A Horse like Barney

by Jessie Haas

  “Sounds good, I guess.”

  Missy shrugged. “Well, who knows? I don’t think the truth in advertising laws apply, but it’s worth taking a look. Now, there’s one thing missing from your list. What do you want to do with your horse?”

  Sarah stared at her. “Well, ride.”

  Missy smiled. “I know, but what kind? Trail riding? Showing? Jumping?”

  “Yes.”

  “All of those?”

  “Well, I don’t know,” Sarah said. She’d taken riding lessons, she’d pounded out a lot of miles conditioning Herky, and she’d played around on Barney. Other than that she hadn’t done much. She didn’t even know what was possible. “That’s why I want a Morgan. Morgans can do everything.”

  “If you get the right Morgan,” Missy said. “So how do we do this? Should I do the calling, so your mother doesn’t start to wonder?”

  “That makes sense.” Sarah hated calling strangers.

  “And what will you tell her? She’s bound to notice that you’ve found something to do with yourself.”

  Sarah considered. “I’ll say we’re going swimming.”

  “Oh, good! We will go swimming! I know some really good spots. Meanwhile,” Missy said, “tomorrow’s my day off, and there’s a big Morgan show I was going to go to. Want to come?”

  “Will they have horses for sale?”

  “None you can afford,” said Missy, “but we can scope ’em out.”

  On the way home Sarah had Missy stop at Albert’s. She hadn’t ridden Herky today. On riding lesson days Herky had the afternoon off.

  Albert and his father were milking. The big barn smelled wonderful: fresh pine sawdust, fresh hay, fresh milk, and sweet fresh cows.

  Albert stood up from beside a cow as Sarah approached. He was so deeply tanned that his teeth and the whites of his eyes flashed. And he was thin and weary-looking.

  At the end of school Albert had been fat, but a summer in the saddle and out broiling in a hayfield had melted him away. Now the waist of his jeans looked as if it would go around him twice, and he hauled in the slack with an old leather belt.

  “Hi, Alb. I can’t ride Herky tomorrow.”

  Albert frowned. “What do you mean, you can’t?”

  “I’m going to a horse show with Missy.”

  “Oh.” Albert considered. “I guess he could use another afternoon off. Sure, go ahead.”

  “I wasn’t asking your permission, Albert!”

  “You weren’t?” Albert looked puzzled.

  “No! You aren’t my boss.”

  “Oh. No. I never said I was.”

  “You didn’t have to,” Sarah muttered, turning away. But, she realized, Albert really needed her. At the end of the month he was going to ride Herky one hundred miles in three days—forty miles on each of the first two days and twenty the last morning. They had to complete the miles within a certain time, and Herky had to come in sound. His pulse, temperature, and breathing rate would be checked at points along the way, and he’d be judged on how quickly he returned to normal.

  That meant a lot of miles now, to get him in shape, and Albert simply didn’t have time to do them all. Some of it was up to Sarah.

  So I guess Albert is my boss, she thought. She’d have to remember that and be responsible.

  There was no reason not to tell Mom about the show, but Sarah tried to keep her excitement hidden. She wanted to bring it up in her own way and not whenever Mom happened to notice.

  Supper tonight was cottage cheese with pesto and a marinated tomato salad, which Mom put proudly in the center of the table.

  “Finally, enough tomatoes to make something with! The green peppers are ready, too. Pretty good for someone who hasn’t had a garden in fifteen years, hmm?”

  “And who used to hate gardening,” Dad said, shoveling tomatoes onto his plate. “Your father had a lot to say about you and that garden last time he was here.”

  “He never let me do the fun stuff!” Mom said. “Anybody would rather go riding than weed.” Mom didn’t let Sarah even touch a weed; not that she was dying to, but it would have been something to do.

  “Speaking of gardens.” Now Mom turned to Sarah. “Goldy was testing the barnyard fence this afternoon. I hope you’ll spend some time going over it tomorrow.”

  Sarah groaned inwardly. Why now? Goldy had had all summer to think this up. “I can’t,” she said. “I was going to tell you—Missy said she’d take me to the big Morgan show tomorrow.”

