by Papa’s bed and held his hand.
Her brothers stayed awhile, sorting through some of the c.d.s piled up on Papa’s nightstand. Carlos popped in Lucho Gatica. El Reloj began to play. The room fell extra silent. Susana saw Papa’s big smile when she gave the music player to him one Christmas. She had saved and saved for it. The first thing he did was play Lucho, reaching for Mama’s hand. She remembered how tightly they held each other. The twinkling lights. The tree, too chubby for the room. She laughed inside. He was so proud. Looking at him now, staring ahead — her heart collapsed into a million pieces.
On the drive home Susana knew she had to accept whatever was going to happen. Wolves, aliens appeared in her head. They come for you don’t they, she thought. To steal your mind. Your body. She turned on the radio. Her favorite song from high school was blaring. Turning it down, she made up her mind to go back to the library. Do a little research.
Hands on the wheel at a perfect 10 and 2. You know you’re an idiot right? But I’m tired of the pain. Where did I go wrong? Susana clutched the steering wheel knowing she needed some answers. Just breathe. It was still Sunday.
She’d begin tomorrow.
“Susana, hey, how’s your dad? all good here, but I noticed Chuck is very lethargic.” Mark was looking at Susana like he wanted to hold her. “I see the clock ticking. Papa says nothing now,” staring past Mark at Chuck, “and I find it,” she winced up, mouth crunched, eyes filling, “Really painful. So very painful. Mark.”
He reached out to hold her and for the first time since Tony left her, she began to sob in the arms of a man who only wanted to be kind.
Pushing back, wiping the tears from her eyes, Susana looked over at Chuck and said, “I don’t know how to live without both of my parents here — on earth. I just don’t Mark.”
The animals fell to slumber, bird chatter hushed, the drone of the highway paused, and the sun dipped. They sat together on the glider Mark assembled for her last summer. Time expanded. “I feel the same,” he said.
She took his hand.
Morning came, as it always did, with Susana squished between the tiniest crew on the pullout table bed, and louder than normal snoring came from the floor on the other side of the trailer. Coffee in hand, she completed the tasks and headed to work. She’d take her lunch at the library and go back after work. Mark said he’d stop by her place for lunch and leave Sarge to hang out with her crew — then check in again later so she could stay at the library til closing at 7p.m.
A delightful spring breeze was still holding in early summer.
First thing Susana did on her lunch break was look up the dog breeding case with Tony and “the woman” he sued. She went cold. Right there before her was the Amazon woman in the tire field with the poor old mama dog. The one she threw the jacket at. “Oh my” she said. “It was her” looking around the library. “Era ella!” she cupped her hand over her loud mouth.
Next —> CLOVIS HIGH SCHOOL GRADUATING CLASS OF 1976, YEARBOOK PICTURES.
I told the village of wolves to stop. And look at me now. I’m on the hunt. Susana could hear the buzzing in her brain.
Next —> a pdf. Classmates.com
She had to buy it.
And there they were, Tony Castillo, Prom King, and the lady he sued, Silvia Inés Vega. Queen.
Next —> vegadoodles.com
Silvia Vega was all over the local news. Pictures of her with doodle puppies, pictures of her with Tony with doodle puppies, Olin Mills pictures with big hair, those ridiculous plaid sweaters, and a fake Christmas tree, sitting cross-legged with doodle puppies in stockings. Susana began to giggle. FLASH: pictures with Silvia’s mouth open over a mic on the courthouse steps. FLASH: pictures with Tony looking vindicated, fist up, in a plaid shirt. As she kept scrolling, the same pictures Susana found on Tony’s website, goldendoodleacres.com, appeared with a different woman all together.
A smaller version of Silvia Vega.
Vega Doodles website stated “closed for business permanently.”
Silvia was tall and glamorous, in a strange time capsule kind of way, too. She was absolutely the woman in the tire field. Susana never forgot her face, although older — same as high school.
