Margaret Fletcher Gallop Girl: A Fall From Grace at Forty Miles an Hour

by Genevieve Dutil

  Mother looks me up and down and says, “Oh dear, Margaret, you’ve become tan. You look like a migrant worker.” She hasn’t changed one bit. She may be broke and living in an unflatteringly-lit condo. But that imperialistic country club attitude is just as sharp as ever, particularly when she finds something or someone to criticize. “You know, Margaret, you can’t possibly hope to find a nice boy from a good family if you’re going to insist on looking like you make your living with your hands.”

  I roll my eyes and tell her that I don’t care. But she isn’t giving up that easily. With the sternest voice she can muster on two and half cocktails, she bellows, “LIFE discriminates against those who insist on parading around with patchy sunburnt skin! I didn’t make the rules, honey. I just play by them.” She is doing her best to sound like an evil witch casting an ominous spell. But I’m not concerned. I have years of experience dealing with her when she’s in one of her emotionally destructive moods. It’s child’s play, really.

  I dangle a gin-soaked cocktail olive in front of Mother’s pointy nose, “Well, Mother, it just so happens I have met a nice boy from a good family and his dad is worth millions.” Mother’s face lights up like it’s Christmas morning and the gluten-free ice cream comes out of the fridge. I can tell that she is hunkering down for a long afternoon chat about boys. “Oh, honey, it’s like you’re Cinderella and he’s Prince Charming. Only you weren’t always so poor and dirty.”

  Should I burst her bubble now? This is too cruel, right? It’s not like she just called me poor and dirty. “Maybe we can swing by his place after my meditation, Mother. Do you happen to have a more sensible pair of shoes?”

  She assumes that “sensible” means something smaller, shinier and fresh from an overpriced designer’s spring collection. “Oh, Margaret, darling, it has been sooo long since I’ve allowed myself the luxury of buying a new pair of sensible shoes. We don’t want your new beau to think he’s marrying into a family that buys their couture on eBay. Let’s swing by Saks and splurge!”

  “Don’t worry, Mother. That new man of mine doesn’t particularly care where you buy your shoes. Being a horse and all.” With that, Mother deflates harder and faster than she did the day she realized her plastic surgeon stopped taking her calls.

  Mother throws her hands up in frustration and loudly proclaims, “Oh, Margaret, I’m absolutely not buying you a horse right now. I can’t even afford a sensible pair of shoes, let alone a horse!”

  With great pleasure, I explain the situation with Chocolates, my partnership with Emily and my complete lack of need for any of her help.

  Mother simply looks at me with a raised eyebrow and asks me how many concussions I’ve suffered at my new job. “Margaret,” she says, “I haven’t a clue what they are paying you. But there is no way you can swing horse show bills. I don’t care how many little friends you’ve got splitting the tab.”

  I knew she was going to say that. I’m sure Mother thinks I’m still the same clueless Princess she raised. But I’ve changed. I’m growing into the kind of young woman who understands the hard work and sacrifice that happens behind the scenes of real life. “Don’t worry, Mother. Emily put together a spreadsheet with all our expenses laid out, including shows. So thank you for your concern, but we’ve got it covered.”

  Why does my mother suddenly have a twinkle in her eye? They’re still glossy from her inappropriate afternoon buzz, but I can recognize the watery glint of mischief when I see it. She takes another sip of her cocktail and puckers her lips like she just finished sucking on a lemon. “Margaret, darling, make sure this Emily person hasn’t forgotten to budget for tips, meals and hotels for your grooms, in addition to their day rate.”

  Crap. Something tells me Little Miss Purple Plastic Schooling Helmet neglected to add tips, meals and hotels for our grooms. I do my best to look cool as a gluten-free cucumber sandwich, even though I am panicking inside.

  But it’s too late. Mother smells blood in the water and she’s ready to attack.

