“You’re from the southernmost state. What else would you be if not a Southerner?”
“I’m a Floridian. And we’re a different breed.”
“Unbound by the rules of society and civilization, a breed apart?”
We were the only people at the table speaking, and I felt, suddenly, as if onstage. I was drawing too much attention to myself. Alice Hunt patted the corners of her mouth with a white linen napkin, so gently.
“I can’t speak for everyone from the state,” I said lightly, but even as I spoke, my voice sounded cold, serious. “But Florida’s a different place. And besides, I don’t think we’re Southern enough for the rest of the South.”
Alice Hunt nodded, and I had a feeling it was the first and last time she would ever agree with me. Mr. Holmes looked at me for a long second. Then Rachel, who hadn’t touched her food, began to cry. Her arms were crossed, and she looked fiercely at her plate. We all gazed at her, stupidly, before Mr. Holmes broke the silence.
“Oh, Rachel,” he murmured.
Then Mrs. Holmes rose. “Come with me, dear.”
After they were gone, the table was quiet. “Rachel’s had a difficult week,” Mr. Holmes said to the table at large, but no one responded. I nodded, and he looked grateful. “She’s quite sensitive.”
Leona found me at the end of the meal, as I slowly made my way out of the dining hall.
“Thea,” she said, and threaded her arm through mine. I looked at her, surprised. “Full moon tonight.” We were descending the stairs now, and I looked up and saw the moon was, indeed, full.
I waited for her to say something else—Isn’t it beautiful, makes me miss home—something to account for her arm through mine, for the anticipation that made her voice almost quiver, which was something Leona’s voice never did. Leona was steely in her stoicism. Her behavior was rare at Yonahlossee, where there was always a girl crying, a girl giggling, a girl flinging her head from side to side in delight or hysteria or some combination.
“The perfect time for a night ride,” she said, and looked at me; her expression was hopeful, and I realized that she hoped I would go with her.
The barn was empty, but we were silent just in case. Mr. Holmes would be disappointed in me if he knew I’d disobeyed the doctor’s orders, but there was little chance he’d come down here tonight. Besides, it was more exciting this way, to pretend we might be caught, to pretend that we risked something tonight; there was so little we ever risked at Yonahlossee. We could fail our classes, smoke in the woods, be insolent to our teachers, and all we would get was a warning. It was only boys that were a true risk to one’s place at Yonahlossee, one’s reputation. For all of Mrs. Holmes’s talk of education, of carving a place for women in this world, the worst thing we could do here was give ourselves away too easily.
Leona and I tiptoed, did not let the hard soles of our boots meet the ground, though there was no one to hear except the horses—who all watched us curiously, eyes wide, ears tipped forward, their necks pressed against their stall doors. I slipped Naari’s bit into her mouth and led her to the front of the barn; she whuffed into my shoulder, nervously, and I murmured soothingly. She was a ball of energy, and after I mounted she danced beneath me like some sort of overgrown sprite, clumsily, her hooves knocking against each other. She was out of practice, too.
Leona led on a trail wide enough for only one horse. Though Naari didn’t like it, kept trying to pull ahead of King, I held her back, slid the bit over her tongue, shifted my weight to keep her attention.
We rode on the trail briefly before we came to a large clearing, where we both let our horses go without speaking, stood up in our stirrups and let them fly beneath us. I was so close to Leona our boots brushed; this was how horses raced, neck and neck. The moon was an orb above us, lighting our way; for a while, there wasn’t an ending to this, just the blank space of the field for as far as I could see. I gave Naari her head and felt the stinging cold in my ears, the warmth of my calves where they touched Naari’s barrel. My hair, which I had not had a chance to braid, whipped my cheeks. I could do this forever, was how I felt; and what else is there to say about galloping? A feeling so close to fear. One misstep and Naari might break a leg, and I would certainly fall, hurtled to the ground with astounding velocity.
