Horse People

by Cary Holladay

  “Yes, I like children,” Bonnie says. “Raised three.”

  “Well, I’ve got four,” Mr. Scott says, “but you’d only be minding the younger ones. Girl age six, boy two. Need somebody to start right away. My wife…” He doesn’t finish. Doesn’t have to. Bonnie understands the wife’s a problem. “I’ll pay you…” and he says an amount.

  Bonnie near about jumps, it’s so much.

  Right away, Bonnie sees how it’s going to be. Mrs. Scott’s got the two older children on ponies, out in a paddock with a trainer.

  “Come with me,” Mrs. Scott says, and Bonnie smells alcohol on her breath, no doubt about it. She follows Mrs. Scott into the house, where a maid, a white girl in apron and cap, is cleaning great big pieces of furniture. An old white man, all dressed up, is on a ladder hanging pictures. Granddaddy of the children? No, must be another servant, because Mrs. Scott calls him “McAdams,” and tells him to straighten up that right-hand corner, it’s crooked. Bonnie tries to take everything in. Vases of flowers, bigger than Bonnie’s ever seen except at funerals. A smell of bacon and something sweet, like pancakes and syrup, that the Scotts must have had for breakfast. She bets there’s a cook back there in the kitchen, since there’s all these others.

  Next thing she knows, she’s up in the nursery brushing a little girl’s hair and washing the face of the youngest boy. Nelle and Charlie, their names are, and Mrs. Scott’s gone who knows where. The children must’ve had their breakfast brought up, because there’s a table set with fancy china, even a teapot, and crusts of toast and pieces of egg on the plates. A little china bowl holds strawberry jam. Bonnie wishes she could finish off the food. It all looks so good, but the children are watching, so she can’t. She picks up a silver spoon. The spoon is heavy and covered in curlicues.

  “It’s King,” the little girl says. She’s too serious-looking, but pretty. Got a round face, yellow curls, lips in a bow.

  “King?” Bonnie says. What is this child talking about? Do Yankees have kings? No, Benjamin Harrison is their president, too. Bonnie’s nerves are on edge, just being in the house with these people.

  The child says, “The King pattern. My name’s engraved on the spoon. See?”

  Bonnie squints at the spoon, sees “Nelle” written on it, and puts it down.

  “Do you like horses?” the child asks, and without waiting for an answer, commands, “Read to me.” She hands Bonnie a book.

  Bonnie can read, but not very well. She makes out the title and says, “Great Virginia Horses of…” and trails off at a big word. The child is testing her, and she doesn’t like it.

  “Antiquity,” Nelle says. “It means a long time ago. There was Fear-nought, and Monkey, and Dare-Devil, and Jolly Roger. Most Thoroughbreds come from one named Shark. He was brought over from England.”

  “Oh,” says Bonnie, feeling confused. How could a child know such things?

  “There was even a horse named Damn-His-Eyes, because nobody could beat him,” says Nelle, fixing Bonnie with a victorious stare.

  The little girl might almost be speaking a foreign language. Bonnie puts the book down on the breakfast table, beside the silver spoon.

  Out in the hallway, somebody is speaking a strange language, Bonnie realizes. Or at least talking funny. It’s a woman, arguing with Mrs. Scott, and their voices are getting loud. Bonnie hears the names Russell and Victor and the words “your poor boys.” What in the world kind of accent is that? Like a cat howling.

  The nursery door swings open, and in comes Mr. Thaddeus Scott. He nods at Bonnie, though she’s not sure he recognizes her. He says to his children, “Give me a hug!” He kneels and gathers Nelle and Charlie in his arms while Bonnie imagines what if he said that to her—Give me a hug. Would she do it? She might. If she felt like it. She thinks again of Henry Fenton. Long time now Henry Fenton’s been married to Fannie Porter, and they’ve got children older than the Scott boys, the ones falling off ponies this very second. The nursery window gives a good view of the paddock, and looks like both boys are in tears. They must be sissies. Bonnie finds herself telling Mr. Scott, “Have you met Mr. Henry Fenton? He hired me to watch the bridge over the river. All through the war, I stood between Rapidan and the Yankees,” and she breaks off.

  Mr. Scott laughs as if Bonnie is just the funniest thing. “I’m a Yankee myself,” he says.

  “I know,” she says, feeling embarrassed.

  “It’s been over a long time, that war,” he says, standing up.

  “Yes, sir,” she says, wondering if Yankee men expect to be called sir. She bets they do.

