Riding Lessons

  Maybe I shouldn't be surprised. I didn't marry Roger because of an overwhelming need to be with him. I married Roger because Harry was dead and I was paralyzed, and I no longer knew which way was up. Before the accident, it had been so clear, but afterward, it was as if someone had turned the pencil upside down, erased my future, and then casually brushed the crumbled remnants off the page.

  We'll still get married, he told me. If we have to, we'll adopt. And while I didn't remember agreeing to get married in the first place, I was so grateful that he wasn't running away from me--me, this hideous head in a fishbowl, this brain on a platter--that I just went along with it.

  As horrible as it is to say, in some ways, his leaving feels like a second chance.

  Chapter 9

  With infallible teenage logic, Eva expects me to drive her to work the next morning, even though she is officially not talking to me.

  "Mom, come on!" she hollers through the crack in my door, proving that, at the very least, she's still yelling at me.

  I sigh, because I'm actually getting a little sick of all this.

  I roll out of bed and accidentally send Harriet toppling to the floor. She lies in a bewildered heap. By way of apology, I lean over to scratch her cheek.

  As Eva and I climb into the van, Brian's blue Passat crawls around the side of the house. He waves, and I nod curtly. I suppose it's not his fault I associate him with Pappa's illness, but I do. I can barely bring myself to be civil.

  Eva looks pointedly out the passenger window for the entire length of the trip. I'm supposed to ask her what's wrong and then ease it out of her against gradually weakening denials, but I'm simply not up for that this morning.

  As a result, she is even more foul when we arrive at the center, and jumps out almost before the van has stopped. She slams the door and storms across the yard without so much as a single backward glance.

  I park and go looking for Dan. I find him in the main barn, standing beside a big draft horse with a tube of wormer in his hand. The horse is an enormous dark bay with a wide blaze running down his face. He's absolutely huge, probably more than eighteen hands.

  Dan breaks into a grin when he sees me. "Annemarie! Hi!"

  "Hi there," I say. I put both hands in my pockets and lean against the wall, watching.

  Dan sticks a thumb in the gap between the horse's front and rear teeth, and then with his other hand squirts the wormer into the back of the animal's mouth. Instantly, the horse yanks his head up, pulling on the cross-ties and stretching his top and bottom lips as far from his teeth as he can. He looks like a braying donkey.

  I burst out laughing. "Oh God, what a face!"

  "Not his favorite thing," says Dan, taking a step backward and tossing the empty tube into a garbage can some distance away. He watches to make sure it goes in, and then wipes his hands on his jeans. Then he pats the horse's neck loudly. The big horse continues to flap his lips.

  "Ah, poor baby," I say. I approach and reach up to stroke his whiskered face. "What's his name?"

  "Ivan. Ivan the Terrible."

  "Is he really? Terrible, that is?"

  "Not at all. It's his registered name."

  "He's registered?" I ask, surprised. I step back, taking a second, closer look at this Ivan.

  "You'd be surprised at some of the horses who turn up here. A horse just has to be unlucky, not an old nag."

  Dan snaps a lead onto Ivan's halter and then drops the cross-ties back against the wall. They hit--first one, and then the other--with a hollow, metallic clank.

  Dan leads Ivan to the door of a stall, and then steps aside. Ivan plods inside, lowering his heavy head and lifting his big, feathered feet carefully over the sliding door track. Then Dan follows him in.

  I approach the door of the stall. "Did you get him at an auction?"

  "No. He was one of three Clydes we got in about a year ago. He was tied in a standing stall for about fifteen years, as far as we can tell. Never saw the light of day. The neighbors didn't even know there were horses on the property." Dan emerges from the stall and hangs Ivan's rust red halter on a hook by the door. It, like the horse, is enormous.

  "Jesus."

  "When the owner finally died, the two daughters found Ivan and the others standing in several years' worth of muck and moldy hay, with the worst case of overgrown hooves I've ever seen. To their credit, the daughters called us instead of sending them to slaughter. One of Ivan's hooves was so overgrown it was curled under. We had to cut off about a foot's worth with an electric saw before we could even begin to fix it, and we're still repairing the damage. Look at the angle of his feet," he says, pointing at one of Ivan's hooves. "Until they get back to normal, if they ever do, he's going to need trimming every two weeks."

