by Jane Smiley
Elle lui jette la balle. “She threw him the ball.”
Monique lui jette la balle. I wrote, “Monica to him threw the ball,” then erased that and wrote, “Monica threw him the ball.”
Dad said, “If we got three thousand for the horse, our tithe would be three hundred dollars. If we got eleven thousand for the horse, our tithe would be eleven hundred dollars.”
“If we got eleven thousand for the horse, we could give twenty percent, simply out of gratitude.”
“Gratitude for what?”
Pause, then, “Well, for the opportunity that’s being afforded us by the coming of the horse. We didn’t ask for such a horse. We didn’t seek such a horse. The horse came to us.”
Daddy said, “You mean, maybe the horse is a gift that we should not have doubt of.”
“Maybe the true destiny of an animal that is given to you is to reach his highest purpose, and twenty percent of eleven thousand dollars going to the mission fields is his highest purpose. So certainly this could be working for the Lord on Sunday. There couldn’t be anything wrong with that.”
“Maybe. I don’t know how to tell.”
“Why do you choose these particular horses? Because they have a higher purpose. Who are we to say that what is happening to Black George isn’t God’s will?”
“The blue ribbon is a sign. There’s one way to decide.” A book—Daddy’s Bible—closing.
“That’s a good idea.”
Pause. I set my French book down and put my arms around my knees. I wasn’t sure what I wanted, either. But, of course, you were not to pray for or against any particular thing. I thought I could hear the Bible opening, but maybe not. Then I felt like I was going to sneeze, and I had to grab the point of my nose between my thumb and forefinger and wiggle it hard. It worked. The sneeze went away.
Daddy said, “Friend, go up higher. Then thou shalt have glory.”
“Really?”
“Yes, but only after ye seek the lowest place. Truly, though, I opened to the page, and my eye fell on ‘go up higher’ first. I don’t know. It’s right in Luke 14:10.”
“But then it says that he who is exalted shall be brought low. I don’t know, either.”
He closed the book. I could hear him.
The clock in the dining room struck eight times. I decided that this whole conversation made me sad, and I got up very quietly and went to my room. There I put my pajamas on. Even though it was a little cold, I opened the window and looked out at the geldings. The moon was almost full, and I could see them fairly well. Lester, who was light-colored, was taking a drink. Two dark ones, maybe Lincoln and Jefferson, were standing quietly together with their heads down. At first, I didn’t see Jack, whose best friend was Black George, but then I did. He walked out from under a tree, swinging his head, then he stopped, pawed the ground, and laid down to roll. Over and back, over and back. I remembered a certain saying Uncle Luke once told me, that every time a horse goes all the way over, he’s worth another thousand dollars. I smiled at that.
I closed the window and got into bed. I really wished that I had Great Expectations to bore me to sleep.
But I must have dropped off because it was only ten by my alarm clock (well, five after ten) when Mom sat down on my bed and woke me up. She turned on the light and said, “Honey, I’m sorry to wake you, but Daddy called Miss Slater, and she’s going to be here at eight to give you a ride to the show. We’re going to church, but we think you need to ride Black George. We’ll come in the truck to pick you both up after church.”
And that was how I ended up having the strangest Sunday of my life the next day.
Trailer Hitch and Ball
Hog’s Back Jump
Boot Hooks
Chapter 7
MISS SLATER WAS THE SORT OF PERSON WHO IS NEVER ON TIME if she can be a little early, so I heard her pull up at about ten to eight, after I had fed the horses but while I was still getting dressed. It was a cold, foggy morning. Mom had already ironed my shirt again and my stock. I put my raincoat on over everything, and I was in the front seat of Miss Slater’s new Volkswagen and heading out the gate by eight. My saddle and bridle were in the trunk of the car, which was in front of us, not behind us. I had never been alone with Miss Slater without a horse before. She said, “Please put on your seat belt, Abby.”
I put on my seat belt.
She said, “Your ranch is very neat. Lovely flowers.”
