Training Harry

by Meghan Namaste

  I raised the longe whip slightly, and Twinkle’s ear flicked back at me. “Twinkle, can-ter,” I said with authority.

  The pony stepped into a smooth canter, his balance steady and level. His white mane lifted in time with his strides. Maggie’s hands went to the pommel and her legs crept up a bit, but her seat stayed in the saddle, swinging back and forth. Once she got used to the motion, she let the front of the saddle go, and a smile broke out on her face.

  After a few minutes, Twinkle started to look tired, so I brought him down to a walk. “Nice job,” I said to Maggie.

  She looked over at me, a grin on her face. “That was so fun! I love galloping Twinkle. I haven’t gotten to do that since I first got him.”

  I didn’t bother reminding her about the difference between a canter and a gallop for the umpteenth time. It would just get in the way of the moment. “You should dismount now, but I think we can keep incorporating some canter work into your lessons.”

  “Great!” Maggie jumped off her pony.

  “Remember to run your stirrups up, and then you can walk him. A couple times around the ring each direction should be sufficient.”

  Maggie secured her stirrups. “Then can I brush him?”

  I smiled. “Of course you can.”

  Maggie took a step away from me and then paused, fishing a barely-creased 50 out of her pocket, which she handed to me. “Here, don’t forget your money.”

  “Oh, thanks,” I said. I still had serious reservations about a seven year old carrying around that kind of cash. But it was nice to be paid. “I’ll see you next Thursday. Good riding today, Maggie.”

  “Thanks, Erica!” Maggie bounced off, pulling Twinkle behind her. I laughed at his long-suffering expression.

  I walked back up to my truck, and as I drove down the Allsteens’ driveway at a leisurely speed, I thought about how things had changed. I used to dread coming here. I used to peel out of here like lightning. But Maggie had turned around. Maggie was getting easier every time. And Harry was getting immeasurably harder.

  Harry was progressing. He was trusting. His defensive shape was changing, his extravagant, creative evasions were coming up less and less. But when I went to work Harry, I saw Lawrence, and Lawrence sent electric, cattle prod-sharp sensations through my chest.

  There was an unspoken order to the world, I knew. I didn’t have a chance with Lawrence. I was undesirable to lesser men. He would end up with some undeniably, almost ridiculously beautiful woman like Amber, because that was how things went.

  I was like an electrician. I was only valued for the service I rendered.

  My eyes flooded. I stopped thinking and just drove.

  Eloise was standing in her paddock when I got there. She took up all the sunlight, reflected it in her polished-steel hair. It was hard to believe her career was over. She looked racing fit even after months of stall rest.

  I felt like crying all over again. “Life isn’t fair, is it, Elle?” I said.

  She looked right at me, in that unnervingly direct way of hers. Between the fence boards I saw the bony lump on her left hind. Eloise gave me perspective. Her torn-up mouth, her scarred leg. The memories lodged in her grey matter. She was still standing. She was strong. Her presence told me to keep going. She told me not to succumb.

  Lawrence

  Amber had driven off somewhere earlier in the day, but when I led Vegas out of the field I saw the Harley parked next to my truck. When I turned Vegas out, he looked a little forlorn when Harry failed to slam into him. Ever since I’d moved the old grey mare into the paddock closest to Harry’s, he’d become obsessed with her. He spent his days walking, running or at passage along the fence line, chatting her up while she ignored him completely. Whenever I took the mare into the barn, Harry got hysterical to the point where I worried about him blowing through the fence. I realized how far he’d come in his training when I quit fantasizing about Harry injuring himself to the point of no return, and started fearing it instead.

  I wandered into the house and opened the fridge, surprised and almost startled to find it fully re-stocked. Shrugging happily, I pulled out a triple-chocolate cake, set it on the counter and grabbed a fork. My focus was such that I didn’t see Amber until she was almost at my side.

  “Hey, thanks for shopping, Amber,” I said. “That was really nice of you.”

  “Don’t get too excited. I took your wallet with me.” She walked off.

