by Jane Smiley
Over supper, Danny and Jerry talked about our local rodeo in the summer. Danny had taken his horse, Happy, in a few roping classes, and Jerry, who had been standing by the railing, had admired her. He said, “She almost had you off that one time, remember that? She just spun and you were lucky to hang on.”
Danny laughed. “Well, she’s quick and she never saw a calf she didn’t want to boss around.” Jerry took Beebop to the rest of his appointments on the rodeo circuit, and Danny went back to work shoeing, and it was only when Jerry came over to Marble Ranch looking for a place for the winter that they had recognized each other. Mom asked Jerry where he was from, what his folks did, all that stuff that moms do, and Jerry said he was from San Francisco, his dad and his uncles were all butchers, he had grown up in Little Italy up there.…
Dad said, “You didn’t grow up on a ranch?”
“Right downtown,” said Jerry. “Four houses from the corner of Mason and Union.”
I don’t think I’d ever seen such a surprised look on my dad’s face. Both Mom and Danny laughed.
He said, “And you’ve ridden bulls?”
“Not well,” said Jerry. “But it was something I wanted to do all my life, from the first time I saw rodeos on the TV.”
He had been on the rodeo circuit since May, but now he was going back to college, San Jose State. He was a sophomore—sort of. He said, “Since I skipped the first quarter, I’m kind of a slow sophomore. But I wanted to try it. I thought by the end of the season I would have made up my mind, but I haven’t.”
Dad said, “About what?”
“About school. Sophomores are supposed to choose their majors, but I haven’t made up my mind about that, either.”
I saw Mom glance at Danny, but Danny was focused on his chicken leg. Mom was always hoping that one of Danny’s friends who went to college, like Leah Marx, for example, who had been maybe in some way and by some stretch of the imagination his girlfriend and who had gone up to Berkeley in August, would serve as a good example and lead Danny out of horseshoeing and cattle roping and into a nice safe career as an accountant.
Dad knew we were now on shaky ground and didn’t say anything.
The pictures were very impressive. In fact, the pictures were a little scary. There were six of them, each one from a different rodeo, five in California and one in Nevada. Beebop was in the arena with a rider sort of on his back. He had no saddle, just the rigging that they strap where the front of a saddle would be, with a handle for the rider to hold on to, and behind that, just in front of his back legs, the other strap, which was called the flank strap. He wore a snug halter made of wide strips of leather, and he was curled in the air. Or he was stretched so that his hind hooves were pointed at the sky and his nose was nearly on the ground. His mouth was open, his ears were back, and he looked very serious and very wild.
After he laid the six photos on the kitchen table, Jerry pointed to the last one. In that one, Beebop’s body was twisted and his head was down. The cowboy was flying forward, his shoulders hunched and his arms in the air. He said, “Beebop loves that move. He makes believe he’s going to go forward and toss the guy, but then in the wink of an eye, he slides back and to one side and puts him over the front.”
Mom glanced at the pictures and went back to washing the dishes, but Dad said, “My brother Luke liked that sort of thing. He did it for a few years when we were young. Tried bulls, too.”
“I wouldn’t do bulls again,” said Jerry, “though I tried it for a while. And I’m not much good at bareback bronc riding—I like saddle broncs myself, but Beebop is more quick and limber than he is strong, so he’s good at this. I think it’s easier on him, too.”
He pointed to the third picture, the one where Beebop was arched upward practically like he was going to break in two. He said, “He got the high score that time. He’s good.”
I said, “Do you ever ride him?”
Jerry laughed. “No way on earth. Never been on him once.”
I wondered how you could have a horse and not want to ride him.
Another interesting thing about Jerry was that he talked to parents just like they were regular people. After supper, we went into the living room the way we always did, and Danny didn’t leave to go home, the way he always did. The two of them sat down easy as you please. Mom picked up her knitting and everyone kept talking about this rodeo season and others gone by. It got so boring that I went to my room and read the book we were assigned in English class, which was Spoon River Anthology. It wasn’t very long, but it was all poems, and the poems were all spoken by dead people in the cemetery. Dad would not have liked this book at all, but I thought it was spooky and interesting because it seemed like it was about people who finally got to say what they had always wanted to say after years of saying only what they were supposed to.
