If Wishes Were Horses (25 page)

After a moment, she added, “I hope your mother isn’t too upset that I sold the silver tea set. I did not sell her clock. Alice took it.”

For another few minutes she sat there. Then, hardly realizing, she lay over on the pillow, closed her eyes, and slipped off into a deep sleep in which she dreamed vibrant dreams all night long, awakening only when Latrice came and nudged her.

“Wake up. Are you all right?”

Etta opened her eyes to see Latrice’s face very close. “Yes . . . of course.” She was having some confusion with where she was and why Latrice would ask her such a strange question.

“Are you ready to take up residence in this room again?” Latrice asked as she began to raise windows.

“No,” Etta said, throwing back the cotton spread with which Latrice had covered her in the night. “I’m gonna see if we can sell this bedroom set. Roy told me in a dream to ask two thousand dollars for it.”

Etta telephoned Robert Lamb, the estate appraiser and auctioneer, who had given her his card. A slight man who wore a black bow tie, he arrived just after noon in a van with a burly driver, saying he came prepared to buy. He had also come with cash, which so favorably impressed Latrice that she served him coffee and pound cake on the good china.

“What would you think this china is worth?” she asked him.

Going through the house with Mr. Lamb, Etta managed to get past an attack of uncertainty and began to bargain over pieces with a fervor. Latrice followed, pointing out any items or particulars she felt went overlooked.

Mr. Lamb bought on the spot the stained glass lamp with the cat-statue base. He called it Art Deco and said it dated from the twenties and was still in demand in the right circles. He also bought the cherrywood Texas settee from the entry hall, the cane-bottom chair from the upstairs hall (which he estimated was a hundred years old), the marbletopped dresser from the small dressing room off the bathroom, and the set of ruby glasses he spied atop the china cabinet.

Etta showed him the silverware service she had fought over with Alice, and he would have bought it, but Etta decided she was not ready to sell.

After some deliberation, Etta settled upon consigning for auction her bedroom set, which Mr. Lamb agreed not to sell for less than two thousand dollars. He expressed interest in purchasing the dining set in the future.

When Johnny came around, curious as to what a van was doing at the front door, Etta told him excitedly, “I’m making more money.”

He grinned at her and said, “Well now,” and then pitched right in to help the burly driver load furniture.

“That Mr. Lamb’s a pretty puny-lookin’ fella,” Johnny said in a whisper to Etta. “You wouldn’t want him to have a heart attack before he pays you.”

Etta also thought Mr. Lamb looked puny, but then she worried about Johnny’s leg. This caused her to hover as all three men worked to move the furniture. Thankfully, when it was time to load the heavy pieces of the bedroom set, Obie and his nephew Woody showed up to help.

Watching her bedroom set be carried from the room, piece by piece, as she had imagined the day of Roy’s funeral, she felt strange. She felt she should cry, felt she was crying inside, yet she felt oddly excited—as if embarking on a trip around the world.

Then into all this came Fred Grandy’s pink and white Plymouth, speeding up the gravel drive. The real estate broker had brought Leon and Walter Fudge. The three men got out of the car, and Leon came forward across the yard speckled by sunlight.

“What’s goin’ on here, Etta?” He surveyed the sight with knotted brows as he came up the porch steps.

Etta explained that she was selling some of her things, and Leon’s frown deepened. Then Johnny came backing across the porch with his end of the big headboard.

“I’d appreciate your movin’ out of the way,” Johnny said in a rather forceful manner.

“Who is that?” Leon asked with some annoyance, gesturing at Johnny with his hat as he followed Etta out into the yard. “Isn’t that the guy you met that day on the street?”

“Yes. That’s Johnny Bellah. He trains horses here.” She looked questioningly from one man to the other.

Leon cleared his throat and said with a nod, “Walter here has made an offer on the farm, Etta.”

“Are you still wantin’ the whole thing, Walter?” Etta asked. “I am certainly ready to sell, but I’ve decided I want to keep the house and the half-section that stretches down to include Obie Lee’s cottage and fields. Any or all of the rest, I’ll sell to you.”

