The Yonahlossee Riding Camp for Girls

by Anton Disclafani

  “I’m Mrs. Holmes, the headmistress. Follow me,” she said, and gestured toward the stairwell at the edge of the room. I tried to keep the surprise from my face, but she saw anyway, looked at me for a second too long so I would know I had erred. But I also knew I could not be the first person who had been surprised that she was married to Mr. Holmes. When I’d seen her this morning, I’d thought she was head housekeeper, or some other staff person; even from across the room she had a matronly, interfering way about her. She struck me as impatient. I followed her obediently, slowed down so that I would not overtake her. Her waist seemed unnaturally small, as if she were cinched in, and I realized she must be wearing a corset. Even Mother didn’t wear those. But Mother was so slim she didn’t need one.

  Mrs. Holmes’s office was on the third floor, and by the time we reached it she was out of breath. As she opened the door, I stood close enough so that I could see how tightly her brown hair was bound into a bun; her hair was graying, which you could not see from a distance.

  Her office was elegantly appointed, the settee upon which she gestured for me to sit upholstered in a modern plaid.

  “Theodora Atwell,” she began. “You’re at Henny’s table?” Before I could answer, she continued. “I’ve known Henny for a very long time. She’s exceptionally capable.” This seemed like a warning. She looked down at the papers in front of her. “From Emathla, Florida. I’ve always thought that to live in Florida as a gardener would be sublime. You could grow anything.”

  Mother said that very same thing. But I didn’t want to think about Mother. “Everyone calls me Thea.”

  “Oh, I know,” Mrs. Holmes said, and smiled at me. I wondered if Mr. Holmes had already told her what to call me, if they spoke often about the girls here. They must.

  “Tell me, Thea,” she said, as she lowered herself into her shiny wooden chair and gazed at me from across her desk, hewn from the same wood, also polished to a sheen, “how are you liking it so far?”

  “Very much,” I said, because there was nothing else I could say.

  “The founders of Yonahlossee were very progressive individuals. They started this camp in 1876, eleven years after the War Between the States. Why, Thea, was this such an important time in our nation’s history?”

  I knew this, at least. My own great-grandfather had fled the War Between the States. “Because the South was poor almost beyond belief. Because it was a terrible time for this part of the country. Everything was changing, rapidly, and no one was sure what would happen to the South.”

  I had impressed her. “Yes.” She nodded. Then she told me about Louisa and Hanes Bell, who had never had children of their own but who had made it their mission to provide a summer respite for females in this rapidly changing—she used my words—world. Places like this already existed in the North, for girls and boys, and in the South, for boys, but the Bells had seen a lack and filled it.

  “And then the camp became a school, as demand for the place grew.” Before, she had sounded like she was rattling off a speech, one she had given before many times. Now she looked at me intently, but I didn’t know why. “So now Yonahlossee is a camp for certain girls and a school for others. But in both cases it is a place for young women to learn how to become ladies. Because, Thea, becoming a lady is not simply a thing which happens, like magic.” She snapped her fingers, then shook her head. “No, quite the opposite: becoming a lady is a lesson you must learn.

  “In this world of uncertainty,” she finished, “a lady is more important than she ever was.”

  She was referring to the financial crisis, of course. It seemed sad that the Bells had never had children, especially since they’d devoted their lives to the young. Something must have been wrong with Louisa’s organs. I had very little idea of what Mrs. Holmes meant: she might as well have been speaking Greek. A lady was now more important than she ever was?

  “And the name?” I asked, because Mrs. Holmes was looking at me expectantly. “Yonahlossee?”

  “Oh,” Mrs. Holmes said, and made a small, flinging gesture. “An old Indian name. It has nothing to do with the camp, really. The name of Mrs. Bell’s horse.”

  I waited for her to continue, to say something about equestrienne pursuits. I smiled to myself; Sasi was an old Indian name, too. Mother had named him after I couldn’t think of anything. Sasi was an old Muskogee word, meaning “is there.” As in, the flower is there. Mother had said that, exactly. I remembered her voice so clearly.

