Dark Horses

by Susan Mihalic

  I expected Daddy to light into me as soon as we were alone, but he was tight-lipped on the drive back to the hotel. What I’d done wasn’t the worst thing in the world. He’d have been more pissed if I’d failed to move up in the standings.

  The voice in my head whined with justification.

  In the lobby, again mobbed with show people, we accepted congratulations on my new first-place standing. Daddy smoothly fulfilled his role as proud father-trainer-coach, but every comment on my time was another bullet in his arsenal.

  We endured an uncomfortable elevator ride. The doors parted, and Daddy strode toward our rooms, somehow taking up the whole width of the hall so I was forced to tag along behind him.

  He unlocked the door to my room. “Get cleaned up and changed.”

  “Are we going to the party?” There was always a big party the night of the cross-country phase. Usually it was fun, even though Daddy never let me stay long.

  “No. We have reservations in an hour.”

  “Who are we having dinner with?” At shows, we often dined with executives from the companies whose products I endorsed, Romolo Madrid Saddlery and Clox Sports and Fitness Watches.

  “No one,” Daddy said.

  Great. Dinner for two with Daddy.

  I showered, dried my hair, and put on a black skirt and soft white cashmere sweater. Mostly I wore riding clothes or my school uniform, but Mama shopped all the time, and she often came home with something for me. I thanked her, but I couldn’t have cared less about clothes.

  Daddy knocked on my door, freshly showered himself, every inch the athlete he’d been before I was born, the rider who had single-handedly generated popular interest in the rarefied sport of three-day eventing. He’d been introduced so often as the face of eventing that his teammates had taken to calling him “The Face.”

  I followed him through the parking lot to the Land Cruiser. At six o’clock, the sky was dark and the streetlamps had come on. I fastened my seat belt. He did not. He never wore a seat belt, and after he retired he’d stopped wearing a helmet when he rode. Daddy the Invincible.

  The restaurant was dimly lit, elegant. Tiny lamps glowed on the tables.

  He ordered a bourbon and branch for himself, milk for me, and Chateaubriand and Caesar salad for both of us. When the waiter left, he said, “What time did I tell you to turn in?”

  Here it came. At least we were in public. He would never display a bad temper or poor manners in public. Even in private he seldom yelled. Sometimes I wished he would—until he did, and then I was reminded that his persistent icy-calm logic was preferable.

  “Seven-five, seven-ten.”

  “What time did you turn in?”

  “Six thirty-seven.” I didn’t bother with the fractions.

  “Why did you not follow my instructions?”

  “I wasn’t thinking.” Not true. I had been thinking. My mistake.

  “Nor were you looking at your watch or listening to me. Nor did you grasp that seven-ten was more than fast enough. You won today, but you may lose tomorrow because of it.”

  “It’s a twenty-five-second difference.” My argument was weak. Half a minute didn’t mean much in everyday life, but it meant a lot in cross-country.

  “Twenty-eight, to be precise. Or thirty-three, if you’d ridden it in seven-ten. The effort it took leaves Jasper with less for tomorrow. It was irresponsible. It shows immaturity and lack of judgment. All you had to do was ride the way I told you to.”

  “I’m sorry. But the way cross-country used to be run—”

  “Long form requires different training. No one else rode like you rode today. Their horses are going to be fresher tomorrow because they weren’t misused today.”

  “I didn’t—” I’d been about to say I hadn’t misused my horse, but I had. There was no excuse for the way I’d ridden. “I’m sorry.”

  He lifted two fingers to get the waiter’s attention and signaled for another drink.

  “Frank regrets selling him,” he said.

  The seemingly casual comment deflated my lungs. He was threatening me. In my lap, I clasped my hands in a bone-crunching handshake. “It won’t happen again.”

  When the food came, I downed a few bites of meat and drank my milk. I wasn’t the equestrian Daddy was, but I was a better rider with better judgment than I’d exhibited today. Daddy, having made his point, didn’t rub it in, but neither did he recant his threat or try to make me feel better, although he was the one person who could have.

