The Tale of the Dancing Slaughter Horse

by Shade, Victoria;

  I watched her face as she scanned my score sheets, with the judges’ scores and comments, waiting for the disappointment. But her grin never faded. It was as if she was sharing the fun of my first show right along with me, despite the low scores.

  I put more hope of doing well at this show into Freddie, but Freddie was stiff and I didn’t know what to do other than to just sit, smile, and steer. I didn’t have Carol in the competition ring telling me what to do. Freddie and I won mostly third and fourth place ribbons, which I expected to get on him. Still, a small part of me was disappointed because after all the love I had showered on Freddie, he didn’t magically transform into a superstar dressage horse on show day.

  I continued to show Patches and Freddie that summer, in the three shows hosted by the farm, at Carol’s insistence. We continued to collect the pastel-colored ribbons rather than the blue and red ones, for first and second place. But I still displayed the ones I had earned proudly in my bedroom. After all, I had beat someone to earn most of those ribbons. I wasn’t the best, but I also wasn’t the worst.

  13

  I had adjusted to my new barn, new horses, new coach, and even my new school. As 6th grade came to an end, I looked forward to my second show season. Home life had even stabilized with my father’s mysterious four-year disappearance. I didn’t ask what happened. I was afraid that any talk or thought of him would bring him back.

  And then, just when summer vacation began, my mother announced that we would have to spend two entire weeks with him at a resort called Lake George. Right smack in the middle of show season. I was devastated, confused, and angry. I felt helpless and betrayed. I expected things like this from my father, but my mother, who was supposed to be our protector, was just letting this happen.

  “Why are you doing this to us?” I demanded, watching her pack my bag. “I thought you loved us,” I tried to lay on the guilt as heavily as possible.

  “I do love you, but he’s your father, and you have to go,” she said conclusively.

  “Why? The court, again?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she ended.

  “This is so unfair!”

  “I know, I know,” she said, exhausted, “but he is your father, and you will be able to watch the Olympics while you’re up there.”

  “I can watch the Olympics here, and keep riding!” I spat at her.

  “I know, Victoria, I know,” she concluded.

  And that was it. If the court said I had to go with my father, I had to go.

  As he drove us up to Lake George, I remembered how he and my mother had battled through the legal system. My sister and I missed a lot of school to go to court. My mom was in court a lot more than we were, frequently leaving us with babysitters, most of whom were total freaks. There was the one with nine fingers. Then there was the huge, fat one who attacked the kitchen with a perpetually voracious appetite, but never cooked a single meal for us. And then there was my grandmother. She was a brilliant cook, but a terrible babysitter. She was clear about how miserable she was and how it was everyone’s fault, including my sister and me. The wooden spoon was always within her reach if we ever talked back to her.

  At eight years old, I began realizing that it was breaking my mother’s heart to leave us with these babysitters, and also that it was beyond her control. She was always either at work or talking to the lawyers, because of him. I never saw my mother, and we were always stuck being babysat by my grandparents, because of my father. Why couldn’t he just disappear again?

  Seething in the passenger seat, the countless hurtful memories of this stranger that I refused to call “Dad” flooded my mind. I remembered how once, in the hallway of the court, before it was our turn to go in the courtroom, my mother was talking to her lawyer. I was lingering nearby, holding my sister’s hand, when I saw my father down the hall. He walked directly to me, unnoticed by my mother. I held my ground, stepping in front of my sister. I wasn’t afraid.

  When he reached me, he pulled something out of a pocket hidden inside his jacket, and bent down, opening his fist in my face. It was a watch—an ugly, old watch.

  “I’ll give you this shiny new watch if you tell the judge your mother hits you and you want to live with me,” he said sweetly.

  Blood rushed to my head, and all of a sudden I felt like I could strangle his fat neck with my own hands. I knew what he was trying to do.

  I plucked the old watch from his hand and chucked it hard across the hall.

