Horsekeeping

by Roxanne Bok

  Scott shrugged. “Yeah, well, I guess we’ll just have to trust him.”

  “It’s got to be costing a fortune,” I added, counting the bulldozers and dump trucks attacking other mysterious jobs.

  The destruction that preceded the construction shocked us. This near-tear-down would redefine the term “only cosmetic.” But we could only go along, and focus on the big picture. The good news was that the assembled team was friendly and dedicated, and that this lump of a barn might actually surprise us aesthetically. Gary’s suggested touches, like curved cupolas on the roof peaks in place of the old boxy ones and cross-trim on the doors, held promise. But right then, spring was nothing but brown muck and revving machinery. I apologized repeatedly to our neighbors for the ruckus. They were unfailingly gracious, appreciative and patient, unlike ourselves. Our thirst for our envisioned beautiful green farm dotted with horses wouldn’t be satiated any time soon. We felt years away from our tarnishing dream.

  Bobbi must have sensed our project fatigue. About a week after the kids and I moved up to Connecticut for the summer at the end of June, I got the call.

  “I think I may have found you a horse,” Bobbi said.

  “Oh?”

  “He’s down in Woodbury: a chestnut Quarter Horse, just your size. He’s eleven years old, old enough to have the kid out of him and some manners, but young enough to be sound with a good many years left. He’s lovely on paper, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s right. We’d have to take a look. How about Thursday, we take a ride?”

  “Am I ready for this?”

  “You’re ready. Anyway, we have to start somewhere, and we probably won’t buy the first horse we see.”

  You don’t know me, I thought to myself.

  “How much is he?” I asked, genuinely curious. She could have told me anything from a hundred dollars to a hundred thousand.

  “Fifteen.”

  “Hundred?”

  “Thousand.”

  “Oh.”

  THE DAY BROKE COLD AND WET. Bobbi called early.

  “Are you still game?”

  “Sure,” I said, not really meaning it. I pictured slipping and sliding atop a horse that hated me already for getting him soaked. How do they not fall in the mud, I wondered? Already stiff with fear, I tried to sound vaguely intelligent.

  “Would it be a fair trial?”

  “Well, let’s put it this way: if he’s nasty in the rain, we don’t want him.”

  “Okay. Let’s go for it,” I said, hoping we’d see any “nasty” before I got on.

  On vacation that week, Scott tagged along. We chattered all the way about the farm and our plans. We critiqued horse farm signs since we were deciding color, size and style for our own. Eventually we pulled up to a low pasture studded with a naturalistic jump course. Despite the fog and spitting rain it looked inviting, and we wound the long driveway to a mushy parking area surrounded by three red barns with worn white trim. Stacey the trainer met us, and we sloshed over to the farthest set of stalls. I knew what Scott was thinking: twenty-four years of marriage afforded us symmetry of mind. Sure enough, later in the car he immediately criticized the site.

  “We have to be sure to put down some kind of stone to avoid a mud bath of a parking area,” Scott said, kicking his shoes against the running board.

  I laughed. “I knew that would be the first thing you would comment on.”

  “What? It’s a mess there,” he defensively replied.

  “I agree. It is a pretty setting though, with that big hill up in back.”

  “Yeah, but the barns look run down. And what’s with all that old equipment lying around?” My stickler husband couldn’t let it go.

  Bobbi chimed right in, “Yeah, it is quite sloppy, and unnecessarily so. But the horses are well-kept and appear happy.”

  Ah, a diplomat, I registered happily. I supposed it best that Bobbi recognize our characteristic meticulousness right up front. Scott and I are not savers: we mercilessly pitch stuff when many a sentimental Gus would give pause. Organizing makes us happy. I sometimes aim to achieve a more casual approach in our day to day living, but we are who we are. Bobbi seemed to fit right in, and I pitied any untidy employee who happened to find his or her way in amongst us neatniks.

  “Steal the Show,” barn name “Bandicoot,” gave us a good smell as Sandra, his thirteen-year-old owner, stepped confidently in the stall to groom him. I searched my mental dictionary to define a Bandicoot—a type of monkey, maybe? What kind of name is Bandicoot for a horse, anyway? Later, my OED set me straight: “A large, destructive southern Asian rat.”

