Taking the Reins (An Ellen & Ned Book)

by Jane Smiley

  Everything was done by three. I sat on the front porch by some potted geraniums for a while and watched Abby’s dog, Rusty, chase a rabbit, but pretty soon I got bored and found a book I’d left at Abby’s just for this purpose, one of those books you can read over and over. I’d finished one chapter and was turning the page when Da appeared and sat down next to me. I closed the book with my finger in it and said, “When was the first time you ever rode a horse?”

  He shrugged.

  “You really don’t remember?”

  “Well, there’s a picture of me sitting on a pony we had, Pirate. Mom’s holding me on the pony bareback. It looks like summer, so I was about seven months old.”

  I dropped the book.

  He said, “I was riding when I was two and a half. I remember that. She had to strap me in at first. Pirate was a small pony, under twelve hands. He was black as night, with one white snip above his nose. He died two years ago. He was thirty.”

  “Wow!”

  “Mom says that’s like ninety or more in people years. But he was trotting around his pasture and kicking up all the way to the end.”

  I picked up the book.

  Da said, “I can’t read.”

  “You’re ten years old and you go to school. I don’t believe that.”

  He took the book, opened it upside down, and said, “Does this sound right? ‘Illufugarac nobobo et desoto?’ ”

  I grabbed the book. He pointed at the line “She closed the carton carefully.”

  I said, “Were you translating that into Australian?”

  We both laughed, but then he said, “I hate reading. Half the time when we have to read out loud at school, I get something wrong.” Then he said, in his Colonel Dudgeon voice, “I don’t understand what is wrong with that boy!”

  “You’ve never read Charlotte’s Web?”

  He shook his head.

  I ran down my list of favorites. He kept shaking his head. I was amazed. Even Jimmy Murphy has read Johnny Tremain and Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle. Da said, “So read it to me.” He moved over to the other side of me, rested his back against the post, and closed his eyes. I turned to the first page and started reading.

  The girl in Charlotte’s Web might as well be me. She talks back, she loves animals, and she gets her dad to do the things she wants him to. In the first chapter, he’s going to kill a runty pig, but she makes such a fuss that he gives it to her, and she feeds it with a bottle. Then her brother comes in, and he wants his own pig, of course. The whole time I was reading, I could picture myself as Fern, my dad as the farmer, and my mom, with her hands on her hips, shaking her head, as the mother. One line I read twice: “The morning light shone through its ears, turning them pink.” I looked at the sun shining on the leaves of the oak tree in front of Abby’s house, and could see that pink perfectly. Da was totally quiet, so when I finished the chapter, I whispered, “Are you sleeping?”

  He opened his eyes and said, “Nope.”

  Abby came out of the front door and said, “What are you two doing?”

  I said, “I’m reading my book to Da.”

  “Can I listen?”

  I nodded. So she sat in one of the chairs and I read the second chapter, which is probably my favorite chapter, because the pig, whose name is Wilbur, follows Fern around and she loves him. Sometimes she puts him in her baby carriage with her doll, and I always think, “Why in the world would she want a doll?” I hate dolls, but she does cover him in the doll blanket, which is cute. And then her dad tells her she has to sell him, and then there was my mom, outside the gate, but I pretended not to see her. I stopped reading, though, and handed Abby the book. She took one of the geranium leaves and used it as a bookmark. I said, “How old were you when you first rode a horse?”

  “Maybe three.”

  While Mom was driving me home, with Joan Ariel sleeping in her car seat, I was trying to remember all the things I’d been thinking about envy, because it’s hard to hear about other kids having the things you want, and then there was Ruthie sitting on our lawn, and so I stopped feeling envious and started to feel lucky. She looked up when we turned into the driveway, but didn’t stand. Her face was blank, which for Ruthie means sad. When Mom stopped the car, I jumped out and ran over to her. Maybe I was a little too loud. I said, “Have you been waiting long? Sorry, I was gone all day. It’s hot, you must be hot. You want to come inside? You want to have a glass of water?”

