Authors: Barbara Kay
“Eventually he might not do the jumping either. Without drugs, I mean. With drugs, he could go on for years where they aren’t prohibited, probably.” Polo took a thirsty drag of the beer. “He could do horse trials, but probably not three–days. Which is fine for an amateur with no ambition, but if he’s fit for only horse trials, it means he isn’t worth much money.”
“So his problem is a physical one. Navicular?” Thea asked pensively.
“I’d be guessing, but yeah, I think so. I put the calipers on every part of every hoof after a very tough ride. He’s quite ouch–y on the exterior right fore, and slightly ouch–y on the left, and I’m sure it isn’t a bruise. I didn’t have time to
longe
him today, but I’m betting he’ll be slightly ‘off’ even tomorrow in a tight circle.”
“And would that account for him stopping, say, at a jump on the cross–country?”
“Not necessarily if he were revved and happy to gallop. I think there’s another reason–or two–for the stopping.”
Thea said nothing, but sipped at her straw–coloured sherry while her eyes encouraged him to continue.
“First of all, your daughter was using a Pelham bit on the horse. Why? That’s a very strong, really quite punishing bit. I would only ever use it with an extremely aggressive horse that you can’t bring off the gallop any other way. Or, well, It’s just a guess, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Bridget stopped riding because she was afraid. It happens after accidents sometimes. So she projects her fear on to her students, making them use hardware that’s unnecessary for the horse they’re riding.
“That’s why I did the steeplechase. I put him into the gallop and let him run–flat out–no collection at all. Well, he sailed over the jumps–they’re just low brush, and he knows it–and if a horse is going to run away, that’s where he’d do it. But he hit his stride and kept it. I had no problem bringing him back even with the snaffle I was using. If anything, this is a horse who needs pushing, not pulling. So if your daughter was maybe a little afraid herself on the cross, and translated that into even a little added pressure on the mouth, well…”
Thea nodded. Her mouth was set, but she gave nothing away. “Go on.”
“On top of that, the horse has been over–faced on the cross–country. Your horse,” he swallowed some more beer and reached for a pretzel, “is so athletic that most stadium jumping up to, say, four and a half feet is a piece of cake to him. He could do it from a trot. And if he knocks down a rail, so what. It doesn’t hurt him, and it doesn’t scare him.
“The cross–country is different. These are heavy, fixed jumps. One bad knock, and a horse remembers. He’ll start backing off if he’s consistently over–faced with too high or too wide or too difficult approach–wise jumps. I’m no authority on three–day eventing, but in my opinion you have a Preliminary level horse with a great schooling base on him who’s been pushed through to Intermediate much too fast. He’s a prudent, self–protective horse. Athletic, as I said. But not a big heart. And, worst of all, he’s dishonest under pressure.”
“What is your definition of dishonest?” Thea asked. She had been listening with deep, concentrated interest.
“Most horses, when they’re afraid they can’t make a jump, you know it at least six strides out. Their bodies ‘telegraph ahead’, as Fran always says. You can just feel them sucking back. If you’re sure they can do it, you drive them forward and try to get a good spot. But at least you know where you stand, and you’re prepared for a runout or a stop.
“But what your guy did at one of the big jumps on the cross country–but remember, this is only after I worked him hard on the asphalt–was gallop forward right to the baseline of the jump with no indication he was even thinking of stopping. He jammed on the brakes at the last second, and to add insult to injury he bucked and twisted his body like a bronco to make sure that if the stop didn’t get me off, the twist would.”
Thea’s eyebrows lifted. “He surely didn’t get
you
off?”
Polo blushed a little and circled the base of his glass on the tabletop. “He came as close as any horse I’ve ridden in the last 20 years has. It was not a pretty picture out there, I can tell you.” He added, soberly, “I’m betting that’s what happened to your daughter.”
“He was sold to me as an experienced Intermediate level horse, ready to go advanced, you know,” Thea said quietly. “Not to mention as 100% sound.”
“Well,” Polo said evenly, “he isn’t, on both counts.” He sipped at his beer. “And I did it all–steeplechase, cross–country, the roads…he’s definitely not an Intermediate level horse, and even if his feet hold up, if he doesn’t go back down to Preliminary for at least a year with a patient and experienced rider, he never will be. Or at least not one you can count on.”
