The Snow Pony

by Anne Eliot Crompton

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  Copyright Page

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  This story is for Frances,

  Adhi, Phoebe Jane, Alexander,

  Jeremiah, and all readers.

  1

  I’m ambling home from school down Hungry Hollow Road. Trees stretch gray fingers to the gray winter sky. Clouds hang low like my heart.

  I’ve been in this new school here in Winterfield since Christmas, and I still haven’t found one friend.

  Back in Holyoke, where I come from, Maria was my friend. Maria was plump, like me. Her eyes and hair were black, where mine are brown. She laughed all the time, and didn’t let me mope. Here in this lonesome, woodsy place I mope a lot.

  There goes Marigold Stass waltzing along ahead of me. She hears me splashing slush behind her. Does she turn around, wave, wait up?

  She does not. Nose high, she marches in the back door of her big old farmhouse on the left, and slams the door. Nobody in Winterfield uses their front door. That’s just one of the weird things around here.

  Hungry Hollow Road is a dirt road with ice furrows. Woods close in on both sides. Bears and wolves stand in snow and grin at me. I look again, and they are branches and rocks. Back in Holyoke there were always lights and people. Winterfield is mostly spooky woods and snow.

  The next house on the right is spookier than the woods. This is Mr. Flower’s house.

  Kids giggle or scowl when they say, “Mr. Flower.” He’s some kind of mad hermit. I’ve never seen him yet, and I don’t think I want to.

  His house is just a cabin. Low smoke drifts out of a pipe in the roof. The yard is fenced with leaning wood posts and chicken wire. An old, twisted apple tree with a tire swing stands in the middle of the yard.

  I walk fast here, and watch the yard from the corner of my eye. I feel the cabin door may burst open any second, and Mr. Flower may peer out at me.

  Holy trout! A bit of dirty gray snow is rolling about under the apple tree!

  I walk more slowly, watching.

  The dirty gray snow heaves and squirms and kicks four legs in the air.

  Watching, I stop.

  The snow scrambles up and shakes itself. It jumps up and down and turns into a small, shaggy horse. He tosses a wild mane out of wild eyes and swishes a matted tail. He snorts.

  I jump.

  The little horse looks fierce. But there’s a fence between us. I’m safe. I move a bit closer, watching.

  The horse paws the snow and shakes his head. He bucks, then trots around the apple tree. Without his coat of dirt he would be white as the snow pony the Stass kids made in their yard last week. Cleaned up and cared for, he might be pretty. But I don’t like the way he lays his ears back and bares his long yellow teeth. I’m glad of the fence between us.

  A voice in my ear says, “You’re the new girl.”

  I whirl. A stooped old man stands just inside the fence. He wears patched jeans and a huge patched sweater. Smiling through his white beard, he says, “You’re Janet Stone. Your mother teaches at the high school. Correct?”

  I back off. I prickle and blush as always when I meet someone new. But I manage to say, “That’s right.”

  “You like my Pearl.” He nods toward the fierce little horse.

  “I—he’s … cute.” I don’t add that he’s the first living, breathing horse I’ve ever seen close up.

  “I got him at the auction for my grandson, Arthur. Arthur’s ten. Are you ten, Janet Stone?”

  “I’m thirteen.” Can’t he see that? I’m big enough, too!

  “I’m Russ Flower,” says the old man. “You want to meet my Pearl?”

  “Well, no, I—”

  Mr. Flower marches over to Pearl and grabs a rope halter almost buried in fur. Pearl snaps his teeth and digs his hoofs into snow. Pearl doesn’t want to meet me. Mr. Flower drags him up to the fence anyhow. Pearl glares at me.

  Mr. Flower says, “Pearl’s shy. He’s had some rough handling somewhere, and maybe no handing at all for a while. But we’ll straighten him out good for Arthur.”

  A horse should be beautiful. Pearl is ugly. His coat stands out stiff and filthy, his back caves in, he’s got leathery flaps on his stubby legs and a scowl on his face.

  Mr. Flower says, “Let him smell your hand, Janet. Then you can pat him.”