  She kept looking at me. I held out my hand, and she took it and stood up. Okay, she rose without even putting her other hand on the grass. Another thing to envy. Ruthie used to be smaller than I am, but now she’s maybe three inches taller, and even so, she could launch herself like that. I took her in through the front door, went to the kitchen, got us both glasses of water. She took hers and stared at it, then drank some. Right then, I knew she had a secret, but when she opened her mouth, she said, “Can I draw some of the flowers in your garden? Leaves and branches, too. We don’t have a garden, and I know you do.”

  I said, “Sure.”

  She said, “Do you have any paper?”

  And then I decided that her secret, or part of her secret, was that her family was back to having no money. I went over to Dad’s desk and opened the bottom drawer. I gave Ruthie some of Dad’s typing paper. She did have her pencils, and they were sharpened. We walked through the kitchen and out into the back, which is fenced and shady, but it gets enough sun for Mom’s garden. Ruthie walked here and there, drawing a daylily or two. Then she sat down in front of Mom’s favorite, the lemon tree, and drew the whole thing—the few little blossoms, the hanging lemons, the leaves, the pot, which is big. When she stood up, I said, “Smell the blossoms. They are the best.” So she did. I was happy. I’ve always liked it when Ruthie does what I tell her. When we went back through the kitchen, Joan Ariel was in her high chair, playing with a string bean and a few peas—she was holding the string bean in her left hand and using it to push the peas here and there. Ruthie looked at her as if she was thinking about drawing a picture of her, but then Mom turned from the stove and said, “You want to stay for dinner?” and Ruthie’s face went red and she shook her head and turned toward the living room. She was like an animal who wanted to escape. I imagined her digging a hole beneath the door like a dog, then wiggling under and running off, but when I opened the door, I just said, “Come back anytime.”

  At dinner, Mom said, “She looks like she’s made of sticks now.”

  Dad said, “I thought they were doing better.”

  Mom said, “I did, too. You never know.”

  I said, “How can we find out?”

  Mom said, “No idea. I don’t know their friends, if they have any. You know, when we were living in the old place, that constant gossip drove me crazy, but I guess it has its uses.”

  That night, I went to bed early, right after Joan Ariel went to bed. It wasn’t even dark. Since it had been a warm day, my window onto the backyard was wide open, and I could hear the birds rustling in the trees and sometimes calling. I also heard an owl, quiet and far away, hooting. A car would go by and drown out the owl, and then it would be quiet again, and there was the owl. In my mind, I thought, “Owl, owl, fly over to Ruthie’s, then fly back and tell me what’s going on.” When I remembered my long day, the thing I remembered most clearly was standing on the hill above the gelding pasture, watching Da ride. You can see a lot if you just keep looking.

  The next day, we went back to our old town and went to church with Grandma and Grandpa. We do that every couple of months, mostly because we haven’t found a church everyone likes in our new town. Dad actually doesn’t like church at all, and Mom keeps her mouth shut. It used to be that every time we went to church, Joan Ariel would start screaming after about ten minutes, but I don’t mind church, especially Grandma’s church, because the choir is very good, and sings a lot of different songs.
It’s sort of like putting on a record, only sometimes it’s better. And after church, there’s always dinner at Grandma’s. The funny thing is that you don’t have to try anything new on Sunday—it’s always roast chicken and mashed potatoes or beef stew, with a peach pie afterward. I think that Grandma loves to make a really big dinner so that she’ll have lots of leftovers for the next few days. This time, we had goulash and noodles, and even Joan Ariel sucked it right down. We got home about four. Joan Ariel had been up since five a.m., so Mom went to take a nap and Dad took Joan Ariel out into the backyard and set her in her outside playpen, and what did I do? Well, I took a walk. I told Dad I was going to have a little run around the park to see if I’ve gotten any faster, and as soon as I used the word “furlong,” he laughed and said, “She’s off!”

