by Jane Smiley
They loaded the horses and left before ten. Peter brought his saddle up from the tack room casually, and put it into the trunk. John glanced repeatedly in his direction, but there was no answering accusatory look. In all the conversation and argument about getting ready, the saddle was not mentioned. John felt incredulous and elated by turns. Teddy took his mood, and refused to go into the van until the very last minute. It was a beautiful day.
At the show, though they were hotter and busier than they had been at home, they were also happier. There was, after all, the pleasure of exhibitor status. One was careful of one’s number, businesslike with the tack, proprietary with one’s mount. Little children had to be shooed away, girls in shorts and halter tops had to be impressed, not only with equestrian skill, but as well by hauteur and a touch of testiness made forgivable by the amount one always had to do. With the other exhibitors, most of whom one hadn’t seen since last year, there were rumors to be shared and judgments to be traded about new horses. John made it known that he was only riding Teddy as a favor to his mother, who wanted to sell the horse this summer. “We decided not to bring any young horses,” he said to everyone. Beside him, Teddy grunted and closed his eyes. The Campbell girls, who rode matching chestnut ponies still, because fourteen-year-old Lisa had not yet gotten her growth, said, “Oh,” and moved on to look at Ellie Jacobs’s gray Thoroughbred off the track, a contender for the green conformation hunter championship if ever there was one. “Osselets,” said Kate. “That’s why he goes unsound off and on. Legs blistered at least twice, I’ll bet. If that horse is competing in August, it’ll be God’s own gift.”
MacDougal attracted every knowledgeable horseman and every spectator with an instinct for action. As he clattered down the gangway of the blue van, he made it clear that he had arrived. The set of his ears (rigidly erect) and the distance he put between himself and Peter indicated that this arena was broad enough for any activity he preferred to engage in, and that the choice was solely up to him. “Put him away instantly,” said Kate. “Don’t let him gaze too long at the crowd.” From his stall, he neighed continuously, like a stallion. In his adjoining box, Herbie got nervous, banged his buckets, and worked up a sweat. “Terrific,” said Kate. “Weeks of conditioning down the drain.”
But she was pleased to have everyone see that MacDougal was back on the circuit, still sound at fifteen, still more richly dappled than horses a third his age. He provided the perfect entrée into her favorite subject, the proper age for a horse to begin equestrian work (five or six, not two or three). “Last forever,” she could be heard to say as she strolled off with a friend from Chicago, and John was reminded that this would be the best thing of all. Who could keep her eye on whom in this kind of crowd?
Margaret expected to enjoy this show, for the first time in at least eight years, and maybe for the first time in her whole life. For one thing, she was too old now to ride in junior equitation classes, arguably the most competitive and nasty. For another, mother’s hopes and attentions rested elsewhere; Margaret could see that mother anticipated vindication in a number of realms. She could also see that the very crowds, the banners, the highly polished horseflesh owned by strangers, the booths of food and trinkets, the constant gleam and hum of cars, the voice of the ringmaster announcing everything to everyone, the organ music, the horses and riders and babies and dogs everywhere affirmed that nothing at all could be anticipated. She threw a fly sheet over Herbie, snapped one of the precious leather lead lines to his halter, and led him into the sunlight, noting in passing that MacDougal hadn’t deigned to touch his hay. She stuck her tongue out at him, then giggled. Lately she had encouraged her new feeling of protectiveness about Herbie, who always did his bit, never made trouble, and was oversensitive to the moods of the other horses. None of the family was to ride until the next morning, and she led Herbie away to find some secluded, and still grassy, spot.
The only other person in the small paddock they had roped off beside the creek was a blond boy of her age whom she had met the year before. He was grazing his horse, a bright bay Thoroughbred, and not the one he had been riding the year before, when she came up behind him. She said, “Oh, hi.”
