Beauty had her lead as she stretched into a gallop and aimed for the hedge. As if we were in a ballet, I heard nothing but the muffled hooves in dirt, the horse music pounding strong and confident.
I saw the hedge framed between her ears, and it rose green and full of life, not too tall, not for us. With my God I can scale any wall! We closed in on the hedge. Thu-dump, thu-dump, thu-dump. And there it was.
My heart sailed over, and so did Bold Beauty’s. Then we followed, soaring, as if flying heaven-bound, carried by God.
Beauty landed on the other side without so much as scuffing a hoof on the hedge. She kept cantering, looking for more. I gave her more. We circled back and took the hedge again. And again.
Finally, I turned her back toward the paddock, reaching down to stroke her neck. “Good girl, Beauty!” I whispered.
“That was marvelous!” Adrianna shouted, rushing out to us and throwing her arms around her horse’s neck.
Lizzy cheered. Dad clapped. Catman snapped his fingers.
Red-faced, Summer looked like she might cry.
“That’s still a temperamental horse,” Richard insisted. “Just because she got over the hedge a few times—”
“Beauty could do it a million times,” I said quietly. “Would you like us to go again?”
“That won’t be necessary.” Adrianna looked from her horse to me. Something passed between us, like two horses reading each other without words, like horse lovers sharing something nobody else could understand. For a second I felt sorry for Summer and Richard. They’d never have what we have with horses. They’d never feel what we feel.
“Winnie,” Adrianna said, “you have a gift.”
“And you have a gifted horse,” I replied.
“I have to go home,” Summer muttered. When her brother didn’t respond, she raised her voice. “Richard, I said I want to go home!”
Mr. Howard shook Richard’s hand. They talked a minute. Then Richard and Summer left in their empty trailer.
The Howards congratulated me again, then drove off with the promise to return for their horse after I’d worked with her for another week—long enough to give Beauty real confidence.
Catman walked up and straightened Beauty’s forelock. “Groovy.” Then he turned and walked away.
“Thanks, Catman! For everything!” I hollered after him.
He made the peace sign and kept on walking.
I turned to Lizzy and Dad.
“You did it!” Lizzy cried, throwing her arms around me.
I hugged her back. “Thanks, Lizzy. And thanks for the verses.”
Lizzy stepped back. “What verses?”
“In my boot? Especially the one about scaling any wall. It went over and over in my head when we jumped.”
Lizzy frowned. “I didn’t give you any verses.”
“But you—” I stopped and turned to my dad. “Dad?”
He shrugged. “I found it when I was hunting up some confidence for myself. Thought you might like it.”
I walked over and hugged him awkwardly. He fiddled with the keys in his pocket and looked away.
A picture flashed into my mind—Dad sitting back in his rocker, talking about God’s breeze. And he’d put that verse in my boot? Something told me I had a lot to learn about my dad.
Dad broke the silence between us. “Am I wrong, or do you have a debate to go to today?”
The debate! I may have just jumped a huge hurdle. But an even bigger one was still out there.
It took Lizzy so long to wrestle my tangled hair into a French braid that I was the last debater to show up at middle school. I took my seat at our team’s table, between Sal, dressed in a neon green shirt that matched the streak in her hair, and M, wearing his all-black uniform. A few feet over, Ms. Brumby and her team—Summer, Kristine, Brian, and Grant—looked relaxed, laughing as if they had the debate already sewn up.
“They go first with opening statements,” Pat explained. “After their team captain gives his statement, Barker gives his. Then we’ll go back and forth until all statements are presented. After that, Ms. Brumby opens the floor for rebuttals. Remember, don’t let ’em get your goat—no offense!”
My stomach tried to push up everything in it. I glanced out at the gym floor. Chairs were filling fast. The Barkers, with Dad and Lizzy and Catman, took up the whole front row.
Then in strolled Hawk with Peter Lory on her shoulder. She’d made it! Hawk waved at Summer and squinted toward us. When she saw me, she shouted, “Good e-mail! I told them!”