“My mom does those.”
“Does she ride?”
“She trail-rides two of the quieter horses.”
“And the horses live out all the time?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You don’t have to call me ma’am. It makes me feel old. I’m only thirty-one.”
That was younger than Mom. I gave her a quick glance, then said, “Okay.”
“In fact, you can call me Jane.”
“Okay.”
“Anyway, I like it that your horses live out all the time. That’s better, I think. But it’s hard to persuade people that expensive horses won’t simply do themselves in if given half a chance.” She sighed.
Once we got to the main road, we stopped for her to get a cup of coffee. She turned to me and said, “Do you want a Coke?”
“It’s breakfast time.”
“Coke for breakfast is one of my favorite things.” Then we laughed, but I didn’t want a Coke for breakfast. I had a carton of milk. We drove on. The Volkswagen made a happy putting sort of noise, as if it really weren’t a car, but it ran fine.
When we got to the stable, we went straight to the stall Black George had been put in the night before. It was perfectly clean already, with the straw mounded up along the walls, and Black George was brushed and gleaming. He came to the door of the stall and nickered to me. I stroked him down the face and neck, and Jane Slater gave me a cube of sugar, which I offered him. I said, “I don’t think he minds this.”
“Not for one night,” said Jane. “But look at them all. They’re bored sick, some of them. Weaving. Cribbing. Kicking the walls of the stall. Look in that one.”
I looked over the door of a horse two stalls down. One whole side of the stall was dented and scraped. Jane said, “That mare runs her teeth back and forth over that spot four or five hours a day. Just bored to tears. But the owner won’t let her go out for fear that she’ll run around and hurt herself.” She shook her head. “It’s a shame.”
Then she said, “But come with me. I found you something.”
I gave Black George a last pat and we headed down the barn aisle, only to stop by Gallant Man’s stall for a moment when he nickered and give him a piece of sugar and a pat. He looked cute and fat and whiter than he had been in the spring. Jane said, “I wish Melinda could come back, but there are a couple of little girls riding him. Beginners. He’s happy.”
I saw that I would be too big for him now.
She led me into the main tack room, which was next to the office. Over the back of a chair was a pair of canary breeches, and beside the chair was a pair of high boots, polished to an ebony shine. She said, “The breeches might be a little big, and the boots might be a little small. But try them on. We’ll see.”
She took a pair of boot hooks off the desk.
I took off my jodhpurs and boots and put on the breeches and buttoned the buttons down below my knees.
You don’t need boot hooks with jodhpur boots or cowboy boots, but I knew how they worked—you hold the handles and slip the hooks into the flat little loops inside the tops of the boots, then you stick your foot in toe first and slide yourself down into the boot. If you can. And I could, with the right boot. It was a little tight, but I just pulled harder, and down it went. My right leg looked good. I had to admire it.
Then I slipped the hooks into the loops of the left boot and stuck my toe in, balancing on my right foot. My foot would go in only so far, and then there I was, half in, half out. I pulled and pulled on the hooks and pushed and pushed on my foot, but couldn�
��t get my heel down below the ankle of the boot.
“Hmmm,” said Jane, trying to help me by sitting down and shoving on the sole of the boot. The thing seemed stuck—not going on, not coming off. Jane said, “I guess your left foot is bigger than your right. Or Lily Grayson is built opposite to you. She has a horse here, but she’s gone to college, and I know—Well, let’s try something else.”
I sat down in the chair and she pulled the boot off. Then she went over to the row of lockers and opened one. She took out a pair of stockings and handed me one. She said, “Take off your sock and pull this over the bottom of your breeches leg.” We did that and tried the boot again. It slid on. But it was tight. I flexed my ankle. That was okay. But I knew I would have to make myself not think about how tight the boot was. We left my things in the locker and went out to get Black George. The boot. Was. Tight. I was limping by the time we got to his stall.