  Oh, well. It was still a pretty big gesture for Amber. “You have excellent taste in cake,” I said to her. “The only thing that would make this better is some Oreos.”

  Amber’s head swung back. “You eat like a five hundred pound woman on her period, Lawrence.” She stalked off.

  The remark bounced off me. The sugar was starting to hit my bloodstream, and I felt too good to care about much of anything.

  When I’d carved out a section of cake, I stuck it back in the fridge and found Amber on the couch. “Did you leave me any money?” I asked her.

  “What, you ate everything already?”

  “I need to go to the feed store. Your horse cleaned me out of Equishine this morning. And I‘m low on PerforMax.”

  “She’s not my horse. And you might have enough money. If you don’t get any PerforMax.”

  “Thanks, that’s really helpful.” I picked up my wallet, which felt heavy. That was a bad sign. It was probably down to mostly change.

  Amber picked herself up off the sofa. “I’m coming with you.”

  “Good, you can help me pay for the Equishine.”

  “I don’t have any money. I’m going to look at horse treats.”

  I tried out Amber’s own Death Stare on her.

  “And sometimes they have job postings,” she threw in.

  “Sure.” I walked out the door with Amber right behind me. She jumped in the passenger seat like an enthusiastic Labrador retriever. I suppressed a smile as I started the engine.

  “What are we listening to?” Amber demanded after maybe 30 seconds.

  “Heart,” I answered.

  She got that hate-filled look. “I can’t stand this singer. She’s so shrill.”

  I turned to face Amber, swerving a bit. “Shrill? You think Ann Wilson is shrill?”

  “That’s what I said.” Amber stared me down defiantly.

  I shook my head. “You’re tone-deaf.” Probably from listening to all that over-processed, digitally enhanced Top 40 shit.

  “Whatever.” Amber slouched in her seat, glaring out the window. I left the music on to torture her, but only for a few minutes.

  When we got to the feed store, I quickly scanned the parking lot, but I didn’t see a new-model, shiny, hunter green F-250. I parked and shut down my truck, feeling a little twinge of disappointment, and also like a total idiot. I stepped down from the cab and walked purposefully into the store. Unsurprisingly, Amber blew right past the bulletin board where people posted flyers. I glanced at the counter. “Oh, good, Mandy’s working today,” I said mainly to myself.

  Amber backtracked. “Mandy works here?” She spit the words with venom.

  I shook my head. “Not chicken Mandy. Feed store Mandy.”

  “Thanks for clearing that up.” Amber wandered over to a display of work gloves.

  I stepped up to the counter. “Hey, Mandy.”

  Mandy put down the celebrity gossip rag she’d been reading. She was a round-faced, pleasant person who knew pretty much everything. About everyone.

  “So, Lawrence,” she said, eyeing me curiously with her large brown eyes. “I haven’t seen much of you lately.”

  “I’ve been laying low,” I told her.

  “He’s mostly been laying the neighbor,” Amber said from somewhere behind me.

  “Thanks, Amber,” I said over my shoulder. “Weren’t you going to look at horse treats?”

  “I was, but I think I’ll stay here,” she said with artificial sweetness.

  I glared at the back of Amber’s head. She was going to m
ake it impossible for me to find out what I really wanted to find out. I turned back to Mandy. She had her poker face firmly set - a look of total, complete cash-register-induced boredom. That was how she knew all she did. Mandy never pried or appeared interested in anyone’s business. She hardly spoke. She listened, and let people talk around her. Mandy heard things.

  “Heard anything about Barbara Wellings and what’s his name?” I asked Mandy resignedly. “Really wealthy, son of an oil tycoon?”

  “Hugo Chevron?”

  “Sounds about right.”

  “Can’t say I have. What are you looking to hear?”

  “That they’re falling apart. Easily broken up. Somebody cheated. Something along those lines.”

  A little bit of surprise crept into Mandy‘s default expression. “I didn’t know you were into Barbara.”

  “I’m not. But Wilson is. I’m trying to help him get with her.”

  “And I take it that’s going well?”

  I snorted. “Absolutely. It’s the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

  Mandy glanced off to one side. “The manager is coming. What can I get you today, sir?”