  “You can keep the watch and I’m going to tell the judge the truth—that I hate you and I never want to live with you!” I yelled as loud as I could. I knew I was safe if I shouted. It was a lesson I learned from his many unannounced visits when we were home alone with our grandparents. He always left when I screamed.

  The hall suddenly fell silent and my mother rushed to me. She grabbed my hand to pull me away as she chastised my father.

  “What did you do? This is your own child!” she chided. Then we hurried into the courtroom before he could respond.

  The judge declared that he wanted to see just my sister and me in his chambers.

  He softened once we were in his office. It smelled like old leather. He smelled old too, like my grandparents. His old man cologne could not mask the stench of his stale, weathered skin. Pale white skin hung from his face, like the drapes over the living room window at home. His expensive looking gold-rimmed glasses slid down his greasy nose. He removed them, revealing gray-blue eyes.

  “So, girls, are you hungry? Thirsty?”

  “No,” I said sternly.

  “I want an ice cream!” my sister declared.

  “Oh, Sugar, I’m sorry. I’m fresh out of ice cream. How ’bout a lollipop?” he asked my sister in an unfamiliar, but distinctly American accent.

  “Yeah!” she said happily as he handed her a lollipop and supervised her as she tore off the wrapping.

  “Would you like to sit on my knee, darlin’?” he asked me.

  “No,” I replied.

  “I do, I do!” my sister jumped in. He then laughed as he hoisted my little sister up on his knee.

  I knew what the purpose of this meeting was, so to get right to the point, I started.

  “We want to live with our Mom,” I proclaimed.

  “Oh, really? Did someone tell you to say that?” he asked.

  “No. My mom told me to just tell you the truth. And that’s the truth,” I said.

  “Why is it better to live with Mom than with Dad?” he asked.

  “He doesn’t love us,” I said.

  “I’m sure he loves you,” the judge said.

  “No, he doesn’t! He makes us eat the slimy part of the meat!” my sister chimed in. “Mommy cuts off the slimy part, and she never makes us eat it,” she explained.

  “That’s when one of his girlfriends comes over and cooks. If no one else is there to cook when we’re at his apartment, then he buys a box of cookies for us to eat,” I revealed.

  “Cookies don’t sound so bad,” the judge countered.

  “For dinner?” I asked.

  “Hmm,” he let out.

  We answered an unending number of questions. I was amazed that I had to spend such a long time explaining such a clearly obvious situation and what would be the best resolution to the old man in the important black robe.

  “OK girls, let’s go back to Mom,” he said, as he took each of us by the hand and walked us to the guard, who then escorted us to sit beside our mother.

  Custody once more was awarded to my mother.

  “This isn’t over, you bitch!” my father threatened, as we exited the courthouse.

  “Victor! Not in front of the girls!” my mother retaliated.

  “It’s OK, Mom. He already taught us all the curses, in Romanian and English,” I said, trying to comfort her. But judging by her hard grip on my hand, I wondered if I
had done more harm than good.

  __________

  I was most excited for summer to begin because it was the year of the 1992 summer Olympics. I was curious to see what the big deal was about this event, and to try to understand why Leslie had declared it outside of the realm of possibility for me.

  I was lost in thought for the entire drive up to the resort. How could someone be so sure of my limitations? Why was Leslie, of all people, my biggest doubter? Shouldn’t she have been my biggest supporter? What’s the big deal with the Olympics, anyway?

  Suddenly, the car slowed and pulled into the parking lot. I saw the “Office” sign. We would see Kevin, the owner. We knew Kevin because my mother brought us up here years ago. We liked Kevin, he was always nice to us.

  He was sitting in the office when we went to check in.

  “Hi Kevin!” we said simultaneously.

  “Hi girls!” he said, as we rushed over to give him a group hug.

  “Wow, you got big! How old are you now?” he asked us.

  “I’m twelve,” I said, importantly.

  “And I’m ten!” my sister exclaimed.

