Unhappy Appy

by Dandi Daley Mackall

  The umbrella popped open, knocking Dad on his backside.

  “Jack, are you okay?” Madeline ran to his side.

  I ran faster, easing in front of her. “You okay, Dad?”

  “I’m fine.” He got up and brushed himself off. He stood a few inches taller than Madeline, not quite as skinny, and was much better looking. My mom said Dad’s curly, black hair was the first thing she’d noticed about him. “Look!” He pointed to the umbrella. “It works!”

  I stared at the contraption, which hadn’t opened like a normal umbrella. Instead, it stood upright on a flat handle. “That’s working?” I asked.

  Dad fiddled with the top of the umbrella. “You put the camera here, and voila! It’s a tripod!”

  He pressed down on the top, shrinking the umbrella to a third of its height. Lifting the handle, he pulled down a black cloth cap and put it on his head. “Like this, it’s an umbrella hat!” Dad paraded around, safe from unexpected kitchen rain showers.

  He whipped off the umbrella hat and tugged on the cane handle. It grew long again and turned into a funny-looking golf club. “Perfect for practicing your swing while you wait for the commuter train.” He took a practice swing that banged into the oven. Staring at the club, he muttered, “It would be easy to put a claw on this end, kind of a hand-extender. . . .”

  “And he’s adding a flashlight and a warning siren!” Madeline exclaimed. “I’m trying to get him to put in a radio.”

  I shook my head, as if the radio part were the only dumb idea here.

  “I call it the Swiss-Army umbrella!” Dad announced.

  He and Madeline leaned into the umbrella’s handle, muttering something about installing flashing lights. Their heads touched.

  Note to self: Two heads are not better than one.

  I backed out of the kitchen.

  My relationship with my dad reminded me of a Pinto mare Mom trained one summer. That mare had the roughest trot. It was the only time I’d seen Mom bounce in the saddle. But she’d said she didn’t mind the rough ride, as long as the mare kept going forward.

  Dad and I had been through some pretty rough ups and downs since Mom’s death. The first year we hardly spoke to each other, leaving it up to Lizzy to keep us a family. Since we’d moved to Ashland, though, we’d both tried to keep the trot moving forward. But things kept getting in the way, making us back up again.

  The night Madeline had called and I’d answered the phone, Dad and I had gotten into a huge argument. Our shouting match had ended with Dad declaring that he and Madeline Edison were just friends, as if that settled everything.

  Friends. I felt like the only one on the planet who didn’t have one.

  That reminded me. Hawk! I’d stayed in the house too long. What if Hawk had come and I wasn’t there? What if Catman couldn’t hang on to her? I raced back through our junky yard toward the barn.

  Catman waved at me, then pointed to the pasture.

  There was Hawk, hands on hips, trying to get her horse to come to her.

  “Hawk!” I cried. My regular voice is raspy and sounds hoarse all the time. But my throat had gone dry, so all I could get out was a squeak.

  Hawk turned and said something to Catman.

  The Appy flattened his ears, just like he had with Nickers.

  “Towaco!” I screamed.

  He bared his teeth and stretched his neck to take a chunk out of Victoria Hawkins.

  Catman reached out a long arm and scooped Hawk away in the nick of time.

  Applause burst from the other side of the fence. “Yea, Catman!” Lizzy cried. “You rock!” She and Geri cheered from a few feet away, which is as close as my sister will get to horses.

  I scrambled over the paddock fence and ran out to them. “Way to go, Catman!” I could just imagine what Hawk’s parents would have done if their precious daughter had come home with teeth marks.

  “He tried to bite me!” Hawk narrowed her brown eyes at Towaco, who had already gone back to his droopy stance.

  I couldn’t believe the Appy would have gone through with it. But one thing was for sure: that horse was madder at Hawk than I’d imagined.

  Hawk was wearing jeans, boots, and a fringed, suede jacket. Even in regular clothes, she manages to look like a model, or a Native American actress with her long, straight, black hair.

  “I-I think Towaco was just kidding,” I said, putting myself between Hawk and her horse. Nickers had the good sense to stay away. “Your Appy is in a lousy mood today. I think he misses you.”

