"Your sponsor? Is that what you've convinced yourself I am?" She sounded hysterical, but every word slammed into my skull with precision. She knew what she was doing.
"What about you, Elaine?" I demanded. "What do you tell your husband, your friends? What do you tell them about me?"
"I don't have friends or a husband anymore," she said too calmly. "Thanks to you."
"So this is all my fault now?" I demanded, my voice rising. "Are you saying that if I hadn't come along, you never would have strayed? You would have done everything right, if it weren't for me? Is that what you're saying?"
"You didn't have to say 'yes'," she snarled. "You could have done what any reasonable person would have done in that situation. You could've walked away."
"I had no future," I said feebly. "No fucking future, Elaine. I needed eight polo ponies. I had one. I could have worked myself to death, and never gotten anywhere. Is that what you think I should've done? Does that sound like a reasonable alternative to you?"
"No," she said. "But you could have found another sponsor." The line went dead.
I set the phone down, and managed to walk far enough to collapse on my bed. It's over. I kept telling myself that, but I didn’t believed the words I repeated. What if she kept the seven ponies as her only link to me? She was crazy, and she had money. I lay there in the dark, and the thought of my past colliding with my future kept me awake. I had run so many possibilities through my mind over these last few weeks, now that I had time to think. Too much time. Even with all that thinking, I couldn't come up with a way for me to have gotten to Florida without her. I was nineteen at the time, with only five years in the saddle. Dyed in the wool horsemen and financial backers had doubted I could make a mark in international competition. Wilson fought hard to get me on his team, and if I had failed, I would have cost him his livelihood.
I closed my eyes, and fought to close my mind. Doubt lingered. What if she's right? She couldn't be. She was never right in the head. The way her eyes lingered on me when I was young, not even eighteen, as she stood with her husband on her arm, was evidence enough. But then she acted on her desires. She waited until the optimum moment, when I was of age and trying to make my dream a reality. And now, in her mind, it was all my fault that her only friend was a bottle of toxic, burning liquid. I wished I could take credit for it, because I firmly believed she had hurt me more than I could ever harm her. But her addiction might help me in the long run. Eventually, she'll have to sell the horses for drinking money.
The thought forced me into a sitting position. Money. I knew where she'd come from, and it wasn't from money. I also knew where her money came from.
I stood and walked to my dresser, where I groped around for my keys. Soon my fist closed on them, and I grabbed my coat from its hook. As I left the house, the moon was barely a sliver in the night sky. It was dark, but not too late to go for a drive.
Lawrence again
I rang the doorbell once, then once again. It sounded absurdly optimistic against the dark of the night and my blackened heart.
The door opened. A girl who looked to be in her twenties, with strawberry blonde hair and blue eyes smiled at me in a rather un-genuine way. "Good evening, sir. How can I help you?"
I returned her practiced smile. "I'm here to see Arnold Windzor.”
"Is he expecting you?"
"No, and he's not going to be pleased to see me. But it's very important that he does."
"Your name?" she inquired.
"Lawrence Cavanaugh."
Her expression faltered, and I knew she was wondering if she should let me in, but in moments she slapped her composure back on her face and beckoned me to enter the Windzor mansion. I stood awkwardly on the welcome mat, which seemed folksy and out of place in the towering foyer, and waited. My adrenaline was up, to a degree usually reserved for the day of a match. It wasn't a good feeling in this new context.
I wasn't afraid for my life. Arnold Windzor wasn't the violent type. Guilt was the only thing I feared, and I knew it would come along with him. I had met Arnold once before, and the memory was still painfully vivid and accessible.
It was during my last few weeks of playing for Lexington. The seven recently purchased ponies had been shipped to Palm Beach from Argentina. I had been relieved of my job as a stable hand by Wilson, and I spent my hours training on each and every pony available to me. I was seeing Elaine nightly.
