The Horse Whisperer (11 page)

Grace dutifully laughed and Annie ignored Robert’s sidelong look in the silence that followed.

Once home, they managed to summon some little cheer. Grace said the tree in the hall looked lovely. She spent some time alone in her room, playing Nirvana loudly to reassure them she was alright. She was good on the crutches and could even handle the stairs, falling only once when she tried to bring down a bag of little presents she’d had the nurses go out and buy for her to give her parents.

“I’m okay,” she said when Robert ran to her. She had banged her head sharply on the wall and Annie, emerging from the kitchen, could see she was in pain.

“Are you sure?” Robert tried to offer help but she accepted as little as she could.

“Yes. Dad, really I’m fine.”

Annie saw Robert’s
eyes
fill as Grace went over and put the presents under the tree and the sight made her so angry she had to turn and go quickly back into the kitchen.

They always gave each other Christmas stockings. Annie and Robert did Grace’s together and then one for each other. In the morning, Grace would bring hers into their room and sit on the bed and they would take turns unwrapping presents, making jokes about how clever Santa Claus had been or how he’d forgotten to remove a price tag. Now, as with the tree, the ritual seemed to Annie almost unbearable.

Grace went to bed early and when they were sure she was asleep, Robert tiptoed to her room with the stocking. Annie undressed and listened to the hall clock ticking away the silence. She was in the bathroom when Robert came back and she heard a rustling and knew he was pushing her stocking under her side of the bed. She had just done the same with his. What a farce it was.

He came in as she was brushing her teeth.
He
was wearing his striped English pajamas and smiled at her in the mirror. Annie spat out and rinsed her mouth.

“You’ve got to stop this crying,” she said without looking at him.

“What?”

“I saw you, when she fell. You’ve got to stop feeling sorry for her. Pity won’t help her at all.”

He stood looking at her and as she turned to go back into the bedroom their eyes met. He was frowning at her, shaking his head.

“You’re unbelievable, Annie.”

“Thanks.”

“What’s happening to you?”

She didn’t reply, just walked past him back into the bedroom. She got into bed and switched off her light and after he’d finished in the bathroom he did the same. They lay with their backs to each other and Annie stared at the sharp quadrant of yellow light that jutted in from the landing onto the bedroom floor. It wasn’t anger that had stopped her answering him, she simply had no idea what the answer was. How could she have said such a thing to him? Perhaps his tears enraged her because she was jealous of them. She hadn’t wept once since the accident.

She turned and slipped her arms guiltily around him, putting her body to his back.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured and kissed the side of his
neck. For a moment Robert didn’t move. Then slowly he rolled onto his back and put an arm around her and she nestled in with her head on his chest. She felt him give a deep sigh and for a long time they lay still. Then she slid her hand slowly down his belly and gently took hold of him and felt him stir. Then she rose up and knelt above him, pulling her nightgown over her head and letting it fall to the floor. And he reached up, as he always did, and put his hands on her breasts as she worked herself on him. He was hard now and she guided him into her and felt him shudder. Neither of them uttered a sound. And she looked down through the darkness at this good man who had known her for so long and saw in his eyes, unobscured by desire, an awful, irretrievable sadness.

   The weather turned colder on Christmas Day. Metallic clouds whipped over the woods like a film in fast-forward and the wind shifted to the north and brought arctic air spiraling down the valley. Inside, they listened to it howling in the chimney as they sat playing Scrabble by the big log fire.

That morning, opening presents around the tree, they had all tried hard. Never in her life, not even when very young, had Grace had so many presents. Almost everyone they knew had sent her something and Annie had realized, too late, that they should have kept some back. Grace, she could see, sensed charity and left many gifts unopened.

Annie and Robert hadn’t known what to buy her. In recent years it had always been something to do with riding. Now everything they could think of carried an implication simply through not being to do with riding. In the end Robert had bought her a tank of tropical
fish. They knew she wanted one but Annie feared even this had a message tagged to it: sit and watch, it seemed to say. This now is all you can do.

Robert had rigged it all up in the little back parlor and put Christmas wrapping paper on it. They led Grace to it and watched her face light up as she undid it.