  A coltish, bubbly teenager, Sandra genuinely loved “Bandi.” The first thing I noticed was his orangey-brown color, not my favorite hue. But he sported white socks on his hind feet, a white blaze on his face and dark sultry eyes. His mane sprung short and full and his tail long, and both burnished brassy with highlights. His ears pinned back as Sandra combed him, a habit she brushed aside as his customary response to grooming, and temporarily worsened by his unappealing neighbor in the adjoining stall. Now, I like my animals warm and fuzzy and extremely affectionate, so this wasn’t going well. Not really knowing how to behave around a horse or what questions to ask, I listened to Bobbi question his feed regimen, daily habits and tack arrangements while subtly probing about his temperament.

  “Sandra has been riding him since she was six,” Stacey said.

  “He is soooo sweet,” Sandra added.

  “Bandi taught her how to ride. He had one other owner besides Sandra who bought him directly from a breeder whose child learned on him. He is really great with kids and excellent for new riders, being both safe and willing,” Stacey said as she handed Sandra a bridle. “I’d trust anyone on him.”

  Sandra was selling because she needed a more athletic horse that could jump higher than Bandi’s limit of three feet six. She also had had him sold once before, but backed out at the last minute, unable to part with him. If true, that counted for a lot in my book. I understand the love of a good animal, maybe even more than I do the human kind. In theory, he seemed perfect: safe and calm, but with enough go and jumping ability to allow me plenty of room to have fun and advance. And, she claimed he was steady on the trails.

  Bandi tacked up agreeably, and we climbed the steep hill to the outdoor riding ring. Sandra mounted and effortlessly walked around, left first, then right, hugging the fence and turning with ease. She trotted, cantered and jumped perfectly as far as I could tell. He looked lovely with his legs curling under him and tail swishing at the trot. Perky despite the rain, he followed her commands to the letter.

  Bobbi asked, “Do you want to go first or should I?”

  “I’ll go,” I said, calmly.

  Truth be told, I was anxious as hell and wanted to get it over with. But Bandi looked so easy with Sandra, I grew confident.

  I walked. At the trot I bounced around barely in control. I certainly couldn’t steer, and I zigzagged in and out from the rail. Bobbing and weaving, I crossed the ring and bumbled to a halt by the group. At least I was billed an amateur.

  “Do you want to try cantering?” Bobbi asked.

  “No, thanks. I’ll leave that to you.”

  It turned out Bobbi was nervous too. I had never seen her ride. Our relationship was in its infancy. My mistakes and inability were to be expected; a discombobulation on her part, in front of her new boss, would be embarrassing all around. It occurred to me I should have watched her ride before hiring her, not that I would have had a clue how to assess her skills.

  To our mutual relief, she rode beautifully and jumped this unknown horse as the veteran pair they weren’t. Bandi endured us strangers, and the weather, with poise.

  We trudged back to the barn, all of us wet through, and fed Bandi treats as Sandra brushed him dry. He ate eagerly, but gently careful with his teeth. I liked this, thinking of Jane’s petite fingers. Wet, his orange tints shifted into a burnt copper coat that was growing on me, and he calmed as I
patted his sides and rump. I reminded myself that personality trumps beauty, and the more I looked, he struck me as really very handsome—well proportioned and evenly shaded. Even Scott surprised me by saying then, and many times since: “He’s a good looking animal.”

  In the car I confessed my inability to keep time with Bandi’s bouncy trot, as if Bobbi didn’t notice.

  “He does have a large, swinging trot, but he also has a slower one that you would learn to engage. But a big trot is generally desirable, especially for dressage, and you will gain a good seat with time and muscle control,” she said. “But you have to be comfortable.”

  I figured my skills would improve eventually, although controlling a trot loomed as distant from my skill set as my belting out tunes on Broadway. But I wanted to think long term, especially in terms of a partner that could be mine another twenty years.

  “How is his canter?” I asked.

  “Very nice: much smoother than the trot. It is exceptional really. But every horse is different, and you haven’t ridden many yet.”

