Colt

by Nancy Springer

  “Hi, Liverwurst!” he greeted the horse when an aide wheeled him into the stable. “Hey, boy!” The horse stuck his splotchy head out over the stall door, and Colt reached up and patted him, rubbing hard at the itchy place just under Liverwurst’s forelock. Liverwurst thrust his head down as far as he could get it, his big rubbery nose almost against Colt’s chest and the good horse smell of him strong in Colt’s face. Colt fed him his apple. It no longer bothered him that Liverwurst chomped and slobbered. Colt chomped and slobbered himself sometimes, especially when he was faced with spaghetti, and he guessed there were some people who thought he was ugly because he had a shunt in his head and the top part of him was big compared to the bottom. But Liverwurst no longer looked ugly to Colt.

  Mrs. Reynolds came in with that long, strong, blue-jeaned stride of hers. “Ready to ride, Colt?”

  “I guess.”

  He worried about finishing his homework while the volunteers got him on his horse, and he worried about the wedding while he picked up the reins, and he worried about bears and wolves and mountain lions as he rode Liverwurst up the farm lane and along a country road to the state forest. And then he was on the trail, and somehow (he never quite understood how it happened) he wasn’t scared and he wasn’t worrying about anything.

  Out there the whole world was made of tall pines and green light and spicy-sweet air and the long, tan, wandering trail. And it was all shining new. Colt had never been in such a place before because crutches or a wheelchair would not take him there, but now he was part of it. Hushed shade, the soft clop of hooves, the rhythm of the walk, his own body, swaying, swaying—he no longer felt separate from these things, no longer felt somehow outside of his life looking in. He just—was. Liverwurst was Liverwurst, and Colt was Colt.

  Behind him he could hear cutesy-pie little Julie giggling on her pony. Jay Gee and Neely were singing off-key somewhere up ahead, and the women on each side of him were conversing about Mexican food, and it was all good, all part of tall green shade and hoof clop, and Colt’s life felt big enough to include it all. Big as forest and cool pine sky.

  And lake. There was a lake up ahead.

  The trail dipped down toward it, and there was no need to worry, no need even to think, just shift weight in the saddle and give Liverwurst a little more rein and let him manage the slope, nodding all the while as if he understood. Colt noticed without fear that his side walkers no longer bothered to hold on to the handles of his safety belt. When the trail narrowed and grew even steeper the women dropped behind, first one and then the other, while the aides who had to stay beside their handicapped riders struggled through brush and poison ivy.

  I’m riding on my own.…

  And he was looking down a sheer drop into deep water on one side, and on the other side he was looking up a steep hillside pierced with pines so tall they seemed to topple, they would all fall into the lake—he would fall. But even as he thought it, somehow he knew he would not. He and Liverwurst could manage this situation. Something warm and strong and vital seemed to flow up to him out of his horse, maybe out of the earth itself through the horse’s solid striding hooves.

  Right down to his bones Colt knew two things:

  I am alive.

  I am a horseback rider.

  The trail climbed the sheer lakeside slope to the hilltop, where there was a clearing. Mrs. Reynolds and one of the helpers set Colt down on the ground, where he ate watermelon as messily as Liverwurst had ever eaten anything (and fed the rind to his horse), and Mrs. Berry made a speech thanking Mrs. Reynolds for the use of Deep Meadows Farm and her horses and ponies. It was July, time for the volunteers to go off on their vacations. It was the last day of the summer’s horseback riding program.

  Back on Liverwurst again, holding the reins with sticky hands, going home, even with the daylight fading under the dark pines Colt still did not feel afraid. Not of horses or wildcats or the wedding. Not of anything.

  The feeling lasted clear through his night’s sleep and through the next day until the wedding rehearsal.

