Unhappy Appy (5 page)

When Hawk hadn't shown that morning, I'd half hoped she'd meet us at church. It was a long shot since the Hawkins family didn't go to church. Still I couldn't stop myself from glancing back at the door, just in case.

Dad was doing the same thing.

“I don't think she'll come,” I whispered.

Dad's eyes got huge. “You—well, she—I didn't exactly come right out and ask her, but—”

“You
asked her to church?” I remembered that Dad had walked Hawk to the car. Maybe he'd asked her then.

“No.” He glanced at the church door again. “Well, I did say if they didn't have a church home in Loudonville, they were welcome to—”

“Loudonville?” Then I got it. Dad wasn't talking about Hawk. He was talking about
her.
He probably expected Madeline Edison and her son to sit in
our
pew!

I slumped in the pew and folded my arms in front of me.
“I
was talking about Hawk, Dad!”

“Hawk?” He frowned, then faked a grin. “Ah . . . I see now. Um . . . no, no sign of Hawk.”

The organ music started up, and Dad fumbled with his hymnbook.

I didn't sing. I barely noticed when Catman slid in beside me. I hardly heard the sermon. My mind was buzzing, jumping from Hawk to Madeline to Towaco.

When I did tune in to Ralph Evans, our in-between pastor, he was talking about Thanksgiving. That made me think of the three things I'd have to claim I was thankful for at our Thanksgiving dinner. Then that brought me right back to Hawk, who'd be sitting at the table with us. And my thoughts would get away again.

Without realizing it, I'd made a paper fan out of my church bulletin, folding it back and forth in little strips. I tried to flatten it out again and noticed a bunch of Bible verses printed on the back. The last one grabbed my attention. When I looked away, I could still see the verse in my head. My mind had snapped a photo:
He delights in every detail of their lives. Psalm 37:23.
God had time for details? It made me think that it wouldn't be so bad to pray for little things.

God, sorry for not paying attention this morning. But I'm worried about Hawk. Would you mind making her have a great time at my house over Thanksgiving? And it would be great if you'd help me figure out what's up with Towaco, too. Plus, there's Madeline Edison—

“Winnie, are you coming?” Dad was standing up. The church was nearly empty, and Catman and I were the only ones still sitting.

“We should get home,” I said, scrambling over Catman. “Hawk might be waiting for us.”

But Hawk wasn't waiting at our house.

Geri rode home with us and helped Lizzy make toasted peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches for Sunday dinner. As we munched sandwiches and barbequed potato chips, Lizzy and her friend talked reptiles and amphibians. Dad and I couldn't have gotten a word in edgewise, not that either of us tried.

“Don't you miss the bullfrogs?” Geri asked, not waiting for an answer. “I haven't heard one in over four months! They haven't been hibernating that long, just since early October. But they only sing late May to mid-July in Ohio. Don't you wonder why?” She took a bite of her sandwich. Grape jelly bubbled onto her plate. “I don't know if I can stand to wait until May!”

“I know exactly what you mean!” Lizzy exclaimed, passing the pea-and-bean salad. “Lizards hibernate even longer! Except Larry and his buddies, of course.”

Larry was the first lizard my sister found in Ohio. Since then she'd gathered three others.

“My pet lizards won't hibernate, except for sleeping lots during the day.” Lizzy flashed Dad a smile. “Thanks to my dad, the inventor. He built Larry that heated house.”

Geri and Lizzy chattered about amphibians, bugs, and their classmates. I tried to picture Hawk at our table, eating grilled PB&Js and talking nonstop with me. I couldn't see it.

As soon as I could get away, I headed for the barn. Maybe it was a good thing Hawk hadn't arrived yet. It gave me more time to work on Towaco. If I could get the Appy back in shape, Hawk and I could ride every day during Thanksgiving break. We'd have to end up best friends.

I slipped the hackamore on Towaco in the pasture since he wouldn't come in for me. He didn't seem to care one way or the other. I jumped on him bareback and rode around the pasture. All he wanted to do was walk, so I guided him down to the pond and tried to get him to wade in.

The Appy just stood at the water's edge, not an ounce of curiosity in him. He didn't splash. He didn't even nuzzle the water. That worried me. Horses are born curious, but Towaco had no interest in anything.

Back in the pasture I had to work hard to get him to canter. When he did, he caught the wrong lead, wobbling with the outside leg stretching in front. I stopped and restarted him. It took three tries before he got it right, and then he stumbled and broke to a trot.

I'd imagined Hawk and me cantering through the pastures and exploring the back roads. But Hawk would never ride Towaco if he acted like this.

I scratched the Appy's neck and rode him back toward the barn. When I swung down from Towaco, my legs felt heavy. Usually I can ride all day and not be ready to quit, but now I felt worn down. I'd tried so hard to get Towaco to enjoy the ride that I hadn't enjoyed riding at all. It seemed to take forever to cool him down, but finally I did.

I missed my own horse. “Nickers!” I called.

Nickers whinnied from the back pasture. She tossed her head and took off at a dead gallop, thundering straight toward me. She didn't slow down until she was a horse's length away. Then she slammed on her brakes, skidding on her haunches to within inches.

“Show off!” I laughed and swung myself up on her back, not bothering with the hackamore. Around us, the trees' barren branches swayed in the wind. I glanced at the gray, cloudy sky, wishing for snow, longing for the way it covers everything and evens out the world, making rutted ditches as pretty as gardens.

