The Yonahlossee Riding Camp for Girls

by Anton Disclafani

  Mrs. Holmes was surprised to see us enter the dining room together, but then she smiled at her youngest daughter, who ran to greet her. Mrs. Holmes tucked Decca’s errant hair back into place as Decca spoke. That was what mothers did: they never simply listened. They straightened, and fixed; they ordered their children’s worlds while they listened. And if they were good at it, like Mrs. Holmes was, like my mother had been, their children never noticed. Decca sat down for dinner, her hair neatened, none the wiser.

  —

  I asked Mr. Holmes if I could speak to him the next day, then followed him into his office, where I’d last been with my father. We passed Jettie, who caught my eye and smiled. I liked Jettie. There was something unaffected about her.

  Mr. Holmes’s office was full of leather, brass-studded furniture, the brown velvet settee I had sat on when I first came—surely where all the ladies and children sat, behind their husbands and fathers. I wondered if my father had noticed it, or if he had been so focused on the task at hand—transferring the responsibility of my safekeeping to a man he had never met—that the room around him had slipped away.

  “Thea, you’re feeling much better?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  He folded his hand underneath his chin. He seemed a little too sensitive to heroically kill a raccoon.

  “I have an idea,” I began, but that seemed too childish. “I have a proposition.”

  “Please,” Mr. Holmes said, and nodded. “Continue.” He seemed amused.

  “Your daughters. I’d like to teach them.”

  “Teach them how, Thea?” There was no gray in Mr. Holmes’s hair, as there was in Father’s, and his skin was unlined. He was thirty or thirty-one, nobody knew for sure, and Sarabeth was eleven, which meant he had been very young indeed when he had become a father. A few years older than I was now. While it was rumored that Mrs. Holmes was older than her husband, I alone knew her age, approximately the same as my mother’s: thirty-six. It was unusual in those days that the husband be younger than the wife—my own father was five years older than my mother—and I liked Mr. Holmes more for it. His marriage made him seem generous. It made perfect sense that he and Mrs. Holmes had had children as soon as they’d married; age was not kind to women.

  “To ride,” I said, feeling bolder; something about the way he watched me so closely, almost eagerly, made me want to continue. I gestured at the framed photograph on his desk, the three Holmes girls all in white. “Decca said that she and her sisters don’t ride, but that they want to.”

  “Did she say that?” Mr. Holmes asked.

  I nodded. “And Mr. Albrecht would help me. I wouldn’t be alone with them.”

  “I’m not concerned about you being alone with them, Thea.” He looked at the photograph. “They do need to know how to ride, their mother and I agree. Especially Sarabeth and Rachel. But Decca seems so young.”

  I shook my head and inched to the edge of my chair. “Oh, no,” I said, “the younger, the better. It will be second nature to her, if she learns early enough.”

  He looked at some papers on his desk, smiled, as if at some private joke. I waited; I wanted this, I wanted this very badly. And was taking advantage of, or at least depending on, Mr. Holmes’s kindness. If anyone would let me have my way in this, it would be him.

  “Please,” I said, “I need to be around horses. And I’m not allowed to ride until I’m stronger.” I hoped my voice didn’t sound too desperate, but knew it probably did, because I could feel the desperation surging through my brain. And what I did not say was that I wanted to be around his girls, that they were a family and I had none here. That his presence brought comfort; that being near his daughters meant being nearer to him. I could never say that.

  “All right, Thea,” he said, after a moment. “You’ve convinced me. And I will convince Mrs. Holmes.”

  Did he guess my reasons, which were twofold? Horses and girls, girls and horses. I wanted to be around children around horses; I wanted to see the Holmes girls learn to love a beast. I wanted their father to watch me.

  I was distracted during history class, could not remember the site of Grant’s great War Between the States defeat.

  “Shiloh,” Leona answered when I could not. Sam would have been ashamed—he had all the dates of those battles memorized.

  History, then French, then the day was half over; finally, lunch.

  “I’ll see you,” I said to Sissy, who was chatting with Eva. I ran to catch Leona, who walked alone.