  “No thanks, I—”

  “Come on! Somebody has to make the first move, and it won’t be Pearl.”

  I don’t see why either of us has to make the first move.

  Quick as a snake, Mr. Flower grabs my hand and shoves it under Pearl’s nose. Pearl and I both pull back so hard we jerk loose. Pearl snorts, wheels, and tears off, spattering snow.

  Mr. Flower asks, “What do you think? You want the job?”

  “Job?”

  “Well, see, Pearl needs a lot of work to get ready for Arthur. He needs gentling, grooming, feeding. I can do all that. Then he needs riding, training, exercise, and I can’t do that. Someone your size has to do that. I’ll pay two … two fifty … three dollars an hour. Every day after school. What do you say?”

  I’m too surprised to answer.

  “Three fifty an hour. Can’t go any higher.”

  There’s a snowstorm of confusion in my head! “Fact is,” I mumble, “I don’t know all that much about horses.”

  Mr. Flower grins through his beard. “Don’t you worry, Janet Stone! I’ll show you about horses!”

  2

  I used to want to call Jackie “Mom.” She wouldn’t let me. “I don’t call you ‘Daughter,’” she would say. “Why should you call me ‘Mom’? My name’s Jackie.”

  Jackie’s my height, but heavier. She wears jeans and sweaters everywhere, even at the high school where she teaches shop. This used to embarrass me in Holyoke, where other mothers went to work in high heels. But here in Winterfield Jackie fits right in. Her brown-gray hair hangs in a thick braid to her hips. Her square hands are always busy. I think she bought this rattletrap farmhouse to keep our hands busy fixing it up. It sure is a comedown from the neat apartment we had in Holyoke. It was small, but the plumbing worked.

  We moved here from Holyoke so Jackie could teach at the regional high school. We moved to Holyoke so Jackie could go to school so she could learn how to teach shop. Before that we lived with my dad in Hartford. A tractor-trailer hit my dad, and he’s dead. I don’t remember him.

  Jackie has a snapshot of him on her bureau. He’s in army uniform, and he’s leaning against a car on a bright street, with his arm around Jackie. He looks thin, but she’s half in front of him, so I can’t be sure.

  To know a person’s looks you have to see him front, back, and side, in different clothes, doing different things. I can only see my dad leaning against a car on a bright street with his arm around Jackie.

  I tend to look sharp at dads. Once I saw Maria’s dad. He was small and quiet and dark. Maria said whenever he got mad he turned into a whole different person.

  I’ve seen Marigold’s dad. He’s short and heavy, with
big hands. I’ve heard him roar, “Marigold!” or “Sophie!” or “Frankie!” I’ve heard him laugh, too.

  I don’t remember my dad’s face or hands or voice. All I know is, he liked to draw pictures, like me. But the pictures are all lost.

  Now Jackie and I are scraping pink paint off a high cupboard. I kneel on the kitchen counter. Jackie stands on a chair.

  “So, Jannie,” she says loudly, over the scrape-scrape, “what do you think? Do you want the job?”

  “I think so.” It would be better than coming home to an empty house every day. Jackie doesn’t get home till five.

  “I went to see your Mr. Flower,” Jackie says. “I saw your Pearl, too. They’re about equally odd.”

  “Did you see Pearl’s teeth, the better to bite me with?”

  “Aha! Mr. Flower will teach you how to handle Pearl. That’s what I like about this job for you—you’ll learn a lot.”

  So she won’t stop me working for Mr. Flower! He didn’t scare her off. I say, “I like the three fifty an hour myself.”

  “Money never hurts. But there’s one thing, Jannie.” Jackie tosses her swinging braid back over her shoulder. “You’re to stay outdoors.”

  “Well, sure. I’ll be working outdoors.”

  “I don’t want you inside that cabin, or the shed. Ever.”

  “What shed?”

  “It looks like part of the cabin. Pearl lives in it.”

  “OK, I won’t go inside. But why not?”

  “Because we don’t know Mr. Flower.”

  “Holy trout, Jackie, we don’t know anybody!”