  “I’m sure the price of braiding has gone up, so be sure that’s on the spreadsheet,” she says, “Oh, and don’t let this girl you call Emily try and save pennies on food for the weekend. I always insisted that your trainers provide you with fresh salads and fruit from the best local restaurants. If you ate the salt and fat they serve on the show grounds, you would have been busting out of your breeches by the third day. Let’s not forget last minute expenses covered, as well. Leave a whole column open in the spreadsheet for that one! Because let’s face it, no matter how organized you thought you were, there was always something you needed to pick up at the show. Saddle pad, gloves, spurs. Whatever it was, it was always ten times more expensive when we had to buy it last minute.”

  My aura is totally stressed. I came here today to humor my confused, financially-stricken father. But by the time Daddy wakes up, I am in full need of his services. Mother can hardly stand the sight of Daddy in his hemp pajamas, so it doesn’t take much effort to clear her out of the room. Candles are lit and curtains are drawn. The place is starting to take on the appearance of a cheap salon where one might have her fortune read.

  Daddy gestures for me to join him sitting on the floor. He closes his eyes, puts his hands on his temples and says, “Cookie, I want you to think about all the things that are important to you. Now take a deep breath and expel them things from your universe. BE GONE UNIMPORTANT THINGS! BE GONE!”

  Right now, all I can think about is braiders, grooms and last-minute expenses. And my new financial reality has already taken care of expelling all of it from my universe. So I’m not exactly sure what we’re doing here.

  Daddy tells me that the things I think matter actually don’t matter. That doesn’t make any sense. Because I’m pretty sure one can’t make it through a real A-Circuit horse show without a proper braider and at least one groom. Believe me, it matters.

  “Cookie, the only thing that is important is what is in front of you right now, in this moment,” he says.

  I don’t believe him. But he slips into some kind of yogic trance before I have a chance to argue. Completely oblivious to the puddle of panic sitting across from him, Daddy hums a melodic chant. It’s like dull butter knives stabbing into my brain repeatedly. Twenty painfully “silent” minutes later, Daddy opens his eyes and takes a deep breath. “May you always let the peace be with you.”

  Is he serious? Do I look like someone in any kind of proximity to peace? Still, I got more attention from Daddy in that completely-ineffective meditation session then I’ve experienced in the past twenty-two years combined. Growing up, he always told me that pigs get slaughtered. So I should probably just smile, nod and go off on my merry little way. But I am determined to cultivate a more meaningful relationship with this man now that he has time for me. Because as far as I can see, that is the only potential upside to being poor. I cut to the chase and ask, “Daddy, do you ever have trouble adjusting to this new life of poverty?”

  “I’m not poor. I have a rich life of peace and tranquility and fulfillment and beauty and yoga and my senior friends,” he insists.

  DADDY! It’s the middle of the afternoon and you’re wearing pajamas made out of the discarded stash of some enterprising hippie. YOU’RE POOR.

  Of course, I don’t actually say any of that. He’s fragile, remember? Still, I know that behind all the sandalwood fumes there is a smart, cunning businessman. The kind of man who could help a girl figure out how to come up with the cash she needs to show on the A-Circuit in style.

  Then I remember my promise to Mother. I’m not supposed to tell Daddy that I’ve got anything to do with racehorses. I have no idea why the subject is taboo. But it is, and I can’t be honest with Daddy about what is really going on with my life unless I break that promise to Mother. I should go ahead anyway, right? The woman did just take way too much pleasure in putting me through the emotional wringer. So why can’t I bring myself to betray her? Did all those years of master manipulation leave me permanentl
y subject to that woman’s will?

  Daddy tells me that my aura is now clean, confirming my suspicion that he is a complete charlatan. Maybe that means that one day he’ll give up all this new age crap, return his old ways and start making this family a whole bunch of money again. As great as that would be, my window of opportunity to get to know him might be closing. I should open up and tell him everything. Then we can finally be close.

  But for reasons I don’t entirely understand, I can’t go back on my word to Mother. It must be some kind of voodoo. I wouldn’t put it past her to find some online course that teaches Witchcraft 101. I give Daddy a hug, make an appointment for next week, and then slip out before Mother has a chance to cast another spell.

