Vantage and Expectations

I had odds on him being gone by first light, and really, given the high probability he’d turn out to be incompetent with a shovel, I wouldn’t count it as any big deal.
If he were gone, I could make an easy summation of what it meant; one really bad day: Torn up flower bed, broken down barn, worn-out tractor clutch, ruined tablecloth, broken plate, sore feelings, one pair of cover-alls, a whole lot of wasted scrambling around. And I would be able to tell the story of that feckless, block-headed gypsy. As they say, “a stitch in time saves nine.”
If he were still there, well, what then would it mean? I took a shotgun with me in case he was there and I realized for certain I didn’t want him to be. I kind of relished the idea of seeing his backside running away down the drive, moving unencumbered by the damped flywheel choke that kicked in right before the yoke is placed on such a beast.
So I waited until after sunrise to venture out to the barn.
What made me think he’d be gone? I had detected a sullen, nervous, unhappiness in him toward the end of dinner which I found uncharacteristic in the type of pontificating boor I had earlier decided he was. And I couldn’t make him talk about his friends, and how he had come to be chasing a tiny man down the alley.
I threw the door open, and the first thing I saw was his hand up, holding off that crazy mare, who was flaring her nostrils at him.
“Morelle! Get off of him! – Don’t mind that crazy-ass horse; she’s been in heat ever since I got her back to health! … Gee, I’m sorry, I would have warned you …” I put the gun at my side. “I bought her at auction … the NYC Pound said she was meandering through the tunnel traffic at Varick Street, out of her mind; she raves like a madwoman to anyone who looks at her. She’s filled out and glossed up and got her sass back, but there’s no accounting for her manners.”
I patted her withers and she pulled away.
“Bitch.”
“Now, Morelle, that’s a fine ‘Thanks for the oats!’ – You, you all right there?”
He nodded, still bleary and confused.
“You must be sore, after yesterday. Well, have I got a job for you lovebirds! I’ve staked out a section of meadow behind the springhouse – gonna extend the cold cellar! I figure the best way to do it is plow off the top with a small plow ‘til we can’t any more, then switch to shoveling. I brought you a bucket of biscuit-n-eggs, and I’ll get Missy there hooked up to the plow. – I spent half the night tinkering in the shed, and I’m on to something, so I’ll get back to it and check on you at noon.”