by Jessie Haas
Sarah wanted to follow, to train the cold rushing water on Herky’s legs herself and rub his face with the towel, give him his hay, and tell him again how wonderful he was. But he was Albert’s horse, and Mom and Dad were standing there waiting, not saying a word.
“You folks want to come in for a cold drink?” Albert’s mother asked.
“I think we’d better go home,” said Mom.
Wordlessly, Sarah climbed into the backseat. Nothing was said until they were out of the Joneses’ yard. Then Dad said, “Sarah, what a stupid thing to do!”
Sarah didn’t answer. A hard lump grew in her throat, and her eyes stung. But Mom said, “It happens, George. People get lost.” Mom was upset, too, Sarah could tell, but Mom did understand.…
“It happens? Will somebody please tell me why, whenever this child gets tangled up with a horse, something happens? And when it does, you all rush to defend the horse, as if maiming and crushing people was just an amiable foible!”
“Maiming and crushing?” Now Mom was laughing at him. “Sarah, are you crushed?”
Sarah couldn’t answer. Tears were running down her face. It felt as if she were crushed, and Mom’s laughter hurt just as much as Dad’s ranting.
“And why is she always alone?” Dad was asking. “Don’t you think this is a little weird? When was the last time this child went riding with anybody? How would we have known if she was lying with a broken neck out in somebody’s damned sugar lot?”
“George, you know perfectly well why she’s alone. I’m sure when she has a horse of her own, she and Albert will go out together—”
“Well, let me tell you, I’m having serious doubts about this whole stupid business.…”
Sarah turned her face to the window, letting the tears run down her face and smoothing out her sobs so they only sounded like breathing.
Don’t worry! she thought. I don’t want a horse!
12
Thunder
The next day Missy picked Sarah up at noon. This was the day she was leaving for vacation, and before that she was taking Sarah to see the last horse.
I still don’t want one, Sarah thought. She’d awakened with that strong in her mind, awakened to the warm, stifled feeling that was morning this summer, and known that nothing good could happen today. No rain, no cold front, no solution to the horse problem. But she decided not to say anything to Missy. She didn’t want to tell about yesterday and live through it again.
Missy was rather silent, too, and this last excursion that they’d saved for themselves was very different from earlier ones.
On another day it would have been a beautiful drive, along a series of smaller and smaller roads that wound up through the hills, beside cow pastures and run-down farmhouses.
The house they finally stopped at was old and white, with a slate roof and peeling black shutters. A middle-aged couple, picking blueberries inside a net-covered patch, stopped work, and while Mr. Amster went out to catch the horse, Mrs. Amster told the story. Their daughter, in the army, had married a German and at last recognized that she was never coming back to make a home for her old horse. As for his age, they had never actually known it, but Sarah and Missy could estimate for themselves. Man and horse came around the corner of the barn.
“Oh, he’s beautiful!” breathed Sarah. Her bad feelings dropped away like magic. At the same time she caught Missy’s teasing look. You say that about every horse!
And this time, as every time before, it was true. True in a special way. This horse was small and chunky, with lots of shaggy mane and tail—a lovely, glowing red bay, with a ponylike expression of vitality and mischief.
“He’s a lot like Barney,” Sarah said, and Missy nodded.
“What’s his name?”
“Thunder.”
Thunder turned his head curiously as Sarah and Missy walked around him. Sarah tried to look critically, tried to note things like slope of shoulder, depth of bone. But she was helpless. His open, cheerful expression had caught her. She just liked him.
“Can I look at his teeth?” asked Missy. As politely as possible, she pushed back Thunder’s upper lip. She frowned. “I’m not very good at this, but I can tell he’s a lot older than Barney. I’ll bet he’s twenty, Sarah.”
“As I said, we really have no idea. He’s still very lively, though. Do you want to ride him?”
Sarah and Missy met each other’s eyes. No more riding, they had agreed. Suddenly that seemed like a ridiculous idea.
“Yes,” said Missy.
“I’ll go see if I can find the saddle,” said Mr. Amster.
“Have many people been to look at him?” Sarah asked.