  I pictured future dates with horses in a variety of colors and builds. “What do you think of him as a whole package?”

  She paused, lumbering her truck onto yet another back road. “He might be a really good horse for you, though I would want to try him again and take a trail ride to test him under those conditions. He’s got possibility and can grow with you. That he’s a willing jumper is good, and Stacey questioned whether we’d take him to shows and jump him occasionally because he really likes that. They seem to care about this horse.”

  “I may never jump,” I reminded her.

  “Oh, I think you will, and even if you don’t, I would keep him in tune and interested. I love going to hunter pace shows. We’d have a lot of fun. And someday you might too. But, this is the first horse we looked at. There is no need to buy him, even if he is right.”

  “How often do good horses come up?”

  “Depends. Sometimes there are plenty to choose from; other times you wait a while. You never really know.”

  PATIENCE IS NOT MY VIRTUE. Horse shopping is time-intensive, and I prefer to get on with life. The next day I called Bobbi.

  “Why don’t you take another look at Bandi? If he seems right I think we should just go for it.”

  “Okay. I’ll talk to Stacey, and see if we can also have a week’s trial to get a better feel for him.”

  The following Tuesday, the 5th of July, Bobbi called to congratulate me. The test ran perfectly: I owned a horse, at least provisionally. He would arrive Monday, the 11th. We would park him at Riga Meadow, a facility across town, until our place was ready, with a little luck by August. Dr. Kay would “vet” him, and we’d try him for a couple of days to make sure.

  “Okay” was all I could say, and hung up. I swallowed hard. I was a kid again—thrilled at owning a horse, like I won the sweepstakes of the animal world. But soon enough the adult resurfaced to shout “RESPONSIBILITY” and the speed of the acquisition unhinged me. The simple transaction of buying a horse seemed huge, but in retrospect, what baby steps they were in a brand new world!

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Trifecta

  THE MONDAY BANDI ARRIVED did not go quite as I had envisioned. My parents had flown in from Florida the night before, and by the time I crawled into bed it was 10:30 p.m., late for me. Alone since Scott had headed back to the city for the work week, I read for more than my usual five minutes and didn’t crash until nearly midnight. At 1:00 a.m., the phone rang.

  “Hello?” I was groggy, but still braced for disaster.

  “Roxanne, it’s Marie,” my kids’ babysitter enunciated slowly. “I have to tell you that Mrs. Kilner’s house is on fire, and it’s fully involved. I’m on my way.”

  As my brain parted dream fog, Marie repeated herself, only louder and even more slowly, like I was hard of hearing, or a two-year-old.

  “Okay. I’ll be here if you need anything.” I tried to sound ready to help.

  “Fully involved, fully involved” looped in my head like Neil Diamond’s Sweet Caroline once it’s stuck. I couldn’t fully decode Marie’s professional lingo, so I shuffled around my bed to peer through the wooden blinds. Ursula Kilner’s two-hundred-and-fifty-year-old schoolhouse had grown over the years into a sprawling maze called Bird Bottom Farm. The house is hidden from our view all year by a line of property-dividing brush and trees, but flames shooting above the seventy-foot pines, oaks and maples slapped me into sharp focus. A sunset orange lit the midnight sky and the flames towered high enough to cast menacing shadows across my lawn. My ears tuned in to the crack and pop of burning wood through my tightly closed up house, penetrating the hum of the AC. My heart thumping, I jumped into some clothes and ran out the door.

  By the time I reached my driveway, Bobbi’s husband Chip was there, frantically donning his uncooperative fire suit, his face sleep-creased and bug-eyed. Living down the street, he was the first on the scene. I remembered him telling me about the rigorous ladder test he had been training for. I wondered if he knew what to do. His voice was more gravelly than usual.

  “You don’t mind that I’m in your driveway, I hope. I must be one of the first ones here.” He sprinted down the road juggling his gear.

  What to do? Adrenaline revved my body but my head told me to stay out of the way. I walked the street toward Ursula’s house. Help was arriving fast, and I let them know my home and property were available for anything needed. “Fully involved” became fully illuminated: a ravenous fire and good-bye house. I later heard that the term designates an inferno they hope only to contain. The structure is already presumed a total loss. How did this happen so fast, I wondered?