  As we walked down the hotel hallway—side by side this time—he said, “I’m fixing to call your mother. You want to talk to her?”

  The last thing I wanted was a strained conversation with Mama.

  “No, sir.”

  He kissed my forehead. “I’ll wake you up in the morning. Love you, darlin’.”

  “Love you, too, Daddy.”

  In my room, I crawled into bed fully dressed. He didn’t often make threats, but his coaching style wasn’t all positive affirmations, either. He reserved his charm for the public. It drove me crazy sometimes, the man I knew versus the man everyone else saw.

  What had me wound up at the moment was the threat of losing Jasper. I had other horses. Their talent equaled his, and I won on them, too, but I’d fallen in love with Jasper; we’d had an instant chemical attraction, a perfect connection. He was magic, and when we were together, I was magic, too.

  Daddy had no patience for romanticizing. I was a professional. I was expected to act like one.

  I glanced at the minibar but had enough sense not to raid it. Unable to take the edge off, I faced facts. I’d stupidly disregarded Daddy’s instructions today. He had an almost supernatural understanding of horses and riding, not to mention more experience and talent than anyone else I’d ever met. He’d literally written The Book on Eventing.

  He hadn’t actually said he was on the verge of selling Jasper; the threat was more subtle. Still valid, but Jasper and I weren’t in immediate danger. All I had to do was ride the way he told me. I could do that.

  I led his threat into a stall in my mind. The barn was getting crowded.

  I changed into my nightgown and got back into bed with my lit book. Midterms were next week. Excellence was expected on all fronts.

  I’d read a few pages when I became aware of Daddy’s television from next door. No, not his TV. His voice.

  I got up and pressed my ear to the wall between our rooms.

  “By the way, she moved into first place today.”

  His tone suggested Mama should have asked but hadn’t. The conversation was like every other conversation they had, Daddy full of heavy-handed implications, Mama responding with a complete lack of engagement, regardless of the topic.

  Their unhappiness was my fault. Some parents might have told a little white lie about their child’s date of conception, but Mama had made it clear that Daddy married her only because she was pregnant. She’d been more than willing to have an abortion. She’d told the same stories so many times they’d lost their power to hurt me, except for one, the story about her moving my crib from the small nursery adjoining the master bedroom to a room at the opposite end of the house.

  “But we won’t be able to hear the baby cry,” Daddy had objected.

  “Exactly,” Mama had replied.

  Had the things that were wrong with my family started there, with a screaming baby who needed to be silenced? My first nursery had been converted into a closet, the second nursery had become the same bedroom I’d slept in all my life, and I still couldn’t be heard at the other end of the hall.

  The hotel walls were much thinner than the walls at Rosemont.

  “You keep combining pills and bourbon, and I’m going to come home and find you dead.”

  That would be inconvenient—police, medical examiner, unfavorable publicity, the embarrassment of an overdose. People asking why.

  I took the TV remote from the dresser and climbed back into bed.

  “You’re out of
your mind,” Daddy said.

  I switched on the TV and turned the volume loud enough to drown out his voice—too loud for me to keep reading. I closed my book and turned off the lamp and channel-surfed until I landed on an old black-and-white movie, and the strange too-fast cadences of the actors’ speech, their not-quite-British accents, lulled me to sleep.

  * * *

  SINCE I WAS in first place overall, I would ride last in Sunday’s stadium jumping, but we were at the park early because Daddy wanted to see what Jasper’s energy level was like and how he was moving after yesterday’s ride. I had some concern about that myself.

  Eddie led Jasper around the stable yard and reported he had eaten his usual hearty breakfast. Daddy checked his legs and satisfied himself that they were cool. There was another vet inspection by the same panel who had evaluated the horses on Thursday. Jasper was sound, eager, and energetic.

  About half an hour before show jumping was to start, the course was posted on a bulletin board outside the open-air arena.

  Daddy took it in at a glance and moved aside to allow me to study it and to make room for other riders, who were jostling to see it. Bree stepped on my foot and didn’t apologize.