She sounded more abrupt than she had intended, but she was a little unprepared and distracted.

The men looked surprised, and Leon said, “What are you talkin’ about, Etta?” He flipped back his coat and propped a hand on his thin belt.

“Well,” she pushed stray hair out of her eyes and felt the need to take something of a stance, “I’ve decided to try to keep the house and a half-section of land. I was going to call you later today to talk about this. I rather got distracted when Mr. Lamb came down. How much do you think you want to offer for the land, Walter?”

Etta felt she was on something of a roll now with bargaining and was disappointed when Walter pulled at his ear and declined to make a concrete offer.

“I’ll have to think it over now,” he drawled. “I was really wantin’ the house and barn up here for my boy. If I can’t get it, I might have to go buy a farm I’ve found over to Ninnekah.”

“I guess you’ll be the one to decide that,” Etta told him bluntly, annoyed by the way he spoke.

Walter looked about like a rooster who’d had a pan of water tossed on him. As he got into Fred Grandy’s car, Fred followed after him, apologizing profusely for the turn of events.

Leon said to Etta, “I don’t know what Edward is goin’ to say about this. Sale of the land only is not goin’ to repay the entire mortgage. It’s just not.”

“I know that. But it will pay the biggest part of the mortgage, and then I can pay the rest little by little. Besides, if I can sell the land in smaller chunks, I’ll get more money from it. Isn’t that true?”

He frowned. “It can be true, and it might not be. Etta, the mortgage is past due. The bank isn’t goin’ to wait years while you pay five dollars here and five there.” He looked anxiously at the van. “Do you know the worth of some of those pieces you’re sellin’, Etta? Do you even know what you’re doin’?” His neck and face were turning really red.

Etta swallowed. “Maybe I’m not certain about what I’m doin’, Leon, but I do know that I am doin’ something now, rather than just waitin’ to lose everything that means anythin’ to me.”

“You weren’t gonna lose the farm, Etta. You were sellin’ it.’’

“It amounts to the same thing. I don’t want to sell it. This is my home. I want to stay here.”

Leon gave a disparaging shake of his head. “Edward’s gone to Chicago for the rest of the week. We’ll discuss this with him when he comes back. Maybe . . ." He shook his head. “Etta, you think about this,” he said, pointing his hat at her for emphasis.

Then he slipped into the car, and the three men drove away. Etta gazed at the dust billowing up behind the winged rear fenders of the departing Plymouth and wrapped her arms around herself and held tight.

Then Latrice was hurrying across the yard and saying that Mr. Lamb wanted to buy the wool rug from in front of the fireplace. “I’ve already sold it to him,” she said in the next breath.

When everyone was gone, Etta went upstairs and looked into her and Roy’s bedroom. Latrice was folding Roy’s clothes they had hastily emptied from the chiffarobe and dresser drawers and putting them into cardboard boxes; Obie was going to take them to distribute among his brothers and nephews. Etta’s things were tossed into laundry baskets.

“I want Obie to take the oak valet, too,” Etta said and slid it out into the hallway.

Then she began going through the final odds and ends of Roy’s personal belongings. She ended up dumping everything, even the lemon drop candies, into a cigar box. All the while they worked, it seemed the scent of Roy grew fainter and fainter, until Etta could hardly smell it when she took the cigar box down to the guest room and placed it, along with the photograph of herself and Roy, into the back of her lingerie drawer.

She returned and stood in the empty room, looking around. She spied a worn path on the carpet in front of the windows and realized it had been done by her pacing during Roy’s absences.

Latrice came through the door and looked around. “It’ll sure get easier to clean around here, this keeps up.” She raised an eyebrow. “You gonna move the guest-room stuff down here now?”

“No,” Etta said. “I kind of like the guest-room now. I like the morning sun. Let’s move the nursery over here. It’s a big room . . . plenty of play space.”

As she spoke, Etta threw up the windows, letting in fresh spring air. After that she began to remove the draperies, which were not at all suitable for a nursery.

Latrice made her quit stretching upward. “You are gonna misshape that baby girl’s head stretchin’ like that.”