  The familiar faces dashing around oddly comforted me. We had been in this small town long and deep enough to have integrated in a way many weekenders do not. We know a lot of local people, and many think we live here full-time, or at least some pretend we do.

  After Chip, I next spotted Jacquie, the first woman firefighter on the Salisbury volunteer force. She is always in control with knowledge and a no nonsense authority that you sense goes even deeper than all you see on the surface. People like Jacquie you instinctively trust. Then there was the ubiquitous Bullet. My husband and I often marveled at how quickly he presented himself at every auto accident, fire, downed tree limb, or even to rescue a pet cat stuck between the walls of our friends’ newly renovated house (he axed the sheetrock in two places and in return “persuaded” the family to patronize the firefighters’ pancake breakfast the next morning). A dense hulk of a man with a flowing beard and squirrelly hair, he waves his trunk-thick arms like mad to direct traffic, inducing guilt for just thinking about rubber-necking. You don’t dare do it; his bulgy glare will shame you out of even the quickest sideways gawk such that you tend to speed up through his detours. Yet, I suspect he’s a softie when not in disaster mode. He plays Santa for the town’s needs at Christmas including the Rockwellian tree lighting, complete with a town band-led, candlelit carol sing on the green in front of The White Hart, a long-time village favorite event. I once asked Marie how he got tagged “Bullet.”

  “I know it’s hard to believe, but supposedly when he was a kid, he was really fast.”

  He does move his arms pretty quick for a big man, so I can vaguely conjure a younger, lither Bullet. Later in the summer he was forced to cut back his duties courtesy of a struggling heart and suffered a strict diet. Many townspeople kept an eye on him. His son married at The White Hart the same summer and looks just like him. I had heard it was a boisterous affair; no doubt Bullet’s traffic arms kept order and a record pace at the buffet line.

  I found Marie with my neighbor. I approached Ursula Kilner at ease in an aluminum lawn chair in the aisle of road watching her house burn. Her once-white hat sat low and crooked on her head and her shrunken body rested as lightly and still as a pinned insect. A cane and her pocketbook lay across her lap. Moving only her lips, she cracked jokes while two EMTs monitored her vital s
igns. Ursula was not the least bit fazed, but then she is a tough old bird. This frail but feisty seventy-eight-year-old Daughter of the American Revolution had lived alone since her husband of forty years died ten years ago. A collector and a penny pincher, she had frugally wedged stuff into the nooks and crannies of her red-boarded, serpentined “Bird Bottom” farmhouse for decades. She once lugged home a decrepit piano from the town dump believing the ivories worth cold hard cash. Unfortunately the keys proved plastic and the wooden carcass has been rotting in her front yard many years. Childless with only a few distant relatives, over time she parented fifteen rescued greyhounds and thirty-three stray cats as her family.

  Her two remaining dogs escaped and were sheltered in her car that firefighters relocated to our field across the street. Our caretaker George got out too. He lived in an apartment over Ursula’s garage and managed her property and Ursula too, by default. They both complained bitterly about each other at every opportunity, but comprised, in their own weird way, a family unit.

  I volunteered to check on the two dogs. Albeit confused, they mostly relaxed on the back seat. Eventually the local animal hospital vet arrived, checked them for smoke inhalation and removed them to their boarding facility a few miles away in Falls Village. No one knew about the cats. I returned to my house to make sure my parents and kids were sleeping through the commotion. What I saw unnerved me. Large burning embers were raining down over my yard and across my wood shingle roof. I kept alert to the singeing of my own flesh, batting cinders away. The amplified snapping of incineration made me reconsider our comfort-giving fireplace blazes. Spontaneous combustion of my house, myself even, felt possible with the heat blowing onto my face. I wondered if I should alert the firefighters, but they were all completely occupied, and it was, thankfully, a very humid night. I did not see anything catching, but I thought how quickly Ursula’s house engulfed and it petrified me. I imagined another “fully involved” fire with my family asleep inside.