Borrowed Horses (24 page)

I sat up. Timothy should not have come. Dave was crazy, and I was a head-case inventing boyfriends out of, what? Stubbornness? Fear?

Timothy’s gaze challenged mine; there was strength there. If I could trust it, if I was willing to combine it with my own, if I was willing to partner with him as I had with the strength of Foxfire and now Zephyr, then maybe I could navigate a way through this mess. But Timothy was a man, not an animal to be harnessed.

I looked away from his fierce, intelligent eyes to the salmon that jumped on his neck. He said, “The rumor at the store is, you’re going to marry that guy. They couldn’t stop talking about it. Your secret lover. They said it was typical of you not to tell anyone, but I still can’t make myself believe it. That you’d marry that guy.”

I never could tolerate being told what to do. Dave had tried, and now here was Timothy, judging me for what he decided were my bad decisions. “Why shouldn’t I, if I love him?”

“Do you love him?”

“Shouldn’t I?” I watched Timothy’s eyes, looking for a flinch of pain. “He’s good looking. He’s got money.” I wanted to see him feel something about this, but his gaze merely rested on me with their same relentless calm. “I can handle him.”

“Your soul can’t possibly respond to his.”

Again, he’d surprised me. Who, aside from the religious, talked about the soul? It was a word even more mistrusted than the words “God” or “love.” I disowned that piece of the trinity of self. Body and mind were easier.

Timothy studied the door. “To marry him would be to degrade yourself.”

“Let’s assume Dave—his name is Dave—could buy me a horse to carry me to the Games. Would I still be degraded in your eyes? If, by marrying him, I could actually ride in the Olympics and represent my country, then I’ll have done something I couldn’t do in any other way. Is it strong or weak, making a choice like that?”

Timothy met my stare, absorbing my words as steadily as if they had no power against him. His shoulders neither slumped nor tensed. His brow remained unwrinkled by anxiety or frustration. He shook his head. I’d laid down a dare, yet he wouldn’t speak. I thought,
He communicates a passion his lips will not speak, and I respond
. But how could I be sure of that? It was a stupid thought, a silly, romantic thought. If I could know he was willing to risk that passion with me, I might have braved all Dave’s psychotic rage to claim Timothy’s love.

I was being foolish. He didn’t speak, and I’d been wrong about love before.

Timothy said, “I have to leave Moscow for a few weeks.” The words were bullets to the gut. “My mom’s sick. She called me just after I spoke to you; it’s why I was so long in coming. I’m driving up tonight.”

“Don’t go,” I said before rational thought could stop me. All the lies I told about marrying Dave had come out in a strong, true voice, but now, my voice was little more than a whisper. My head pounding, all I wanted to do was to be weak. I wanted to crawl into his arms and forget about horses and Dave and my mother’s next unpredicted attack.

Timothy said, “You don’t need me here.”

“What if I said I did?” The words were selfish and I immediately regretted them. I couldn’t see Timothy dropping everything for any sickness. If he was dropping everything mid-semester to go see her, it had to be something serious. Before he could answer, I said, “No, you need to go.” I took his hand and squeezed it, “Just promise you’ll be back.”

He nodded, his hair once more shadowing his eyes so that I could not read them. He did not look back at me as he rose to leave, my own lies winging him from me.

IV

Lightening the Forehand

Maintaining the horse’s natural balance is of primary importance in riding. This in turn depends on the rider’s ability to bring his own center of gravity into synchrony with that of the horse. The rider’s position, as well as his weight, must be adjusted to the horse’s movements; usually by the rider placing his body directly above or ahead of the horse’s center of gravity, depending on the horse’s velocity
.

—Bertalan de Némethy,
Classic Show-Jumping

When the blackbird flew out of sight
,

It marked the edge

Of one of many circles
.

—Wallace Stevens, “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird”

More Rivers

T
he autumn winds began to blow; they were early. Water had made the Palouse, flooding from Montana when the Ice Age’s glaciers broke, carrying the silt of Lake Missoula westward in a sudden, unforgiving sprint to the ocean. The wind has been shaping it ever since.

All that week, Dave’s truck had been parked at the end of my block when I got home. I watched him watching me. It was pointless to move again or change my number. The new address, my emergency contact information, would always be posted on Foxy’s stall.