Trying to piece this together. Silvia had been Tony’s high school sweetheart. They must have started a business together. Never married ? lovers. So when their partnership, or whatever it was, was over, Silvia went out on her own. Then one day she bought a dog from Tony and bred it. It all made sense now, she thought. Even though her business was shut down, she continued to backyard breed. It was five years ago Susana encountered that woman. He was with her the whole time he was with me. Scrolling faster, eyes scanning. And look at him now — yelling at that poor woman in Clovis — drowning in that disgusting jacket.
Susana kept digging, looking at the clock.
There she was again with Tony. This time, her name under the picture with his: MELANIE CASTILLO. They were at some fancy black-tie event. It was her. The 80s woman with Tony the first time she researched him in the library. The woman Detective Villalobos said was Tony’s disturbed wife. The “gross” jacket. How can this be? What is happening?
Susana was so confused. But she had to get back to work.
Several hours later…
“Hello, yeah. Mark. What? No. I mean thank you,” she hung up, jumped out of the car, ran into the library and slid into the computer seat. Thank God it’s open, she thought, But if it was “thee jacket?” Tony definitely gave it to Silvia. Then to me when she rejected it. Pathetic. Susana was shaking. Silvia was tall, big boned. In a good way. Oh this is nonsense, she was rubbing her temples.
Scrolling faster —> Wife of Tony Castillo. Arrested. Bakersfield. Bakersfield? Disorderly conduct and theft. Found passed out in the alley behind the Good Will. Pictured: intoxicated, pulling at a jacket with an officer tugging back. Just underneath this story is another headline “Patient goes missing from Bakersfield Behavioral.” Picture. Oh my God. Tony’s wife Melanie. The jacket. She stole it. From the Good Will?? Where I dropped all that stuff off five years ago?
“How was your library adventure?” Mark greeted her at the gate. He had Sarge and was ready to go home. They were finally in the heat of summer where orders were stacking up, but he never minded helping Susana.
Breathless, forgetting she was zipped tight like a clam, “Mark, you’d never believe it. About five years ago, I took a bunch of clothes to the Good Will, in Bakersfield, including this ridiculously huge fur jacket. I don’t have the el coco…” Rubbing her temples again, “oh man my head hurts. What I discovered. The story behind it. It’s honestly shocking. “Wait. What?” Mark was so confused. Out of breath, talking way too fast, Susana continued, “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, I know. And I don’t know if you ever will. But I can tell you we are all, how you say it, Seis grados de separación.” “Wait. Susana. What? I don’t understand. You always speak in Spanish when you’re excited” he said, slightly amused.
“We are six degrees of separation Mark. Our stories are more connected than we know,” Susana knew he was going to need a better explanation and she knew that she wanted to know more about him.
For the first time in decades — they were both vulnerable.
Smiling at her, Mark said, “Okay Susana. I look forward to hearing more about all this small world stuff tomorrow. Maybe. If you want to talk about it I mean,” walking slowly to his car as she followed him.
You know,” he said shyly, turning around, “I’ve thought of you all day today. I mean I know we’ve been getting a little closer and I don’t know what it means or where it’s…” “going?” she filled in the word.
“Going,” he continued. “All I know is tomorrow is a long time.”
She stood taller than usual, with her long refined hair in a braid, and said, “and all I know,” she took a deep breath, “is… I like hearing the sound of my own name.”
She watched him drive away until his car disappeared.
“I can't see my reflection in the waters
I can't speak the sounds that show no pain
I can't hear the echo of my footsteps
Or remember the sound of my own name”
Tomorrow Is a Long Time — Bob Dylan
I dedicate Chapter 8 to heroine Clare Staples, of Sky Dog Ranch Sanctuary and the newly released documentary, Blue Zeus. A must watch on Prime video.
“Wild horses. They are freedom, they are independence, they are the original renegades. They belong to no man. Their freedom is our freedom.” — Blue Zeus
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