  I peer in at Ivan's gargantuan feet. They don't look that bad, but now that Dan has pointed it out, I can see that they are a little more perpendicular to the ground than they should be. "That's a lot for a new owner to take on."

  "Ivan's not up for adoption. He's what we call a pasture ornament."

  I wander over and peer into the next stall. I find myself looking at a palomino rump.

  "Who's this?" I ask.

  "That's Mayflower."

  "She's lovely. What is she? A quarter horse?"

  "Yes."

  "How did you get her?"

  "She was Jill's."

  "Oh," I say. I glance over quickly, wondering if I should pursue this. "Mutti told me you were married."

  Dan looks grim as he hangs Ivan's halter on the hook beside the door. "She did, did she?"

  "Well, actually I asked."

  "Oh." Dan says nothing for several seconds. "What did she tell you?"

  "She said Jill had ovarian cancer."

  Dan has one arm outstretched, and is using it to lean against Ivan's stall. The other is on his hip. He's staring at some faraway point, past and through the stable wall.

  "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up," I say. I'm terrible in these situations. I never know whether people are waiting for me to ask, or wishing I would shut up.

  "No, it's just...hard," he says. "We were trying for a baby. Had been for a couple of years. We went to a fertility clinic, and it came up through routine testing. There were no symptoms. Nothing. By the time we found it, she was full of it."

  "I'm sorry," I say.

  "Yeah," he says. "Me too."

  Now the silence is conspicuous, broken only by the sound of horses shuffling in their stalls.

  "So," I say, with false cheer. "Do you have many pasture ornaments?"

  "Sixteen horses and two donkeys."

  "Jesus," I say.

  "That's aside from the nine horses we have up for adoption. And, of course, the foals. Would you like to meet them?"

  I pause for just a second. I'm woefully behind at the office--we're running low on hay and bedding, and of course payroll is coming around again, but when is it not? Payroll is a never-ending horror, the bane of my managerial existence. But there's nothing that can't wait an hour. Especially an hour spent with Dan.

  "Sure," I say. "Why not?"

  And so begins a tour that is more heartbreaking than I could have ever imagined. Tacked to the door of every stall is a picture of its occupant taken on the day he or she arrived. They are, without exception, beyond belief.

  Ivan's front hoof was as long and curled as a ram's horn; his next-door neighbor was a sack of bones, nearly bald from parasites. There is not one horse that I would have looked at and thought could survive, never mind connected with the sleek, contented creature currently residing in the stall.

  On to the quarantine barn, where the horses are still recovering from their various traumas.

  Eva is standing in the door of a stall, shoveling manure into a muck bucket. When she catches sight of me, she leans her shovel up against the wall and leaves.

  "What's up with her?" asks Dan.

  "Nothing you need to worry about," I say. "It's a mother-daughter thing."

  I m
eet Caspar, a white Arabian gelding who weighed only four hundred pounds when he arrived. Hannah, an emaciated Appaloosa with deep, unexplained gashes on her flanks, who was saved from slaughter two days before she gave birth to a foal. Miracle, Hannah's filly and a miracle indeed, with her tiny velvet muzzle and inquisitive sweetness. The eight foals from the pee farms, who leap and frolic joyously, occasionally accelerating to full gallop for no apparent reason at all.

  "And this is Flicka," Dan says, leading me to the very last paddock. Inside is a slight Arabian mare, all black but for a white strip down her nose that ends in pink. "I'm sure you've heard all about her."

  "No, I haven't," I say.

  "Really? Eva has never mentioned her?"

  "No," I say.

  "I'm surprised. Flicka is her special girl. She grooms her every day. Grazes her on her lunch hour."

  I say nothing, afraid that the sting of pain will come through in my voice.

  "Hey, sweet thing," Dan calls to Flicka. She turns her delicate head, ears perked and inquisitive. She takes a couple of steps toward him, sniffing his outstretched hand with her pink and black nose.

