“There’s something you should know about your barnacles.”
She’s using the same tone as Mom employs when she has a new sexuality metaphor to foist on me, so I prepare myself for the worst but it’s as though she can read my thoughts because she says, “Oh no, not that stuff. I couldn’t care less what sex they are.”
I am so relieved I could hug her. It is wonderful to find someone else in the world who isn’t obsessed with sex or boys.
She rubs my foot through the covers. “Barnacles are really just little shrimps.”
I know that anyone else telling me this story would take the opportunity to point out that barnacles are just little shrimps like me, but Kansas doesn’t do that. “Well, they’re shrimp-like anyway. They’re not exactly shrimps. But they are crustaceans, like shrimps are. One difference is that shrimps have armor that they carry with them. Barnacles do something else—they build a limestone house around themselves for protection and safety. Then they reach out into the water and kick what food they need into their house.”
I remember reading something like that on Google.
“I’m thinking you’ve forgotten about your limestone fortification,” she says.
“What fortification?” Hey, I can talk! This is great.
“Well you live in this good house, for one thing. And you have your own room with your own stuff in it. And two parents and an extended family who are all looking out for you in their way. And you’ve got me.”
“Yeah.”
“So there’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“Really?”
“Really. You are fine. Everything’s fine. It’s all on track.”
“I get scared sometimes.”
“Well that’s sensible. And it’s why we need limestone fortifications.”
She sits for a minute so I can think about what she’s said, and she rubs my foot, then she holds it tight and waggles it. “Now, the other thing you need to focus on is kicking more of what you need into your house.”
“I’m doing the guerilla marketing.” I pronounce it carefully to be sure she understands that I know we’re not talking about big monkeys.
“There are more difficulties ahead of you. You need to come back and see me. In the daytime.”
“But your stable isn’t finished. And you don’t want to hire me until you’ve harrowed your fields to kill the parasites.”
“Tomorrow,” she says. “Now close your eyes and go back to sleep.”
And I do.
In the morning of course I have to bike to the beach for more sea water for the barnacles because Mom drank my back-up supply. I guess this will have to be a daily exercise since I can’t store the water in the refrigerator, which will be inconvenient but will also show them how responsible I am. And besides, it’s only five minutes each way.
I leave a note for them on the counter to make sure they get the point: I have gone to the beach for water for my pet barnacles. I will be careful of the traffic. I will be home for breakfast. Love, Sylvia. I put in the bit about the traffic so they understand that I am taking some risks which I would not have to take if they let Grandpa buy me a horse because I wouldn’t have to ride my bike on the busy road by the breakwater.
When I return home they’re still in bed. I leave the note on the counter anyway, and change the water for the barnacles. I watch their tentacles come out and kick food into their houses, and that’s when I recall the visit from Kansas.
Wow. That was really something. She was in my room. I felt her holding my foot. I flex my foot inside my shoe and remember the sensation.
I realize I’m not scared of evil spirits any more, though I’m not exactly in a hurry to go back and play wee-gee with Taylor. Today I have to find my way to Kansas’s place.
I eat two pieces of toast with thick layers of protein-rich peanut butter. Mom and Dad are still not up. I decide to make them breakfast in bed.
“What’s this, Pumpkin?” says Mom when I bring in the tray.
“French toast. Your favourite.”
Dad moans into his pillow, then rubs his eyes and says, “Good morning, Shorty.”
“You shouldn’t call her that,” says Mom.
“I have to call her something from one of the food groups, is that it?” says Dad.
Perhaps this wasn’t the best idea.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Mom.
“All your nicknames for her are edible,” says Dad, which is perfectly true but I don’t mind.
“They are not,” says Mom.
“How about I make you both some tea?” I say.
“That would be lovely, Honey,” says Mom.
“See?” says Dad.
“Or coffee. I’m not sure how you make it, but I can try,” I say.
Dad carves off a forkful of toast and swabs it in the maple syrup. “This looks delicious.”
“It sure is,” says Mom, nibbling on a bit of crust she’s pulled off with her fingertips.
“I’m wondering if I can go off on my bike for a while.”
“Need to get some more purgative?” says Dad, then coughs.
Mom has picked up her fork but stops with it poised halfway to her plate. She looks for a minute like she might stab Dad with it instead. She turns to me and says, “He’s making a little joke about your salt water.”
“She was probably hoping that wouldn’t come up again,” says Dad.
And Mom laughs. So I see everything’s all right.
“I’m going to meet a friend,” I say.
“Someone from school?” says Mom.
I think about that. Kansas is someone from on the way to school, which is not exactly the same as someone from school, but it’s pretty close. I tell her yes.
“Well that’s fine with me,” says Dad. “Cause I think I’m going to have to lie down for a while after this breakfast. How about you, Evie?”
And they let me go, as long as I promise to be back for lunch.
