Riding Lessons

  All of which makes it even more important that she not find out what's going on at the stable.

  I spend much of the morning plugging rags in the holes of the sinking wreck; or, to be more precise, picking up truckload after truckload of bagged shavings.

  Afterward, I help Carlos and P. J. empty them into the stalls. I have something akin to a panic attack when I see how many bags we go through--it's like watching money hemorrhage to the floor in a cloudy burst of dust. Each stall essentially swallows two bags, and at the end of it, the shavings still aren't as thick as I'd like.

  I seriously consider leaving the horses in the pastures until the regular shipment arrives, but this just isn't feasible. For one thing, the people coming for lessons would have to truck out to the pasture to retrieve their ride du jour. In this heat, they'd be sure to complain, and my experience with the Bermans has made me nervous about customer relations.

  I suppose if I were clever enough, I would keep four or five stalls made up and then rotate the day's school horses, but just the thought of all that organization gives me a headache.

  When I tell the guys to pick rather than strip the stalls until I get this sorted out, I catch P. J. shaking his head. Not in defiance, but in a "My God, what have you done" sort of way. I choose to ignore this, and slip up to my office to check the board agreements for people who've specified extra bedding for their horses. Then I go downstairs and empty a third bag into those stalls. What I don't need is more boarders pulling out in a huff.

  The hay arrives in the early afternoon in a tall wagon. It's a rickety contraption, taller than it is wide, and threatens to tip when it rounds the corner onto our drive. As it winds past the house, my heart is racing. Please oh please don't look out the window, Mutti. Please be doing something else.

  The highway robber is not actually with them, but I growl anyway, particularly as I write and hand over the check. With any luck, his men will go back to him and report how happy his latest customer is. Not that he seems to care.

  I care, though. At this rate, we're blowing through money like nobody's business.

  As penance for snapping at the highway robber's men, I help the guys load the hay into the loft.

  Loading hay is hard repetitive work. For three hours we do the same thing, over and over and over: Manuel throws a bale to Fernando, who tosses it to me. I toss it onto the conveyor, and then, at the top, Luis takes it off. He tosses it to P. J., who tosses it to Carlos, who stacks it with the others in the loft.

  Again and again I lean over, hook my fingers under twine, straighten up and toss, all in the blazing heat of the sun. Before twenty minutes have passed, there are tiny bits of hay in my hair, my nose, and worst of all, my bra. My arms ache, I itch, and I smell bad.

  We work without talking, but that's okay. Writing the check for the hay put me into a bit of a panic, and I'm refining my battle plan in my head.

  I'll be careful. I'll be frugal. I'll switch to generic wormer. I'll pull the back shoes off all the school horses. Add that to the deposit money I plan to collect from our new boarders and the credit-card trick I figured out yesterday, and I might be able to make up the money by tax time, which I'm sincerely hoping will be the next time Mutti decides to take a peek at the way things are in the state of Denmark.

  In the afternoon, the horses are inexplicably crazy, galloping around their pastures like a single amorphous cloud, all thundering legs and raised tails. The ground is hard, and soon they're engulfed in a billowing cloud of dust. It's an impressive sight, and everyone who is outside stops to watch.

  I have no idea what got them started. It could be the wind; it could be the abrupt change in herd hierarchy set off by the removal of the Berman horses; it could just be that one of them got started and the rest followed suit. Whatever it was, the two herds are pounding across the hard ground in their respective pastures at such a speed that I hold my breath when they approach a fence, picturing shards of board embedded in chests. But they always make it, changing direction at the last moment as one, like a flock of birds.

  Hurrah, too, is in full flight, although a fence separates him from the herd of geldings. He gallops from one end of his pasture to the other and then locks his front legs straight ahead of him, coming to such an abrupt stop he almost sits on his haunches. Then he turns and trots back along the fence, whinnying to the galloping herd and holding his tail aloft, the way Harry used to. The resemblance is so striking it takes my breath away. I've seen him panicked, I've seen him fearful, I've seen him rearing and bucking and trying to flee, but I've never seen him move like this. He swings around, strutting and proud, kicking each leg out in front of him like a Saddlebred. His nostrils are so flared I see flashes of red, and his neck is curved in a way that is excruciatingly, achingly familiar. He's simply gorgeous. Gorgeous, and so dirty you can hardly see his stripes.