  "So what's Flicka's story?" I say, leaning against the fence. She's a tiny thing.

  "This beautiful girl was a victim of horse tripping."

  "I've never heard of it."

  "It's when you take an usually young, usually Arabian horse, do whatever you need to do to get it galloping full tilt, and then lasso its legs out from under it."

  "What? Where?!" I demand, outraged.

  "Rodeos."

  "Surely that's not legal?"

  "It is in most states. No legislator wants to touch it."

  "Why?"

  "Because it only happens at Mexican-style rodeos, and because most other types of rodeo have cattle tripping, so if you allow that and ban horse tripping, it starts to look like discrimination."

  "All of it should be banned."

  "Of course it should. But it won't be." Dan pauses. "I don't mean to sound defeatist, but I see so many terrible things here. The longer I do this job, the less I like people. The species, of course," he adds grimly. "There are individuals I like just fine."

  At the moment, I'm inclined to agree. I run my hand under Flicka's silky mane, feeling her smooth coat ripple under my fingers. She's tiny and slender, almost certainly a yearling. Even her perfect hooves are in miniature.

  Dan continues. "Flicka here was lucky. When she was thrown, she dislocated a stifle, so they sent her off to slaughter and we intercepted her. Most of the horses end up dying in the ring or else grievously injured. And when that happens, they can spend weeks with untreated injuries on their way to slaughter, because why waste money on a vet for a dead horse?"

  I've never heard Dan sound so bitter, but I understand completely. By the time I leave, I'm prepared to devote my life to these animals.

  In the afternoon, I'm still so distracted I make a mistake in payroll that might inspire P. J. to leave immediately for Argentina if our bank honored the check. Flustered, I shut the program down and toss the whole stack of time sheets into the basket on my desk. I can do it later. I still have almost three days.

  I reach for my mouse, and next thing I know, I'm surfing the Web. I'm spending far too much time at this, but I can't seem to stop. I do it at the house, while waiting for dinner. At night, when I ought to be sleeping. In the morning, as soon as I arrive at the office. It's the promise of finding anything new--a small picture, an old article, a list of scores from some long-ago event.

  I've now got fourteen pictures and a slew of articles on my hard drive. Today I find a couple of interesting articles on microchips and equine mortality insurance. I download three pictures, bookmark the sites, and then find myself staring out the window at the arena.

  Jean-Claude is giving a private lesson. The student is an older gentleman, and he's riding Razzmatazz. In a manner of speaking.

  Tazz is a consummate professional, going at an easy canter even though the man's legs are too far back, which means his body is too far forward, and he's bouncing out of the saddle with every stride. It almost looks as though he's holding onto Tazz's mane. I dread to think what a horse like Harry would have done with this guy.

  "Annemarie?"

  "Hmm? What?" I say, startled at the interruption. I minimize Internet Explorer and turn to see who's at the door.

  It's P. J. He's blinking at me from under the beak of his dirty red cap, entirely unaware of his close brush with wealth.

  P. J. is as grizzled as they come, leathery from years of hard work and hard living. He could be anywhere from thirty-five to sixty-eight. He's a little gnome of a man with a collapsing, sun-darkened face and several missing teeth. But I like P. J. He's good to the horses and he works hard. He's also the self-appointed spokesman of the stable hands.

  "Have you ordered the hay and shavings? We're running real low," he says, with his dark face stuck in the crack of my door.

  Really low, really low. "Uh, no, not yet," I say, suppressing the urge to correct him. "I'll call this afternoon."

  "Okay," he says shyly. "I also need you to come look at the outdoor arenas. I dragged them this morning, so I had to take the jumps down. Now I can't remember how they went up."

  "Ask Jean-Claude. He'll know."

  "He's in lessons until five, and I've got a boarder out there complaining," P. J. says.

  "Okay, no problem," I say. I grab my sunglasses and head downstairs.

  The irate boarder is immediately apparent. She's middle-aged and stout, with exhausted blonde hair and burgundy Aanstadt Das breeches. She takes one look at me, becomes obviously annoyed, and turns back to P. J.

  "I asked for the manager," she booms. Her voice is so adenoidal it causes me to clear my throat.