CHAPTER TEN
The pasture where Nickers lives has been transformed. There’s an entire new barn on the knoll in the middle. There’s a real gravel driveway where the ruts in the grass used to be. Power lines run from a pole at the road to another one halfway down the driveway and then attach to the front of the barn. An orange extension cord snakes around the side of the barn and plugs into a travel trailer that I can barely see from the road. The three lines of saggy barbed-wire fencing that used to go around the perimeter have been replaced with five lines of taut white cord on upright posts; hanging off the top line is a bright yellow notice warning that the fence is electric. Posts are also in for a fence line that will create a large paddock off to the side of the barn, but the fencing hasn’t been hung yet.
But the problem is that the old wooden gate rails have been replaced with a new metal pipe gate, and hanging on it is a plastic sign which says Livestock at Large and under that a smaller handwritten sign on cardboard which says Keep Gate Closed or Die.
I stand staring at the sign. What am I supposed to do? How do I enter without opening the gate? I could crawl through the pipes but there’s no way I can shove my bike through and I don’t want to leave it out by the road where someone could steal it. And I’m not going anywhere near that electric fencing.
That’s when I hear Kansas yelling from the barn. “Come on in, Sylvia! Just be sure to close the gate behind you!”
Kansas is busy brushing Nickers, who is tied to a ring in the alleyway, when I roll up on my bike. The other two horses are out grazing. I lean my bike against the barn.
“Hey,” says Kansas. “I wondered when you’d get here.”
So she’s been expecting me. Maybe she remembers being in my dreams even though Taylor doesn’t. I don’t want to ask her about it though, be
cause she had warned me not to build bridges. If mentioning a name from the real world during a dream is a bridge, then talking about dreams in the day time would be more like a multi-lane overpass. I should probably let her bring it up. She seems to know everything.
“This horse hasn’t been brushed in months. Look at the crud in this coat!” She uses a plastic brush to scratch at the mud caked on Nickers’s legs.
“Doesn’t that hurt?”
“Naw. He likes the attention.”
“He?” I was sure Nickers was a mare, though maybe that was only in the dream version. I didn’t think dreams worked that way, mixing things up so badly, especially when Mom said the purpose of dreams was to sort things out.
Kansas stops brushing and indicates up under Nickers’s tummy in front of his hind legs. “See? He’s got a sheath. That’s usually a dead giveaway that it’s a gelding. Unless there are testicles attached, which there are not in this case. Thank goodness.”
I have a good look under Nickers’s belly at his sheath.
Kansas stands behind the horse and lifts his tail. “Here’s another way you can tell. Have a look here then we’ll go look at one of the mares.”
We stand together and inspect Nickers’s backside. Kansas slides her hand down between his legs and makes a fist. “Testicles would be down here somewhere.” She looks at me. “How old are you again? Is this okay, to be talking about stuff like this?”
“My mom’s a psychoanalyst. She’s made sure that I know all the theory already.”
“Fine then. Let’s go look at a mare. It’s important that you can tell the difference between mares and geldings and stallions because they have to be treated differently and they react differently too.”
We leave Nickers at the barn and walk into the field to find another example. “This is Electra.” Kansas points up under the belly. “See, no sheath, just little nipples tucked way back there.”
I crouch down and have a good look up under Electra who continues to eat grass as though it is no problem at all that we are examining her private parts. It’s a bit weird about her name; I remember Mom talking about an Electra complex. Maybe it’s a common thing. Maybe it’s a coincidence and there are lots of horses named Electra.
Kansas holds up her tail and I have a good look there too.
“What about the other horse?” I’m kind of afraid to ask. What if it’s a mare and her name is Evelyn? Or a gelding named Freud? Or worst of all, a hermaphrodite named Tootsie?
“Photon,” she says. “Same as this one. A mare.”
“You don’t have any hermaphrodites here then?” I don’t know why I ask this, whether it’s from relief or I want to show off.
“You’re way past me on this one, Sylvia. What the hell is a hermaphrodite?”
“It’s an animal that has both male and female reproductive organs.” It feels good to be an expert, or at least to know more about something than the nearest adult, but I don’t want to make the same mistakes that the adults usually make by over-explaining things, so I’m not sure how much detail I should go into. “There’s a hermaphrodite pony in England.”
“No kidding.”
“And my pet barnacles are hermaphrodites.”
“You have pet barnacles?”
“Yes. They’re part of my guerilla marketing campaign to get my own horse.”
“What’s gorilla marketing?”
I correct her pronunciation, but gently, because it occurs to me that Kansas is the first person I’ve met who is older than me and doesn’t have to be a know-it-all all the time. Then I explain. “Like soldiers sniping from the jungle and taking people by surprise with new information.”
“Hmmm.”
We have left the mares and are on our way back to the barn and Nickers. The sun has come out and feels warm on my back. I can hear frogs croaking from the ditch by the road and the smell of fresh horse manure wafts up from the grass. It’s a perfect day.
“So you’re pretty serious about owning your own horse some day?”
“Oh yeah.”
“How long have you been working on it?”
I sigh, probably a bit dramatically, but it’s also how I’m feeling—totally relieved to be talking about this with someone who understands. “I feel like I’ve been campaigning my whole life.”
