by Jane Smiley
Da began to nibble on his carrot as if he were a rabbit, and then he took a big bite of his oatmeal cookie. I said, “What grade are you in?”
“Soon to be fifth.”
“I’m going into sixth.”
“I would be, but my mom kept me back. My birthday is a day before the cutoff date, and I’m short, so she thought I would get bullied.”
“Your mom sounds smart. Where is she?” I looked around.
“She’s in Europe for a month. She has a friend, Colonel Dudgeon. They went to look at horses.”
“Your mom rides horses?”
“All day, all night. She’s the MFH up where we live.”
I did not ask him what an MFH was. I thought I would ask Abby.
“That’s how she and Aunt Jane got to be friends. They were whippers-in together before Aunt Jane moved down here.”
“Our Jane, this Jane, is your aunt?” I felt a little envious.
“Not really, but that’s what I’m supposed to call her.”
I said, as if I didn’t care, “When did you get down here?”
“The day before yesterday.”
“It took you a whole day to climb to the roof of the barn?”
He didn’t crack a smile. He said, “It was dark when I got here. I did my best.”
“Do tell.”
“I went out the window of my bedroom, stood on the roof of the garage, and had a good look at the stars over the ocean.”
I put my napkin over my mouth, but he could tell I was smiling.
He went on in a deep voice, “For heaven’s sake, don’t encourage the boy!”
“Who’s that?”
Again in a deep voice (he was good at that; it was so deep it almost made my ears tremble), he said, “Colonel Dudgeon, in a high dudgeon.”
Now I did laugh. I said, “My grandma uses that expression.”
“He’s not always in one, but he can get there. My mom says he knows more about horses than anyone else she’s ever met.”
“I guess he needs to meet Abby’s dad. I guess they would have a talk.”
“Is he the one with the eyebrows?”
“You noticed.”
“I always do.”
So, we had a month. I was sure it would be fun.
Mom showed up about halfway through Da’s class on Frankenstein, just in time to watch their round. Frankenstein is so lazy that Da had to carry a whip, but he carried it pointing up rather than pointing down, just so Frankie could see it out of the corner of his eye and know it was there. He didn’t care. Da did his best, but when Frankie was supposed to canter into the turns and speed up, he would slow down to the trot. Then he would look for the next jump, rise into the canter again, and get over it. He had one rail down.
I then went and did my stuff to get Tater ready for our flat class. For some reason, brushing him made me think of Ned again. I used to talk to Ned when I was younger, before I realized that I was just imagining things. If Abby’s dad had gotten his way, Ned would be here at the show, winning classes and getting ready to be sold for a lot of money. But Ned has been a conundrum (I love that word) because he is good almost all the time, but really not good enough of the time so that he can be counted on, and when you sell a horse, the new owner wants to count on him (or her). Some horses are handsome and some horses are beautiful. Ned is darling—his coat is so smooth, you want to pet it all the time, and his face is so kind that you just want to hug him. He has very smooth gaits, likes to jump, and so, if only…But that “if only” has never happened. So as I was brushing Tater, I worried just a little bit about Ned. I had no idea what Abby’s dad would do if he couldn’t sell him. Sigh.
However, when I got into the warm-up arena, Da was already there, on a chestnut pony named Pretty Girl, and watching them made me stop thinking about Ned. Pretty Girl was very good-looking, but I saw right off that Da was going to have a hard time with her. Every time a horse got anywhere near her, she put her ears back, and twice she made little squeals. When she squealed, Da tightened his legs so she would trot out a little—that means lengthening her stride, not just going faster—and Jane would say that works because it takes a horse’s attention away from whatever is annoying her. Jane also says that mares are more irritable than geldings. Abby says this is because mares are in charge, and the bossy ones need to make sure the others are paying attention and behaving themselves. I can understand this perfectly well because at my school, it looks to me like the girls are in charge, and the popular ones are always making sure that the others are doing what they’re supposed to. I do not like doing what I’m supposed to.
I walked Tater over to Da (Pretty Girl gave him a dirty look, but that was all—Tater doesn’t offend anyone) and asked, “What happened with Frankie?”
Da said, “Jane stuck me on him. I’ve never been on him before, and he was good in the warm-up, so I didn’t really know what I was doing.”
“You showed a horse that you’ve never been on before?”
“That’s what pros do!” He said this in his Colonel Dudgeon voice and trotted off. Another thing I didn’t know.
Now Abby showed up outside the warm-up arena, slid between the rails, and came over. She said, “How’s Tater today?”
“Same as yesterday.”
“Maybe. See if you can make a little figure eight, trying to stay out of the other horses’ way, but also trying to trot evenly and make a good shape.”
I trotted about halfway around the arena, almost to the gate, then did my first turn to the right, went around the jumps (it was a hack class, so no one was jumping), turned left. When I came back toward the middle, I realized that I was not actually in the middle, so I didn’t think it was very good. Without Abby saying anything, I started over, this time sitting deeper, and with more leg on Tater, who then perked up a little. The way a horse moves comes up through your body, and if it’s lively, it makes you see things more sharply and sense things more quickly, as if his eyes and your eyes are now connected. Our second figure eight was much better, and when I stopped to talk to Abby afterward, she said, “Perfect light rein. Your reins are like threads.” Once she mentioned it, I remembered it—reins like threads. I said those words in my head, “Reins like threads, reins like threads.” Plus, “Sit deep.” I was concentrating so much that I didn’t notice Da and Pretty Girl or any of the others at all. The announcer called the class and we walked through the gate and across to the main arena, which is huge, and was full of jumps for the next class.