  Colt did not particularly embarrass himself or anyone else at the wedding. He wore protection so that he would not have to worry about his wayward personal functions. He did not stumble as he walked up the aisle with his mother (noticing that getting around on crutches did not seem as tiring as it used to) and stood beside her with his braces rumpling his one good suit. Standing, he used his left crutch only, slipping his hand out of the cuff of the right one so that he could hand her the ring when it was time. He noticed how pretty she looked. He noticed that he himself felt fine. He did not drop the ring. True, when he lifted his hand to give it to his mother, his right crutch clattered to the floor, but nobody giggled. Brad wasn’t bothered; he just looked over and smiled at Colt. It took a lot, apparently, to upset Brad. Even getting married to Audrey Vittorio didn’t seem to bother him too much. Lauri, who was holding Audrey’s flowers, gave Colt a scornful look as she picked up the crutch and handed it back to him, but girls always looked scornful, Colt had found. And Rosie, who was Brad’s best man, did not seem to notice anything. There was a sort of patient anxious-eyed Liverwurst look about Rosie.

  Colt kept on feeling fine right through the reception. And when he had a chance, when people weren’t talking to him, he sat and thought.

  He dreamed, rather. Of things he had seen at Deep Meadows Farm. Of horses sailing up fields at a long-reaching trot. Of horses cantering, their manes floating like wings. Of riders flying along on top of the trot and rocking to the rhythm of the canter. Of the trail, of the deep-green distances under the pine trees. Of freedom. Of going far. Of riding—not just poking around a ring at a walk, but really riding …

  He had to talk with his mother. He waited as long as he could, which was until the day after the wedding, when Brad and Rosie and Lauri moved in.

  “Mom. There’s something I really want.”

  She looked up at him from the living-room floor, where she was struggling to clear a space around the sofa for Rosie. The problem was the two months worth of newspapers and magazines piled under and around what was to be Rosie’s bed. Audrey looked hassled. At least she had had her dinner. Colt had made himself wait until past the height of the commotion and after dinner.

  “Mom, I want to keep on horseback riding.”

  She nodded without very much comprehension. “They’ll have handicapped riding again next summer.”

  “No!” Colt made himself lower his voice. This was serious, not something he wanted to get his mother angry about. “I don’t mean next summer with the other Easter Seals kids. I mean now, the rest of this summer.”

  Audrey blinked. “You mean paid private lessons? With Mrs. Reynolds?”

  “Yeah. Something like that.” Colt wasn’t too clear on the details. He just knew he had to get on Liverwurst again and learn how to go faster. Trot. Maybe even canter.

  His mother turned back to her excavations. “I don’t know, hon. I’ve got a lot on me right now. You remember we’re supposed to be saving money for a house—”

  “Mom, please. It’s important.”

  She looked at him again, thinking, and her hesitation told him she wanted to say yes. But she said, “It’s not just me you want to talk with anymore. You’ve got to include Brad.”

  It was a couple of days before Colt could work himself up to do that. Which was just as well, because the household was in chaos. Audrey worked eight to five at the post office, but Brad was working three to eleven at the munitions plant, and Lauri had to be up at four in the morning to deliver her paper route. Since the route was back in the neighborhood where the Flowerses used to live, Audrey or her dad had to drive her. Rosie, who worked until past midnight at the McDonald’s, was always on the sofa trying to sleep when Lauri and Audrey or Brad came through the living room on their way out the door, at which point Muffins, who considered all the newcomers dangerous intruders, always sounded the alarm. Daytimes were not much better. Lauri had gymnastics and swimming and viola l
essons, Colt had tutoring, Rosie had to go jogging to prepare for the cross-country season, Brad was trying to sleep, and Muffins barked at everything that moved. There were boxes and piles of Flowers junk all over the floors, nobody was getting enough sleep, and nobody ever knew who was supposed to cook what, or for how many, or when.

  Colt could not wait until after it sorted out to make his next horseback-riding request. Over the weekend, when Brad and his mother were both home at once, he got them to sit on the sofa (on top of Rosie’s sleeping bag) and listen to him. This time he had done some preparation.

  “I called Mrs. Reynolds,” he said, “and she said yes, she could give me private lessons on Liverwurst if Mrs. Berry thought it was a good idea. So I called Mrs. Berry, and she thinks it’s a great idea. She says I’m sitting up straighter and my back is stronger and my balance is better since I did that little bit of horseback riding.” Consciously he sat straight, not touching the back of the soft living-room chair he was perched in. He had been making a silent point of not spending so much time in his wheelchair, and was using his crutches and leg braces more than he used to. The crutches sat in the chair beside him.

  Brad nodded. Audrey said, “I’ve noticed it too, that you’re looking stronger.”

