Training Harry

by Meghan Namaste

  Jennifer grinned. "Okay, if you insist."

  "See you around."

  I headed back to the trailer, where I took a moment to change out of my riding boots (and compose myself further). Then I climbed into the cab where my dad sat in the driver's seat. "Ready to go home and take a nap?" he asked.

  "Definitely." I stared out the window as we left the show grounds in the dust. My dad didn't try to engage me in conversation. He liked to avoid conflict. I wished he would try to distract me, though. I was trying to concentrate on the successes of the day, like Crayola's victory, and Amigo's first outing, but I kept coming back to that damn equitation class. What would Carol say? I wondered idly.

  Everybody loses. Just get on with it.

  True, I thought. But it seems like some people lose more than others.

  Lawrence

  It felt strange to walk down the aisle as a visitor after so much time spent in that stable. I worked there, I slept there, I lived and breathed the horses, whether I was shoveling their shit or riding them to victory. And now I was like one of those ultra-rich sponsors, coming to the stable like a tourist. It was weird.

  At least Wilson never changed. He was striding down the aisle in front of me, peering into every stall, inspecting the work of the stable hands. He drove a lot of people nuts by looking over their shoulder as they worked and offering constructive (or just plain critical) criticism. I once asked him why he had such a hard time delegating. "If I could, I'd do it all myself, Cavanaugh," he snapped. "That way, I'd know it'd been done right." I agreed with him to some extent; that was why no one laid a hand on Eloise but me during her time in Florida. But as far as cleaning stalls...hell, if I had someone to do that for me, and they did a halfway decent job...I'd be real nice to that person.

  Wilson was a horseman, not a people person. He did okay with the stable hands, because most of them would rather toil behind the scenes than rub elbows with Lexington's high society during a polo match. Once they understood that his seemingly constant stream of criticism came from his love for the horses and his desire for them to receive the best care humanly possible, most people were able to shrug off his overbearing tendencies. He'd been even worse with me, the kid who didn't know shit about horses, but I could hardly blame him for that. After a few months of near-constant supervision, he seemed to realize that no horse had died under my care and began to leave me alone to do my job.

  Wilson ducked into the office, but I headed out into the mid-afternoon sunlight. The ponies stood in their paddocks, content to eat and doze. I knew most of them by name, even without studying the brass nameplates on their leather halters. The one nearest to me was a bright chestnut of stunning quality. His coat shone like a buffed cherry, and the weight of his stare made me slightly self conscious. "Firewall," I said. His ears pricked, and he took a step toward me. Then, as if deciding I was not worthy, he returned to his hay with a bored sigh.

  I had never ridden Firewall. His owner deeply resented my presence and could barely stand to let me place his saddle on the gelding's back. I had deliberately chosen a day when he was sure to be elsewhere to make my visit. His intense dislike had only increased when I was hand-selected to go to Florida instead of him. I imagined he gloated a great deal when he heard of Elle's misfortune, and I could hardly count on the degree of self control necessary to keep my fist from entering the territory of his nose. I knew this because I had failed several times before. So I chose to stay away from Paul Miller.

  I walked along the row of paddocks, saying hello to old friends (or acquaintances...a few of those ponies weren't especially friendly) when I caught sight of a bay gelding and stopped dead. I know that horse. But he wasn't one of the LPC ponies. I had ridden him in intense heat, rain and pressure. And he was the last pony I had ridden in Florida, in the last chukker of the match that almost killed Eloise. He was the pony whose back I climbed onto as I watched the equine ambulance speed away with Elle inside.

  I heard Wilson come up behind me. "I don't like it when you disappear on me, Cavanaugh," he muttered. "Who knows what kind of trouble you could be getting into."

  I struggled to employ my power of speech. "Wilson...that pony...what is he doing here?"

  Wilson didn't bother looking in the direction I pointed. "Arnold Windzor donated him. Said he was sellin' off a bunch of ponies, and this one was kinda gimpy. Didn't think he could get a good price for him. Said if I paid to ship him up from Florida, he was mine. So I figured, hell, that's a good enough deal."