The next afternoon, Johnny drove off and returned within an hour, followed by a hand driving Harry Flagg’s two-ton truck.

Johnny said, “I told Harry that you had some first-cuttin’ alfalfa left, and he said he’d take it all, providin’ you want to sell, Miz Etta.”

He raised an eyebrow, and she asked, “How much are we gettin’ for it?”

The men loaded the hay from the barn, and Harry Flagg’s hand paid Etta in cash. The money joined the wad stuffed into an empty five-pound Folgers can in the chest freezer. Latrice decided they did not need the freezer and tried to sell it to her cousin Freddy, but she asked as much as a new one in the store, and Freddy would not pay it.

That evening at suppertime Obie showed up with one of his many brothers, who said he was interested in purchasing the old Allis-Chalmers tractor.

Obie said, “I figure we can get by with just the Massey, seein’ as how all we’re doin’ is cuttin’ and balin’ these days . . . and if you sell off most the land, we sure won’t need two tractors.”

More money went into the Folgers can. Etta counted it and then counted it again. The entire time she ate supper and carried on conversation with Latrice, Johnny, and Obie, she thought about the money and the upcoming rodeo race.

She told herself not to even think of it, but she still did. After she had finished helping Latrice with the dishes, Etta slipped outside to find Johnny. He was over at Little Gus’s pen, and the instant she laid eyes on his back, she felt shy. It was not an easy thing to swallow one’s words. She wanted to please him but was embarrassed to have him know this. She felt excitement about the possibility of Gus racing at the rodeo, but she was embarrassed to have him know this, too.

The silvery moonlight lit on Johnny’s hat and fell down over his shoulders and poured over Little Gus, too. Since Little Gus had finally exhibited a bit of patience within the stall, Johnny would allow him the run of the pen until late at night. Johnny was giving him a pinch of tobacco. Little Gus saw her and pricked his ears, causing Johnny to turn and look at her. She went toward him slowly, out of the glow of the pole light and into the softness of moonlight.

She said, “It's a nice night, isn’t it?”

Johnny nodded and agreed. Little Gus poked his nose at her, and she stroked his forehead. He lowered his head and blew on her belly, as if exchanging breaths with the little girl inside. Etta put her nose against Little Gus and inhaled the familiar musky horse scent of him.

When Johnny, uncharacteristically, said nothing more, Etta asked, “Do you still plan to race him over at the rodeo tomorrow?” She kept her gaze on the horse, stroking him.

“I’d like to.” Johnny looked down at her. “Are you goin’ to let me?”

She grinned at him. “Do I have a choice?”

“Well now,” he said, “I wouldn’t feel right about takin’ him, if you were against it. He is your horse.”

“But you would take him,” she said.

He raised an eyebrow and stared at her, and she didn’t think he was thinking only about horses and rodeos. He said in a slow drawl, “Are we goin’ to have to find out . . . or are you gonna let me take him?”

“I’d like to take him,” she said. She watched Johnny’s strong, callused hands reach out to pat Little Gus’s forehead. She wished he would touch her.

“Okay. I’ve lined up Woody Lee to ride him—he’ll do better than I can with my poor knee.”

“I have the entry money,” she said, making certain he understood she was paying her own way. “And I plan on going along. I’d like to see him race.”

“Well now, that’s fine, Miz Etta,” he said, and his eyes rested on her thoughtfully. Then he added, “I figure we’ll run him at least twice. I’ve already set up a match race for him before the rodeo, with a horse of Bitta Fudge’s.”

“You made an awful lot of plans with my horse,” Etta said.

“Directing a horse is a trainer’s job,” he replied. Then he surprised Etta by saying, “I think I’ll turn in. Good night, Miz Etta.” He gave her a tip of his hat and walked away.

Etta was thoroughly annoyed. She had somewhat expected him to kiss her. To at least exhibit a possibility in that direction. She almost called after him in the darkness to take him to account for it. Closing her mouth tight, she walked back to the house.

Johnny dropped himself down on his bunk, tossed his hat aside, and raked his hands through his hair. He felt all tight. He ached, and he rubbed his knee absently, but it wasn’t his knee he needed to rub, so much as his groin.

