Catch Rider (9780544034303) (23 page)

Wayne brought over a cardboard tray with sandwiches and handed it to me, scowling. “Fourteen goddamn dollars.”

We sat in the stands, watching the riders go. They were from all over the country. Santa Cruz, California. Princeton, New Jersey. Norman, Oklahoma. Johnson, Vermont. Marietta, Georgia. A bunch from places in Virginia I'd never been—Sandston and Ashland and Blackstone. Their horses were gorgeous, mostly bays and chestnuts, but also dapple grays and a couple of enormous white Warmbloods. Sonny was one of the only ones with bright white socks.

Wayne didn't say much. I figured he was as blown away by the horses and riders as I was. There was nothing to talk about, really. Usually at a show, some kids are great, some are terrible, some are having a good day, and some bad. You see a horse try to kick another one, or a rider who can't make a horse go at all. But here, everyone was great, and all these horses looked as if they cost a million dollars. When I glanced over at Wayne, he was just looking straight ahead, chewing.

I saw the steam rising off a hot horse's back, and it reminded me of the white cows at home, steaming as they stood out in the rain. I wondered if I'd gotten to be any more like those cows, the way they ignored the rain pouring down on them. I didn't think I would ever be able to ignore it, but I was starting to get used to it.

We'd all have to work on the flat after this. Then those who made the cut would be tested again. The test could be anything. Sometimes they made riders switch horses. I wanted that to happen. I wanted Kelly to get some hot horse she didn't know how to ride, and I wanted to ride one of those beautiful white Warmbloods.

Kelly was finishing her round. She looked pretty good, and I congratulated her when she finished. Her eyes opened wide, and she said, “Thanks,” like she was surprised I'd said something nice to her. That made me feel kind of terrible and kind of good at the same time.

When the last riders were going, I went back to get Sonny ready for the flat class, and I brought him out.

Wayne gave me a leg up, and I looked into the stands as I gathered the reins.

Melinda was watching from the third row. She saw me and waved. I couldn't believe it. She was wearing her nice purple sweater and her hair was done. I waved back and pointed her out to Wayne.

“I know,” he said. “She told me she was thinking about it, but not to say anything in case she couldn't come.”

“How'd she get up here?”

“Train from Clifton Forge. You know what's right below Madison Square Garden?”

“What?”

“The train station.”

I laughed. I couldn't imagine her getting on a train all by herself, but I was so glad. I loved the thought of her sitting alone and reading a magazine, taking a nap, doing whatever she wanted.

“Did she see my round?”

“She did. Now, forget about her and focus on what you're doing, Sidney. She'll be here when you're done.”

Riders filed into the ring and started to trot. We were going thirty-five at a time. Riders were trying to get the judges' attention, trying to stand out. The trick was to circle right in front of them but to look as if you had no other choice. Everybody was doing that at once, and it was a mess. I watched several groups go, then it was my turn. When I got into the ring, I stayed at the rail.

“Riders, hand gallop, please,” the announcer called. Thirty-five horses, galloping in a circle, everyone trying to stand out. I nearly collided with another horse.

“And . . . halt . . .”

I sat up and pulled Sonny to a dead stop. For some reason he trotted a few steps first, an honest mistake but one that could keep me from making the cut.

“Counter-canter . . .”

We had to make our horses canter on the opposite lead. If they were going clockwise, we had to make them canter on the left lead. This required great balance, and the horse had to be attentive to your legs. The worst thing you could do was to get the wrong lead, then pull back to a trot and correct it, like I saw another rider do. I dug in my inside heel, planted my right hand into his neck, and shifted my weight to the outside, just a little. Sonny got it.

We did a few more gaits, cantering without stirrups, then a sitting trot. Then, suddenly, Sonny stumbled hard. I almost came off. I figured he'd gotten distracted by all the excitement.

The announcer called for us to line up in the center of the ring. This was the moment when I'd find out if we'd made the cut.

“Those riders whose numbers are called, please form a new line.”

They called five numbers, then ten, then Kelly's. She smiled, and I heard Dee Dee cheering.

Then I heard my number.

