by Natale Ghent
“Come on. Get in.”
Cheryl gives me a look like she’s sorry and then trots over to Tyler’s car. “See you tomorrow,” she says sweetly, and waves before she disappears around the corner. Just like the daffodils, I can’t help thinking. One day they appear out of nowhere, and before you know it, they’re gone. Like everything in my life.
I think about Dad, and suddenly I’m feeling so angry and stupid that I decide to skip delivering my papers until later. I just have to see Smokey. I run up the street towards the road to the barn and see Cid and Queenie already at the top of the hill. “Hey!” I yell, waving madly. They keep walking. I guess they don’t hear me. “Hey!” I yell again, then start running up the hill. I finally catch up to them and tug on Cid’s coat. “Are you guys deaf?”
“Ma told us to never turn around when someone yells like that,” Cid says disdainfully.
“It’s different when it’s your brother.”
“How are we supposed to know the difference unless we turn around?” she says smugly.
She’s got a point.
“Never mind.”
We walk up the hill in silence, Queenie doing her little dance the whole way to the barn. I don’t try to stop her because my mind is back with
Cheryl Hanson, walking along the sidewalk to the good side of town.
Smokey whinnies happily when he sees us. The barn smells sweet and earthy. The sunlight filters through the slats of the walls, filling the barn with a dusky gold light. Smokey snorts contentedly in his stall, munching loudly on the last bits of hay in his trough. We take our time brushing him and picking out his feet before tacking him up and taking him to the field for a gallop.
As usual, Cid wants to ride first. Normally I would argue with her—just for general purposes—but I can’t bring myself to do it today. Cid jumps on Smokey’s back, reins him to the right, and canters full-out along the length of the fence. Smokey whirls like a pinwheel, his mane and tail flying, his hooves beating a quick rhythm against the ground. They dip out of sight below a small hill, then reappear along a crest in the field. They ride into the glowing ball of the sun, fusing with the orange light.
I can’t see them any more, but I can feel Smokey as warm and as real as though I’m on him, and I forget about everything else. I forget about Mrs. Malanus and Tyler Long and even Cheryl Hanson. I forget about Clem’s ghost. I forget that we’re poor and have to steal mouldy oldhay. I forget about Dad leaving us. I forget about it all.
I turn to look at Queenie. She is smiling and squinting into the sunlight. Her face is bathed in orange, the round ball of the sun reflected in her eyes. I feel so close to her right now. I know she understands the way I feel. I know she feels the same way too.
chapter 9
a wild ride
We wake up one morning to find the world buried under a ton of snow. It covers the rooftops and lawns like a heavy white comforter. It’s early November and I can’t ever remember the snow coming so soon. But the best part of all is that it’s Saturday and we don’t have to go to school.
“We can try out my new sled,” I tell Queenie, as she struggles with her boots in the hallway.
Ma gave me the sled for my birthday. It’s red plastic and doesn’t have a scratch on it. I’ve kept it in my room for weeks, waiting for the snow.
“You mean, hitch Smokey to it?”
“Yeah. It’ll be great. We’ll make a harness out of twine and run it back to the sled. Then we’ll cluck like this”—I make a clucking sound with my tongue—”and Smokey will trot along, as pretty as you please. He’s strong enough to pull all of us at once, but the sled can only carry two comfortably.”
“Who gets to go first?” Cid asks.
“It’s my sled, so you two will have to fight itout to see who gets to ride with me. Pick a number.”
“Three!” Queenie says right away.
“Forget it!” Cid protests. “I don’t trust you guys.”
“Fine. We’ll draw straws. We’ll do it when we get to the barn.”
We call out goodbye to Ma, who’s holed up in her room reading some Agatha Christie murder mystery for the umpteenth time. She loves to read so much that she’s read every book at the public library at least three times.
“Watch the traffic. The roads will be slippery!” she says.
“We will.”
“Queenie, you button up your coat and wear a hat—I don’t care how itchy you get!”
“Yes, Ma.”
