Over the Moon at the Big Lizard Diner

by Lisa Wingate

  Arching a brow, Zach scanned me from head to toe in a way that said that I wasn’t blending in at all, and that had him interested. “So … then I guess I shouldn’t hold you up. Don’t want to make you late for class.” He watched my reaction very closely. I got the feeling that Zach was astute about people, and he didn’t exactly buy my story about being a writer.

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” I assured him with a load of false enthusiasm, which quickly evaporated when I thought about horse therapy class. “Actually, I don’t quite know what to expect,” I admitted. “We aren’t actually going to be riding the horses, are we?”

  He had the nerve to laugh at my question, which worried me, until he shrugged and said, “Not today.”

  “Oh, good. I don’t get along very well with horses. I never have.”

  He gazed toward the river with the faraway, pensive look from the picture in the newspaper. “Getting along with horses is just like getting along with people.”

  “I don’t always get along with people very well, either.” It was a surprisingly honest admission for me.

  “Why not?”

  “Oh, you know, lack of patience, I guess,” I said evasively, trying to make the comment sound light.

  He chuckled. “Don’t tell that to Jocelyn. She’ll have a field day. She loves to get her hands on the impatient ones who have to be in control.”

  “I’ll act very patient.” Recalling my impromptu counseling session with Jocelyn yesterday, I wondered if I’d already revealed myself as one of the impatient ones with control issues. “Thanks for the tip.”

  He winked conspiratorially. “No problem.” Giving Mr. Grits one last pat, he pushed off the gate. “Don’t let Jocelyn get you rattled. No riding on the first day. All you’ll have to do today is catch your horse and groom it. Tomorrow you’ll learn to pick up its feet and clean them out.”

  “Eeew, really?”

  Waving a hand over his shoulder, he headed for his truck.

  “Really?” I said again. How did one clean a horse’s feet anyway? And why bother? Horses walked around in dirt and horse poop. What would be the point in cleaning their feet?

  Zach climbed into the truck and closed the door. Bracing an elbow on the window frame, he leaned out. “Want me to watch your dog while you’re at class?”

  “Absolutely not. Do I look stupid to you?”

  He pulled his hat off and set it on the seat, so that damp strands of dark hair fell over his forehead as he grinned. “Not a bit,” he said, then started the truck and drove away, leaving me standing there wondering what I was going to do with the dog while I went to horse psychology class.

  I didn’t have a good answer, so I decided to tend to breakfast first. Class started in twenty-five minutes, and, judging from the hand-drawn map that Jocelyn had left in the cabin, I would have to go back to the main road, turn into the other entrance, and drive two miles down a gravel driveway to reach the camp. After doing all that, I would be only a short distance, perhaps less than a mile, down the river from where I was, but there was apparently no direct road from here to there.

  The cabin was well stocked with food, and in the bread drawer I found just the right thing for breakfast. “Instant grits.” Huh. Who’d have thought? My mouth actually started watering as I rummaged for a bowl and turned the porcelain handles on the sink. Overhead the pipes groaned and belched, then coughed out a puff of brown water, which slowly turned clear and smelled of minerals. The hot faucet yielded cold water, and the cold produced hot. It reminded me of the hotel room in Cairo, which I had shared with Geoff while we were working there, and where I stayed after he left, rambling around the dusty stucco rooms, empty except for the realization of a husband gone and a child on the way.

  I stood staring at the water running down the drain, lost in those lonely months before Sydney became a reality, and I wrapped her life around mine like an insulating cushion. I hadn’t thought about that time in years. I hadn’t felt this deep ache, this mournful longing that caused me to look toward the door and sense the lack of someone there. Someone who would walk in and smile with love and desire in his eyes.

  Why now? Why was I feeling it now?

  Perhaps it was this place, this tiny cottage home where the beams, and the stones, and the mortar spoke of a husband and wife building a life together. Here, it was hard to escape the sense that this was how things should be. It was hard to pretend that I didn’t want it, that part of me didn’t yearn for a cottage and someone to share it… .