  Hawk wasn’t about to be kidded out of it. “Towaco has never tried to bite me.” As always, she pronounced each word precisely. She only slips into contractions when she’s caught off guard, which is almost never.

  “Forgive and forget, right?” I glanced at Catman for help.

  “Have a groovy ride. Gotta split.” He put Nelson down. “Promised I’d help Bart and Claire with Thanksgiving decorations.”

  Catman calls his parents by their first names only when they’re not around. And they’re the only ones who can get away with calling the Catman by his real name, Calvin. Calvin Coolidge.

  “You decorate for Thanksgiving?” Hawk asked.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Coolidge are big on lawn ornaments,” I explained, remembering the plastic figures that had covered their yard on Labor Day and Halloween.

  “And they really dig Thanksgiving,” Catman added.

  “So do we!” Lizzy chimed in. She turned to Geri but talked loud enough for all of us to hear. “I’m baking Wyoming turkey, lizard potatoes, and frog Jell-O. Everybody in our family has to come up with three things they’re thankful for—and you can’t count family because that’s too easy. And we all get to invite a friend to dinner if we want—although most of the time the friend can’t really come because they’re having Thanksgiving dinner with their families. But this year I invite you! And you can . . .”

  Lizzy’s voice trailed off, and my brain flashed me a full-blown picture of a Thanksgiving dinner at our Wyoming ranch. I was in first or second grade, sitting next to my mom, who had her hair in one long braid. She was smiling at Dad, and I think she must have been listing the three things she was thankful for. But my photographic memory never includes sound, so I couldn’t remember what she’d said. What I could remember was that I’d had trouble narrowing my choices to three things I was thankful for.

  What would I say this year? It would really be our first Thanksgiving dinner without my mom. We’d moved out of the ranch over Thanksgiving the first year. Last year I’d had the flu and spent the whole time in bed. Lizzy had gone to a friend’s house, and I don’t know what Dad did.

  I hate firsts connected with Mom’s death—actually, first withouts—first birthday without Mom, first Christmas without Mom, first Easter without Mom.

  I knew Lizzy would make sure we kept the family tradition of naming three things we were thankful for. I wanted to do it too. But I didn’t know what I’d name. Nickers, for sure. Who wouldn’t be thankful for such an amazing horse? But where did I go after that? And who could I invite?

  My only hope was Hawk. Riding with her seemed more important than ever.

  Catman strolled off, holding up the two-finger peace sign behind his back.

  “I’ll get your Appy ready, Hawk,” I said, taking Towaco by the halter before Hawk could object. “Nickers and I will show you guys our secret hideout.”

  Towaco wouldn’t lead for me, so I had to turn him in a circle to get him going. Mom used to say, “When in doubt, circle the horse.”

  It worked. Once he got his hooves moving, he let me take him to the cross-ties in the barn.

  While I brushed her horse, Hawk sat on a bale of hay and stared at her boots. What she should have been doing was brushing her own horse. That’s what Towaco needed. I love the Appy, but not like I love my own horse. Towaco needed Hawk.

  “Want to ride bareback?” I asked, hoping she’d say yes. It would help her get in touch with her horse again.

  “N
o,” she answered. “I will ride Western. I do not trust that horse today.” She fetched her heavy, Western saddle. Her dad had bought it for her the week before, even though she already had perfectly good Western and English saddles.

  The leather creaked when we hoisted the deep brown saddle onto Towaco’s back.

  I slid the bridle on and handed the reins to Hawk. “I’ll just put the hackamore on Nickers, and we can take off.”

  “Thank you, Winnie,” she said. “This will be nice.”

  Nickers whinnied. She was as ready to ride as I was.

  It took me two seconds to slip on the hackamore—a simple, no-bit bridle. “Let’s take them out front,” I called to Hawk, figuring Towaco might ride better if we got away from the pasture.

  Nickers and I led the way through the barn and out to the yard.

  I held the Appy while Hawk made a smooth, perfect mount and settled into her new saddle.

  I started to pray that Towaco would behave, but I stopped. My relationship with God was kind of like my relationship with Dad. After Mom died in the car accident, I stopped talking to God. Since we’d moved to Ashland, though, I’d started praying again—not like Lizzy does or my mom did. Lizzy prays about every little thing. I’d been concentrating on the big things, figuring God had enough on his mind not to have to hear about every little thing I worried about.

