“We don’t know that he ever has been.” Holy trout! “Most likely so, but not for a long time. Maybe only babies rode him. Lots of small ponies never get the training we’re going to give Pearl.”
Oh me oh my. What am I about to do for three fifty an hour?
“Where’s the saddle?”
“What for you want a saddle? You don’t have far to fall.” Happy thought! Mr. Flower’s eyes cloud over dreamily. “I bet Stephen will buy a saddle for Arthur. Western, I bet, with a saddle blanket embroidered all pretty.”
Maybe I can put off riding a moment more! “Mr. Flower,” I ask, “where does Arthur live?”
“Castlebridge, over Boston way. OK town. Grass and trees. Fields around. Arthur will rejoice to ride in those fields!” Mr. Flower’s eyes sharpen up. “Hey, what are we doing talking? We’ve got work cut out.”
He grasps Pearl’s chin and shoves a mittened thumb in his mouth. The yellow teeth open like gates, and in goes the bit. Pearl champs it while Mr. Flower adjusts buckles here and there. “Show you this trick later on the fence. No use practicing on old Pearl. He’s been bridled before, no problem with that. OK, Janet, up you go.”
Mr. Flower’s hands close on my waist. I’m a big girl, but he swings me up like a sack of feed.
And here I sit, on Pearl.
“Take your reins.”
“Can’t.”
“Let go his mane. Hold the reins. Palms down. Good grip, that’s right. I didn’t realize I’d be training the two of you!”
“You said you would. You said, ‘I’ll show you about horses, Janet Stone.’”
“Right, so I did. Hold on with your knees. You’re almost too tall for him. Now I’m going to lead him.”
Oof. Uff. Pearl’s shoulders—withers—move. His rump—croup—moves differently. I sway between the two. Good thing the ground is not too far down! If I could loosen my knees I could stretch a toe and touch snow.
“We’re going to turn here, Janet.”
Made it.
We walk the whole yard, past the fenced raspberry patch, the fenced garden patch, the shed, the cabin, all around the fence. We turn and go the other way. Rosy trots around us, interested ears twitching. Posy watches from the shed roof, tail tip twitching. I’m getting accustomed, swaying in a whole new motion, like a dance. This is OK.
Mr. Flower lets go of Pearl.
Pearl hesitates.
Lightly, Mr. Flower slaps his rump, I mean his croup, and says, “Tl tl.” Pearl and I walk on. This is OK.
We pass the apple tree, heading for the woods. How to turn Pearl? Pull the rein. Gently, cautiously, I pull the left rein and let up on the right one.
Holy trout! Pearl turns! We walk around the tree and back toward Hungry Hollow Road. I want to whoop my surprised delight, but that would startle Pearl.
We plod toward the road. Mr. Flower stands stooped by the fence, grinning. Out on the road stand Marigold Stass and her little brother Frankie, and their huge black dog.
12
Marigold and Frankie are looking for empty bottles to take to the store. Marigold has on her new brown shoulder bag and a small camera hung around her neck. Frankie’s got a plastic bag full of empties. They stare at Pearl and me as if they’ve never seen a horse and rider before.
My heart swells up like a balloon. Look, I want to shout, Look at me, Janet Stone! Me, Jannie! Look what I’m doing!
I feel as if Pearl is a prancing Lippizaner fifteen hands high, and I’m dressed in jodhpurs and shiny boots. How great that Marigold came by just now, when for once I’m doing fine!
I would like to send her a friendly, careless wave, but I’m gripping the reins too hard. Pearl and I plod quietly forward.
Little Frankie opens his mouth and points to us. He says something.
Marigold opens her mouth. She’s going to call hello!
Marigold throws back her head. She’s going to shout her amazed admiration for Janet Stone! I smile at her.
Marigold bursts into shrieks of whinnying laughter.
Marigold is not amazed, admiring, or impressed. Pearl and I are not impressive. We are a shaggy little pony and a big girl whose feet almost touch the snow.
Marigold screeches laughter. Laughter folds her up. She slaps her knees, arches her back. Laughter bursts out of Frankie, too. The two of them sound like hiccuping sirens. The dog sits down and howls.