“And mind you get home before dark! I don’t want to be worrying about you kids wandering home at all hours!”
Ma is still calling out orders as we slip through the door and bump my new red sled down the stairs into the snow.
“How’ll we attach Smokey to it?” Cid asks.
“We’re going to make a harness out of twine,”
Queenie says with authority, as though it were her idea.
“Won’t it cut into his chest? Won’t it just break?”
“Nat’s going to make a breastplate using sheepskin or something. It’ll be soft and strong, and Smokey will trot along as pretty as you please.”
Queenie repeats the words I said earlier like they’re gospel. That’s what I love about her. She’s always right on board. I don’t even have to explain things to her the way I do to Cid. She just innocently goes along with pretty much everything I suggest. Sometimes I wish I could be innocent like that again.
“Where are we supposed to get the sheepskin?” Cid asks.
“I’ve got some ideas,” I tell her, just to stop the questions from spoiling the magic of the new snow.
Our boots clump loudly through the streets, the steam from our breath curling around our faces and resting in white crystals on our caps and eyelashes. It’s hard going up the hill to the barn, with cars skidding and sliding on the icy streets. I’m tempted to hitch a ride on a car’s back bumper, but know I’d never hear the end of it if
Cid or Queenie fell off and got hurt. So we stomp along, talking excitedly about the possibilities once we teach Smokey to pull the sled.
The Gorilla is at the barn when we arrive, brushing his Morgan colt, the colt in cross-ties in the aisle. We ignore him, save for a mumbled greeting when we first enter the barn, but he insists on talking to us all the same.
“You kids been going through my tack box? I’m missing some brushes and things.”
“We have our own tack,” I answer, in a way that Ma would call snotty, but I can’t help it. He has no right to accuse us of anything—even though I did use his bleach.
“Well, I don’t want to find out you’ve been using my things.”
“We have no reason to use your things. We have our own—just like I said two seconds ago.”
The Gorilla gives me a look that says, watch it, kid, but I don’t even flinch. He can’t tell us what to do now that Smokey is gelded. I lean my sled against the wall and the Gorilla and I stare at each other like we’re in a showdown in some Western. Queenie starts to dance. I guess all this anger makes her feel nervous.
“What’s wrong with your sister?” the Gorilla says, jerking his head in Queenie’s direction.
“There’s nothing wrong with her. You just mind your own business.”
“Then, why is she always dancing around like some kind of mental patient?”
“I said there’s nothing wrong with her.”
I fold my arms over my chest and we stare at each other some more, until he finally looks away and I know I’ve won.
“I was just asking,” he says, turning his back on me.
I grab Queenie and pull her into Smokey’s stall. I know it’s not her fault that she dances. I just wish she wouldn’t do it in public. I wish she would grow out of it. I can’t even remember when she started dancing. She’s always done it in some form or another, I guess. Even so, the Gorilla has no right saying the things he said. Sometimes I wish I could mutate into a giant green monster like the Incredible Hulk. People might be a little more careful a
bout what they say to me then….
I hand Queenie a pitchfork and we work at cleaning Smokey’s stall. Then all three of us groom him very carefully and slowly, waiting for the Gorilla to put his colt away and get out. I don’t want him seeing us hitching Smokey to the sled. He’d just have some comment about whata bad idea it was and how stupid we were, or something.
My arm is sore from brushing by the time the Gorilla finally leaves. We wasted half the morning waiting for him to pack up and go. As soon as we hear his truck leave, I walk down the aisle and open his tack box.
“What are you doing?” Cid asks.
“Getting something.”
“If you take his stuff, he’ll kill us.”
“He won’t know. Besides, he can afford to replace it. And if he’s going to accuse us of stealing anyway, we may as well make the most of it.”
I pull an expensive leather halter from the box and eye the sheepskin noseband with certain intention. “This will do just fine.”
“Nathaniel, don’t you dare!” Cid says. “It’s bad enough we’re stealing hay!”
“We’ll put it back. Do you want the rope to hurt Smokey?”
