I named him Bud, not after the famous Budweiser Clydesdales, but because it was a time in my life that I needed a buddy. I knew this beautiful animal would become my closest friend, a confidant—he wouldn’t tell anyone my secret.
You see—it’s been almost twenty-five years now. I left home the day after I graduated from high school. Thought I knew more than my parents. I no longer had to answer to anyone. The world was mine for the taking. So I got in my little candy-apple-red Mustang—the car my dad had bought for my graduation—and headed west.
At first, Vegas was a dream come true. Sin City was a fun place. The night life was awesome, no more curfews, no spying from my parents. What could be better?
The second day after arriving, I got a job at The Mirage as a slot attendant. Then after assisting little blue-haired ladies and stinky potbellied men, I decided I’d had enough. I moved over to the classy Bellagio as a cocktail waitress. It was there I met a lot of people, some with money and some who only pretended. The men in that last group were always the most fun. They knew how to pour on the charm, and I knew the more I inflated their male egos, the better my tips would be.
But then I got greedy. I lifted a wallet from one of the high rollers, got caught and lost my job. I quickly learned that will get you nowhere on the strip.
My rent was due. I was broke.
The guy next door let me move in. “Hey,” he said, “I can show you how to make some quick bucks. Just stick with me and you’ll see.” Well, it was quick alright—a quick trip to the county jail. Armed robbery for him. Somehow I was let go, but there went my meal ticket.
The next week, Dad called me. We hadn’t talked in well over a year. “Liz, I’ve got some bad news.” Mom suffered a massive stroke last night and died minutes after we got her to the hospital.”
I thought I would throw up. “Dad,” I blurted, “there is no way I can come.” How could I tell him the real reason I couldn’t show up? He’d even offered to send me a plane ticket.
A waitress friend from the Bellagio let me move in with her, but I was still without a job. Depression set in. I was fat and ugly. Who would hire me now?
Some months later—actually it was August 10, 1995—my world changed. I made my way through the automatic doors. A stormy sky greeted me, and soon I found these blue eyes of mine crying in the heavy mist. Looking down at the sidewalk, I slogged on with no destination in mind. The tears became a flood, and the mist became a downpour. I bent over in anguish, my hands covered my eyes. Soaked and cold, I shook uncontrollably. God, what have I done?
And I still cry.
That was twenty-two years ago. I’m back in my hometown, married to a wonderful man. We live three miles out of Pascagoula in a sprawling antebellum. There’s a flagstone walkway meandering three hundred yards out to where Bud is stabled. I call it my cry station. It’s just me and Bud.
God’s been good to me, in spite of my stupid years. Ken and I have the most incredible daughter. Carey Elizabeth Hamilton is now a junior at Ole Miss—wants to be a social worker.
I’ve asked God’s forgiveness. The thing is, I probably haven’t forgiven myself. And I sure haven’t told anyone! It’s a secret only me and my horse, Bud, know about.
Bud’s lips are sealed, and so are mine.
Last evening, Ken and I were enjoying a movie in our home theater upstairs when the doorbell started the long melodic chime. “Who could that be?” he growled.
“I’ll get it—probably some salesman.” The doorbell started it’s annoying chime again.
I opened the massive hand carved front door and stared deep into the ice-blue eyes of a handsome young man, holding a single red rose. This was no average salesman. As our eyes met, he seemed to be searching for words.
Those eyes!
I stopped breathing, and my heart froze in my chest.
“Mrs. Hamilton,” he finally said, “my name is Buddy….” He stood motionless. “Uh, Mrs. Hamilton…
“Yes?” I choked.
“I’m Buddy Wayne Garcia.
“I…
“I was born August 10, 1995…