The next rider rode in. It was Peter Stanham on his proven Open Jumper, In The Red. Peter was actually quite handsome, and I found myself wondering how his son Ronald could have turned out the way he did. Focus on the course!
Peter was riding too conservatively, I saw. He was leaving everything up, but losing time. He came over the line well out of the ribbons.
And then they called my name.
I collected D.M.’s walk as we entered the ring, stalling for time. I was staring down the course, trying to make a plan. I had no time to make a plan. I was just going to have to ride it. And that was strangely liberating. I had nothing to lose. There was no way I was winning. This was an absolute joke. But why not try?
Why the hell not. I made a bold, forward circle and urged D.M. over the starting line. “Let’s go,” I said to him. He flattened out for me. He bounced over the first fence and wheeled around to the next. He listened intently, following my eyes. I just tried to stay out of his way. The course was riding well. We were both having fun. D.M. had learned a lot since last year. I could have never asked him to go around like this. He was stronger and smarter and he was figuring this out for me. I was setting the pace and telling him which way to turn, but he took responsibility for the striding and the jumping effort itself. One of the most important parts of jumping was simply not impeding the horse. Maybe I had been riding him like the ignorant, ungainly baby he had once been. Maybe he relied too much on me. Maybe it was good that we had crashed. It helped us realize what our responsibilities were.
We were clear over every fence, and we started the jump-off. Soon we were over the final jump, then over the line. I was sorry it was over. It was far and away the best course I’d ever ridden, no matter what time showed on the clock.
I patted D.M. generously. They began announcing the ribbon winners. Then I heard my name. I looked around in confusion. Then I realized I was in sixth, with a time that was absolutely phenomenal for D.M. A time that had left Crofton Miller and his $50,000 Grand Prix prospect out of the ribbons. I laughed out loud. I was dizzy. My eyes were prickling with tears. I realized I hadn’t eaten anything all day except for two blueberry muffins.
I rode in to get my emerald green rosette, laughing and crying. It looked good on D.M. It couldn’t have meant more to me if it’d been a tri-color.
I got a bacon cheeseburger and a cookies ‘n cream shake on the way home. The green rosette fluttered from my rearview mirror. I didn’t care if it blocked half the windshield.
As soon as I got home, I stopped my truck and ran up to the barn, dreading what might be waiting for me. I slipped into the arena. Lawrence sat on a barrel that lay on its side, watching Assault. The gelding appeared to have been standing quietly with a hind leg cocked, but upon hearing me come in, he swung his head around to look at me. His ears flattened, and he turned away, facing me with his butt.
I sagged with relief. I didn’t know exactly how I was going to get that belligerent horse out of the arena, but for the moment, I didn’t care. He was belligerent. He was like normal. He was okay.
Lawrence saw me and stood up. I wondered if he’d been right there this whole time. It wouldn’t surprise me. “Thank you so much,” I said happily.
He smiled. “I was glad to. How did it go?”
“I’ll show you.” I smiled mysteriously. We walked down to my truck together. I threw open the door and brought out the rosette. I was grinning like an idiot.
Completely out of the blue (whatever that means), he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around me. I clung to him, shocked and elated. It didn’t feel like a typical hug. It probably did for him. But definitely not for me.
It seemed to last for a while, too. Finally, he disengaged himself. My arms flopped uselessly, and I wrapped them around myself and my rosette, suddenly vulnerable.
“Uh, congratulations.” He said. “That’s great.”
“Thanks.” I couldn’t think of anything to say. At least not anything I could say.
“I should go…” He sounded uncertain. “Are you okay here?”
“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” I said, giving him permission to leave. Figuring that was what he wanted.
He lingered. He looked twitchy. Then he sort of shook himself. “See you later, Erica.”
“Bye,” I said softly to his leaving back. I watched him drive away, paralyzed and awed and trying not to make too much of it.
My trailer shifted. It brought me back. “Shit.” I hadn’t unloaded poor D.M.
