The Good House: A Novel

by Leary, Ann

  Even Wendy, who’s never sat on a horse in her life, let out a little squeal of delight at the prospect of glimpsing a newborn foal.

  “Can we ride in the back of the truck, Mommy?” asked Liam.

  “No, that’s not safe, sweetie,” said Wendy, but Rebecca said, “I always rode in the back of the pickup at my grandfather’s farm when I was a kid. Is it okay with you, Frank?”

  “They gotta ride in the back—there’s hardly enough room for us four up here,” Frankie replied, frowning. I could tell he already regretted his offer; he should have just let us walk. The boys squealed with delight as Rebecca lowered the tailgate. They climbed up into the bed of the truck and scrambled over the ropes and scraps of lumber and settled in next to an old lobster trap. Rebecca, Wendy, and I all squeezed into the filthy cab of Frank’s truck, and then we were driving past the barn and up to the field at the top of the property. That field really has one of the best views in Wendover. I had forgotten that, hadn’t actually been up there since I was a little girl.

  Rebecca had been quiet during her walk through the house, but now that we could see the ponies, she became quite cheerful and tried to engage poor Frank in a conversation.

  “Are they Welsh ponies?”

  “Yup, most of ’em,” Frank muttered. He glanced into his rearview and then hollered out the window, “You boys sit down on the floor back there. No hanging over the sides like that.”

  “My grandfather bred Thoroughbreds in Virginia,” Rebecca said. She waited for a response from Frankie, a response I knew would never come, so after a moment I said, “Is that right?”

  “Do the mares live out, even during foaling season?” Rebecca asked.

  “Yup,” Frank grunted. We hit a few ruts in the road and he slowed, checking on the boys in his rearview again.

  “My grandfather always thought that allowing the mares to foal in a field was healthiest. It was considered risky by other breeders. These were racehorses, you know, so some of the foals were worth quite a bit of money.… Oh, what a lovely little herd,” she said as we pulled up to the large grassy field.

  Frank parked next to a gate, and as soon as we got out of the truck, Rebecca cried, “There it is.” She was pointing to a little black foal that lay in a corner of the meadow, its nose resting in the grass. A gray mare stood over it protectively. The boys had jumped off the back of the truck, and Rebecca instinctively stepped in front of them. “Don’t go in the field with the ponies,” she said sternly. “Do you hear?”

  “What the fuck?” Frank said, which made Wendy gasp and look anxiously at the boys. Then Frank mumbled a series of just the most unspeakable profanities. I know Frank pretty well, and I’d never heard him go off like this. I, too, glanced at Rebecca and the boys, and I saw a look of astonished glee in the boys’ eyes. Rebecca was biting her lip, trying not to smile. Frank threw open the gate and stomped into the field. Rebecca told the boys, again, to stay outside the fence with Wendy. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, she and I entered the field, Rebecca closing the gate carefully behind us. The grass was wet with dew. She wore a pair of dainty flats, but she didn’t seem to mind.

  “So … what’s wrong, Frankie?” I asked.

  “What’s wrong is that foal don’t belong to that mare. They didn’t breed that mare this year.”

  Frank looked out over the herd of a dozen ponies and then he groaned, and we all saw it. A small black mare, covered in lather, was trotting frantically toward the gray and the foal, but when she got within about a dozen feet, the gray pinned her ears and charged the black mare, who had blood on her neck and her flanks, where she had been bitten over and over again.

  Frank climbed over the fence and grabbed a couple of halters and some rope from the back of his truck.

  “That gray is the boss mare. She’s had a few foals, but they decided not to breed her this year because of her temperament. She’s wicked mean and she was turning out witchy foals. One of them kicked me in the gut a few months ago,” Frank said. He stood for a moment. He was trying to think.

  “You mean that pony stole the other pony’s colt?” Wendy called from outside the fence. “That’s just … awful. Well, you better get that baby back to her real mother, Frank,” she shrilled, and I saw Frank shoot her a look. The poor black mare was now standing with her sides heaving. Milk was dripping from her udders. Frank started toward the gray, but when she saw him approaching, she nudged the weak foal to its feet, then herded it to the far corner of the pasture.