  I swung up bareback on Nickers and scratched her withers. She pranced in place. “Okay, Hawk. Let’s—”

  “Winnie!” The front door slammed, and Dad trotted out of the house, followed by his friend. “Great! We caught you. I want you to show Madeline the barn before we leave to pick up Mason.”

  “We’re going riding, Dad!”

  Hawk was already urging Towaco to the street. The Appy acted tired, as if they were coming back from a ride instead of starting out. I didn’t like to see Hawk using her heels to kick him, though, since kicking would only make him mad. He responded better to leg pressure, and Hawk knew it.

  “Let her go, Jack,” Madeline said, standing behind him.

  “This will just take a minute,” Dad promised, leading Madeline to us. “Madeline is very interested in horses, aren’t you, Madeline?”

  Her back stiffened, a sure sign she was no horsewoman. “Well, I do wish I knew more about them.”

  Hawk got Towaco into the road and flicked him with the reins.

  “Wait, Hawk!” I shouted. Beneath me, Nickers tensed, itching to follow them.

  Hawk shouted back, “I have to keep him going while I can. He is acting like a plug! Catch up with us, Winnie!”

  I glared down at my dad, hoping he’d read my mind and let me out of there.

  “So tell Madeline about your problem-horse business, Winnie,” Dad suggested as if I weren’t staring bullets at him. “Show her the barn.”

  “I help horses with problems.” I pointed to the barn behind us. “That’s the barn.” Turning back to Dad, I leaned down and whispered, “Dad, I have to catch up with Hawk.”

  “It’s wonderful, what you’re doing,” Madeline said. “I wish Mason would ride. It would do him good.”

  I watched Hawk and Towaco amble farther down the road. Hawk had to kick and wave the reins to keep the Appy moving.

  “Well, bring Mason over!” Dad insisted. “Winnie can take him for a ride anytime!”

  “Dad, I fix problem horses, not problem people.”

  “Winnie!” Dad scolded.

  “Winnie’s right, Jack,” Madeline agreed. “She might not know how to handle Mason.”

  Handle him? The kid must have been more spoiled than I imagined.

  Dad wouldn’t quit. “I insist! Winnie should take Mason for a ride.”

  Why couldn’t he volunteer himself? He could use his Swiss-Army umbrella to take the kid’s picture in the rain, while golfing at night and listening to the radio or something.

  Nickers flicked her tail. I couldn’t even see Hawk and Towaco anymore.

  A fancy white car sped up the street, stopped in front of our house, and beeped the horn twice. Spider Spidell had another new car. The Spidells own most of Ashland, including A-Mart, Pizza-Mart, Pet-Mart, and Stable-Mart, the fancy stable where Towaco had picked up bad habits from being kept in his stall almost 24 hours a day. Spidells care more about their cars than they do about their horses.

  Dad crossed the lawn, and Mr. Spidell got out to meet him. The passenger door opened, and out came Summer Spidell, flipping her long, blonde hair over one shoulder. Summer is queen of the popular “herd” in my class. She has a way of making me feel like I got dressed in the dark.

  Nickers snorted and backed away from them. My horse is a great judge of character.

  “Willis!” shouted Spider Spidell, who got the nickname because his arms seem to reach all over Ashland. “Are my horse clippers repaired yet?”

  Dad slapped his forehead. “Almost! I was working on them when I got this great idea for the perfect cereal bowl.” He turned to Madeline. “You know how cereal always gets soggy? Well, I decided if you place a—”

  “Willis!” barked Mr. Spidell. “I’m in a hurry. We’re down to three clippers in the stable.”

  Dad nodded. Madeline and I moved closer, like accident gawkers on a highway.

  Summer stared over at Madeline. Then she turned to me with a smirk that said, So your dad does have a girlfriend. Of all people, Summer Spidell had been the first person I know to actually see Madeline and Dad together.

  I wanted to gallop Nickers right over her.

  Note to self: Could one thing I’m thankful for be the fact that I’m not related to Summer Spidell?

  “All right, Willis,” Mr. Spidell was saying as he headed back to the car empty-handed. “But Monday at the latest, hear?”

  Down the road came the pounding of hoofbeats.

