Matt & Zoe

by Charles Sheehan-Miles

  Matt’s built like a dancer or gymnast—muscular, with powerful shoulders, arms and calves. And he seems smart.

  He’s Jasmine’s teacher. Come on, Zoe.

  Does that matter?

  It matters if we date, and it doesn’t work out. She needs some stability in her life. She needs someone she knows, an adult she knows. She doesn’t know me. I’m sad to say, but Matt’s spent far more time around Jasmine than I ever have.

  She was born a few weeks before the beginning of my junior year in high school. I was busy in those days—cheerleading practice ran two hours every night, plus football games, plus planning for college (my Dad insisted) while I secretly thought of a way to go my own way. I was accepted at Boston College and Dartmouth (a real long shot), along with Mount Holyoke, but I dithered over making a decision until the very last minute. Which drove my parents insane, of course. Mom fussed and yelled, and Dad did too. In April of my senior year—three weeks before deposits were due at whatever school I chose—I skipped school and met with an Army recruiter at their office next to Friendly’s.

  My parents were livid. Especially Mom. You’re throwing your life away. Dad is so disappointed.

  Thinking of it now, I find myself scrubbing my hair too roughly.

  We never repaired that rift. They came to some peace with it—especially after I came home from Iraq alive. Dad openly wept when I got off the plane and met my parents at Bradley Airport halfway through my Iraq tour.

  Mom begged me not to go back. She didn’t get it. You can’t just walk away. Aside from the legal complications—which of course are serious for deserters—Nicole was still over there. You don’t leave your friends behind.

  I squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t want to think about Iraq.

  I don’t want to think about my Dad being disappointed in me.

  Wow. My mind is everywhere this morning. I take a long shuddering breath and turn off the water, then towel myself dry.

  As I brush my hair, I can’t shut out their voices.

  Zoe, we’re just frightened for you. Don’t you know there’s a war going on?

  Your Dad is so sad, Zoe. You’re wasting your potential. You’re so smart—you need to be in college.

  That was all before Iraq. But later on—it was about reenlisting. How could I do that to him? I wasn’t seriously considering staying in as a career, was I?

  I wish I’d had a chance to talk with him about it when I was home last. He didn’t understand why I’d reenlisted. Mom yelled at me about it—a lot. Dad was quiet. He was warm, and hugged me, and told me how much he loved me. I knew that, behind that, he was sad.

  I struggle to shake off the past. I walk down the hall to my room—I’ve not even considered moving into the master bedroom, I haven’t even entered the room. I change into tough jeans and a flannel shirt and riding boots I’ve worn once or twice in the last five years. They were a Christmas present my senior year. Because my mom always wanted my priorities to be her priorities, or at least Dad’s. She loved horses and he loved academia and neither left room for me.

  I tell myself to forget about it. I thump down the stairs and head toward the stable.

  There I stop short.

  The first thing I see is Mono, with tiny little Jasmine perched on his back. That’s not so unusual a sight.

  The unusual sight is Matt Paladino, third grade teacher, who apparently has unforeseen talents. He’s riding Nettles around the paddock sitting backwards in his saddle while Jasmine laughs and giggles. Matt has a mock terrified expression on his face. Then I gasp in an almost scream when he falls off the back end of the horse. But in some miracle of bizarre tricks, he does a somersault and lands on his feet.

  Jasmine claps. Nettles comes back around the circle, and I see the tension in Matt’s legs as he bends them slightly, then runs alongside the galloping horse and jumps back into the saddle.

  It’s one of the most expert displays of horsemanship I’ve ever seen. And I grew up around horses and horse shows.

  I walk up to the fence and lean against it, resting one foot on the middle rail. Matt sees me and reins Nettles in. The horse rears up with a loud whinny, then comes back down to all fours. Matt flushes.

  “I didn’t realize you were a trick-rider,” I say.

  He shakes his head. “I grew up around horses, that’s all.”

  Liar. He did a lot more than grow up around them.