  Rebecca said, “Do you have any grain in that truck?”

  “No, but I was thinkin’ the same thing. I can run down and get some from the barn,” he replied.

  “Leave me one of those halters and I’ll catch the broodmare,” Rebecca said. “We really shouldn’t let her keep going after the foal. She looks exhausted.”

  “Thanks,” said Frank. He handed her a halter and lead and then jumped into his truck and sped off toward the barn. The boys and Wendy were sitting on a couple of large boulders, just outside the fence.

  Rebecca kept the halter and rope concealed behind her back and she approached the black mare, nudging aside the other ponies that were crowding her.

  “Whoa, Mama,” Rebecca said in a quiet singsong tone. She was heading for the mare but not looking directly at her. She made a few kissing sounds while swatting the other ponies away. “Shhhhh, Mommy, shhhhh.”

  When she was almost alongside the exhausted mare, she tossed the lead rope over her neck. The mare obligingly lowered her head so that Rebecca could put on her halter.

  “Be careful, Rebecca, your shoes! Oh, the poor thing,” said Wendy. “I had no idea horses could be so … mean.”

  Rebecca stroked the mare’s neck and ran her hands over her back, touching around her bite marks tenderly. The mare’s head drooped almost to the ground. She still had some filthy afterbirth membrane hanging from between her hind legs.

  “There, Mommy,” said Rebecca. “There.”

  Frank came back and managed to lure the boss mare away from the foal with a bucket of grain. He caught her, but by this time, the black—the actual mother—had lain down. The trauma of the birth and then the fight with the alpha mare had been too much for her. Her head was on the ground. Her eyes were glazing over.

  “Frank,” Rebecca cried. She had been trying to encourage the mare to stand up by clucking and nudging at her haunches with the toe of her little shoe.

  “Shit. Hildy, can you hold her?” Frank asked, nodding at the gray, who was now haltered and, amazingly, nibbling at the grass as if nothing unusual was going on. “She might lose it when we bring the foal to its mom. If she does, give her a good whack with the lead. I mean it.”

  I took the lead from Frank’s hand and watched him run over to the mare, who was lying only about ten feet from her foal.

  Frank poked at the mare’s side with his boot. “HUP, HUP,” he said. “Get up, you stupid cow.”

  “Wait,” Rebecca said, and she strode over to the foal, who was also lying down, exhausted, just a few feet away. Rebecca ran her small hands all over the foal. She moved her palms under his tail and between his legs, where he was still damp, over his limp testicles and along the bloody umbilicus that lay next to him on the grass like a pale, wet snake. Then she strode back to the mare and held her hands in front of her muzzle for just an instant—I swear it was that quick—and the spell took effect.

  Life, baby, blood, baby, lust, baby, the mare sucked it all in through her nostrils in one great wafting breath and then another. Then her eyes were open. She remembered something. Rebecca touched her muzzle again with her hands and then the mare’s eyes were wide and alert.

  Baby.

  Within seconds, she was on her feet. Frank led her over to the foal and then it all looked like a Disney movie. The mare nudged the weak foal, and he rose, once again, straightening those spindly front legs first and then those crazy crooked kickers behind, and soon he was rooting about for his mama’s udder, which Rebecca helped hi
m find by guiding his velvety muzzle beneath the mare’s belly.

  “Where’s their water?” Rebecca asked Frank.

  Frank grunted and took the bucket that had been filled with grain and carried it to a long trough at the edge of the field. He dunked the bucket in the trough and then carried it to the nursing mare, who drank from it in long, sucking gulps. Frank had been right. The gray mare did start to struggle with me when she saw the baby with his dam, but I barked at her and waved the lead toward her flank and she settled.

  We left the mare and her foal resting in the grass under a shady tree. Frank led the rogue mare to the barn and we wandered down with him, the boys running ahead of us. The mare balked once, when we were out of sight of her herd and her stolen baby, but Frank had had it with her and whipped her rump hard with the lead rope. “Move yer butt, Betty,” he growled, and the mare hustled through the gate.

  “She’s called Betty?” I asked, amused.