You don’t want it to ever end. I knew Leona felt the same way. Naari moved so fast beneath me I could hardly feel her move at all. Father had told us that history was a lesson, a way to never forget what had happened before us. And now I knew from my own experience that you could never leave the past behind. But galloping that Thanksgiving night, the first Thanksgiving I had ever spent away from my family, I was leaving the past behind. And however illusory this feeling was, the faster we went, the more of it was lost.
Naari and I pulled ahead—she was small and compact, built to be faster than King—but then I sensed Leona at her flank, and without looking I knew Leona was racing us. Before, I had simply let Naari run, but now I pressed my legs around her throbbing sides and touched her lightly with my spurs, which was all it took. She shot in front of King, whom I could hear breathing furiously behind us.
Afterward, Leona and I walked the length of the field, our mounts spent. I had never raced before, only galloped solo on my pony.
“She’s fast,” Leona said, which I knew was half a compliment, half a signal that I had nothing to do with Naari’s speed. But horses weren’t raced without jockeys.
She spoke again. “Other girls don’t like me.” She paused. “They think I’m cold.” And I knew now she was speaking of Sissy, who had used that exact word. “I don’t care what they think. All I care about is horses.” I watched her profile as she spoke, her square jaw offset prettily by her sloped nose. I looked down at my hands, red and chapped from gripping the reins so tightly in the cold.
“I know . . .” I meant to go on, but I couldn’t find the words, let my voice slip into the night. I knew what it was like, to love horses. But I also knew what it was like to love humans. I knew what it was like to want, to desire so intensely you were willing to throw everything else into its fire. There was a reason that I was not at home for Thanksgiving this year. And Leona? Were the whispers true? It did not seem so—she acted the same as ever. Quiet, impenetrable, strong.
—
I lay in bed that night and thought of Mother. I first sat on a horse when I was still a baby, tucked in the saddle in front of Mother, on her old horse, Chikee. He died when I was seven, and that was when Mother stopped riding for good. I used to pity her, quietly, for not riding. Surely she must have missed it, I thought. Surely it was a loss.
I can’t remember being told exactly why Mother stopped riding, but I had a vague notion that it related to the pain that sometimes beset her, the pain that was a result of our births. But Mother did not complain.
Mother brought Chikee to the marriage. He was almost twenty-one when he died, ancient for a horse. He was buried where he fell, in the pasture; Father had to hire several men to dig a hole large enough for him. In pictures he is handsome and dark, with gentle eyes. Mother loved him. It is a simple thing, to love a horse.
Mother said that I rode with my head, not with my heart. And that riding with my head would serve me well in many instances, but it would not earn Sasi’s enduring loyalty. I always thought that was a romantic view of it.
I rolled over and faced the window. It was like looking into nothing, the night was so black. I had wanted her there, tonight. I had wanted her to see how I floated above the earth. Would she have loved me, then? Watched me and known in her heart that I was her daughter, her daughter who could ride so beautifully, sit atop and not interfere with a horse going as fast as time and space would allow. Mother, it was as if we were floating. Mother, if you cannot love me with your heart, then at least with your head.
And then a face appeared, and at first I thought I had conjured Mother from my th
oughts. But no, a boy. I sat up, my heart racing, though by now I had realized it was Boone. I hurried outside, relieved by Mary Abbott’s snoring.
Boone looked at me expectantly, and I realized he must not have gotten Sissy’s letter. “She’s not here,” I said. “She’s in Monroeville.”
I’d never been this close to him. Usually I saw him briefly, recognizable by his shock of red hair, before I woke Sissy.
But now I was so close I could see his face fall, faintly, as I delivered the news. I knew that he had to borrow a car, drive over an hour, to get here. We stood at the edge of the woods. He took out a slender case and offered me a cigarette with the assurance that I would take it, which made me do exactly that. He cupped his hand around the tip as he lit it, with a silver lighter, and I could see why Sissy liked him. He was quiet and completely at ease with himself.
He leaned against the tree and studied me in his calm way. Meanwhile, I noticed the tip of the cigarette was receding quickly and I tried to take a drag like the stars in the movies did. No one in my family smoked.
