Diann Ducharme

by The Outer Banks House (v5)

  “There’s Benjamin, Abby!” squealed Martha. “Doesn’t he look grand? Just like Sir Lancelot!”

  I snorted. With a stick for a lance, a broad-brimmed hat for a visor, and shabby rags for armor, he certainly did not look like a knight. But men perched up on horses always seemed gallant, somehow.

  We all waved hello to him and he gave us a big smile as he drove the red horse into the pen and shut the gate.

  “Hey, Sinclairs! Bet you haven’t seen the likes of this afore!” he hollered. The high rip of the sleeves on his shirt showed the muscles in his tanned arms, shining with sweat. I couldn’t look away from those arms, hard as I tried to tell myself that arms were nothing interesting to stare at.

  He jumped easily off his patchy brown and white horse and tied it with a frayed rope to the fence.

  “Is that your horse, Benjamin? It sure is small!” said Charlie.

  “Oh, sure, this here is Junie. He’s a Banker horse, like all the rest of them here,” said Benjamin, pointing to the horses walking exhausted around the pen. They kicked up a fine dust from the hot sand.

  The horses looked like a different breed of animal, with their small stature, long hooves, and matted fur. But there was something else distinctive about them, too, something to do with their jerky movements and deep, watchful eyes that hinted at their wildness.

  I could tell that the horse pen was as unnatural to them as a barn filled with oats and fresh water. A periodic brand on the hindquarters signified the horses’ only contact with mankind.

  Benjamin explained that the wild horses preferred to wander at will over the sandy bluffs, living out their existence on coarse sea grasses and salt-laced freshwater, found by digging holes in the sand with their long hooves.

  I thought that Uncle Jack would have enjoyed these particular animals, even though, at heart, he preferred oversized, purebred stallions.

  We all crowded near the fence as the horses in the pen were examined and counted by their owners. The youngest colts, hovering next to their mothers, were held down by strong men and branded with the quick touch of a hot poker. The branded colts whinnied loudly and ran off to another area of the pen to nurse their flesh. Charlie and Martha stood with their backs to the commotion and their hands over their ears, but all around me the locals were whistling their approval and jostling for space near the pen.

  As horses and a handful of humans shifted around the enclosure, the red horse that Benjamin had driven down the beach came ambling along over to us. Her coat was a remarkable russet color threaded with gold. And she looked thickly strong, in spite of her squatty height.

  “Abby, look here.” Benjamin laughed. “I’ve seen this pony ever so often, wandering and foraging. She’s real spirited for such a little gal—and she ain’t got an owner. She’s authentically wild. They say her daddy was a rough one we called Dragon’s Breath. He was a huge ol’ red stallion with a whole mess of mares in his flock.”

  As Benjamin handed me a small yellow apple, he whispered out of the earshot of Charlie and Martha, “I brung her over special for you. I just knew you’d like her, you both being redheaded and all.”

  I reached my hand through the fence and the little horse came right over on her short, knobby legs. She took the apple and munched slowly, as if meditating on her current predicament. We looked at each other, and neither of us blinked.

  Benjamin hooted loudly. “Now, ain’t that something. That pony’s usually right skittish.”

  Daddy sidled up to us. “How about this one, then? She’ll give old Mungo a rest,” he said.

  “She might be too wild for you,” warned a young local man who had been eavesdropping. “Even us Bankers wouldn’t deem to put a saddle on that girl. She’s feral as all get-out. Benny shoulda known better.”

  Benjamin interjected, “Oh, hush up, Henry. She’ll be all right. She’s just got personality is all. Ain’t nothing wrong with that.”

  Henry spat some tobacco juice away from me. “I’d pick another, I was you. She won’t do right.”

  I shook my head. “She’ll do just fine.”

  Daddy had never met a horse that he couldn’t break, so he ignored the man named Henry, too. He called out to a nearby rider and offered to pay him to halter and break the horse, to ready her for labor.