I pushed Sonny forward to line up with the others, but he wouldn't move. I gave him some leg, and I felt him lurch forward in a sickening, unnatural way.

He wouldn't put weight on his front leg. He was lame.

I jumped off to see if something was caught in his foot. Nothing there. Wayne rushed into the ring to help me. He picked up Sonny's hoof and checked once more.

“He's got pain up high. It's not his hoof,” he said.

I saw Dee Dee turn to Martha and smile.

I heard someone on the rail say, “He's lame. She's out.”

I pulled Sonny out of the ring by the reins, watching him limp. I heard some people gasp. Wes came over and felt Sonny's legs—nothing. I felt them, too—nothing wrong. Then Wes pressed on Sonny's shoulder, and the horse jerked away.

“He pulled a muscle. Bad,” Wes said.

“We can soak it. We can walk him . . . Maybe he's got a cramp,” I said.

“Sid, you can't ride him.” Wes couldn't even look at me when he said this.

Wayne felt Sonny's shoulder, Sonny pulled back, and Wayne just looked off at the crowd.

I couldn't look at any of them. I couldn't look up into the stands at my mother. I told Wayne to tell her not to come down. I dreaded hearing everyone say, “You did great—it wasn't your fault,” over and over. I didn't want to hear how close I'd come. If it had happened to Kelly, or most of these other riders, they'd have a backup horse. But not me. Maybe someone would lend me a horse. I couldn't bear the idea of asking Dutch and having him refuse. I thought about asking the girls from the stall next to mine, Caroline and Laura, but there was no time—I didn't even know where they were. Martha sat near the rail, reading her program, and didn't look at me.

I felt far away from everyone and utterly alone, with no safety net.

We walked Sonny to his stall slowly, put him inside, and gave him some hay. Poor horse—he'd done such a great job for me, and now he was in pain. I gave him bute and rubbed liniment onto his shoulder.

Then Wayne pointed at Sub.

“Ride him.”

“Screw you,” I said.

Wayne dug through my tack trunk, pulled out the electric clippers, and plugged them in.

“It's not funny,” I said.

Wayne started clipping Sub's face.

Wes came over and saw what Wayne was doing. “Holy cow!” he said.

“No way,” I said.

“How long would it take to braid this horse?” Wayne asked Wes.

“Twenty minutes. Won't be the best job, though.”

“Do it.” Wayne was clipping Sub's legs.

“He needs shoes,” said Wes.

“I'm not riding Sub.”

“I just trimmed him the other day,” said Wayne.

“Wayne, he needs shoes!” said Wes.

“Well, he don't have them,” said Wayne.

Wes pulled Sub out into the aisle and tied him up next to the stall. He jogged away and came back with the farrier, who took a look at Sub's feet and then brought over his tools.

“Just tack 'em on,” said Wayne.

“Why don't
you
ride him,” I said to Wayne. “You can break
your
neck.”

They ignored me. Wes hopped up on the stool and was braiding like a fiend while the farrier worked. Sub could not have cared less. He leaned all his weight onto the farrier, who had one of Sub's hooves between his knees, trimming the edges. The farrier shoved him over and cursed.

“His mane is nice and dirty,” Wes said.

It was nice watching this, because they cared, but it was sad, because it would never work.

The fuzz in Sub's ears came off and floated to the ground, then the shaggy hair under his chin. Wayne clipped the hair along the back of Sub's legs and around his feet. I had to admit, Sub was starting to look respectable.

Wayne put Sonny's bridle onto Sub and adjusted the buckles on the side. “Still got a head the size of a moose.”

He put my saddle onto Sub's back, the girth strap barely fitting around his big belly. “Still got a belly the size of a hippo,” Wayne said.

Then he grabbed a rub rag and wiped Sub down, still talking to him. “But you know, Submarine?” he said. “It ain't about your big head or your fat belly. It's about finding out who the best rider is. Even if she is on a fat old pinto that her father bought in Dunn's Gap from a crooked horse trader”—Wayne turned to face me—“for
her.
”

“Shut up,” I said.

“He bought this horse for you.”

“He bought Sub for himself,” I said.