  Something warm touched my leg, and I started, then realized it was only the dog. Eyes rolling upward, he whined and nuzzled my leg sympathetically.

  “Hey, big guy,” I said, then went on with hurriedly fixing a breakfast of toast and grits, which we shared in the dining area. The grits soothed my stomach and my mood. By the time I was finished, I felt ready to conquer horse psychology class, lonely-heart longings, fossil thieves, flirty cowboys, and anything else that might come my way.

  My confidence lasted all the way to out the Jubilee driveway, and down the two-mile gravel road to the camp. But all the bluster started to fade as I parked among the 1950s-vintage stone buildings, labeled with cute wooden signs that said things like CHUCKWAGON, DRY FORK BUNKHOUSE, GUNSMOKE HALL, and so forth. Zeroing in on the sounds of human activity behind an enormous red barn, I drove around to the back and parked. I got out with Mr. Grits on his leash and walked to the horse corral, where Jocelyn was holding some kind of horse gear in her hand and talking to about two dozen people.

  An equal number of horses milled around loose in the opposite corner of the enclosure. Big, unfriendly-looking horses, like the ones who took advantage of little girls at scout camp, carrying them docilely to the farthest point in the pasture, only to suddenly jump, snort wildly, and bolt into an out-of-control gallop toward the barn, crashing over boulders, through creeks, and under low-hanging branches—jumping small bushes while said Girl Scout clung to the saddle, seeing her life pass before her eyes, and promising God that if she survived, she would never come near a horse again. Ever, ever, ever. Amen.

  It was a promise I’d kept for many years, quite happily, and something I should have thought about before letting Collie and Jocelyn talk me into this ridiculous plan. I was not meant to be a horsewoman. I’d proven that at a very young age. Even if today’s lesson didn’t include riding, I didn’t want to get in the corral with the horses, or brush them, or clean their feet, or do anything else horse-related.

  My stomach rolled and I felt sick. I considered turning around, ducking behind the corner of the barn, leaving, and later coming up with some excuse as to why I didn’t make it to class this morning. Then I thought of Zach’s know-it-all smirk when he mentioned horse psychology class. He didn’t think I could do it, which meant, of course, that I had to prove I could.

  Tying Mr. Grits in the shade, I stepped from the shadows of the barn. Jocelyn saw me and waved. “Good morning, Lindsey. Come on in.”

  The crowd turned, and I realized that most of them were under-legal-drinking-age young. There were about a dozen man-boys looking less than their ages in their baggy T-shirts and grunge-style droopy pants, and an equal number of girls, desperate to affect an appearance of maturity through tight midriff T-shirts and hip-hugger pants. Most were wearing shirts or clothes with orange-and-black UT logos, or sorority and fraternity letters—all-important symbols of group identity.

  They watched me like I was a creature from another planet, an unwelcome invader from grown-up land. On the fringes of the group, two middle-aged women and a balding forty-something man gave me kindred looks, clearly hoping I was joining the group.

  Jocelyn came forward, and the crowd parted like the Red Sea. “Everyone, this is Lindsey. She’ll be participating in our lessons this week.” She motioned to me, and the kids worked hard to contain their enthusiasm. “Lindsey, this is Dr. Vaneyken’s Psychology 101, and on the fence over there is Dr. Vaneyken.”

  A frumpy-looking elderly man, perched
atop the fence, nodded at me and wrote something in his notebook. I wondered what.

  Jocelyn turned back to the group and finished the introductions. “Class, this is Lindsey. Lindsey, this is the class.”

  “Hi,” I said, holding a hand up uncertainly.

  “Hi, Lindsey,” the crowd replied in singsong unison.

  Shifting uncomfortably, I tried to move the focus away from myself. “Well, listen, don’t let me disturb you. Go right ahead with what you were doing. I’m just here to watch.”

  Jocelyn frowned, slightly parental, mildly reproachful. “Of course not. There are no observers here, only active participants in the group. We’re here to do a basic study of relationships, outcome-based motivational learning, and our own people skills. We’re happy to have you with us.” She motioned for me to open the gate and come on in, and the crowd swiveled toward me like spectators at a tennis match, waiting for the return volley.