  The crowd erupted in applause when the red horse—a local favorite—was taken by the rider. He held out his hand for her to snuff while he scratched his other hand over her ears and neck. He then slung a rough-looking saddle on her back and after a few more sweet treats and petting tried to jump on her back.

  But she was wary of the maneuver. She’d probably seen this type of thing before, at a distance. She jostled away from his hold and the saddle slipped off her back. The crowd cheered loudly, and the rider just smiled. He took his time approaching her again, offering more sugar and scratching. He whispered into her ear, yet still she resisted.

  I watched the rider try and try again, as the crowd got more and more rowdy, faces red and eyes straining.

  “To the mud with her!” they all yelled.

  The more the horse’s feisty nature was displayed, the more I felt that I didn’t want her after all. She obviously wasn’t ready to give up the wild life, but I felt it was too late to tell Daddy to forget it. He was enjoying the spectacle, hooting with some of the other men and commenting on the horse’s particularly female attributes.

  Finally the rider led the horse into the thick sand of the sound. The horse walked around and around in the muck until she grew tired. When the rider jumped on her back she remained quiet, and the crowd sighed collectively with relief. With her head hanging down and a saddle on her back, she was ours for the taking. Everyone clapped like there was no tomorrow.

  When the commotion died down, Benjamin wandered off to talk to some of the local folks, and I watched him from the corner of my eye, knowing full well that I shouldn’t care what he was up to.

  A couple of young men slapped him on the back with gusto, and the women smiled at him and offered him food and beverages.

  I found myself wishing that he would come back to talk to us again. I guess I was used to having him all to myself on the porch. But he seemed happy to be where he was. He had taken up some horseshoes and was playing in a contest with a few other men. The clanging of the metal echoed periodically through the dusty air.

  Charlie, Martha, and I sat on the back of the cart and spread out the picnic lunch Winnie had packed for us. The children had hardly eaten a mouthful when the old cart driver came over to ask them if they’d like to ride some of the ponies still corralled in the pen.

  So with their chicken gathering flies, I watched Charlie and Martha ride as if their lives depended on it. They called out, “Buy this one, Daddy! This one! No, this one!” They wanted them all.

  But Daddy and Mr. Viceroy were absorbed in quiet conversation with a couple of other men. As the dust swirled around their boots, they pressed themselves into a watchful circle, horselike.

  I was busy gnawing on a drumstick when I heard Ben say, “This is her, boys. Abigail Sinclair.”

  I looked up to see two men about Ben’s age gawking at me as if I’d grown a beard and mustache. I quickly choked down the chicken meat and wiped my hands on a linen napkin.

  Ben directed a thumb left, then right. “This here is Harley Stickle and Jimmy Juniper, my best buddies. I told them just now about our learning hours on the porch of your cottage, and they didn’t believe one word I said. So you think you can set them straight?”

  I smiled and said, “It’s true. I’m teaching him how to read and write.”

  Harley and Jimmy snickered. Harley said, “Pardon me, but what in tarnation are you doing setting on a porch with the likes of Benny Whimble? I just can’t feature it. If it’s boredom that’s got you in its grips, I’ve got better cures than learning a fisherman every afternoon!”

  Jimmy counted on his fingers. “You like fishing? We may not be better fisherman than Benny here, but we got better b
oats, for sure. We can take you—and some of your fine lady friends, of course—down to the New Inlet, or over to Roanoke Island, or how ’bout cart rides on the beach? Ladies like you sure do fancy a good cart ride down the shore of an afternoon. You like pork barbecues? You drink beer? Probably not …”

  Ben hollered, “All right, that’s enough out of you. I didn’t know you were going to act so simple. You’re humiliatin’ me in front of Abby here. Get lost.”

  Harley and Jimmy looked shocked at Ben’s dismissal. “Well, okay then. But listen, Abby, if you need something to do to occupy yourself when Benny’s tiny brain dries up, just give us a hoot and we’ll come running!”

  Ben turned them in the opposite direction and pushed them away. They started laughing to themselves on their way back to the horse-hoe game.