  “Did you have a gun? Would you have shot me if I showed up on your bridge?” he asks.

  Bonnie points a finger at him. “Bam,” she says.

  From out in the hallway comes a shriek, then the voices of Mrs. Scott and the foreigner.

  “You’re fired,” cries Mrs. Scott.

  Nelle whispers to her father, “I told you so.”

  Mr. Scott does what seems to Bonnie a strange thing. He stays quiet, while Nelle and Charlie cling to his knees. He doesn’t go into the hallway to make peace. He says to his children, “Papa’s going away for a while. To Colorado.”

  Nelle asks, “What’s it like there?”

  “Beautiful,” her father says. “Great big mountains. Silver mines. I’ll bring you a pair of Indian moccasins. Would you like that?”

  From the hallway comes Mrs. Scott’s voice again: “Pack and be gone!”

  And the foreigner: “Ye lousy scummerall!”

  Mr. Scott and his daughter look at each other and smile. Bonnie holds her breath.

  Mr. Scott stands up again. Bonnie has the wild thought that he decided to go to Colorado just a minute ago. When he came into the nursery, it wasn’t even in his mind.

  “Where’s she from?” Bonnie dares to ask, nodding toward the hallway.

  “Ireland,” says Mr. Scott.

  “What’s a scummerall?” Bonnie says.

  Nelle answers. “It’s a made-up word. Moira says it when she’s mad.”

  The Irish voice shrills, “You and yer bottle! Thinking ye’re so foine, well ye’re a drunk, Mizriz High and Mighty.”

  “Go,” bellows Mrs. Scott. “Thaddeus,” she says and sticks her head into the nursery. Her face is red, her pompadour straggling. “Throw out that wretch, Thaddeus!”

  Bonnie thinks, Oh, if Ma was still alive. She’d love this.

  Thaddeus Scott glides out, closing the door behind him. Charlie occupies himself with a set of wooden blocks. Nelle goes to a tiny, beautiful chair that Bonnie imagines was specially made for her. Nelle climbs onto the flowered seat, and as Bonnie watches, the child’s face undergoes a struggle. Eyes batting, lips curled up, nose turning pink. Kind of a big nose. Bonnie is pleased to find a flaw.

  Nelle is crying and trying not to. Bonnie takes her handkerchief from her pocket and hands it to her. Nelle presses it to her eyes, her chest shivering. Bonnie’s own children didn’t act like this. When they cried, it was big boo-hoos. This way is almost scary. So grieving-like.

  “Are you gonna miss your daddy?” Bonnie guesses.

  Nelle nods, tears streaming.

  “The moccasins sound nice,” Bonnie says, “that he’ll bring you.”

  “He goes away too much,” Nelle says. “And Mother…”

  Bonnie scoots close to the elaborate chair. Her knees ache from squatting, but she feels she’s on the verge of learning a secret.

  The child’s face closes. She blinks and says, “Tell me a story.”

  Bonnie figures out there’s been a long line of nurses and nannies. “A story,” Bonnie says. “A Bible story?” for she’s thinking of Daniel and the lions’ den. That might be how this little girl feels. Bonnie can’t remember how the story starts. All of a sudden Daniel was just there, with lions around. “He pulled a thorn out of the lion’s paw,” she says, “and the lion said, since he done it a favor, it would watch over him.”

  “No,” says Nelle. “A story that
happened to you.”

  Out in the hallway, there is silence. This child is in charge. How did that happen? From being rich, and a Yankee. From saying, “No,” to a grown-up. Bonnie would’ve walloped her own children for saying No to her. She can’t wallop this one, though.

  And it’s nice, somebody asking for a story about her own self.

  Nelle asks, “What was it you did on a bridge?”

  That’s all Bonnie needs. Words come to her and pour out. Bonnie says, “It was important, that bridge. I guarded it. The Yankees kept burning the other bridge, the one for trains. Mr. Fenton’s mill got burnt too. He was so mad.” Bonnie pauses. Her hopes had been highest then, because men need women when they’re mad. The big mill, with its six sets of grinding stones—just charred timbers. Bonnie took Henry Fenton some sausage her mother made and wore her good dress, there in the sooty embers. All that happened was, she handed him the sausage and he gave her money, and she said, You don’t have to pay. A man clearing the wreckage called out to him, and Henry Fenton handed the sausage to a helper and went off. Leaving Bonnie standing there in the burnt-up mill. Felt funny to look up and see sky. The war was still going on, and Henry’s first wife, the sick lady, was dead, and he was a soldier.