  Mom gave her a direct, thoughtful look, the kind of look Sarah had been hoping to avoid.

  “I can lock Goldy in the stall,” Sarah said quickly, “and I’ll fix the fence the day after.”

  “Where is this show?”

  “Northampton. It’s huge, Missy says. Who knows? Maybe we’ll see some horses for sale!”

  At that Mom looked a little guilty, as Sarah had hoped she might. Nothing had been said this evening about a nice air-conditioned movie. “All right,” Mom said. “As long as you realize, Sarah, you won’t find a horse exactly like Barney. Not anywhere, but especially not at a big show like that.”

  I was right! Sarah thought. Mom was cautioning her about just going to a horse show. Imagine what she’d say if she knew their other plan!

  3

  The Morgan Show

  After Mom’s car had disappeared down the driveway the next morning and when Dad was safely in his study, Sarah went to the phone. For the first time all summer she had some real news to share with Jill.

  She dialed with a quick thumping of her heart, a feeling of nervousness. That was strange. Jill was the easiest friend she’d ever made. They’d just liked each other, from the moment Jill first sat next to Sarah on the bus last fall. But in the summertime things seemed different.…

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Jill?”

  “Oh, Sarah. What’s up?”

  “I’m starting to look for my horse!” Sarah strained her ears and was rewarded by the clacking of the typewriter. “Missy’s going to take me around. We’re going—”

  There had been a hint of clamor and uproar on the other end of the line all along. Suddenly it erupted, and Jill screamed, “All right, Brian, I don’t care! Eat your stupid crayons! Just don’t come bawling to me when you can’t find them! Fred, leave him alone! Let him do what he wants!” Sarah could hear her clearly, even with the receiver inches from her ear. There was a furious roar of forced weeping in the background, then a crash and a genuine squeal of pain and wrath.

  “Oh, Lord,” said Jill quietly. “Never mind. What are you and Missy going to do?”

  “She’s going to take me—we’re going to go looking at horses together, and today we’re going to a big show. She’s picking me up in a few—Jill, are they all right?” The roar in the background sounded like a barroom brawl or a rowdy strangling match.

  “They are fine,” said Jill. “They are perfectly normal boys, behaving perfectly normally.” Those were Jill’s mother’s words, and Sarah had heard them often. But she didn’t like the quiet, weary sound of Jill’s voice so early in the morning. “Still, I’m not supposed to let them kill each other. I’d better go. Have fun, Sarah.” There was a click and a humming quiet on the line.

  Slowly Sarah hung up. She felt as if she’d said something wrong, but before she could figure out what, Old Paint rattled into the yard, and it was time to leave.

  “This is the Morgan show, isn’t it?” Sarah was staring at the horse in front of her, the first horse she’d seen here at the giant Tri-State Fairgrounds. He was tall and narrow, with a long head and a nervous expression. He was being posed between two large buildings that blocked their view of the fairgrounds.

  “It’s the Morgan show, but this isn’t the kind of Morgan we’re talking about.” Missy eyed the horse disapprovingly. “Look how long his feet are! He’d be half a hand shorter if they trimmed him right!”

  “Shh,” said Sarah. People were glancing at them. But the horse’s feet were long. He looked
as if he were wearing elevator shoes.

  Missy made a face, and they went ahead, onto the main part of the fairgrounds.

  It was a vast flat area, as wide as a river valley. Horses in blankets were being walked on a road in front of them. Horses were being trotted bareback and under saddle by people in sweat suits or long, bright formal coats. Horses were circling on lunge lines. Horses were having fits of temper and rebellion. There were throngs of people walking, and as Sarah and Missy watched, two people drove past in silent golf carts.

  To the left stretched row on row of stable roofs. Ahead was a huge oval track, with three areas marked off in the infield, each large enough to be a show-ring. Sarah saw people riding hunt-seat, driving wooden-wheeled carts, cantering in sedate circles next to a dressage arena made of white chain.

  “Wow!”

  “Yeah—hey, look out!” Missy pulled Sarah back as a horse trotted past with a tremendous snorting and clatter. The clatter came from the circlets of chain he wore around each front pastern.