“Oh my God!” she said. “That is just fabulous.”

In the evening, when Annie finished tidying away the supper things, she found Grace and Robert in front of it, lying on the sofa in the dark. The tank was illuminated and bubbling and the two of them had been watching it and fallen asleep in each other’s arms. The swaying plants and the gliding shadows of the fish made ghostly patterns on their faces.

At breakfast the next morning, Grace looked very pale. Robert put his hand on hers.

“Are you okay, baby?”

She nodded. Annie came back to the table with a jug of orange juice and Robert took his hand away. Annie could see Grace had something difficult to say.

“I’ve been thinking about Pilgrim,” she said in a level voice. It was the first time the horse had been mentioned. Annie and Robert sat very still. Annie felt ashamed neither of them had been to see him since the accident or at least since he had come back to Mrs. Dyer’s.

“Uh-huh,” said Robert. “And?”

“And I think we should send him back to Kentucky.”

There was a pause.

“Gracie,” Robert began. “We don’t need to make decisions right now. It may be that—” Grace cut him off.

“I know what you’re going to say, that people who’ve had injuries like mine do ride again, but I
don’t—” She broke off for a moment, composing herself. “I don’t want to. Please.”

Annie looked at Robert and she could tell he felt her eyes on him, daring him to show even a hint of tears.

“I don’t know if they’ll take him back,” Grace went on. “But I don’t want anyone around here to have him.”

Robert nodded slowly, showing he understood even if he didn’t yet agree. Grace latched on to this.

“I want to say good-bye to him, Daddy. Could we go see him this morning? Before I go back to the hospital?”

   Annie had spoken just once to Harry Logan. It had been an awkward call and though neither mentioned her threat to sue him, it had hung heavily over their every word. Logan had been charming and, in her tone at least, Annie got as near to an apology as she ever got. But since then, her news of Pilgrim had come only through Liz Hammond. Not wanting to add unduly to their worries over Grace, Liz had given Annie a picture of the horse’s recovery that was as reassuring as it was false.

The wounds were healing well, she said. The skin grafts over the cannon bone had taken. The nasal bone repair looked better than they had ever dared hope. None of these was a lie. And none of them prepared Annie, Robert and Grace for what they were about to see as they came up the long drive and parked in front of Joan Dyer’s house.

Mrs. Dyer came out of the stable and crossed the yard toward them, wiping her hands on the sides of the old blue quilt jacket she always wore. The wind whipped strands of gray hair across her face and she smiled as she tidied them away. The smile was so odd and out of character that Annie was puzzled. It was
probably just awkwardness at the sight of Grace being helped out onto her crutches by Robert.

“Hello Grace,” Mrs. Dyer said. “How are you dear?”

“She’s doing just great, aren’t you baby?” Robert said. Why can’t he let her answer for herself? thought Annie. Grace smiled bravely.

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“Did you have a good Christmas? Lots of presents?”

“Zillions,” said Grace. “We had a fabulous time didn’t we?” She looked at Annie.

“Fabulous,” Annie endorsed.

No one seemed to know what to say next and for a moment they all stood there in the cold wind, embarrassed. Clouds barreled furiously overhead and the red walls of the barn were suddenly set ablaze by a burst of sun.

“Grace wants to see Pilgrim,” said Robert. “Is he in the barn?”

Mrs. Dyer’s face flickered.

“No. He’s out back.”

Annie sensed something was wrong and could see Grace did too.

“Great,” said Robert. “Can we go see him?”

Mrs. Dyer hesitated, but only for an instant.

“Of course.”

She turned and walked off. They followed her out of the yard and around the old row of stalls at the back of the barn.

“Mind how you go. It’s pretty muddy back here.”

She looked over her shoulder at Grace on her crutches then darted a look at Annie. It felt like a warning.

“She’s pretty darn good on these things, don’t you think Joan?” Robert said. “I can’t keep up.”

“Yes, I can see.” Mrs. Dyer smiled, briefly.

“Why isn’t he in the barn?” Grace asked. Mrs. Dyer didn’t answer. They were at the stalls now and she stopped by the only door that was closed and turned to face them. She swallowed hard and looked at Annie.