“No,” said Mrs. Amster, “you’re the first. There are a lot of horses on the market, I understand.”
“There are,” said Missy. “And the prices are really low.”
“I don’t know what we’re going to do,” said Mrs. Amster, looking worried. “We didn’t get any hay this year. In fact, we won’t even be here most of the winter. I suppose we’ll send him to auction, though I don’t want to. I’d really like him to go to a good home.”
Mr. Amster returned with the saddle and bridle. Both were dusty and stiff, and a mouse had chewed the cantle of the saddle.
“He hasn’t been ridden in a couple of years,” Mrs. Amster said anxiously. “He might not behave.…”
Sarah wiped the cobwebs from the underside of the saddle and settled it on Thunder’s back. But when she started to tighten the girth—the cheap cotton web kind, brittle with years of sweat—it split halfway across.
“Oh, dear,” said Mrs. Amster. “You could try him bareback. Kate rode bareback a lot.…”
Missy looked doubtfully at Sarah. “Let’s,” Sarah said.
Missy made a face. “All right. Me first.” She bridled Thunder and put the stiff reins over his head, and Sarah gave her a leg up.
“You can ride him up there in the field above the garden,” Mr. Amster said. Thunder was already turning that way, eager to get going. Sarah loved his cheerful expression and his quick, springy trot. She stood with the Amsters and watched Missy trot and canter him, sitting perfectly upright and never seeming to lose her balance. She disappeared into a back part of the field and returned cantering faster. Something had happened out there, but whatever it was, Missy was grinning about it. She came back to them and slid off.
“Your turn.” She boosted Sarah up onto Thunder’s back. “Remember, you fall off and I’ll never forgive you!”
As soon as Thunder started walking, Sarah felt at home. “You’re not going to find another Barney,” Mom had warned her, and Missy had even said she didn’t want a Barney. But both of them were wrong. The way Thunder moved, the shape of his neck, the curious and thoughtful turnings of his little curved ears all were familiar.
They reached the flat place above the garden, where Missy had ridden. “Okay, Thunder,” Sarah said, “let’s trot.”
He took off at a rattling pace, and Sarah had to grab a handful of mane to stay on. Everyone saw, but Sarah didn’t care, and she wasn’t afraid. Even if she fell off, she knew she wouldn’t care. She righted herself and turned Thunder in a circle, slowed him down. She could handle him. This was easy.
After a few circles she headed out across the field. She wanted to be out of sight for a few minutes, to be alone with Thunder.
He pointed his ears eagerly toward the gate at the far end of the field. Sarah rode all the way up to it. Beyond were woods, and she could see a little trail winding off through the trees. Thunder pressed against the bars of the gate.
“Sorry, guy,” Sarah said. “I bet she used to take you out there all the time. Things been boring lately?” He turned his ears to listen to her voice, then tossed his head, snatching a length of rein. Let’s go!
“We can’t,” Sarah said, reluctantly. She was amazed at herself. She actually wanted to go out on a trail ride! “They’re waiting for us.” She turned Thunder back toward the house.
Now h
e wasn’t quite as easy to control. His bouncy walk turned into a jog, and the jog got faster. Sarah shortened the reins a little and buried her fists in his mane. “All right, go!”
Thunder went. His hooves thundered; his mane flew. It wasn’t like MaryAnne’s chestnut mare, and it wasn’t like Roy. It was wonderful. Even when he squealed and sketched a little buck in midstride, Sarah wasn’t concerned. She felt perfectly at home. As she swept into sight above the garden, she could see the Amsters looking worried and Missy laughing.
She slowed and circled Thunder and rode down to where they waited. Missy was grinning up at her. “Great, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” said Sarah. She felt enormously relieved. For once she and Missy were agreeing about a horse. She slid down off Thunder’s back. He nosed her and then Missy, eagerly.
“He’s looking for his treat!” said Mrs. Amster. “Kate always gave him a treat after a ride.” She hurried toward the garden.
“He drives, too, you know,” said Mr. Amster. “At least, he used to. If you wanted him, we’d throw in the harness and cart. No good to us without a horse.”
