It's Not About Sex

by David Kalergis

  ”I went to Episcopal too!” said Ray. “Monroe Ward kicked me out for stealing his car!”

  “Did you know Topper Longworth?”

  “Is he your cousin?”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “You told us last night that your foster family lived in a house that only had a fireplace for heat.”

  “No, I didn’t. I said they lived in a house where they mostly used fireplaces for heat. There was one in every room. There was a coal furnace in the basement too.”

  “So it was Temple Williams who taught you how to build a fire?” she asked.

  “Right.”

  “Well, why didn’t he teach you to ride?” I asked.

  Ray looked peeved at my remark, but I wasn’t about to let his transformation from ex-convict to preppie scion of a notable Virginia foxhunter pass without explanation.

  “I only lived with him for six months before he sent me to Episcopal. He died three months after that, and I stole his brother-in-law’s car.”

  “Of course,” said Nora, her voice tinged with irony. “It’s all so obvious. Now, twenty years later, here you are.” We were approaching the gate that opened into the back pasture at Harkaway. “Was stealing that car the first thing you’d ever done wrong?” she asked.

  Ray laughed, as if she’d said something quite funny.

  “Lord, no. I told you last night I was incorrigible. Remember?”

  “Well, how did Temple Williams come to be your stepfather? Did he marry your mother?”

  “No. Mr. Williams never married my mother. He wasn’t my stepfather. He was my foster father.”

  We had reached a gate that opened onto another path, this one leading up a slight rise toward the barns of Harkaway. I was eager to hear the rest of Ray’s story, but Nora spied a man standing beside one of the barns, waving. After we had passed through the gate and she had made sure it was latched behind us, she set off in his direction and we followed.

  “Hi, T.J.,” she called out. Her voice sounded like a young girl’s.

  “T.J.” turned out to be a grizzled-looking old country gentleman with a weathered face and ice-blue eyes. He wore a new tweed jacket and stood next to a spanking-new red Dodge pickup. The truck had Eagle Hill painted in a crest on the door. In the rear window was an Arabian Horse Association sticker.

  T.J. smiled sheepishly at Nora.

  “Nice to see you, Ladybug,” he said.

  “Nice to see you too, T.J.” She pointed toward us. “This is Bradley, and that’s Ray. They’re friends of Lennie’s.”

  This last remark stung me, but I nodded my head to him in greeting, and he did the same to me.

  “And how’s Mr. Hirsh?” T.J. asked.

  “He’s fine. But, good Lord, why are you so dressed up? And whose fire engine is that?” she asked, looking at the red truck.

  “It’s mine,” he said. “I’m farm manager here now. I got eight men under me.”

  “Eight men? Good for you. No wonder the place looks so good,” she said, noting the barn and fences. The barn was newly painted in a vivid red, the fences a glossy white.

  “Will they be keeping a lot of horses?” she asked.

  “We already got a lot, Ladybug, and I dress like this all the time now. We got Arabians.”

  “Arabians?” she repeated. “On Harkaway?”

  “Well,” T.J. said, “it ain’t Harkaway anymore, either. The place is Eagle Hill now.”

  Nora began to laugh but looked at the name on the side of the truck and abruptly stopped. “Tell me you’re joking. There haven’t been any eagles here since Grand Mommy was a girl.”

  “Well, it’s Eagle Hill now,” he said. “All the barns have been painted red, and there’s over thirty head of Arabian on the place. Not one of ’em is worth under twenty thousand. I tell you, Ladybug, it’s a different world.”

  “I guess so,” said Nora, looking at the truck again.

  “Here they come,” he said. “You can meet the boss . . .” He winked at her. “. . . and her husband.”

  Another red Dodge Power Ram came rapidly up the farm road, raising dust, but it slowed when it entered the stable yard. The vanity plate on the front bumper read EAGLHL1. A heavyset woman in a too-tight riding habit emerged from the driver’s seat as a huge tri-color German Shepherd Dog and a rather mousy-looking gentleman with a thin gray mustache got out from the passenger’s side. The man wore a new tweed jacket identical to the farm manager’s.