That day we beat Louisville. After the game was over, I took Elle away from all the spectators and walked her. Sweat dripped from her body, but she held her head high. Elle always knew when I won or lost. The other players would jump off their mounts and start celebrating, but I would always steal a few minutes to be with Elle. I didn't have many supporters, anyway. To the local high society, I was still a stable hand who just happened to play polo.
That's why I was surprised to see a man exit the crowd and head towards Elle and I. My stomach contracted when I recognized Arnold Windzor. Does he know? Elaine wouldn't be so careless, would she? I halted Elle, barely breathing.
"That was quite a game." He smiled as he stuck out an arm.
I shook his hand, the color slowly draining from my face. "Thank you, sir."
"I hear you're heading to Wellington," he said.
I nearly choked on my reply. "Yes."
"Well, I'm glad to hear it. This town's a giant clique sometimes," he mused. "It must've been tough to find a sponsor."
You have no fucking idea. I stared at him like a rabbit in a trap, just waiting to utter the death wail.
"I'd better get back to my wife," he said. "Best of luck to you, Cavanaugh. You deserve every opportunity." He headed back to where the spectators were still gathered, drinking champagne and laughing louder by the minute. I saw Elaine wrap an arm around him, smiling as if her life were one big celebration.
That night, when I met her at the Davenport Hotel as usual, I told her I couldn't do it anymore. I said I'd done enough. I ended our arrangement. I thought that was the end of it all, but she was going to make me work for it.
Footsteps on the staircase. Halting, hesitant. Whoever approached did so with dread. "Hello, Arnold," I said to his silhouette. My words seemed to echo in the smothering quiet.
He stopped a few stairs above the floor, either to appear imposing or just because he couldn't stand to come any closer. "The last time I saw you," he said, "you were screwing my wife and I didn't even know it."
He looked more hurt than homicidal, which I wasn't relieved to see. "I thought you should know the truth," I said to him. "Because you're never going to get it from her."
His shoulders sagged. "She hasn't come out of her room for a long time. At first she would talk to me through the door, at least. She said she was depressed, that she had a falling out with a friend." He sighed deeply. "I always knew it would be hard to hold onto her. She was too young. Too beautiful."
I couldn't listen to him anymore. "She's not any of those things," I said harshly. "Maybe she was, a long time ago. But honestly, Arnold, to call her a crazy bitch would be an insult to crazy bitches."
He shook his head forcefully. "You don't know her like I do."
"You don't know her like I do." I glared at him, and his baleful stare enraged me. Why wasn't he angry? Why was she still allowed in his house, when all she did was drink his money and mourn our affair? Why was he standing here talking to me? I took a shaking breath. Remember why you're here. "I'm sure she meant a lot to you, Arnold. But look at it this way. When someone dies, how long do you let yourself exist in agony, before you say 'enough'?"
The ensuing silence was spoiled by the sound of glass breaking and an almost feral wail. I saw Arnold cringe as the sound reached his ears. "She's not dead," he said quietly. He quickly wiped away a tear that had escaped from his eye. "Elaine is alive and well."
I raised an eyebrow. "If you say so."
"What do you want?" His voice rose for the first time. "You show up at my house, and you say you're going to
tell me the truth. All you've done is hurt me, Cavanaugh. What the hell do you want from me?"
"The truth does hurt," I said to him. "And you don't want to hear it. I keep trying to tell you who she is, but you're clinging onto your ideal of her with all you've got. I can't help you unless you're willing to listen. And yes, it will hurt. But I'll tell you this right now: you are not the only one who's suffered at her hand."
He raised his hands as if in surrender. "Fine," he said. "Say what you came to say."
I don't know how long I stood there talking, or exactly what I said. I do know that Elaine Windzor's last parting gift to me came in the form of mental turmoil. No one wants to expose their weakest moments to another person. But as I finished recounting the mess she made of my life and hers and his, Arnold was looking at me with new eyes. Colder, harder ones. "Is this all true?" he asked me.
I laughed softly, mechanically. "What could I possibly gain from lying to you, Arnold?"