  I was still staring at the gelding. "Is he sound?"

  "Kinda gimpy, like I said. Little off on the near front. Some idiot prob'ly galloped him too hard."

  "I did not." I glared at Wilson. "He probably stepped in a hole."

  "Oh, yeah, those International Polo Club paddocks are just riddled with holes. Gotta watch out for those elite facilities, they'll lame your horse up faster than you can say 'shoot him in the head'."

  I rolled my eyes. "Have you had him vetted?"

  "Thought I'd let him settle in first. He got here two days ago."

  The number of realizations that had hit me in the span of two minutes was dizzying. First, my ties to Elaine Windzor were officially severed. Second, Wilson had snatched up an international-level polo pony for a song. And third, I wanted that pony. "Are you interested in selling him?"

  Wilson's eyes bugged out of his head. "Are you insane?"

  "I know this horse. He's not Eloise, but other than her, he's the best pony I've ridden. I want to play polo, Wilson. If I want to do that, I need - well, I need to play polo. I'm training Harry, but it'll take time to get him going. If I have this gelding, I can practice. I can keep my edge." I quit babbling, and stared imploringly at Wilson.

  He stared back at me. "You are nuts, Cavanaugh. First of all, the gelding is lame. Lord knows what's wrong with him. Might be minor. Might be irreversible. And even if he can be rehabilitated, why should I sell him to you? Have you forgotten that you don't have money?"

  "I've got money."

  "Can you afford an international polo prospect? You couldn't this time last year."

  I stalked away from him, letting myself into the bay's paddock. Running my hand down the leg in question, no heat or swelling could be felt. I applied pressure to the musculature of his shoulder, and the gelding didn't flinch. I turned back to Wilson. "It's gotta be a stone bruise."

  "Or navicular disease."

  I slapped the gelding's rump, and he trotted around the paddock. He wasn't head-bobbing lame. He was favoring the leg slightly, but to a degree most people couldn't even detect. "This pony is fine. A little rest, and he'll be able to go back to work."

  "You're not a vet, Cavanaugh."

  "A vet's best diagnostic tool is a good groom." I climbed out of the paddock.

  "That doesn’t answer the question of why I should sell the gelding to you for a pittance, rather than making a bundle by selling him to someone like Paul Miller."

  I flinched, but I had a comeback. "Because I'm responsible for you getting this pony in the first place."

  "How's that? By riding it into the ground?"

  "No. I told Arnold the truth about his wife, and I gave him...the little push that he needed to break her hold on him."

  Wilson's eyes widened even more than they had when I'd offered to buy a lame horse. "And he listened to you?"

  I rolled my eyes. "The man's been letting Elaine run his life for God knows how long. He was desperate for somebody to tell him what to do, even if it was me."

  "What'd you do, Cavanaugh? Just show up on his doorstep?"

  "He wasn't about to show up on mine."

  "I'd've kicked your ass, Cavanaugh."

  "I'd've kicked my ass, too." I snorted. "Fortunately, Arnold's quite the pacifist."

  "I'll say." Wilson shook his head. "But what does that have to do with me selling you this horse?"

  "Don't I deserve a break, Wilson?" I tried my best to look sad and vulnerable, then realized I wasn't dealing
with a woman and straightened up.

  Wilson appeared nonplussed. "I've given you lots of breaks, Cavanaugh. I gave you a job, and a roof over your head. Against my better judgment, mind you. I let you on the team, even though everyone questioned my sanity and I could've lost my job. So don't talk to me about giving you a break. I'm not some girl you can sweet talk into giving you whatever you want. I've got to think about my bottom line, too."

  A lot of people would've given up at that point. Wilson could present a seemingly impenetrable fortress. But I knew the precise location of a hairline crack that, when opened, caused all Wilson's walls to crash down around him. Sorry, Wilson, I thought, but you've left me no choice. I'm playing the Barbara card. "I guess neither one of us is going to get what we want," I said calmly.

  Wilson's suspicion level immediately went on High. "I don't like the sound of that, Cavanaugh. You better not be thinking what I think you are."

  "What else?" I asked. "Who else?" I smiled wickedly.