  As T.J. greeted them, the woman snapped at her husband, “Stanley, your ass caught.” His right hand immediately sprang to his throat, and he adjusted a powder-blue ascot that was slightly askew.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Scharpe,” said T.J., “this is your neighbor, Nora Hirsh. And these are friends of hers.” Nodding at the German Shepherd Dog, T.J. said to us, “And that’s Baron.”

  Mrs. Scharpe, who appeared to be in her mid-fifties, looked up at Nora astride her black mare and said, “Oh, yes. I met your father at the Club yesterday.”

  “That was my husband,” Nora said.

  “Of course . . . your husband. Your husband tells me you’re quite the rider, jumping over jumps and everything.”

  Nora didn’t respond.

  “Stanley’s learning how to ride now too. Tell them, Stanley.”

  “I have a new horse,” said the man with the mustache. “His name is Khartoum. You know, like in The Godfather, but I don’t think he likes me.” He’d walked over to Woodsaw and was patting him vigorously on the nose. Ray and I exchanged significant looks. Baron had followed Stanley, but the horse didn’t react to the presence of the dog. The sun was warming, and Ray tied his blue-jean jacket around his waist as Stanley moved to Ray’s horse and patted it on the nose. Baron came with him. “What’s your horse’s name?” he asked Ray.

  “Shithead,” said Ray, distinctly. “You know, like in Shithead.”

  Stanley couldn’t believe his ears, even though Ray had said “Shithead” twice. I spoke up quickly. “I understand you’ve changed the name of the farm, Mrs. Scharpe.”

  “Yes,” she answered. “I hated that name, ‘Harkaway.’ No one even knows what the word means.”

  “Everyone knows what it means,” said Nora. “It’s a foxhunting term.”

  “There’s no foxhunting here,” said Mrs. Scharpe.

  “Yes, there is. But there aren’t any eagles.”

  “Oh, yes, there are. I’ll never forget the first time we saw this farm. There was a flock of eagles circling, right over there, like a good omen.” She pointed toward the woods from which we’d come.

  “Those were buzzards eating the carcass of a deer,” said Nora.

  “They were eagles,” said the woman. “I saw them myself, swooping through the air. Big, black, graceful eagles. Weren’t they, Stanley?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Eagles. We all saw them.”

  Nora looked at T.J., who remained silent. The new farm name hadn’t been such a great topic either. T.J. stepped up to Nora’s mare and touched its muzzle gently. His stroke was very different from Stanley’s. As I looked at Ray to see if he appreciated the difference, a shrill whinny came from a nearby pasture, and a well-muscled spotted pony galloped along its paddock fence line. Nora’s mare stuck her head straight up and whinnied back at the little horse. He stopped short—stiff-legged—whinnied again, then resumed galloping the line.

  “Your mare must be in season, Nora,” said T.J.

  As if she’d understood what he’d said, Point de Vue stretched forward, raised her tail straight above her back, and squirted a pungent stream of urine. Nora stood up in the stirrups to relieve pressure from the horse’s kidneys.

  No one said a word as the stream continued. When she was finished, the horse whirled around with Nora still astride, the mare’s tail still sticking straight up into the air. She whinnied again. The little stud horse returned the love cry. Point de Vue’s vulva was swollen, red, and winking.

  Mrs. Scharpe stared, speechless. Stanley giggled nervously.

&
nbsp; “Does she want to mate?” he asked. No one answered.

  Finally T.J. said, “That’s our teaser pony, downwind of her. He must have caught the scent.”

  “What’s a teaser pony?” asked Ray.

  “You know,” replied T.J. “It’s . . . well . . . it’s a teaser pony. To test the mares if they’re in season, and get them riled up, before you take them to the stud barn. Stallion time is valuable, and you want to be sure the mare’s ready—and make sure it will take.”

  Mrs. Scharpe and Stanley nodded in agreement.

  “You use the teaser pony to get the female worked up, then take her to some fancy stallion?” Ray asked.

  “That’s right,” said T.J. “You got the picture.”

  “But what about the teaser pony?”

  “What about it?”

  “When does it get to breed with the mare?”

  T.J. laughed. “Never! You don’t want no teaser pony covering a high-class mare.”

