A Good Horse: Book Two of the Horses of Oak Valley Ranch

by Jane Smiley

  Miss Slater looked at her watch, then she said, “We have twenty minutes before we have to warm up. Abby, come with me. I’ll take you to the storeroom.”

  I followed her into the regular barn, where she crossed the courtyard to a door without a window, painted green with white trim. She pulled out a bunch of keys and unlocked the door. Inside it was dark. She pulled the string on an overhead light. The shelves were stacked with all sorts of things—not only clothes but bits and spurs and pieces of tack. She said, “Some of these things have been here since the twenties. Someone should write an article.” She waved her hand. “A few of those bits are positively terrifying.” She picked up a roweled spur that looked like six nails set into a roller. “Not to mention this. There’s only one of these, though. It’s pure silver, so we haven’t thrown it out.”

  She rummaged on one of the shelves and pulled out a pair of jodhpurs, then held them up to my waist. They were a little long, but she said, “These will do for now.” Then she said, “Actually, dear, you are too old for jodhpurs. I should have realized that. You need to be wearing breeches and tall boots.”

  I said, “Daddy will not want to buy those. Are they, like, twenty dollars?”

  “They are, like, forty-five dollars, new. But we can find some used ones, I’m sure.”

  If Sophia Rosebury had ever worn anything used, well.

  Miss Slater handed me the jodhpurs and went to the door to keep watch while I changed. They fit okay. They were long enough, and the waistband buttoned. So what if they were extra-wide in the leg. After I put my boots back on, Miss Slater said, “Well, those are right out of the Second World War. But very durable goods. Pure wool twill.”

  I could tell that when we got outside. But they were loose and comfortable. Then she looked at my sleeves and pulled my shirt out a little more. She said, “It’s always proper to show a little cuff. No one minds that.”

  Back at the trailer, Daddy had Black George saddled up, his mane combed again. As soon as I got on, Black George started tossing his head toward the arenas. At first, I thought there was something wrong with him, but then I realized that he just wanted to get going, and he was letting me know where to.

  I decided that my main goal was to learn my courses and to not make any mistakes. I knew Black George would jump clean if I got him to the jumps.

  We were going in low hunter classes—nothing big or recognized—since this was Black George’s first show. And we were only signed up for two that day, a two-foot, nine-inch and a three-foot class.

  The warm-up arena was crowded, but I remembered right-hand to right-hand when I was passing the others, and there weren’t any near collisions or dirty looks. I noticed that Sophia Rosebury was in my class. She went second—they shined her up just before she went into the ring. I couldn’t help watching her, and she did fine. Her gray mare (I heard them say “she” when they were talking about the horse) seemed to know her job. She pricked her ears before every fence and pulled up her knees. She was soothing to watch.

  The first course was as simple as could be—walk in, do a right-hand circle, then gallop down one side, two jumps, and back up the other, two jumps. Then take the first jump again, cross the center, take the third jump going the other way, go around to the left, take the second jump backward, cross the center again, over the fourth jump backward—a circuit followed by a figure eight. There were two simple verticals of natural poles, one white chicken coop, and a solid jump painted to look like a stone wall. Black George did everything perfectly, including change leads when he was supposed to. I had no idea how they would judge him, but his first horse-show round was a success.

  Not everyone made it look so easy. There was a woman after me on a brown horse with two white socks. She cantered down to the stone wall, and the horse paused and then jumped it almost from a standstill. At the next vertical, he just stopped and dropped his head. She rolled over his neck and somersaulted, then landed on her back. I must have gone “Ha!” because it shocked me, but then she sat up and brushed herself off. A woman sitting on the railing of the warm-up near where I was walking said to her friend, “That happens to her all the time. I don’t know why she keeps at it.”

  The woman who fell off now stood up, and took the reins of her horse and led him out of the arena. I wished I hadn’t seen it.

