by Jane Smiley
We’d had Morning Glory since the summer. She was not quite a pony, and Dad had hoped she would turn out to be a second Gallant Man. She was sound and willing enough, and she could jump a little, but there was something about her that was dull—it took her just a moment to decide to do what she was told, and that is something judges do not like. She also stared at cows as if they had nothing to do with her, so Dad had decided that she would probably end up as a trail horse somewhere. She hadn’t cost much, she didn’t eat much, and maybe that was the last time he would take Uncle Luke’s word on a horse. Sterling McGee stared at her from all sides, then went over her legs with his hands, flexed her, trotted her out. Ten minutes later, Dad was bringing out a saddle and bridle, and they disappeared around the house. It was a good thing there was a clear sky and an early moon. I went out to feed the other horses. I’d just pushed the wheelbarrow full of hay to the geldings’ gate when Dad and Sterling McGee came walking back from the arena. Mr. McGee was sitting on Morning Glory, and he looked fine—not terribly big. Both men had big smiles, and I heard Sterling McGee say, “I don’t haggle. If it seems like a fair price, I don’t mind paying it.”
Dad’s smile got even bigger.
McGee said, “What about this saddle? Seems to fit her. Would you take fifty bucks for it?”
Dad said, “It’s pretty well broken in.”
He meant it was old.
“Feels like it. Comfortable.”
Dad said, “Well, why not?”
“Why not indeed,” said Sterling McGee. “I’ll send someone to pick her up later this week.”
I threw out the five piles for Blue, Lincoln, Gee Whiz, Marcus, and Beebop, and pushed the wheelbarrow over to the mares’ fence and started throwing flakes for the five of them. When Dad and Sterling McGee led Morning Glory over, Mr. McGee stopped and petted her. Then he glanced at the others. The only thing he said about any of them was about Beebop. He said, “I like that one, too. He was my second choice. He for sale?”
Dad said, “He doesn’t belong to me. He’s a rodeo bronc.”
“Shame. Good-looking horse.”
Dad came inside a half hour later with a check for $750, including the saddle. He set it down on the table and said, “You know the name of this check?”
“What?” said Mom, stirring the stew.
“You Never Know.”
We laughed.
“That man didn’t look one time at Oh My, or Marcus, or even Gee Whiz, as big and white and shining in the moonlight as he is. He looked at the plainest animal in there and fell in love with her.” Dad was happy all through supper, and ate not only everything on his plate, but everything in the serving bowl—Mom had to take it away to the sink and tell him there wasn’t any more. After dinner, he went outside with a flashlight to check something, and we could hear him whistling around the place—as always, a sad song (“The Streets of Laredo”) that meant he was feeling good.
Since, thanks to Sterling McGee, there was no riding Monday, Tuesday we had to make up for it. Danny was already there with Gee Whiz in the pen when I got off the bus. Mom said he had ridden Marcus. A trailer from the Marble Ranch was there, too, and when I went out to find him, he said that he was taking Lady home with him—he would work cows with her for a few weeks, which was easier than bringing the calves over to our place.
Gee Whiz, who was trotting around the pen in a nice limber circle, was wearing my saddle and an English-type snaffle bridle. The stirrups of the saddle were dangling, and the reins from the bridle were looped over the seat of the saddle, then tucked under the stirrup leathers. The reins were rather loose, but secure. Gee Whiz tried to stop when I came up to the fence, but Danny flicked the flag to keep him moving. I said, “You’re going to ride in my saddle?”
“That’s more like what he’s used to.”
This was certainly true.
Gee Whiz turned, then dropped his head and flexed himself and went the other way. His hooves seemed to flash. There was a rhythm to his trot that was defined and strict, like a drumbeat, 4/4 time, sometimes faster, sometimes slower, but always even. Danny stepped backward, Gee Whiz slowed down and halted, and then Danny went up to him and slipped the reins out from under the stirrup leathers. Now he positioned himself at the horse’s head, facing him, and lifted the right rein slightly. Gee Whiz stepped under immediately. Danny had him do this on the right and on the left several times, then he asked him, with just the tiniest pressure, to back up—“No problem,” said the dark eyes and the flicking ears. Gee Whiz dipped his head and moved backward.