  Ten minutes later, I've got him tied to the outdoor wash rack, blasting him with the hose.

  The stream hits Hurrah with such force that much of it splashes back onto me. It's worse when I lift the hose to rinse his back, because the water runs along the back of my arm and inside my shirt.

  As I move the hose back and forth, he dances a little in the cross-ties, stamping his striped hooves in the soapy runoff and jerking his head. The water gathers and darkens in the slight depression along his spine, then cascades over his rib cage and flanks. Slowly, the gray stripes give rise to white.

  When I turn the stream down to rinse his face, Hurrah flaps his lips, trying to drink from the hose. This strikes me as hilarious, and I obligingly hold it in front of his muzzle while he sucks water from the air.

  Jean-Claude appears beside us, leading Bergeron in from the outdoor arena. He's there before I know it, and I almost get him with an errant blast.

  "Whoa," he says, ducking.

  "Oh, sorry," I say, wiping my forehead with the back of my wrist. A glop of soapy lather falls onto my boot.

  "Not a problem," he says, stepping backward. He stands watching for a moment, silent and intent. Then he smiles. "So whose horse is the marshmallow now?"

  My eyes tear up instantly. Instead of answering, I turn and slap Hurrah's wet shoulder affectionately.

  "From that to this, in just a few days," says Jean-Claude, waving out toward the pasture and then at Hurrah. "Love, patience, and time. Just like I--" He stops. His eyes land on my wet shirt.

  I look down hastily. My shirt, while still opaque, is plastered against my front. Ah, so what. Surely Jean-Claude's seen breasts before. I look up again, deciding to ignore the state of my shirt and challenging him to do the same.

  "So, you are getting ready to ride, yes?" asks Jean-Claude, eyes locked firmly on my face.

  "Of course not," I say.

  "Why?"

  "I already told you. I don't ride anymore."

  Jean-Claude clucks sadly. "Ah, I have upset the lady. Apologies."

  Flummoxed, I turn back to Hurrah and scrub the base of his mane with the soapy sponge.

  "In that case, you won't mind if I ride him?"

  "What?" I freeze, mid-scrub. I look at Jean-Claude, astounded that he would even suggest such a thing. Every fiber of my being screams out against the idea.

  "Well somebody should," he says, shrugging lightly. "I was watching him earlier, from the outdoor arena. He's a mover, a powerful boy. I would like to see how much he knows."

  "I don't think so, Jean-Claude."

  "Why not?"

  "I don't want to push it. His feet are still recovering," I say, but my face is burning with the lie.

  "So, let's lunge him instead."

  I search in vain for a response.

  Jean-Claude misreads my silence for assent, and breaks into a smile.

  "Ah, good," he says, straightening Bergeron's lead rope in his hands. "Bring him into the arena when you are finished. I will wait for you there."

  His eyes wander down to my wet shirt for another moment. Then he clicks to Bergeron and leads him into the stable.


  After Jean-Claude leaves, I continue in slow motion. I paint hoof conditioner on Hurrah's feet, and then use the clippers to trim his whiskers and the backs of his fetlocks. I spray ShowSheen on his coat, and then rub it in with the palms of my hands. When I run out of all other tasks, I massage Cowboy Magic into his mane and tail and comb it through meticulously.

  I'm procrastinating. I know this. What I don't know is why. I should be dying to lunge him, because it will reveal what he knows. But maybe that's the point. Maybe I don't want to know anymore, and I don't understand this, because I've been chasing the truth down like a bloodhound all summer.

  In the end, I empty three bags of shavings into one of the stalls left empty by the Bermans, and put Hurrah inside. Then I stand with him, running my hands over his sleek, shiny coat as he munches his gold-plated hay.

