Upstaged

by Aaron Paul Lazar

  A lump formed in my throat when we rose to leave. I turned off the lights and pulled the door shut. Walking arm-in-arm down the hall, I felt humbled in Camille’s presence. Such strength. Such optimism.

  The woman continued to amaze me, and I marveled that God had seen fit to grace my life with her.

  Chapter Thirty-Eigh t

  J ust before I woke the next morning, a dappled gray Andalusian mare charged into my dreams with her neck arched and nostrils flaring.

  I finished filling Diablo’s water bucket and turned off the spigot in the corner of the barn, when I felt her warm breath on my neck. I turned to face her. “Where did you come from, girl?”

  The mare snorted and stepped closer. She nodded, her curly black mane shimmering. Luminous gold and gray dapples flecked her steel-colored coat; they glistened and swirled as if animated. I realized that the mare had just shed her winter coat and the summer sun had not yet bleached away the vibrant sheen of spring.

  I offered my hand to her, palm up. Her velvet muzzle wiggled against my skin and her short whiskers tickled my hand.

  To my surprise, a slender child appeared on her back, dressed in a white nightgown. Her curls lay loose on her shoulders. She smiled. I couldn’t resolve the color of her eyes, because they shifted from jade, to azure, to yellow ochre. She waved, and then dissolved into hundreds of sky-blue butterflies that flew up and hovered overhead, forming a living, fluttering dome above us.

  The mare nudged me again, pushing against my arm with her muzzle. Her big eyes searched mine, as if asking an unspoken question. Something about the deep molasses-colored eyes was familiar. I strained to recall the memory, but a persistent buzzing shattered my dream.

  I reached up, flapped at the snooze button, and rolled over to try to get back inside my dream.

  Of course, it was futile. It occurred to me that the mare’s eyes were Elsbeth’s. I wistfully wondered if she had finally found peace in the afterlife and if she would approve of my new union with Camille.

  Of course she’d approve. She’d want me to be happy, wouldn’t she?

  I rolled onto my side and glanced at her picture on the mantle. Pre-dawn, taffy-pink clouds illuminated the photograph.

  Maybe my dream was a means of self-comfort. Or, maybe it was her way of letting me know she was okay.

  I was certain the child was Shelby. In my post-sleep stupor, I imagined it was her way of contacting me, telling me she was very much alive inside that still body.

  When I began to wake fully, I laughed at my romantic musings, throwing back the covers to embrace the cool morning. With a joyous laugh, I suddenly remembered that the high school and university were both closed for Columbus Day. I rose and quickly accomplished the morning chores, looking forward to the ride that Camille and I had planned for ten o’clock.

  Chapter Thirty-Nin e

  “C amille, can you toss me the towel?” Diablo pushed his head against me when I brushed his snarled forelock. His coat had thickened as the days grew colder. By December, he’d resemble a sixteen-hand-high wooly bear caterpillar.

  Camille rose up on her toes and threw a white terry cloth over Maggie’s back. I caught it and began to polish Diablo’s neck and flanks. The deep copper color had lightened as his winter fur came in, but it still shone brilliantly. I thought back to the strange dream I’d had earlier about the horse. I figured it was probably due to how much I was looking forward to today’s ride with Camille.

  “Gus, Maggie won’t pick up her feet!”

  I watched her struggle with the headstrong little mare, and then wrapped Diablo’s lead rope loosely around the fence rail and stepped over to help her. “She’s testing you, honey.” I stroked Maggie’s dark brown face. “Are you giving my woman a tough time? I thought we had a talk about that.”

  Maggie rubbed her head up and down my side, satisfying the need to scratch her ears. I took the hoof pick from Camille and assumed my professorial voice. “The key to picking hooves is balance. You need to push her onto her other three legs so that she’ll give up and lift this one.”

  I faced Maggie’s tail, pushed my left shoulder firmly against hers, and bent down at the waist with the hoof pick in hand. Running my hand down her leg, I pinched the tendons above the fetlock.

  Camille knelt down on the grass beside me. She leaned in and watched closely, resolute in her desire to master the technique.