Thanks, God, I prayed, again feeling him in the boat with me.
“Here, Winnie!” Barker handed me an information sheet on the development of an unborn baby. “You can read from it for your opening statement.”
“Time to turn in notes!” Ms. Brumby stood over me, her hand out.
I gripped the page with both hands.
Ms. Brumby turned to me. “Don’t you know that notes are not allowed? It’s in the manual.”
“Well, I was thinking . . . since we haven’t had much time to practice. . . ,” Pat began. Then she took the sheet from me. “But you’re right. Rules are rules. We’ll do just fine without it.”
Right. If I couldn’t read it, I’d never say anything that made sense!
Note to self: Switch sides so you can ruin Summer’s team instead.
Ms. Brumby welcomed everyone. Then Grant launched into his opening statement about abortion being legal and women needing rights over their own bodies.
But Barker defined abortion as destroying the life of a developing child. He didn’t say it like he was accusing anybody, but like he was your best friend helping you understand something important. He finished by squarely facing the other team. “From the moment that baby is created, he or she has everything needed to be an individual—with DNA unlike anybody ever born! God made each person unique.”
“He said God in the school gym, Ms. Brumby!” Summer cried, standing up. “Can he do that?”
Grant pulled Summer down by her sleeve.
Kristine looked nervous as she gave her statement, but her voice didn’t shake. “This is a hard question,” she admitted. “But I keep thinking about women who just can’t do a good job raising a child. What about someone who’s been raped? Should she have to raise that baby? Wouldn’t the child have a sad life? That’s why I think the mother should choose.”
It was the best argument so far from their side. I knew Barker would have something to say in rebuttal about how few pregnancies resulted from rape and about doing what was right no matter what. But you had to hand it to Kristine. I didn’t know her at all, except as Summer’s sidekick. But she sounded sincere, like she’d wrestled with stuff.
Sal came next. I had no idea what she’d say.
“I’m definitely for choice!” Sal announced.
“Sal!” I whispered. “You can’t change sides now!”
Sal continued as if she hadn’t heard me. “That unborn baby should get to choose. Poor little kid can’t make you hear him. But you know what he’d choose, right? Life! Who wouldn’t?”
“Way to go, Sal!” I whispered. I hardly heard Brian’s statement, knowing I was up next.
“Winnie?” Ms. Brumby turned to me.
“I . . .” There were so many things I should say, but my throat closed and my tongue had turned to velcro.
Summer snickered.
I stared out into the gym. Lizzy’s eyes were as big as a draft horse’s. But Dad just grinned, like he wasn’t worried one bit.
And then I remembered: With my God I can scale any wall. In that instant, my mind flashed me a perfect photo image of Barker’s fact sheet. I could read it word for word. I opened my mouth and prayed that God would kick the words out. “Abortions usually aren’t done before seven weeks.” My voice sounded hoarse but loud enough. “By then, the baby’s heart has been beating for almost four weeks. She has her own blood, maybe a different type from her mom’s. He’s got arms and legs you could pick out in a
photo, eyes and hands, brain waves. Sometimes you can make out fingers, eyelids, toes, a nose.”
I thought of something from a news report Dad and I had seen when we lived in one of the I states. I looked over and smiled at Kristine. She smiled back. “If Kristine were pregnant and I shot her, I could be found guilty of two murders—hers and her unborn baby’s.”
“No fooling?” Sal asked.
“Some of you remember when your little brothers or sisters were born,” I continued, not reading the sheet any longer, trusting God and myself.
Kids mumbled from the gym. Even Summer seemed to be listening. Kristine said she remembered.
“Your folks named the baby, felt kicks, and waited. All of you knew—that was a person in there.”
Summer interrupted. “Time’s up! My turn. We’re too young to remember what people called ‘back-alley abortions,’ the dangerous things women had to do to their bodies before abortions were legal.” She gave her statement, filled with statistics and facts, without a single uh or um. She finished strong on abortion as a woman’s right. “I’m a woman. And if I were pregnant, I’d be the one who’d have to take care of the child. So, if I wanted an abortion, I’d have one.”