  Since I cannot tell a lie, I did take a run around the park—it was full of kids who kept getting in my way—and then I veered off and headed toward Ruthie’s house. There weren’t as many people on the street because it was hot. I walked around Ruthie’s block, just like I’d done before, and looked at her house from the front (I was across the street, under a tree) and from the back, through the neighbor’s yard. I thought there might be something going on, since it was Sunday, but just like the last time, there was nothing. The shades were drawn, the driveway was empty, the grass in the tiny yard wasn’t even brown—what few bits there were lying in the dirt. No wonder she had to come to my house to look for flowers and leaves. And lemons. I should have given her a lemon. Just to make sure, I walked over to the junior high, then back again and around Ruthie’s block. Still nothing. Of course when I got home, Mom was fit to be tied, or so she said. What was I…Why didn’t I…

  I saw Dad smiling behind her. She shook her head and threw up her arms and we had cold potato soup for dinner, then lime Popsicles, which for a hot day was plenty.

  Everything was steamy and quiet for the next couple of days. We went to the swimming pool, and even Joan Ariel got to swim—Mom walked around in the shallow end and held on to Joan Ariel while she smacked the water with her hands and kicked her feet. Mom and Dad are both big believers in teaching kids to swim as soon as possible. By the time I was three, I had one of those bubbles that keeps you afloat, and by the time I was four, I could swim across the pool, though I wasn’t allowed in the deep end. I am sure that Da was already jumping off the high board when he was two, and scaring the pants off his mom, but I didn’t do that. Even when Joan Ariel is in the bathtub, Mom tells her to kick and paddle. The bubble is too big for her right now, but she’s not the one who is going to stare at Mom and then run into the pool just to be naughty.

  So there I was, Tuesday night, sitting in the living room, bored to death, when I went over to Dad’s bookcase and took out one of his books. It was about a guy named Sherlock Holmes, whom I’d heard of, and because of that I leafed through it, and there was the word that always pulls me in, “blaze” as in “Silver Blaze.” It was a story about a horse.

  It took me a while to get used to the way it was written—all very stiff and with a lot of big words, but lots of old books are like that, and if you keep at it, pretty soon you understand, even if you have to skip some of the words or look them up. Words are interesting, anyway, and one I liked in “Silver Blaze” was “blunder.” It means “mistake,” but the sound of it makes you laugh. Another was “surmise,” which is a guess. I guess about things all the time, so I surmise that I will have to say “I surmise” all the time. Anyway, I was disappointed at first because there wasn’t much about the horse—he wasn’t anyone’s friend. But then there was poison and a dead body and a big empty beautiful place called Dartmoor, so I kept reading, and even though when I read Nancy Drew, I sometimes understand what’s going on before I get to the end, Sherlock Holmes surprised me over and over, and so I liked it. At one point, Sherlock and his friend, who is telling the story, start walking late in the afternoon out into the empty area, and because it’s muddy, pretty soon they see the horse’s hoofprints in the mud, and that tells them where he was going. Then Sherlock says this: “See the value of imagination. It is the one quality which Gregory lacks. We imagined what might have happened, acted upon the supposition, and find ourselves justified. Let us proceed.” Or, as I might say, “It’s worth it to make things up, because you could turn out to be right.” What I did say, out loud but quietly, was, “Are you listening, Ned?” Anyway, I followed the story all the way to the end—it wasn’t that long, and every few paragraphs, Sherlock surprised me a little bit, but then when I got to the end, after the race, and Sherlock told how everything had happened and why, I understood it backward, you might say, and I think that’s what life is like. One example is how when Mom and Dad told me that we were going to adopt a new baby, and then, after that, that I was adopted, I was so amazed that I didn’t have a word to say, which is a once-in-a-lifetime experience for me, and then I got used to the idea, and then I saw why I don’t look like any old pictures of Mom or Dad but love them anyway and know they are my family.

  I put away the book and went upstairs. It was still hot, but there was a little cross-breeze, and I could feel the temperature going down. I changed into my summer pajamas and slipped under the sheet. Then, as it got darker, I closed my eyes and imagined Tater and Ned. Tater was by the fence rail, dozing, and Ned was staring here and staring there, trotting, then cantering, then trotting, then taking a drink of water, then trotting some more. Gee Whiz was tossing his head, and then he whinnied, and his whinny said, “Hey, kid, relax!” But Ned kept trotting back and forth. Was it coyotes or rabbits or snakes or nothing at all? I couldn’t tell. Then I said, “Ned, go to sleep.” I said it out loud, in a soft voice. I imagined it. I hoped I would find myself justified.