  I stood with a white-knuckled grip on the latch, thinking that—hoping that—maybe I’d accidentally pass out, extricating myself from horse psychology class without having to look like a total wimp. Suddenly it seemed very hot, and my skin felt clammy.

  “Sure.” Whose voice was that? Was that me? Did I say that? “Do you want me to come on in now? Because I can wait, if you’re in the middle of something.”

  “She’s worse than I was,” muttered one of the middle-aged ladies, the heavyset one with the spiky red hair. Several of the college kids chuckled.

  I suddenly understood how the klutzy kids felt in grade school, when no one picked them for dodgeball.

  “Nothing but positive energy here,” Jocelyn reminded. “We must remember that horses are instinctive animals. They mirror what they see. If they sense hostility, aggression, and fear, they will react with hostility, aggression, and fear. Because they do not have the power of speech, horses form their opinions of others based on nonverbal communication—body language, if you will. They will react to you based on your body language, on the nonverbal signals you give off. They will deliver nonverbal signals in order to communicate their thoughts, feelings, and needs to you. If you perceive the horse’s needs and respond in appropriate ways, the relationship will progress. If not, the animal will grow frustrated and fearful. Neither horses nor people do well with relationship partners they do not understand. In order to form a bond of understanding with other people, you have to first understand yourself.”

  Jocelyn took several rapid strides toward the horse herd, and the horses eyed her warily, lifting their heads and swiveling their ears, the closest ones shrinking back into the pack. “You see, right now these horses are communicating uncertainty through flicking their ears, drawing their faces away, watching me from the corners of their eyes with the lids slightly narrowed. They’re reacting both to my aggressive approach and to the presence of strangers in the corral. They’re worried about the unfamiliar situation, and their body language is telling me that. If I’m perceptive, if I’m focused outward, rather than inward, on what they need rather than what I want, I’ll stop now, slow down, and give them time to assess the situation, to relax, begin to lower their heads, fully open their eyes, and incline their posture toward me.”

  Pausing a moment, Jocelyn pointed toward a large beige horse that had stepped from the group and started to approach. “From here, I can begin to build a relationship, if I’m careful. If not …” She took another quick step forward, and the horse ducked away, disappearing into the herd. “If not, I’m going to find my efforts unsuccessful. Building a relationship—between a horse and a person, between two people, between a husband and a wife, between estranged family members, between a salesman and a customer, between a therapist and a client, and so forth—is all about the giving and observing of signals. It’s all about action and reaction, and mostly about silent cues. Once you learn to read the silent language of a horse, you’ll be better able to read the silent language of a person. We tend to think of human relationships, of relationship building, as verbal, but that is a mistake. In any contact between animals of any kind, including humans, studies tell us that up to eighty percent of the meaningful communication is nonverbal. As humans, we want to fall back on the verbal, but in a relationship with a horse, you don’t have that option. Your relationship with the horse is strictly nonverbal, and as you improve your relationship with horses, you’ll find that you improve your ability to build a bond of trust between yourself and another person.”

  Jocelyn left the horses and faced us. “For the next two hours, you’re going to learn about how you relate to human beings by working with a horse. Your failures and successes in relating to the horse will tell you how you succeed and fail in forming relationships with people.”

  As if on cue, a cowboy—Jimmy Hawthorne, I recognized when he came closer—entered the corral with a bunch of horse headgear and leashes. Smiling and flirting with the girls in their hip-huggers, he passed them out to students, then gave one to me, grinning and saying, “And one for the dog lady.”

  My lip twitched feebly. I felt like dropping the nylon-and-rope contraption and running for the hills. Right here in front of all of these strangers, I was about to reveal two long-hidden facts about myself: I wasn’t good at relationships, and I was terrified of horses.

  Glancing toward the barn, I considered my options as Jimmy finished handing out the horse gear and positioned himself on the fence. From the shadows of the barn aisle, Dan, the cranky ranch manager, was scowling—at me, I thought. Eyes narrow, he glared at Mr. Grits, now rolled over in the shade and licking himself in a less-than-polite way. I walked to the fence and stood near him, just to let Dan know that if he planned to do anything to the dog, he was going to have to go through me.