  “Now, say to her, ‘Pick it up, girl.’”

  Maggie lifted her petite hoof .

  I supported it with one hand while scraping along the frog with the pick. Carefully, I pried out a large clump of mud and a small stone wedged into one of the channels. “See? It’s all in the technique.”

  After several tries, she had it. Maggie lifted each foot obediently, and Camille worked her way around the mare.

  I slid the Steuben saddle over Diablo’s withers with a front-to-back motion to smooth the hairs beneath the saddle pad. He took a deep, gulping breath and held it. “Look. He’s blowing. Ever hear of that? The horse takes a huge breath while you're tightening the girth, and then when they finally let it out, the girth is loose around his middle.”

  She looked at me like I was crazy when I kneed his side. He suddenly let out the long-held breath, and I yanked the girth tight.

  In retribution, Diablo turned his head and shoved me. This was our normal routine, and we were both used to it.

  Having shown his displeasure, he was a bit more contrite now, and he opened his mouth to let me slip the bit inside. I buckled the throatlatch and hooked the curb chain, noticing that Camille had finally mastered the art of bridling. Maggie’s little Cobb-sized bridle was firmly in place, with each strap snugly buckled. I attached the brimming saddlebags to the D-rings behind Diablo’s saddle, and we set out for our ride.

  We clip-clopped down the sunny driveway and headed for the woodland path that connected to the Genesee Valley Greenway. Camille and I walked side by side onto the cinder-covered trail.

  “Gus? Didn’t you say this used to be an old railroad bed?”

  I urged Diablo closer to Maggie and leaned over to swat a mosquito on the mare’s flank.

  She skittered a little to the side, and then settled down.

  “Yup. It was a railroad that ran from Rochester to Pennsylvania from the 1880s to the 1970s. That's what Oscar told me. He’s pretty fascinated by this stuff, you know.”

  Oscar and Millie Stone had been dear family friends since I was a boy. After the death of my own parents, and the loss of their only son, William, we’d grown closer and they were now frequent diners at our table. Millie suffered with crippling arthritis and was wheelchair-bound, but she stayed upbeat in spite of her pain. Oscar’s worldwide nature photography had been widely acclaimed. Although he’d curtailed his travels in recent years due to Millie’s limited mobility, he still traveled about the East Goodland back woods, taking breathtaking photographs. His fascination with history and nature were a perfect match, and over the years he’d assumed the role of the East Goodland historian.

  “What was the purpose of that overgrown ditch over there?” she asked.

  The trench spanned twenty feet and ran parallel to the trail.

  I ducked to avoid being strangled by a looping grapevine before summoning up the details Oscar had uncovered during his investigations. “It’s the remnants of the old Genesee Valley Canal. It was actually here before the railroad. They worked on it from the 1830s to the 1850s to create a waterway that would link the Erie Canal with the Allegheny River in Olean, near Pennsylvania.”

  I struggled to remember the facts that Oscar had shared with me during his two-decade long study of the canal. “I think that’s what Oscar said. He found some of the old locks, all overgrown with weeds and trees. His curiosity piqued, and he began his investigation in the eighties, if I remember correctly. This path we’re on now was originally the trail the mules walked on when they pulled the barges down the canal. When the railroads became popular in the 1880s, they laid the tra
cks right over the mule trails and the railroad flourished up until the 1970s.”

  Camille looked up and down the trail with renewed interest.

  “It’s so beautiful now, Gus. Like it was made for a bridle path. What happened to all the rails and ties? ”

  “I heard they were stripped and sold off for scrap when the railroad died in the seventies.” I went on to explain that after twenty years of neglect, nature had reclaimed the pathways until the Genesee Valley Greenway volunteers cleared the trail, leaving cathedral-like trees that arched overhead to create a golden tunnel.

  Diablo suddenly took the bit and moved ahead of Maggie. He loved to lead. He stretched out his neck and barreled into an extended trot. His long legs thrust forward and backward at nearly horizontal levels. I could barely keep up with him, posting briskly to the racing rhythm. Finally tired of working so hard, I urged him into a canter and relaxed when he settled into his rocking chair gait.