“I don’t know how much Harry and Liz have told you.” Annie shrugged.

“Well, we know he’s lucky to be alive,” Robert said. There was a pause. They were all waiting for Mrs. Dyer to go on. She seemed to be searching for the right words.

“Grace,” she said. “Pilgrim isn’t how he used to be. He’s been very disturbed by what happened.” Grace looked very worried suddenly and Mrs. Dyer looked at Annie and Robert for help. “To be honest, I’m not sure it’s a good idea for her to see him.”

“Why? What—?” Robert started to say, but Grace cut him off.

“I want to see him. Open the door.”

Mrs. Dyer looked at Annie for a decision. It seemed to Annie that they had already gone too far to turn back. She nodded. Reluctantly Mrs. Dyer drew back the bolt on the top half of the door. There was an immediate explosion of sound inside the stall which startled them all. Then there was silence. Mrs. Dyer slowly opened the top door and Grace peered in with Annie and Robert standing behind her.

It took a while for the girl’s eyes to grow accustomed to the darkness. Then she saw him. Her voice when she spoke was so small and frail that the others could barely hear it.

“Pilgrim? Pilgrim?”

Then she gave a cry and turned away and Robert had to reach out quickly to stop her from falling.

“No! Daddy, no!”

He put his arms around her and led her back to the yard. The sound of her sobbing faded and was lost on the wind.

“Annie,” Mrs. Dyer said. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have let her.”

Annie looked at her blankly then stepped closer to the door of the stall. The smell of urine hit her in a sudden, pungent wave and she could see the floor was filthy with dung. Pilgrim was backed into the shadow of the far corner, watching her. His feet were splayed and his neck stretched so low that his head was little more than a foot above the ground. His grotesquely scarred muzzle was tilted up at her, as if daring her to move and he was panting in short, nervy snorts. Annie felt a shiver at the nape of her neck and the horse seemed to sense it too, for now he pinned back his ears and leered at her in a toothy, gothic parody of threat.

Annie looked into his eyes with their blood-crazed whites and for the first time in her life knew how one might come to believe in the devil.

T
HE MEETING HAD BEEN DRAGGING ON FOR ALMOST AN
hour and Annie was bored. There were people perched all around her office, locked in a fierce and esoteric debate about which particular shade of pink would look best on an upcoming cover. The competing mockups were laid out before them. Annie thought they all looked vile.

“I just don’t think our readers are Day-Glo kind of people,” somebody was saying. The art director, who clearly did think so, was getting more and more defensive.

“It isn’t Day-Glo,” he said. “It’s electric candy.”

“Well I don’t think they’re electric candy people either. It’s too eighties.”

“Eighties? That’s absurd!”

Annie would normally have cut it short long before it got to this. She would simply have told them what she thought and that would have been that. The problem was, she was finding it almost impossible to concentrate and, more worryingly, to care.

It had been the same all morning. First there had been
a breakfast meeting to make peace with the Hollywood agent whose “black hole” client had gone berserk at having his profile canceled. Then she’d had the production people in her office for two hours spreading doom about the soaring cost of paper. One of them had been wearing a cologne of such dizzying awfulness that Annie had needed to open all the windows afterward. She could still smell it now.

In recent weeks she had come to rely more than ever on her friend and deputy, Lucy Friedman, the magazine’s resident style guru. The cover they were now discussing was tied to a piece Lucy had commissioned on lounge lizards and featured a grinning photograph of a perennial rock star whose wrinkles had already been contractually removed by computer.

Sensing, no doubt, that Annie’s mind was elsewhere, Lucy was effectively chairing the meeting. She was a big, pugnacious woman with a wicked sense of humor and a voice like a rusty car muffler. She enjoyed turning things upside down and did it now by changing her mind and saying the background shouldn’t be pink at all but fluorescent lime-green.

As the argument raged, Annie drifted off again. In an office across the street, a man wearing spectacles and a business suit was standing by the window, doing some kind of tai chi routine. Annie watched the precise, dramatic swooping of his arms and how still he kept his head and she wondered what it did for him.