Pearl jerks tight. His muscles bunch. He flings himself up and sideways. He spins around, tossing his mane in my face. He jumps up and down on his hind feet. This is not OK. I hold on with knees and feet and my fists in his mane. Forget the reins.
Stasses, be quiet! Don’t you see you’re spooking Pearl?
Shriek, screech!
Pearl thuds down into a dead run. I shut my eyes. We bound, we gallop, we jump something. Is this old Pearl churning snow, leaning into a bend, gallumphing, snorting? I hold on. I will not fly off in front of Marigold Stass!
Hey. He’s slowing down.
I hear “Whoooa” in Mr. Flower’s gentlest tone.
We skid to a stumbling stop.
Firm hands hold Pearl. I open my eyes. Mr. Flower grips the halter. Pearl trembles and pants. I want to slide down right now and plant my boots in safe snow. But I don’t.
“That’s the ticket,” Mr. Flower croons, patting Pearl’s neck. “You just sit tight. What did you do with the reins?”
I point. The reins loop limply down Pearl’s heaving sides.
“Never let your reins go, Janet. Pearl could trip and break his neck.”
The black dog’s howls die off into hiccups. I steal a furious glance at Marigold. She lifts her camera and takes my picture, I think. She and Frankie stagger away laughing, the dog at their heels.
Frankie jumps sideways and swings his bottle bag. Like Pearl he whirls and hops and takes off at a gallop. The dog bounds and barks. The bottles in the bag rattle like laughter.
13
“Jackie,” I say, “I don’t want to go back to school!”
Jackie nods. “Because Queen Marigold will tell her Court about you and Pearl.”
We’re stripping wallpaper in my room. I kind of like the old wallpaper, with its big pink roses and blue bows, but it’s stained brown and peeling, and Jackie says the big print makes my small room seem smaller.
I sponge the wallpaper with vinegar water and Jackie scrapes it off. Sometimes the paper lifts off in sheets. Sometimes she has to fight it.
Pulling off a sheet she says, “But what’s to tell, Jannie? You rode Pearl for the first time. You didn’t fall off, even when Marigold and Frankie spooked Pearl. What can Marigold tell the Court?”
“She’ll make it funny,” I say gloomily. “She’ll have them rolling in the snow. Remember, I’m really too big for Pearl. I bet if I hadn’t been on him myself, I might think it was funny!”
Jackie snorts and tosses her swinging braid back. “Maybe you could laugh a bit yourself.”
“Laugh?”
“Sure. Join in. That might snip Queen Marigold’s sting.”
Soaking a big pink rose with vinegar, I think about that. It might work. But the thought of all those hard faces … “They’ll be laughing at me, Jackie. Not with me.”
“Turn it around.”
“If Tough Jessie and Cute Irene and Fat Tunie will let me.”
“I hope you don’t say those names in public!”
“I don’t say anything. Nobody talks to me.”
“Aha.”
Jackie pulls, yanks, and draws off a long strip of wallpaper. Panting slightly, she says, “You don’t want them to get in the habit of leaving you out. That’s what happened to Mr. Flower.”
She scrapes the next strip. “People started leaving Mr. Flower out long ago, maybe when he walked out of school and went fishing. Now they don’t even know why they leave him out—it’s just a habit they’ve got into. They tell stories about him behind his back, but they don’t talk to Mr. Flower himself. Like, I heard he hasn’t spoken to the Stasse
s in years, since his goat ate their tulips.”
“That could be true.”
“Sure could. But it’s also true the Stasses haven’t spoken to him either!”
Jackie pulls and pants. Sweat rolls down her cheeks. “What I’m saying is that everybody’s got in the habit of leaving Mr. Russ Flower out of their lives. And we don’t want that happening to you.”
Thing is, it’s already happened.
14
Recess Monday is as bad as I knew it would be.
“Neigh!” cries Marigold. “Nei-i-igh!”
I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.
She goes on happily, “And then he sees us. Once he sees us, let me tell you!”
Gathered by the steps, the Court holds its breath. Every eye is trained on Marigold. The ears practically flap.
“He comes for us!” Marigold shrieks. “Teeth bare. Hoofs flying. If my dog Thunder hadn’t been there I don’t know what—”
I say sharply, “Marigold Stass, you know that isn’t true.”