  Sarah stared in disbelief. “Did you see that? Is that legal?”

  “It must be,” Missy said. “They’re doing it in broad daylight. Look, there’s another.”

  “Look how he flinches his feet up,” Sarah said. They watched silently as the horse passed. With every step the chains slapped his legs, and he looked as if he were trying to shake them off or step out of them. The chains got his knees up higher, but the result looked pained and artificial.

  Sarah said, “It makes him look like a Saddlebred. Why do they want to do that?”

  “You mean, why don’t they just buy a Saddlebred instead of trying to turn a Morgan into one? I don’t know.”

  “Is it all like this?” Sarah asked as another narrow, high-stepping horse pranced past.

  “A lot of it. That’s where the money is. So, where do you want to go first?”

  “The stables,” Sarah said, hoping to restore herself with a little dose of normality.

  But when they stepped into the first stable row, it was clear that they had entered another world.

  A warm wind was blowing, and all down the row of stalls a huge crimson cloth billowed out. It was a giant curtain, Sarah realized, with openings for every stall door. The gold-trimmed valance above was blazoned with a stable name. Farther down the row the color changed abruptly to forest green: different territory.

  A fiery-looking horse was being led out of a stall. As the rider mounted, the crimson curtain billowed, and the horse clattered away in a high-stepping canter.

  Missy said, “Can you imagine what Barney’d do here?”

  “He’d be on the moon by now,” said Sarah. “And so would you!”

  At the end of the stable row they smelled french fries and cotton candy, and they could hear an announcer’s voice.

  “This’ll be the Pleasure Class for riders eleven and younger, coming up next. Riders in the ring, please.”

  Sarah and Missy came around the end of a trailer and found themselves out in the hot sun again, next to a white-railed show-ring. Several riders were circling. “God,” Missy said. “Look at the makeup!”

  The girl riding down the rail toward them wore a pink coat and a pale gray hat. A pink spot, matching the coat, blazed on each cheek. Her eyes were heavily mascaraed, and her lips glistened.

  The girl’s chestnut mare minced along, twitching her feet high and gaining remarkably little ground. She snapped her teeth as she walked.

  “These are supposed to be Pleasure horses?”

  “Yup. Later there’ll be Classic Pleasure. That’s where they look like Morgans and they’re actually a pleasure to ride. This is the new improved version.”

  “How do they improve them?” Sarah asked.

  “They breed for the highest action, or they work them in chains, or both.”

  The riders circled. Their mascaraed eyes moved constantly between the ringmaster and the nearest horse, as each rider tried to nerve and position herself for the call to trot.

  “And trot, please, ordinary trot!” The announcer’s last word was swallowed by a sudden burst of music, a merry-go-round version of “Puff the Magic Dragon.”

  “Yuck,” said Missy. Sarah just stared. She didn’t like this way of riding, sitting on the back of a flat saddle with your legs stuck out, and she didn’t like the way the horses moved, up and down instead of forward. Many were nervous, and some seemed to remember the chain anklets all too well. But as they circled, the pink and red and dark coats bobbing up and down, the necks arched, the manes flying, it did look just like a merry-go-round.

  The music dimmed for a second. “Road trot!” said the announcer. The music got louder and faster, and the horses went faster, too.

  “I don’t think I’d still be on board,” Sarah said, watching the tight faces bob past.

  “Me either. Can you imagine taking one of these horses out on the trail?”

  But even Missy had to admit that the horses were good. Not one bucked or kicked a neighbor, and not one actually ran away, all things Sarah had seen at the little 4-H horse show. They took care of their riders, the way good horses do.

  “Let’s go,” Missy said.

  Sarah turned away from the ring half-reluctantly. She hated to admit that she was enjoying this; the smell of cotton candy and the merry-go-round music. It all seemed so pretty and unreal.

  Unreal. She had about as much chance of owning a Morgan as she did of owning a giraffe. The atmosphere of expense and unreality made that much clear.

  “French fries?” Missy asked. “My treat.” She looked at Sarah’s glum face. “What’s up?”