  I hear footsteps coming down the aisle, and just as I'm wondering how to explain to Jean-Claude that I'm not going to lunge him after all, am never going to allow anyone to lunge him, ever, I hear a voice with a French accent coming over the sound system:

  "Okay, now walk down the center line, and ride a right leg yield. No, his haunches are trailing. Feel how his spine is bent? Ride through your horse, picture the straight line. Better, better. Okay, when you hit the track, start the trot please..."

  The footsteps in the aisle belong to Dan. He sees me through the bars of the stall and steps inside.

  "Hey, Beautiful," he says. He kisses the back of my neck. "I come bearing gifts."

  "Oh, don't," I say, flinching because I'm sure I taste salty. "I'm entirely gross."

  "You're gorgeous."

  "Oh, give over!"

  "You are."

  "I'm filthy, soaking wet, and I've got hay stuck in my hair."

  Dan stands back and surveys me. "All right then, your horse is gorgeous."

  I laugh. "With that I can agree. So what did you bring me?"

  "Two things. Flowers, which I dropped off at the house with your mother. She asked me to stay for dinner, by the way. I hope you don't mind."

  "I'm delighted," I say, and I am, even though it was Mutti who extended the invitation.

  "And I also brought this," he says, holding out a scanner.

  My heart lurches. "Jesus."

  Dan turns it over in his hands as though it's just another piece of equipment, and then steps forward to Hurrah.

  "Dan..." I start, but I don't know how to finish. How do I tell him that I've changed my mind? That I don't want to know the truth anymore, not only in case he isn't Harry's brother, but also in case he is? I feel like Pandora, with my hand on the latch.

  "I got it from a friend who is in practice with her father. It's kind of a relic, but apparently so is he. He doesn't throw anything away."

  As he speaks, he runs the scanner over Hurrah's withers.

  I should stop him, but I can't move. My breath is coming fast, and my fingers are tingling. "Dan..." I say, as the ceiling of the stall starts to spin. My voice cracks, and I stop to clear my throat. But I can't. There's a lump there now, something I can't swallow past. I think I'm going to suffocate.

  Dan is still standing beside Hurrah, oblivious to my distress. He shakes his head, looking at some distant point in the shavings and continuing to wave the scanner over the base of Hurrah's neck.

  "Nope," he says finally. He turns to me, shaking his head. "Nope, I'm sorry, honey, but there's nothing there."

  He starts to drop his hand, and then it happens. As the scanner passes the top of Hurrah's shoulder blade, it beeps three times.

  Dan freezes, looks at the scanner, and then back at me. I stare right back, or think I do, but I can't say for sure because the world is weaving hideously.

  "Well, what do you know," he says.

  Outside the stall, I hear a clank and a clatter as something hits the concrete. I spin around and see P. J. sprinting toward the exit at full speed. His shovel lies rocking in the middle of the aisle.

  Less than a second later, Carlos also runs past, followed closely by Luis.

  "What the--?" I stick my head into the aisle and look toward the exit.

  It's Pappa. He's two hundred yards from the stable, sitting in the middle of the laneway, absolutely still.

  "Oh God. Pappa!" I shout, breaking into a run. Behind me, I hear the stall door slam shut. Then I hear footsteps, and Dan passes me, his long legs swallowing the distance.

  He reaches Pappa before I do. By the time I get there, Dan is leaning over with his hand on Pappa's shoulder, looking into his face. P. J., Carlos, and Luis cluck like hens in the background, peering in and around Pappa's chair for visible signs of a problem and discussing their findings in Spanish.

  I come to a stop beside him, gasping. "What's going on? Pappa, are you all right?" Pappa's face is frozen, his mouth slightly open. His lips and tongue look dry.

  I turn to Dan. "What's going on? Is he all right?" I search his face for an answer, but he just shakes his head.

  I look my father up and down, but don't see anything particularly unusual. There is a bag of carrots on his lap, partially spilled, and his right arm lies on top of them, as though he'd tried to pick them up but couldn't. Pappa's jaw moves.

  "Shh, quiet, guys," I say, holding a hand up. "Pappa, what happened? Were you coming to see Tazz?"

  He nods twice, a stiff, wooden gesture.

  "Is there a problem with your chair?"