  The pony was still galloping along the glossy fence line, his nose high into the wind, neighing frantically. When he made a cut-back, his legs slipped from under him and he fell heavily to the ground, skidding across dirt. The little horse scrambled to his feet and resumed galloping. Nora had swung from the saddle and stood beside her agitated mare, holding the reins. She spoke to the horse gently, soothing her, then spoke to Ray and me.

  “We’d better go. I’ll walk her back to the gate. She’ll be fine once we get out of sight.”

  Sniffing loudly, Baron stuck his huge snout into Nora’s crotch. She pushed him away firmly, but he came right back and did it again. She pushed him away again.

  “Baron,” said Stanley. “Stop that, you bad dog, or I’ll put you on the leash.”

  “Don’t you dare,” said Mrs. Scharpe. “He’s been cooped up all morning.” She turned back to Nora. “Mrs. Hirsh?”

  Nora already had started down the trail, the dog following her, but, at the sound of Mrs. Scharpe’s voice, she looked back. The little pony redoubled his efforts, whinnying loudly again at Nora’s mare, who was receding from his sight as she walked down the rise, away from the barn.

  “Ride through the farm any time you want,” Mrs. Scharpe said.

  Stanley called out, “Good-bye.”

  “But next time, please call first,” Mrs. Scharpe added.

  CHAPTER VIII

  ◊

  “What ghastly people!” Nora said.

  “Did you see Stanley’s face when Ray told him the horse’s name was Shithead?” I asked.

  Nora had the lead. Ray and I rode side by side behind her. “You sure have a sophisticated sense of humor,” I said to him.

  I expected they’d both laugh and perhaps join in a deliciously catty postmortem of our visit, but neither even smiled.

  “‘But next time, please call first,’” Nora said angrily, her voice imitating Mrs. Scharpe’s.

  Baron came running up the trail behind us, his enormous tongue hanging from his mouth.

  “Go home, Baron,” Nora said. The dog continued to follow. “All right, don’t go home, but don’t let Claude Rhodes catch you here.” We rode on in silence until she spoke again. “The trails of Harkaway and Schoolcross have always been open for each other. Now we’re supposed to call first?”

  “Well,” I answered, “the farm’s name isn’t Harkaway. It’s Eagle Hill now.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I guess that’s the answer. Poor T.J.”

  She was devastated, and Ray, too, looked grumpy.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked him. “Has the thought of Arabians instead of Thoroughbreds on dear old Harkaway gotten you depressed?” He didn’t look at me. “Hey, come on, Ray!” I said. “That was funny! What’s the problem?”

  “Why wouldn’t you tell me what a teaser pony was? I asked you three times.”

  “What do you mean I wouldn’t tell you? I never said I wouldn’t tell you.”

  “Well, you never answered.”

  “Oh, Ray,” said Nora. “Stop being ridiculous.” She didn’t want to put up with one of Ray’s moods. Besides, the topic was awkward.

  “I wanted to know what it meant,” he said. “Now I know. Anyone would have been curious. After that Tingley guy said it, Lennie poured a bucket of water on him.”

  We rode past the bones in the bushes. Baron found them and gave a few sniffs but wasn’t interested. They’d been picked clean long ago, by the famous eagles of Eagle Hill, no doubt. Baron ran ahead and stopped in the middle of the trail. Again Nora shouted, “Go home,” and he disappeared into the woods.

  Ray was still miffed. Tingley had lived up to his reputation for finding the right remark to cause unending trouble. His comment had been unexpected, insulting, and beautifully timed to upset the greatest number of people. How embarrassing for Nora! She certainly had never called Ray a teaser pony, and his presence on Schoolcross seemed to be the last thing she wanted.

  “Let it go, Ray,” I said. “Tingley’s comment didn’t mean anything.”

  “Not to you, maybe, but Tingley wasn’t talking about you. What I want to know is, how did ‘teaser pony’ come up that night in the first place?”

  “I told you, Ray. Tingley brought it up.”

  “But why?” he asked. “It’s such an odd thing to say.”

  “How the hell do I know?”

  Perhaps I was protesting so loudly because I did have an idea why, but I wasn’t going to speculate about it with Ray, especially in Nora’s presence. Perhaps Nora’s desire for a child, and Lennie’s inability to give her one, had become a subject of gossip inside the art world. It was an unlikely possibility, but Tingley knew everything. If Lennie had confided in me, perhaps he had told others.