  Maggie followed close on his heels, cantering smoothly behind us. We reached a dip in the trail where a bubbling stream had eroded the railroad bed. It meandered across the track in a three-foot watery spread.

  Diablo pulled on the bit and increased his speed, anticipating the jump. I leaned forward and grabbed his thick mane, preparing myself for his powerful thrust. He over-jumped the stream, pushing his thirteen-hundred pounds into the air, and leapt high enough to clear a four-foot fence. Although he’d always been used for trail riding, I knew he was, in fact, a frustrated steeple chaser.

  We landed, and Diablo surprised me with a happy little buck that unseated me. I pulled him to a stop, shifted back to the center of the saddle, and reinserted my foot in the dangling stirrup.

  Camille slowed Maggie to a trot and hung on while the mare hopped carefully over the stream.

  The cool, fresh air brought color to Camille’s cheeks. Her hair hung loosely, framing her delicate face in curls. Breathless, we both stopped for a moment to enjoy the splendor of the landscape.

  Clumps of purple asters nestled against scarlet-orange spikes of sumac, accenting the trail with vivid color. The golden needles of the tamarack trees contrasted with clear cobalt skies. We inhaled the crisp air and the horses lowered their heads to grab a few mouthfuls of grass. Although experts warned against horses to eat with the bridle on, we frequently broke protocol and let the horses graze while we enjoyed the beauty of the woods. We’d clean the grass from the bits later.

  I gently pulled Diablo’s head up, collected the reins, and squeezed his sides. He pricked his ears and trotted eagerly along the towpath with Maggie close behind.

  Alternating between walking, trotting and cantering, we talked when possible and concentrated on the path when necessary. We maneuvered through several more washouts. After an hour and a half, we turned down a small path leading to a grassy meadow.

  Dismounting, we loosened our horses’ girths. I pulled the reins through the stirrup leathers, looping them around the irons. It was important to keep the tension to prevent tangling hooves with reins, and at the same time to provide enough slack to allow them to stretch their necks down to graze. Both horses had begun to chomp on the blades of short green alfalfa when my stomach growled.

  “Hungry, Gus?” Camille cast me a saucy glance.

  “Always, Camille.” I shot a grin back at her and dug into the saddlebacks.

  Chapter Forty

  W e settled on a log at the edge of the woods and munched on deviled ham, carrot chips, and gherkin pickles. The coffee in the thermos was still warm, and tasted wonderful in the autumn air. For dessert, we enjoyed two buttery Bosc pears with slices of cheddar cheese. Camille rose when she finished the last of her pear and offered her core to Maggie. The horse daintily plucked it from Camille’s hand and chewed it happily with her eyes closed.

  Camille returned to sit beside me. “Gus?”

  I fumbled with a napkin to wipe the dripping pear juice from my chin. “Yes?”

  “Do you think I’ll ever see my Boris again?”

  I gave Diablo the pulpy remains of my pear, and then turned back to her with a sad half-smile. “I honestly don’t know.” I sat down beside her. “It’s been two weeks since the break-in, hasn’t it?”

  She nodded, her lower lip trembling slightly. “What do you think happened to him, Gus? It’s killing me, not knowing if he’s dead or alive. I just need some closure,” she said. “What do you think really happened?”

  I looked at the pained expression in her eyes and felt my heart twist. I took her hands in mine. “Do you want to hear my crazy theory?”

  She shook her head. “It can’t be any crazier than everything I’m imagining. Please, tell me.”

  I let go of her hands. My arms rested on my thighs and I bent my head down toward the earth. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot, sweetheart, and it’s been driving me insane. There’s someone out there who really dislikes you. Someone who has a major grudge, who has access to the school, and who knew we were going to be away that day at the wineries.”

