Little Green

by Tish Cohen

  Still, that kind of insecurity, coupled with the very real worry that you might remain a virgin forever, never quite leaves a man.

  Matt slowed to allow the ballerina in the van to slip in front of him.

  Gracie’s foot bounced against the back of the passenger seat. “Petra said her mother wouldn’t have missed the play for anything in the world.”

  “The flights out of Greenville were grounded from the rain.” Matt couldn’t tell his daughter the truth—that her mother had chosen to deplane. “What was Mom going to do? Walk?”

  “I know. She can’t control the weather.” Gracie swiped ketchup off her freckled cheek with a finger and licked it off. “She’s not God.”

  “So, what did you say to Petra?”

  His daughter turned to the window, her elfin face so like Elise’s it made his heart swell. The girl reached out to run a finger across the fog on the glass. “That her mom’s a husbandless ho-bag.”

  “Gracie!”

  “What?”

  “You weren’t raised to talk like that.” Even if it was kind of true.

  “All kids talk like that. It’s not against the law.”

  “You don’t have to break the law to be wrong. What we say and do in this world matters.”

  Traffic inched forward, exhaust puffing between vehicles like dragon’s breath. These long separations from her mother were damaging Gracie at a core level.

  “Can I call Mom?”

  Matt passed his phone into the back seat. “She may not have landed yet.”

  “How long are we going to stay at the cabin?” Gracie asked as she scrolled through Matt’s phone for her mother’s number.

  “Long enough to get it ready to sell. About two weeks.”

  “I never get to go there since Great-Grandpa died.”

  Matt sighed. They were in danger of losing their home in Montclair. The cost of Elise’s horse and training had overtaken their ability to keep up. They had no way to pay the first installment of school fees for September, and even with Matt’s health-care plan at work, there were extra costs for Gracie’s physiotherapy and specialists. And, since Nate had died two years back, maintaining seventy acres in Lake Placid, much of it waterfront, had brought enormous expenses they weren’t prepared for. There were staggering tax, insurance, and security payments. Every time a branch fell across a power line or a squirrel tripped the alarm, Matt got a phone call. The dock was sagging into the water, and the septic system needed to be replaced.

  Besides, that afternoon had changed Matt’s own game plan. He’d finally been offered a partnership with his law firm. Nothing had come easy to Matt. He’d had to take the bar exam three times before passing. He’d been a sole practitioner like his father and grandfather but, unlike them, he’d struggled to bring in clients. He’d joined Barrans, Opel, and Gopnick as an associate eleven years back, but with Elise’s winters in Florida, once Gracie came along, he’d been unable to throw down the hours of the other lawyers.

  As he was rushing out to get Gracie to her play, Lyndon Barrans had called Matt into his office, with its tufted, butterscotch leather sofa and chairs, and crystal decanters of whisky tucked between legal books, poured each of them a finger of Balvenie DoubleWood, and made the offer. At age fifty, Matt was finally being invited to become a permanent part of the team. A hugely gratifying and long-overdue moment. The investment would be heavy, $150,000, but he’d be able to participate in profits. The sale of the cabin would provide the money. But Barrans made it very clear: Matt would have to step up his billable hours in a big way. Which meant he could no longer be both mother and father.

  Elise had to get real. Plus, Matt wanted another baby. It was never his intention to have just one. He’d grown up an only child. He didn’t wish it on Gracie.

  “We’ll be able to travel and do lots of fun things. You’ll see.”

  With the phone on speaker, they both listened to two rings and then Elise’s message clicking on. “Hey, it’s Elise. Do it at the beep.” Gracie ended the call.

  “Probably still in the air.”

  Gracie slid the phone onto the center console. “Are you going to miss the cabin, Dad?”

  He’d spent every childhood summer and holiday at the cabin; the two generations before him had lived there year-round and, once Matt was out of school, Nate had moved back there full-time. All those memories of rock and moss and towering evergreens, lazy roads edged with sand, and cold lake water so deep and dark you couldn’t see your feet. His mother’s Thanksgiving turkeys, slow-cooked in the Aga range. His father’s upside-down fires made of birch logs. Christmases that twinkled with colored lights and snow falling like sifted sugar. And, always, one of Nate’s German shepherds lying in front of the fire.