Lawrence
I parked outside of Mandy’s house, right next to Chuck’s Jeep Grand Cherokee. I stared wearily at it, and then I went in anyway.
He was sitting at the table, eating an omelet. “Hey,” I said awkwardly.
He leaned back in his chair and stared at his plate. I’d put him right off his food.
I felt bad. I really did. But I had no intention of getting it on with his fiancée. And Amber had rendered my house unlivable.
Her music was absolutely intolerable, and she played it constantly, at rock-concert volume, except when she went for a walk or passed out on the couch. I had created a monster, I realized. She had absolutely no motivation to look for a job, no consideration for my quality of life. And there was no way to communicate with her. No matter how I brought it up, she played the I’ll-just-go-live-on-the-street card. Which made me immediately back down. Every time. She knew exactly how I worked, and she manipulated me with depressing ease.
So here I was at Mandy’s. I couldn’t go hang out at the LPC. Lou had a girlfriend to catch up with, and dressage clinics to teach. Erica….
Erica had a life, and I couldn’t take up any more of it than I already did.
Mandy appeared, her face lighting up at my awkward presence. It quickly switched to a more typical look for Mandy. I could tell she was getting ideas. I shook my head hard.
She raised her eyebrows. Why the hell not?
I jerked my head in the direction of Chuck, who looked like he was going to puke.
Mandy waved away the issue of poor Chuck. It was her typical response.
I shook my head again. “Not today,” I mouthed.
Mandy rolled her eyes. Then why are you even here?
I couldn’t mime that answer. “Amber,” I said.
Mandy’s snort echoed around the room. “Don’t tell me you’re still letting her run your life.”
I couldn’t really tell her otherwise, so I went mute instead.
Mandy shook her head at me. “That skinny little bitch is taking advantage of your desperate need to please and - let’s be honest - your tendency to do your thinking with the lower brain.”
It was probably accurate, what she said, but I couldn’t just agree. “Amber is not a bitch. I know how she seems, but…you don’t know her like I do. And I’m just trying to help out a friend. That’s all,” I said strongly, like that was going to shut Mandy up.
She looked less than convinced. “Well, I sure hope you’re getting something out of this.”
I tried not to let anything creep onto my face that could reveal the true extent of my miserable situation. I could tell I was failing at that.
Mandy’s eyes filled up her face. “Oh my God. You’re not even having sex with this girl, are you?”
“Not so much,” I admitted halfheartedly.
Mandy looked absolutely gleeful. Even Chuck seemed quietly pleased. “How did you let this happen?” Mandy demanded.
“I couldn’t let her go live on the street, Mandy.”
“What is her deal, anyway? I’ve never known a girl who wouldn’t sleep with you for much less than a free place to live.” Mandy studied my face intently, zeroing in on something. “She’s gay, isn’t she?”
“Unofficially. As in, don’t tell anyone. And please don’t tell Amber I told you. She’ll kill me,” I added, not dramatically, but honestly.
“You have got to quit letting her walk all over you,” Mandy said strongly. “If you’re gonna put a roof over her pretty
little head and support her without even getting any benefits, the least she can do is be reasonable. If you can’t stand her music, then she shouldn’t be playing it when you’re around. She’ll survive.”
“Yeah, but….whenever I bring it up, she just says ‘Fine, I’ll go live on the street’.” I looked at Mandy helplessly.
She looked like she wanted to shake me, and not in a good way. “Lord, does she have you by the balls! She’s just saying that ‘cause she knows it’ll shut you up. D’you really think she would pack her bags and leave your nice little house for the street? She’s not stupid, and no one is that bullheaded. She’s only using that line on you ‘cause it works.” Mandy threw her head back, triumphant.
I struggled for a minute. Then I gave in. “I guess that kind of makes sense…”
“You bet your sweet ass it does,” said Mandy. She was getting that suggestive look again. I sensed it was time to go.
“Well, thanks,” I said. “I better go now.”
Chuck gave me a look that said I wasn’t leaving a minute too soon.
“Be a man!” Mandy yelled as I went through the door.
I was hearing that a lot lately.