  “I hope you’ll like it here,” she said, and put her elbows on the table, and stared at me frankly, her small hands folded in front of her.

  “I feel sure I will.” And I had liked it, a moment ago, liked hearing about Louisa Bell; Yonahlossee seemed like a kinder place now that I knew it was named after a horse. But remembering Mother, and Sasi, had turned me gray again.

  “Your mother was sure you would.”

  I was so confused for a second—had she read my mind?

  “Your mother is a friend of mine. An old friend.”

  This was impossible. My mother didn’t have any old friends; we were all she needed. How many times had I heard her say that she and Father had stumbled into their private utopia out here in the Florida wilderness?

  “You have her hair,” Mrs. Holmes said, and then I knew it was true, she had known Mother.

  “We went to finishing school together,” she continued, “in Raleigh. Miss Petit’s.”

  My eyes blurred, and I thought for an instant that I was having an allergic reaction, like one of Father’s patients; to a bee sting, a berry.

  I bit my lip, and it was hard to breathe; then I started to cry.

  “Oh, Thea, I didn’t mean to upset you. Did your mother not tell you that we knew each other?”

  I shook my head.

  “Yes, I know all about you. She entrusted you to me, in a way. Another place might not have been suitable for you.

  “Do we understand each other, Thea?” Mrs. Holmes asked, after a moment.

  I nodded.

  “Please look at me.”

  I did as she asked. Her eyes were almond-shaped. That I was looking into the same eyes my mother had once looked into seemed impossible.

  “And there’s another thing: if you notice anything unusual, anything . . . bodily, please come and see me at once.”

  “Bodily?” I repeated.

  “Bodily. I’ll expect you know what I mean if it happens.”

  I told her I understood, even though I didn’t.

  —

  As I walked alone to the stables for my evaluation, I thought she must mean my monthly cycle. But I already had that, and knew what to do myself.

  I was glad no girl could see my red eyes; I was grateful that I had the walk to compose myself. My understanding had been that Yonahlossee was a place arrived at by accident, by circumstance.

  The path past the privies narrowed into a lane wide enough for two people; trees rose on either side, blocking out most of the sunlight. I shivered, and was relieved when I emerged suddenly into a large circle of flat space, bordered by mountains.

  I gasped, in spite of myself; I had told myself I would try not to be surprised by everything new at Yonahlossee. But I had never seen anything like this; I hadn’t even known something like this existed. There were three stone barns, all in a row, and they were massive compared to my barn at home, as if they housed an army of horses. My barn at home was barely a barn at all, I realized, compared to this. Horses hung their heads out of their stall windows, and I saw an Appaloosa with a spotted head, a breed I’d only read about, never seen.

  Grooms milled about the grounds, pushing wheelbarrows or leading horses. One man caught me staring, and I turned away, blushing; he looked like Docey’s male counterpart, skinny and wiry, capable.

  There were five riding rings, two with jumps. Everything looked perfect and new,
the rings freshly raked, the fences newly painted. I wondered where Yonahlossee got all its money. The few towns we had driven through on the way here had looked very poor—the buildings falling down, the people dirty—but I knew we were entering Appalachia, which was poor anyway, aside from the financial crisis. Father mentioned a terrible drought. Another reference to unpleasantness, uncharacteristic, but I was quickly learning that my life was turning into a series of surprises.

  “It’s unexpected, isn’t it?” a voice asked, and I spun around to find a tall man standing at my left. A horse, already saddled and bridled, stood at his side.

  “You startled me,” I said, my hand clapped over my heart, as was my habit when surprised. I hoped my red eyes didn’t give me away.

  The man laughed. He had a German accent; I’d met a German man before, Mr. Buch, who used to come visit my father every year or so for business about the oranges.

  “You’re German?”

  “Yes. I’m Mr. Albrecht.”

  “I’m Thea Atwell, pleased to meet you.” I curtsied slightly, to compensate for my rudeness. I recognized Mr. Albrecht from the photographs hanging on the wall. He was the man who presented the awards. He was extremely thin, with a flat chin, which surprised me. I thought Germans came with square jaws. But his skin was smooth, for a man, and his teeth straight. He was, if not handsome, passable. He seemed as old as my father.