  “You get all that from one break-in, Gus? ”

  I could tell I’d frightened her a little, but I had to go on. “Bear with me here. Put everything together that’s happened to you since we started the production. Consider the snake, being pushed off the stage, the attack by the four-wheeler, and the break-in. Plus the sabotage that’s been going on backstage, Nelson’s ripped shirt, the attack on Cindi and attempted theft of Boris, the movement of your office supplies. Everything that’s happened has been something that could disrupt the show to discredit or upset you. I hate to say it, but I have no doubt that you’re the common factor behind all of these incidents.”

  She leaned forward. “But what about the four-wheeler who dug up your yard? He’d obviously planned ahead to deface your car. And he might have been aiming to kill both of us in that sunflower field.”

  “I know. At first, I thought it might have been a wayward delinquent, but after the chase in the sunflower field, I’ve changed my mind. I’ve been wondering if he’s jealous of me, and it was some kind of retaliation for being in a relationship with you. Or—” I hesitated, “if it was someone I’d recently disciplined in public.”

  “It could be,” she said. “Do you still think it’s Armand?”

  I looked at her, studying her worried expression. “Except for the snake incident, everything else could have been him. Armand was sitting in the auditorium when the snake dropped and hadn’t been cast in that minor role yet. Of course, it’s possible there’s more than one deviant who’s out to torment you.”

  “Not too likely, though, is it?” she asked.

  “No. Not very. But it’s the stolen underclothing that bothers me the most,” I said

  “What do you mean?” She looked uneasy.

  “I mean he or she must be obsessed with you, Camille. Sexually obsessed.” I grimaced. The whole idea made me crazy.

  She stared at me, unwilling to take it in. I could see her trying to push the distasteful concept away .

  I tested out my ideas on her. “Let’s start from the beginning, just clear the slate, and open up all possibilities. We can come back to Armand later.”

  She looked reluctant. “Okay. I guess it’s a good idea.”

  I took a deep breath. “Let’s go through the list. Who could possibly have a grudge against you?” I counted off on my fingers, listing the potential people. “First, there’s Agnes Bigelow. Or her daughter, or maybe even her husband.”

  Camille looked at me with an incredulous expression. “The Bigelows?” she said. “I know Agnes and Lisa might have reasons to resent me, but Mr. Bigelow?”

  “Well, I know he’s kind of a teddy bear, but it’s possible he’s hiding his real feelings from you, and just covers them up really well. There certainly is deep resentment lurking in that family, so you never know.” I paused. “Somehow the idea of Agnes wanting your underwear and pantyhose is too much of a stretch, though.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Right.”


  “Second, there could be any number of boys, or even girls, who had a crush on you before the auditions and were outraged that you 'rejected them’ when they weren’t selected for the show.”

  Again, she nodded, as if accepting this theory more readily. “I suppose so, Gus, but why mention girls?”

  “We have to keep an open mind, Camille. Some girls get crushes on their woman teachers, you know. It happens. It’s possible a large girl might have been mistaken for a man on the four-wheeler or even outside in the schoolyard when Cindi was attacked.”

  She nodded hesitantly. “I suppose so.”

  I stood up, ready to expound on number three. “Third, is the unknown element. The person who’s in your life all the time at school. Pick anyone. It could be someone on the cafeteria staff, the librarian, or even the principal. There could be someone who has developed an obsession over you from any walk of life, Camille, and who has it in his or her head that you have rejected them somehow. Otherwise, why would their retaliation be so brutal?” I paused again. “Did anyone from the school ever ask you for a date?”

  She started to shake her head, and then stopped and locked eyes with me. “Superintendent Marshall asked me to join him for coffee at the donut shop one afternoon. But that was to discuss a student. I had a conflict, so I couldn’t make it. I really don’t think he has any feelings for me, Gus. He’s married!”

  I recalled the affection for Camille I’d seen on Lou’s face earlier in the month. I wasn’t sure I was right, but I had trouble imagining Marshall breaking into Camille’s house. “Okay. Anyone else?”

  “Well, there was Mark Parker, the Algebra teacher. But that was over three years ago and he’s since gotten married to Lucy Mendoza.”

  She looked at me with a question burning in her eyes.