  "I am the manager, actually," I say, placing myself in front of her. P. J., who had opened his mouth, closes it again and steps backward into the shadows.

  "Where's Ursula?" she says, turning her attention to me. I can't see her eyes, hidden as they are behind Ferragamo sunglasses.

  "I'm her daughter," I say.

  "When is she coming back?"

  "I don't know. She's taking some time off."

  She puts her hands on her hips. "Unbelievable. First, half my lessons get canceled with no explanation. Next thing, I walk in and there's a new trainer. Now there's a new manager. Tell me, what are you planning to change next?"

  "Absolutely nothing," I say. "What did you say your name was?"

  "See? You don't even know who I am."

  I stare at her. She stares back.

  "Dr. Jessica Berman," she says eventually.

  "All right, Jessica--"

  "That's Dr. Berman."

  I collect myself and start again. "All right, Dr. Berman, let's see about getting those jumps set up."

  I head for the door, with P. J. and Dr. Berman in tow. She's easy to keep track of. She leaks a constant stream of complaints like a dinghy with a hole in it.

  "--I suppose that explains why no one told me about Sam's shoulder last week. Also why his salt lick was so filthy. This is supposed to be a full-service barn. I shouldn't have to spend my time rinsing off salt licks and waiting around while somebody sets up jumps."

  "The cut on Sam's shoulder was the size of a dime, but I'll make a note in his file that you'd like us to call you next time." At three in the morning. On Christmas Day. "And the jumps are only down because P. J. just finished dragging the arena, which means you'll be the first person to ride, and the footing--"

  I stop, distracted. Dan's blue pickup is winding its way down the lane, and then disappears behind the house. I glance at my watch, confused. When the pickup reappears in the backyard, Eva climbs out. She shouts something--I can't hear what, although I can tell she's hysterical. Then she slams the door. She runs into the house, slamming that door, too.

  I break into a jog. Behind me, Jessica Berman's complaints continue.

  "--then he should have--what's going on? Where are you g
oing?" She shouts this last, her voice achieving a whole new level of grievance.

  "I'm sorry. I'll be back in a minute," I shout.

  Dan starts to reverse the truck, and then sees me and stops. He waits with the engine running.

  I'm almost a third of the way to the house, but I can still hear her. She's a veritable foghorn: "This is completely intolerable. You'd better think long and hard about how you treat your customers. It's not like you're the only barn in--"

  I stop and turn around, ready to explode. "Oh, for Christ's sake, woman, would you just stick a sock in it?"

  Her jaw drops. P. J.'s eyes widen.

  I have a split second of misgiving, a moment of clarity about what I've just done, and then continue running.

  When I reach the truck, Dan rolls the window down.

  "What's up?" I say. I lean forward, panting, resting a hand on the open window.

  "I had to let Eva go," he says, staring at the windshield.

  "What do you mean? What happened?"

  "I think you should ask her," he says.

  "I'm asking you."

  Dan remains motionless.

  "Dan, tell me what's going on."

  For a moment, I think he's not going to. Then he turns to me. He looks grim. "I caught Eva smoking in the hayloft."

  "What?"

  "A few minutes ago. With another one of the volunteers. Another teenager."

  "You can't be serious." I stare at Dan, willing him to be wrong.

  "Where the hell would she get cigarettes?" I continue. "We're twenty-seven miles from nowhere out here. She doesn't even have a bicycle!"

  "I'm sorry," he says simply.

  "Shit," I say. I take off my sunglasses and run a hand over my face. "Are you absolutely sure?"

  He nods.

  "All right. Well, thanks for letting me know. And for dropping her off."

  He nods, and continues to look at me. It's clear there's something else he wants to say, so I wait.

  "Listen, this may not be exactly the right time to say this, but I really enjoyed last night."

  I laugh.

  "I'm sorry--" Dan says quickly.

  "No, please. Don't be. I did too. I really did. It's just..." I look hopelessly at the back door of the house.

  "I know. I probably should have just called later instead, but..." He pauses, watching his hands on the steering wheel. "I'd like to do it again sometime."