  “And this,” he said, “is Luther.” He stroked the ridge of Luther’s neck, and Luther lowered his head and watched me. Luther was a homely horse, dull brown with a too-large head and small ears. But he had kind eyes.

  “He’s the first horse everyone here rides. Your father said you were an experienced rider?”

  “Yes.”

  “You shouldn’t have any trouble with Luther. Tap him on over the jumps, keep him steady through the doubles. He’ll jump anything, but sometimes he balks if you’re shy.”

  Mr. Albrecht gave me a leg up, and I settled into the saddle while he adjusted my stirrups. My heart raced, from some mixture of the shock I’d just experienced at the hand of Mrs. Holmes and the anticipation of riding in front of a stranger. Luther was huge, over sixteen hands, maybe even seventeen, the largest horse I’d been on. That doesn’t matter, I told myself. Control is control. Mr. Albrecht mapped out the course, and I followed him to the farthest ring. He gave me ten minutes to warm up, and I trotted around the ring, testing Luther. I tugged on my left rein and he tugged back; I gave him a sharp jerk. Mr. Albrecht stood by the gate and watched. He had a simultaneously formal and relaxed air about him; he stood with his hands in his pockets, his head cocked, his white shirt spotless, his breeches neatly ironed and creased.

  I tried to ignore the figure of Mr. Albrecht watching me ride. When he told me it was time, I halted Luther from a trot and then asked him to canter from a walk; I wanted his reflexes sharp. Another man had joined Mr. Albrecht by the gate; I squinted—Mr. Holmes. He waved, and I bowed my head in response. I wasn’t wearing a helmet, no one in those days did, and though other people wore gloves, they dulled the feeling in my hands. The jumps I was to clear were over three feet tall; we weren’t afraid of anything, in those days. We didn’t know there was anything to be afraid of.

  I completed the course in a blur. I could never remember my courses after I’d finished them, someone would have to tell me if I’d knocked down a rail, or made a wrong turn. After I jumped the last combination, I cantered Luther around the perimeter of the ring until the tension in both our bodies eased. I walked over to where Mr. Albrecht stood; Mr. Holmes was gone.

  Mr. Albrecht nodded, and slapped Luther’s neck.

  “Cool him out. You did well.”

  I could still see Mr. Holmes; he hadn’t reached the trail yet, where the woods would swallow him. I wondered how long it would be until Sam was as tall as Mr. Holmes. Right now he was still a child, or half child, half adult, like me.

  I held on to the reins by the buckle at their end and let Luther hang his head. We walked leisurely around the ring. That Yonahlossee was not a place picked at random disturbed me, but also confirmed that my parents’ plan was beyond my understanding. Mother had chosen a place a little like paradise, as far as horses were concerned; at least there was that. That my mother could have been friends with a person like Mrs. Holmes was almost unbelievable; yet I had to believe it. My mother had been cruel to me in the past few weeks in a way that I knew I deserved but was nonetheless hard to bear. My parents had not sent me into the arms of strangers; instead they had sent me into the arms of a woman who knew at least part of my terrible secret. But what part had my mother told her? Surely not everything.

  Mr. Albrecht had disappeared into the barn. I stopped Luther and dismounted; then I did a childish thing. I wept into his hot shoulder, salty with sweat, and for the first time in weeks I felt comfort.

  {2}

  The tunnel of woods from the stables to the Square was dark, and though I’d never been scared of being by myself, I hurried. All the other girls were in class. What kind of animals lurked in the North Carolina woods, what kind of poisonous plants? I knew all of that in Florida. Here I was an innocent.

  There wouldn’t be as much to be wary of here, at least concerning the natural world. Winter came every year and weeded the animals, the plants. In Florida nothing died, nothing retreated.