  “Where is everyone?” he asked as he looked over our shoulders for our grandparents, mother, and Chihuahuas.

  “Oh, it’s just us and our dad this time,” I said.

  My father puffed out his chest, carefully rolled each “r” and enunciated each vowel in our ridiculous last name while he pompously declared, “Yes, hello, I am Victor Radulescu!”

  “Hi, there. I’m Kevin Daniels. How long will you be staying?” “Three weeks, and put it on my ex-wife’s credit card,” my father ordered.

  Kevin looked at me quizzically. I rolled my eyes to let him know how unhappy I was with this situation.

  “OK, I’ll have to call her to make sure she’s on board with that, sir,” Kevin replied.

  “Oh, she’s eets on board, don’t vorry!” my father cajoled in his thick Romanian accent, visibly amused.

  “Right, well, here are your room keys, enjoy your stay. Girls, I’ll be down by the beach later if you want to go out on the boat.”

  “Yeah!” we exclaimed in unison.

  “OK! First we go to the room,” my father interrupted as he herded us out of the office.

  I knew what my father’s favorite pastime was—drinking until he passed out in front of the TV. Fortunately for me, I had the diversion of watching the Olympics. I knew he would want to watch it as well, since it was a sporting event.

  The summer Games opened the day after we arrived at the vacation resort. I was still annoyed that I had been torn from my horses, but was glued to the television for the entirety of the Olympics. Dressage was not televised, but I still watched all of the major events—gymnastics, swimming, diving, basketball, rowing, and track and field. I was in awe of the athletes and the skill and athleticism they had achieved from years of rigorous training. Even though this event highlighted physical prowess, I thought about what mental toughness they must also have to win, lose, fall, get back up again. I watched the men’s basketball where the “Dream Team” earned their name—they were undefeated, invincible, the best. I watched the women’s gymnastics where girls not much older than me tumbled to glory and fulfilled a lifelong dream.

  It was during this Olympics that I remembered the movie, Nadia. I was five years old when I saw the movie, and it was only a distant memory at this point, but I remembered a particular scene in the movie that illustrated how much Nadia Comenici wanted to reclaim her Olympic glory in her second Olympics. The scene zeroed in on one end of the balance beam and caught her hands as they were about to fall on the apparatus, so that she could handstand onto it and begin her routine. But her forearm was wrapped in a white bandage, and blood began to spill out of the wound, soaking the wrapping in red blood. An open injury on a crucial part of her body didn’t stop the gymnast from proving to herself and to everyone else that she was still the best. For me, that scene made the entire movie. It showed me that nothing can stand in the way of what you want.

  __________

  I almost always got to watch the Games, as my father was usually passed out on his bed by the time my sister and I came in from spending the day on the lake with Kevin. This diversion made the days fly by. We got to spend all day without him, and then I got to watch the Olympics at night.

  On our last day, a few of the other kids whom we had befriended invited us to play a game of badminton that evening.

  We went up to the hotel room to change and ask our father for permission, since it was an evening activity, but he was passed out. I saw more than his usual bottles of alcohol, and was in no mood to spend my last night listening to his deafening snoring.

  “Whatever, the court is right outside so if he wakes up, he’ll see us playing. We’ll come in before dark, it will be fine,” I reasoned to my sister.

  I was doubtful that he would even wake up, so we headed down to the court.

  We played until it began to get dark, and then went back to the room. I saw that the lights were on.

  I entered first.

  “Where the hell were you?” he yelled.

  “We were just downstairs, playing badminton,” I replied.

  “Your mother called and you weren’t here, do you have any idea how bad that makes me look?” he shouted.

  “You don’t need any help from us to look bad,” I replied, getting angry and louder.

  “You fucking bitches are just like your mother!” he spat. And with that, he simply rolled over in his bed and started snoring.

  “Don’t listen to him, he’s an idiot,” I whispered to my sister. “Come on, let’s just brush our teeth and go to bed.”