  “Where was that?” I ask.

  “Oh, Central Florida.”

  Whatever. Jasmine is captivated, though now I’m worried she’ll try some hare-brained jump like that off of Mono. It’s obvious, watching her in the saddle, that this is where she belongs. On the ground she’s despondent. Melancholy. Eyes on the ground. Hair in her face.

  In the saddle her eyes are bright, she’s active and looking around. She’s in love with that horse.

  “You want to ride with us, Zoe?”

  Jasmine’s question instantly melts my concerns about Matt. “I’d love to.”

  Five minutes later I’m riding on Nettles, an Andalusian gray—my horse since my seventeenth birthday. You can tell he’s older—his hair is almost entirely white now. He’s still a strong, athletic horse, a little over fifteen hands. Nettles broke a leg during a race at Rockingham Park, and would have been put down, but Mom bought him for next to nothing from his owner and nursed him back to health. It was a miracle—instead of shattering, the leg broke cleanly, a greenstick fracture. A horse recovering from a fractured leg is very unusual, but it’s become more common in the last few years. Mom drilled me on all of that knowledge, of course. I spent many nights and weekends with Nettles when he was recovering. He doesn’t race any more, but he’s still a beautiful horse.

  The three of us head across the property with Mono and Jasmine setting the pace. The horses are happy and the weather is beautiful. We ride south down the pasture at a gallop, clods of dirt and grass being thrown up by the hooves of the horses.

  Almost at the south end of the property, Jasmine pulls Mono to a slow canter parallel with the fence. I fall in on her left, closer to the fence, with Matt on the other side.

  “Whoo,” Matt says. “It’s been a long time since I’ve ridden like that.”

  “How long? Where? When did you learn to ride like that?” My questions are pretty intrusive, I realize.

  He shrugs. “I told you, I grew up around horses. A lot.”

  In an excited voice, Jasmine says, “Zoe, did you see him? Riding backwards? And that somersault! Wow! Will you teach me how to ride backward? Will you? Please? Please?”

  “I don’t know—”

  Matt meets my eyes when I say the words. He doesn’t say anything.

  “Maybe sometime,” I finally say. “I want to make sure you’re safe.”

  At the sound of hooves and a shout, I look up. Paul Armstrong is riding toward us from his property on the other side of the fence.

  Can I? Can I? (Matt)

  The guy riding toward us is almost a stereotype of a cowboy. Possibly thirty five years old, he looks like he was born in his saddle. He wears loose clothing and well-worn boots. Muscular, with strong arms and a square jaw. His face is red, as if he’s been out in the sun and wind for his entire life. Or maybe he has high-blood pressure.

  Whoever he is, Zoe brightens instantly when she sees him. Before, she was a little guarded, asking me probing questions about my past. Questions I don’t want to answer. This guy—her eyes widen and her mouth shifts to a very genuine smile, showing bright white teeth. Her expression is captivating. And directed at horse guy.

  I hate him.

  “Matt, this is my neighbor, Paul Armstrong. Paul, Matt Paladino. He’s Jasmine’s third grade teacher.”

  Paul maneuvers his horse right up to the fence and reaches across to shake my hand. I take it—he has a firm grip. “I recognize the name—you’re one of the negotiators for the teachers’ union, right?”

  “Yeah,” I say, a little puzzled. I realize he’s wearing a wedding
band. “Do you have kids in the school system?”

  Paul chuckles. “No, but I had a rash of parents calling me to see if they could schedule all-day sessions while school is out.”

  Zoe says, helpfully, “Paul owns the Armstrong Training Center—they do horse camps and lessons, and compete all over the East Coast.”

  “Oh, I see,” I say. I don’t know much about the horse-show circuit, other than the fact that it exists.

  “When I saw you three I wanted to come over, Zoe, and offer some help. If you need to take care of things while the strike is on, you’re always welcome to send Jasmine over. We can slide her right into one of the classes with the other girls.”