“Got your hard hat?”
I said, “It’s in the barn. Why?”
“You’re going to get on him.”
“No, I’m not. You’re going to get on him.”
“I don’t ride English. I’ll give you a leg up.”
“I don’t think so.” My heart was already pounding.
“I have a feeling he’s easier to ride than to watch. He’s nine years old, at least officially. He’s been ridden hundreds of times. He isn’t rank or resistant. I’ve hardly ever seen him buck, and he isn’t built like a bucker.”
I said, “He’s fast.” No, I’d never seen him race, but up in my room were those pictures—the field of runners arrowing toward the finish line, the jockeys huddled and holding on tight, the horses with their noses out and their ears pinned, their tails streaming behind them in the wind they themselves were making.
“You might like it. Just here in the pen.” He stared at me, then smiled. “One step at a time.”
I went and got my hard hat.
When I was reaching up to hold the reins and a tuft of mane, my whole body knew that I had never been on such a tall horse, but I bent my knee, Danny leaned over and put his hands around my calf and tossed me, and there I was. Gee Whiz stood still. I picked up the reins, bridging them across his neck. Danny said, “Don’t hold him tight. That’s the signal to go for them.” I nodded and loosened my grip. Here I was, just like Ellen. I thrust my heels down and clucked.
Danny said, “That’s right. He knows clucks, but he doesn’t know leg pressure. Jockeys just use their legs for balance. Sit deep.”
I jiggled my back a little and tried to stack myself, and then we walked away from Danny toward the rail. Here’s what it felt like—it felt like a rhythmic swinging from side to side as his long back legs stepped out. Here’s what it looked like—it looked like there was an acre of horse in front of me. He was wide, too, as wide as Onyx—I had forgotten how reassuring it was to feel as though the horse is all around you, not just under you. We walked a few strides, and did some halts and turns and curving loops. I stepped him over, then stepped him over the other direction. My heart had stopped pounding, and I hadn’t even noticed it.
Danny said, “Trot.”
Gee Whiz trotted as if he understood the word, and why not?
The trot made the pen seem extra small, but he bent fairly well into the corners, and managed some turns. It was me who suggested we go to the arena. Danny didn’t say no. As we walked there, Gee Whiz tossed his head so that the reins were looser—almost actually loose—and then he walked along kindly, stretching his body out and relaxing.
Our trot in the arena was much freer. His push was so strong that he practically “posted” me. I kept even and steady contact, but I didn’t hold him tightly. The rhythm itself was what made me feel comfortable—it was so even, how could it possibly change? We trotted briskly around the arena in both directions, making several turns and loops. I was enjoying myself. And then I felt him gather his hind legs and move up into a canter.
Well, maybe Gee Whiz thought it was a canter, but Blue would have thought it was a gallop. The wind was making my eyes water, and I hadn’t noticed much wind before we started galloping. I leaned forward slightly and put my heels down. I looked ahead, and I remembered that thing Danny said, “Let him go forward.” I lifted the inside rein maybe half an inch, and he bounded ahead, as if from sheer joy.
I had n
ever felt anything like it. He was not running away, and he was not pulling, but he was strong, and energy pulsed off him in waves. How many pictures had I seen from the early days of photography, when a man in California showed how a horse galloped (and lots of other animals, too)—a horse curls up his four legs, then pushes off with the hind legs, one after the other. Then his forelegs reach out—he’s stretched for a moment, balanced on one foreleg—and then he curls again and leaps forward again. I felt all of that—every hoof touching the ground, every part of Gee Whiz’s body reaching, then gathering, then reaching. Because there was so much horse in front of me, I felt secure. I let my shoulders and elbows follow his mouth, and my body follow the rhythm of his body.
