by Orly Konig
At the end of the aisle is the indoor arena. A course of jumps is set up and sprays of light filter through the high windows, creating spotlights on a few of the obstacles. I step off the padded aisle and sink into the soft footing. My eyes trace a line from jump to jump, around the end of the ring, back across the diagonal line, along the left edge of the arena, to the opposite diagonal.
“You’re counting strides.” Simon comes to stand next to me. His accent thicker, the timbre of his voice older. The left side of his mouth pulls into a lopsided smile. “I know you. You’re counting.”
I turn back to look at the course again, hoping the unreliable light will mask my flush of embarrassment. I was counting.
“You used to do that all the time. Visualize a line and count the strides. Just little puffs of noise. Used to drive Jilli nuts.” He chuckles at a memory that’s lost to me.
“She’d just wing it. But not you. Always careful, always precise. You have a gift for seeing the perfect distance. Do you remember the time she convinced you to go look at the litter of puppies instead of studying the course?”
When I don’t respond, he continues. “You met the Swedish oxer coming off the right bend at an awkward distance and jumped it long. Jack caught the back rail. It wasn’t the prettiest of efforts. You came out of the ring stoic.”
“I remember.”
I push a clump of dirt with the toe of my sneaker.
With Simon’s arm around my shoulder, I’d stayed for the ribbons. A rare fourth-place finish for us. I accepted the ribbon and congratulated the others.
I’d smiled the best I knew how and silently thanked the gods that my father hadn’t decided to make one of his rare appearances. By the time I got back to Jack’s stall, the tears were leaking and my breath was catching. I hugged Jack, blubbering my apologies. I’d let him down and still he’d taken care of me. Any other horse would have dumped my ass. But not Jack Flash.
Simon had threatened to pull me from the rest of the classes if I didn’t give myself a break. I promised.
And while Jilli played with puppies, I studied the courses. We came in first in every class the rest of the day.
“Ben accused me of needing to be perfect last night, too.”
I can feel Simon shifting next to me and feel his eyes on me.
I turn and stare him down. “I’m not twelve. That look doesn’t work on me anymore.”
“I don’t have the foggiest idea what you’re referring to.” His accent deepens and the smile broadens.
I scrunch my forehead trying to match the look.
The lines around Simon’s mouth tug down and there’s the smirk that used to send Jillian into fits. “You don’t have the spit for that look, little girl. I spoke to Ben this morning. He said you did brilliantly.”
A raspy laugh vibrates up my throat. “‘Brilliant’ isn’t the word I would use for how I rode.”
“You never did. Even when you were.”
“Yeah, well, there’s always room for improvement.”
“True.”
A thick quiet settles between us. I toe a half circle in the arena footing. A horse nickers in the distance and is answered by the bleating of a goat.
“You have goats?”
“Only one. That would be Jukebox. He’s Jack’s buddy. They’re out in paddock two if you want to say hi.”
“What happened to Soldier?”
“We lost him a few years ago. Jack was beside himself.”
“Poor Jack.”
“Yeah, not easy losing your best friend.”
I sweep my foot in the opposite direction, erasing the half circle.
“We adopted Jukebox and an off-the-track Thoroughbred several weeks before and had them in the paddock with Jack and Soldier. Juke took it upon himself to console the big guy and they’ve been inseparable ever since. When Rena uses Jack in the therapeutic program, Juke insists on being there.”
“Aww.”
“Not so ‘aww’ when he head-butts you. He’s very protective of Jack. Doesn’t like strangers coming around him.”
“I’m glad Jack has another friend. Not everyone is lucky to find that kind of friendship once, much less twice.”
“Who’s your Jukebox, Emma?”
I shake my head. “No one.”
“It’s important to have someone you can count on.”
“I thought so, once.”
Boots clomp behind us, scattering the discussion.
“Scuze me, boss? You want I water the ring?”