I drove back to my house and walked through the door, bracing for the initial assault and the one that would undoubtedly follow. I went to look for Amber, cringing as “Just Dance” made its way into my brain like a sci-fi alien parasite.
Amber lay on the couch with an entire pie on her stomach. She was eating it right out of the pan. Good. Pie makes Amber chill. This may work in my favor. “Hey,” I shouted over the music. “Can we talk?”
“What about?”
“Our living situation!”
“Huh?”
“If you let me turn the music off I’ll explain!”
Amber seemed to consider that for a second instead of just screaming obscenities. Thank God for pie.
“Okay,” she finally yelled.
I shut down Amber’s ghetto blaster with intense relief. I took a second to revel in the silence.
“Explain. Now.” Came Amber’s frigid warning.
“Okay. You know I love you. As a friend,” I added as her glare began to form. “But you’re killing me with this music.”
Her expression froze over. It was murky as hell.
“I’ve tried, Amber. I truly have. But we are musically incompatible. You know how you feel when I blast Bob Seger at six AM? You know how much you hate any song that hit the radio before, like, 2006? Well, that’s how I feel about your music. I truly can’t stand it. It gets in my brain, Amber. It’s catchy, and it has that beat, and I can’t keep it out. I hear it all the time. ‘Cherry pie, cherry pie, something something, poker face’. All the fucking time.” I stared at her plaintively. Please.
Amber got an odd look on her face. Then, abruptly, she started laughing, loud and hard. I stood there, wounded, with absolutely no idea what had brought this on. Screaming, I had been prepared for. I had expected that. But this? I had no fucking clue what this was about.
“What?” I finally snapped after several long minutes.
Amber was doubled over, laughing so hard she was crying into her pie. “Your….your lyrics,” she finally managed. “They’re so….so....completely wrong.”
“Oh, really? I don’t think so. I have those lyrics down by now, thanks to you.”
“You’re so wrong. There’s no cherry pie in ‘Poker Face’! Where the hell did you get cherry pie?! You don’t even like pie!” Amber broke down again.
“It’s in the chorus! ‘Cherry pie, cherry pie, something something, poker face!” I couldn’t believe I was arguing Lady Gaga song lyrics with Amber. How did I get so far off track?
Amber was laughing so hard she was finding it difficult to breathe. I didn’t feel sorry for her.
“There - is - no - ‘cherry pie’ - in - ‘Poker Face’!” Amber gasped. She made a grab for her CD and whipped out the booklet. “SEE?” She said with ridiculous satisfaction. “No cherry pie!”
I actually took the booklet from her. And I read the lyrics. All the way through. “You’re right,” I said resignedly. “There’s no cherry pie.” I handed it back to her. Ridiculously, I felt like I’d failed.
Amber looked smug. “I told you.”
“Can we please finish our important conversation?” I whined.
“What were we talking about? I don’t even remember.”
“Your music. And how it’s ruining my life.”
“Oh, right.” Amber was smirking. I got a seriously bad feeling about where this was going. “Okay, so you allegedly hate my music. Then why did you choose to participate in a heated argument regarding ‘Poker Face’?”
Fuck. She did potentially have me there. “Because I’m a man, Amber!” I nearly shouted. “I have to get in pointless arguments! I can’t just say ‘I’m sorry, you’re right!’ Because then I fail as a man!”
Amber’s eyes rolled back in her head like she’d been shot. “Of course. I should’ve realized it was some stupid macho thing. And you’re not a man. We’ve already established that.”
I didn’t have the energy to fight for my manhood. I’d wasted it on ‘Poker Face’. “Amber. Can we please get somewhere?”
“Where are we supposed to get?”
Good question. My mental ability was rapidly fading. “We need to work out some kind of compromise. I don’t expect you to be perfect, but if you’re going to live with me, you shouldn’t make my life miserable just because you can. It’s not fair for you to play the I’ll-just-go-live-on-the-street card. And it’s not going to work anymore.”