“He bought him for you. That man knew how to pick a horse like no one I ever met. Lot better than I ever did. He picked out Sub for you, as a colt. He loved this horse.”

I felt my throat tighten and tried to hold it in, but I let out a sob.

“He loved his color. Sub's a skewbald pinto, brown and white, Jimmy's favorite. And he's got these strong legs and big tough feet, and a heart the size of a watermelon. Jimmy could see that. When Jimmy found him, he was sharing an old run-in shed with a mama pig and her babies.”

Tears were rolling down my cheeks now, but I couldn't move a muscle to wipe them away.

“You know why we were at that man's house, where we found Sub?”

“You were running moonshine,” I said.

“No ma'am. That was just the story we told so nobody would know we were horse-shopping for a little girl. We had a reputation to protect. Jimmy looked high and low for a horse for you.”

“He did?”

“We looked at every goddamn horse for sale in Virginia and North Carolina. And this is the one we found. Right there in Dunn's Gap.”

I cried harder, looking at Sub, him looking back at me. I touched his big white cheek, and he closed his eyes.

“You a catch rider yet?” asked Wayne.

I buried my face in Sub's neck and cried.

“Stop it. You got a job to do,” Wayne said.

I remembered how I used to gallop Sub along the hay field, knowing he loved it. He would jump anything. When I was on Sub, we were partners. Just now, I had been worrying about how he would look, what other riders would think, and not remembering how much fun he was to ride, how much he loved being ridden.

We waited a few minutes for Wes to finish braiding. Then I took the reins and led Sub out of the stall. I tightened his girth and got on.

“Fat as a pig. I can't even see my feet,” I said. I looked down at his braids.

Wayne grabbed Sub's bridle and looked him in the eye. “You take care of her,” he said.

I took Sub into the warm-up ring and picked up a trot. People were watching us. With his brown and white markings, Sub didn't look like any other horse at the show. He wasn't fine-tuned or sensitive, but he was athletic and honest.

If only he hadn't been standing out in a field eating for the past three years . . .

A couple of people looked at him and grinned. “Who rides a pinto?” I heard a trainer say.

“The American Indians did,” Wayne said loudly, so I could hear. “They used 'em as warhorses. I wouldn't want to compete against a warhorse, myself.”

Sub was looking around. He wasn't sure what was going on, but he wasn't spooked. I couldn't think of the last time he'd worn a saddle. We jumped back and forth over a vertical, and Wayne raised it up higher. Sub didn't blink at it. It was just like we were at home.

Wayne waved me over to the in-gate, where he stood with Wes. Dutch and Dee Dee were nearby, talking to Kelly, who was on Idle Dice.

“They might ask you to switch horses,” Dutch said to Dee Dee.

“We'll scratch before we switch horses. No one is riding this horse but Kelly.”

I wondered if that was true or if Kelly would put Idle Dice's name into a hat for some other kid to draw.

“They're holding the class for you. I told them we changed mounts. Go look at the new course,” Wes said to me.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Ten fences, no stirrups,” Wayne said.

I thought about riding Sub in Madison Square Garden over fences that were three feet six inches, without stirrups, and I just laughed. I hoped I could stay on.

In the ring, the jump crew was setting up a huge wall. It looked four feet tall from where I stood. “That's not three foot six,” I said, taking my feet out and crossing the stirrups over Sub's withers.

“Listen, if that horse wants to, he can drag his fat ass over it. Simple as that,” Wayne said.

They announced the order. There were twenty of us. Kelly was first, I was last.

Kelly had a tough ride ahead of her. But that horse was on autopilot and she knew she'd make it, so she could relax—be a passenger and pose. She added a stride down one line, and it didn't look great. And she did hang on for dear life going over that wall. I sighed with relief when it was over.

The next horse refused a jump and was eliminated. Except for a few pulled rails and some bad equitation over the bigger fences because the riders didn't have stirrups, the rest of the class did fine.

Finally, it was our turn. Win or lose, good or bad, this could be the last round of the show. My hands were sweating, and I wiped them on my coat. I looked up at Mama.

“On course is number seventy-two, Sidney Criser from Covington, Virginia.”