“Yes, please. Tony, have you met Emma? She’s an old friend. Used to ride here when she was younger.”
“Hello, Ms. Emma.” Tony ducks his head in an abbreviated bow.
“Hi, Tony.” I smile at his attempt at formality.
“We’ll get out of your way.” Simon turns and puts a hand on my back, guiding me forward.
We walk through the barn, the sound of sprinklers kicking on with a hiss and whine of pipes behind us. I squint as we step into the light and adjust my stride to match Simon’s. The morning sun darts behind a dark cloud.
“Ben said you turned over management of the stable to Jillian. Why?”
Simon pulls in a wheeze of air, his step faltering. “She needed the responsibility.”
I chance a sideways look to gauge his expression. It doesn’t reveal much.
“And I needed to get rid of some responsibility.”
“Why?”
“You may not have noticed, but I’m not as young as I used to be.” He winks but there’s no humor in his eyes.
“This stable has always been your love.”
“It still is. But I love my human family more.”
Did I imagine the catch in his voice? He nods in the direction of the paddock, deflecting attention away from him. Jack and Jukebox walk to the fence. Jack’s large head hangs over the top rail while Juke angles his pointy chin through the middle and flaps his lips at me.
“Are you still teaching at least?” I know the answer from my conversation with Ben but I want to hear it from Simon.
He pats the black horse’s neck and receives a friendly nudge in response. “Not much.”
“That’s a shame. You were the best riding teacher I ever had.”
“Considering the only other person who taught you was Rena, that’s not a tough contest.”
“Good point.” I laugh, then look around to make sure Rena hasn’t magically appeared.
Juke’s busy lips make contact with the hem of my shirt and he tugs, yanking me into the fence.
“Hey.” I tap his muzzle, which only makes him pull harder. Jack snorts and nips at his buddy’s rump. That works. Horse and goat bump muzzles. “Is that the four-hoofed equivalent of a fist bump? ‘Well done, dude. Another notch in the ripped-shirt contest for you.’” I smooth out the hem of my shirt.
“He’s the best friend that would get you tossed out of school.” Simon shakes his head but can’t disguise the note of tenderness in his voice.
Now that my shirt is no longer a buffet item, I turn back to prodding Simon. “How’s business?”
“It’s pretty steady. Boarders come and go. Some old-time clients left when I handed over the reins to Jillian. She runs things differently than I did. Ben has brought in new clients. He’s also taking on some of my lessons, although he grumbles about the beginning flat ones.” Simon releases a long sigh. “I’ve retired from managing the barn but I still seem to be in charge when it comes to people. Jillian hasn’t mastered that yet.”
“Don’t think she ever will.”
“No.”
Surprised by the weight of that one word, I turn to look at Simon. “What did you mean about her needing the responsibility?”
“Jilli made a lot of bad decisions. Her mom wasn’t a great role model, you know. Rena and I tried, but she wouldn’t hear anything we had to say. She was convinced that we’d turned against her. Somewhere along the way, she’d gotten it into her head that we were favoring you, overcompensating f
or your family situation. Rena blamed herself for that, too.”
He looks at the line of trees at the edge of the far pasture as though the past is hiding in there. “After the accident she got worse.” He falters, rubs the back of his neck. “She barely finished high school. She’d cut school at least once a week. Stopped riding entirely. She even ran away a couple of times. Bloody hell, she put us through the ringer. And she’d be spitting furious that I’m telling you this.”
My hand cups Jack’s muzzle and he leans in. The weight of his head straightens my arms and I lean forward until my chest is resting on his forehead.
“She came back about eight years ago.”
“Back?” He’d said she ran off a couple of times but the idea that Jillian had actually left Jumping Frog Farm catches me off-center. I never pictured her away from here.
He nods, undeterred by the surprise in my voice. “She left right after graduation. Not that she went to the ceremony. It wasn’t obvious she would even graduate until the last minute. The day her diploma arrived in the mail, she stuffed a few items into a duffel bag and left. For the first years we barely heard from her. An occasional phone call when she needed money. It nearly killed Rena.