Cid shakes her head in disbelief. Queenie watches with interest.
“We’ll just use it until I can get enough money from my paper route to buy the proper thing. Christmas is coming, so I should have some money soon.”
Queenie and I gather binder twine and braid several pieces together as thick and flat as we can, designing it harness-like to fit across Smokey’s chest and along his sides. We even braid long reins and a piece to go behind his withers to hold the harness in place. Before we attach the two pieces, I work the borrowed sheepskin noseband from the Gorilla’s halter along the length of the braid and to the centre of the rope harness. Then I tie it all together and hold it up.
“Looks pretty good,” Queenie says approvingly.
I don’t even look at Cid for an opinion, because I know she thinks I’m a creep for taking the sheepskin. I’m sure she’s scared we’ll get caught, and I am too—just a little—but I don’t want to hurt Smokey with the rope. So the borrowing can’t be helped.
“Let’s try it out.”
I grab the sled and we lead Smokey from his stall into the field. He snorts and blows at the snow, tossing his head with excitement at the transformed landscape. The snow makes the tufts of grass in the field look like cupcakes. The sun is so bright it mixes the field and sky and everything in shades of blue. Queenie holds Smokey’s head while I tie the twine reins to his halter. Then I slipthe harness over his head, tying the ropes to the front of the sled. Smokey eyes me suspiciously as I secure the final knot.
“We’d best lead him around a bit to get him used to it,” I tell Queenie.
Queenie leads Smokey around, the sled sliding behind him. Smokey pins his ears back, then lunges forward, setting Queenie off balance. I grab the halter and hold him steady. We lead him around and around but Smokey’s ears stay pinned to his head.
“He’ll be okay once he understands what the sled is for,” I say.
“Let me get on,” Cid says.
We let Cid get on, Queenie and I holding either side of Smokey’s halter. Cid takes the reins in her mittened hands.
“Come on, Queenie, get on. We’ll go for a ride.”
But before Queenie can take a step toward the sled, Smokey rears forward and bolts, sending me and Queenie flying. Cid pulls on the reins with all her might, but Smokey doesn’t pay any mind. He gallops full speed towards the fence, Cid sliding and tipping on the sled behind him.
“Hang on!” I yell.
But it’s no use. Smokey breaks to the left, sending Cid tumbling off the sled like a bag of oldclothes. Smokey gallops and kicks furiously, the sled dipping and flapping angrily behind him.
“He’s going to hurt himself!” Queenie yells, as Smokey bucks and kicks towards the fence.
At last the rope can hold no more and the sled breaks free, sliding to a stop at the bottom of the hill. It takes us nearly half an hour to catch Smokey and calm him down. And the sled sure doesn’t look new any more. There are a bunch of dents at the front. I wouldn’t want Ma to see that. She’d think I didn’t appreciate the sled. But I do. It’s just going to take Smokey a bit to get used to it.
“If at first you don’t succeed …” I say, moving slowly behind Smokey while the girls hold his head and soothe him with gentle talk.
“He’ll never get used to it, Nathaniel,” Cid says.
“We’ll see. Rome wasn’t built in a day.”
“Rome wasn’t a frightened pony.”
“He can do it. We just have to be patient.”
When I have the sled tied on properly, I tell Cid to get on again—only this time, more to the back of the sled.
“Forget it! I’m not stupid.”
“We need the weight,” I explain. “I’m getting on, too. The weight will slow Smokey down so he can’t run as fast.”
I get Queenie to hold Smokey’s head while I carefully lower myself onto the front of the sled. Smokey pins his ears back, just like before, but this time when he lunges forward, he can only pull us along at a walk. I cluck with my tongue and gently snap the twine reins against his back. Smokey swings his head from side to side, lifting his hooves like a Pasa Fino stallion through the snow.
“He’s doing it!” Queenie yells.
I rein Smokey to the deeper snow so the sled can slide more easily. I can feel the grass cupcakes bumping along the bottom of the sled. Cid is holding me tightly around the waist.
“This is so fun!” she laughs.