Boone smiled. “You’ve never done this before?” he asked gently.
I shook my head, embarrassed.
“Just think of it like breathing,” he said, and demonstrated.
“But with a cigarette,” I replied, and he laughed. He wore his clothes casually: a shirt that was pressed, but not crisply; a belt that was cinched around his narrow waist, but not tightly.
I felt suddenly as if we were going behind Sissy’s back. She would not like this: me here, with him.
“I should go,” I said, and let my cigarette fall to the ground. Boone moved forward and I thought for a second that he was going to kiss me; he crushed the cigarette into the leaves with his shoe and then retreated, and I was such a foolish girl, seeing signs where none existed; believing, always, that I was an object of desire.
“Thea,” Boone said, and it was a bit of a shock that he knew my name. “Does Sissy . . .” Two girls passed by Augusta House. I recognized one of the voices as Jettie’s.
I turned back to Boone. “Does Sissy?”
“Does she say anything?”
“Many things,” I said, and Boone smiled. He seemed earnest.
“She likes you,” I said. “And you?”
He nodded slowly. “I want to make sure I’m doing everything right.”
I smiled. That was impossible. “I wouldn’t worry . . . But you should leave, now. Someone might see us.”
I turned, and he said my name again. I looked back.
“David?” he asked. “He’s my friend.”
I had not imagined they talked about us like we talked about them. But of course they did. I shrugged. “We’ll see.”
Boone was not the type of boy to press an issue. He seemed very kind. Whatever Boone and Sissy had gotten themselves into—and who knew, really—at least he was kind. Perhaps he would not make her regret him.
—
Dear Sam,
I’m writing in the dark (there’s the moon, like a sun, brighter than it ever is in Florida). All the rest of the girls are asleep.
Did you have orange cake? Were there candles?
I would describe how it is here, how different from home, but I don’t know where to begin. It is exactly the opposite of home. There are so many girls.
I went for a night ride last week. It was pure fun, Sam. Sometimes I forget why I’m here, sometimes all of that just slips away.
I’ve never written you a letter before. Or received one from you. Not ever. Do I sound like myself, Sam? How would you sound, I wonder. I suppose you might not be reading this at all. You might like to pretend I don’t exist, that I won’t ever return home, and I can’t say I blame you, Sam, I can’t say that at all.
I think of you at home and wonder if you do the same things you did when I was there. I wonder if you and Mother and Father have any new jokes, or if Idella has made any new foods. You won’t know this until you go away, too, but it is impossible to think that life continues on without me. Does that sound proud? I don’t mean it to be. I think you know what I mean.
When you go away you will see that there are other people in the world besides me. And Mother and Father. There are so many girls here. Hundreds of them. They have names I’ve never heard before: Harper, Roberta, Mary Abbott, Leona. I like them. Not all of them, but many of them. I think once you have seen how many other people there are in the world you won’t hate me as much. Although I know you don’t hate me—you were very clear on that point. You hate what I did. But is there a difference, Sam?
I’m teaching three little girls how to ride. Well, one isn’t that little—she’s just turned twelve. But my favorite, Decca, is seven years old. She reminds me of you—she’s good with animals, horses all like her immediately. She’s so young. She doesn’t know about anything. She asks the strangest questions. Yesterday she asked why I was a girl and not a boy, as if I had any choice in the matter. I don’t remember much from when we were six. I remember you.
You can’t know how lonely I am sometimes.
I’ll stop before I’m too sad. But before I do, I have to ask—does our cousin continue to heal?
Your Sister,
Thea
I knew there was a very good chance that Mother would read any letter I wrote. She might not even give it to Sam. I thought she would, but I wasn’t certain; she had always given us our privacy, had called it our autonomy, as if we had any real idea of what that meant. Mother read books on child rearing, and marked passages for Father to read. She considered herself progressive. That Sam and I were allowed to roam freely most of the day was evidence of her progressiveness, of her desire to raise children who thought and acted independently.