  Colt said, “So Mrs. Reynolds says fine with her as long as it’s okay with you.” He brought forth what he considered his strongest point. “And since I’m one of the handicapped kids she’ll only charge us half price for the lessons.”

  Brad looked amazed. “Actually, she could charge us double,” he said.

  “People can be incredibly nice,” Audrey told him. “I never get surprised anymore at how generous people can be.”

  Colt jiggled, waiting impatiently for the answer he wanted. “So can I call her and tell her it’s okay?”

  His mother was ready to say yes, he could tell. But Brad said, “Hold on a minute.”

  Colt hated him. He tried not to show it, but his voice sounded hard and snide as he said, “If it’s the money, I can stop getting my allowance—”

  “It’s not the money,” Brad said. “If we can afford three kinds of lessons for Lauri, we can afford horseback riding lessons for you. What worries me is the risk.”

  Audrey looked at him in surprise. “It didn’t look to me as if those horses would ever do anything to hurt anyone.”

  Brad touched her knee but didn’t answer. Instead, he looked straight at Colt. “What do you have in mind? Just walking around in the ring?”

  Brad understood too much, darn him. Colt didn’t know how he understood so well, but something in his level gaze told Colt he did, and Colt knew there was no use trying to fool him. He decided to start his risk-taking right away. He took a deep breath and said, “I want to learn to really ride, not just plod along with a bunch of baby-sitters. I want to go out on the trails. I want to go faster than a walk. I want to …” He let his voice trickle away, not sure how to say what riding meant to him.

  But Brad seemed to know. He nodded. “See, I used to ride horses when I was a kid,” he said. “Rode when I was in the service too.” He looked at Audrey. “People who work around horses, like Mrs. Reynolds, they get used to the danger, they don’t think about it. And Mrs. Berry, I don’t think she’s ever been on a horse. She wouldn’t know what might happen.” Brad went on quickly, quietly. “Even on the safest horse, there’s always a chance it might spook or bolt, if something scares it bad enough. And even the best riders take falls. Horseback riding’s risky.”

  Colt felt his hands quivering, he was so angry at Brad. So furious he couldn’t speak, not even to yell or bawl or throw a fit, because his mother, who would have said yes if it was just her decision, was looking at Brad with wide eyes. “Then you don’t think Colt should do it?”

  “I didn’t say that. I just want you to know. It’s you I’m worried about, mostly. He’s your kid. You’ve got to understand that he could get hurt or even killed.”

  Colt said, his voice shaking, “I could spend my life never doing anything important to me, and I could still get hurt.”

  “I know that.” Brad looked back at him, and when their eyes met all Colt’s anger swirled away like water down a drain. He felt weak, and was glad he was sitting down. There was something better than pity in Brad’s eyes. Better even than compassion. He began to understand why his mother had married Brad.

  Audrey said quietly, “Let me see if I’ve got it straight. On the one hand horseback riding will help Colt’s strength and balance—”

  “It’ll help more than that,” Brad said.

  “But on the other hand it’s more dangerous than I had thought.”

  “It’s not like it’s skydiving or something. But it is risky.”

  Colt said, his voice steady this time, “Mrs. Reynolds said nothing’s ever certain. She said I ought to think in terms of probabilities. Like, I probably won’t ever get hurt on Liverwurst because he’s a real calm horse.”

  Audrey nodded at him, and said to Brad, “What do you think?”

  “It’s up to you.”

  She said, “He’s growing up. I think he’s got to try new things. Take a few chances.”

  Brad said, “I think so too.”

  Colt did not yell yahoo or move or smile. It was a serious moment.

  His mother said to him, “You are to keep me informed of everything you do with the horse.”

  He nodded.

  “You are always to have someone with you. You are not to ride alone.”

  He nodded. It was a promise. “You’ll call Mrs. Reynolds and set a time?”

  “On one condition.” But now there was mischief in his mother’s eyes, and satisfaction, because she had him where she wanted him and was going to get her way about something. “Rosie is going to share your room. And that is that. Do we understand each other, young man?”

  Colt nodded.