  The same wooden gesture, but this time from side to side. Then I realize what happened. He was not trying to pick up the carrots that spilled from the bag. His hand fell away from the controls, spilling the carrots, and he didn't have the strength to lift it back up.

  I bring a hand to my mouth to choke back the sound that rises in my throat, but it's too late. It's already out.

  Dan crouches in front of Pappa. "Did you get stuck out here? Is that what happened?"

  I turn away, hastily wiping tears from my eyes.

  "Do you want me to take you somewhere?" Dan continues from behind me.

  I turn back, sniffing and weepy. "He wants to see Tazz. He comes every night. Do you know where Tazz is?"

  Dan nods. "Yes," he says quietly. He rises to his feet. "Anton, is that where you want to go?"

  Again, the wooden nod, and then, through the blur of my tears, I see Dan step behind Pappa's wheelchair and flip the switch that lets him control it from behind. And then, amidst the whirring of the motor and the crunching of the gravel, he takes my father in to see his beloved, grizzled half Percheron, half God-knows-what.

  I go back to the house, bursting through the back door in a state of panic. Mutti is standing at the counter, buttering layers of filo.

  When I tell her what just happened, she drops her head for a moment. Then she sets her pastry brush down on the cutting board and turns to face me.

  I'm still hyperventilating, holding both hands in front of my face and breathing through my fingers.

  Mutti stares at me for a moment, and then goes to the corner cabinet. When she opens the door, an avalanche of white pharmacy bags fall onto the counter. She gathers them hastily and shoves them back in, and then reaches past for a small pill bottle.

  Valium is a marvelous thing. I think you could drop an anvil on my foot and I wouldn't care. Actually, that's a terrible misrepresentation. What I'd do is regard the anvil and my injured foot and analyze the situation calmly.

  It takes enough of the edge off that, for the first time, I'm able to look at Pappa's illness without being overwhelmed by panic. It doesn't mean I can look it squarely in the eye, but it does mean I can sidle up to the edge and then hesitate for just a moment before shrinking away.

  That one moment is long enough for me to see--for the first time, and with blinding clarity--that this is not happening to me. It's happening to Pappa.

  By unspoken agreement, we spend all of dinner pretending nothing happened.

  Under the cloak of sedation, I manage to look Pappa in the eye a few times, but each time I do, I find an
unbearable weight in the knowledge of his suffering and have to turn away.

  But this is just one stratum of the subtle, complex nuances that pass among us. They're hard to keep track of, since they shift and ebb like underwater currents.

  Eva is sullen and brooding, because she still hates Dan for firing her. She also hates me for grounding her, and Mutti for backing me up. Jean-Claude she loves, because today he let her ride Bergeron. Jean-Claude seems to have something against Dan, although God knows what, and Mutti--well, against all odds, Mutti seems almost content.

  It may all be an act, I just don't know--but she smiles serenely from her place beside Pappa, and reaches over occasionally to squeeze his clawlike hand.

  Pappa seems at peace now too, although he doesn't eat a single bite. The stark panic that was on his face this afternoon has been replaced by something almost like tranquility. Perhaps Mutti has crumbled a Valium in his wine, and Jesus--why not? If I can't face what's happening to him, how much worse is it for him?

  Jean-Claude needles Dan, and Dan parries politely, glancing at me repeatedly through the bouquet he brought, which Mutti has set on the table in a blue glass jug.

  "So I hear you run some kind of shelter," says Jean-Claude. The edge of his lip is curled, as though he smells something distasteful.

  "Yes. A horse rescue center."

  "And you are a vet too, no?"

  "Yes," says Dan, setting his napkin beside his plate and staring at Jean-Claude. I don't know where this is going, and clearly neither does Dan. Jean-Claude knows that Dan is a vet. He's our vet. Even if he's never treated Bergeron and Tempeste, he's been around the stable enough that Jean-Claude must know who he is.

  "You are a busy man," continues Jean-Claude.

  "You could say that."

  "That mustn't leave you with much time for a personal life." Jean-Claude leans back in his chair, his eyes narrowed. He picks up his wineglass and swirls the ruby liquid at the bottom.