Mother had sent me a birthday present, from everyone, though I doubted Sam had any part in it, and a signal from him was all I’d wanted. A pair of drop pearl earrings, with diamond filigree. They were small but beautiful. I tucked them into my vanity drawer without showing anyone. They were her earrings, she wore them on special occasions. It was a mystery, why she had sent them to me. Did she think I’d have a chance to wear them, here? I would, probably, at a dance, but she couldn’t have known that. The gift seemed like a gesture, an extravagant one, but I saw it as what it truly was: a way not to see me. They were just earrings, earrings she never wore anyway.
“Happy You Day,” Mother would have exclaimed when she first saw us, at the breakfast table, kissing Sam’s temple and then mine. “Happy Birthday to You and You.”
Last year, for our birthday, Idella had baked a spice cake with orange frosting. She made her own orange extract every year, my great-grandmother’s recipe. Last year, my present had been a new dress and two books from Father. I’d wanted perfume from Paris, something I’d seen in a magazine, and I was disappointed I hadn’t gotten it. But who would you wear it for, Mother had asked, amused. Sasi?
Last year, things were just beginning in earnest. Sam had received a hunting rifle, and Georgie had been given a matching one even though it wasn’t his birthday. Sam had wanted a chemistry set he’d seen in a magazine, not a rifle, and he’d been so disappointed when he’d been handed the long box, clearly a gun.
My parents were always doing that, giving Georgie a present to match Sam’s. And my cousin and aunt and uncle were always there, had celebrated all our birthdays with us. As we had celebrated all Georgie’s with him. Even his birthday celebrations took place at our house, with a cake baked by Idella, though Aunt Carrie was a marvelous cook. It had never seemed strange. Our house was, of course, where everyone wanted to be. Just the presence of Uncle George and Aunt Carrie’s neighbors felt like an intrusion. And we had all the land out back to play on.
I told no one about my birthday this year, not even Sissy, who was pleased that Boone had revealed to me how much he liked her. “See?” she’d said. “He loves me.” And I’d had to agr
ee; it did seem that way.
I wondered what Sam had received for his birthday. I should have sent him a book along with my letter; a book where someone makes a mistake and pays the consequences. But that could be any of the books I loved: The Portrait of a Lady, The House of Mirth, The Age of Innocence. And Sam would not read a book I’d sent him.
At Yonahlossee we celebrated after dinner, each girl took a slice of an enormous sheet cake; but, mercifully, my birthday had gone unnoticed. Perhaps, in the Thanksgiving preparations, it had fallen by the wayside. Or perhaps Mrs. Holmes had not wanted me to have a birthday celebration. Either way, I was grateful.
{9}
Last Thanksgiving, I spent the morning in Uncle George and Aunt Carrie’s guest room, sleeping and running to the toilet to vomit. I could hear my aunt and mother in the kitchen, cooking; Sam and Georgie up and down the stairs. I loved this chaotic preparation, cursed the illness and my father, who could not fix it though he was a doctor.
I was dozing, half awake; I opened my eyes and saw Georgie, sitting next to me on the edge of the bed.
“You came to visit me.”
“Yeah.” He grinned. “Yeah, I did.”
Perhaps because I had just been asleep, had woken, and my brain had not yet reset itself; perhaps because I had been sick, and now was feeling a little better—I can’t say why, but my cousin sitting next to me filled me with an intense pleasure. I felt almost buoyant; my hands tingled. His grin seemed like some kind of path to another world.
“I’m glad,” I said, and my voice sounded strange. I touched his hand, above the covers. “Thank you.”
“Sam came, too,” he said, and I realized my brother was there, sitting in the corner of the room. They had both come to see me, to wake me from my nap. Then Uncle George tapped on the door and told us to come downstairs, and though I’m sure we all went, I’m also sure that I walked around in a kind of dream, still woozy, not completely understanding the pleasure I’d felt with Georgie but greedy for it, not wanting it to disappear.
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