It was a lot more complicated than I thought it would be, because there were twenty of us in there, and I’d never been in a class, or in a lesson, or on a trail ride, where there were twenty ponies and riders. It seemed like the main thing you had to do was not get bumped by someone else or run into a jump. I tried to look ahead, which is what you’re supposed to do, and all the time here came someone up on the outside or up on the inside, and if I concentrated too hard, I would be surprised, which is not to say that Tater would be surprised. I could see his ears flicking back and forth and his eyes rolling, and even though his head was straight, he knew they were coming. He wasn’t always happy, but he did shift a bit here and a bit there, and we never got bumped, and never ran into a jump. Really, when you see those herds of horses in the movies galloping down hills or across the plains, it’s pretty clear that they know a few things that people do not.
I wanted to keep my eye on Da, but I only saw him from time to time. However, every time I saw him, he was over toward the center of the arena rather than on the rail, which was where I kept Tater. We walked, trotted, turned, trotted, cantered, turned, walked, halted, trotted, and cantered some more, and, eventually, I relaxed, because it took a long time and Tater was watching out for us. His transitions to the canter were really good, and by that I mean that he started to canter when I told him to, but also that h
e seemed to lift himself up into the canter, and then ease along like a rocking chair. In the second canter, we got near Da, who saw us, and he cocked his head and then nodded, and I knew he meant, “Follow me,” and I did. We wove here and there, past the others (and some of the ponies were giving their riders trouble, tossing their heads, refusing to move forward, even breaking to the trot). It seemed like we cantered a long time, and the judge and the woman with him that he was talking to stared at everyone.
Finally the announcer said, “And walk, please!” I sat deep, Da sat deep, and the ponies walked on a loose rein. Tater lowered his head. The announcer called out some numbers for people to stay in the arena—six of them. Da was one and I wasn’t, so fourteen of us left. I went to the part of the warm-up area where you could see the arena. It was then that I saw what Da was doing—he was keeping his eye on the judge, and wherever the judge was looking, Da and Pretty Girl were there, following instructions. Two of the other ponies were better-looking and better movers than Pretty Girl. One of them won, and Da came in second. I saw that the key to winning a hack class was being a bit of a pest, meaning that the judge had to see you, and so you had to keep your eye on the judge and make sure that you were where he was looking. Abby had never told me that, but then, Abby doesn’t know how to be a pest.
Mom met me by the barn. She said I’d done a good job, and she had a carrot for Tater. I gave her a kiss, and then led Tater into the barn. I felt between his front legs. He was cool, and he kept looking at his stall, so I knew that he wanted to get back to his hay, and who could blame him? I was hungry, too. I wouldn’t have thought that a hack class could be so exciting. I did my work. Thank goodness he did not need a bath. All I had to do was brush him where the saddle pad had been and pick his hooves again. It wasn’t until I was back out of the barn that I realized that I hadn’t given him a kiss or even a pat when I left. But then, he hadn’t looked at me, either, because he’d been eating his hay. Yes, I liked Tater, I liked him more and more, but putting him away was like parking your car. All you had to remember was, did you lock the door?
We went to the food tent. Mom ordered me a hot dog without mustard without me even reminding her, and also a chocolate chip cookie. Finally, she said what I knew she was going to say: “You look worn out.”
“I am.” Then I said, “Where’s Joan Ariel?”
“I left her with Grandma. They haven’t seen her in two weeks, so they wanted to have her for the day. We’re going there for dinner tonight. So what do you want to do for the rest of the afternoon?”
“Take a nap.”
“I thought we would stay and watch some other classes.”
This should have been exactly what I wanted to do, but I didn’t. I was coming back tomorrow. As for today, I’d had enough. And I never thought that I could ever have said that, even to myself.
Mom said, “Let’s go to the beach, then. I miss the beach.”
I said, “I don’t have beach clothes on.”
She smiled. “Then let’s go buy some. I think you’ve outgrown everything anyway.”
Another thing I never thought could happen—that I could be excited to go to the department store where Mom used to work. So that’s what we did. I got two pairs of shorts, a new bathing suit, a pair of sneakers, a package of socks, two blouses, and a pair of sunglasses. And even though Mom doesn’t work there anymore, she got her discount. Then we had calamari, and then we walked on the beach, and the waves were tiny and glistening and the sun was brilliant, and we found two whole sand dollars. Which can’t be used to buy anything, but look great on the mantel.