He was close to freedom, and I knew he smelled it. Wanted it. But his eyes showed fear at the prospect of making the leap. "I've just barely been living these past few months," he said. "I was never very good at making decisions, but as my father's only son, I inherited everything. Elaine came from a poor family, but she was smart. Much smarter than I'll ever be. She helped me."
I stepped forward. C'mon, Arnold. Don't let this have been for nothing. "Let me help you," I said.
A flicker of relief across his face. I knew I had him. "What do you suggest I do?" he asked.
"Hire a lawyer, Arnold. The best you can find. And by the best, I mean the nastiest. You can afford it. And take back everything that's yours."
"What about Elaine?"
I fought the urge to shake him, grasping the door handle instead. "Elaine forfeited her right to anything of yours when she spent your father's money on seven polo ponies for her lover."
And with that, I left the Windzor mansion.
Erica
Harry's hooves thudded softly in the sandy footing. I sat lightly in the saddle, working him through transitions of speed and gait. He was green, but more responsive than many "made" horses I'd ridden. As long as my aids were clear and I gave him time to think, he was generally willing. His ears were in constant motion. He gave every little noise and shadow a quick glance, but as long as he kept moving forward and didn't forget I was on his back, I was happy. The goal, with Harry, wasn't total submission. In polo, the horse and rider were equals. At least, Lawrence told me, that was how he saw it.
I tried to block out the fact that he was watching me, because Harry eagerly acknowledged any little tension in my body and made it his own. I should have been better at pretending Lawrence wasn't there, since I regularly rode in front of judges and rival trainers in the high stress environment of the hunter/jumper show ring. My strategy was always to look ahead to the next jump, and never allow my eyes (or thoughts) to focus on any of the many people watching me. That wasn't working for me now.
For one thing, there were no jumps. A jump, even one made of poles that will fall down at the lightest touch, is a formidable, solid thing. It's there, staring you in the face, and you have to keep your eyes on it and plan ahead or your horse will crash through it or do a lovely sliding stop in front of it, depending on how brave (or foolish) he is. A jump demands your full and complete attention.
And for another, most judges are old. Some, I might even describe as ancient. Most of them are women. And even the hottest and youngest of the local trainers would not tear anyone's eyes away from Lawrence. He was like a huge triple combination that's on your mind from the minute you enter the ring for your course walk. Even as you're clearing the other fences, you still see it more clearly than anything in front of you. And whether you clear it or not, you're still seeing that damn combination on your way home, and for days afterward. If you cleared it, you're giddy, and you can't stop celebrating. If you knocked it down, you're dejected. You can't stop seeing the words "I failed", superimposed over those tightly spaced fences.
Whenever I looked at Lawrence, I was painfully aware that I would never clear that triple combination.
Right now I was working Harry through a figure eight. This was a basic flatwork exercise, easily achieved by a young or green horse by using large circles, but it demanded precision if it was to be done well. The two sides of the "eight" should be exactly the same in size and shape, and the change of direction takes skill and timing on the part of the rider.
Harry was supple and positively flowed around the circle. The change of direction was a breeze for him, so after a few rounds in trot, I asked him to canter, transitioning down to a trot for a couple strides in the middle of the "eight", then striking off on the opposite lead to complete another circle. Harry quickly figured out that he could expedite the process and began throwing in a flying lead change in the exact center of the "eight". I was grinning, practically high, and immeasurably grateful to this young, talented horse for making me look so good in front of his owner.
And then I was on the ground. I lay there in bewilderment for a moment in time, until my mind fully comprehended what had just happened. Then a rush of anger jolted me to my feet. Gritting my teeth, I strode over to Harry, who looked exceedingly pleased with himself. "You little mother ..." I let my voice trail off and stared at Harry, still seething.
"I've said far worse to horses that threw me," Lawrence said over my shoulder. Grinning slightly, he walked over to Harry and took his reins. "Are you okay?"