Maybe it didn’t last long. Maybe in only a minute or two he came down to the trot and I sat up and steered him back toward Danny. Maybe I was breathing hard and I could hardly see anything, but Gee Whiz dropped to the walk in the calmest way possible, as if he’d blown off a little steam, that was all.
Danny said, “That looked fun.”
“I don’t know. But it did feel like he knew what he was doing every single step.”
“No surprise. Does a baker know how to bake bread? Does a juggler know how to keep three balls in the air? Practice makes perfect.”
“We need to talk Dad into this.”
“No, we don’t. He said it was okay.”
“He did?”
“Nothing like the unexpected sale of a horse you were kind of disappointed in to change your mood.”
I said, “That was a lucky break.”
Danny shrugged.
And that was what made me wonder if it was luck after all. As we were walking back to the barn, he said, “Can you skip your first class tomorrow morning?”
I wasn’t an idiot. I said, “Yes.”
He said, “I’ll pick you up at six-forty-five.”
When we got to Vista del Canada the next day, I was still yawning. But I woke up when I got to Jack’s stall. He was eating some hay in the back corner, looking sleek and dark. I said, “Hey, Jackie boy!”
His head flew up, he spun around, and he rushed to the door, if you can rush taking only one step. He pressed his chest against the door, making me feel just how strong he was getting, and then he ran his nose through my hair like he couldn’t get enough of me. Right then, Ike came up behind me and said, “Glad ta see ya, miss. I ain’t surprised, he’s a friendly kid. You get some of them who’ve been out in the herd most of the time, and it don’t matter how often you give ’em somethin’, they still keep their distance.” Ike slipped the halter on and pushed the stall door open. Jack came out with his ears pricked.
Ike led Jack to the grooming area, where Danny was waiting. He handed the lead rope to Danny, and got the saddle and bridle on Jack in about two seconds. Jack behaved himself, but you could tell he knew something was going to happen, and it was something he liked.
Ike led Jack to the track, with Danny and me following. I leaned on the railing, and Ike and Jack and Danny went through, then Danny closed the gate, which wasn’t a real gate, just part of the railing that moved. There were already three horses out there, finishing up their work—they must have started in the dark. Wayne walked over on his mount, a chestnut filly who was smaller and more muscular than Jack, and also mean—when Wayne brought her to a halt, she reached back and tried to bite him. Wayne just said, “Quit!” but otherwise didn’t seem to react. Then the chestnut sidled her hind end around, as if she intended to kick someone, maybe Jack, but Wayne stopped her. Danny took Jack, and Ike took the filly. As soon as he had the rein, she started to back up, her head high.
Ike said, “Stop that!” She stopped. But he was careful as he led her off the track.
Wayne said, “That filly’s broodmare sire line’s a pain in the neck. Her broodmare sire’s famous for having to wear a muzzle in the pasture, he’s so vicious. Now, this one, she don’t buck and she ain’t sulky, but when she’s not working, she wants to show you who’s boss.”
Danny held Jack, and Wayne did what he had done before, just sprang onto him and leaned forward, then sat up and took the reins, only then putting the toes of his boots into the stirrups. Jack was already walking forward, his ears up. He wanted to go.
But I was proud of him—he let Wayne tell him what to do, and what Wayne told him to do was walk down the track in a straight line about a third of the way in from the outside rail. After about five uneventful minutes, they eased up into the trot—they were pretty far away from me by that time, but Danny had some binoculars that Ike had given him, so I looked through them. Jack was not curled in on himself as though Ike was holding him tightly, but he did look like a spring, and Ike’s reins were not loose (it would have been dangerous if they had been). Actually, Wayne had such a strong, supple seat that they looked like they were one thing, a dark being that was trotting in huge steps around the curve in the track, both concentrating on going forward, both slightly coiled, as if there was a lot of energy in there, and both under control. Of course, I had seen Jack trot all over the place (and run and jump and kick out and do everything else that a lively colt does), but I’d never seen this trot, which looked like he was made of elastic bands—giant strides, elegant strides.