  Chapter Four

  Trundling around his room belly-down on his scooter board, rearranging his stuff to make room for Rosie, Colt indulged in peevish thoughts. Why couldn’t things be simple? Take the scooter board, for instance. It looked simple, a lot like a skateboard meant for him to lie on as he pushed himself along with his hands. Fine, great, no wheelchair, no crutches and braces. But no good way to carry things either. He had to tuck stuff under his chin. And then when he got to the other side of the room he couldn’t reach any high places. If he used his wheelchair instead of the scooter board he couldn’t reach any low places. No matter how he tried to do it, changing his room around was a pain. And it was all Rosie’s fault—for being born.

  Colt considered that he was not yet defeated regarding that large, healthy intruder of a teenager. He had heard that sometimes the best defense was a good offense. And he knew he was good at being offensive. Maybe he could annoy Rosie enough so that he would voluntarily move out again. At the very least he could save his own pride. He could short-sheet Rosie’s bed before Rosie got a chance to short-sheet his. Short-sheeting was the least of what he could do to Rosie.

  Of course, he had to cover his own rear. His mother might take away his horseback-riding lessons if Rosie complained. But if he did things Rosie would be embarrassed to tell about, then his mother would never know.

  Colt sat up on his scooter board and watched as his mother and Brad brought in a studio couch and set it along the far wall from his bed. He watched as they put sheets and a lightweight summer blanket on it (flowered sheets—his mother didn’t own any other kind). After they had gone off to the kitchen, Colt made a quiet trip to the bathroom, then pulled back Rosie’s top sheet and sprinkled Rosie’s bed and pillow thickly with the potent rose-scented talcum powder his great-aunt Letitia, who sold Avon, had given his mother for Christmas. He smoothed down the top sheet again and returned the powder to its place.

  Because he was in training for cross-country running, Rosie was supposed to go to bed early when he could. (This had been quite a problem when he was sleeping on the sofa.) So, as Rosie had the day off from McDonald
’s, Colt was able to enjoy the show that evening as Rosie got into his new bed, laid his head on his pillow with a grateful sigh, and then made a strangled noise. Colt lay grinning in his own bed, and when Rosie sat up and gave him a look, he just kept grinning. Rosie didn’t say anything. He swung his long, muscular, very hairy legs out of the sheets, pulled the blanket up, took the pillowcase off the pillow and dropped it to the floor, where it settled with a white puff of talc. Then he lay down on top of the blanket, turned off the light, and went to sleep.

  “Rosie,” Colt’s mother asked her stepson in puzzled tones a few days later, “why are you sleeping on top of your bed instead of in it? Is something wrong?”

  “Nah. I just feel like it.”

  Meanwhile, Colt had dropped Rosie’s jockstrap down behind the dresser, spilled Kool-Aid in his running shoes (“Oops! Sorry, Rosie”), and slimed the doorknob with shaving cream so that Rosie, who always got up around three in the morning to go to the bathroom, would find it in the dark with his groggy hand. (He got a satisfying squeak out of Rosie on that occasion.) He also left a few surprise snacks, such as Jell-O, on Rosie’s bed for him to find when he came home late from work.

  Nothing happened in response to all this except that Rosie took to turning on the light whenever he needed to move around the room at night.

  Evidently Rosie was not the sort to tattle. Colt was enjoying himself, but at the same time starting to feel desperate. Rosie hadn’t done anything mean to him. Rosie seemed to have patience that would put Mrs. Berry to shame.

  What do I have to do to get a reaction out of this guy?

  It was the sight of Rosie’s athletic and darkly furred legs stretched naked in the summertime heat on top of his talcum-tainted bed that gave Colt his best idea yet.

  His excitement helped him stay awake. After Rosie was asleep (and Colt knew by then that Rosie was a sound sleeper), Colt started to move.

  Down off his bed—headfirst, balancing on his arms, as always. He did not want to use his scooter board, which was too noisy, despite Rosie’s sleeping abilities, so he combat-crawled. All the pushups had made his arms and shoulders strong enough to drag the rest of him along. It took a while, but he got himself to the bathroom and found what he wanted. In fact, he had located it earlier in the day and moved it to the cabinet under the sink, where he could reach it easily—his mother’s “Fast-Action Foam Hair Remover.” And a supply of damp sponges, of course.