  “Sorry about that. I just thought it would be nice if you met some of my friends. They’re good people, but sometimes they act denser than driftwood.”

  “That’s all right. I enjoyed them. It’s been a while since I’ve enjoyed such an easy conversation. My uncle and I used to horse around a lot, but I think I’ve forgotten how. Maybe I will go for a cart ride with them sometime.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t give ’em too much encouragement, if I was you. They’re not much different than stray dogs looking for the odd belly rub.”

  I giggled, thinking that they did have a sort of doglike affectation.

  Ben’s tone dampened suddenly. “Those men friends of your pap’s?” He pointed to the group of men, still in conversation.

  I shrugged. “I’ve never seen them before in my life.”

  He stopped and looked around before continuing. Concern edged his words. “They ain’t locals. You have any idea what they’re talking about?”

  I laughed and took a sip of lemonade. “No, I couldn’t imagine. Perhaps politics. The state’s current political chaos is Daddy’s favorite topic of conversation.”

  He continued to watch the men. Then he spoke tenderly, saying, “You be careful ’round him, Abby, you hear?”

  I looked away in confusion. Why would he warn me against my own daddy? “Benjamin, you need a rest from the sun, I think.”

  He reached over to scratch the red horse’s neck. After some silence, he said, “I’m sorry. I sure don’t like to mess around in other folks’ business.”

  He fiddled around with the horse for a while, as if he wanted to say something else, but he never did.

  As the event was drawing to a close, Ben offered to tie up the horse on White Storm so that we could take her back to the cottage with us, but it took a long time to get the job done. Even though she must have been exhausted, she whinnied and jerked around, and her muddy legs shook something awful, causing her long hooves to scrabble around on the slippery deck.

  Benjamin kept stroking her and talking in a low, soothing voice, and when he looked to me it was with a twinge of regret in his eyes. “Reckon she’ll be all right after a week or so.”

  I nodded. “It’s probably the first time she’s met with a boat. I’ll take good care of her.”

  As we set sail back to Nags Head, Ben called out from the docks, “Hey, Abby, some of us are getting together at the ocean for the fireworks tonight—not too far from your cottage, matter o’ fact. Why don’t you all come out to see them? There’s to be a barbecue and beer. Should be a real fun time, ’cause Snuffy Hobbs is hands down the best fireworks man alive.”

  I was sure that Daddy would not want to mingle with the locals on such a grand occasion as Independence Day. “We have plans to go to the hotel, for the fireworks party on the sound.”

  “Well, that’s all right. The hotel fireworks won’t be nearly as sparky, but you all have fun, hear?” He gave a mock salute as we drifted out into the Currituck Sound.

  I could barely hear him as he hollered, “See you on Monday, Miss Defoe!”

  The hotel was in full swing for its Independence Day party. The band squeaked out crowd favorites one after another, and the warm ballroom smelled powerfully of fried seafood, smoke, and liquor.

  Exhausted from the long day, I stood in the doorway for the fresh air, watching the vacationers dance the “Balance All.”

  The circle of connected young men and women spun left and right around the ballroom. The dance was more of a country one, but Maddie Adams was enjoying herself even so. Her face was flushed pink from the exertion in the tight bones of her corset, and the tops of her breasts bobbled like two dead jellyfish.

  I was giggling quietly to myself when I heard Daddy’s voice behind me, carried through the night. “Buxton’s likely listening to that bastard this very minute. I can’t for the life of me feature giving ear to that man’s inauguration speech. It’s likely a stream of the most radical bullshit anyone’s ever heard.”

  A voice that I didn’t recognize said, “Do tell. An evening in Nags Head is time better spent, in my opinion. I’m sure we’ll get the report from Buxton in due time.”

  I had read in a newspaper from home that the newly elected Republican governor of North Carolina, William Holden, was giving his inauguration speech in Raleigh today. Mr. Adams must have attended the ceremony for political purposes, but I guess he didn’t think it all that politically necessary to bring his wife and daughter.