I felt sorry for M when Ms. Brumby told him to give his statement. He mumbled, “Don’t do it.”
Ms. Brumby tried to cover for him and moved on to open rebuttals. “Would anyone like to address an opponent’s argument at this point?”
So far in the debate, M had stared down at our table, showing no emotion, no sign he’d even heard the arguments. So when he turned to Summer and uttered one word, it had the force of a shout. “When?”
“When what?” Summer asked.
“When would you have your abortion?” M asked, his voice clear.
“Whenever I please!” Summer leaned back and crossed her arms in front of her.
“A year old?” M asked, his voice firm. “Kid’s a lot of work then.”
“Of course not!” Summer said it like M stood for Moron.
“A second before birth?” M asked.
“No! Before that!” Summer snapped.
“On the way to the hospital?”
“Before then.” But Summer’s answers were losing force.
“A month before?” M pressed.
“Earlier.”
M kept at it, forcing Summer to back down—not seven months, not six, not five. Two babies right here in Ohio were born when they were four and a half and five months old. And they were normal, M told us.
“You can’t pick a time because life starts at conception,” M stated. “No other point where you can draw a life line.”
Finally Summer lost it. “Nobody tells me I can’t make my own choice!”
“Choose adoption,” M said simply. “That’s what my bio mom did. And my folks and I are glad she did.”
Two people dressed totally in black stood up and cheered. “Go, M!”
Grant laughed out loud. “Can’t argue with that.”
Ms. Brumby ended the debate. “Thanks to both teams for a thought-provoking debate. Mrs. Haven and I will be tallying scores and awarding points. But I’d say you all did an admirable job. Congratulations.” She clapped and everyone else followed her lead.
Grant hollered over, “M, you’re really something!”
Summer wheeled on him. “I don’t know why anybody would listen to a creep who wears black every day of his life!”
“Summer!” I shouted. “Better check those facts! M is only wearing black until they come up with a darker color.”
Catman hopped up onstage, snapping his fingers, his hippie/beatnik way of clapping. M gave me a high five. Barker thanked all of us, while Pat hugged everybody on both teams.
I made my way down to Lizzy and Dad. Lizzy hugged me and said all the right things before a bunch of her classmates came and swept her away. She was spending the night at her friend Katy’s house.
Dad and I walked out together in time to see Barker’s family pile into their yellow bus.
The cattle truck started on the fourth try. “Great job, Winnie!” Dad said, backing out and turning toward home. “I wish I had your confidence.”
“You? You’re not afraid of anything.” I grinned over at him. “Except riding horses.”
“You knew?” he asked.
“Yeah, Dad.”
“I’ve ridden a couple of times—for your mother. She laughed so hard. . . .”
We were quiet for a minute, but it was a good quiet.
He turned onto our street, and the moon shone directly ahead of us. “Lately though, I’ve been more afraid of that contest Catman has been after me to enter.”
“That’s why you kept putting off filling out that entry form?” The thought of my dad not having confidence in his inventions had never entered my mind.
“Guess I was afraid of losing, of having to admit I’m not an inventor, just an out-of-work insurance salesman.”
I started to tell him that was crazy, but he held up his hand for me to stop. “Anyway, after you jumped that hedge, I went in the house and filled out that contest entry form—on the back bike, not the rocker.” He pulled a rolled-up paper from his coat pocket. “The deadline is midnight tonight. Now all I have to do is have the guts to mail it.”
He pulled up in front of our house. The cab of the truck felt as full as the Barker van on Sunday morning, crowded with memories of my mom, and overflowing with Immanuel, God with us.
“Dad!” I cried. “I’ve got an idea.”
Minutes later Nickers strolled out of the barn with my dad and me riding double. Dad sat stiffly behind me, holding on so tight it was hard for me to breathe. In one hand he clutched the contest entry.