  “No running,” a house mistress called, the voice sounded like Henny’s, but I didn’t look. I slowed and weaved in and out of the girls making their way to the dining hall, masses of them, so many girls! I’d forgotten the sheer size of us when we moved from one place to another. I brushed a little too close to Alice Hunt and she glared at me; I mouthed an apology.

  Leona didn’t turn around, gave no signal she had heard me. I was out of breath, my feet were heavy, and I could feel a sheen of sweat forming on my upper lip. I felt desperate, suddenly, unwell and crude.

  “Thea,” Leona said calmly, when I reached her side.

  “Hello,” I said, and settled into her pace. “I wanted to thank you for the chocolates,” I said, “they were delicious.” Scrumptious, I had almost said, Mother’s highest praise, delivered on rare occasions.

  “It was nothing. I told my mother and she arranged it.”

  “She sent them from Texas?”

  Leona laughed. “Yes, across the country.” I was so close to her I could see a little crop of white-blond hair on her upper lip, blighting her otherwise faultless face. Leona turned her head to look at me, and I felt as if she’d caught me staring.

  I blushed.

  “No, they were not shipped all the way from Texas.” She sounded amused. “They would melt. But they were Swiss chocolates. Could you tell the difference?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  We were approaching the entrance to the dining hall and Leona paused for a beat, took the open door from another girl, and waved me through as if she were the man.

  I found my table and slid into my seat. I looked at the meal: fried chicken, a camp favorite; green beans, roasted potatoes. I had no appetite, but the iced tea was still appealing. Henny, a ruby-and-diamond engagement ring now upon her plump finger, had clearly been told to watch my eating habits, and all her sideways glances made me nervous. I took the smallest piece of fried chicken I could find, a wing, and an extra spoonful of roasted potatoes to compensate. The thought of consuming flesh made me sick. In the infirmary, I had begun to picture my lungs, huge slabs of red meat, throbbing, as if they each contained their own heart, turning black at the edges. On days I felt worse, I imagined the black creeping steadily toward the lung’s center, approaching. On days I felt better, the black receded.

  I listened to Molly pester Henny with questions about the raccoon. Across the dining room, I saw Sissy nodding sympathetically, murmuring to slender Katherine Hayes, whom I recognized across the room by her curls. I wondered if her uncle had the same curls. I felt sorry for her, but wondered if she’d loved her uncle as much as I’d loved mine. I was jealous, too, because she was blameless.

  I turned back to my plate. Henny caught my eye, and I tried to smile reassuringly. In another week I would be just another Yonahlossee girl. I’d been sick, I’d become well, I was here again.

  {8}

  Dear Thea,

  We’re told you’re well. The mountain air is better for you than the air here, I’m sure. And all those girls for you, all those horses. Are your teachers teaching well?

  You haven’t sent a letter in almost a month. I hope that your silence is a sign of how busy you are, at the camp.

  Nothing seems to have changed—Sam and I continue with his lessons, your mother is out in the garden all day, preparing all her precious flora for winter.

  Take
pity on your parents and send us a letter. Be merciful, Thea, it is a capacity that God has granted only us.

  And nary a week until your birthday. Happy You Day. (I will shout the other half to Sam!) Did you think I would forget? That day was the happiest day of my life, of all our lives.

  Love,

  Father

  It was true, I had not written a letter since I’d been in the infirmary, since I’d learned that I would not be returning home at the end of the summer. I was angry—they’d known I was ill, and had not come to get me—but as my anger dissipated, I saw that I needed to not think of them in order to survive here. I would train myself not to want my family. I needed to live my Yonahlossee life without thinking of how to frame it in a letter for my parents and brother.

  I put the letter in my vanity drawer, along with Sam’s handkerchief, which I had not been able to bring with me to the infirmary. I had missed it, at first, but then the want had disappeared.

  If I had been stronger I would not have opened their letters, which came once a week. Mother and Father alternated the task. They were brief, briefer now that I gave them no reply. I was glum after their letters; Sissy noticed. But I was not strong enough to leave them unopened. There might be some news of Sam inside, or even Georgie.