“Oh,” said Sarah. She didn’t quite know how to respond. Was this part of making a deal? Were they actually dickering?
She glanced uncertainly at Missy. Missy looked down, not meeting Sarah’s eyes.
Mrs. Amster came back with three beautiful carrots, wiped clean on her own garden gloves. She and Sarah and Missy each fed one to Thunder. No one spoke for a few minutes.
“He trailers well,” said Mr. Amster suddenly. “Kate never had any trouble loading him in a trailer.”
Once more Sarah looked to Missy. Missy seemed troubled. Mrs. Amster, feeding Thunder the last fragrant, feathery carrot top, watched them anxiously.
“Sarah, I really think he’s too old,” Missy said at last. “And I wish he weren’t, because he’s perfect!”
Sarah reached out to twist her fingers into Thunder’s shaggy mane.
“When you’re my age,” Missy said, “he’ll be an old, old horse. If I’m right.”
“I wish we knew,” said Mrs. Amster. “He’s supposed to be a Morgan, but he doesn’t have any papers, so I’m afraid we have no way of knowing.”
“We could always have a vet come look,” Missy said when Sarah made no response. “I really don’t know much about aging a horse by his teeth.” She lifted Thunder’s lip again. Sarah saw how his front teeth pushed out, long and yellow and sharply angled. Horse’s teeth grow long like that as they age. Barney’s were much flatter in front. Missy let Thunder’s lip drop again.
“I want Mom to come see him,” Sarah said.
Missy didn’t say anything.
“I’ll give you our phone number,” Mrs. Amster said eagerly. “Feel free to give us a call any time. We’re almost always here.”
“We have the number,” Missy said. “Thanks for all your time.”
A few minutes later they were rattling down the dirt road, and there was a reserved silence between them.
As they turned back onto pavement, Missy said, “I could be wrong. Or maybe it would be okay. He doesn’t act old. He could be fine for a long, long time.” She took a deep breath. “Or you could be needing another horse in a couple of years. And I don’t know how that would go down with your parents.”
“Me either,” Sarah said.
“Did he buck with you, too?” Missy asked.
“Yeah.”
“He was a blast!” Missy said, relaxing suddenly against her seat. “Wouldn’t he and Barney make a great pair?”
“Yes,” Sarah said. “He’s the best horse we’ve seen so far.”
Missy shook her head. “No, he’s too easy for you. Roy would make you stretch.”
I don’t want to stretch, Sarah thought.
“Of course, you don’t have to stretch,” Missy said. “You can just play around, if you want. But what if you get ambitious? What if you wanted to try some jumping, like we saw the other day? Roy could do that, but you wouldn’t want to try it on Thunder.”
Just for a second, when Missy said “jumping,” Sarah saw the log again, and she had that soaring, expectant feeling. But by the time Missy finished, she was back in reality. “Then I just wouldn’t do it.” This time she spoke her thought aloud, surprising herself. Missy didn’t seem surprised, though. She made a face.
“I know how you feel. I wish I could take him home. See what your mom says. I mean, if they understood, if they knew you might need another horse in a few years …”
Sarah couldn’t quite picture herself explaining this. She didn’t know a lot about the family finances, but she’d gotten the strong impression that things weren’t quite as easy as had been expected. Even buying one horse seemed to be a strain.
“Oh, well,” said Missy, “you’ll be seeing other horses, too, whenever your mother gets around to take you. So I guess we shouldn’t fight about it. The thing I worry about—”
She broke off, so abruptly that Sarah’s curiosity was aroused. “What?”
Missy seemed reluctant to go on. “I worry about him going to auction,” she said, after a minute. “There are a lot of horses on the market, and they all aren’t going to nice families that will love them, I hate to tell you. A lot of them are going to the slaughterhouse.”
13
More Thunder
The rest of the ride home passed in almost total silence. Sarah could think of nothing but Thunder, standing innocently and cheerfully in an auction ring, being led away to a slaughterhouse truck.… She always managed to keep herself from following him into the slaughterhouse. That won’t happen, she told herself firmly. Even if she had to ride at a walk all the rest of her life, even if she never got to do anything but feed him, he was not going to be sold by the pound for dog food.