  I PROBABLY DON’T HAVE TO TELL YOU that there is no mention of grooms, grooms’ expenses or last minute purchases in Emily’s spreadsheet. When I point out the holes in her financial planning, she loans me a copy of Horse Showing on a Shoe String Budget by Camile Watson.

  I was expecting Camile’s book to wax poetic about the benefits of forgoing fashion in favor of outdated secondhand show clothes. I totally get that I can’t afford to show in quite the same manner that I’m used to. I had already committed to choosing chicken over shrimp on my lunch salad. But avoiding big hotel bills by throwing an inflatable mattress into a stall and calling that a bedchamber? Does this woman really expect her readers to live on a steady diet of string cheese & mixed nuts to avoid “getting gouged at the food stands?” Camile, honey, I just don’t believe that you enjoy “staying up all night braiding horses by the light of your pick-up truck for extra cash.”

  Don’t get me wrong. Margaret Fletcher is not afraid to get her hands dirty. I fully expect to help Emily tack up for me in the morning. But a serious competitor needs to be focused on the actual competition. Growing up, my trainers wouldn’t even let me do homework for a week prior to a big competition. Let alone “earn an extra few bucks throwing morning hay while the well-heeled are still getting their beauty sleep.”

  I’m sure these penny-pinching techniques are great for your average unfortunate Pony Clubber hoping to bring home a ribbon from her local unrated horse trial. But we’re talking about the A-Circuit here. We’re talking real competition! Clearly, Emily doesn’t fully grasp what’s at stake and it’s my job to set her straight.

  I invite Emily out for a drink (no tequila this time) at Shorty’s and bring along a couple horse show photo albums to illustrate my point. Elegance. Poise. Grace under pressure. I forgot how beautiful I look in my old show photos.

  “Emily,” I ask, “Do I look like I stayed up all night braiding or woke up early to throw hay at the crack of dawn? Does the girl in these photos look like she subsists solely on a diet of string cheese and mixed nuts?”

  I think I’m making a pretty compelling argument, but Emily loses her cool. “You look like a spoiled brat sitting on a fancy horse. A horse that you never bathed, groomed, fed or cared for in any kind of meaningful way in your entire life,” she says.

  It’s never pretty when jealously rears her ugly head. I’m ready to cut this meeting short, but Emily is not finished giving me the business. “I’ve got a news flash for you, Margaret Fletcher. You are not that girl anymore. Chocolates is a nice horse. But I can promise you that he won’t be carting you around the arena in the same style as that lovely, well-schooled beast in those pictures. In fact, I can pretty much guarantee that he’s going to make an ass out of you at least once before the weekend is over. Not because you’re not a good rider. Because that’s what green racetrack rejects do. By the end of it, you’re going to be covered in more dirt than you have ever been in your entire life. Muscles having nothing to do with riding are going to be sore and you won’t even remember the last time you got a good night’s sleep. If you’re lucky, you might get a ribbon out of the whole deal. But you won’t get a fancy picture like this. You know why? Because show photographers are expensive and you CAN’T AFFORD IT! So are you up for this, Margaret? If not, please tell me now so we can dissolve this partnership and I can move onto something worth my time.”

  Emily storms out, leaving me alone with two untouched Grand Marniers. Ten minutes later, I’m still at the bar trying to gather my composure when the Boss walks in, unaccompanied. He takes a seat, sizes me (and the two drinks sitting in front of me) up and then says, “Princess, what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this before sunset?”

  I’m won over by his fake cowboy pick-up line. I slide Emily’s untouched Grand Marnier across the bar and say, “Late afternoon meeting with my business partner gone bad. Care for her drink?” The Boss ignores my offer, eyeballing my photo-album instead, gesturing for permission to peruse it. And I’m pleased to say, “Go ahead, Boss. Knock yourself out.”

  As the Boss starts flipping through the pages of the best years of my life, I can’t help but notice him pause at a photo depicting the rear view of my jumping effort. Without taking his eye off that photo, he says, “Let me guess: you showed Emily this photo album in an innocent attempt to educate her on the requirements of competing on the A-Circuit.” (Well, it sounds like someone has a history of overreacting in the face of helpful advice.)