There was a man there, about my height, slender and wiry. He said, “Are ye ready, then, lass?” And Jane said, “Yes, thank you, Rodney.” He turned to me and gave me a big grin, then he held out his hands and said, “Let’s throw ye up there, lass.” And he did. I put my knee in his hand, and he nearly launched me over Black George and onto the roof of the barn.
Jane said, “Abby, this is Rodney Lemon. He’s been working for us for about a year. He’s from England.”
I said, “Nice to meet you, Mr. Lemon,” and he gave a little bow, but with a big grin on his face, like he was making fun of everything, including himself. As we walked away, he smacked Black George on the haunch and said, “That’s for a bit of luck, now!”
“He’s a character,” said Jane.
But he had done everything—cleaned the horse, cleaned the tack, pinned the number to the saddle pad, oiled Black George’s hooves so they shone, combed the mane and the tail. As I rode along, I felt rather proud of how we looked, and then, of course, I had to hope that pride wouldn’t goeth before the fall in this case.
As if she were reading my mind, Jane said, “Now, Abby, you are a lovely rider. I don’t know where the natural talent ends and the years of experience begin. But the sort of lovely rider you are is very modest, if you know what I mean: you do your job and stay out of everyone’s way. That’s fine in your over-fences classes—you want the horse to seem as though he is taking care of everything in a hunter class. But in your hack class, where you’re all together and going around the ring not jumping, you want to make sure that every time the judge looks at a horse, your horse is the one he sees. I wouldn’t say this if you had a poorly trained horse, but you have a well-trained horse, nice-looking, with good conformation and movement. He is not flashy, though, and he doesn’t have any white markings to draw the judge’s eye. Therefore, my dear, put yourself out there where the judge can’t miss you, okay?”
“Okay.”
But first there was the jumping class. The course was once again fairly simple, a figure eight followed by a long loop across the center of an in-and-out followed by a chicken coop, and then a turn to the brush, around the first jump and across the center, over a jump set perpendicular to the others. I walked the course with my feet and then with my fingers, and then I jumped in the warm-up and did everything Jane told me, and then I was in the ring, and Black George was trotting, circling, cantering, and the next thing I knew, we were turning left down the long loop, right over the brush, then around the first jump and across the center, over some natural poles. I sat up, came to the trot, and left the arena with a smile.
It wasn’t until I was back out in the warm-up arena that I felt my left leg throbbing inside the boot. I took my foot out of the stirrup and twisted it around and around, first to the outside, then to the inside. Jane came over. She was very pleased. She said, “That should be a winning ride. We’ll see. Depends on how big a hangover the judge has this morning and whether he’s seeing double or not.” She grinned, then became very serious. She wasn’t exactly the same person I had thought she was.
She watched the other rounds—there were eight after me. Three horses had refusals, which was very bad for a hunter, and one of those plus one other knocked rails down, which, according to Jane, wasn’t good but wasn’t terribly bad if the horse’s form was good. Sophia Rosebury’s gray mare had a good round. The lady who had fallen off the day before did not fall off this time, but her horse bucked twice, also not good for a hunter. A hunter was supposed to buzz around like a robot, so that you, the rider, could keep your mind on the fox or blow your horn for the hounds or something like that. I said, “Jane, have you ever gone foxhunting?”
“Oh, I grew up doing that, in Pennsylvania. Radnor Hunt. Twice a week when I could skip school. But then I moved out here.”
“Can you hunt here?”
“If you want to hunt coyotes. But it’s not the same when you’ve done the other. My favorite place to hunt is France. They hunt stags in the forests. I love Picardy. You go out into the forest all day, and then you eat ham and cheese omelets and drink brandy by the fire at night.” She smiled. “I only did it once, but I can’t wait to do it again. No jumping, but it’s fun.”
The last horse, a small bay, completed his round. I thought he had seven good jumps, but one was bad—he paused in front of the brush and leapt from almost a standstill. When they called us in for the ribbons, Sophia’s mare was first and Black George was second. Jane said, “She was third in the class yesterday, did I tell you that? So you’re ahead, but just. This hack class will tell the tale.” She turned and put her hand on my stirrup and stared up at me. She said, “That’s a very expensive mare, Abby, and Black George has her beat at this point. She’s perfect in the hack class and often wins, but she has a bit of a Roman nose.”