  “That’s what I call her. They call her some other damned thing,” Frank said. Now that we were on the other side of the fence, the mare had calmed herself somewhat. The night’s mischief had done a number on her, too, and we all entered the barn, with Betty walking placidly alongside us. Suddenly, the mare stopped, whipped her head around, and let out a long whinny. She was answered with silence.

  “Poor Betty,” Rebecca said. I looked over and saw her wiping tears from her eyes. She laughed self-consciously when she saw me notice.

  “I feel worse for her victim,” I laughed. “The poor mare whose baby she stole.”

  Frank had led the mare into a stall far down the barn aisle, and Rebecca whispered to me angrily, “It was cruel not to breed her and then leave her in with the foaling mares. It was evil.”

  So, the McAllisters ended up buying the Barlow place. They paid the asking price. And the Leightons sold off their ponies, all except Betty. Rebecca should have just asked them to throw her into the deal, but I think she paid for that nasty mare, over and above the price of the property.

  You used to see Rebecca riding the mare bareback down into the trails behind the salt marshes on warm spring afternoons, even before the house was finished. Rebecca was so petite, and the mare became quite plump. They made a nice pair, Betty and Rebecca. Rebecca would ride her with just a halter and a lead, and often she was barefoot, in a T-shirt and an old pair of cutoff shorts.

  I thought about Rebecca, in the predawn after the McAllister party, and it soothed me.

  I closed my eyes and no wickedness came.

  four

  If you saw Patch and Cassie Dwight around town, you’d think them a happy, well-adjusted couple, especially given their circumstances. But I had been trying to sell their house for over a year, and I didn’t know if I could sell it with them living in it, quite frankly. You didn’t need to be a broker or a shrink to see how altered and unbalanced its occupants were, all three of them. Outside, around town, Cassie appeared cheerful and capable, most of the time, but I had known her since she was a little girl and I was beginning to see a change in her, a hardening around her pretty edges. I saw it one afternoon when I stopped at North Beach to take a walk before attending an open house at a property nearby.

  There’s a playground at North Beach with swings and a jungle gym and usually a cool breeze off the Atlantic. I frequently walk on the beach and I know many of the young mothers who take their kids there in the afternoons, and sometimes I’ll stop for a chat. That day of the open house was the first time I saw Rebecca at the beach. She was standing, looking down at the water’s edge, with her younger son, Ben, playing near her feet. Cassie was seated on a beach blanket nearby, surrounded by a group of her friends.

  As with a herd of mares or a pack of she-wolves, there’s usually an alpha personality in any cluster of females, and in this group at North Beach most days, it was Cassie Dwight. Gregarious, outgoing, a lifelong Wendoverite, Cassie was the one everybody called to see if they should go to North Beach or to the school playground each day. She usually made the decision based on the weather and how her special-needs son, Jake, was coping on that particular day. Cassie remembered the birthdays of most of the other mothers and would often bring cupcakes for all, which thrilled the children and made the mothers exclaim at her generosity and goodness. With all she had on her plate! Her husband was the top plumbing contractor in the area, so Cassie had all the latest on who was doing what to their homes. What was being built and where. Who was using cheap materials, squandering money on imported marble, or trying to plant a rose garden too close to sea spray or road salt.

  It was a hot day, for June, and most of the moms were wearing what looked like last year’s slightly frayed, stretched-out bathing suits, which they were determined would see them through another season. The women who gather at the North Beach playground tend to be local women who grew up on the North Shore, in and around Wendover, and they hate spending money on new clothes when the old things will do. Most women who are newer to the area, whose husbands have bought up all the old estates or built new ones, spend their afternoons at the private Anawam Beach Club, or the few with deep-rooted connections to the local gentry join the Westfield Hunt Club, where they can golf, ride, or play tennis while the children frolic in the pool. Wendy Heatherton had urged Rebecca and Brian to join the Anawam Beach Club—had even offered to sponsor them—but, although I’d heard that Brian was quite interested, Rebecca never followed through.

  I waved to Cassie and her gang and wandered over to where Rebecca stood.

  “So nice to see you, Rebecca,” I said.