It was my job that night to check on the horses before bed. Rusty, our dog, was sitting on the back porch, and walked along at my side. First, I went to the geldings. It was cold enough for me to wear my jacket, so they were standing in a group under the trees, their tails facing northwest, because that was the direction the breeze was coming from. I opened the gate and went over to them. Their manes were ruffling and their coats were fluffed up. Marcus and Lincoln stayed where they were, but Blue and Jack came over, and I snaked my fingers into Blue’s coat, which had a soft, warm feel. I gave everyone a couple of pieces of carrot and a scratch around the ears. Jack sniffed my pockets but wasn’t pushy. I didn’t mind if he was curious, just if he showed bad manners. The mares were farther away—not even visible, down in the hollow above the creek, taking shelter from the wind there. I didn’t call them. I just went through the gate and looked down the hillside. Dark, quiet shapes, maybe a tail swishing back and forth in the night. Rusty stayed beside me. I knew if there was anything suspicious down there, she would take off and check it out, but she only sniffed the breeze. Then I went into the barn and looked at Beebop. He was standing quietly in his stall, having finished all of his hay. While I was looking at him, he blew air out of his nostrils, sighed, and shifted his weight. Then he flicked his ears toward me in a friendly way and made a low nicker. It was hard to believe that this was the wild horse in the pictures. I did think he needed a carrot, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to hold my hand out to him, so I tossed it into his feed bin.
Even though they had gone to Danny’s place the night before, and Danny’s place was a twenty-minute drive, Danny and Jerry were sitting at the table when I got up for breakfast. It was barely light outside, and they were already wolfing down scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast. Danny pushed a plate toward me. I said, “Where’s Mom?”
Danny said, “She’s still sleeping. Jerry cooked.”
I tried to pretend this was no big deal.
Jerry said, “Dan made the toast.”
“That’s why it’s burned, then.”
Danny said, “I like it that way.”
Well, maybe.
The point of their coming early was that in order to introduce Beebop to Blue, Jack, Lincoln, and Marcus, we were going to set out eight piles of hay—very nice, delicious piles—and Blue, Jack, Marcus, and Lincoln would consider themselves so rich in hay that they would not mind another gelding joining them for breakfast. I couldn’t help thinking of those pictures of Beebop—if he could kick that high when he was bucking a rider off, how high would he kick to show the other geldings that he was the boss? But Danny and Jerry seemed utterly relaxed. They talked about a movie that was out—Fahrenheit 451. Jerry had read the book. I kept eating. Danny had read the book, too. I nearly choked. I said, “What’s it about?”
Jerry ate half a piece of bacon. “Well, you know, four hundred fifty-one degrees Fahrenheit is the temperature at which paper burns. It’s about a future time when books are against the law, and if they find you with a book, the firemen burn it.”
I turned to Danny. “You read it?”
“I liked it.”
I must have looked lik
e I didn’t believe him, because he said to Jerry, “Abby doesn’t think I know how to read.”
I said, “What’s another book you’ve read?”
I thought he would say something like The Black Stallion, but he said, “I read A Farewell to Arms.”
Jerry said, “That’s a good one.”
I didn’t believe him, though. “Why did you read that?”
“I found it on a shelf where I’m living, and there wasn’t anything else to do, so I read it.” He stared at me, then sniffed. “I liked it.” Then he said, “You should read it.”
The phone rang, and I went into the living room to get it. It was Jane, who was canceling my lessons for the day. She said, “Oh, Abby, I tried to call you last night to tell you that Melinda is down in LA for the weekend, staying with her father, and now Ellen’s mom just called and said that Ellen has a hundred-and-three-degree temperature, which she only knows because Ellen started sweating and panting at the breakfast table. She’s been sick for two days, but keeping it from her mother so that she could have her lesson. That girl! I’ve never seen anyone like her.”
“I’ll give her an extra one over Christmas vacation.”
“I’ll tell her that.”