Then we went to Grandma and Grandpa’s, where I played with Joan Ariel while Mom and Grandma cooked the spaghetti. Joan Ariel is seventeen months old now, and her favorite thing to do is to jump. She stands in the middle of the room and she waves her arms and then bounces into the air. She doesn’t get very far off the ground, and sometimes sits right down without meaning to, but when she does that she just laughs. If I laugh with her, then she jumps even more and laughs even more. I hope that when I was her age, I was as funny as she is, but I doubt it. Dad and Grandpa showed up, and Mom put the spaghetti noodles in the pot of boiling water, and then we spent dinner talking about Dad and Grandpa’s golf game—Dad won by three strokes, but Grandpa had a hole in one and everybody was amazed. Did I think of Tater even a single time? No, but I did think of Ned, because I always do.
My class on Saturday, which is the most important day at a horse show, and also the busiest, wasn’t until 2:30, so in the morning, we lazed around the house, pretending that we had all the time in the world. Mom made a coffee cake with some walnuts and maple syrup, and Joan Ariel liked it even more than I did. I could see out the window that it was foggy-moving-toward-misty, which is rare where we live, even though it’s normal where we used to live. This made me even lazier—I imagined the showground covered with a blanket so thick that you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face, as Grandma would say. So after the coffee cake, I went back to my room and found a book to read, Black Gold. I’ve read it twice, and I know what happens—of course the little horse wins the race—but I didn’t mind reading it again. I let my eyes slide over the story and paid more attention to the pictures, especially the one of the two fillies in a match race, and overhead is a buzzard. The book says, “The buzzard is her pacemaker,” which means that the little filly, the one who isn’t supposed to win, decides to run as fast as a bird. I’ve never seen a buzzard; maybe I’ve never even heard that word. But I like words, and “pacemaker” made me think of that class I won—after I watched Da and then imagined him while I was riding my course, he had been my pacemaker. I decided to keep my eye on him if I got the chance. After I read for a while, I got up and got dressed like it was no big deal. Dad took me. We got to the show with plenty of time to spare, and yes, it was foggy, but just regular foggy, not woolly-blanket foggy.
Abby had already ridden in two classes and had another one to ride in just before mine, so she was all business. While I was brushing Tater, she wiped her boots down and took her hard hat off and redid her hairnet. She retied her stock, which is like a scarf that you wear around your neck, and her dad kept walking in and out, saying things like, “Be sure you sit up straight in that far corner. Looks a little slippery to me.” When I led Tater out of the barn, I could see why he sounded worried—the jumps were really high, maybe four feet three inches, and now was the time that Gee Whiz was going to prove his stuff. But since I knew Abby’s dad, I also knew that if Gee Whiz proved his stuff and won the class, or even cleared all the jumps, he would be for sale and would make them a lot of money. And whether Abby wanted to sell Gee Whiz, I had no idea.
Rodney appeared with Gee Whiz, who was stabled in another barn, and Abby took him to the mounting block and got on. Then he walked toward the warm-up arena on a long rein, but he was excited—his ears were pricked and he was looking to the left and then to the right, as if he knew everyone was watching, and I knew that maybe at least some people were watching, and the better he acted, the more likely he was to be sold. I looked at Abby. She didn’t look sad and she didn’t look happy, but I know she loves Gee Whiz. This is what my dad would call a dilemma.
Two horses went ahead of her. They must have been from out of town, because they didn’t look familiar and neither did their riders. We get a lot of out-of-town horses at the summer show, a few of them from Los Angeles, and Abby’s dad says, “Well, good luck to them, but the fog makes them skittish, so all the better for us.” His idea is that if a horse he trains does well at the summer show, then he will do well anywhere.
The first one to go ahead of Abby, a regular bay with a regular white star, did pretty well. I thought he was going to go clean until he just tapped the last rail and knocked it down, so four points off. The next one, a palomino, small and bright, started out well, but then did shy at the jump closest to the forest and deepest into the
fog. A refusal—four points off. Now Gee Whiz came into the arena like he owned the place, not prancing, but on his toes. He looked around, and when he looked in my direction, I mouthed the words “Be good!”
Abby picked up the trot and did her circle, or half of her circle, because all of a sudden, Gee Whiz went up into the gallop and there was nothing she could do about it, so she headed for the first jump. She was sitting up straight, like he was going too fast, but she didn’t slow him down because she didn’t want to ask him not to jump. Up and over with plenty of clearance, and I said to Tater, “Close your eyes.” I wanted to close my eyes, too, but I couldn’t resist watching. It was like he was racing, and Abby’s job was to steer the best she could. He made every jump, only touching the rail of the fourth one, a triple bar, but he did slip slightly in that wet corner, though he kept his feet. There was total silence in the grandstand and everywhere else. Abby’s dad’s mouth was open. We were all expecting the worst. When Gee Whiz came over the last jump, he picked up his knees so high, they went up by his cheeks, and he kicked out behind. And yes, when he came down to the trot and then the walk, he looked totally happy and proud of himself. He was ten seconds under the time limit, and so didn’t win a thing, because it wasn’t a race—you had to clear all the jumps and do “optimum time,” which meant fast enough to go smoothly, but not too fast, because that would be dangerous. Abby’s dad was shaking his head like he couldn’t stop. Abby and Gee Whiz walked out of the arena on a loose rein, so I could tell he wasn’t scared or wild; he was just enjoying his job a little too much.
