A Good Horse (11 page)

“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.”

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.

M
ISS
S
LATER 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!”