“What difference does that make?”
“The judge will always go for the pretty one, if all things are equal.”
“Daddy says a pretty head is worth money.”
“Sad to say, he’s right. It’s only English people who think a Roman nose is a sign of character in a horse.”
The hack class was called, and the other horses began to file into the ring. Jane sent me in right after Sophia and her mare, which I now knew was named Lorena, as in “The years creep slowly by, Lorena,” one of Daddy’s favorite non-hymns. I knew without Jane saying anything that my job was to stick with Lorena and get between her and the judge as often as I could without seeming rude or pushy. Sophia knew that, too. I could tell by the way she sometimes looked at me that even if the day before she might not have known my name or who in the world Black George was, now she did. I also knew that she could see that my sleeves were too short and my boots too tight and my breeches too big.
The announcer asked for a trot, and I lifted my chin and floated by her, sort of the way the Big Four floated by the rest of us in seventh grade, as if we weren’t to be looked at. No, that was wrong. The real thing to do was to float by everyone the way the Goldman twins did—not feeling self-conscious at all, just going about your much more interesting life because it actually is much more interesting. I thought, Alexis Barbara Alexis Barbara, and passed two of the others, too, including the woman who always fell off. I could hear her talking: “Easy now. Easy now. Settle down!” Her horse did not look excited, though. We were asked to reverse. This time, I didn’t pass Sophia and Lorena. I stayed two lengths behind them and matched them stride for stride. Only when we came to the end of the arena did I let Black George go to the inside and pass them. Sophia gave me a dirty look, which I felt but did not see.
Now we were told to canter. I sat down, lifted my inside hand. I felt Black George lighten up his shoulder and rise to the canter like a bird rising on a breath of air. It was delicious. Frankly, it was so pleasant that I forgot for a moment about Sophia and winning and eleven thousand dollars, and just cantered to the end of the arena for fun. Then we were asked to hand-gallop. I got into my half seat, and Black George extended his stride. It occurred to me that the easiest thing to do right then would be just to keep going
and jump right out of the arena.
But I didn’t do that.
When I passed Jane, she was smiling.
Halt.
We halted.
Trot on.
We trotted on.
Reverse.
We reversed and then cantered again.
I guess it was about then that I realized that I had lost track of Sophia and Lorena completely and in fact was more or less off in my own little world.
Then the others were lining up, so we came down to the walk and turned across the center. In the row of horses and riders, I stood between the little bay and the falling-off lady. The announcer called my name and the ringmaster held up the blue ribbon, and I walked right up to him as if I had expected that very thing. I held out my hand. He put the blue ribbon in it. I was so excited without realizing it that I headed the wrong direction, and Jane had to wave to me to get me to come out of the arena.
Five minutes later, I had a little silver dish in my hand. It was very pretty, small, with six petals, like a flower, and writing—the name of the horse show and the word Champion written on it. The championship ribbon was larger than the regular ribbons, with a long blue streamer, a long red streamer, and a long yellow streamer. Jane hung it from Black George’s browband, down the side of his face. He looked very elegant.
Jane was grinning, and as we walked by Colonel Hawkins, she looked him in the eye and said, “Congratulations!” in a high, singsong voice, but what she really meant was “Take that!” The colonel smiled at her—he was her boss, after all—but Sophia gave us a very dirty look.
Rodney met us at the gate with a rag in his hand. While we were walking back to the barn, he wiped Black George’s mouth and face, then ran the rag down his neck. He said, “That all for the day, then, miss?”
“For now,” said Jane.
For now? My ears should have pricked up, but they didn’t. Half of me was still staring at those waving streamers in the championship ribbon, and half of me was starving. When we got back to the barn and I dismounted, though, I nearly fell down—my leg was numb from the boot.
