The Georges and the Jewels

by Jane Smiley

  * * *

  Mr. Tacker had come by on a Thursday. On Friday, Brian Connelly ate lunch with Mary A. and Joan. Five minutes after he sat down, Stella got up, took her tray to the trash area, and dumped everything, including the plate, into the trash bin. Then she walked out. Gloria put her hand on my knee and muttered, “We should listen in and tell her everything they say,” so we did.

  Brian talked about his lunch. He opened his brown paper sack and took out everything and lined it up on the table. He had a peanut butter and bacon sandwich on white bread, a navel orange, six carrot sticks, a gingersnap, a napkin, and a carton of milk. His lunch, according to him, was full of protein and vitamins (especially vitamins A and C). A gingersnap was the only really nutritious cookie there is. The two girls didn’t say anything, and I secretly watched Mary A. and Joan while he was explaining this. They kept exchanging glances, which included some raised eyebrows, but when they finished with their lunches, they waited for him. As they passed our table on the way out, Joan said, “Oh, hi, Gloria. Is Stella sick or something?”

  Gloria shrugged. Joan and Mary A. both gave me big show-off smiles and then they frog-marched Brian out of the lunchroom and down the hall. When they were really gone, we jumped up, got rid of our trays, and ran to look for Stella. We found her in the bathroom, of course. Gloria started in. “You can’t believe what they talked about.”

  “He described his whole lunch to them, and it was sitting right there on the table in front of them.”

  “He told them about the difference between plant protein and animal protein.”

  “He said he didn’t have quite enough B vitamins, but he would have more at dinner.”

  “It took him about an hour to peel his orange. He had to peel the whole thing in one piece.”

  But it didn’t work, because she started crying. The bell rang, and we went to class, leaving her there. I guess sometime after that, her mom came and picked her up, and she was counted absent for the rest of the afternoon. The Big Four paid no attention to me, but they were loud, and Joan and Mary N. got sent to the principal’s office for passing notes. By the end of the day, I was tired of school all over again.

  I can’t say I’d planned to defy the righteous authority of my father. Although I had refused to ride Ornery George before, I wasn’t all that clear in my own mind whether my refusal still stood. I rode Blue Jewel and Black George with no problems, one in my western saddle and one in my English saddle. We weren’t yet jumping Black George, but I was trying to make him go around the way the pony had in the hack class, even and smooth, going into the corners and never leaning to the inside. I practiced holding a rein in each hand, bending my elbows, thumbs up, heels down, back straight, body square.

  When I got off Black George, I saw that Daddy had Ornery George tied up and groomed and my western saddle on him, all cinched up and ready to go. Ornery George looked at me out of the corner of his eye, but he didn’t turn his head. I put my hand on the stirrup, and he switched his tail. Daddy was bent under him, picking his foot and talking. “He’s not a bad fellow. Willful, a bit, but not actually unkind. You’ll do …” Daddy let the foot drop, and George shifted his weight toward me. This was another sign, him pushing his haunch at me. I could read these signs just as easily as another horse might—they meant, I’m the boss. They also meant, as far was I was concerned, that he was ready, and even eager, to show me a thing or two. That was the difference between the old George and the new George—with the old George, you had to go and find the resentment, but with the new George, he had it out ready to show you.

  I said, “He seems a little grumpy.”

  “You can work him out of that.”

  “If he’s going to a man, you should work him out of it yourself.”

  Daddy stood up and looked at me, frowning, I’m sure, at my “tone,” but all he said was, “Could be. But if I get on him, we might end up going down the trail that your uncle Luke blazed for me. I don’t want to go down that trail. He needs to return to where he was with you.”

  I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, because I knew I was about to say something more sassy. I said, “Where he was with me was that I refused to ride him.”

  Daddy threw the hoof pick into the brush box and blew out his lips. Then he said, “Flat refusal?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Defiant refusal? Defiant refusal to even try?”

  “Look at him!”

  “What’s wrong with him? He’s just standing here.”

  “He was switching his tail. He—”

  “He what?”

  “He gave me a look.”

  “You defiantly refuse to get on him because he gave you a look?”

  “I don’t …”

  “Yes or no?”

  “Yes, I refuse, or no, I won’t ride him?” If I was going to get in trouble, I wanted to be sure that we both agreed on what I was getting in trouble for.

  “Listen, miss—”

  “No, I won’t ride him. I don’t want to get bucked off again and I don’t trust him.” Rather than look at Daddy’s face, I turned away, picked up a halter and lead rope, and went to get Socks George. When I returned, Daddy had put Ornery George in the pasture. He helped me with Socks George, and we finished for the day after dark, as usual. He was very polite at dinner, the way he could be when he had given up on you and turned you over to the Lord. After dinner, I did the safest thing and went into my room and did my homework, as I always did on Friday night, because I wasn’t allowed to do homework on Sunday, and Saturday night I was often too tired. I knew Daddy was giving me more leeway than he had ever given Danny, but even thinking that made me so nervous that I just kept reading Adam Bede until I lost the thread of the story completely and fell asleep. Mom came in late to help me out of my clothes and into bed. If I hadn’t been so groggy, I would have talked to her, because even though she never went against him, she sometimes told me how he worked.