I wasn’t terribly sorry not to be going to the stables. I could get my riding done and have the afternoon to myself.
Then we went out to the horses. They were hungry, since we were about half an hour late (horses always know what time it is where hay is concerned). This was part of the plan, because we wanted them to pay more attention to breakfast than to one another. Beebop knew what time it was, too—he was pawing the floor of his stall. When the four geldings were eating (and the mares, of course), Jerry got him out and took him through the gate of the gelding pasture, then led him to one of the open piles. He started to eat. Lincoln looked at him. Blue looked at him. Marcus looked at him. Jack looked at him. He did not look at them. After maybe fifteen minutes, everyone shifted piles, Lincoln first. It was Blue who moved in on Beebop’s pile, but Beebop just walked over to another one and continued to eat. We watched them for half an hour, then checked on them several more times. Uneventful. When Jack came over after finishing his hay and pranced around, looking for a playmate, Beebop put his ears back. Jack paused, then trotted away, message received. Danny said, “I think they’ll be okay.”
Jerry said, “Beebop has no problem with other horses.”
Chapter 2
THE NEXT DAY WAS RAINY AND COLD, AND ONLY A FEW PEOPLE showed up for church—the Hollingsworths, of course, and the Brookses. Brother Abner did not show up—I couldn’t remember the last time he’d stayed away. Carlie Hollingsworth and I should have been best friends. We’d known each other our whole lives, we were the same age, and we had done things together at church like babysitting and setting out and clearing up the suppers, but either she thought I was too familiar to be interesting, or I thought that of her. We didn’t even try to be friends. Maybe Brother Abner was my best friend at church. He was like a grandfather or a great-uncle, but an unpredictable one, not a sour one. He sometimes told me stories of his boyhood, which had taken place in upstate New York, and had been full of adventures. The Bible passages he chose to read were usually about forgiveness and mercy. And he had a twinkle in his eye. Not many grown-ups have that. After the service, when I was making my way around the table, putting food on my plate (Sister Larkin and Sister Brooks had brought pot roast, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, and pumpkin pie—always good), I eavesdropped as the grown-ups whispered to one another.
“Did he call you?”
“Not me. Anyone heard from him?”
Head shaking.
“You ever been to that place he has? It’s only a room with a little corner for a kitchen. You can see the sky through the walls here and there. Must be freezing in this weather.”
“Someone should go over there.”
“He would hate that.”
“Well, yes, but …” Glances at me, then they moved away. I took my food to my seat and picked through it. I never knew Brother Abner lived in one room with thin walls. In fact, I didn’t know how most of them lived. We saw each other in church, and then it was like everyone vanished, only to reappear a few days later. I thought it was a little scary. When we were driving home, I said, “I don’t remember Brother Abner ever missing a service before.”
“That was worrisome,” said Mom. “But look at this rain.”
It was pouring, and the wipers were splashing in it.
Dad said, “I’m sure he just didn’t want to drive in this. That old Studebaker he has is a little iffy. Brother Abner has seen the world and survived. He’s the last one I worry about.”
I said, “How old is he?”
“Oh, goodness,” said Mom, “eighty-eight, maybe?”
My grandparents in Oklahoma were young enough to be his children.
“He’s got a lot on the ball,” said Dad. “That’s for sure.”
It was still raining the next day. We wore our raincoats and shuffled around the school grounds, cold and sort of miserable. It was the first real rain of the winter, and as much as we told ourselves that everywhere else in the world it was snowing, sleeting, or hailing, and the temperatures were way below zero, we were depressed. Even Stella could not use the rain to make a style statement—she wore boots and a hat and ran hunched over from class to class, just like everyone else. Sophia, however, was her usual self. We were pretty good friends now, because we always had something to talk about—horses. In history class, while Miss Cumberland was getting her slide show about Romulus and Remus organized, I told her about Vista del Canada.
She said, “They have that stallion, Encantado. There was a jumper by him, Incantation. He was nothing at the racetrack, but he could trot a five-foot jump.”
“Have you ever jumped five feet?”