  “Dad?”

  The rain had softened to a misty drizzle. Traffic moved and at last they pulled onto the freeway. Matt inched his way over to the fast lane and settled in for the long drive north. It would take about two weeks to spiff the place up, get it listed. And that would be that. Someone would buy it and, hopefully, love it the way he had.

  That part of his life would be over. Done. Kaput.

  “Only a little.” Two lies in one day. Terrific. “But the Sorenson family is ready for a new chapter.”

  Satisfied, Gracie pulled on her headphones, trapping a fall of hair against her face, and directed her attention out the window. She pulled her shirt collar to her chin to hide that she was sucking her thumb—a habit Elise had worked hard, and thus far failed, to break.

  Matt waved a hand at the back seat to get her attention. “Hey, Little Green?”

  With a wet thumb, she twisted the headphones away from one ear.

  “Mom’s coming for sure. You’ll see her tomorrow.”

  Headphones slid back into place. Her gaze settled once again on the window. A few moments later, the thumb found its place again.

  It was time. He was going to tell his ambitious, to-the-moon-and-back wife that he and Gracie needed her at home.

  Chapter 3

  The pilots of Equine Air—dubbed Air Horse One by the horsey set—minimize positive or negative g-force with extraordinarily gradual takeoffs and landings. When an animal feels weightless, it may fight to find the floor, and too much movement can cause a million-dollar horse to slip and fall. As a result, pilots also take great care to avoid even moderately unstable air.

  Elise hadn’t made it back to her (comparatively luxurious) flight full of humans. She’d had to make the trip beside Ronnie in the tiny, bare-bones human compartment of Air Horse One.

  But all that really mattered was that she’d missed her daughter’s play.

  “I don’t think you understand,” Elise said over the pointed hiss of the engines as the aircraft finally made its descent into Newark. A low-pressure system from the upper Great Lakes had delayed takeoff until nearly five p.m., and rain in Newark had them circle overhead for nearly fifty minutes. Elise had tried to call Matt before takeoff but he hadn’t picked up, likely in the audience with his phone on silent. They’d be halfway to the cabin by now, which meant she’d have to drive up alone. “He left without me. I understand he’s upset, but to just pack her in the car tonight and head north?”

  “Exactly why I never got married.” Ronnie’s bulk was no match for the tiny seats, and he leaned against the wall, where a window would have been on a regular plane. The passenger area of Equine Air had no such luxury. It comprised twelve seats filled by vets, grooms, owners, and assistants, all partitioned off at the back of the plane—essentially a gutted, windowless Boeing 727 lined with rubber matting and cedar shavings, with moveable stall dividers. No in-flight entertainment, no in-flight meals. Not for humans, anyway.

  Ronnie’s silver horse trailer had been backed up to a high-sided ramp that led straight into the plane. Elise had run across the tarmac and boarded the trailer to find Indie white-eyed and dancing, tossing his nose in the air with a jangle of metal fittings and hammering of hooves, as if the ramp at his feet le
d directly to hell. But he calmed immediately when Elise took his sheepskin-wrapped travel halter in hand and murmured to him softly, running calming hands over his crest, along his topline, then down his legs, wrapped from the knee down in padded shipping boots. She pressed her face to his warm cheek, feeling his lashes tickle her forehead. His breathing slowed and a contented nicker rumbled from his center as he slid his velvet muzzle over her shoulder.

  A clatter from above and Poppins appeared, almost rearing in excitement when she saw Elise. Finally, the fuzzy governess had backup. Long, black-tipped ears pricked, she hopped like a rabbit down the ramp, spun, and rocketed back up again. There are hay nets on this plane! And carrots! We will travel like royalty!

  Elise took the side of Indie’s woolly noseband, clucking softly, and that was that. Indie nickered and pawed the ramp before following his loved ones up and into the aircraft, where he allowed himself to be led into the double stall next to Ronnie’s youngster, a bratty gray Oldenburg named Hellchild. At Indie’s side, Poppins let out a long sigh of relief.