  Two days before, Holden had ratified the Fourteenth Amendment, which gave citizen status and voting rights to blacks. Our newly elected senators, whom Daddy called a bunch of “scalawag” white men, Yankee carpetbaggers, and inexperienced Negroes, were set to take their seats in Congress.

  Daddy seemed to take a bite of something, then said with a full mouth, “Buxton’s a bootlicker, to be sure. But he’ll be good for us in a couple years, once all this shecoonery shakes down.” In a lower voice, he said, “He’s got some ideas about those newfangled smoking cigarettes.”

  “If you can hold on to your land,” mused the man, “you might be in business.”

  Cigar-ettes. Little cigars? An unexpected feeling of hope sparked in my chest.

  With my heart pounding against my corset, I slowly turned to face Daddy, but it was hard to see anything in the darkness. I strained to keep listening to their conversation, but the owner of the hotel began to holler for everyone to walk out toward the pier for the coming fireworks.

  The crowd roared with anticipation and began to stream for the soundside exits. Charlie and Martha led the crowd past me, hollering about sparklers. I had no choice but to walk along, and give up, at least for now, hearing more about the cigarettes.

  Daddy was swaying a bit when I walked up to him through the sand. He still held a stubby glass from home. He held his elbow out to me for me to hold, but I think he wanted me to steady him. “Here she is, my daughter Abigail,” he said. “Bought her a horse today, a little red Banker pony. Don’t know which one’s got more spirit, the horse or the girl.”

  The middle-aged man he was standing with briefly smiled and bowed, top hat in hand. “Mr. Hugh Bondfield, Abigail. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Mr. Bondfield is taking a gander at the Outer Banks this weekend,” said Daddy quietly.

  “A vacation like no other,” said Mr. Bondfield, a peculiar smile on his face. “Just a dream come true.”

  The two men snickered, but then quieted when a loud popping and sizzling broke the night in two. We all gasped at the white sparks soaring through the sky, leaving trails of light that were still there when our eyes blinked.

  At almost the same time we heard a boom, then faraway cheers, and I saw the sky over the ocean light up. Ben’s party had started, too.

  I grinned at the outright competition between the Bankers and the vacation folks, and everyone along the sound shores cheered madly. Then a group of liquored men started singing “The Star-Spangled Banner,” and soon the entire mass of people was crowing along—even Daddy, who outright butchered over half the words to the song.

  Charlie and Martha and dozens of other children just ran up and down the little sand hills, oblivious to every
thing but the sparklers that they whizzed through the night.

  But sometime during the war of brother against brother, I’d started finding it much harder to get excited about Independence Day. And I thought it was curious how we all still believed it necessary to carry on the tradition of marking the birth of our mixed-up nation. In truth, I think most folks just enjoyed the fireworks and called it a day. Yet as the crowd sang the anthem over and over again, I found that there was still something stirring me. “… O say does that star-spangled banner yet wave …”

  Yes, in spite of it all, that stubborn flag still waves, I thought. That has to count for something.

  Over and over, the sizzling colors lit up the dark glass of sky like shooting stars that arched and fell slowly down, melting into the black Roanoke Sound. Such dazzle, gone forever. And then I was filled with such a longing for life, like a fist punched through my chest.

  Against my better judgment, I decided to tell Daddy that I was going back to Maddie’s cottage for her private party. And Daddy, soused as a sailor on a spending spree, said good night to Mr. Bondfield and took the tired children on the cart back home. I then walked the wooden planks down to the ocean side, to see how Ben’s evening had gone.

  Some torches driven into the sand were still lit, and the smell of cooked pig lingered in the air. A few men and women sat on blankets, facing the moonlit ocean, and several others were standing around the embers of the cook fire, laughing along as a young man told a story. He was throwing his whole body into the telling, wringing his arms and back in imaginary net pulls.

  I was glad of the darkness, for I suddenly felt like an intruder. I’d never paid such an informal social call, and I turned to go back the way I had come before anyone saw me. But there was Ben in front of me, rolling a big barrel of beer along the sand. I gasped, and my hand flew to my chest.