  It took me maybe thirty seconds to memorize the pattern of the course, subject to the striding and turns Daddy would advise. I’d follow his instructions to the letter.

  “Riders, you may walk the course,” came over the loudspeaker.

  I turned away from the bulletin board and found myself eye to eye with Bree.

  She smirked. “Nice job yesterday.”

  “Thanks. Sorry you had such a poor finish. It’s a terrible way to go into today.”

  That unsettled her. I saw it in her eyes.

  “Good luck,” I said cheerfully, and I joined Daddy by the gate, where coaches and riders were already streaming onto the course.

  The brightly painted fences and pots of flowers flanking them were festive in the early-morning sun. More than half the bleacher seats were taken, and people were still getting settled.

  “Roan,” Daddy said.

  “Just checking out the crowd.”

  “Check out the course. You have to anticipate what might be a problem for him.”

  Tight turns could save time and ground but you risked leaving your horse unbalanced coming into a jump, which could result in downed rails. I sized up the trouble spots: short distances between fences at the start of the course; the seventh fence right by the in-gate could tempt Jasper to duck out; tall bushes after eleven might make him think we’d taken the last jump, which could cause him to jump flat, but around the bushes was one final obstacle, a black-and-yellow wall oxer.

  At each fence, Daddy gave me his advice, and I was pleased that it echoed my own solutions, but even if it hadn’t, I’d have done what he said. All I had to do was ride the way he told me.

  We sat in the stands and watched the competition. Rails came down. Riders were disqualified. Bree’s round went badly. Sophie Archuleta rode brilliantly until her horse shied at the wall oxer and she came off.

  Daddy stood up. “Let’s go warm up.”

  I was already dressed except for my tie, hunt jacket, and helmet. I put them on while Daddy saddled Jasper. He walked us over to a warm-up arena, where he stood with one foot propped on the lowest rail of the fence and Jasper stepped out smartly in an extended walk. Under me, he felt good—not tired, not misused. My spirits rose, and after a couple of circuits I nudged him into a trot and then into a canter.

  In the adjacent arena, Frank Falconetti raised his voice. “Don’t sit against him, Mike. He’ll flip his head and not see the fence.”

  I looked over. Michael shortened Charlatan’s reins.

  “No,” Frank yelled, “you’re making it worse. Try again.”

  Jasper and I took some practice fences, Daddy occasionally prompting from the sidelines but mostly just watching. Finally he inclined his head toward the gate. Michael and Frank were gone. The warm-up arenas were empty. It was time.

  * * *

  THE ARENA WAS quiet as we entered.

  The opening circle, taken at a lope, allowed Jasper to see the fences and the judges to see us. All the horses still competing had passed this morning’s vet check, but the judges wanted to observe each horse’s fitness for themselves.

  We triggered the timer as we approached the first jump. I aimed Jasper at the middle of the fence.

  We were still in the air when I sighted the second fence. One stride into the landing, I took him into the curve that would give him more distance, two more good strides before taking off.

  I knew before his front hoofs touched the ground that we had to take seven strides to the brick wall. An eighth would throw him off. I squeezed with my calves.

  Jasper’s takeoffs were strong, he cleared the fences with inches to spare, and he landed without breaking the rhythm of his canter. We finished the course with no faults in a respectable sixty-eight seconds, tying with Michael and Charlatan—and thanks to our cross-country results, that meant I was not only the youngest rider ever to compete at the invitational but also the youngest winner.

  We lined up with Michael and the third- and fourth-place competitors in the middle of the arena for the awards presentation. The president of the show park handed me a heavy silver cup and clipped a big blue ribbon to Jasper’s bridle, and we took the traditional victory canter around the arena.

  I patted Jasper’s neck as we trotted out the in-gate, grateful beyond words to him.