The boy jumped and turned instantly, but the smile on his face disappeared when he recognized her. She stepped back. “Hi,” he said, with a tone of finality. In a moment he began to move his horse away, toward the pond. He was a very handsome boy, in perfectly cut canary breeches and a lovely pale blue shirt, who had only been showing for a couple of years. Margaret had never liked him or disliked him. She had noticed merely that he hung around with a hunt club crowd from outside of Chicago, all of whom had beautiful expensive horses and grooms to take care of them. Now, however, she felt odd. Not exactly hurt yet, but surprised, as if she had seen something insulting about herself written on a wall in a place she had never been before. Obviously he was waiting for someone, and had thought she was that person. Still, that didn’t explain the decisive way that his smile had faded, as if sometime, when she hadn’t been thinking of him, he had been learning to dislike her. Inexorably, and by perceptible degrees, her surprise turned to hurt. He was, after all, very handsome. His horse was down by the pond now, sporting a neat red fly sheet and red traveling bandages. The boy, whose name Margaret remembered was Matthew, looked over his shoulder in her direction, then moved farther away. Margaret had never seen anyone who in looks alone was as perfect. She felt her face turn hot and red, then she pulled Herbie’s head up from the lush grass and turned to leave the paddock. Another man was coming in, leading a gray Thoroughbred, still saddled, but with the girth loosened. This man was older, and dressed oddly in out-of-date, wide-pegged breeches and black boots with long brown tops. Margaret stopped impatiently for him to lead his mount through the gateway, so that she could make her escape. He seemed unpardonably slow. In a moment he saw her waiting. “Oh,” he said, “excuse me,” and flashed her a smile of such dazzling, consuming good fellowship that she in turn apologized and grinned. When she and Herbie got back to the barns, her cheerfulness had returned.
The next morning, when she was dressed up, tacked up, and warmed up for the first class (regular handy hunter over fences) she did not seem to herself to cohere to the activity as she once had. It was a good handy hunter course, with a number of tight turns (one was downright intimidating) and imaginative fences; Herbie was surprisingly full of energy, but her focus was different, panoramic. The Sterling girl was next to the railing with a broken arm, a boy on a gaudy buckskin was warming up to follow her, the ringmaster wore different boots from yesterday’s, Henry was sucking an orange in the bleachers. Her path around the jumps was no longer the corkscrew tunnel it had once been. She fully attended to only one fence, a huge post and rails with no groundline and spread with a fluttering tablecloth. Herbie leaped straight over it, wasn’t that a nice fresh breeze, those hotdogs smelled terrific, she eased him down to a trot, and was passing the buckskin in the gateway. The rider, probably John’s age, was staring fixedly at his booted toe. She and Herbie took fourth. The judge, Mrs. Elliot-Frobisher, said that Herbie was always amazingly handy for such a rangy animal, and Margaret only barely remembered to thank her, entranced as she was by the kaleidoscopic scenes in her peripheral vision.
John did no better in his classes, junior working hunter over fences, junior working hunter under saddle, but also no worse (a third and a fifth). Mrs. Elliot-Frobisher was at least not opposed to Teddy because of style, and Margaret suspected, in fact, that she rather liked him because he was old-fashioned in a heavy-headed, cobby, English way. Except for one practice jump, John did not have to whip him over his fences, and at the end of the day the relationship of boy and horse seemed almost positive. When Teddy farted twice in front of the Campbell girls (Margaret wondered if they weren’t hanging around John merely to get a chance to talk to Peter), John only chuckled at him and smoothed the two ribbons that hung from the bars of his stall.
Peter made a stir in the junior jumper cla
ss, but not as much of one as the little girl whose mount leaped out of the ring into the practice field, raced across that, scattering riders, horses, and trainers everywhere, then jumped out of that field into the parking lot, leaving the little girl, unhurt, on the roof of a blue Ford. MacDougal took all the fences, as it turned out, but also indulged himself in one of his famous statue halts, every muscle tensed, proud, stubborn. Peter’s response was to drop the reins and the stirrups and wait. Momentarily they were on their way again, having been eliminated for breaking gait, but still having cleared every fence with daylight to spare. Upon leaving the ring, Peter got an ovation.