Marigold whirls. “Here she is, all in one piece! You’re one lucky kid, Janet Stone.”
Between gloved thumb and first finger Marigold holds Cliff’s Friendship Ring. She was showing it around when she started this horse story. It gleams no brighter than her snapping eyes, or the faces of her Court.
Tough Jessie growls, “So what was it really like, Janet Stone?”
Before I can answer at all Marigold admits, “OK, I exaggerated a bit. He didn’t come for us. He was inside the fence. But he took off like—”
Caught up in the story, Marigold hands her Ring to Tunie. She goes on, gesturing and dancing.
“He took off like Superhorse, screaming all the way. Neigh, jump, rear, kick, plunge, buck…”
Marigold acts it out and the Court roars laughter. My face flushes hot in the cold air. “And me and Frankie, we just gape like this, we never saw anything like it. And my dog Thunder, he sits down and howls.”
I cry, “You spooked Pearl on purpose!” But nobody listens.
“And she”—Marigold flings a hand at me—“she sticks to that wild pony like Scotch tape. All she has to do is step off his back, she’s bigger’n him”—laughter—“but she hangs on like a rodeo. And they rush round and round…”
Marigold rushes off around the yard.
The whole school gets in on this act. All the little kids are running in neighing circles. The yard is in complete uproar, with everyone neighing and laughing. By the steps, Fat Tunie laughs so hard she swallows her bubble gum.
Struggling with the gum, she drops Marigold’s Ring on the top step.
One second the Ring winks and sparkles on the top step. Next second it’s gone.
Nobody notices because they’re laughing too hard.
The bell rings.
Gasping and sobbing laughter, Marigold staggers up to Tunie and holds out her hand.
Tunie looks at her and quits laughing. “What, Marigold?”
“My Ring.” Marigold quits laughing.
“Uh … I didn’t see your Ring.”
“I gave it to you.” Marigold speaks softly. The Court falls silent.
“Uh … well…” Tunie pulls her gloves off and shows her ringless fingers. She even turns out her coat pockets. “I don’t have it. It isn’t here.”
Marigold goes white and quiet. The Court holds its breath. Marigold murmurs, “You lost Cliff and my Ring?”
Tunie gulps.
The bell rings again.
Marigold whispers, “See you after school, Tunie Cake.”
She pushes between Tunie and me and up the steps.
The Court and the little kids elbow each other up the steps.
Tunie bites her lips. She searches her own pockets again. She squeaks like a caught rabbit, and whimpers. Then she follows the others.
No one looks at me. I pinch the hard, sharp Ring at the bottom of my pocket. I jam it way down to the bottom of the bottom of my pocket. I mount the steps.
No way is this Ring valuable. It’s not as if I’m stealing the crown jewels—this came out of some gum machine. This isn’t like real stealing at all. This is just getting back a little bit at that mean, mean Marigold.
15
Monday afternoon when I walk in the gate, Mr. Flower is milking Rosy. She stands on an old table that leans against the shed, and while he milks, she gobbles a panful of feed. Mr. Flower sits on the table to milk her.
Pearl leans out the shed window. He would love a bite of that feed! Posy sits by Mr. Flower’s feet, licking his chops.
I ask, “Is that milk for Posy?”
“Posy and me.”
“You drink goat milk, Mr. Flower?”
“Well, sure. You drink cow milk.”
“That’s different.”
“Not when they milk it, it’s no different.”
Actually, I’ve never seen anyone milk. I know milk comes from cows the way I know the earth circles the sun—books say so.
I move closer. Rosy smells of sweet hay. I touch her warm side, watch her milk foam in the pan.
I say, “Goats are supposed to smell bad.”
“Only the buck. Doe smells sweet as clover. You want to milk, Janet?”
“No.” I step back.
“Marigold Stass can milk.”
“I bet.”
“My, yes. That smart Stass kid can change a tire, sew a fine seam, milk a cow. But I bet she’s never milked a goat.”
Mr. Flower shows me how. “You shut your fist here, keep the milk up in the bag. Now you bump the bag a bit, like a nursing kid would do.”
“A baby goat?”
“Right.”
“Does Rosy have a kid?”
