by Jane Smiley
By lunch, I had more or less fixed myself. At least Stella and Gloria didn’t say anything. They were talking about the mission open house and potluck that night. Gloria’s mom was going to bring steamed artichokes with a special sauce and Stella’s mom was going to bring the safest thing, chocolate chip cookies. Stella told Gloria that her mom was weird and Gloria shrugged, as if to say, Well, we all know that. Then Stella got up to go to the girls’ bathroom to do something, and even though I expected Gloria to follow her, she didn’t. She leaned toward me and said, “Guess what?”
“What?”
“Remember that ink thing? When Joan got the ink on her skirt?”
I sat very still and said, “Yeah, sure.”
“Somebody sent Joan an anonymous note and said it was Stella, that she did it on purpose with the cartridge from her pen, and Joan’s mom showed the note to Mr. Canning.”
I decided to be very careful. I said, “Do you think Stella did that? It’s a really mean thing to do.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Gloria, tossing her head. “I bet Joan wrote the note herself and sent it to herself, then showed it to her mom to blame it on Stella. That’s what I think. I wouldn’t put it past her.”
She sounded like she believed that, but really, I didn’t feel like I could figure anything out anymore. I said, “Don’t you think things were easier before Stella came into our class?”
Gloria shrugged. She said, “Not as fun, though. More boring.” We got up, put away our trays, and went into study hall. While I did my work, I thought about the fact that Jem Jones would be coming for one more day, on Saturday. It seemed like a treasure to know that.
Everything was normal that night, which was a Wednesday. We went to our chapel, and I gave thanks that I didn’t have to talk to Daddy about the missions and whether I had witnessed to Kyle and the other kids about the wrongful history of the Catholic Church and all of that. That Wednesday, we happened to sing a lot. Daddy sang one of my favorites, one called “Deep River,” that he didn’t sing much. Then Mr. Hazen sang one called “Lonely Road” that I hadn’t heard before. And we all sang all the verses of “Amazing Grace,” including the one about the earth dissolving like snow. On the way home in the car, Daddy and Mom did a duet of “How Can I Keep from Singing?” which is one of my favorites of all time. When we checked on the horses before going to bed, everyone was quiet and happy, and Black George was standing by Jack, as if he had decided the colt was his boy.
No one was happy when I got to school in the morning, though. The Big Four were gathered around Joan’s locker, gossiping in low tones, Brian Connelly was absent, and Stella and Gloria didn’t have much to say. I went to algebra, then we had assembly, and in assembly, I found out what was wrong. Joan had worn her add-a-pearl necklace to the potluck. It had thirteen pearls on it and was very valuable, though Mr. Canning didn’t say how much it was worth. Joan had been careless with the necklace, Mr. Canning admitted that—she hadn’t noticed until she was in the girls’ bathroom that it was no longer around her neck. Everyone had looked high and low. The necklace could not be found, and so it could only be assumed that someone had picked it up. That someone was expected to turn it in. Once again, I was glad I hadn’t gone to the potluck.
For lunch, I had a sandwich made of a slice of the pot roast Mom had made for the prayer meeting. That was good, too.
Gloria and Stella agreed that they couldn’t figure out why that necklace was such a big deal. Joan, of course, said they were real pearls rather than cultured pearls, but whose mother would let her wear real pearls to a potluck? And heels. Joan had also worn heels—two inch. “It was a potluck!” said Stella. “Why be overdressed? It’s much worse to be overdressed than under-dressed for a party. My mom says that’s practically a law.”
Gloria nodded as if, in spite of the red boots and cowboy shirts and all, she understood this law perfectly.
This went on for all day Thursday. Joan’s mother even came Thursday afternoon—I saw her enter the building and then go into the principal’s office. But, to be perfectly frank, since I hadn’t been at the potluck, I didn’t think it was any of my business. When I got home Thursday afternoon, it didn’t even occur to me to tell Mom about it, and if it had occurred to me, then I would have had to tell her about the missions, so I wouldn’t have told her anyway.