Henry was around whenever he was needed, and as helpful as he could be with one hand always occupied by some sort of nourishment. Late in the afternoon, Herbie placed out of the ribbons in the handy hunter under saddle, because of an unaccountable refusal to take the left lead, but by that time Margaret was so distracted by the general scene that she was hardly aware of being in the class. This was certainly her favorite show ever.
The next day, the Campbell girls won the pairs abreast class and John started hanging around their end of the barn. They were undeniably alike, although not twins. Lisa, the older girl and the one John preferred, had been agitating for a year against continued existence as half of a matched set, but as much as she wanted a full-sized horse, preferably a skewbald or palomino, even she couldn’t deny that a winning streak such as she had shared with Beanie should not be lightly relinquished. She compensated by pretending sometimes to be sixteen (ridiculous given her height, which was four feet ten) and offering to kiss preferred boys on the lips. Of this number John hoped to be one. At her own end of the barn, Lisa teased him and Beanie watched.
“Would you kiss your horse like this?” She pecked her pony on the nose.
“We don’t kiss horses much at our place.”
“How about this?” She walked around and kissed his rump.
“Why kiss horses?”
“Don’t you love your horse?” This was Beanie.
“A horse is a horse. We’ve got fifty of them.”
“Peter said forty-two,” offered Lisa.
“Well . . .”
“Mrs. Elliot-Frobisher told my father that she thought you had too many horses to do them all justice.”
“My mother . . .”
“I kiss Lucky every day.” She deposited a row of loud smooches along the pony’s side, then patted him firmly on the shoulder. “That’s why we win.”
“Colonel Stanley says we win because we look like two peas in a pod.” Beanie pulled her cap down over her eye and threw back her head like Colonel Stanley. “Two very little peas, my dear!” she bellowed.
“I only kiss girls,” said John. Then he blushed.
“I’ll bet,” said Lisa.
“See for yourself.”
“Maybe I will.” She kissed the tips of Lucky’s ears. “Someday.”
“Want a Sno-Kone?”
“Sure, if there’s lime.”
“There was before.”
“Me too.”
“I’ll bet he doesn’t have enough money for three. Besides, you’ve been hanging around me all day.”
“I’ve got plenty of money,” said John. “That’s O.K.”
“Seventh graders!”
“That’s O.K.” But then he wanted to choke himself for undoing all the possibilities of privacy, of intimacy on whatever level. Though small and undeveloped, Lisa Campbell was pretty and practiced. There were nooks too in every barn.
“I like everything except orange,” said Beanie. “I went to a new school this year.”
“Yeah?”
“Look, if you’re going to be a leech, you can just as well shut up.”
“That’s O.K.” He wondered if getting a kiss was worth sounding like an idiot.
“Now, don’t you eat that,” said Lisa to Lucky, smoothing the blue ribbon hanging from the bars of his stall. “Lucky eats anything that doesn’t eat him first,” she remarked to John, who smiled, as she expected him to. On the way to the Sno-Kone stand he tried to keep close to her, because it seemed as if any passerby might peel her off and leave him alone with Beanie. She gave her attention to anyone: too eagerly, John felt, though in his annoyance he had to admit that when people complimented her on her performance it was only polite to thank them, and if they were friends of her parents, to pause courteously and reply to inquiries. Grownups, he had found, were always wanting to talk about this and that. One man stopped him and asked whether Kate was in the market for a really big half-bred three-year-old, and he had to listen and reply and speculate about mother’s whereabouts even though Lisa and Beanie were getting farther and farther ahead.
“What took you?” said Lisa, when he found them at the Sno-Kone booth.
“Jack Dean’s got some big colt for my mother.”
“We wouldn’t buy horses from him. Daddy says you never know where they’ve been.”
“Well, my mother’s smart enough to buy a horse from anyone and not get burned.”
“That’s what they all say.”
“Well, she is.”
“Are you going to pay the guy?”
Then the five-dollar bill fell out of his pocket, and he had to scurry about between knees to retrieve it before it blew away. Some of the change he got in return was sticky, and then he had to run a little to catch up to Lisa, who was wandering down the aisle of concession booths, inspecting candy bars and popcorn balls.