  Now, the plane touched ground and roared to a stop so smoothly they might never have been in the air in the first place.

  “Marriage is like a horse’s anatomy. The entire setup is fucked from the start.” Ronnie looked at Elise. “Excuse my French.”

  “You practically raised me. I’m used to your French.”

  “You’ve got this massive weight and muscular force coming down on tiny little sesamoid bones at the fetlock that can fracture with just the right pressure in just the right spot. And once that happens, it’s never the same. I watched my parents go through it. A few disagreements about money, someone says something unforgivable, and the rest of their lives they’re all, ‘Thank you, dear’ this and ‘Don’t you look nice tonight, darling’ that. Then he goes off to sleep in the guest bedroom with a glass of bourbon and she takes up with her astrologist.” Ronnie pulled out his phone and turned it on in hopes of a signal. “Anyway, let’s give your husband a pass on this one. Matt’s a good guy. Something about his eyes has always reminded me of your dad. I ever tell you that?”

  Elise stared at him. “Sometimes it’s as if you go off on these tangents just so you can give Warren a plug at the end.”

  “The man’s paid one hell of a price for what happened.”

  “Can we change the subject?”

  “I blame that ridiculously fancy high school they sent you to.” He tried holding his phone in the air, shaking it like an Etch A Sketch. “Course, McInnis Hall was what brought you to my stable.”

  “Ronnie.”

  “Fine.” He gave up on his phone and slid it back into his pocket. “At least you have your career.” As the plane taxied to the cargo bay, Ronnie offered her what remained of a roll of mints. When she waved them away, he popped them all into his mouth. “Or you had one until today.”

  Elise winced, remembering. “That’s . . . thank you. Helpful.”

  She did trot transitions around the outside of the ring, focused on the soft thud of Indie’s footfalls in the sand, the rhythmic squeak of saddle leather, the tinkling of the bridle’s curb chain.

  What she’d planned to ride to was a lyric-free medley of songs from The Sound of Music. That was the safe choice. But it had been a bad year and she’d been unable to decide whether safe was the right move. She had a deal with the sound technician, and this moment was her last chance to make the switch to music that was decidedly more . . . brazen.

  Just then, a garbled faraway voice on the loudspeaker announced, “Tamara Berlo-Chang on Mademoiselle Secretary, seventy-three point three nine.”

  Anything over 73 was a dream score. Elise kept her eyes straight ahead as a roar of approval rose from Tamara’s camp, in the stands and in the aisle where her barn was stabled. Elise needed at least a 72 to get long-listed.

  A crackle from the loudspeaker announced, “Next rider in the ring: Elise Sorenson on Independent Spirit.”

  She squinted up at the sound booth and held up two fingers.

  Safe wasn’t going to get her there.

  A tidy cadenced trot took them to the center, where they stopped. Elise saluted the judges and waited for her music. Dark, thundering hip-hop filled the stadium. Indie exploded into the passage, a big, majestic trot so elevated the ground could be a trampoline.

  The beat, the lyrics—the word “fuck”— polarized the crowd. Some were on their feet, cheering. Others were slack-mouthed and aghast. It wasn’t until she’d saluted the judges again and started out of the ring that Elise caught a flash of Ronnie, one hand clamped over his forehead, having pushed back his Grange Road Farms cap in horror. As they exited, he fell in line beside the horse, hand on the bridle to lead them out. “What. The living hell. Was that,” was all he’d said.

  Now, he coughed, choking on his mouthful of mints. “If you’d run it past me beforehand, I’d have told you Elaine Ehrenworth was on the panel.”

  “No way could she make out the lyrics.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen them withhold a score before.” When the coughing abated, he crumpled the wrapper. “The good news is you won’t be beleaguered by parents wanting to pay you to coach their children. Or speak at any pony club events. You’ll be safe from annoying sponsors who want to fund your career.”