  Wilson's facade failed him instantly. "If I've asked you once, I've asked you a thousand times, Cavanaugh...there are a zillion women out there...you don't have to -"

  "We've been through this before, Wilson," I interjected. "I'm not interested in Barbara. And even if I was, I would respect your feelings for her. I have no desire to see you implode, Wilson, which I'm convinced would happen if I ever actually pursued her. And besides all that, she's not even interested in me. Barbara likes you, Wilson. Don't ask me why; I have no idea why she likes you, but -"

  "Is there a point to this?" Wilson interrupted. "Or are you just going to continue to threaten and insult me?"

  "I was getting there. The point is I can help you, Wilson. If you would just trust me, I could get you in the backseat of Barbara's Ford Mustang in no time at all, really."

  I was beginning to wear Wilson down. I could see that he wanted to believe me, but he was hesitant to believe someone who had so much experience in getting people to believe them. So I made my closing statement. "I will give you what you paid to ship the pony up from Florida," I said to him. "And if you are not in bed with Barbara before the year is out, I will give the gelding back to you and let you keep the money."

  Wilson looked like a drug addict who'd found a bunch of heroin by the side of the road. "You're awfully sure of yourself, Cavanaugh."

  "I'm gambling with my money, Wilson. You can't lose."

  Wilson stuck out his hand, and I shook it hastily, before he could change his mind. "I'll be over later with my checkbook and a trailer."

  "The vet's coming by tomorrow," said Wilson, who looked a bit dazed. "Don't you want a pre-purchase exam?"

  "Nah." I was already heading to my truck. "I like surprises."

  Elaine

  I was sober. My head throbbed dully, and it felt as if someone had ripped out all of my internal organs. I sat on the edge of my bed in a dress that sagged where it once fit attractively, longing for the comfort of the burn. The vertigo. The heavy drunken haze. I could see too clearly, think too clearly. I'd shattered the mirror on the wall with my fist some weeks before, but enough jagged pieces remained for my sick, haggard self to stare me in the face.

  I was barely eighteen when I met Arnold. I don’t know why he was passing through my little hometown. At the time I thought fate had brought us together. But once I took off the rose-colored glasses of youth and relative innocence, our chance meeting took on a darker hue. I now viewed it as punishment for sins I had yet to commit. Sins I might never have committed if it weren’t for my “good fortune”.

  Back then I was a young, vibrant beauty. Back then was twelve years ago.

  No one had money in Friedmont, Indiana, and no one had an imagination, either. The people were nice, the food was good. Everyone left their doors unlocked, their “valuables” in plain sight. It was the kind of town someone who had lived the high life would find refreshing. Comforting. But I hadn’t lived the high life, and I was desperate for a way out.

  When a black Ferrari pulled into the parking lot of the Friedmont Motel where I worked as a maid, it jolted the entire town. Everyone ogled that car shamelessly and speculated about its tall, dark and handsome owner. No one could look past the Ferrari and see that Arnold was five six and profoundly plain, even funny-looking, least of all myself. I wanted him for the expensive car, the designer clothes, the elegant lifestyle. I wanted it all, and I didn’t care how I went about getting it.

  Getting it was all too easy. Arnold knew how lucky he was to be wanted by me. He romanced me as well as he could, buying me pretty, shiny things and taking me out to lovely restaurants. Six weeks after we met, he proposed. My friends and family were envious and awestruck. I was gleeful. I left Friedmont in Arnold’s Ferrari, and I didn’t invite any of them to the wedding.

  At first, my new life was everything I had hoped for. Dreamed of. Lusted after. The wedding was beautiful and extravagant, the house magnificent. I loved attending the parties, benefits and other social events. It was thrilling to be a part of the high society I’d always admired so.

  Gradually, the thrill wore off. I realized that Arnold was an idiot who happened to have money. He’d done nothing to earn or deserve the millions at his disposal. Most of the people he employed were robbing him blind. I took control of his rapidly sinking ship. I fired the people who needed to be fired and hired people I could trust. I invested his money wisely. And of course, I took some for myself. I tried to fill up my life with various activities and material things. I told myself this was the life I had always wanted. But every night I had to come home to Arnold.