  She shielded her eyes with her hand so that she could see me in the midday glare, and then she smiled.

  “Hey, Hildy.”

  “Do you come to this beach often?” I asked.

  “Yeah, usually in the mornings. Ben loves the rockiness of this beach and Liam likes to skimboard.”

  I followed Rebecca’s gaze down to the water and saw Liam leap aboard a wafer-thin board and ride it across a thin lick of surf. His arms flew up in graceful arcs above his head and his knees were bent as he skimmed across the wake.

  “He’s quite good,” I marveled.

  “He could do this all day,” she said.

  Cassie and her group were seated a few feet away, and Cassie got up when she noticed me and wandered over.

  “Hi, Hildy,” she said, smiling, but she was looking at Rebecca.

  “Hello, Cassie dear,” I said. “Do you know Rebecca McAllister?”

  “We haven’t met, but I’m Patch’s wife—he did all the plumbing up at your place,” Cassie said.

  “Oh, of course,” Rebecca said, smiling warmly. She reached out and shook Cassie’s hand. “Patch is great; we love all the work he did.”

  “Thanks,” said Cassie. “I’ve seen you here before, but I felt weird about just coming up and introducing myself. We come here every afternoon around this time so the kids can play. You should join us.”

  “Oh, okay. Thanks,” said Rebecca.

  I was quite pleased that Rebecca was meeting Cassie. She needed to connect with other mothers in the area.

  Nine-year-old Jake had followed his mother over to us, and as Cassie asked Rebecca questions about how she liked Wendover, I saw that Rebecca was watching Jake out of the corner of her eye. He was sort of hovering over Ben, fascinated with the small boy’s truck.

  “We have lemonade,” Cassie said. “Would you like some?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Oh, no thanks, I’m fine,” said Rebecca. She glanced down at her son in the surf and then back at Ben. Jake was walking in small circles around him, but Ben, squatting and pushing his truck through the pebbles, was oblivious. Cassie strode back to her friends and their cooler for my lemonade.

  It was clear that Rebecca thought it odd that such a big boy was so keenly attuned to the much younger Ben.

  “Hi, Jake,” I said, but he ignored me, so I just smiled and said, “You’ve gotten to be such a big boy.”

  Just then,
Jake lunged at Ben and tried to snatch the toy truck from the boy’s hand. At first, Ben clung to the truck. None of the mothers, except for Rebecca and me, saw this.

  “Jake,” I said, “no, no … Jake.”

  “This is my truck,” Ben said earnestly, looking right into Jake’s eyes, but Jake just looked down at the truck for a moment. Then he jerked it from Ben’s grasp.

  “HEY,” Rebecca cried out, positioning herself between the two boys. “Why don’t we take turns?” she said.

  Jake ignored her and just squatted there in the sand, spinning the wheels of the truck with his hand and watching them turn. Ben was trying not to cry.

  “Hey, c’mon,” Rebecca said again, gently touching the older boy’s shoulder. The instant her fingers made contact with his shirt, Jake began a high-pitched wailing. He leaped to his feet and began springing up and down on his toes, flapping his hands in front of him. He flung the truck to the ground and turned in small circles, flapping, flapping and repeating the same high-pitched squeals.

  “Oh,” Rebecca said, seeing her mistake. “Oh, sorry…”

  “WHAT … IS … WRONG … WITH … YOU?” Cassie was instantly standing in front of Rebecca, shouting the words into her face. Rebecca looked over to see that the other women, who just a moment before had been engaged in lighthearted chatter, were now glaring at her.

  “I’m sorry, he’s so much bigger than Ben, I thought I should step in. I didn’t know…”

  “Know what?” Cassie hissed. Her face was scarlet with rage. Then she turned to try to calm her child. “Jake,” she said, “Jake…”

  I had no idea what to say, so I just smiled at Rebecca sympathetically.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Rebecca said.

  “No,” Cassie said, taking a deep breath and leaving Jake to his twirling and flapping. “I’m sorry, too. I guess you didn’t know. Jake has a severe developmental disorder.”

  “No, I didn’t know. I feel awful. I’m so sorry.”