  Sophia Rosebury went again, this time on a nice chestnut. This horse was as good-looking as the mare, but a different type—more elegant and sensitive. He was actually very beautiful, the sort of horse you couldn’t stop staring at. I patted Black George, who was a handsome boy and always good, but this horse made him look like just a horse.

  As they galloped around, their rhythm made me sort of forget where I was—jump gallop jump gallop jump gallop, and now they were coming to the coop, and two strides in front of it, as easy as you please, the chestnut horse ducked out to the right, almost out from under Sophia, who barely managed to sit up and halt him. Then she turned him back so that he was facing the fence, and she used her whip to smack him, once, twice, three times with her right hand while holding the reins tightly with her left. Then she turned a circle and came back to the jump. He jumped it, though a little awkwardly, then went on, completing the course. It took him until the last jump to regain his rhythm. The look on Sophia’s face when she came out of the ring was halfway between crying and raging.

  Colonel Hawkins stepped up to her with his mouth open, like he was going to say something, but before he could, she threw him the reins and jumped off. And I mean she jumped off—she did not dismount, where you put your hand on the horse’s neck, lean forward, bring your right leg over the back of the horse, pause a second, and then drop to the ground. She was sitting there. Her right leg came over the horse’s neck; she launched herself and landed. She said, “I hate this horse!”

  “Did he spook? It looked like he—”

  “There was nothing to spook at!”

  “Shadows on the—”

  I could see Daddy ten feet away, where he was eating his hot dog. His ears were as big as plates. I thought to myself, “Do not say anything to these people. Do not offer to take this horse off their hands.”

  “It’s always something with him!” exclaimed Sophia. And she stomped off.

  Ten minutes later, she came back to get her ribbon for her round with the gray mare—red. She looked normal again. Black George got a ribbon, too—white for fourth. If you’d asked me how the judge could see a difference between first, second, third, and fourth, I could not have told you. Everyone jumped nicely, went clean, and got their lead changes. But everyone was completely different, too—bay, gray, bay, almost black. Well, figuring it out wasn’t my problem.

  * * *

  The second course was higher and a little harder. They brought in a fifth jump, a brush, and placed it at the end of the ring, making it part of the course. Then they turned the first jump and the third jump on a diagonal and brought them closer together, so they made an in-and-out. Then they added another set of natural-colored poles a few feet down from where the third jump had been. We were to trot in, go down to the far end of the arena, jump those poles, then turn over the in-and-out and go out and around over the new brush fence, then down the far side and up the near side—a circuit. To get to the last jump, you had to gallop between the two halves of the in-and-out and jump number 6, the brick wall again. Then you had to make a nice circle, come down to the walk, and leave the arena on a loose rein, “With a smile on your face,” said Miss Slater when we were walking the course.

  The good thing about the course was that when you had to turn a different direction, the jump you were turning from was the same sort of jump you were turning toward, so you could keep track of things that way. I stood in the middle of the arena with my fingers in front of my face and walked myself over all of the jumps. Then I did something else—I went backward, starting with jump number 8: 7 to 8; 6 to 7 to 8; 5 to 6 to 7 to 8. I thought this could either be a really dumb idea or a brilliant way to
keep it in my mind. We would see.

  Black George and I warmed up and went fourth. I did what Miss Slater said, took my time. We walked to the far end of the arena. We picked up a canter. We got the rhythm. We finished our circle. We went to the first jump. I could feel his hooves hitting the dirt beneath me, da-da-dum, da-da-dum, and then we were over the first jump and headed for the in-and-out. Up. Up. Around to the brush. His ears pricked. He folded his back underneath me. His forefeet touched the ground, and we were off down the long side, da-da-dum, da-da-dum. We jumped. We jumped again. And then—

  And then I didn’t know where to go. I could feel this ignorance shoot through me, but at the same time, I could also feel Black George keep going. Oh. Yeah. Down the second side, then around through the in-and-out and back over the wall. It would have been a dumb mistake, but we didn’t make it. Thanks to Black George.

