Authors: Barbara Kay
“You’re not planning on driving anywhere today, are you? Nath?”
“No, I’m not. And may I say that I am touched by the sense of responsibility and maturity that makes you ask. And may I say too”–Polo heard a smothered burp–“how typical that you should be so solicitous–as usual–from a distance…no, I am not driving anywhere.”
Polo tried to check his rising anger. “Don’t fuck with me, Nath. What’s going on?”
Nathalie began to cry. “Today is the thirteenth day of my menstrual cycle. I could get pregnant in a minute if–if I had someone–who wanted to make me pregnant…”
“Nath, we have a deal.
Christi
, I could have made sure you never got pregnant–not by me, anyway–just by spending twenty minutes with a urologist. For me a deal’s a deal,
hein
?”
She was crying in harsh, jagged sobs now. “Polo, I’m thirty–five years old. You can’t
do
this to me any more. I gave you time.” She wailed, “I gave you my best
, best
time. Why can’t you want this to happen? Why can’t I leave you? Why are you always running off to buy horses and build arenas? Why won’t you ever talk to me about…stuff?”
She paused hopefully, but receiving no answer, cried, “
Why can’t we ever discuss what happened back
then
?”
“Nath, Nath–”
“
Why
is your whole life such a fucking mystery to me
?” She was sobbing unrestrainedly, like an overtired child.
Polo was by now in the grip of a painful stomach spasm and could hardly talk. He couldn’t bear women crying.
He really couldn’t bear it.
It was horrible. The knuckles of his free hand were white as he gripped his knee with all his strength. He wanted to smack her, hard, to make her stop. He had never smacked her, or any woman. But he was just as glad she wasn’t in the same room at that moment, because the impulse was as bad as he had ever known it to be.
His eyes were irritated. He passed his hand under his glasses to rub them. His fingers came away wet, and he almost groaned aloud in disgust. Of course smacking wives was not what
good
husbands did, smacking kids wasn’t what
good
fathers did, but how could he trust himself to remember that forever, especially now when he seriously felt like hitting her–someone,–anyone… Better not to be in situations where women cried, where children cried…
“Listen,” he managed huskily, “listen to me. I can’t talk to you about this now. Not on the phone. Not when you’re drunk. Not when–”
“Not when it’s inconvenient, not when it’s raining, not when Ruthie’s kids want a riding lesson–oh, Polo, you
fool
, do you think this can go on forever?” She sniffed, and blew her nose.
Then she said, her voice low, thick with drink and yearning, “Polo, come home for a day. Not to sell horses, not to buy them, not to wheel and deal. Just to talk. Please.
Please
. One whole day. It’s not much to ask.” She sighed and added in a tearful, little girl’s voice, “There’s something–something I want to tell you–finally–tell you–it would mean so much to finally–finally…” she was mumbling, her voice uncertain.
Polo cut her off. He was furious. She was rambling. “Listen, Nath–and this isn’t an excuse, this is really happening–there’s a kind of crisis here. A horse got cut up badly, deliberately, the office was vandalized. Roch’s short–handed, his head boy ran off, I–”
“No, no,
no! You
listen, Polo”–her voice was hard and bitter now–“in horses there is
always
going to be a crisis–when are you going to realize that–a sick horse, a lame horse, a dead horse, a red horse, a blue horse–”
“Nath, come on. This is pointless.”
“You’re right. But there’s a mystery about
you
that needs solving, and I’m going to try to do that while you’re away solving horse crises.”
Prongs, fishhooks of anxiety lodged inside his gut and tugged gently upwards. “What do you mean, Nath?” he said quietly.
Now she was suddenly listless, mournful and flat. “It’s what I said. I am going to solve some puzzles. You won’t come home to talk? Fine. You won’t come home to listen to me talk? I told you I have something to tell you, but you didn’t ask what. ‘Cuz you don’t want to know, do you,
chou
? You don’t want to know…”
Snuffling and movement at the other end. She must be on the portable and walking around, Polo thought. Tearily she said, “You won’t see a therapist? Fine. Then I’ll have to analyze you myself. Not the easiest thing when the patient is so good at denial and repression and won’t even show up for an appointment. But I will do my best.”