  I feel vindicated by the Boss’s characterization of Emily’s hair-trigger temper and immediately start to imagine how I will address the situation with her in the near future. “Do you think she would listen to reason if you had a talk with her, Boss? Maybe just explain that she can’t just fly off the handle every time someone tries to help her?”

  The Boss finds another photo of my backside arched in perfect preparation for take-off and chuckles to himself. Normally I’d be pleased, but right now I’m beginning to think that he’s too distracted to provide any more meaningful insight. But then he says, “Princess, I know Emily looks a little rough and ready. But she’s not clueless. So try not to be so uptight.”

  Uptight? I think someone here is quite fond of how “uptight” Margaret Fletcher looks in a pair of show breeches. “Hey, Boss, just because I don’t allow fly-a-ways to have a party outside of my helmet doesn’t mean that I’m uptight!” I finish my Grand Marnier in one gulp, untie the bun in my hair and shake my locks wildly about my shoulders and say, “I know how to have fun.”

  The Boss chuckles, “I don’t believe you,” before slamming back his own Grand Marnier in similar fashion and treating me to a playful wink.

  A normal girl would probably take the opportunity to act all adorably indignant or something like that. But back-to-back weekends of horse showing as a teenager prevented me from ever learning, much less mastering the art of flirtation. So naturally, I demur. I assume our little tit-for-tat is over.

  But then the Boss leans in and I catch a delicious whiff of his fresh and manly aftershave as he challenges me, “Prove it.”

  Prove it? I have absolutely no idea how to prove it. So I sit there, frozen, waiting for him to let me off the hook with a flirtatious joke or intimate display of physical familiarity.

  Instead, he says, “Let’s take a couple of the horses galloping on the beach tonight, just for fun.”

  I snort in derision, inadvertently filling my nostrils with the orange cough syrupy sensation of Grand Marnier. I can’t imagine he is serious. “Galloping on the beach isn’t on anybody’s work schedule.” Strict adherence to a predetermined work schedule is something I have always admired about the Boss. Nothing turns me on more than personal discipline.

  “Don’t worry, Princess,” he responds “innocently” combing his fingers through the untamed locks of my recently untethered mane, “Galloping on the beach is a great way to clear a young horse’s mind and build muscle. I’ve got two colts that would benefit from a little unscheduled adventure. So are you ready to prove that you can let your hair down or not?”

  I’m not. Not at all. Galloping young horses on the beach sounds terrifying. I really wish the Boss would just pinch me on the cheeks and let me go home to my depressing apartment. But I have a feeling that if I want
to give the impression that I can be fun, I’m going to have to step outside of my comfort zone. So I look him square in those big, beautiful, blue eyes of his and say, “Let’s go.”

  HEY, EMILY, GUESS WHAT? I’m loading TWO resistant horses onto a trailer all by myself. Do I get to be part of the cool kids now?

  Something tells me the two three-year-old colts chosen for the dubious task of proving that Margaret Fletcher is fun know something I don’t. Neither seems particularly thrilled to be marching towards a trailer at this late hour. I’m willing to bet that “Jumpy” and “Hoppy” over here will only get LESS cooperative once they get their first glimpse of the great big ocean. I keep looking at the Boss, waiting for him to burst into laughter and admit the whole thing is one big joke. But no. He just tells me it’s time to stop fussing with my hairnet and hit the road.

  Once again, I find myself at an equestrian crossroads. I can either do exactly what everyone expects an uptight Hunter Princess to do and bail on this ridiculous idea, or I can get in the truck and hope that the Boss is bluffing. I get in.

  Ten minutes into the drive, I accept my fate. The sun has set. The air has a chill. And in a matter of mere moments, Margaret Fletcher is going to be galloping on the beach. The Boss parks the truck in an empty parking lot by the lifeguard station. The ocean spreads out before us. The sun is setting and there isn’t another soul around to bother us. It’s so peaceful, someone should light a meditation candle and look for my aura. But as I get out of the truck, the sound of the ocean crashing on the shore is deafening. At least the sand will provide an adequate cushion should (oh, sorry, WHEN) I get dumped.