  I laughed low in my throat. “I need 50 pounds of Equishine.”

  Mandy’s fingers skittered over the cash register, typing in the code for the vitamin supplement. “Oh, you have $50 in store credit. Would you like to use that today?”

  I stood there, pleasantly bewildered. “I do?”

  “Yes, sir. Okay, the manager’s gone.” Abruptly, Mandy dropped her professional-employee act. “Last Wednesday, this girl came through here, picked up some of our free-range chicken fat lip balm and a French vanilla Likit, and she left you fifty bucks in credit. Didn’t leave a name or anything.”

  “Okay…what’d she look like?”

  “Tall, dark brown hair, brown eyes, nice boobs, great butt.”

  “Well, that narrows it down.”

  “Not my fault. So do you want to use that credit?”

  “Of course. Why don‘t you add on a 50 of PerforMax, too?”

  Mandy obliged, and called in my order to the warehouse. I turned around to find Amber staring directly at me. I almost fell backward into the counter.

  Amber grilled me the whole way home. “So this chick, who you don’t even remember, left you credit?”

  I stared through the windshield. “I’m sure I know her. I just don’t remember who she is, precisely. Although, I’m pretty sure she might be this one girl. As I recall, she didn’t have a horse, but she really liked certain horse treats. Likits especially.”

  Amber shuddered. “Gross.”

  “Hey, Likits are pretty good,” I said in defense of the girl, whoever she was.

  “This from a guy whose blood probably resembles chocolate syrup.” Amber rolled her eyes. “Does this happen often?”

  “You insulting me? Happens all the time.”

  “No, dumb-ass. I meant, do you often get store credit and shit from girls you barely remember?”

  “It…does happen,” I said cautiously.

  Amber turned her head away and stared moodily through the window. “Must be nice.”

  I shut up, because I had no idea what she wanted me to say.

  I drove slowly down the road, watching for chickens. Sometimes they would be in the ditches, and an especially dumb few would make a panicked suicide run across the road when they heard a vehicle coming. Chuck was out in Mandy’s yard, working on his Jeep. He looked up from the innards of his car as I drove past. I raised a hand awkwardly. Amber snorted. “That guy really hates you.”

  “If he can’t deal with the open relationship thing, he should get the hell out of there,” I said carelessly. That wasn’t quite how I felt about the situation.

  “He’s probably gonna snap and fucking kill you one of these days,” Amber said glibly.

  I shook my head. “Nah. Chuck wouldn’t make that big a stand.”

  “You’re a moron. You gotta watch out for those weedy, repressed types.”

  I thought about Chuck for a while after that. Amber kind of stuck him in my head. I didn’t really believe what she said, but it did keep me off balance.

  Erica

  I stood by the side of my trailer, holding a lead rope attached to a spinning Thoroughbred. Charged by the slightly frantic atmosphere and palpable human and equine nerves, the young, slight ex-racehorse was wound and dangerous. He had forgotten how to stand still, the fairly vital skill he’d only recently learned. This was problematic for me, since I was supposed to be tacking him up for his baby green hunter class.

  I took him away from the trailer, to an empty space in the field full of rigs, horses and people, and let some slack into the rope. “Want some grass?” I asked the gelding. He circled me at a rapid, post-parade walk, his big eyes focusing on everything except the grass. Wow. Too stressed to eat. “Poor thing,” I said to him. “Alright, let’s keep walking.”

  I led the young Thoroughbred through the maze of trailers, and he hovered at my shoulder, never rushing ahead. He was trying to be good. He was just in sensory overload, and concerned about what was expected of him. I rubbed his neck reassuringly.

  After making a couple wrong turns, I found my dad’s trailer. He looked up from the half-booted legs of a jumper he was tacking up. “You should get him tacked up. The classes are really flying.”

  “About that.” I stopped, and the gelding shifted nervously in place. “Yield seems really stressed. I don’t think he’s ready to go in the ring yet.”

  “Yield?” My dad looked at me in slight confusion.