  I wheeled around to see Towaco trotting back. Hawk was hanging on to the saddle horn and bouncing all over her new saddle.

  “Whoa!” she cried.

  But Towaco paid no mind as he trotted across the ditch and up into the yard.

  Hawk yanked the reins, and the Appy stopped a few feet from Nickers. “What is wrong with you?” Hawk screamed. “Winnie, this horse is now an official problem horse!”

  I urged Nickers closer to Towaco. “He just needs a fun ride, Hawk. Come on. You wanted to ride. We can go ride now. He’ll be okay with Nickers—”

  “Hi, Victoria!” Summer called in her sickly sweet voice. “What’s wrong?”

  “Towaco will not do anything right, Summer!” Hawk answered. “First he acts as if he can barely move. Then he races back in that awful trot.”

  “He misses you, Hawk,” I insisted. “That’s all! Let’s just ride and—”

  “You poor thing,” Summer cooed. “I know! Why don’t you come back to the stables with Daddy and me? You can ride one of our horses.”

  Hawk turned to Towaco. “That is not such a bad idea.”

  “Hawk?” I hated the whine in my voice . . . and the way it made Summer glow.

  “I am sorry, Winnie. I am just not up to this today.”

  I took the reins and then watched as Summer and Hawk walked to the big, white car and drove off with Mr. Spidell.

  “Well,” Dad said, glancing from me to Madeline. “No problem. Right, Winnie? You can fix Towaco in no time.” He laughed—a short, weak, weird laugh.

  Madeline’s lips moved in smile formation, but her eyes weren’t in it.

  A woodpecker tapped somewhere in the distance. On top of the barn a lone crow cawed.

  “I-I’ve heard horses are highly unpredictable,” Madeline stammered. “Probably why my Mason is so afraid of them.”

  “You didn’t tell us Mason is afraid of horses.” Dad looked almost hurt. “Well, you’ve come to the right place! Winnie the Horse Gentler can fix that! Right, honey?”

  “What?” I swung my full attention to Dad.

  “Tell Mason his worries are over!” Dad proclaimed to Madeline. “He’s in good hands with Winnie the Hor
se Gentler! She’ll get Mason over his fear in no time! Guaranteed.”

  “It’s sweet of you to offer, Winnie . . . ,” Madeline started, as if I’d offered, “. . . but I really couldn’t impose—”

  “Nonsense!” Dad broke in. “We want to help!” He smiled at me.

  I’d rather have eaten worms than teach Madeline’s brat to ride. But what could I say?

  Madeline didn’t say anything either.

  “Good!” Dad exclaimed, as if we’d all agreed. “It’s settled then.”

  I watched Dad and Madeline drive away in the truck. The gears cranked as Dad turned off our street.

  Note to self: Score=Problem horse—1

  Problem boy—1

  Best friends—0

  “Are you telling me there’s nothing wrong with this horse?” Mrs. Hawkins spat the words in the vet’s face.

  I felt sorry for him.

  I’d worked with Towaco all afternoon. It was getting dark when David Stutzman, the new vet, pulled in. Seconds later Hawk and her mom drove up behind him. The doc conducted a thorough exam of Towaco and pronounced that the Appy wasn’t sick, which I knew all along.

  “Temperature’s normal. Blood count, CBC. Physically, the horse is fine.” Doc Stutzman’s Adam’s apple jerked. He wiped his forehead, although the evening had turned cold.

  I figured Doc was probably younger than my dad. Short and stocky, he reminded me of a Manipur, a pony bred in India to carry heavy loads. His straight hair flopped across his forehead like a thick forelock. The doc looked ready to bolt from Mrs. Hawkins.

  “What about his feet?” Mrs. Hawkins demanded. Her feet were encased in tall spike heels that kept sinking into the wet ground. “They’re striped. And his nose! It’s all splotchy, like measles or something.”

  “All Appaloosas have mottled muzzles and striped hooves,” I explained, more to Hawk than her mom.

  But truth was, I felt kind of betrayed by Hawk. She must have ridden with Summer and gone straight home to tell her parents how lousy Towaco had acted. I didn’t get it. Hawk never talked that much to her mother in the first place. It didn’t make sense that she’d tattle on her own horse.