The fishhook dug deeper, tugged harder. A thin, sharp wire of pain snaked through him. “What kind of shit is this, Nath? You take a few psychology courses and now you’re an expert. What do you mean by this denial and repression crap?”
“A few courses? Hey, I’m
graduating
next year, remember? By the way, you didn’t even ask how my final exam in Early Childhood Development was yesterday.” She sounded drowsily petulant, like a toddler resisting naptime. He heard the bedsprings squeak.
“Sorry. Completely forgot. How was it?”
“I’d say B plus or A minus.”
“Way to go. Look Nath, I have to get a move on. Can you maybe–could we meet in Montreal maybe? Tomorrow for dinner?”
“Love to, but I already have a date in Montreal tomorrow. Dinner with an old friend of
yours,
in fact.” She hiccuped loudly and he heard a loud knocking noise. “Oops. Dropped the phone. Sorry about that. Yeah, gonna be on the information highway by Sunday, I’m betting.”
“Don’t, Nath–”
“No, I’m serious. I really do have a date.”
“Who?”
“Ooh, that would be telling, wouldn’t it?”
“Don’t play the bitch, Nath. You just come off like a spoiled brat.”
“Oh yeah? Hey, how come I’m not allowed to say when you act like an ignoramus throwback from
balconville
who thinks psychiatrists put people in straitjackets to cure bedwetting, but you’re allowed to tell me I’m just a spoiled rich bitch from Outremont? How come?”
There was no answer to this. She was right. They should never have married. They would be cutting each other up like this every time they had a fight, forever. Once you started drawing this kind of blood, you never stopped.
People
should stick to their own kind
. Morrie had warned him. He should have listened.
But who is my own kind
?
Where would I have found my own kind?
Polo was frustrated and a little frightened. Usually when they fought things never went this far. Usually fighting made them hungry for each other, and they ended in bed what couldn’t be solved with words. He was hungry for her right now. But this was very bad. He felt they must be nearing the end of their road together. He couldn’t imagine life without her. He wanted to howl like a dog.
“Ruthie’s there, eh
chéri?
I mean, I called the Jacobsons to see if you were there. You didn’t mention Ruthie was visiting…” Her voice had gotten steadier before this pronouncement, but now it went all weak and trembly again, and he heard tears crowding her words.
“
Et alors?
So what? Are you sugges–you’re not seriously–”
How long has she been chewing on this–but that’s crazy–
Silence.
“Aw c’mon, this isn’t you, Nath. No really, I don’t believe this–”
“Yeah, you’re right, Polo. This isn’t the me you fell for. This isn’t sweet, know–nothing Nath who doesn’t want anything else in life but to follow you around and worship you. I guess it’s Nath all grown up. Not nearly so appealing, is she–?”
“Just don’t ever make those kind of insinuations about Ruthie again, okay?”
Silence. A speaking silence that he felt as a chill, as a witch’s curse in a fairy tale. Or as a prophecy. He shivered.
“Okay, Nath?” He kept his voice low so she wouldn’t hear the fear. He hated himself, he hated her, he was desperate to get away from her voice and her silence.
Nose–blowing.
“I figure I have five more years at the outside, Polo. I’d like it to be you, because I still love you. I know I’m probably a lifer where you’re concerned.” She drew a wavy breath and regrouped her forces.
“But blood is thicker than water, you know? And husbands aren’t blood. I am
not
going to spend my twilight years knitting ankle boots for horses. You’ve got a lot of unfinished business to clear up, Polo. Not just with me. With
them
. Ruthie for sure, whether you want to hear it or not, but Morrie too.”
“Aw, for Chrissake”–
“And let’s not forget your
real
family–you know,
maman
,
papa
, all those ragtag brothers and sisters–though God knows you’ve done a brilliant job of forgetting them so far. I’ll tell you something for free, since I haven’t graduated yet, Polo. I used to think you were the bravest guy in the world. There never was a horse you were afraid to ride. I think it’s why I fell in love with you.