Grabbing a fistful of mane, I whispered, “Canter.”

Nickers cantered from a standstill, her hooves barely touching earth. I took her in a big loop a second time, increasing pressure with my legs. Nickers sensed through my skin what I wanted, and she gave it to me, cantering the loop again and again.

“Whoa!”

She trotted, walked, then stopped.

“Good girl.” I scratched her high on the withers, where she loves it. Then I decided what I needed, what we both needed, was a blind ride
.
Sometimes I like to give myself over to my horse, to try to sense what she wants in the same way she always senses my wants.

Wrapping my arms around her, I leaned my cheek against the crest of her neck, relaxed every muscle in my body, and closed my eyes, leaving her to decide where we'd go.

She whinnied low, saying,
Stick with me. You can trust me.

I felt Nickers amble toward the pond. Then she changed her mind, trotted awhile in one direction, then another. Geese honked overhead. Leaves crunched underfoot. The distant smell of burned leaves swirled with the scent of acorns and horse.

Nickers broke into a canter, stretching it out, then circling and circling back. I lost my bearings, so I didn't know which end of the pasture we were in. But it was okay. Better than okay. Nickers and I were one, sailing across clouds in the middle of the sky.

I wondered if Towaco and Hawk would ever feel this way.

Nickers slowed to a walk, then stopped. I opened my eyes and sat up on her back.

There stood Catman Coolidge in the paddock, holding four cats. “Far out,” he said. His wire-rimmed glasses were pushed up on top of his head.

I slid off Nickers. “I needed a real ride after Towaco. He's so unhappy, it's catching.” The Appaloosa hadn't budged from where I'd left him.

“Let's split.” Catman crooked his head, turned, and walked off toward the barn.

“Catman! Where are you going?” I hollered.

He kept walking, into the barn and out of sight.

I kissed Nickers and ran after Catman, following just like his cats. Maybe Lizzy was right. Catman Coolidge
was
the Pied Piper of Ashland, Ohio.

We hopped on our bikes and pedaled backwards out to the road. Catman had been the first person to buy a back bike. It was Dad's invention—a bicycle that goes forward when you pedal backwards. He even creates custom-made horns for each bike. Catman's horn sounds like cats meowing. Dad rigged mine to whinny, but I never use it. I get enough stares just pedaling backwards to school without whinnying.

I tried to keep up as Catman pedaled through a field. I bounced and dodged ruts and mud traps. He sped along as if we were biking on concrete.

“Where are we going?” I shouted.

“My pad,” Catman answered.

A longhaired, white cat, eyes ringed in black like a mask, darted out. It just missed Catman's rear tire.

“Cool it, Burg!” Catman cried.

Cat Burglar is one of Catman's cats I know by name.

When we reached Coolidge Lane, we walked our bikes to his brownish lawn. Weeds are celebrated at the Coolidge estate. Dead leaves crunched under our feet and tires. The only mowed strip of lawn is in the front, where Mr. Coolidge sets up his lawn ornaments.

I dropped my bike and walked over to the lawn-ornament strip. A giant, plastic, brown oval, as tall as I am, sat next to an orange mound of something.

“What's that?” I asked.

“Thanksgiving,” Catman explained.

“I don't get it.” The closer I got, the more details came into focus. I could make out little bumps in the brown plastic, V-shaped arms on either side, and something like two bones sticking out behind.

“A turkey!” I cried. But it wasn't the gobble- gobble kind of turkey. This was the Thanksgiving- on-your-table kind of turkey. On either side of the roast beast, plastic drumsticks stuck out of the ground like bald, deformed trees.

“So what's the orange stuff?” I asked, poking the orange clumps. They felt like sponges.

“Sweet potatoes,” Catman answered.

When we got to the front porch, the sound of the creaky, wooden steps flashed a photo to my brain—Coolidge Castle the first time I'd seen it. I'd thought it was deserted . . . and spooky.

Nothing much had changed—only the lawn ornaments. All three stories still needed paint, and the same windows were boarded up. But the house didn't seem spooky to me anymore or even weird.

Catman opened the door, and I stepped inside, along with half a dozen cats. As always, I got the feeling that I'd stepped out of a time machine into another century. Heavy red drapes hung over every window, matching the velvet sofas and love seats. The old-fashioned wood tables had claw feet. Instead of pictures, colorful tapestries hung on the walls.

Cats filtered in from every direction, prancing over the thick, Persian rugs, swarming at Catman's feet. I followed him to a closet at the end of a long hall. He opened the door.

At first I thought a fur coat was on the floor. Then it moved, and I made out Wilhemina, the fat orange tabby Catman had named after Charles Dickens' cat. Dickens had called his cat William until
she
surprised him with kittens. Catman's Wilhemina had the same idea. She was surrounded by so many tiny balls of fur I couldn't count them.

“They're so cute!” I whispered. My barn cat, Nelson, had come from another of Wilhemina and Churchill's litters. Now he was a big brother. “Have you named them yet?”

Catman pointed as he listed off the names: “Hanson, Boudinot, Miffin, Lee, Hancock, Gorham, St. Clair, and Griffin.”

“Where on earth did you dig up those names, Catman?” All of the Coolidge cats had unusual names, but he'd outdone himself this time.

“First Presidents of the United States,” he explained.

I stared through his lenses and into his Siamese-blue eyes. “Wouldn't that mean they're all named George Washington?”