Maybe because of the nice service we had had, Daddy was in a good mood all of Thursday and Friday morning. He helped me with everything, whistled a few tunes, ruffled my hair. And the weather was good. When we got up in the morning, it was already light. We had gotten past Mom’s daffodils and well into the tulips, and even the irises were starting to bud out. Jack wandered around with the geldings as if he had been living with them for years. He spent most of his time not far from Black George, and they made a beautiful pair when they pricked their ears and trotted around. Black George was only four, actually, so he seemed to remember what it was like to be a colt. He and Jack would lift their tails and trot big and snort or pretend that crows taking off from the fence rail were exciting and run off leaping and kicking. Socks George and Ornery George didn’t play with them much, but once in a while for a few moments they would pick up a gallop and take off across the pasture.
By Friday afternoon, the necklace thing was a big deal. In a special assembly, Mr. Canning told us in his sternest voice that Joan’s parents were very upset, and that the sheriff knew about it, and that there would be repercussions if the person or persons who had the necklace did not come forward “of his or her own accord.” I, of course, had my suspicions, but I didn’t tell them to anyone, especially not Gloria and, when I got home, especially not Mom. Mom was a complete believer in “coming forward” because it was “in the end the kindest thing to do” and “a form of witnessing.” But in seventh grade, a person who came forward was known as a snitch, and that would be the end of that person.
On Saturday morning, another beautiful day, I was up and dressed to ride by seven. Jem Jarrow appeared during breakfast. Mom asked if he would like some pancakes, which is what we were having, but he settled for a glass of water and drank it on the front porch. I gobbled down my pancakes and went out.
As we walked to the gelding paddock, he said, “You seem ready to go, Abby.”
“I am. I couldn’t wait for today.”
He smiled. He said, “Horses are like that, too, you know. If you finish the lesson with a horse wanting to do more of what you want to teach him, he’ll always be happy in his work.”
The first horse we tacked up was Black George. While we were cleaning him and putting the English saddle and bridle on him, Jack stood at the gate, ears pricked, watching us. After I had mounted and we were walking toward the arena, Jem said, “That’s good. That means he’s got a friend.”
“Black George is pretty nice with him. He plays a little.”
“He’s a good-natured fella.”
“Daddy says he could be a show horse.”
Jem didn’t say anything, but not in a way that meant he disagreed, just in a way that meant it wasn’t his place to have an opinion on that. We went into the arena.
I did everything Jem told me to do, in order—stepping over several times on each side until Black George was really moving along, loose and agreeable, but full of energy, too. Then I asked him to halt and then go forward a few times. Jem said I was to try and feel which leg was stepping forward first when I asked him to walk, and pretty soon I could feel that it was one of the hind legs, which meant that his whole body moved at the same time—if a front leg goes first, then the hind legs get left behind, but if a hind leg goes first, then it pushes the whole body ahead of it, and everything keeps together. Halt to walk, walk to trot, halt to trot. Black George felt springy and happy, not to mention comfortable. Then I did some work at the trot—trotting forward, holding back, turning in loops and circles. Black George kept his neck arched and his mouth soft—all I had to do to change the speed or direction was to twitch the reins, and he did what was aske
d. When we cantered, it was like silk.
When we were finished, Jem said, “That’s the easy one. That’s the one I want you to think about when you’re riding the hard one. You were riding English, so I’ll tell you a story. I was training a horse last year, a big Thoroughbred, an old racehorse with lots of experience. Not an educated horse in some ways. We were loping, and I started thinking a thought, and the thought was that there was an elastic band attaching my elbow to his hocks, easy and soft but keeping us together in the best way possible. And while I was thinking that thought, I asked that horse to pivot. Now, this was a big horse, seventeen hands, and long, too. But when I turned him, thinking that thought, he did a perfect pivot, da dum, da dum, da dum, a hundred and eighty degrees, and off in the other direction.