  When it was cool enough, Sam and I liked to roam out back, past the orange grove, miles away from the house. One day, when we were eleven, I brought Sasi with us, because it was one of the last tolerable days before summer. Sasi was young then, too, could be ridden for hours and hours and still have something left. Sam was walking ahead of me, looking for blackberries; I was on horseback, following him. It was April, a few weeks too early for blackberries, but Sam thought we might get lucky.

  “Is Sasi tired?” Sam called out.

  “No,” I said. “He likes it out here.”

  “Do you like it out here, Sasi?” Sam asked, in an English accent, and I giggled.

  We walked some more. Sam disappeared into a throng of bushes.

  “Even if you find any, they’ll be tart,” I said.

  Sam reappeared, empty-handed.

  “Because it’s too early,” I explained.

  Sam grinned. “I knew what you meant the first time.”

  I turned around and reached into my saddlebag for a canteen; there was a sudden dip, a feeling of weightlessness, and then buzzing. At first I didn’t understand the noise, but when I felt a sting on my cheek I knew that Sasi had stepped into an underground nest of yellow jackets.

  “Sam!” I screamed. I slipped off Sasi, who was stomping his hooves into the dirt, clouds of dust rising around his legs. “Sam!”

  “Thea,” he said, and his voice infuriated me: it was so calm, so slow.

  “Help,” I cried, slapping at my cheeks. “Hurry!”

  “Thea,” he said, “listen to me. Listen,” he said, as he walked toward me.

  I shook my head furiously; I could feel my cheeks swell, my throat tighten. I could see red welts rise on my arm, I felt them on my neck. I tasted bile.

  “Thea,” Sam said, and when he reached me he touched my forearm. “Look at me.”

  But I couldn’t. I looked at Sasi, who was furiously biting his leg where he had been stung; I looked beyond Sam, at the miles and miles of scrub oak and oak trees; I looked at the sky, which was blue, not a cloud in sight. I could hear my heart beat. I could smell my sweat.

  “It’s not a full nest,” Sam said, but he sounded like he was speaking from a great distance. “There aren’t enough of them. But if you aren’t calm you’ll make it worse. All right, Thea? See,” he continued, “they’re gone.”

  I looked at him. “Sasi?” I asked.

  “Sasi will be fine. He’s so big,” he said, and I understood that I was not so big, that my labored breathing, my hot, scratchy face were evidence of m
y smallness.

  “How many stings?” I asked, my voice high.

  “Not that many.” But I knew he was lying. Sam had never been able to lie to me.

  “Ahh,” I gasped, my throat feeling tighter and tighter, “ahh.” We were miles from the house. I knew what happened if you were stung too many times by yellow jackets; your throat swelled, you stopped breathing, and it all happened very quickly.

  I started to cry, and claw at my neck, and I could feel the welts my fingernails made, and I knew I was going to die.

  “Thea!” Sam said, almost shouted. “You’ll make it worse. Look at me.” He put his hand on my cheek and it felt so cool against my inflamed skin. He held my face and made me look into his eyes, he would not let me look away, and gradually my breathing became easier. Like a snake charmer, I whispered under my breath.

  “Just listen to me,” Sam said, and helped me into the saddle, and walked beside me and held my hand while Sasi trudged on, all the while keeping up a steady stream of conversation—about early blackberries, about a new jump Sasi and I should try, about Mother and Father, about Georgie, about nothing. It was the sound of his voice that was important.

  When we arrived back home, late because of how slowly we had walked, Mother saw me and cried out; my face was swollen, my lips and eyelids puffy. Sam raised a hand to his forehead to sweep away his hair and I noticed that it shook, terribly, proof that he had also been scared; his fear proof that I had been in danger, that Sam had saved me with his calmness. He had always been like that, still where I was frantic.

  But here I would never be miles away from camp. I would be watched, in a way I never had been.

  I knocked before I opened the cabin door, a habit I’d soon forget. Our cabin was never locked, none of the buildings here were. Perhaps the headmaster’s cabin, perched beyond the Square. Or maybe there was a safe somewhere in the Castle, with camp valuables. I didn’t care, Docey or anyone could have anything she wanted of my things, I hadn’t brought much that was good.