  “But Henry didn’t marry you?” Nelle says, and Bonnie stares at her. Well, there’s things this little girl ought to know, if she’s to grow up sensible.

  “No, he didn’t marry me,” she says, “and you know the worst part? That boy helping him, he laughed at me. He said, Women bring Mr. Fenton food all day long. I wanted to smack that grin off his face.” Bonnie’s breath comes quickly; she’s back there on the riverbank, in the ashes. She can almost smell the grain again, a scorch like burnt bread. The big mill, and three hundred barrels of flour owned by Henry Fenton—gone. Tons of corn and wheat that belonged to the Orange & Alexandria Railroad. Gone.

  “Did he marry somebody else?” the child asks.

  “Fannie Porter,” Bonnie says.

  “Why?”

  “I’ve thought about that.” Bonnie warms to the explanation. “She didn’t bring him nothing. She hung back. I knew because I could see from the road. She waited till he came to her. She had her eye on him even before his first wife died. I could tell.” Bonnie pauses. “I did slap that helper.” Bonnie pulls her arm back and cracks her hand through the air. “And he kicked me in my shins. Mr. Fenton didn’t even turn around.”

  “So you took a present, and you ended up in a fight,” the child says.

  “Yes,” says Bonnie, excited. “That’s how it was. Now learn from that,” she says, pushing her face close to Nelle’s. “It happens that way, sometimes. You don’t see it coming.”

  Nelle looks out the window and says, “There goes Moira.”

  A woman stumps across the yard, gripping a satchel with clothes spilling out. She reaches the paddock where Nelle’s two older brothers are riding, and she drops the satchel and holds out her arms. The younger boy slides off his pony, ducks beneath the fence, and rushes into the woman’s embrace.

  “Victor will be unhappy with Mother,” Nelle says. “It’s happened lots of times. Yesterday, Mother fired Bridget. She was nurse for Charlie and me. Victor cried all day.”

  “How old is Victor?” Bonnie asks, fascinated by the drama playing out before her.

  “Ten. He’s small for his age. That’s what Mother and Papa say.”

  “And your other brother?”

  “Russell’s twelve.”

  Down in the yard, Moira and Victor seem to sob into each other’s necks.

  “Here comes Mother,” Nelle announces to Bonnie. “Moira better run.” And Nelle laughs.

  Mrs. Scott—Bonnie’s glad that woman ain’t her momma—strides toward Moira and Victor and pries them apart. Their voices reach Bonnie in little high notes, making her think of her birds. Because the birds fared well outside the previous day, she set the cages out in the yard again this morning, thinking to air out the house. She feels a cautious liking for this child, this Nelle. She’ll ask Mr. Scott if she can keep Nelle and Charlie at her house sometimes. Why, he could bring them by early and pick them up at night; they’d have a fine time. And Bonnie wouldn’t have the two-mile walk to get here. The little girl will want a bird, maybe a lot of birds, and her daddy will buy them for her.

  “Now watch,” Nelle says.

  Down at the paddock, Victor struggles in his mother’s arms. A wagon pulls up. The driver is white too, a young white man. Moira yanks her satchel from the grass and climbs aboard. As the wagon jerks away, Moira turns and yells at Mrs. Scott, who can’t do one thing about it. Bonnie holds her breath. It’s grand to see a high-up woman brought so low. All down the driveway, Moira yells, gibberish to Bonnie’s ears, while Mrs. Scott holds Victor beneath his armpits, his feet spinning in the dirt.

  The wagon turns onto the road, and Victor slumps to the ground.

  Nelle predicts, “Now Mother will do something.”

  “Like what?” Bonnie asks.

  “I don’t know.” The child seems agitated. She wrings her hands.

  Mrs. Scott’s white dress, against the green grass and red dirt, makes Bonnie think of a snowman. Mrs. Scott summons the riding trainer from the paddock.

  “That’s Mr. Eldred,” Nelle reports. “We brought him with us from Devon. He used to be a jockey. Do you know what that is?”

  “Somebody who rides horses,” Bonnie says.

  “Race horses,” Nelle says, with an air of correcting her.

  Mr. Eldred gestures to the older boy, Russell, who dismounts. The trainer leads Russell’s pony to a barn. In a moment, Bonnie hears footsteps, and Russell rushes into the room. He addresses Nelle: “Mother says come out. She sent for the pony cart.”