  Sarah shrugged. “I don’t know. They’re just so—”

  “Look, you’re not gonna get a horse like that!”

  “But I wanted one! I wanted a Morgan!”

  “Look—here, eat your fries! Sarah, in the first place you couldn’t touch one of those horses on your budget. You couldn’t afford one hoof of a horse like that. In the second place you don’t want one. You want a real Morgan!”

  “Well, where is one?”

  “Over here.” Missy towed Sarah around the end of the bleachers onto the huge infield of the track. “Back there is where they show. Here is where they do, and you want a doer. There!”

  A bay mare passed them, pulling a wooden two-wheeled cart. Her stride was clear and active and strong, her head naturally high. She wasn’t big, but her proud neck made her look so and gave her a noble air.

  “Oh!”

  “See? You probably couldn’t afford her either, but who knows? You could buy a good, average Morgan and work with it, and you could show here. Back there”—Missy jerked her thumb toward the carousel music—”the most expensive horse usually wins. Money’s what it’s all about. But in the normal horse world you don’t have to be a millionaire. You just have to work harder!”

  They were between the carriage-driving area and the dressage ring. A maze of orange road cones had been set up in pairs, just wide enough for the wheels of the carts to pass between. A tennis ball was balanced on top of each cone, and a woman was driving around the course at a brisk trot. She didn’t knock off a single ball.

  “Or here. Look at this one.”

  A tall black dressage horse was being warmed up. He did shoulder-in and half-pass with perfect ease and rhythm. Enchanted, Sarah watched the flashing pairs of legs. Then she heard a clatter of hooves on wood behind her and turned to see the driving horse rattle over a little bridge and swing around for the last set of cones. Beyond him on the track a high-stepping show horse was being ridden bareback by a girl in a T-shirt and jeans, both figures tiny and perfect in the distance. A horse was being driven in a fancy show cart, another was being lunged, and two more walked quietly, heads low and bodies covered with cooling sheets. From this distance Sarah could see the distinct Morgan shape of every one of them.

  “This is where it’s beautiful,” she said.

  When Sarah got home late in the afternoon, dazzled with horses and headac
hy from too much sun, Goldy was in the kitchen.

  She’d been allowed inside when she was a kid, but now she was a fat yearling goat and, according to Mom, too big for indoors. Sarah didn’t see why. Goldy was as tall as Star and nowhere near as wide. But there was no denying she didn’t have good house manners. There was a puddle and a scattering of buttons on the floor, and Goldy was helping herself to cereal from a box she’d knocked out of the cupboard.

  “Dad?” Sarah called. “Dad, what’s Goldy doing in here?” But she already knew: She’d been so busy calling Jill this morning, and so eager to get out of here, she’d forgotten to lock Goldy in.

  Dad appeared from the direction of the living room, marking his place in a book with one finger. “She was eating the lilac bush.”

  “Did she get in the garden?”

  “I don’t think so.” Dad looked vaguely at the puddle and the buttons. “I was going to take her out …”

  Sarah pressed her lips firmly together, feeling just like Mom. Before Dad was a full-time writer, back when he had a real job, he had seemed like a normal person. Now he was no use to anybody half the day.

  Well, before, he used to be gone all day, Sarah reminded herself, looking at the clock. Half an hour till Mom got home. She grabbed Goldy by the collar.

  “Come on, bad goat, out to the barn.”

  Several of the flowers lining the path to the front door had been beheaded. Goldy reached down for one more. Sarah hauled on her collar, but Goldy wouldn’t let go, and the petunia snapped off close to the ground. Sarah groaned and tugged her along. She could only hope Mom wouldn’t remember exactly how many flowers she’d had in that spot.

  She was just putting the mop away when Mom pulled into the yard, and the floor was still wet.

  “Is that goat locked up again?” Mom asked.

  “Yes,” Sarah said. How did Mom know?

  “Tomorrow,” Mom said, “before you go anywhere or do anything, I want you to fix that fence!”

  “Okay.” Where did Mom think she was going to go, anyway, and what did Mom think she was going to do? A six-mile trot on Herky was the only event scheduled for tomorrow. But the next day or the day after that …