  “He seems like a harmless old man minding his own business. But we’d better be careful. After all, he might be a werewolf.”

  “A what?”

  “Maybe when the moon is full he turns into a wolf.”

  “Oh, Jackie!”

  “You’ll always be safe outdoors. You can run faster than Mr. Flower.”

  “I can jump on Pearl and gallop away.”

  “After Mr. Flower shows you how. Careful with that scraper, Jannie, you’re gouging the wood.”

  3

  I keep a pad, pencil, and markers by my bed. Sometimes, before I sleep, I draw a picture. Tonight, I draw my new job. Pearl.

  I start with his head, his beady eyes and snappy teeth. This almost scares me. I crumple that sheet and start over. I draw Pearl jumping around in snow. The way he moves, I know he can be pretty. Under that dirty winter coat of his, he’s got style.

  This isn’t Mr. Flower’s Pearl after all. It’s a snow-white Lippizaner stallion, dancing on his hind feet. His mane and tail float like dandelion fluff. When I pencil in shadows, his sleek coat shines. This is OK!

  Now on his back … is me. I’m thin. I sit up straight and hold the reins gracefully, in one hand. My pants—I mean jodhpurs—are brown, like my boots. My coat is … blue. All around us I color black clouds, which make the stallion shine whiter.

  There. That’s OK. Another touch would spoil it.

  I leave the pad open by my bed. First thing I’ll see in the morning will be me on a snow-white horse. My new job.

  4

  I hate recess.

  Back in Holyoke it wasn’t this bad because my friend Maria was with me. Maria is round and brown. She has black eyes that spark, and a cloud of black hair that can crackle. She has a warmth in her that helps you to feel good even when you don’t.

  Maria and I would sit on the school steps at recess and watch the boys rush around like savages and the girls gossip in knots. And after a while this warmth of Maria’s would steal over me, and I would turn to her and talk.

  Maria got left out of the gossip knots because she talked funny, and wore real silver earrings that swung, and her brothers were sort of wild, always getting in fights.

  I got left out because Jackie wouldn’t buy all the stuff you needed to be in one of those knots. You needed a big floppy sweater and printed leggings. You needed a magnetic notebook, orange sneakers, a beaded headband, something new every week. My allowance wouldn’t stretch for all that. And Jackie tossed back her braid and snorted, “Hah! Forget it!”

  She didn’t have to explain to me. I knew how much money she made, and how much we spent for rent and hamburger and gas and all that. We just couldn’t manage printed leggings.

  Now here I am in Winterfield, all by myself without Maria. I’m cold inside and out, and recess is the worst part of my day.

  All the eighth-grade girls are in the Marigold Stass group. They cluster around Marigold as if she’s the Queen and they are all her Court. Fat Tunie, Cute Irene, and Tough Jessie stand closest to Marigold. The rest form a circle with me outside it.

  Marigold is telling a Cliff story. “Cliff turned his ankle last night so he couldn’t change the tire. I had to change it for him.”

  Cliff is Marigold’s boyfriend. He gave her the red, gleaming Friendship Ring she always wears. He goes to high school and drives his dad’s Chevy. Everyone knows all that, but no one has met Cliff. And no one else has a boyfriend.

  “We were coming home from the movie,” Marigold says, “and the tire blew on Indian Hill.”

  Cute Irene purrs, “What were you doing on Indian Hill anyhow?”

  Tough Jessie growls, “Not on your way, exactly.”

  Marigold tosses her golden curls. “Never you mind. Anyhow, there we were, midnight—”

  “Come on, Marigold!” Fat Tunie pops her bubble gum.

  “OK, maybe ten thirty. Late. And the tire blows. And Cliff’s got this swelled ankle, he can’t hardly drive with it. So he gets to hold the flashlight and I change the tire.”

  Tunie asks through gum, “He told you how, blow-by-blow description?”

  “My dad taught me to change a tire before I could push one. My little brother Frankie can change a tire!”

  The Court sighs an admiring sigh. I don’t know how to change a tire myself, though Jackie does.