“I also knew a fella who showed up early at the barn out on the coast to try a bay horse over some jumps. So he tacks her up, gets on her, takes her out in the ring, and jumps the course easy as you please. When he gets back to the barn, he finds out he was on the wrong bay horse—not the fancy jumper he meant to buy, but a three-year-old just off the track not more than a week. Never jumped a fence in her life. Now what am I telling you?”
“That all my wishes will come true?”
“Yes, Abby, but more importantly than that, if you have a real feeling in your mind of what you want the horse to do, your own body will communicate to the horse how to do it. This is a good, athletic, and cooperative horse. The feeling he gives you is the one you want from the others.”
“So my main job is to remember that feeling?”
“I would say so, yes.”
When we put Black George back into the paddock, Jack came over to meet him, and they trotted around for a moment, kicking up. Then they settled to the same pile of oat hay.
We saddled up Ornery George, and then I went to put on the bridle, but Jem stopped me. He motioned toward Jack’s empty pen, and I saw that I had to start with the groundwork. I made myself remember what Jem had done earlier in the week—lead him on a loose line, don’t let him crowd me, stop suddenly and then move on, lift the end of the rope and insist that he back off. Jem said, “He’s actually not a terribly ill-mannered horse, but he’s a little ill-mannered. You need to ask him to do it really right, not sort of right.”
It took us ten minutes to walk over to the pen, because I tried to correct George every time he did a wrong thing, but when we got there, George might as well have been heeling and sitting like a dog, he was paying attention that well.
I stood in the center and sent him around me, to the left and the right. When he did what he wanted to do, I made him do more of it until he wanted to stop, and then I made him do what I wanted him to do. He tossed his head and switched his tail, but only a few times. After a while—say, by the time we were both sweating—his ears were flopped and his eye was soft. He was moving his shoulder away from me whenever I asked him to, and that made his body as soft as could be.
I got on.
I did from the saddle just what I had been doing from the ground, all the time trying to keep the Black George feel. It wasn’t easy. Ornery George was stiffer and less springy than Black George. Whereas Black George could go all the way around the circle without stiffening, Ornery George could only go three or four strides, but three or four strides was enough. Once I got the feel of those, I could get him to do it for five, and then six, and then back the other way. I was busy. He was busy. I realized that he wasn’t thinking about bucking, and then I realized that I wasn’t thinking about him bucking—I was too busy thinking about other things that I wanted him to do.
When I was a little out of breath, I halted him, and Jem called out to me to ride him over to the arena. He was fine in the bigger space, too. Finally, I asked for the lope, and off we went, rocking back and forth, not terribly fast, but going where we wanted to go. Jem motioned with his hand, and I turned Ornery George on a circle and brought him to a halt. Then we trotted off again, the other direction, and did the canter, just a few strides, again. We cantered halfway around the arena, and then Jem motioned me to the middle. I did that circle again, but in the other direction, and came to a halt. Jem said, “That’s enough, I think. Stop while it’s still fresh in your mind …”
“Just one more canter?”
He grinned—the first real grin that I’d ever seen—and said, “Do you think he would like that?”
“Yes.”
“Save it for tomorrow. He’ll have something to look forward to. Your assignment for today is very small.”
“What is it?”
“Remember what you felt this morning on these two horses.”
“I will.”
“And get off now and walk him out so nothing gets in the way of that.”
I was off in two seconds. George gave me a look of surprise. I’d been on him maybe twenty minutes, but I knew without Jem telling me that a good twenty minutes was plenty.
At lunch, Daddy said, “I was watching you. You looked good.”
I had been concentrating so hard, I hadn’t even seen him.
The next day, at our chapel, those Greeley kids sat still for half an hour, through four straight readings of The Little Engine That Could, and then the baby fell asleep and slept for the rest of the afternoon. We had strawberry shortcake, the cake kind, with whipped cream, and we really did give thanks.
* * *
Monday morning was rainy and cold, and I had to admit to Mom that I’d left my heavy sweater at school. She suggested that the fact that I was shivering inside my raincoat was something I would think about the next time I didn’t bother to bring home my sweater.