  “Don’t let her drive,” Nelle says. “Charlie, stay here,” she orders her younger brother, who is playing with blocks so quietly that Bonnie’d forgotten about him.

  Bonnie follows Nelle and Russell down the stairs and out. The sweet smell of boxwood greets her. She wonders where Mr. Scott is. Did he leave for Colorado that quick?

  In the circular driveway, there’s Russell’s pony hitched to a gaily painted red-and-yellow cart. Mrs. Scott steps into the cart and takes the reins from Mr. Eldred. To her children she says, “Get in.”

  Her face looks furious, and suddenly Bonnie feels scared.

  Russell protests, “I’m too big,” and Nelle says, “Mother, please don’t drive.”

  “Come on, all of you,” Mrs. Scott urges. “I need a whip,” she orders Mr. Eldred. He plucks one from the side of the cart and hands it to her. “Victor, come here,” she calls. Victor approaches, but when his mother reaches for him, he scampers away. Finally, Mrs. Scott leaps out, grabs his arm, and thrusts him into the seat beside her.

  Nelle says, “Mr. Eldred.” She crooks a finger, and the trainer goes to her. “Stop her.”

  The trainer speaks low, yet Bonnie hears him say, “I can’t, Miss.”

  “Suit yourselves,” Mrs. Scott calls, as if to the world at large. She strikes the pony with the whip, and the animal lurches forward, gravel spitting out from hooves and wheels. Bonnie sees Victor clutch the side of the cart. Mrs. Scott stands up, reminding Bonnie of a drawing she saw, a ruler driving a chariot. Where was that picture? Was it part of a Bible story? Wasn’t the chariot pulled by elephants?

  “Mother!” Russell cries, sprinting after them.

  Bonnie hears screams that must be coming from Victor: “Moira! I want Moira.”

  Rocking from side to side, the cart veers out of the drive and heads toward the paddock. Mrs. Scott’s hair comes loose and streams down her back, and her shoulders hunch as she tugs at the reins. Bonnie realizes the pony is out of control. Beside her, Nelle covers her mouth with her hands, laughing and crying all at once—hysterical, that’s what. Bonnie knows she ought to do something, but she don’t know what.

  The trainer, Mr. Eldred, leaps toward the paddock, as if to open the gate.

  Too late.


  The pony crashes through the fence. The cart topples sideways. Victor and Mrs. Scott fly out, rolling and tumbling onto the dirt. Victor lies still. Mrs. Scott staggers to her feet shrieking, holding a hand to her face.

  “My eye!” she screams. Blood spurts down her cheek, pouring onto her white dress in gobs and loops, more blood than Bonnie has ever seen.

  “I’ll get Father.” Russell dashes for the house.

  Nelle goes to Victor and kicks him hard in the back, twice. He moans and stirs. Bonnie is shocked by this little girl, but she can’t think straight. At least the boy ain’t dead. Bonnie tells Mr. Eldred, “Somebody better get the doctor.”

  “Where is he?” Mr. Eldred says. Bonnie notices his crowded teeth. Little rat of a man, looking as scared as she feels.

  “Down the road, about a mile.” Bonnie points to the south. “Brick house with a little lake out front.”

  Mrs. Scott stumbles to a fence post, still screaming. Bonnie reaches down and grasps Nelle’s shoulders. “Don’t look,” she says and turns Nelle to the house.

  Nelle shakes free and runs to her mother. A horse thunders past—Mr. Eldred riding toward the road. Mrs. Scott’s cries make Bonnie’s head ring. Why don’t Mr. Scott hear this racket and come out? And all those maids and the dressed-up old man hanging pictures, why don’t they come?

  Because they seen it before, that’s why, and they know to stand clear. Bonnie’s mind supplies this answer as if God Himself says it.

  Nelle puts her foot on the fence and pushes herself to the top rail. Mrs. Scott covers the injured eye with her hand. To Bonnie’s amazement, Nelle snatches her mother’s hand, holding it by the wrist, and gazes at the wound. In the next instant, her mother whirls away from her.

  “Ida! Ida!” comes a man’s voice, and here at last is Mr. Scott, wearing a pale blue bathrobe, hair wet and slick, with Russell at his heels. Mr. Scott tries to take his wife in his arms. She beats him away, but he clasps her from the back, around the waist. Mrs. Scott crumples. She hangs in her husband’s arms as limp as a doll.

  Bonnie thinks how funny the silence sounds, after all that yelling. Mrs. Scott’s blood makes big stains on her husband’s robe.