  “OK,” my sister complied.

  “I’ll be right there,” I said. I went directly to the telephone and called my mother.

  “Mom?” I said as soon as I heard the line picked up.

  “Hi Fafi! How are you doing? I miss you!”

  “Mom, you have to come get us. Victor is drunk and we don’t feel safe, you have to come get us tonight.”

  “Put him on the phone,” she said, her voice slow and deliberate.

  I slapped the side of his head hard with the telephone receiver.

  “Hey, wake up. Mom wants to talk to you,” I said, putting the receiver down on the nightstand. I walked over to the bathroom.

  “What,” he said slowly, picking up the receiver.

  “Oh shut up, you stupid old whore,” he said after a long pause. After another pause, “Yeah? If you come here tonight or if I see any police, I will throw them in the car and drive them to Canada and then you really never will see them again.”

  “Go fuck yourself!” he said, slamming down the receiver.

  And with that, he simply rolled back into bed and the snoring resumed.

  I went back to the phone and again called my mother.

  “Mom?”

  “Hi Fafi,” she sighed from the other line.

  “So, are you coming to get us?”

  “No, your father will drive you home tomorrow,” she said, matter-of-factly.

  “Ugh! But, Mom!” I objected.

  “I want talk to your sister, is she still awake?”

  “Yeah, hold on.”

  My sister stood motionless in the doorway of the bathroom. I waved at her to come over.

  “Hi, Mom,” she said into the receiver.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  After another long pause, “OK, love you too. Yeah, hold on,” she said, handing me the receiver.

  “Hi, Mom,” I said, taking back the phone.

  “Fafi, just look out for your sister tonight and I’ll see you tomorrow,” she instructed.

  “Fine,” I sighed, annoyed that she wouldn’t come get us.

  “I love you,” she said.

  “Love you to
o. Bye, Mom,” I said, and then hung up the phone.

  “Let’s go to bed,” I said to my sister, putting my arm around her shoulder.

  I was so disappointed in both of my parents.

  14

  My father did drive us back. I was grateful to be home, and eager to get to the barn. My mother told me she would do her best to never again put us in the custody of our father, but it was up to the court. I was annoyed that our lives would again be in the hands of so-called experts who had to be convinced over and over again of what was so clear—that we were better off with our mother.

  I was relieved to finally be back at the barn. This was my world, and once I returned to it, I felt normal again. Carol immediately immersed me back into my old routine of riding either Patches or Freddie. But now, I was her working student. I got one free lesson a week in exchange for helping her with the legion of horses under her training. I cleaned tack, tacked horses up for her, brought them to her, and was eventually allowed to warm them up and cool them down. Plus, I got to watch her ride on my lunch break.

  Watching Carol ride was the highlight of my day. As soon as she told me to grab lunch, I hightailed it to the viewing area and was glued to the glass while she rode. I couldn’t imagine a more perfect rider. No matter what any horse did, she was always calm and composed. I never saw her lose her cool. I was fascinated by this superhuman power she had to always stay in control. No matter how bad the horse was, she just kept riding. She just kept moving forward. Her position was perfect—she was always looking up and straight ahead, carried her hands squarely in front of her, kept her rib cage centered over her hips, and maintained her legs right underneath her. Leslie’s mantra was always “ears, shoulders, hips and heels.” And that’s the way Carol rode. The way she trained was textbook perfect. She somehow knew what each horse needed to shine. And she brought it out of all of them. She made the most average horse look like it belonged in the show ring.

  I absorbed every stride, felt the bend in every shoulder-in, floated across the arena with every one of her leg yields. We were together all day, every day, and it was perfect. We never discussed what happened at Lake George. We actually never discussed anything but riding and I loved that about my coach. Training with Carol was a complete break from my reality. It was like being in a whole other world—nothing else existed. The fear of the courts handing us over to my father was paused, my mother’s constant anxiety was quelled, and all the fighting was silenced.