Amber looked slightly taken aback. I sensed I had the upper hand and clung to it. “There will be times when I’m gone, and you can play your music then. Otherwise, if you have to listen to it, you’ll just have to wear headphones.”
Amber grimaced. “I don’t have headphones. I don’t like headphones. They make the sound all tinny.”
I sighed wearily. “Well, then you’ll have to go for a drive and play your music in the Harley.”
“It’ll waste gas. I’m not doing that.” Amber stared at me defiantly. She was going to make me be strong, or cave. I was sick of caving. Her abuse was getting old.
“Then I guess you‘ll just have to go live on the street,” I said.
She went all quiet. I realized I was holding my breath.
“I guess I’ll get some headphones,” Amber said quietly. She went back to her pie. She didn’t look like she was upset at all.
I made a move to sit down, and she drew her legs up to make room for me. I sank down onto the sofa. Wordlessly, she offered me a bite of pie. I shook my head, disgusted. She laughed at me and stuck it in her own mouth.
I started to wonder if this had all just been a test.
Erica
I clattered down the stairs, feeling rather unstoppable. With a gloomy, insecure section of my mind, I wondered disparagingly how long this could possibly last. But mostly I was just basking in the afterglow of my recent accomplishments. D.M. and I had gotten our first ribbon of the year under impossible circumstances. So what if it wasn’t the right color. Our show season had begun absurdly, but I felt like we had learned something vital from those first two crazy shows. Something that might help us start winning.
Harry was proving to be a rewarding project. As frustrating as he could be, I felt as if we were getting through to him. The fact that Lawrence was willing to go along with my conviction that Harry was traumatized in some way, and not just inherently bad, meant more to me than I could even fathom. There was no clear reason why he should go along with what I said. I was instinctive and I cared deeply, but I was unproven. I was nothing. Yet he listened to me. He came around and agreed with me, even when my view differed from his. That didn’t happen. It made my throat ache just to think about how fortunate I was. I wasn’t delusional enough to think I would ever be with him, but the fact that he seemed to see me as an equal and a friend was enough to keep me going.
Ha
rry was sound, healthy and perfectly able. He wasn’t hindered by his tack. His rider didn‘t lack skill or empathy. All the usual checkboxes came up empty. But even though it was easy to write him off as useless or bad, I knew, without the slightest doubt, that there was something in Harry’s past that had shaken him to his core. Something he now held in his head.
I had felt Harry’s tentative, long-unused willingness the last time I’d ridden him. Lawrence had clearly felt it too. There was nothing more moving than the feeling of a horse trying for you, especially when that horse was compromised in some way. I was excited to keep going.
On my way to my truck, I glanced at the paddocks closest to the barn. Assault stood in the largest one, posing as if for a halter class. He was such a fine horse. It was too bad he was most likely ruined. His lack of respect and manners now had a sharp edge of pure hatred. Moving him from paddock to stall had become too dangerous, so he was living in the paddock full-time until we could figure out what to do with him.
I started my truck, relieved to be going somewhere. Especially the place I was going.
When I got there, I saw Lawrence’s maroon F-350 was parked in the usual place. Unfortunately, Amber’s grimy Chevy was right by it. I didn’t feel up for a run-in with Amber. She was everything I wasn’t, three-dimensional and in the flesh, and she was also combative and freaking scary. Oh, well. I trudged up to the door and knocked softly.
The door opened. Amber held the doorknob in her hand. “He’s in the barn,” she said abruptly. Her lips were blue. Her teeth were similarly stained. It did nothing to diminish her visual appeal.
I smiled. “Okay. Thanks, Amber.” I turned to go find Lawrence. I had no desire to prolong this.
I heard the door close behind me. Obviously she didn’t either.
I got to the barn and found Lawrence in the middle of feeding the stall-bound horses. I took a couple flakes and threw them down for Soiree. She seemed more interested in attention. I was scratching under her jaw when Lawrence found me. “Hey,” he said. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” I mumbled. I suddenly wanted to smell his hair. Like, really badly. I controlled myself.
Training Harry Page 24