  The next day was Saturday, and Daddy was already up and the hay was already delivered to the horses, and he was already gone by the time I opened my eyes. I found out the reason during breakfast—the shoer, Jake Morrisson, was pulling through the gate in his truck, and my brother, Danny, was with him. Mom popped up and ran out the door, and when the truck stopped, Danny jumped out and gave her a big hug. I swallowed the last of my toast and hurried out, too. Usually Jake came during the week, when I was at school. This time, he’d been busy all week, and Saturday was his only spot. It had been six weeks since all the new horses had been shod, so here they were. Danny grabbed my shoulders and kissed me on the forehead, and Mom put a wrapped package into the passenger side of the shoeing truck. All of this reminded me that what had happened with Danny—six months, now—was really bad, and even though we acted like everything was okay, it wasn’t. While Mr. Morrisson was setting up his anvil and his forge and all, Mom took Danny aside and looked at him and asked him questions, but I didn’t hear what she asked or what he answered. When things were set up, he gave her another hug and came back over to put on his apron.

  He said, “I heard you showed those society girls a thing or two with that pony a week ago, missy.”

  “Only a thing. Not two.”

  He laughed.

  “It was fun. But now there’s work to be done.”

  “I’m sure there is.”

  Before, I had come up to his chin. Now I came up to his shoulder. And his shoulders were big, too, no doubt from learning to shoe horses. In his leather apron, he looked bowlegged and grown up. Jake Morrisson said, “Who’s first?”

  We got through Blue Jewel and Socks George. They behaved themselves and were reset all around.

  Ornery George, however, needed new shoes. I went and got him while Danny stoked up the fire and Jake looked in his shoe stock for the right size to begin with.

  Out in the gelding corral, Ornery George could see me coming, and no doubt he could put two and two together—the shoeing truck was here, two horses had come and
gone already, and he was next. Therefore, he went around behind the other horses, and when I passed through them and tried to catch him, he threw up his head and trotted away. I walked after him. Normally, I didn’t have this problem, but there was plenty of hay in the corral, he had eaten his fill, and the only thing I meant to him was taking time out from his day to do yet another thing that humans demanded of him. He trotted off again and again every time I got anywhere near him.

  Finally, Danny called from the gate, “What’s wrong with this one?”

  “At the moment, he doesn’t want to be caught. Normally, plenty else, too. He wasn’t very nice, and then Uncle Luke got on him and …”

  “And that was that!” Danny laughed and pulled the gate latch backward. He came in, closed the gate after himself, and held out his hand for the halter and lead rope. I said, “With pleasure.”

  But Danny didn’t head for the horse. He walked along the fence with his head down and his arms by his sides, and after a few steps, several of the horses were looking at him. Then he turned toward Ornery George, and when Ornery George looked at him, he waved the halter and lead rope so that Ornery George backed up and then trotted off. After that, he walked toward George, still making him trot away. Then he put his arms down and turned left again, into the group of other horses. At the far end of the corral, George had stopped and was looking at him. Now Danny turned right and walked along the fence, not toward Ornery George or away from him. When he saw George was looking toward him, he waved him off again, and George turned, tossed his head, and trotted away. But he looked back.

  Now Danny seemed to ignore George, and George walked toward him. When Danny stopped among the other three, George was looking as hard as he could, possibly wondering why the other three were so interested in Danny. When George approached the others, Danny let him get fairly close, then he waved him off and walked toward the gate. The others followed, and George followed them. Pretty soon, he was standing at the gate with the other three. Danny didn’t do a thing that showed he cared. He just walked down the line of horses, giving each of them a word and a pat, same with Ornery George, nothing special. Then he patted each one in turn again, but when he got to Ornery George, he slipped the lead rope around his neck. Then he stroked his neck for a long time, then he traced figure eights around his eyes. He eased the halter on. It seemed as though Danny was in no hurry at all.

  Pretty soon, Danny walked briskly out into the middle of the corral, the lead rope in his right hand and Ornery George following behind. When they got into the center, Danny walked him in a couple of circles, then sent him in a circle in each direction. When the horse was finished doing this, Danny turned abruptly and walked back toward the gate. George followed. He looked a little confused, or maybe that’s not the word. Just not quite sure of what was going on and why. I opened the gate. Danny and George walked right past me and over to Jake Morrisson. He stood up for the shoer and gave no problems. When Danny put him back in the corral, he led him through the other horses and out to the middle. There he sent him in a circle in each direction again, then he had him turn and come to him. He waited. Ornery George looked around, his head up and his ears pricked. Danny just stood there. It wasn’t until George lowered his head that Danny took the halter off, and when he did, he sent the horse away rather than letting him trot away on his own.

  When Danny met me at the gate, I said, “You’ve got to come back.”

  “Why is that, sis?”

  “Because that horse is going to kill me.”

  Danny laughed. “No, he’s not.”

  “Yes, he is, because Daddy has made up his mind that I’m going to ride him, and every time I do, he tries to buck me off. And he’s a good and dedicated bucker.”