  This irritates me. Why? Maybe it’s because Zoe looks so happy and grateful, when she was just suspicious of me. Maybe it’s because Paul Armstrong is a great big lunk of a guy, the kind of carefully cultivated five-o’clock shadow guy that women seem to chase.

  Jasmine seems excited. “Can I? Can I?”

  Zoe raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

  He leans closer to the three of us. “It’s what neighbors are for. And friends. I’d love to have her over. I know you’ve got a lot to take care of.”

  “I do start classes on Monday. And there’s so much to do. I’d be grateful.”

  Paul says, “Forgive me for asking, but—do you have plans for a—a—you know —”

  “Funeral?” Zoe asks. Her voice is somber, and her eyes dart to Jasmine. In a calm tone, she says, “Both of them were cremated. There’s going to be a memorial service next Tuesday at Abbey Chapel, at Mount Holyoke.”

  Paul nods. “I’ll be there, then. I’m gonna miss your Mom. She was one hell of a horsewoman.”

  “Thanks,” Zoe says in a subdued voice.

  “Sorry,” he says. “Anyway, Jasmine, we’d love to have you over, any time.”

  Jasmine grins. “Thank you!”

  Paul says his goodbyes, then Jasmine and Mono take off at a gallop, and I’m left alone with Zoe. Her smile fades a little, her blue eyes following Jasmine.

  “I’ve enjoyed this, Matt,” Zoe says. “Thanks for coming over.”

  “I meant what I said, Zoe. This strike won’t last long, but I’ll come by pretty much every day to see Jasmine. Okay?”

  All kinds of warm feelings wash over me when Zoe smiles. Then they’re dashed when she says, “So seriously, anyway, where did you learn to ride like that? No one just grows up around horses and learns those kinds of tricks.”

  I shake my head and try to laugh it off. “You weren’t supposed to see that,” I say.

  She just arches an eyebrow.

  I chuckle. “I practiced. For a long long time. I used to think I might end up in a circus, before I went to college.”

  That’s as much as I was willing to say.

  Chapter Eight

  Thanks for the news (Zoe)

  As if Mondays weren’t normally bad enough, this one I start classes on the biggest campus in Massachusetts. I’m already feeling overwhelmed.

  The campus is as big as an Army base, with as many people on it. More than thirty thousand students and faculty members. The first problem I run into is just getting parking. I circle the lot next to the Visitors’ Center once, twice, three times, before I finally find a space in the back row a mile away from everything.

  It’s okay. I left early, so I’d have time to get to my first class. But even though I’ve been here, I didn’t appreciate the scale of the place. My first class is at Bartlett Hall, which is—somewhere on campus near the library. At least the library, a 24 story building, is visible enough I can use it to orient myself.

  I find the building with ten minutes to spare. It’s crowded, with kids everywhere. When I step inside, I feel like I’ve been plunged into a tunnel—it’s dim, with halls lined with dark brick and flickering fluorescent lighting. Fantastic. I push my way through the kids and find my way to class.

  My eyes widen when I finally find the class. Lecture hall. It’s packed with maybe two hundred students. I’m nearly the last to arrive. The hall filled up from the back, so I easily slip into a desk in the front row.

  Written on the whiteboard at the front of the class, in large bold letters, is: English 115 American Experience. I have a stack of textbooks. Narrative of the Life of Fredrick Douglass. The Oxford Book of American Poetry. The Cornel West Reader. I’m not sure I know who Cornel West is, or was, and I’ve never read much poetry. I did well in high school, but as I sit in this room full of 18 year olds just starting college, I feel inadequately equipped for this. Like I’m in the wrong place.

  The rest of the day won’t be any easier. I have calculus and chemistry classes later in the day. Chemistry was my worst subject in high school. Who am I kidding? What am I doing here?

  I stuff my doubts, arrange my materials and wait.