“But, see”–she choked up, then hiccupped loudly–“
merde–
I’m realizing that you’re not brave enough to be a father. And, see, I have a real problem with that, ‘cuz courage in a man–it’s–it’s–oh
merde,
I’m so tired of feeling sorry for myself!
Salut,
Polo, and lemme know when you’re ready to–‘scuse the psychobabble–
share
with me…”(this last in English).
Click.
* * *
Nathalie Chouinard claimed to have fallen in love with Polo when she was nine years old, a beginner in Pony Club. He was at that time the rising Jumper star of Quebec. As a youngster and teenager, she followed him around at the shows and pestered him. Polo would let her hang out at his stalls, hot–walk his horses, braid manes for Hunter classes, and help his grooms to organize their comings and goings. When he stopped riding professionally and built a barn on his St. Lazare property, he let her board her horse there, and he coached her at the backyard shows she was satisfied to compete at.
Nathalie had been a gawky ugly duckling. In late adolescence her awkward limbs and slightly goofy–looking features achieved a pleasing harmony and regularity. Like many late bloomers, she was unaware of her transformation. Her youthful efforts had all been directed at self–effacement
Her love for Polo was pure and hopeless. She offered him a dog’s devotion and loyalty, and was for many years satisfied with a dog’s portion: a friendly pat on the shoulder, the odd compliment on a task well done, the occasional outing for pizza or as transport assistance for the horses.
Nathalie watched Polo’s girlfriends come and go without rancour–that would have been presumptuous–but with definite opinions as to their relative merits and worthiness. She was always pleased by the transience of his liaisons. But she was at the St. Lazare Classic, the only horse show Ruthie ever attended, and when she witnessed the two of them together and saw how it was between them, she almost swooned with jealousy.
When Nathalie was seventeen, Polo suddenly noticed her one day while she was sitting on an overturned bucket cold–hosing her horse’s swollen leg. Or rather took
notice
of her. She was arching her back in a stretch, reaching up with her free hand to smooth a loose strand of hair back from her forehead. It was that one graceful gesture and the sweet, buoyant lift of her breast under her thin t–shirt. He was quite close to her and almost reached out to caress her, the impact was so sudden. She stood up in her tight jeans, twisting to turn off the faucet, and he marvelled at the fluid swell of her hips and buttocks.
He realized with a shock that Nathalie was becoming a woman, and a desirable one. She was right on the cusp. Boys–men–would be coming around at any moment. He didn’t like that thought. Polo knew how things stood with her where he was concerned, and he weighed the potential for damage if he took advantage of her feelings to satisfy what he assumed was a passing physical interest on his part. And he was aware that she was embarrassingly young for him. But he knew that same day that he had to choose. He wanted her, and badly. He had either to send her away or have her.
He compromised by warning her before making his move. It wasn’t love, he said. It wouldn’t last long. It didn’t matter, she declared with her lips.
We’ll just see, she murmured in her leaping heart
.
So he made a duvet of clean straw in the four–horse rig, covered it with blankets, and brought her there the next night. Polo had never been with a virgin before. He wasn’t prepared, when his moment came, for the flood of joy that followed. When she smothered a whimper of pain, denying it with kisses, he was moved, caught up in the grip of tender possessiveness. What in his life had ever,
ever
belonged uniquely to him?
It was very odd. Holding her afterwards, smoothing her long hair with gentle strokes to comfort and to thank her, he felt at once the pride of exclusive dominion and the humility of a tamed animal. It was the most peaceful, balanced emotional moment he’d ever known.
They were a couple from then on.
As business grew more demanding for Polo, Nathalie became a fixture at the barn, doing his paperwork, overseeing operations, riding and exercising the sale horses. When it came to a choice, she broke off her university education to work for him fulltime.
Bernard Chouinard, scion of an old family,
de vieille souche,
a fundraiser of importance in the federal Liberal party, with generations of learned and distinguished public figures behind him, was furious that his daughter’s excellent private school education and her very good mind were going to waste in the coarse and culturally sterile environment of horse sport. The Chouinards had chosen horses as a distraction to boost Nathalie’s low self–esteem. Their older daughter was a beauty and a social tyro. They had meant riding to be a hobby and a means of improving her English, not a career.