I give the reins another little shake, and Smokey quickens his pace to a trot. We move nicely up the hill back towards Queenie and the barn.
“Can I go next?” Queenie asks.
Cid doesn’t argue as she stands up from the sled and moves to hold Smokey’s halter so that Queenie can get on. Queenie sits carefully behind me, holding me around the waist the way Cid did. I cluck my tongue and snap the reins against Smokey’s back. “Hold on!”
Smokey moves forward more gracefully now, his bright eyes shining, his mane tossing and waving. I cluck again and Smokey breaks into atrot. Queenie and I glide smoothly along the length of the fence, the cold air biting our cheeks and noses, the sound of the sled swishing across the snow.
“I told you it would work!”
Queenie hugs me, pressing her face against my back as we circle around and around the field. When it seems like Smokey is used to the idea of the sled, I get off and let Cid take the reins. She trots Smokey over and across the field, Queenie sitting proudly behind her. We go on like this for most of the afternoon, until the sun starts to sink low in the sky.
Inside the barn, we carefully groom Smokey and towel the sweat from his coat so he won’t catch a chill. We cover him with one of Ma’s old wool blankets, fastening it at the chest and under the belly with clothes pegs from the laundry basket. I fill Smokey’s trough with hay from the loft. So far no one has even noticed that we’ve been taking it. I guess I would feel guiltier if they were around more or keeping an eye on things, but they aren’t. Besides, we feed Ted Henry’s horse all the time too, so he can consider the hay and straw we take as payment of sorts. I fluff straw around the stall, then pour fresh water into Smokey’s bucket. Then I return the sheepskinnoseband to its rightful place. When we leave, Smokey is munching happily on his hay, glad to be back in his stall.
“You were right, Nat,” Queenie says. “He did go just as pretty as you please.”
For some reason this makes Cid and me laugh. I run ahead to the street and slide with my boots on the packed snow. Cid and Queenie follow, and then we’re all sliding and laughing down the hill towards home.
chapter 10
Christmas magic
I’m jolted awake first thing in the morning by the sound of Ma’s angry voice. I think she’s yelling at me, so I snap on my little bedside lamp to see what I’m in trouble for now. Then I realize she’s on the phone
. Ma’s voice gets really high and it cracks when she’s particularly mad. I can’t imagine who could possibly deserve the kind of tongue-lashing Ma’s handing out right now, so I lie in bed listening. Better them than me, is all I can think.
While I’m listening, I blow out my breath and watch it steam in the air. It’s only four days before Christmas and the house is colder than a dead star. Ma keeps the house so cold the pipes freeze from time to time. She says she keeps the heat low to save money. I don’t see this as any kind of savings because it means that Ma has to call the plumber when things go wrong. He replaces a few things, then tells her to turn up the heat in the house. Sometimes she even lets the taps run at a trickle to keep the lines open. This must cost money too, I think.
I wish she would just turn the heat up in the first place, because I have to sleep in my long johns to keep from freezing like the pipes. I almost never go to bed without socks. In the morning I usually jump straight into my jeans without taking off my long johns, because it’s too cold in the house to bear the idea of undressing all the way. All of a sudden my little table lamp goes out. I hear the phone slam down in the cradle and Ma swearing a blue streak. This makes me sit straight up in bed, because that’s something Ma never does unless she’s ready to kill somebody. But she’s swearing now—like the best of them. I sit there in the dark, straining to hear what’s going on. Then Cid bursts into my room.
“What’s going on?”
Queenie is right behind her, padding along in her fuzzy pink pajamas, the ones with the feet cut off because she grew too tall for them.
“I don’t know. But Ma was yelling just a second ago and now the lights are out.”
I whip the covers off me and push my sock feet into a pair of hand-knit slippers that are missing the pom-poms and whose soles have been patched so many times you can’t tell what the original colour must have been. I pull on some sweatpants and a sweatshirt and go out into thehall to hear better. That’s when I realize that Ma is crying. I rush down the stairs without even thinking, Queenie and Cid right behind me.