She shook her head very seriously. “My mom won’t let me, so Jane and the colonel watch me like a hawk, but I think Onyx could do it, don’t you?”
I knew enough not to encourage her, but I did think either of her horses could do it—I knew Onyx because he had once been ours, and I knew Pie in the Sky because I’d ridden him earlier in the fall. She went on, “Anyway, I would love to see Encantado.” She sighed. “Encantado means ‘delighted’ or ‘enchanted’ in Spanish.”
Miss Cumberland slapped her ruler on her desk, looked straight at us, and asked, “Do you girls have something to contribute?”
I zipped my lip, but Sophia said, “I guess that depends on the subject.” She was serious. Sophia never seemed to understand sarcasm.
Because of the rain, the school bus took a long time to get to our stop, and also because of the rain, dusk seemed to be oozing over everything very early. Mom already had all the lights on, which made the house look cheerful and Christmassy. I stomped and shook myself on the front porch, to get as much rain off me as possible, but I still felt soaked when I went through the door. Rusty stood up to greet me. That meant it was really wet—Dad didn’t like Rusty to come in the house, and he had said at least a hundred times that the barn was perfectly dry. Rusty of all animals knew exactly where the barn was, but sometimes Mom made up her mind, and Rusty came inside. The horses would still be out, though. Dad maintained that in spite of what we thought, they preferred it that way, and maybe they did. I planned to give them plenty of hay to help them through the night. The rain also meant no riding, though the arena had such good drainage that once the rain stopped, we could ride after about a day. The first good rain of the year disappeared especially quickly—it was as though the soil and the grass and the oaks just swallowed it down and breathed a sigh of pleasure that was the fragrance you always smelled when you opened a window or a door. I didn’t mind the beginning of winter in California.
On the front table was a letter from Barbie Goldman, who was going to a very strange boarding school down near Los Angeles, where families with plenty of money paid a lot of tuition in order for their children to ride, hike,
build fires, sweep, cook, argue about how the world works, and do a lot of homework. Once a week, Barbie and Alexis were driven in from “the wilds of Malibu,” as Barbie called them, to a conservatory in the city, where they continued their piano and violin lessons—“our one taste of civilization,” said Barbie. But the school was famous for one thing, other than roughing it, and that was art. Both twins spent a lot of time doing art. The front of this new envelope was plain white, though my name was in fancy letters, but the back had a seascape on it—a long, pale beach, a blue ocean, a few palm trees, and the white crest of a wave. I got the scissors out of Mom’s sewing basket and slit it open as carefully as I could, then I cut along the sides and the bottom. After I took the envelope upstairs and tacked it to my bulletin board next to the others I’d saved, I realized that I’d almost forgotten to read the letter.
Dec. 1, 1966
Dear Abby,
The Jackson School is releasing us on our own recognizance for exactly TWO WEEKS, starting the 21st of December. Mom has agreed to allow us to come home, as long as we promise to have a party. Alexis and I have decided that a slumber party is what Mom deserves after three and a half months of peace and quiet, so prepare yourself—this is an invitation. We will have ten slumberers. I understand that you can’t bring Blue, because he would have to sleep on the porch, but please sign me up for as many lessons as possible. Your mission, with regard to the slumber party, is to bring along Leslie and Sophia. DON’T TAKE NO FOR AN ANSWER. We really want to meet them. I mean, I realize that Alexis and I have known Leslie for years, but now that the butterfly is out of the chrysalis, we don’t want to miss out on getting to know her better. Only three weeks until we come home—by the time you get this, it will be less. I cannot wait to sleep in a room with central heating.
You’ll be surprised when you see us. We are tan and have muscles everywhere. My hair is very strange-looking. We aren’t allowed to have shampoo and cream rinse—only to wash with glycerin soap, and that includes hair. So my hair has unbelievable body, but feels like twigs. As it gets colder down here, we are lucky compared to the others, though, because our instruments have to be kept in rooms with consistent temperatures. So I’ve never been happier to practice. I try to practice eight hours a day. We give a recital the day before we leave. It is in that room, so every single person in the school will be there, getting warm.