“Then she started sending postcards. She’d gotten herself to Wyoming and was working on a dude ranch, taking care of horses and guiding trail rides. That was the longest she lasted in a job. I think she was there almost two years before she messed it up as well. It was her boss who called us. Said he wouldn’t press charges if she got help. He had a soft spot for her because of the work she’d done with his horses. I flew there and dragged her home. Rena had her hands full keeping that girl straight. But I think that second close call scared her enough that she started making an effort to get better. Taking on the responsibility of the farm seems to be helping.”
Second close call? I try to read his face. It’s not the open invitation that I remember and the question tickling my tongue gets shy and retreats.
“It was always our dream to run Jumping Frog Farm.”
“You were the dreamer, Toad. You had plans for the future. You were the one with the heart for this place.” He looks at the paddocks and the horses, then turns to the barn. “Rena and I didn’t do a bang-up job raising her. I was too soft on her, wanting to ease the sting of her screw-up mum. I felt guilty about having failed her, having failed them both. And Rena, she dealt with her guilt by riding Jillian even harder. She was determined to make Jilli a success. The last thing Jilli wanted was success based on how we defined it.”
I draw in a long breath of horse mixed with earth and grass and the promise of rain. I rewind long-archived memories of dreams and daydreams shared. There was never a doubt in my mind about the future. “I’m going to be an Olympic show jumper and run the stable with my best friend.”
Jilli had parroted my declaration. Memories blur over the years, becoming what we want them to be. Maybe Simon is right, maybe that had only been my dream.
Sure, she flipped through fashion magazines and swooned over the pictures of models in fancy couture clothes. When I’d pointed out how impractical those clothes were for someone running a stable, she’d huffed about designing a line of riding clothes so I’d shut up.
“I’d trade with her in a heartbeat.” The words rush out, unbidden, unwelcome.
“Why? You’ve made a life for yourself in the corporate world. Oh don’t look so surprised. I know you talked to Rena and she admitted to being in touch with your father.”
“He told you?”
“He said you settled into a successful career.”
“I guess.”
“You guess?” It’s his turn to sound surprised.
“Depends on what you consider successful.”
“I always defined it as fulfillment. You?”
“Status. Title. Money.”
Simon studies me and I wait for the lecture that there’s more to life than status, title, and money. He nods instead.
Jack blows a warm horsey breath onto my neck, his muzzle tickling the exposed skin where my shirt has stretched.
Simon smiles. “You don’t get that kind of love in the corporate world.”
“If you do, chances are you’ll end up in court over it.”
Simon lets out a deep, growling laugh. “I’ve missed you, Toad. It’s nice to have you back.”
I open my mouth to say I’m not really back, not for good at least, but instead I say I missed him, too. That’s the heartbreaking truth I’ve refused to voice.
With a last loud pat on Jack’s neck, Simon steps away from the fence. “I need to get back. Stay out here for a bit. I think you guys have some catching up to do. When you’re done, can you bring him in?”
“Sure.”
“Be careful when you open the gate. That thing,” Simon points a finger at the goat, “will shoot out like a hairy cannonball.”
Jukebox lets out an offended bleat. Or maybe it’s a proud one. I never was well versed in goat speak.
I watch Simon walk away. His steps are slower than they were sixteen years ago, his body less commanding.
I turn back to Jack, standing quietly by the fence while Jukebox bounds around him. The hollow spots above his eyes seem deeper and the hairs around his eyes show the telltale gray of age.
The air catches in my lungs.
For sixteen years, the horses, the people, the physical property of Jumping Frog Farm have stayed protected in the cocoon of my memories. Now here, those years pass by my eyes like time-lapse photography.
The barn has aged, faded, boards on paddock fencing have warped next to crisp replacement boards.