  The plane came to a gentle stop and the high-pitched whine of the engines cut to silence. Muffled snorts and stomps indicated the horses were aware this part of the journey was over. A perky member of the flight crew opened the door dividing man from beast, and the grooms mobilized. The bustle of dismantling hay nets and water buckets began in seconds.

  “They can’t disqualify me.” Elise unbuckled herself. “Can they?”

  “Judges are the gods we pray to; you know that.” Ronnie stood and stretched, his hands pressed against the ceiling, the letters on his ancient Rolling Stones T-shirt peeling and distorted. “They’ll do their thing—which is whatever the fuck they want. And we’ll do ours—suffer and survive it.” With that reassuring nugget, he disappeared into the business of humans moving horses.

  Elise pulled out her phone and turned it on. She needed to connect with Gracie and Matt before they entered the Adirondacks, land of the spotty cell signal. She’d already decided she couldn’t wait until morning to see her family. She’d drive up that night. Shower, pack, and go. All around her, other phones started to ding and buzz to life.

  She looked at her own and realized it had gone dead.

  When did life get so complicated—or, more to the point—when did she? She used to be so relaxed and sure about her relationship. There wasn’t the constant measuring of each other like there was today. You just knew in those first few years. Matt was a sole practitioner struggling to land clients and Elise was down to weekends and a few evenings in her admin job because riding was eating up more and more time. They were saving every spare cent, still hopeful that one dream client could fund the horse Elise needed. Recently, yet another horse owner had pulled her ride out from under her because he was moving or had a niece who’d decided to stop playing cello and ride.

  But they were happy.

  The walk-up they shared in Hoboken had hallways smelling of overcooked broccoli, windows leaking icy winter air, radiators drying the place so much they had to set out saucepans full of hot water or they’d get nosebleeds in the middle of the night. In July’s humidity, nothing was dry. Not the plaster ceilings, not the dishcloth hanging over the tap, not the Ivory bar in the soap dish. Even the remote control was greasy and slick.

  They’d never bothered to buy a television—they were bursting with love and lust for each other, so who the hell needed one? Besides, the androgynous hetero couple in the apartment to their left was just so fascinating. The two of them in their dark jeans and matching man shirts buttoned to the chin. Their tiny glasses and power strides. Their hipster magazine, Popeye, written in Japanese, which forever landed in Elise and Matt’s mailbox, was addressed to Jan van den Bas, and they couldn’t figure
out which one was Jan.

  Then childbirth brought out Is-Jan and Isn’t-Jan’s previously well-hidden and remarkably feral sexual personas. The baby may have been sporting tiny glasses of its own—Elise and Matt were never quick enough to catch a glimpse inside the stroller (a sleek chrome and black leather contraption). The infant couldn’t have been home two weeks when its parents launched into highly vocal, never-before-heard, early morning lovemaking. It became an event, one of the cornerstones of Elise and Matt’s week. They took to pouring themselves cups of coffee, sitting on the floor on their side of the wall, and taking bets on whether Isn’t-Jan or Is-Jan was in the lead. And then—after what turned out to be the last sexcapade—Matt made the mistake of cheering out loud when the sighs and groans went silent. Is-Jan and Isn’t-Jan had the last word: they switched rooms and put the newborn next to Matt and Elise. It would be months before either slept a full night again.

  But even with the lack of rest . . . Elise had a little potted violet plant on the windowsill in the kitchen, and a trough of pale geraniums on the fire escape. She picked up mismatched vintage chairs for their table, painted them all the same sprightly turquoise for unity. They took an art class together at MoMA and hung their utterly devoid-of-talent paintings on the walls. Matt was thirty-eight—giddy that he’d finally found love. Elise was twenty-six. Damn it, they were happy. What it was about those days—she’d analyzed it many times—was that they were even. Money hadn’t factored into their lives that much yet, except that they were saving it. It was just the two of them sitting on the fire escape, eating takeout curry, and talking about their dreams, assuring each other that, together, everything was possible.

  Now, the plane bobbed with horses being led down the ramp. Several whinnies from impatient animals anxious for their turn. She gathered up the sweatshirt she’d removed on the flight and the magazine that had fallen beneath her seat and started toward the front of the aircraft.