Nickers whinnied as she clip-clopped down our street. The wind howled at our backs the three blocks to the mailbox. I guided my mare close to the mail slot and pulled down the handle.
Dad hesitated.
“With my God, I can scale a wall!” I declared.
Dad sighed and shoved in the contest entry. “With my God, I can enter a contest!”
Nickers turned and headed home under a blanket of stars, windblown leaves showering us.
“With my God, I can speak in a debate!” I shouted.
“And ride a horse!” Dad yelled.
“And stand up to Summer!”
“And . . .”
We laughed at each other. But it felt true, as if we could go on and on, riding against the wind, the sound of Nickers’ hooves steady and sure, and the possibilities endless.
Horses communicate with one another . . . and with us, if we learn to read their cues. Here are some of the main ways a horse talks:
Whinny—A loud, long horse call that can be heard from a half mile away. Horses often whinny back and forth.
Possible translations: Is that you over there? Hello! I’m over here! See me? I heard you! What’s going on?
Neigh—To most horse people, a neigh is the same as a whinny. Some people call any vocalization from a horse a neigh.
Nicker—The friendliest horse greeting in the world. A nicker is a low sound made in the throat, sometimes rumbling. Horses use it as a warm greeting for another horse or a trusted person. A horse owner might hear a nicker at feeding time.
Possible translations: Welcome back! Good to see you. I missed you. Hey there! Come on over. Got anything good to eat?
Snort—This sounds like your snort, only much louder and more fluttering. It’s a hard exhale, with the air being forced out through the nostrils.
Possible translations: Look out! Something’s wrong out there! Yikes! What’s that?
Blow—Usually one huge exhale, like a snort, but in a large burst of wind.
Possible translations: What’s going on? Things aren’t so bad. Such is life.
Squeal—This high-pitched cry that sounds a bit like a scream can be heard a hundred yards away.
Possible translations: Don’t you dare! Stop it! I’m warning you! I’ve had it—I mean it! That hurt
s!
Grunts, groans, sighs, sniffs—Horses make a variety of sounds. Some grunts and groans mean nothing more than boredom. Others are natural outgrowths of exercise.
Horses also communicate without making a sound. You’ll need to observe each horse and tune in to the individual translations, but here are some possible versions of nonverbal horse talk:
EARS
Flat back ears—When a horse pins back its ears, pay attention and beware! If the ears go back slightly, the horse may just be irritated. The closer the ears are pressed back to the skull, the angrier the horse.
Possible translations: I don’t like that buzzing fly. You’re making me mad! I’m warning you! You try that, and I’ll make you wish you hadn’t!
Pricked forward, stiff ears—Ears stiffly forward usually mean a horse is on the alert. Something ahead has captured its attention.
Possible translations: What’s that? Did you hear that? I want to know what that is! Forward ears may also say, I’m cool and proud of it!
Relaxed, loosely forward ears—When a horse is content, listening to sounds all around, ears relax, tilting loosely forward.
Possible translations: It’s a fine day, not too bad at all. Nothin’ new out here.
Uneven ears—When a horse swivels one ear up and one ear back, it’s just paying attention to the surroundings.
Possible translations: Sigh. So, anything interesting going on yet?
Stiff, twitching ears—If a horse twitches stiff ears, flicking them fast (in combination with overall body tension), be on guard! This horse may be terrified and ready to bolt.
Possible translations: Yikes! I’m outta here! Run for the hills!
Airplane ears—Ears lopped to the sides usually means the horse is bored or tired.
Possible translations: Nothing ever happens around here. So, what’s next already? Bor-ing.
Droopy ears—When a horse’s ears sag and droop to the sides, it may just be sleepy, or it might be in pain.
Possible translations: Yawn . . . I am so sleepy. I could sure use some shut-eye. I don’t feel so good. It really hurts.
TAIL
Tail switches hard and fast—An intensely angry horse will switch its tail hard enough to hurt anyone foolhardy enough to stand within striking distance. The tail flies side to side and maybe up and down as well.
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