“Well I know what that’s like,” says Kansas. “I figure I was born wanting to be around horses.”
“Me too.”
“It’s a disease,” says Kansas.
I summon a serious expression like Dad does when he’s joking around. “An incurable disease.”
“Fortunately,” adds Kansas.
Perfection upon perfection.
“We’ll have to see what we can do to get you to your goal,” says Kansas. “Though I don’t know anything about guerilla marketing. What’s the situation with the parents?”
“They weren’t born this way. I must have inherited a recessive gene. My grandpa used to have horses in Saskatchewan.”
“Is he on side then?”
“He says he’ll buy me a horse when I grow as tall as his shoulder.”
She stops and assesses me. “Any chance he’s a midget?”
Anyone else saying this and my feelings might be hurt, but I know she’s not teasing or being mean. She’s being realistic. “Nope. I do stretching exercises all the time and try to eat lots of protein.”
“Good thinking.”
“My dad says Grandpa is an interfering old goat.”
“Bad sign. What about your mom?”
“She thinks it’s a stage.”
“Still? A life-long stage?”
“Something to do with my sexual development.”
“Oh lord. Not that old sausage.”
Back at the barn she hands me a comb and directs me to the knots in Nickers’ tail. She brushes, I comb, Nickers stands there with his head down, his eyes half-closed, and rests one hind leg.
“You know, Sylvia, owning a horse is a big deal. They are expensive to keep and they are a lot of responsibility. So for a lot of people, just being around them is enough. They don’t have to own a horse. They take lessons, they ride horses that belong to other people, they take them to horse shows, even win fancy ribbons . . . .”
I shake my head. This is not the picture I had in my mind.
“Well, it’s not my idea of fun either,” says Kansas. “It sounds too much like dating other people’s husbands.”
This isn’t how I would have put it, and reminds me uncomfortably of Mom’s theory about me wanting to marry Dad. I don’t say anything.
Kansas carries on as though she’s in another world. “For some of us, horse ownership is about having a relationship with these animals.” With her fingertips she strokes the horse gently around his eye. “Right, Hambone?”
“Hambone? You named your horse Hambone?” I was sort of prepared that his name wouldn’t really be Nickers, but Hambone is much worse than anything I might have imagined.
“No, I didn’t name him. He came with this name. Actually he came with the property. The mares are mine, but I inherited Hambone.”
“Can’t you re-name him? Is it bad luck, like re-naming a boat?”
“I don’t know about bad luck. But he knows his name. How’d you like it if I re-named you?”
I think about all the names people have for me. What difference could one more make? I shrug.
“You don’t like your name?”
“It’s not cool, like Kansas.”
“I thought Sylvia was the name of an ancient nature goddess.”
This is what Bernard had said at Mom’s hair salon, but at the time I thought he was crazy. It’s different when Kansas says it. “Really?”
“Sure. I read about it once.” She
returns to brushing, creating clouds of dust as she breaks up the dirt. “Though Hambone is his barn name. His real name is from Shakespeare.”
My stomach turns. Somehow I know what’s coming next.
“His registered name is Prince Hamlet.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
When I get home I lock my bike in the carport and notice Dad in the back yard working in his greenhouse. This is something he tends to do when he and Mom have had what Mom calls a difference of opinion, so I’m not sure about going in the house right away. Mom will be in there being quiet, “thinking things through”, as she puts it. I decide to take my chances on Dad. He might be grumpy or he might need me to cheer him up.
I push open the plastic-covered door. The air is thick with moisture and earth smells. Dad is peering at a geranium.
“Hey,” I say.
“Oh. Hi, Sylv.” There’s a strained smile on his face.
“Are you in trouble?” I say it playfully because it’s a family joke—him going to the greenhouse instead of the doghouse when Mom’s upset with him.
He doesn’t rise to the joke. “Well I was for a while, but that was straightened out.” He still isn’t smiling properly. “I think you better go in and talk to your mom.”
His tone is downright ominous. I check my watch. “I’m not late am I? I said I’d be back for lunch and it’s not even one o’clock yet.” My heart is thumping like crazy and my palms are sweating.
“No, it’s not that. Go see your mom.”
Oh this is big trouble. What have I done? I didn’t leave out any more sea water for people to drink. I didn’t let the barnacles die and smell up the house. I didn’t put any poison in the French toast. “Aren’t you coming in?” I’m hoping for back-up, though I don’t know why exactly, because the situation could as easily go the other way and I’d end up with two against one, the one being me. They have a parenting rule about “no piling on” but it doesn’t always turn out that way.
“I’ll be in later.”
He isn’t looking mad. More sad. Embarrassed. Something.
I catch sight of my bike on the way back to the house. I wonder about unchaining it and flying back to Kansas, but this is a fleeting fantasy. Sooner or later I will have to face the music, whatever it is. Maybe it isn’t about me. Maybe one of my parents has a fatal disease. Or they are getting a divorce.
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