He was wrought up about how he felt about Etta and about the prospects ahead of him, racing the red gelding and having himself proved out as a man who knew what he was talking about. After a minute he stretched out, took up the detective novel he had begun, and tried to read. But his mind kept wandering. He finally got up and went to the barn door and smoked a cigarette. He never would let himself smoke inside the barn.

As he stood there, he looked at his truck and considered driving down to the roadhouse and getting a few drinks to relax him. Maybe a woman, too, although after what had happened to him the last time, he was hesitant in this direction. He considered the few drinks, imagined them, even tasted them, but he didn’t move, except to throw the butt of his cigarette in the dirt and step on it.

It was a heavy thing he had taken on, he realized—Etta had put her trust in him, and he sure didn’t want to disappoint her.

Thinking about her trust suddenly made him very worried. What if Little Gus did not win?

The possibility jumped out at him as unexpectedly as a spook from a closet. Amazingly, he had not heretofore considered that the horse could lose. Where before he’d imagined over and over the red gelding gleaming brightly across the finish line, was certain of it, he now saw with stark clarity the horse losing and all the consequences this would bring.

If Little Gus lost, Johnny would not only disappoint Etta in his abilities, but he would lose her money, too. This possibility grew in his mind by leaps and bounds. He realized that he had put himself into a position of responsibility such as he never had in his life. Etta was not believing in the horse; she was believing in Johnny’s opinion of the horse.

He had managed to get himself in a good predicament again, he thought morosely and looked toward his truck, stepping out toward it, although he did not move, except in his mind, which pictured him behind the wheel and driving away to get just one beer. He felt it cold in his hand and sharp on his tongue and landing warm in his belly.

But he knew it wouldn’t be just one beer, once he started. He’d end up being a disappointment to Etta even before they got to horse racing.

Turning, he went into the deep dark of the barn, pulled on the light, went into Little Gus’s stall, and closed the horse in from outside. The horse pricked his ears and sniffed Johnny’s shirt for tobacco.

“You are gonna win at least one of those races tomorrow," he whispered, scratching the horse’s forehead. “I know you can do that.”

Then, speaking even lower, his voice barely a whisper, he added, “You and me, we’re gonna be her heroes, boy.”

Returning to his bunk, once more taking up the paperback, he glanced out the small window that faced the house. He saw the lights in the kitchen and imagined Etta and Latrice there in the warm glow, radio playing, Etta at the table and Latrice in her rocker. Imagined the delicious scent of Latrice’s biscuits and the heady scent of Etta’s skin. Imagined their feminine laughter. Imagined himself looking through the door, then going in and sitting there among them, and their welcoming, Latrice handing him a cup of coffee, and Etta . . . Etta touching his cheek, then bending to kiss his lips, seductively, her silky hair falling over his face . . .

He suddenly saw her belly and realized that his fantasy had neglected to recall Etta was pregnant. He backed up and thought of how she would look and be, not pregnant. He let himself see how he would be with her then.

“How much are you gonna bet on the horse?” Latrice asked. She sat in a kitchen chair, and Etta sat on a pillow on the floor below her. Latrice was rolling Etta’s hair in cotton strips. “Hold still,” she added when Etta went to look up at her.

“I haven’t made up my mind to bet,” Etta said. “I think maybe I should stick to just entering the race. Twenty-five dollars will be enough to lose, if Little Gus doesn’t win. I don’t need to gamble. That way is just foolish.”

“What do you think payin’ an entry fee is, if it isn’t gamblin’?” Latrice asked.

“It isn’t the same thing,” Etta maintained. “When a person pays an entry fee, he is buyin’ time to put his horse on the track. I get to race Little Gus for that entry fee, and if he wins, I’ll get the purse. It’s an honorable exchange.”

Latrice gave a grunt. “It is gamblin’, and if you’re goin’ to gamble, you might as well make it worthwhile and go for as much as you can get.” She jerked tight the last cotton strip and rose.