  —

  Thanksgiving at Yonahlossee was a small affair, a more elaborate version of Sunday dinner. Sissy was gone for the week, pining away in Monroeville; that she would miss her weekly tryst with Boone, who came every Thursday, would hang over her week like a cloud. Mary Abbott was the only girl from Augusta House who hadn’t gone home, and the atmosphere in the dining hall was solemn, almost.

  “Thea!” Decca called out when I entered the dining hall with Mary Abbott. I scanned the room and saw that girls sat out of place. I felt sorry for Mary Abbott, who I knew would have jumped at the chance to follow me, but you did not sit at the head table without an invitation, and Decca wound her hand through mine while thoroughly ignoring Mary Abbott, as only a child could.

  Decca led me to the head table, where a few teachers sat along with Alice Hunt, who must have also been granted a head-table invitation. Miss Brooks smiled at me, and I smiled back. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were at either end of the table, as if they were hosting the dinner. Which they were, I suppose. Mr. Albrecht sat next to Mrs. Holmes; he smiled when he saw me. Sissy told me Mr. Albrecht and Mrs. Holmes were friends. Nobody cared, though, because Mr. Albrecht wasn’t handsome and Mrs. Holmes wasn’t beautiful.

  “Here,” Decca said, and pointed to the chair next to her, only sitting down herself after she made sure I was settled, even lifting my napkin from my plate and tossing it into my lap. Mr. Holmes watched her with his amused expression.

  “Thea,” he said, “I’m glad that you could join us. You’re quite famous in the Holmes household. Decca especially is your biggest fan.” Decca nodded seriously. Sarabeth grinned at me, but Rachel looked as if she had been crying, her cheeks mottled and pink.

  “I’m flattered,” I said, and I was.

  True to form, Alice Hunt barely looked at me. I watched the girls file in and saw Leona, her hair pulled back into a tight bun. She looked straight at me, as if she had caught me thinking about her, but her expression revealed nothing. There had been whispers that her family was suffering financially. That was how Sissy had put it—suffering, as if lack of money was a wound. Which it was, the worst kind. But Sissy didn’t believe the rumors, and I hadn’t, either—Leona’s very bearing, the way she carried herself around the room—seemed wealthy, but I wondered why she hadn’t gone home for Thanksgiving.

  Mrs. Holmes wore an old-fashioned mourning cameo pinned at her throat, the hair of the dead intricately plaited behind glass. You had to look closely to see that it was hair at all; it almost looked like a piece of textured fabric. I knew from my lessons that the Victorians had been wild about mourning jewelry, just another way, along with séances, they had tried and failed to reach the dead. Or perhaps they had not failed—Father did not believe in spirits, but how could he know, for sure?

  Mother had a mourning locket, passed down to her from her great-grandmother. It was pure gold, designating the loss of her five-year-old son. My parents might as well be dead: the thought sprang into my head, unbidden, and I was ashamed. I was a nasty girl, with nasty thoughts.

  Mrs. Holmes noticed me looking and her hand went to her throat. It was easy to see how Mrs. Holmes could have been pretty before she’d lost her figure.

  I wondered who she had lost, or if she wore the piece for fashion’s sake. I wondered how she and Mr. Holmes had met. It was camp lore that Mr. Holmes had defected from the North to the South, and though nobody could say for sure why, the wilder speculations involved gambling debts, a lost love (not Mrs. Holmes).

  I had thought that we would be allowed to dress in our own clothes for Thanksgiving, but even the Holmes girls wore starched white shirts. Sarabeth was almost old enough to be part of the first-year class, but I doubted she would ever live in a cabin.

  I had begun to love the Holmes girls, especially Decca, who loved me back. Sarabeth, who so resembled her mother, had turned pretty to me, her inherited stoutness transformed into a charming plumpness. Rachel, quiet and afraid of the world, I hoped I would teach to be unafraid, at least as far as horses were concerned. And finally, Decca; her path seemed already lit by a charmed light. She was the natural rider of the three girls, which was perhaps why I loved her most.