  Miss Slater and Daddy were clapping when I came out of the ring. I didn’t say anything. I gave Black George some extra pats, and then, when I got off, I kissed him on the cheek. Smarter than I was, again. I walked him around and took him back to the trailer. I could see Daddy and Miss Slater standing by the rail and talking a blue streak, as Mom would say. But I was tired and ready to go home. Riding your own horse at the show was much more exhausting than riding another person’s horse, though I didn’t know why. And anyway, it was still morning—they were still serving breakfast at the food tent. I had four horses to ride in the afternoon. After untacking Black George and walking him around for fifteen minutes, giving him a few drinks (though the weather wasn’t hot), I tied him to the trailer and started brushing him down. He waved his tail back and forth and ate hay from his hay net. I yawned about ten times.

  Then I saw Daddy trotting toward me from the direction of the ring, and in his hand he was carrying a blue ribbon. I woke up right then. He said, “Well, Abby, I thought you were just about perfect that time around, and I guess the judge thought so, too.” He leaned down and squeezed me around the shoulders.

  “It was Black George who was just about perfect. I forgot where to go, and he remembered.”

  “At the far end, there?”

  I nodded.

  “Momentum was on his side. But I saw you turn your head.”

  “I don’t know what to do about it.”

  “Keep trying is all. Pray, too.” Then he kissed me on the top of my head, and we started picking up buckets and brushes and things.

  And here came Miss Slater. She had a big grin on her face. First she patted Black George on the neck and said, “What a good, good boy!” Then she grabbed my shoulders and gave me a kiss on each cheek and said, “Abby, you are a first-class rider, no two ways about that!” And then she put her hand on Daddy’s arm and looked him in the eye. She said, “You’ll be back tomorrow, right? For the second class in the division and the hack class?”

  Daddy was already shaking his head, but he hadn’t spoken yet. Miss Slater didn’t give him a chance to speak. She said, “People are already talking about him! I heard them. Arthur Killington asked the colonel who this horse was, and Letitia Merton was eavesdropping. His form is perfect, his rhythm is perfect.”

  Daddy said, “Well, maybe so, but we can’t—”

  “There was nobody like him in the class. He did fine in the other class, over smaller jumps, but people saw in this class that his form is only going to improve as the jumps get bigger. And we know that’s true, from the other day.”

  “Sunday is a bad day—”

  “Sunday is the biggest day at a horse show!”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I, personally, will pay the entry fees! This horse has to be shown off, Mr. Lovitt. Believe me. There’s—”

  “We go to—”

  “—thousands of dollars in it.”

  Now we were all quiet. Struck dumb, I guess. Daddy took off his hat and scratched his head.

  “If you are going to go to church, that’s fine. The classes are scheduled for the late morning. You can go to early Mass and come back out from there. I’ll stick him in the barn, and you won’t have to pay for a show stall.”

  That word Mass rang out like a blaring horn. Daddy took a deep breath and said, “We are not Catholics, Miss S—”

  “Oh! Goodness! Sorry! I assumed if you had to go to …”

  Now we were back at the silent part. I untied the hay net from the side of the trailer and carried it around to the back, then stepped inside the trailer and hung it up where Black George could eat from it while we were going home. Then I peeked through the slats of the trailer. Daddy and Miss Slater had walked away, and now they walked back. She was saying, “At least don’t decide right this minute. Let the horse stay the night in case you change your mind. Think about it a little more. I just have a feeling that if certain people around here have a chance to see him tomorrow, it could be very important.”

  Daddy opened his mouth. Miss Slater reached up and untied Black George. Now she had the rope in both hands, just smiling and nodding. She was good. She was really good. Before Daddy had a chance to even answer, she said, “Oh, thank you, Mr. Lovitt. You will really be glad.…” Then she said, “There are people around here who do things purely on impulse, though they call it instinct. It’s not a wise way to buy a horse, but when you are very successful at, let’s say, trading stocks and bonds, then …” She gave a little shrug.