  Cute Irene asks, “Did you wear the blue dress you made?”

  “Sure I did! Cliff noticed it matched my eyes.” I’m not much for sewing, either.

  Pale winter sunshine flashes on Marigold’s curls, on her red Ring, and on the admiring faces of her Court. I shift my freezing feet and sigh.

  Later I’ll walk home alone down Hungry Hollow Road. Marigold will march ahead, nose to sky, pretending I’m nowhere near. All alone I’ll come to our new, old house that needs so much work. The house will be loud with silence, full of emptiness.

  But then! Then I’ll tear into my jeans and trot back to work for Mr. Flower!

  When kids say, “Mr. Flower,” they wrinkle their noses as though his name was “Mr. Skunk.” I don’t see anything that bad about him.

  He’s old and twisted up. Jackie says that’s from years of very hard work.

  He likes to talk. No one here would believe how much Mr. Flower talks to me! Jackie says that’s because he’s lonesome.

  He’s crazy about his grandson, Arthur. I don’t believe half of what he says about Arthur. I don’t believe Arthur is the smartest boy in his whole school, or that he won first prize in Massachusetts for figure skating, or that he saved a baby from a fire.

  But Jackie says Mr. Flower believes all that. “He’s just crazy about his grandson. He thinks about him all the time.” I wonder if my Grandpa Stone, who lived out in San Francisco, was ever that crazy about me.

  Mr. Flower says that between us we can make Pearl beautiful and gentle for Arthur, so Arthur will rejoice to see him. We can turn suspicious, bad-tempered Pearl into a dream pony.

  Thinking about that I feel almost warm. Queen Marigold Stass and her Court almost fade away in the winter sunshine.

  Wait for me, Pearl! I’m coming to work with you!

  5

  Mr. Flower says, “Hold him good, Janet. Like this, under his chin.”

  “But he’s tied, Mr. Flower.”

  Pearl is crosstied. Two ropes lead from his halter to two far-apart iron staples in the outside shed wall. He stands
rigid, but his eyes have a wicked glow.

  “’Course he’s tied! But you want to hold his head right up, else I might get kicked.”

  I hold Pearl under his chin. He shivers, and I can’t help but sympathize. He has no idea what these two humans are going to do.

  Snow spits down from the low gray sky. Posy, the old white tomcat, sits curled on the inside of the open shed window, watching us. His ears and tail twitch. Posy, too, wonders what we’re doing.

  “It’s OK,” I murmur in Pearl’s ear, “we’re just going to take off your warts.” Mr. Flower calls those leathery flaps on Pearl’s front legs “warts.”

  Mr. Flower crouches in snow. In mittened hands he grips a pair of huge scissors. “These are trimmers,” he says. “Mostly I use them on raspberries, but they’ll do this job.”

  Pearl’s right eye glares down at those trimmers. His ears turn back. I wouldn’t want those used on me either!

  Mr. Flower says, “My grandson, Arthur, read a book in school about horses. Wrote a paper on it.” With one slow, steady crunch he slices off the first wart. “Arthur got an A.”

  In my book, Mr. Flower gets an A! Pearl doesn’t seem to notice the cut.

  “See, doesn’t hurt. Like cutting toenails. Now we just trim up a bit.…”

  He fishes a knife out of his jeans and flicks ragged wart edges off Pearl’s leg.

  “They sent Arthur’s horse paper for me to see. That’s why I thought to buy Pearl for Arthur.”

  “Who sent you the paper, Mr. Flower?”

  “Stephen, of course. My son.”

  “I didn’t know you had a son.”

  “Glory, how would I have a grandson without I had a son?”

  “Well, you might have a daughter.”

  “Ha ha, that’s true!” Scrape, scrape. “No, I’ve just got my son, Stephen. And Stephen’s got Arthur.”

  “Is Stephen married, Mr. Flower?”

  “Married. Oh my yes, Stephen is married.”

  Mr. Flower flicks the knife shut and drops it in his pocket. He runs his mittened hand over the black mark where the wart was, and up and down Pearl’s leg. Pearl snorts and stamps.