“Puttin’ up an entry fee is not the same thing as wagerin’ all around. When I put up an entry fee, I’m buyin’. When I just bet, I’m just betting.”

Etta got herself to her feet and gathered the brush and comb and remaining rag rollers. She wished her hair was not in these silly rags, because it was difficult to hold what was amounting to an argument with Latrice with her hair looking like that of a sock doll.

“I am not talkin’ of gamblin’ every penny, but a couple hundred out of that Folgers can won’t keep a roof over our head, so you might as well give it a try on the horse. We have more furniture we can always sell.”

“How many times do you think Roy probably said the same sort of thing?”

“I don’t think Roy Rivers ever sold his furniture or much of anything else. He simply owed people,” Latrice muttered, wiping the table with a cup towel. Then, hand to her hip, “I have never seen the sin that has been attributed to gamblin’. Gamblin’ itself is not the sin—people gamble that they are goin’ to live a few more days every time they buy green bananas. The sin is in the extreme. Moderation is the key to life, and Roy Rivers was an immoderate man. He kept dropping the key.”

“Moderation is what I intend to keep,” Etta said. She paused and looked at Latrice. “I wish you would change your mind and come with us tomorrow.”

Latrice shook her head. “I’m not goin’ to go. I have no desire. A rodeo is no place for a middle-aged colored woman."

“Oh, Latrice,” Etta said, “over at Anadarko there’ll be lots of different people—whites and Indians and Mexicans and Negroes, and all ages, babies on up to grandmothers. You know that. You’ve been over there when Daddy was rodeoin’.”

“I was a young woman then and mostly I went because you were too small to be goin’ on your own. I never liked any of it, except the flirtin’ with young bucks. I don’t flirt any longer, so why should I waste my time?” Then she added, “You know what my mother used to call rodeos? The endeavors of idiots. I agree. I think I’ll have a holiday while you and Johnny are gone tomorrow.”

Etta regarded her. “A holiday with Obie?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Perhaps,” Latrice said, turning to wipe the sink.

“Just what is goin’ on with you and Obie?” Etta asked.

Latrice looked over her shoulder. “You are pryin’.”

Etta got rather piqued at that. She put her hand on her hip and opened her mouth, but feeling her rag curls bob she felt a little silly, so she toned herself down. Still she said, “I don’t think it can be called prying between two people as close as we are. I just want to know if you have decided to encourage Obie.”

“Obie Lee has never needed any encouraging. If you are asking have I decided to enjoy him, the answer is yes. I have—and to what extent is yet to be decided, but is definitely my business.”

“Well, I’m glad for you,” Etta said. She made herself say it. She was glad for Latrice, but a little disconcerted as well. It was difficult to fathom Latrice having a boyfriend. Perhaps a lover. And it made Etta feel very sad and envious.

For some reason, she felt called upon to go across and kiss Latrice’s cheek before she took herself off to bed, where she lay gazing up at the dark ceiling for quite a while before she could fall asleep. During this mulling time she considered Latrice’s opinion about betting and thought she found merit in the idea.

If she could not have Johnny Bellah, she might as well bet. She needed to break out somewhere. It would be good for her spirit.

Latrice made her nightly inspection of the kitchen, putting everything exactly as she liked it. Etta generally dried and put away the dishes, but Latrice checked behind her, making certain the glasses were set just so.

When she was certain Etta would not be back downstairs, Latrice went to her own room, bent down, and removed a small section of baseboard, drawing out a bulging stocking. From it she pulled out a tiny black book, flipped to the last entry, stared at it, debating. Then she dug into the stocking, extracted a roll of bills, pulled off two hundred dollars in twenties, replaced the black book into the stocking and the stocking into its hidey-hole. She folded the money, went out the back door, and hurried across the yard lit by bright moonlight, to the barn and Johnny Bellah's room.

Low yellow light spilled from his doorway. He reclined in his bed, reading a paperback novel with a trashy cover by the light of the rusted metal desk lamp. He was surprised to see her, of course. For an instant he just stared at her with his mouth slightly open. Then, as she came into the room, he scrambled himself up and buttoned his shirt.