  “Right Of Way is too long to say all the time. He needed a barn name. As I was saying,” I began as Yield started a nervous piaffe, “I don’t feel right about riding him when he’s clearly not dealing well with this new setting. I don’t even know if I can get him to stand long enough for me to tack him up. I think he needs to just learn that it’s okay before we start asking him to perform.”

  My dad stared at me somewhat wearily. “Fine,” he said.

  “Thanks,” I said, and I led Yield away. I got the sense that he wasn’t particularly fine with my decision, but my priority was the promising young horse I’d been handed, and his welfare. Pushing Yield past his comfort level at this stage of his training would cost us far more than we’d gain.

  Back at my trailer, I tied Yield next to D.M., hoping my older, calm horse would give poor Yield some security. I had to get Assault ready for his fast approaching class. We were moving up to three feet, since 2’6” was cavalletti to Assault. The gelding stood well as I tacked him up, and I checked on Yield before I led Assault off. He was starting to sample the hay in front of him, seeming to prefer what was in D.M.’s hay net. I smiled and clicked to Assault. He followed me to the warm-up ring, where we joined the swarm of riders. I rode defensively, keeping my eyes well open. I knew what I was riding.

  We held it together for several tense minutes, with horses all around us, passing progressively closer. Assault simmered and glowered, his ears flat on his skull. Seeing an opening, I turned him toward a practice fence. I felt Assault lock onto it and drive forward. Then I saw a reedy little horse cut across our line, right in front of Assault’s nose. I just barely registered that Mark DeWayne was in the saddle before Assault dropped his front feet into the sand and whipped around, firing with both hind legs.

  I slammed my legs into him as hard as I could, and reached back to sting him with the crop. Assault plunged forward, flinging his head against my one-handed hold. “DON’T EVER DO THAT AGAIN!” I roared. Then I turned him back onto the line, and he charged over the jump. The crowd parted as we rode back into the fray. I looked around for Mark. He was cantering around on the little bay. It looked like they were unscathed. His horse must have scurried away in time.

  I rode up beside him. He looked up at me with fear in his eyes. Why don’t you cut in front of me again? Idiot. I passed him by, staring straight ahead.

  In the ring, we had another easy, almost sloppy c
lear round. As we waited, on deck for the jump-off, I noticed a bit of a crowd assembling.

  When our number was up, I rode into the ring, staring down the fences. Come on, Assault. Take this seriously.

  I rode assertively forward over the start line. Assault tended to drag his feet unless I made things more difficult for him. I pushed him for more at every fence, building to a reckless pace, almost amazed when Assault never touched a rail. Our time put us way out in front. I was just relieved to have maybe redeemed myself from the warm-up debacle.

  Later on D.M., I found myself pushing, taking back, micromanaging his every stride. He obliged, leaning and getting heavy, allowing me to carry him. I felt exhausted by the end of the round. The rails stayed up, but I knew we’d been slow.

  In the jump-off, I had to ride the narrow line between leaving the rails up and putting in a competitive time. D.M. felt sluggish. He worked hard to get around the course, and I could see our time growing. I asked for more speed, and he took rails. I failed at both my main objectives.

  As I sat on D.M. waiting for the jump-off to be done, I watched the remaining horses and riders skip over the course. No one seemed to struggle, no one flailed desperately to clear the fences. I wished I could recreate the effortless feeling Assault gave me over fences with D.M. Assault was a brilliant athlete, but temperamentally he was a ticking time bomb. D.M.’s trainability and loving nature had taken him a long way. But I don’t know if he’ll ever be a Grand Prix horse.

  That was the first time I’d ever let myself consider that possibility. It hung in my mind like a veil, coloring everything darker. D.M. moved underneath me, cocking a hind leg so the saddle rolled to one side. I slouched crookedly in the saddle and reached to stroke his broad shoulder.

  D.M. wasn’t suffering. He had held up to the training thus far, and he was fortunate not to have the capacity to dwell on bad rounds. My investment in him was considerable and multifaceted, but it wasn’t as if had any other Grand Prix prospects to invest myself in. I straightened up. We would stick with my plan, at least through the end of the season.