  “Thank you for bringing the extra horses and halters, Jimmy. This group turned out to be a little larger than usual,” I heard Jocelyn say. She smiled at Jimmy, then acknowledged Dan with a detached but businesslike nod. “I know you and Dan have work to do, so I won’t hold you up any longer.”

  Disappointed to be missing the show, Jimmy jumped down from the fence, tipped his hat to the fresh-faced college girls, and slouched off toward the barn. Dan delivered one last narrow-eyed glare before heading for his truck. Obviously, Jocelyn’s I’m-OK-you’re-OK relationship-building techniques were not working on him at all.

  TEN

  WITHIN A HALF HOUR, IT WAS CLEAR THAT I WAS GOING TO BE A horse psychology washout. Nearly half of the students had managed to catch a horse and tie it in the adjacent corral, where they were to brush the fur while waiting for the rest of us to capture our animals.

  I could see immediately that there were problems with the plan. Number one, all of the more docile horses had already been caught. Number two, all of the people who were good with horses had already progressed to the second corral. Which left the horses who didn’t like people and the people who didn’t like horses together, quite unhappily, in one place.

  Even I, who knew nothing about psychology or horses, could see that there was a hole the size of Montana in Jocelyn’s lesson curriculum. We could keep at it all day, and the picture would still be the same—three blond sorority sisters, who sounded like part of the cheerleading squad, two nerdy-looking college guys, one middle-aged woman, one middle-aged man, and me, endlessly pursuing horses who walked just fast enough to elude us, and stopped just often enough to tease us into attempting again and again. I suspected that the horses knew what they were doing and saw this as a game.

  As Jocelyn had predicted, communication between me and my horse, a whitish-gray animal with long neck hair and a decidedly bad attitude, was mostly nonverbal; however, at one point, I heard him say to another horse, Hey, look here, I’ll let her get just close enough to touch my back; then I’ll swing around, put my butt in her face and let out a huge fart.

  He-he-hey, laughed the cappuccino-colored horse the middle-aged woman was trying to catch, that’s a good one. Watch mine. I’m going to let the red-haired lady touch my nose this
time, and then … Hey, wait, she’s holding out a big handful of grass… . That’s … mmm … not bad… .

  I ground my teeth as the woman slipped the head harness on her horse while he munched the handful of grass. I wanted to raise my hand, point a finger, and say, She’s cheating. Teacher, the lady in the blue sweat suit is cheating. She bribed her horse with grass.

  I didn’t, of course, but it was unfair that neither Jocelyn nor the professor noticed the bribe. Nor did they react when the two remaining college boys teamed up to capture their horses, then led them triumphantly from the enclosure, leaving only me, the middle-aged man, and the three sorority sisters, two of whom were in conference on the other side of the corral. The third, a blonde in hip-huggers and a sexy halter top, had slumped down on the fence and dropped her horse harness in the dirt. Resting her chin petulantly on her hand, she rolled her eyes and huffed, “I quit. Like, my horse hates me and he isn’t going to just, like, stand there and let me put this thing on his head. This is so majorly lame. If I flunk this class because of this horse deal, my dad’s going to be at the dean’s office, like, the next day.”

  Professor Vaneyken glanced up from his notepad, studied her impassively, then wrote some more. I had a feeling he was writing about her. Which also meant he was probably making notes about me. He paused again, watching as two of the sorority sisters teamed up, captured their horses, and led them away, leaving only me, the middle-aged man, and the whiny cheerleader on the fence.

  Jocelyn returned to our corral and stopped near the gate. No doubt she was ready to move the class along, and we were holding things up. She observed us with the impassive but hopeful expression of a mother watching toddlers trying to fit the pieces into a puzzle box.

  The cheerleader smacked her lips, squinting at her companions in the next corral. “This is impossible, and my horse is a jerk.”

  That seemed to be Jocelyn’s cue to intervene. “Is it impossible, or are you just making it impossible?”