“Hey,” he said, “why didn’t you wait up?” but she didn’t answer, because the answer was clear to both of them. She shrugged.
“She’s nuts,” said Beanie. “Guess how old she told one guy she was? Sixteen! I mean, she doesn’t even pay full price at the movies if they don’t know her.”
“Big mouth.”
“It doesn’t matter. Not to me, anyway.” Even as he said this she shrugged again. “Look,” she said, “we’ve got to go get ready for the next class. Thanks for the Sno-Kone.” Their next class wasn’t for another hour and a half.
“Oh,” said John.
“Look,” she continued, now polite to him as she had been to the adults, “come around later, after we’re through. Maybe . . .” She gestured in Beanie’s direction, then smiled, her first real smile all day. His waning interest was renewed. Unlike almost every girl he knew, she neither had braces nor needed them. Hers were movie-star teeth, stained alluringly green by the Sno-Kone he had bought her. “O.K.,” he said. “O.K.!” She smiled again.
But Kate had different plans for them. In the first place, they had to be tacked up and outside the dressage ring before 7 A. M. and there were saddles to be soaped again and buckles to be polished. An early dinner was in order, and she wanted them in bed, lights out and quiet, by nine.
“Nine o’clock!” wailed Henry.
“You too. I’ll not have you roaming around when everyone else is in bed. You can just get up with the others and be a little helpful.”
“I think he’s been really helpful the whole time we’ve been here,” said Margaret.
“And why shouldn’t he be? Now get dressed, and we’ll find someplace nice to eat.”
Actually she was quite proud of them. They had shown themselves sporting and well-behaved, and had stayed in sight, or so it seemed whenever she looked around for them. The combined event tomorrow was what they had come for, but they had done respectably in their other classes. MacDougal had even taken a ribbon in the hunter hack class, a laughable entry, really, but good practice in staying calm for both him and Peter. The threat of shenanigans, since they hadn’t occurred, made the pair eye-catching, and exposed Peter’s equestrian tact to very good effect. A member of the Team, Kate was told, had called him “quite a lovely rider, with excellent hands,” and if nothing more came of the whole show, that might, in the end, be enough.
When she took them out to dinner, they were quiet and kept their elbows off the table, although Henry did insist on ordering a twenty-two-ounce steak
, and then eating it all. A man at a table near them, not a bad-looking fellow, had looked at Margaret for a long time, although Margaret, it had to be admitted, was a trifle on the dowdy side, with her mannish blouse buttoned all the way to her neck and the sleeves rolled down. Upon noticing the man’s inspection, she had blushed quite properly. Further, Margaret had spoken very pleasantly to Mrs. Elliot-Frobisher during their encounter in the vestibule of the restaurant. Mrs. Elliot-Frobisher had complimented Kate on what good riders her children were turning into, and had mentioned her pleasure in seeing MacDougal again. “Always a splendidly unpredictable animal,” she said. “Should have gone to the Team, if anyone could have ridden him. Of course, everyone always thought he was a woman’s horse . . .” Then she smiled at Peter in approval. Very gratifying, although Peter hadn’t the wit to utter a single audible thank you.
They had rain for the combined event, not much but enough to render the ground first slick and then muddy. Peter, unfortunately, was one of the first to go, and though his ride might have been called disgraceful with a normal horse, the fact that there were no halts, bucks, or disappearances from the ring (not even the low picket fence defining its boundaries was disturbed) meant that at least they weren’t disqualified. John and Margaret had somewhat better rounds, ending up fifth and fourth respectively when the dressage phase was completed and the sun had appeared, near ten. John was pleased in particular with the arc of his volts, though on the judge’s sheet his sitting trot was declared “sluggish” and his regular trot posting “lazy and unengaged.” “Wait till we hit the cross-country,” he muttered, just audibly enough for Lisa Campbell to hear when she loitered nearby and he pretended to be profoundly involved with the knot of his tie.