  Daddy took the silver cup. I dismounted and rubbed Jasper’s ears and pressed a kiss between his eyes. “Thank you,” I whispered. I thanked Mateo and Eddie, too, before they led him off. Daddy walked with them for a few paces, giving Eddie instructions for the ride home while I accepted a congratulatory kiss on the cheek from Frank, who looked happy for me and pleased for Michael, who had placed second. I tried not to imagine Michael winning on Jasper.

  “How’s Jamie?”

  “Back home. Doped up, so he’s not in too much pain.”

  Daddy returned empty-handed. He’d passed off my trophy to Eddie or Mateo. I’d have liked to hold on to it, but the important thing was the win, not the cup.

  “Think you’ll make it Thursday?” Daddy said to Frank.

  Thursday? Oh. Thanksgiving.

  “Planning to.”

  “Great. Ready, darlin’?”

  “Monty.” Vic approached us. “A word for the camera?”

  We gave another interview to Vic, and now that I’d made up for my cross-country sins, it was easy to smile, to be gracious and generous, to be with Daddy. Afterward I autographed programs for a gaggle of preteen girls made giddy by the very idea of horses and posed for pictures with them.

  Eventually we started for home. Middleton was thirty miles behind us when Daddy said, “You lucked out, darlin’.”

  The glow of winning dimmed. I recognized the truth, and behind it the veiled reminder that my future with Jasper wasn’t a given. I’d have to work to keep my horse.

  - three -

  WHEN WE GOT home, I found Mama passed out on the living room sofa. The lights and the television were on. She got spooked when she was alone. Once upon a time, I’d kept her company when Daddy traveled, but then I got older, and her drinking got worse but still didn’t create enough of a buffer between her and her family, so she’d added pills. After that I’d begun accompanying Daddy when he taught his clinics.

  Tonight he’d driven down to the barn to do the walk-through. I left my bags in the entrance hall and checked on Mama.

  Unconscious, when she couldn’t say things that hurt, she was beautiful. She lay on her back, one hand thrown over her head, her long, shiny black hair tumbling around her shoulders.

  I touched her shoulder. “We’re home.”

  No response.

  “Do you want supper?”

  “You back already?” She turned away, snuggling into the cushions.

  I turned off the television and most of the light
s and took her highball glass and the bottle of Maker’s Mark from the coffee table. I left the bottle by Daddy’s place in the dining room.

  I put the casserole Gertrude had left us in the oven and took my bags up to my room. Mama wouldn’t be at the table, so I didn’t bother to change clothes, but I washed my hands and face before I went back downstairs.

  The warming casserole smelled rich with Cajun spices and andouille sausage. At least once a month Gertrude prepared a dish from her native New Orleans. Daddy disliked heat, so she went lightly on the cayenne, but the andouille would have a bite.

  He came in from the back porch. “Where’s your mother?”

  “Living room.”

  After he passed through the dining room, I went to the kitchen door and cracked it open to listen: labored sigh, receding footsteps.

  I was tossing the salad when I heard him again.

  “Kit, you need to eat something.”

  Food was one of many battlegrounds they fought on. Mama was thin, like a coat hanger, and determined to stay that way. She watched what I ate, too, to Daddy’s annoyance. And mine. In eventing, strength was more important than thinness.

  Mama’s speech slurred.

  “Fine,” Daddy said.

  I checked the casserole. I was ravenous, but Gertrude didn’t believe in microwaves. She said they robbed food of nutrients and changed its texture.

  Daddy pushed open the kitchen door. “Supper ready yet?”

  “It would be if we had a microwave.”

  He smiled briefly.

  “I’ll serve the salad,” I said.

  Polite conversation was encouraged at meals, so as he made his drink, I said, “Midterms are this week. My lit exam is tomorrow.”

  A groan came from the living room. I was disturbing Mama’s coma.

  Daddy didn’t even blink. “You study this weekend?”

  “Some. I need to review everything.”

  When we finished the salad, I took away the plates and salad forks. In the oven, the casserole bubbled at the edges, but the middle was cool. Good enough. I scooped Daddy’s portion from around the outside and mine from the middle.