“I have some money,” she said. “I want you to bet on that horse tomorrow.” If he could be more surprised, he was.

“Me to bet?” he repeated.

“That’s what I said. What do you think the odds will be?”

He swallowed. “Well, I don’t know. Four or five to one maybe, depends.”

Latrice decided she was not likely to get exactly the information she wished, so she said, “I have two hundred dollars here. Do not tell Etta about this. It is not lying to simply not mention it. It is my own money.’’

He stared at the roll of money she extended toward him. "Yes, ma'am."

“You bet it all on the match race, and then two hundred of what you win there on the rodeo race.” When he didn’t take it, she poked it at him, and he at last got his hand moving to take it.

“I can’t guarantee the horse will win that match race,” he said.

She shook her head, chuckling. “I didn’t think you could. That’s why it is considered riskin’ money.”

She turned and left him, went back to the house and to bed, sleeping soundly, as she always did when she followed her inner direction. She thought perhaps she would write a book on following the Inner Guide. Maybe that’s what she should do with the second half of her life.

The afternoon was cloudless and bright, the sun warm and the wind yet cool with spring, perfect in the way days in Oklahoma could be. The sort of day on which it seemed to Etta only good things could happen. She tried to convince herself of this, to look for signs that things would go as she wished.

Etta dressed in a blue skirt and maternity blouse, and tied her curls back with the yellow ribbon. At a last check in the mirror, she decided to add tiny dangling earrings, turquoise disks that brought out her eyes. To help shade herself from the bright sun, she took along a wide-brimmed straw hat.

When she stepped out on the porch and Johnny looked at her, she could tell he liked what he saw. He was up in the back of the truck with Little Gus, whistling, and he let out a low wolf whistle on sight of her, then ducked his head and fiddled with securing his saddle on the top rail.

Johnny had decided to leave his golden dun behind, and Little Gus was nervous about being alone. He moved, and his hooves made a sharp staccato on the wood floor of the truck bed, startling him and making him dance and make more noise. Johnny put a hand on him and spoke soothingly.

Latrice brought a large picnic basket, and Obie put that into the middle of the seat, then he helped Etta into the truck.

“Thank you, Obie.”

He grinned at her as he firmly shut the door. “Good luck to you, Miz Etta.”

Etta thought his words and smile amounted to a blessing. Johnny came around and got behind the wheel. “All ready?”

She nodded, and Johnny started the truck away, slowly, glancing in his rearview mirror and listening for Little Gus, making certain he got his footing in the moving vehicle.

Etta turned to wave out the window at Latrice and Obie standing side by side on the porch. Obie’s hand was around Latrice’s shoulder. The sight of them like that struck her. Obie grinned and waved in return, but Latrice just stood there looking at her, like she always did. “I’ll call you!” Etta yelled.

Then they were going down the drive and up onto the highway. Etta glanced over at Johnny. He laid his hat on top of the picnic basket and let the wind blow his hair.

A sense of relief swept Etta. She hadn’t known until that minute that she’d been worried about a number of things. That the truck might pick that morning to break down, or that it would rain, or that Johnny would be suffering a hangover, or maybe not show up that day at all. She saw his eyes were clear, and he smelled of aftershave and sunshine, not whiskey.

Gazing out the windshield, squinting in the brightness, Etta didn’t know why the day and racing Little Gus was all that important. She could win money, yes, maybe as much as a thousand dollars—Johnny was speculating that morning about the odds and what could be won, and no doubt inflating everything, Etta thought but did not say, not wanting to damper him.

Just then her eyes met his. His were so bright and warm upon her that she had to turn away or risk throwing her arms around him. She had the curious thought that she had just started her first day around the world, and it seemed as if she had started it riding the red winged horse.

“If wishes were horses”—she heard her mother’s voice, saw her sweet, sad face—”we’d all ride.”

The rodeo grounds weren’t much more than a wooden grandstand and some fencing rising up out of the flat bottomland at the edge of town. Even though it was hours before the performance, people were already coming on a bright Sunday afternoon, to visit friends and to be daring in showing off skills and horses, or to watch others be daring in showing off their skills and horses.