“That’s fraud, then.”
Polo smiled. “This may seem like a peculiar time, Thea, but can I tell you a joke?”
Thea looked startled, but asked, “Is it relevant?”
“It is if you’re thinking about suing Bridget.”
“Go on, then.”
“It’s better with a real Yiddish accent, mine’s awful, but–okay, there’s this little old Jewish guy in Miami who puts on a fancy ship captain’s hat with all the gold braid and stuff, and puffs out his chest, and says to his wife, ‘so tell me, Sadie darlink, vot do you t’ink? Em I a captain?’ Sadie looks at him for a minute, and says, ‘You know, Abie darlink, by me you’re a captain, and by you you’re a captain, but by a captain you’re not a captain…’”
Thea laughed. “So what you’re saying is…”
“Yeah. By me it’s fraud, and by you it’s fraud, but by a judge it’s going to be ‘buyer beware.’”
Thea sighed. “I was afraid you’d say that. I take it that was a Morrie Jacobson joke.”
“Yeah. He loved it. I heard him tell it a hundred times, and every time he killed himself laughing…”
“That was a side of him I didn’t see on the one occasion he and I met,” Thea said quietly.
Finally. It’s Show time. Polo, you’re two away…Polo, one away…Polo, you’re on deck…okay, Polo, go on in…
“Talk, Thea. I’m listening.”
* * *
“It’s the jokes I miss the most, I think,” Clarice said, as she sipped at her straw–coloured sherry. Naturally I’d heard them all hundreds of times, but I always laughed. It was the way he told them, that borscht belt accent…”
“Polo loved them too,” said Nathalie. She was holding her glass of red wine and circling the base with her finger. “He used to tell them to me. Of course his accent was just awful, but he got such a kick out of them.”
She nibbled at an olive. “And okay, I thought the jokes were cute, but what always struck me as significant–and it’s what I would tell him–was, here was this
p’tit gars
from St. Henri telling me these Catskill mountain–type Jewish jokes, and didn’t he think that was a little…
different
, but when I’d say that, he’d just look at me as if it was
me
that was a little strange. I mean,” she neatly deposited the pit on her little plate beside a cherry tomato stem, “that is just a perfect example of the kind of…denial he was–is–in about his life. And another thing I never understood was…”
It all came out in a torrent. Clarice nodded and listened very attentively (and with ‘the third ear’ she justly prided herself on) as Nathalie went on. She just talked and talked. Nathalie seemed to have many theories: about powerless mothers, feckless fathers, surrogate fathers living vicariously, and middle child syndrome.
“…not to be close to even
one
of his siblings? Out of that many? And not to
care
that he isn’t? It’s sad…”
Also about
anomie
and language confusion.
“…his message machine in the barn used to only be in English, can you imagine? He simply hadn’t remembered there are horse people who may only speak French here…”
Also about parental and sibling rejection (more his of them than theirs of him), cultural heritage rejection, selective denial in general, intimacy issues…
“…Why does he always have to be away from me to worry about whether I’m safe or not? Why can’t he stand it when women cry?”
…anger management issues…
“…just has
no
idea how much pent–up anger he’s carrying around. Sometimes I think he’d like to hit me when I won’t stop talking about his past…of course he never has, that really would have been the end…but why can’t he face up to that…it’s the father, obviously, he used to smack them around a lot–and I’m sure the mother too–his brother told me…”
…homophobia…
“…younger brother Jude is gay, and could really use some brotherly understanding, but Polo doesn’t even want to know…”
…and –she gulped nervously at her wine, and her voice began to tremble slightly–above all, commitment issues …
“Here’s something that I find very …symbolic–and kind of sad. Do you know what Polo loves to do more than anything? He loves to go out to western Canada and pick up these young thoroughbreds off the racetrack, the ones who aren’t winning. You can get them here too, but out west they’re cheaper, a dime a dozen in horse dollars. He’ll bring back three or four–he has a fantastic flare for spotting potential–and then he just works on them for maybe up to a year, more if they need it.
“You never saw such loving patience. When he gets them, all they know how to do is run. He schools them and schools them, dressage, jumping, hunting, over water, in traffic, the works. Just the basics. He never pushes too hard. When he’s finished they’re confident, obedient, fit for advancing in anything a rider wants to do. And then he sells them for–I’m not kidding–at least ten times what he paid. You can’t believe how hard it is for amateur riders to find a sound, made, well–adjusted horse with no fears or vices.