  I came out of the trailer. She turned to me and said, “You did so well today, Abby. I am really proud of you.” And she walked off with our horse.

  Daddy stood there for a minute, looked after her, then he put his hands on his hips and said, “Well, no use taking the trailer home. We’ll park it over there in the parking lot and then get it tomorrow when we come back.”

  He didn’t say Monday. I didn’t know what that meant.

  We were home in time for lunch. We had tuna salad sandwiches and told Mom about the show. She knew better than to ask where the horse and the trailer were for the time being, and I knew better than to stay in the house after I was finished with my lunch. I changed into jeans and western boots and went out to the mare pasture, where I got out Happy and Sprinkles, who liked being together. I tacked up Happy and found a lead rope for Sprinkles, which I attached to her halter and threw over her back. Then, once I was on Happy, I could just grab the lead rope, and Sprinkles would walk along beside us, and both mares would enjoy each other’s company. We would go down to the crick and see how the water level was.

  But it didn’t matter about me staying out of the house all afternoon, riding my horses and playing with Jack; they didn’t actually talk about what we were going to do the next day until after I went up to do my homework. Or after they thought I’d gone up to do my homework. I was doing my French sentences, but I was sitting at the top of the stairs while I did them, not quite hiding but not sticking my legs out into the light or burping out loud, either.

  Mom said, “Have you made up your mind?”

  Daddy said, “Tomorrow is the Lord’s day. We have plenty to do without adding in some horse show.”

  Silence.

  Mom said, “Then you’ll pick up the horse Monday?”

  Daddy said, “I ought to pick him up tomorrow, at least. I can do it late.”

  “We’ll go to church in the truck, then?”

  “We can.”

  Silence. Rustle of a page turning.

  Mom said, “Did she really say thousands of dollars?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not hundreds? I’m surprised that it would be thousands.”

  “That’s what she said. Of course she’s exaggerating.”

  After a moment, Mom said, “No doubt.”

  “Though I asked her … Well, there was a gray mare in the first class. Nice mare. Got second over Black George. Came from Virginia, and they paid eleven thousand dollars for that one. They paid six thousand dollars for a chestnut gelding, nicer conformation and movement, but a bit of a rogue, I thought.”

  “Eleven thousand doll
ars?”

  “Well,” said Daddy, “that’s Virginia dollars. Maybe they aren’t worth as much.”

  They laughed.

  Mom said, “I’m sorry I didn’t go. I would have liked to see them.”

  “The eleven thousand–dollar mare?”

  “No, Abby and Black George.”

  “Is it prideful of me to say that they looked better to me than the gray mare and her rider?”

  “No, not if they really did. You have to be able to judge. The Lord doesn’t ask us to be blind to our virtues, if we can make use of them.”

  Pause. Sound of a kiss. My toes curled.

  Mom said, “Thousands of dollars?”

  “Well, if he wins. If he’s champion. That’s not a sure thing.”

  “So, all the championships are going to be decided on Sunday?”

  “That seems to be how it works.”

  Creaking of the couch.

  “What if someone else rides the horse?”

  Daddy said, “I don’t know who that would be. Maybe by the spring we can figure something out. This is the last big horse show of the year.”

  Long pause.

  Daddy said, “People are up from Los Angeles. Down from Woodside. Big show.”

  “I thought there was one more show.”

  “Much smaller. More local.”

  Now there was a long pause and some low muttering, as if Daddy were reading aloud from the Scriptures. Then he said, “I think a case could be made that the prohibition against working on the Sabbath might not apply to this. I mean, to Abby.”

  “How would it not apply?”

  “She’s a child. He’s a horse. Are they working?”

  Mom said, “Yes.”

  “You’re right. Of course. Best forget it. I’ll call Miss Slater in the morning.”

  “Good.”

  I sighed. That, I saw, was that.

  Il lui jette la balle. I wrote, “He threw him the ball.”

  Jacques jette la balle à Jules. I wrote, “Jack threw the ball to Julius.”