"Yes. I'm fine." My butt and hip had taken much of the impact, and they were well padded, to my chagrin. I wished I was fine-boned enough to get hurt in a fall, but the only thing that hurt was my ego. Actually, it was dead.
"That's good. I don't think you spent even five seconds on the ground. Very impressive." He smiled brilliantly. "Do you want my opinion on what went wrong?"
"Sure." I couldn't possibly feel any worse about myself, so what harm could a little constructive criticism do?
"I think Harry got bored with the exercise. If there's one thing I know about him, it's that he needs variety, and lots of it. He got to the point where he just didn't want to make another circle, so he unloaded you."
I nodded. "I think you're right. What exactly did he do? I totally missed it."
Lawrence grinned. "He dropped his shoulder and did a 180. Gravity's a bitch."
I glanced at Harry, who stood calmly, with a look on his face that seemed to indicate he was enjoying my humiliation. "Athletic little shit," I muttered under my breath. "So rule number one with Harry is 'never let him get bored'."
"Exactly." Lawrence paused. "If he does an exercise well, move on to the next thing. That's a more effective reward with Harry than buckets of grain. Harry’s a thinking animal. And that's fine," he added, "I like that in a horse. But we can't let him think that if he's gotten a little bored, he can just dump his rider. He has other ways of communicating.”
I was more impressed with Lawrence every time. What he was saying made total sense. Remembering how many repetitions of the same exercise I had done, I realized the fall was completely my fault. I took a deep breath. "Well, I guess I should get back on the horse."
Lawrence hesitated. "If you don't mind, I think it might be best if I finished the session. I know what he's capable of when he's in a mood, and I've ridden through it before. I just don't want to see you get hurt when you've got other clients and a show season ahead of you."
Somehow, coming from him, this didn't sound chauvinistic, but chivalrous. I smiled. "Go ahead." He was right about the risk involved. This was true whenever I climbed onto a horse's back, but Harry was quicker and craftier than many. I would definitely regret it if I let my non-paying client's horse ruin my summer. But what made the decision easy was my desire to see him ride.
I watched him check the girth, adjust the stirrups, and with a firm "whoa", he mounted. From the moment he swung his leg over Harry's back, I couldn’t look away.
Lawrence turned Harry onto
the hated figure eight, and I studied him. His legs fell softly at Harry's sides, relaxed but still and controlled. I had to look hard, even with my rider's eyes, to see the cues he gave. His upper body was tall and erect, and his eyes were fixed on the path of the circle. Not surprisingly, his circles were perfectly round and even. His seat rested lightly in the saddle, keeping Harry's rhythm steady. I could not fault Lawrence's equitation, no matter how hard I tried. He was one of those riders who transform everything they ride, no matter how humble the horse. Harry no longer gave off the "wobbly green horse" vibe I sometimes got while riding him. The scrappy little horse who really only wanted to race around had become a dressage schoolmaster before my eyes. His movement was bigger, more expressive, and he seemed to have grown at least a hand taller. His hind legs were engaged, lightening his front end. I was pretty sure my mouth was open as I watched him dance around the figure eight.
And then the magical harmony vanished as Harry, seemingly without warning, exploded into a huge buck. Lawrence stayed with him, riding him strongly forward to discourage another such display. Harry was pissed, I could tell, but his rider still had the same expression of calm, intense focus.
I barely breathed for the next few minutes as Harry unleashed every evasive action known to horses, and some I was sure he'd invented, on Lawrence. He could be going along fine for several minutes, and then catapult into the air like a freaking Lipizzaner. He tried bucking, leaping, spinning, rearing and even backing up rapidly. Lawrence stayed with him each time, and calmly sent him forward. I had no idea how he knew when Harry was going to do something, and he couldn't possibly have known what trick Harry would throw at him. I'd heard of the "centaur effect", in which horse and rider are in such harmony that they are almost one being. I didn't know if the term applied to this situation, since Harry was doing his best to get Lawrence off his back, but it was the best way I could sum up Lawrence's riding.
Training Harry Page 4