  On Wednesday, I went to Abby’s a little early. When Dad dropped me off, I ran up the driveway to the house. Abby’s mom was sweeping the front porch. I shouted, “Hi!” and when she looked up, I tried to be extra observant, in order to see if she looked haggard or worn out because of Da, but she looked fine. I wondered if maybe they locked him in his room at night just to keep him out of trouble, but I didn’t say anything. I ran around the house to the barn, took off my sweater, and set down my carrots. The very thing that I had imagined was happening—Da was in the arena, walking Mordecai, and Abby was brushing Ned. Ned lifted his head and looked at me when I came into the barn. I said, “Are you getting on or are you finished?”

  “Just getting on,” said Abby.

  “Why don’t you look happy?”

  “Don’t I? Well, he nearly dumped me yesterday. Everything was fine for a long time, and then he grabbed the bit and his head shot into the air, and he ran off. He didn’t buck, but he almost got out from under me. I thought I had him figured out.”

  She kept brushing with the soft brush, which Ned likes (which they all like), and he dropped his head again. What popped out of my mouth was, “Let me get on Sissy and ride with you.”

  “How long can you stay?” Then, “I thought you didn’t like Sissy.”

  I said, “Well, I haven’t ridden her in a long time. I just want to try again.”

  “Sure. She could stand the work.”

  So I went to the mare pasture and watched the mares. There were four of them out—Sissy, Delilah, Darleen, and Blanche. Delilah and Darleen are boarders, both Western horses that Abby’s dad trains, and Blanche is a three-year-old black quarter horse who is just starting to be ridden. I heard Abby’s dad say that she could go either way (English or Western) depending on how big she ends up being and her length of stride. Sissy didn’t come to me, but she also didn’t stare at me then trot away as if she were saying, “Uh-oh, you again.” After I put her halter on and led her to the gate, she walked along behind me, and I didn’t imagine her saying, “Torture.” Some horses like to be ridden, just to have something to do and a way to get out into the world.

  Sissy wasn’t very dirty, and Abby helped me tac
k her up while Ned stood in the cross-ties, pawing. Then we led them out to the mounting block and got on. I didn’t tell Abby what I was imagining, which was that with Sissy nearby, Ned would be a good good boy, but I did imagine it when we were walking to the arena, Ned in the lead and Sissy, her head down as if she were almost asleep, right behind him.

  We had a lesson, but it was a “pay attention” lesson rather than a “do this” lesson. While we were walking, I paid attention to Da and Mordecai. They were doing an exercise where they trotted down the long side, along the fence, then made a big loop away from the fence without slowing or speeding up. Then Da would straighten Mordecai, trot a few steps, and get him to step sideways until he was along the fence again. Then he would trot to the other end of the long side, turn the other direction, and push Mordecai toward the fence. Mordecai looked like he was doing a dance like they do in the movies, where they cross their legs and tap their toes. I said, “Is he going to rear up and spin around?”

  Abby laughed. She said, “They’re doing Jane’s favorite exercise. It’s called a leg yield.”

  “How do you do it?”

  “You have him bend around your inside leg as if he’s making a circle, but instead of making the circle, you continue down the rail. After they’ve done it for a while, their backs get flexible and they do everything more easily.”

  I tried this with Sissy. She said, “What in the world are you talking about?” exactly in my grandmother’s voice.

  I said, “Would Sissy do that?”

  “We’ve never worked on that. We should, though. It takes some training. When I give you your lesson, you can try it with Tater, and then sometime, when you understand what it feels like, you can try it on Sissy.”

  We walked quietly around the arena, doing a few circles, crossing the diagonal, going down the center line. Either I was stronger, or Sissy was more willing, because she was easier to ride than she had been, and the pleasure was that her stride was bigger than Tater’s and sort of bounced me along. I stayed fairly close to Abby and Ned—in the vicinity, you might say, but not being a pest. What I observed was that Ned’s gaits were even more smooth than they used to be, what I surmised was that Abby had succeeded in teaching him to balance himself, and what I imagined was that he was comfortable in Sissy’s presence. When we were finished, Abby was happy with both of them. I didn’t say anything, because Sherlock Holmes would surmise that one time doesn’t count for much.