  “Don’t ride him.”

  “He’s been here almost six months. He’s got to get sold.”

  Danny knew about the six-months rule. The six-months rule was that after a horse had been here for six months, even talking about him made Daddy mad.

  “I’ve never seen you be afraid of a horse before.”

  “You always rode the hard ones. You know what he says—how can I—”

  “Say that a kid can ride this horse if you can’t ride it?”

  “A little girl. That’s what he says now.”

  “What did Uncle Luke do with the horse?”

  “Laid him down.”

  “With the rope?”

  I nodded.

  “Sat on his shoulder?”

  “And sang four verses of ‘Stewball.’”

  “‘I bet on the gray mare, I bet on the bay, if I’da bet on old Stewball—’”

  Listening to Danny sing made me miss him like crazy, but I just chimed in, “‘I’d be a free man today.’” Then I said, “Yeah. That one.”

  Danny ruffled my hair. “When do you have to ride him again?”

  I shrugged. We walked the horse out of the pasture. Every time I had seen Danny since he left—this was the fourth time—I knew just by looking at him that he wasn’t going to pay the price he’d have to pay to come back. Daddy and Danny and everyone we knew could deplore pride and a haughty spirit until they were blue in the face, but that didn’t make either pride or a haughty spirit go away.

  Jake Morrisson was finishing up on the last horse, the third mare. Danny now helped him put all his things away, and pretty soon, they were loaded up. But I didn’t think Mom was going to leave it at that, and of course she came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands, and invited the two of them to stay for lunch—she had some brisket and homemade bread and, amazingly enough, she had just baked a lemon meringue pie! Danny’s favorite, imagine that, so we went in and everyone washed up, and we all had lunch, but Mom didn’t really eat. She just sat in her place at the end of the table, with Danny catty-corner from her, and she talked and joked while we ate and asked Jake Morrisson if Danny was doing a good job, and Jake said he was, he was especially good with the horses, and someday he would figure out what the business end of a hammer was, Mr. Morrisson was sure of that. We all laughed.

  While Mom and Mr. Morrisson drank cups of coffee, I took Danny out to Jack’s corral to have a look at him.

  Jack was over two months old now and big and strong. Normally, he trotted right over to me as soon as he saw me, but now we could see him over in the far corner of the corral, with his nose down and his ears pricked. Though there was some fresh grass in the pen, he wasn’t eating it. I said, “What’s he doing?”

  “He’s watching something.”

  He seemed transfixed, so we crept around the outside of the corral, quietly but not sneakily, since we didn’t want to startle him, but nor did we want to distract him. Whatever he was watching moved, and Jack took a step to follow it, then he pushed his nose down farther and sniffed. By this time we were close to the corner, and Danny squatted down and peered through the wire mesh. Then he laughed. “He’s watching a gecko.”

  The gecko must have run off at that point, because Jack snorted, threw up his head, and leapt into the air. Once he did that, he put his nose down again, right where the gecko had been, but finding nothing, he flicked his ears and walked over to the fence. When he got to me, he stuck out his nose. I said, “The other day, he followed a stray cat all over the corral, that orange cat with one ear.”

  “That big tom,” said Danny.

  “Jack would follow him, sniffing at him. The cat wasn’t scared at all. At one point, the cat was lying there and Jack reached his nose down and the cat suddenly sat up and batted him. Jack just jumped. It was so funny.”

  We stroked the side of his face for a bit, where the foal hair had begun to be replaced by the silky dark coat the color of black walnut that would be his adult color. He had no white on him, except for four white hairs in the middle of his forehead. I put my hand on his neck, and he stretched over the fence. I started stroking him firmly along the length of his neck, the way I did with the chamois. Air ruffled in his nostrils.

  “He’s going to be a nice horse,
” said Danny, fingering Jack’s sparse little black mane.

  “I love him.”

  “Mom told me what happened to the mare.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Ab, you know that orphan foals rarely come to much and can be very dangerous.”

  “No, I didn’t know that.” I kept stroking.

  “Who’s going to push this little guy around, the way his dam would?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He took his hat off and waved it in Jack’s face. Jack jumped back and trotted off a few steps, his tail high. Then he tipped forward, kicked out twice, and took off across the corral, giving two or three high-pitched whinnies. He bucked a couple of times. When he came to the fence on the far side, he executed a sharp left turn and galloped five strides before dropping back to the trot. Then he trotted toward us, his ears pricked and his nostrils wide. He was snorting, looking for the hat, which Danny had put back on his head. Now came the funny part—when he got back to where we were standing by the fence, he stuck his nose out and sniffed Danny’s hat. Danny obligingly cocked his head forward so that Jack could sniff to his heart’s content. When he was done, he gave a big sigh and his ears went floppy again. I started stroking his neck. Danny said, “Did you see how quick and self-confident he is? He needs someone to be telling him what to do, and it isn’t going to be you.”

  “You don’t know how he is. He’s really sweet.”

  “I’m just saying, don’t count on anything.”

  “Well, now you do sound like Daddy.”

  A scowl, but only a little one. He fixed his expression almost immediately and said, “Maybe so, but I’m just saying.”