  I was needed suddenly, and I liked the feeling, being needed instead of needing. Decca held out her arm, and I noticed a diamond-and-emerald bracelet clasped around her thin wrist.

  “That’s beautiful,” I said, and traced the rectangular emerald baguettes that alternated with sparkling round diamonds. It was much too fine a thing for Decca to be wearing; even Alice Hunt studied the bracelet attentively.

  “The girls got into my jewelry this morning,” Mrs. Holmes said. “Decca chose to ornament herself most exquisitely.” She sighed, but not unkindly; the holiday must have put her in good cheer. It occurred to me that Mrs. Holmes had fared better than my mother, at least in terms of jewelry. Mother kept all of her finest jewels in a safe.

  Decca beamed. “I’m exquisite!” she shouted, and Sarabeth put her finger to her lips.

  The room fell silent, as it always did, but I had never observed so closely how it all worked. Before Mr. Holmes’s knees had straightened, the room was silent.

  “Hand,” Decca whispered, when I kept my hands folded at my skirt, oblivious. Apparently the head table held hands.

  Mr. Holmes bowed his head, but still his voice projected, deep and melodious. I watched him as best I could with my neck bent. He thanked God for all the normal things: us, health, happiness, and, because of Thanksgiving, the spirit of generosity.

  “And please remember those who are not as fortunate as us, in this time of great instability. May God grant them and us mercy.” He stopped, and seemed to want to say something else, but nothing came. A few girls fidgeted. It was hard to hold our attention for very long. “We are not untouched by the tragedies of late. The girls who have had to return home—hold them in your prayers.” He had our attention, now. It had never been said, by him or Mrs. Holmes, that the girls who had left had done so because their fathers could no longer afford tuition. We knew, of course, but not officially. Mrs. Holmes frowned, but the source of her displeasure—her husband’s revelation or the sadness of the lost girls—wasn’t clear, at least not to me.

  “Amen,” we chorused. Decca held on to my hand, and smiled up at me. Her two front teeth had a gap between them, only a small space, and though I knew it probably would disappear when she lost her baby teeth, I half hoped it wouldn’t. She tugged on my hand and laughed, inexplicably, before she dropped it. She was always involved in a game, most often played by herself. Children were careless and unpredictable, as I had feared, but that was the fun of them.

&
nbsp; “What kind of dressing does your mother make?” Sarabeth asked suddenly, as the food was still being served. The subtext was clear: Why are you here, and not there? Sarabeth seemed to have inherited her mother’s shrewdness.

  “She doesn’t,” I said.

  “Our mother makes corn bread dressing,” Decca said, “for our own Thanksgiving.”

  “Take your elbow off the table, Decca,” Mrs. Holmes said.

  “Your own Thanksgiving?” I asked.

  “Tomorrow,” Mrs. Holmes replied. “The girls have to learn how to cook, how to set a table. They won’t be served all their lives. One would imagine.” She was ladling gravy as she spoke, her eyes darting back and forth from her plate to her girls. Where would all the other girls learn these things, I wondered. I knew how to roll out a passable piecrust, how to clean a chicken; this year, Idella was supposed to teach me how to put up preserves. But I didn’t much care for cooking, or any of the domestic arts.

  “Do you eat snakes down in Florida?” Rachel asked. “Alligators?”

  I blushed. Eva had told me my blushing was the curse of a redhead, though my hair wasn’t truly red. Close enough, Eva had said.

  Mrs. Holmes glared at Rachel. “Rachel,” she said, “that is not an appropriate question for the table.” Rachel nodded. She hadn’t meant to be inappropriate; it was so hard to know, sometimes, what was and what wasn’t.

  “That’s fine,” I said, and smiled. “No snakes, but I’ve eaten plenty of crabs. And crawfish.”

  “Crayfish,” Mr. Holmes corrected, and winked at the girls. “We have a Southerner on our hands.”

  Alice Hunt perked up at this reference, eager, I assumed, to lay claim to the South.

  I laughed. “Hardly.” But his daughters were little Southern girls, with their smocked dresses and Southern accents and big bows clipped to their hair.