  Finally, the teacher—a PhD candidate in the English department—appears and begins the class. Overall, it isn’t that different from sitting through a training session in the Army—something I’ve done plenty of. The audience is a lot more varied, but when I look around carefully, I can see that even here, there is a uniform. Three quarters of the guys wear too-baggy knee length khaki shorts and either t-shirts or polo shirts. The girls have a variety of different tops, but almost all wear black leggings or too-short denim shorts. It’s weird.

  I tug my attention away from my surroundings and begin taking notes. It quickly becomes apparent that there will be little margin for error in this class. Two exams and a final paper will determine the entire grade. Blow one and I could blow the entire class.

  That’s fine. I don’t intend to blow anything. I spend the next hour and fifteen minutes taking detailed notes and reviewing the syllabus. There’s going to be a lot of reading in this class, but it’s not more than I can handle. Depending on what job I get. Because I have to get a job. GI Bill benefits will help, but they won’t pay for everything. I’ve got money from Mom and Dad’s life insurance, but it won’t last all the way through college.

  I reign in my out of control thoughts. I don’t need to worry about everything in the world right now. Just this class. Just right now.

  Finally, class gets out. As I stand, a boy approaches me. A student. Probably eighteen or nineteen. I fling my bag over my shoulder and retreat before he can say anything. I’m not in the mood right now.

  My second class—calculus—goes much the same, except that I realize that in the last five years I’ve forgotten all the math I ever knew. I’ll need to get back up to speed. Maybe there’s some online practice I could do, or I’m sure I can get Calculus for Dummies or something similar. I can’t be the only clueless person.

  After class, I meet Nicole at the campus center for lunch. The dining hall is packed, but students give her a wide berth, a development I find amusing as I follow her through the line. Within two minutes of sitting down with our food, the tables on either side of us are clear, despite the overall crowding.

  “Do they always give you this much space?”

  Her lips curl up into a fierce grin. “You know how it is.”

  I do. It was a similar reaction to the one I got when guys in the Army found out I was military police. Either they became intentionally provocative—as if daring me to interfere—or they made themselves scarce.

  “How’s your first day of class?”

  I fill her in the first two classes, including my doubts about my ability.

  “Don’t be silly,” she responds. “You’re smarter than most of these kids, and you were accepted to better schools than this out of high school. There’s no reason you can’t do well.”

  I sigh. “I’ve been away from academics for a long time.”

  “Have you given much thought to what you want to do? What you’re going to major in?”

  I shake my head. “I’m not sure. I wish I had the kind of certainty about life that you do.”

  Nicole shrugs. “I always wanted to be a cop. But that was more Dad than anything.”<
br />
  “How does it stack up to being an MP?”

  She laughs. “About the same. You remember what it was like patrolling barracks sometimes. It’s not so different here, except that these kids have far less accountability. Let me tell you about a call we had last year.”

  She smirks, then says, “Okay, so these days they’ve got a fairly good handle on the frat parties. But every once in a while things start to fall apart. So one Friday night last year I get a call—all available units to respond to one of the frat houses just off campus. We get there, and the situation was out of control. It seems they had a low key party going on, but someone spiked the drinks with PMA.”

  “Oh, no,” I say. PMA—paramethoxyamphetamine—is a powerful hallucinogen, and has some nasty side effects. We’d had more than one encounter with the stuff as MPs.

  Oh, the lovely things you learn in the Military Police.

  “Yeah… we get there, and it’s immediate urgent triage. One guy’s standing on the ledge on the second floor yelling that he’s going to jump. We had two passed out, a couple hallucinating, and several of them puking their guts out. So two of the guys start to get out of control, and I’m getting them cuffed, when a student comes running out of the building butt-ass-naked.”

  “Christ,” I mutter.

  “Yeah. He’s screaming and hallucinating, and get this… someone had sprayed his dick with pepper spray.”

  “Ouch,” I say.

  She chuckles. “You aren’t kidding. Poor guy was howling in pain, kept yelling that he was being tortured by monsters.”

  I sigh. “You know what, Nicole?”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m glad I didn’t apply for a job on the force.”