  “You’re being perfectly absurd, Ray,” she said. “If you’re going to be in the public eye you can’t take critical remarks so seriously.”

  The Hirshes had received their share of negative publicity over the years, but Nora also was simply embarrassed by this conversation and wanted it to end. Her usually pale cheeks were bright pink.

  “Yeah, Ray,” I said. “People are going to be taking potshots at you all the time.”

  Nora lifted herself slightly out of the saddle and turned at the waist so she could look at us.

  “Stop being so sensitive,” she said to Ray. “I liked you better when you were going around all silent.”

  “And I’m supposed to care whether you ‘like’ me.”

  “You were worried about it last night, Ray,” I said. The wisecrack just slipped out. He glared at me, and it’s frightening when Ray glares, especially when you know what the man is capable of doing.

  “What did you say about me last night?” asked Nora.

  “Can’t you ever keep your mouth shut, Bradley?”

  “Never mind,” I said to her. “It was nothing.”

  “I see. The two of you were discussing me last night, but it was nothing. I’m a woman, so I have to stand by while people talk about me as if I were a thing.”

  “Our conversation wasn’t like that at all, Nora,” I said. We rode on in silence, crossed the narrow stream, and were soon approaching the fenced border to the Schoolcross hay field. We’d gotten back quickly. The horses knew their breakfasts would be waiting for them at the stable.

  “Open the gate yourself, Bradley,” Nora said, as she moved her horse toward the section of fence where the top rail had been removed. She’d never spoken to me so coldly, not even that night in the limousine. I slipped off Woodsaw’s back and led him by the reins to the gate. It was a relief to stand on the ground again. I hadn’t been on a horse in years. My legs and butt would be sore tomorrow morning.

  As Nora centered Point de Vue to jump the fence, I was again glad I didn’t have to go over it. Even with the top rail off, the next board was at least three and a half feet high, and the timber looked solid. If the jump was miscalculated, a thousand pounds of mare would do serious damage crashing through, especially if she should fall and land on someone. />
  Nora walked Point de Vue to within five strides of the fence and urged her forward. The horse broke into a loping canter approaching the jump perfectly. Nora’s timing was precise. She leaned forward, slightly out of the saddle, just as the horse left the ground, then settled back as soon as they’d landed safely on the other side.

  “Very pretty,” I called to her.

  It had been a perfect example of classic form, and I hoped Ray was watching. Looking back over my shoulder, I was shocked to see him centering Mr. Constant into position to jump the fence. I didn’t yell for him to stop because he’d already committed the horse, which was now moving rapidly forward. Mr. Constant knew the approach was off stride, but he’d been trained to do as he was told. Ray urged him on, kicking the horse with his heels and leaning forward in the saddle, in exaggerated imitation of Nora.

  Mr. Constant is a good athlete and took no chances on crashing the fence. He left the ground a full stride early, sailing over the jump by an extra foot and a half. Despite Ray’s posture forward, he had no balance and was thrown dangerously backward by the propulsion of the jump but somehow kept his feet in the stirrups and didn’t fall off.

  When Mr. Constant landed, the good horse brought himself to a stop, locking his front legs, unsure of what was expected of him. The shock of the landing and the abrupt halt brought Ray crashing back into the saddle. He was pitched forward by the momentum, and his face smashed hard into the back of the horse’s skull, right between its ears. If he’d been wearing his glasses, they would have been crushed into his face. Ray slid down Mr. Constant’s right shoulder, as if in slow motion. Both hands tried to grasp the mane, but only the right held and it didn’t stop his fall. Mane hair pulled out in his hand, and the brief grip spun his body around. He hit the ground hard, landing flat on his back, and when he sat up blood was flowing from his face.

  “Hold still, Ray,” I called. “Just lie there.” But by the time I’d opened the gate and run to him, my heart pounding, he’d already staggered to his feet. Nora dismounted, and she too ran up to Ray, leading her mare at a trot. I quickly grabbed Mr. Constant’s reins and held them along with Woodsaw’s; both horses were skittish from Nora’s distress. Ray wasn’t able to stop the blood flowing down his face and it soaked his shirt. Hunks of hair from the horse’s mane were still tangled around his bloody fingers.