The time has imposed changes on Simon, Rena, and Jillian. I have the sinking feeling Jillian is the least changed. And not for the better.
18
The condo seems to suck in a breath when I open the door, as though unsure of the intruder. It’s only been a couple of days since I was here with T.J., but, true to her word, she already has several potential buyers lined up.
I scan the condo, then look down at the detailed task list she e-mailed this morning and back at the magazine-spread layout in front of me. Obviously, T.J. saw room for improvement.
I glance at my watch. Two hours before she comes to inspect. I should have come sooner. My father’s place is so perfect that I didn’t imagine there would be more than a few pillows to fluff. But nooooo, I had to frolic with sheep and horses and an uptight goat.
Now that I’m here, the list looks daunting. The living room has the fewest to-do tasks and personal items, which makes it the perfect place to start. I shake my head at items one and two but do them anyway. She may be petite and young but T.J. scares me. I won’t risk crossing her.
I straighten the cushions and rearrange the throw pillows, the white ones on either side of the cushion line and the teal one angled in the center. On the coffee table, I reorder the three glossy photography books, Wonders of the Sea at the bottom, Frank Lloyd Wright’s Fallingwater second, and The Splendor of DC on top.
Yes, T.J.’s notes are that specific.
There are no family photographs, no knickknacks, zero personal effects in this room. No afghan to tuck under your feet while reading or watching TV. There isn’t even a TV.
We had one TV when I was growing up. Mom spent a lot of time curled up on the couch staring at images as they blurred from show to show. I’m not sure she really watched anything though.
After Mom died, he donated it along with her clothes.
When I got my apartment after college, my first purchase was a TV.
I move to the kitchen and open the refrigerator, careful not to leave finger smudges on the gleaming stainless door. It is completely empty.
I open drawer after drawer and neaten the contents. The junk drawer holds two extension cords, a pair of scissors, and four take-out menus. So different from my drawer at home where I stuff anything I don’t know what to do with or think I may need tomorrow or in the next decade.
T.J.�
�s list instructs me to domino the silverware, turn all mug handles to the left, and reorder the pots and pans by size.
I’d love a peek at her house. Do people actually do that in real life or is this just a staging trick? You certainly won’t find an organized silverware drawer in my place.
I pull open the silverware drawer. The condo gasps as the air-conditioning kicks in. I yank my hand back. The intimacy of eating jolts through my limbs, paralyzing me. It’s something we all do, something we don’t think about when we do it. We use silverware touched by others in restaurants, when eating at a friend’s house, even in our own homes. And yet looking at a dead man’s forks and spoons seems like an invasion.
Not just any dead man. My father.
I spin around and walk out of the kitchen. Three rooms remain: bedroom, bathroom, and office. The three most uncomfortable rooms.
T.J.’s instructions yell from the paper. Toss everything out of the medicine cabinet. Toss all bottles from the shower. Toss any personal-hygiene items from the linen closet. Replace the soap by the sink with an unused bar. Refold all towels in the linen closet and hang the large green-and-blue-striped towel on the rack. Not just any towel.
I open the medicine cabinet and position the trash bag underneath. Three sweeps and the shelves are empty. The bag sags with the weight. I don’t look. I reach into the shower and sweep the bottles into the trash bag. The bag stretches and I grab it lower, desperate to avoid a tear.
The linen closet is mercifully generic. Three towels, precisely folded; one salon special bottle of shampoo and its partner conditioner; one sealed toothbrush. I breathe in the fresh smell of the handmade mint-oatmeal soap.
Mom used to buy lavender soap. She’d said it reminded her of their honeymoon in France. Every few months a shipment would arrive, carefully packed, personally addressed by a shop owner that Mom had befriended during that trip.
After she died, the shipments stopped. Every lavender soap disappeared, replaced with mint-oatmeal bars.
I replace the used soap in the clear-crystal dish, then remove the striped towel from the top shelf and center it on the hanging rack.