“But once they’re sold, that’s it. Just load them up, a slap on the rump, ship them out, no goodbye kisses, nothing. He never mentions them again, unless there’s something a client wants to know. He doesn’t know if they’re treated right, or ridden well, or…anything.
“And this to me is so sad…that ever since Morrie sold Panjandrum, Polo has never had a horse of his own. I mean, Panjandrum wasn’t really his, but he
was
, if you know what I mean…and so many times I would say about one of his finds, oh Polo, this one is too good to sell, why don’t you keep him”–her voice broke–“…but never…”
This girl, Clarice thought, who is usually so quiet and even laconic in company, has been suffocating in a bell jar of emotional isolation for God knows how long. She’s going to university, and she’s easy prey for all these new fads and theories. She’s–what do they say now–so politically correct. The odds are that her parents wouldn’t exactly lose any sleep if the marriage broke up–they resisted it in the first place. And she lives in that dreadful, philistine horsy suburb, the back of beyond, tied down to their barn and Polo’s business. Who does she have to talk to about this? Maybe no one at all. So let her talk.
But as any fool can see, for all her complaining and her theories and symbols, it’s clear that she’s still so madly in love with this boy (Polo would never be anything but a boy to Clarice) that she has to find some reason for his rejection of her, perceived or real. All this other stuff, his family background, the
anomie
and whatnot, she could deal with that if she thought he was totally committed to her.
But the commitment thing–well, she’s not wrong to feel hurt about that. That’s very real. What woman wouldn’t feel rejected if her man won’t commit to something so elemental as making a family. It’s a Quebec thing, Clarice mused. All these poor boys from too–large families with their prematurely aged, overburdened mothers. Who’d want his wife to turn into that? The Quiet Revolution. Too liberating, maybe. Polo’s surely not the only one. They don’t even want to get married anymore, never mind children.
So she hurts and she needs to blame someone. Why not the Jacobsons? Or at least one of the Jacobsons?
“…and I wouldn’t have minded about his feelings for Ruthie if he had only been honest with me. How can you spend an entire adolescence, constantly in the presence of a girl, a pretty girl, without having certain feelings?” Nathalie looked extremely uncomfortable, and she downed a sizable gulp of wine. “Mrs. J, can I be totally honest with you about something? There’s just nobody else I can talk to about this.”
“Are you going to ask me if Polo was ever in love with Ruthie?”
“Yes.” And then Nathalie burst into a flood of tears.
Clarice reached over the coffee table to pat Nathalie comfortingly on the knee and offered her a tissue. (How prescient she had been to put a box of Kleenex handy.) She smoothed her skirt and cleared her throat, as she considered whether she should abridge and sugarcoat, or just ‘let it all hang out’, as the children put it (what a revolting expression), and see the chips fall where they might.
Honesty seemed to be what Nathalie wanted. Preparing to receive it, Nathalie was pouring herself a second glass of wine. She would no doubt have more at dinner, and Clarice made a mental note to insist that she take a cab to her parents and sleep in town there instead of driving back to St. Lazare, or even spend the night here at her house.
“Well,” Clarice said as mildly and benignly as possible, “in my opinion, Polo and Ruthie were in love with each other almost from the day they met. But,” she held up her hand to forestall Nathalie’s questions or comments, “it was a child’s version of love. It wasn’t real, not in the way you love Polo now and the way I believe he loves you. I mean, we’re not talking about Romeo and Juliet here, Nathalie. It wasn’t sexual. Let me try to explain how it was between them and please, just without saying anything for a few minutes. Try the eggplant dip, dear. I made it myself.”
Nathalie was looking down, biting her lip, and playing with the limp tissue. She seems like such a girl still, Clarice thought. Still no makeup (it’s starting to be time for a touch of blush and lipstick at least!) and that same boring braid down the back (Clarice itched to whisk her off to Marc–André, who cut so divinely, to see what he could do with that wonderful thick straight brown mane of hers), she bites her nails, and yes, there’s still that little bit of Bambi gawkiness when she’s emotional, as if she doesn’t quite know what to do with her hands and feet.