The bus was late, and there was a bit of a crush at my end of the lockers. My raincoat was wet, and Joan said, “Ugh,” as I pressed past her. I said, “Sorry, it’s really raining,” as if she didn’t know that. She looked at me and wiped her hand across her skirt to get the rain off.
Stella said, “Were the bus windows open or something?” And then I took the lock off my locker and opened the door. The first thing I saw was my sweater, navy blue, right where I’d left it, and the next thing I saw was a string or something, and then Joan said, “Hey!”
And Stella said, “Oh, wow!”
And Mary A. said, “There’s Joan’s necklace!”
She dove for it, then held it up, and then Joan grabbed it out of her hand. The two of them ran down the hall.
This didn’t take more than a couple of moments. Stella said, “Oh, Abby! Now what? You’ll be in so much trouble.”
“For what?”
“That’s the necklace!”
“I never saw that necklace before. I didn’t even know what it was. I thought it was a piece of string.”
Then the bell rang. I put on my sweater, even though I wasn’t cold anymore. I walked slowly to algebra, and when I went through the door, the Big Four gave me four big dirty looks.
I suppose some kids would have gone up to the Big Four and declared right there that they had never seen the necklace and hadn’t taken the necklace, but I didn’t think of that. I just sat in my seat all through algebra going back and forth between wondering how the necklace got into my locker, since it was locked, and wondering what kind of trouble I was in. I couldn’t really think straight, because it was all such a mystery. It’s very hard to go from being the last person in the world to find out about something to the person everyone is sure did that thing. It made me stupid (I couldn’t answer any of Mr. Jepsen’s questions), and it gave me a headache. I kept looking at my sweater in a dumb way, as if something about it would tell me how the necklace got there. I knew I had left the sweater in my locker on Thursday around lunch, noticed it a few times after that, forgotten it Thursday afternoon, and forgotten it again Friday. I hadn’t hung it up on the hook, because Mom said sweaters were to be folded, not hung, so a book or two had been on top of it once in a while. I should have folded it and set it on the upper shelf, but then—These were the thoughts I kept thinking, but I just couldn’t ma
ke it out.
In the middle of second period, I was called out of social studies to the principal’s office. As soon as I went in there, I saw the necklace on Mr. Canning’s desk, and then he said, “Well, Abby, I’m very disappointed in you.” I didn’t say anything. “What do you have to say about this?”
I didn’t say anything, then I said, “I don’t know.”
“Since I wasn’t there this morning, I have to ask you, Abby, whether this necklace was found in your locker?”
I nodded.
“How did it get there?”
“I don’t know.”
He shook his head. He said, “I am going to ask you again, Abby, how did the necklace get into your locked locker?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does someone else know the combination to your lock?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“Well, that leaves you up a crick, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m going to ask you again how the necklace got into your locker.”
“I don’t know, Mr. Canning. I didn’t even go to the potluck.”
“Well, Abby, we do know that the necklace was lost at the potluck, but we don’t know that it was found at the potluck.”
I said, “Yes, sir.”
“I have called your mother.”
I didn’t say anything.
“I’m sorry you’ve decided to be obdurate on this, even if you are protecting someone else. But it is a valuable necklace, and everyone in school was warned about keeping it quiet and everyone was asked to come forward, so everyone has had a chance to be honest.”
I stood there.
“Do you understand what I mean?”
“Yes, sir.”
What was I thinking through all this? I don’t know. I was looking at the shelves behind Mr. Canning’s desk and at the stuff on his desk (a small stuffed bear because he went to UCLA, a picture of his son in a football uniform, a picture of his dog). Mostly I was scared, and it didn’t make me less scared that Mom was on her way to school. I didn’t for a moment think that Mom would think I stole the necklace, but I did think she would make a fuss about the missions. Mr. Canning said, “Well, Abby. I was hoping you would be more forthcoming. I’m disappointed.”