  My life had been steadily spiraling downward for years when Arnold suggested we go to the polo club. He’d been attending matches and contributing money since before we met. I’d never been interested, but I needed to get out of the house. It was starting to feel like a huge, elaborate cage with fine art on the walls. “Why not?” I said.

  I enjoyed the spectacle more than I had anticipated. The action was fast and furious, and it got my stagnant pulse racing again. I loved the tingle of excitement. I’d nearly forgotten how it felt.

  After the match was over, while Arnold was busy talking to his friends, I wandered off to admire the polo ponies. They looked funny with their shaved-off manes, but I admired their power, their sculpted muscles, and most of all, their freedom. They were confined to paddocks and stalls, true, but they were still freer than I was. I stood among the polo ponies, moisture pooling in my eyelids. It was there that I first saw him.

  He was leading one of the polo ponies back and forth along a stretch of grass. It was dripping sweat and white foam. It must have played in today’s match, I realized, feeling sorry for the animal. Then my eyes latched onto the pony’s groom, and I lost the ability to think or function.

  But I could feel. After being numbed by a life devoid of pleasure, the sensations that raced through me were all the more vivid. My heart hammered away in a staccato rhythm. My mouth dried up, then watered. Every part of me, even down to my soul, lit up.

  He was just fifteen, I later learned, but he looked older. He was fairly tall, and his lean frame made him seem even taller. His skin was fair, his hair dark and disheveled. His eyes looked like they could burn twin holes through a sheet of ice. They certainly burned through me.

  “Can I help you?” He asked, noticing me as I stood there in shock. His voice was pleasant, and just slightly rough. Though his eyes now focused on me, he kept the pony moving. I could see his manner with the pony was exceptional. The animal clearly had faith in him.

  I couldn’t say anything. I was afraid of what I might say. So I just smiled and shook my head. He turned back to the pony, giving it his full attention. I watched him rapturously until he led the pony into the barn. Then I came to my senses and went off to find Arnold.

  “There you are,” he said, beaming at me. “I was getting a little worried.”

  “I was just…looking around,” I said nervously. Please don’t touch me, I begged him silently as I c
ame within range of his hands.

  “So what did you think?” He asked me on the drive home.

  “I loved it,” I said hurriedly. “I’d love to go back anytime.”

  He looked so happy, I had to look away. I wasn’t in love with Arnold, and I didn’t want him. But I didn’t want to hurt him. He was dumb, but he was kind. He’d given me so much. I should be happy. This is what I wanted. The words repeated over and over in my head, superimposed over that young groom’s face.

  I was obsessed. It wasn’t healthy. It was wrong, and potentially destructive. But I had been gorging on money, art, couture clothes and “the high life” while I died a slow, torturous death by starvation. I told myself it was perfectly innocent. I was only looking, after all, not touching. And if looking made me happy, how could it be bad? I told myself I would never cross the line. By now I’d gotten good at lying to myself.

  Looking got me through five years of marriage. Five years of the high life. But I was starving. I couldn’t sustain myself by looking any more. The line became unimportant, nearly invisible. I staggered over it, my eyes clouded by desire.

  I knew he wouldn’t meet me with open arms. We’d been alone together before. I had made sure of it. He’d had numerous chances to cross the line, and he had never taken them, or me. Rejection didn’t stop me. It would have taken a bullet to the head to stop me. He didn’t want me, but I knew what he did want.

  He’d been playing polo for four years. He played brilliantly. He towered above everyone else I’d seen ride out onto a polo field, and I saw a lot of polo in those five years. He had the talent and panache to go straight to the top in his chosen sport. But without the required horseflesh, he was forever stuck at the lowly bottom.

  I approached him one day and made him an offer. Revulsion showed on his face, but he didn’t refuse me. I gave him time to think it over. It hurt me to think of him agonizing over this messy decision I’d thrown at him. I didn’t want to cause him pain, just as I didn’t want to hurt my faithful, clueless husband. But I needed what I knew he could give me.