“Most does have to kid every year or so, or the milk dries up. But my Rosy just milks on and on. Look here now.”
You press your fingers down, one by one. Mr. Flower milks best with his good hand, but he can even press his finger stumps. “Practice makes anything perfect, Janet. Here, you try before Rosy finishes that feed up.”
I sit on the table, my nose in Rosy’s side. I don’t really want to grasp her teats, but I do. They are warm and full. I can feel milk in them, like air in balloons. They fit my hands neatly.
“Bump,” says Mr. Flower. “Squeeze down. That’s how. Don’t be scared of it. Lean into it.”
Bump, squeeze down. Bump, squeeze down. This is OK. Foaming milk hisses in the pan. I’m really leaning into it when Rosy quits eating. She peers around at me and raises a hind hoof over the pan.
Mr. Flower snatches the pan. “Feed’s gone. I’ll finish her up. You did good, Janet, first time.”
I was enjoying that! Disappointed, I stand back with Posy and watch.
Mr. Flower says, “My Connie always loved her goats.”
“Connie?”
“Connie Fisk, she was. From Indian Hill. ’Course, we went to school together.” In that one-room school that’s now the town office. “Never were friendly there. I liked snakes and spitballs too much. Whoa, Rosy, a minute here…”
Rosy stamps small, impatient hoofs. In the shed window, Pearl shakes his snowy mane and blows.
“Then after school I went to work for LeDuc, and Connie made ladies’ hats over in Cummington. Clever with her hands, Connie always was. One minute, Rosy. And we forgot each other. There.”
Mr. Flower picks up the full pan. Rosy jumps down off the table and nuzzles him. He rubs her ears.
“But every other Saturday was square dancing at the grange hall. I used to go. I rejoiced to dance! Used to walk across the LeDuc farm and the Bennett farm, and down Main to the Center, ice and snow, hail or rain. And then I’d dance with Connie. Wait till I put this milk away.”
Mr. Flower goes in the cabin. Tail high, Posy follows him. Rosy bounds up on her rock pile. In the shed window Pearl nickers, stretching his nose toward the empty feed pan.
I pick it up. It smells of molasses. I hold it up so Pearl can lick at the smell, which is all Rosy lef
t.
Mr. Flower comes back. “I’ve told you, Janet, the day Pearl works like an ox is the day I give him feed.”
“I know. He’s just smelling it.”
“You couldn’t handle him with feed in him! He’d jump over the moon! Ponies get excited.”
“You were saying about the dance, Mr. Flower.”
Mr. Flower rubs Pearl’s forehead and goes on with his story.
“So after-while I commenced walking Connie home after the dance. Indian Hill wasn’t exactly on my way. But Connie had changed after school! Put her hair up in a soft brown bun. Got rounder. And she would listen to me! I could talk to Connie.
“So then one winter night, stars bright, snow crunchy, I popped the question. Didn’t mean to, it just popped.”
I’m hearing an old-fashioned love story! “Connie was your wife!”
“For forty years. And we always had goats around. And we had Stephen.”
“Here? Did you live right here for forty years?” With the goats, and Stephen.
“Glory, no! We lived a bit in every part of town. Started out with Connie’s folks on Indian Hill. Stayed a bit with my folks in Bug Hollow. Had a farm on Sugar Hill, got burned out. Stayed with my Grandma Cook in your house.”
“Our house!”
“That was the old Cook farm. I was born there.”
I am really surprised! My mouth just hangs open as he tells me more about our house and its people, and the old days.
16
Wednesday at recess, Queen Marigold tells her Court, “I made Cliff’s birthday cake.”
The Court has shrunk. Maybe half the eighth-grade girls cluster around Tunie, over by the gate. Now that she doesn’t have to listen to Marigold anymore, Tunie’s become a storyteller. I would mosey over there myself, but Marigold is showing snapshots. I hang over Cute Irene’s shoulder to see them.
Marigold says, “It was Cliff’s nineteenth birthday.” Nineteenth! Holy trout, what can a man nineteen years old see in Marigold?
She says, “Here’s the birthday cake I made. Chocolate. With ‘Happy Nineteen Cliff’ in sugar sparkles.”
The Snow Pony Page 3