They continued along the far side of the track, came around the curve, and passed us again. Danny said, “The track is seven-eighths of a mile. Wayne lets him go his own distance, but he has to go straight. That’s the only thing.” When they passed us, the reins were slightly looser, but Jack was still trotting out, still enjoying himself. They went around one more time, then came down to the walk again as they passed us. Now they walked around again, still in a straight line. Finally, they passed us, and then, maybe fifty yards down the track, they halted, and Wayne turned Jack toward the center of the track, keeping him there for maybe five minutes or so. Jack stood quietly. When they came back to us, Jack was on an almost loose rein. He did not try to bite anyone when Danny took his rein.
I followed Danny and Jack over to where Ike untacked him, then I did what I’d done before, led him briskly around the walking area, stopping from time to time to let him have a sip of water. He wasn’t terribly sweaty or blowing very much, but I walked him until I was told we could stop, just to be near him, just to tell him what a good boy he was, just to say how much I admired his trot and also his willingness to go straight and to keep going. And it was true, we weren’t used to thinking of a lengthy trot as exciting; I knew that it was just a day’s work for Jack. But I was excited.
After supper, I went up to my room and wrote a letter to Mr. Matthews. It read:
Dear Mr. Matthews,
Jack So Far has been at Vista del Canada for a month now, and my brother, Dan, who goes over there and helps with the training, or else does some shoeing, tells me that he is being a good boy and doing his work. He seems to enjoy everything about it, and it is wonderful for us to be able to go see him once in a while. I saw him get mounted the first time, and I’ve also seen him trot around the track. I’ve met Ike and Wayne, his rider, and they know what they’re doing, and he likes them. Thank you for putting him in training there. I’ll be sorry to see him go away from here, but I know that that is what happens with a racehorse.
My dad and mom have talked to me about what it means to have a racehorse at the racetrack. They have been told that it’s very expensive, much more expensive than we thought. It would even be too expensive if we split it with you. So, I’ve been thinking about this, and I have a plan. I hope you will like my plan. It is this—when Jack goes to the racetrack, I will send you a thousand dollars. It’s my money, and I can do this. It’s also all that I can afford, or expect to be able to afford. You can figure out what sort of part this gives me in Jack’s racing career. Maybe he’ll win some money! I guess the horse we have now, who was on the track for many years, was self-supporting. Anyway, that’s my idea. I hope it is interesting for you.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Yours tru
ly,
Abby Lovitt
I left the letter lying on my desk, folded, but not yet in an envelope. I was one step closer to making up my mind, but only one step.
That night, I lay awake for a long time. I knew the horses were out there. I could have watched them in the pasture from my window, and there was moonlight. But I didn’t want to look at them—grown-ups always said things like, “Well, you can’t have everything, sometimes you have to choose,” and just because they always said it didn’t mean that they were wrong. Maybe in a way, I’d known for months that I would have to choose between Jack and Blue. It was only thanks to Mr. Matthews that we still had Jack, and Dad had always seen Blue as a project, just like Lester, his favorite, whom he’d sold; just like Black George, stroke of luck, was sold to Sophia; just like all the others. If I went into Mom and Dad’s room right now and said, “I’ll never sell Blue,” Dad would start shaking his head in amazement before I even finished talking.
I decided to close my eyes and lie perfectly still. Supposedly, that was a good way of getting to sleep, but as soon as I had settled myself and was no longer rustling around, the room got quiet, and what came into my mind wasn’t Blue’s face, his ears pricked; it was the sensation of riding Gee Whiz—of how that big white horse lifted up under me and shot forward, his forelock floating, his mane fluttering, and his ears pricked, of how his hind legs seemed to fold under him and launch us, of how every muscle in his body seemed to know exactly what it was doing, of how he so easily carried me with him. How a horse feels when you ride him is a very strong sensation, but even though I’d ridden Pie in the Sky many times during the fall, when I thought of him, what I remembered was how he looked with Sophia on him, not how he felt underneath me. And here is what I thought—I loved Blue because I knew him and trusted him. I did not know Gee Whiz, but I felt something in him that was exciting and, maybe, irresistible.