Because the world was rich with danger, I tacked up Zephyr rather than Foxy that Sunday. The mare was becoming subtle in her violence, and the rate at which she learned was frightening. She was a more intelligent horse than Foxfire, a difficult thing to admit. It was becoming easier to betray him. Yet unlike Foxfire’s intelligence, Zephyr’s worked against our training. She thought to find the best evasion or to discover a moment when my guard against her savagery was dropped.

Taking her out of the barn was reckless, but I was feeling reckless. I wanted to test her, to see what she’d do. Afraid that Eddie might disapprove, I hadn’t asked permission. If nothing happened, he couldn’t object. She needed training. And if she laid me out on some field? So be it. At least that was a problem whose solution was clear.

We had made progress. Wednesday, I’d managed to give her a carrot without losing any fingers. She’d taken it with a quick dart toward my hand, then pulled up and away, carrot still held between her teeth, as if I’d follow the treat with a blow. She’d hold it there five seconds, ten, like an orange cigarillo, before finally drawing it in and eating what my hand offered. It frustrated me, her reaction. I wasn’t asking a lot of her, just a little speed and power. In return, I traded grain, carrots, a pasture to run in, a good and easy life. I would pick the shit from her hooves and wash it from her tail. All she had to give me was an hour of control, an hour of her power and speed.

Foxy screamed when I lead Zephyr in. Dawn just looked at me, sighed audibly, and resumed grooming Sunny with a dramatic show of resigned tolerance. Jenny was too absorbed in her own excitement to notice Zephyr or even, more incredibly, Foxfire, who was now rhythmically pawing at his stall door. Listening to him broke my heart, but what was his agony to her? She’d be trying out a potential horse that afternoon.

Zephyr added a fresh bruise to those already marking me. The saddle brought its usual reaction; she shrank and sprang.

We were no sooner down the road than a combine crested the hill, harvesting directly along the roadside. Dust and chaff spewed forth in a dense brown fog. Dawn turned, wide-eyed. Sunny and Zip had grown up around farm equipment, but Zephyr had not. It churned toward us, looming ever larger, shining dazzlingly in the morning sun.

I nodded Dawn on, and she and Jenny were consumed by the dust cloud. Zephyr stopped and snorted, then reversed quickly, scooting straight backward while still facing the machine. I pressed my calves to her flanks, and whispered in a low tone that was at once menacing and taunting, the voice the devil speaks when he wants your soul. “I thought you were brave. Come on, now. You can’t let Sunny and Zip show you up.” Zephyr stopped backing, but she was shivering violently—for the first time, she was afraid. Her breath came thick and fast and she raised her head up and back toward me. I held the reins firmly against her neck and kept my leg on. If she was going to run, it must be forward. She twisted her raised head against the rein, turning to look me in the eye. Hers was white with terror. I stared at her utterly calm. She crouched so low on her haunches that she was practically sitting. “Zephyr,” I said, reminding her of who she was. I took my eye from hers and looked down the road for Dawn. The thick and billowing dust advanced, the red block of the combine moving steadily closer.

The moment I looked forward, Zephyr sprang. Pelted with wheat chaff that stung like hail, she ran blindly through the cloud as if it were some plague of locusts. For Zephyr, there was no end in sight. Entering the cloud, we sprang into blindness. We’d bolted directly into fear.

The horses were stopped twenty yards up the road. Zip pulled stray grass from the ditch. Zephyr and I flew through the cloud, but on seeing them, she slowed. We drew up next to them and she blew the dust from her nostrils and shook it from her coat like a retriever shaking off the lake.

“She came through,” Dawn shook her head. “I thought sure you’d have to take her back to the barn and get Foxy.”

Foxy had never entered my mind. Even in the thick of it, I’d had no thoughts of wanting to be on any other horse but Zephyr.

The horses ambled up the road, all the excitement over. Zephyr insisted on being in the lead, and for now, I let her. Once in front, she relaxed slightly. Her ears still strained toward every sound and her body felt as tense under the saddle as twine stretched to the snapping point, but she didn’t dance and didn’t spook. Even when a quail dashed out from a small cluster of pine and practically under Zephyr’s hoof, she merely snorted and stomped her foot down, sending the bird in a wobbly sprint back to the ditch. Focused on the outside world, Zephyr forgot our antagonism. She worked the bit between her teeth and tongue, salivating like a dressage horse.