“You want to go swimming?” Missy asked.
“No.”
Missy drove her home without another word.
“Well,” she said, pulling up in the driveway, “I’ll be gone all week, so … go ride Barney, if you want. Our neighbor’s going to check on him every night, but it wouldn’t hurt him to get ridden.”
“Thanks,” Sarah said. She couldn’t imagine herself wanting to bike all the way over to Missy’s to go riding, but she didn’t say so. “Have a nice vacation.” She got out of the car. Their last secret excursion was over, and she couldn’t even be sad about it. She had too much else to think about.
Dad was outdoors. That was strange; he rarely stirred from his desk till early evening. But there he was, doing something to the barnyard fence. He looked up when he saw Sarah and waved her over, urgently.
“What’s up?”
“Shh!” said Dad, glancing toward the house. “Better lay low for a while, Peanut!”
“But what’s going on?”
“Take a look at the garden,” said Dad. Sarah turned, with deep foreboding.
There was almost nothing left. The tomato plants still stood next to their stakes, but they were naked. Just the stalks remained, a few green fruits still hanging on them. Marigolds were beheaded, cabbages bitten, beets pulled up and left wilting in the rows. The rosebush at the corner, which had been about to bring forth a second flush of blossoms, had no buds left and very few leaves.
Sarah closed her eyes. “Oh, no!”
“You should see Goldy!”
“Is she okay?”
“She’s lying in the stall sort of groaning, but I guess she’ll get over it. I’m not so sure about your mother, though.”
Sarah’s heart sank even lower. “Well, why didn’t she put a fence around the garden?”
“I asked that question, too,” said Dad, flinching slightly at the memory. “So anyway, I think it would be wise if you were seen out here with me, suffering over this fence.”
Sarah had already suffered over the fence a few weeks ago, twisting the stiff, rusted woven wire back around itself where the squares were broken. Several places were broken again, she saw, the four-inch squares widened to eight or twelv
e inches. Before she’d eaten the garden, a twelve-inch square would have been big enough for Goldy to squeeze through.
Not now, though. The little goat lay propped against the wall of Barney’s stall, neck extended, eyes half closed. Her belly looked enormous, and every breath strained out pitifully.
“Do you think she’s okay?” Dad asked.
“I don’t know,” said Sarah. With a horse she would have worried about colic. Goats didn’t get colic, though, did they? “Do you know where Mom actually is?” she asked. “I think I should go in and look at the goat book.”
“Why don’t you work with me for a few minutes and then go?” Dad suggested. “I don’t want to overdramatize, but she’s very upset. Can’t blame her.” Dad shook his head. He couldn’t blame himself, either, or Sarah, or even Goldy. It was in a goat’s nature to eat gardens, and it wasn’t really in the nature of this old fence to hold a goat.
They found a reel of electric-fence wire and used it to patch the broken squares, weaving cat’s cradles and spider webs across them. Sarah was grateful for something to occupy her mind. Every time she saw that slaughterhouse truck, she stared hard at the wire until it went away again.
When they were finished, she went back to the stall to check on Goldy. The goat was stretched flat on her side now. Her belly looked even huger than before, and she was groaning loudly.
“Dad!”
He came running.
“She’s really sick!”
“Oh, poor baby.” Dad dropped to his knees beside Goldy. “Run look at your book! Quick!”
Sarah raced across the yard, pushed through the screen door, and let it bang behind her. Star leaped up from the kitchen floor with a surprised bark, but Sarah was already past her, leaping up the stairs two at a time.
“Diseases of the goat. A—Abortion. B—Bloat.”
Without a doubt it was bloat. Cause: overeating of rich, green food. Symptoms: distension of the sides, the left side in particular, severe discomfort. Prognosis: if untreated, death.
Half-blindly Sarah read on. Treatment: a drench, made of some substance she’d never heard of. Or else sticking a needle into the goat’s side to release the gas, like a popped balloon.…