Dawn looked at her, shook her head, then looked at me. “You ever ask that grocery store guy out?”

The world seemed to fold inward; I was the center of its crushing origami. “No.” I willed myself the calm he held in his gaze, the steadiness in his voice. “He must have switched shifts. I haven’t seen him.”

“You’re a bad fucking liar,” Dawn said.

I didn’t comment.

“He sounded perfect for you,” Jenny said.

He was, but I couldn’t see how anything I’d said could have told her that. “Keep clear of her feet,” I said.

She moved Zip over. “Even Dave’s been asking about you. He said he couldn’t believe you didn’t have a boyfriend, what with how pretty you are and how smart. I was sure that guy would turn into something.”

Dawn looked at me with her hard, appraising gaze. No matter how I tried to lacquer my face in indifference, she could always see through it. She’d see the pain now in my hard stare.

“I like being single,” I said.

“Bullshit,” Dawn said, under her breath. Then louder, “People like being single because they can date and have fun. You haven’t had one date since coming back from Jersey, and don’t tell me there haven’t been opportunities.”

“What the fuck do you care?” On television, girl talk was light and fun; it didn’t hurt like this.

Dawn turned to Jenny. “You go out with her sometime and watch how the guys react. The men throw themselves at her, and does Joannie notice?”

“They’re an unnecessary distraction,” I said.

“From what? You going to the Olympics on that?” She gestured at Zephyr and snorted. “Face it, Joannie, you’re using horses to dodge out of living your life.”

“Horses are my life,” I muttered. “If I meet a guy who makes me feel what they do, I’ll be the first to let you know.”

“You did, Joannie. You should have seen the way you lit up when you talked about that guy. You know you can’t shit me.”

“Yeah, well, it didn’t work out.”

“Fine. Just don’t lie to me, Joannie. You lie to me and next thing, you’ll be lying to yourself. Maybe that’ll work in Jersey, but it don’t slice mustard with me.” Already, the red was draining from her face.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “You’re right.” We paced on a bit. Jenny looked confused. It was unfair to talk like this in front of her, putting her on the outside. I said, “What’s this horse you’re looking at today?”

“He’s a Quarter Horse out in Lewiston.”

“Color?” said Dawn.

“Bay.”

“Wait,” I stopped and turned to Jenny, “Hobbes?”

“Yeah, you know him?”

“Good horse,” I said. “Sensible.” I hadn’t realized Pam was selling him. He was perfect for Jenny. A blood bay with gleaming flanks, though built a bit like a fire plug, at least compared to the lithe elegance of Foxy and Zephyr. He’d be thirteen or fourteen now, and would reliably jump three foot six or more. Pam had ridden him in third level dressage before I’d left, and he’d be doing at least fourth by now. She’d be asking a high price, but Jenny would be hard pressed to find a better trained horse in Idaho.

This must mean, too, that Pam was buying Eddie’s Winston. Or, worse, that he was setting her up to buy Zephyr. A sudden surge of possessiveness surprised me.

“Is Dave going with you to look him over?” Dawn asked.

Jenny’s faced blanched. “Dave,” she cleared her throat. “Dave’s been acting a little weird lately.”

“Weird how?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s probably nothing. He’s been sneaking cigarettes, again. I found a fresh pack of Marlboro’s in his work shirt this week, but his shirts have smelled of smoke this past month, you know? More than if he’d just been hanging out with other guys who were smoking on their break. He knows I hate it when he smokes. And last Sunday, he went out to get some stuff for the football game and came back in a
mood
. Said some guy cut him off on the road, but he didn’t have any of the stuff he was supposed to pick up. He just sat there all afternoon lighting matches and letting them burn to his fingers. I haven’t seen him do that in years. Now he’s making comments about how maybe we can’t get a horse after all, but I know him well enough to know he won’t go back on that promise. If I mention it to Daddy, he’ll set him straight.” She paused and blushed, aware perhaps that she’d said too much. “I doubt it will come to that. He’s probably just angry at one of the guys at work again. He’ll come around. He always does.”