by Sarah Relyea
Ginger headed back along the row and through the low door of a shed, and Tom found himself alone among the horses and the smells.
He’d made only one other jaunt to a farm. He was a boy, and they were going all the way to Columbus to visit his grandparents, old people he’d never seen, stopping by a farm on the way for peaches and apples. While his mother was looking over the peaches, Tom had wandered through the door of a cavernous red barn. In the gloom, he’d passed along a row of stalls among overpowering smells and, turning a corner, found a stable boy grooming a horse. He’d been dumbfounded by the animal, and as he was backing away, something leaped and clung to his pant leg. Then he jumped, and a large thing bounded away and through a hole in the floor. He’d run crying from the barn and been scolded for trespassing.
Ginger came from the shed wearing sleek English riding pants and the black riding boots. She’d slung a saddle pad over her shoulder. “You can help me saddle up Haley, and then we can show you Cassandra,” she said, her smile promising an alluring surprise. Tom was feeling like a rookie; even so, he was ready. “How about handing me the saddle,” Ginger prompted, as she placed the pad on the horse.
Tom handed over the saddle and observed her hands as she leaned in, adjusting the horn high on the horse’s shoulders and pulling a leather thong around the taut bulge of the belly, then looping the thong through two brass rings.
“You want it snug but not tight,” she commented as she worked. Tom was feeling eager as he heard her saying, “C’mon, let’s see Cassandra.”
Cassandra was around the corner, near the equipment shed. Ginger showed him just where to place the saddle and how to fasten the thong. Tom eyed Cassandra’s mouth as Ginger put on the bridle, clamping the bit between the horse’s teeth. Thankfully, he was not asked to feed her carrots.
They led the horses from the barn. Before Tom could see how she’d managed the maneuver, Ginger had mounted her horse and sat, gazing down on him from the saddle. Tom grasped Cassandra’s reins; she jerked her head, then tugged stubbornly, already heading for the gate. Tom braced himself for a tug-of-war with an animal several times his size.
“Want some help?” Ginger’s eyes sparkled as she glanced down her long nose.
Tom enjoyed a good challenge, and she’d been sure to arrange one. “Yes,” he responded simply.
“C’mon, cowboy, you’re supposed to be watching.”
“You’re just too fast for me, lady.” The word popped up, warming his face.
“Steady her, Tom. Get your foot in the stirrup—there, that’s it—grasp the horn, and boost yourself up. Grab her mane if it helps. She won’t mind.”
In a moment Tom found himself swinging one leg over the horse, as she gave a stomp. Cassandra was a handsome mare—a red dun, Ginger called her—and larger than Haley. Now that Tom was in the saddle, the horse paused calmly while he fumbled for the stirrups.
“She won’t give you problems,” Ginger was saying. “She has a good temperament. And you were a football player, right?”
“Yes, a safety.” Though strong, he was small for college ball, even at an Ivy; he’d quit after sophomore year. But he’d played all the same.
“Then you’re ready for anything. Look, here’s how you hold the reins.” She held up her palm, extending thumb and forefingers as he’d seen her do before and laying the reins across. “Keep them loose. No need to pull—she understands commands. And if she’s slow, tap your heels. Cassandra won’t take off; but if she does, just grab her mane. But don’t worry, she’s a good girl—aren’t you, Cassandra?”
The horse wagged her head, as though shaking off a fly.
“The rules sound easy enough,” Tom said. “Now let’s see if I can follow them.”
Ginger led them around the farmhouse and through a gate. Beyond the gate was a line of rolling green hills. The land appeared to be pasture, but Tom couldn’t be sure. He murmured about how pleasant the place was, as if he’d always yearned for a rural retreat; Ginger responded by naming some wildflower plants—blue blossom and coffeeberry, coyote mint and golden aster, though only the aster was in bloom—and giving him riding tips. “Heels down, Tom. No grazing—let her know who’s in control.”
Tom followed Ginger’s commands as well as he could, but Cassandra showed a stubborn eagerness for the bushes by the path, especially the blooming aster. Swaying and bobbing her muzzle as they passed, she grabbed at the plants, dragging on the fronds and then, with a yank, tearing them loose. Rendered superfluous by the grazing animal, Tom was forced to clamber down and, bracing and pulling hard on the reins, haul her jaws from a coffeeberry bush. The enormous brown eye glared sullenly as he struggled. When she’d finally been strong-armed from the coffeeberry, her head gave a wild, snorting shake as her rear hoof landed in a petulant stomp, before she regained her calm and stood, ready to resume, the unreadable eye staring into Tom’s. He mounted and they continued along the path.
The path led across the road. Tom heard a clopping sound on the asphalt, and soon they entered the woods, heading west toward the beach. The path was narrow—no fire road, as he’d expected; it wound along a streambed, then turned up through coastal hills. Climbing, the horses broke into a slow run, and Tom soon found himself fending off low-hanging branches. He rode with one hand loose on the reins—Cassandra ignored any commands he gave—and the other over his forehead, as a shield. More than once, he had no chance to fend off the approaching branches and was forced to duck. Ginger rode ahead, glancing back now and then to make sure he was keeping up. When the path opened in a small clearing, she dropped back alongside him. “Go on ahead, Tom. She’s dragging her feet. Usually the lead horse will keep a good pace.”
The climb continued, now with Tom in the lead. Cassandra was moving with greater force and willingness.
“Let out the reins,” Ginger called. “She knows the path.”
The reins slid through his palms and then, like the rolling of a wave, the horse gathered up her hind legs and bolted into a run. Tom was flummoxed. Branches were hurling by. He pulled hard on the reins and nearly fell, before grabbing the horn and regaining a semblance of balance. In that way, he reached the top of the ridge; a long, gently sloping path opened up below.
Tom wondered how closely Ginger had followed, but there was no chance to turn and look as they began the descent. Finally he gave up and dug his hands in the horse’s mane. Cassandra was running down the gradual slope at a smooth and easy gallop, and in a mile or so, with a final push they emerged from the forest on a broad, sandy beach. There they came to a halt, Cassandra panting as a warm damp smell of barn rose from her. She gave a loud snort; moments later, Haley appeared, tossing her head and prancing through the sand. Ginger was flushed and smiling.
Now that the ordeal was over, Tom was feeling charged up. “Someone let the horse out of the barn,” he called.
“I never thought she’d run away with you. Were you able to manage?”
“Oh my, yes. We had a good run.”
Tom looked along the beach. He assumed they would dismount and leave the horses; he would prefer being alone with Ginger. Along the edge of the woods the land rose in a sandbar; and from the sandbar the beach sloped down to the ocean surf. Haley and Ginger led the way through the deep sands. The waves were high and crashing. As Cassandra lagged, nosing some seaweed, Haley waded through waterlogged sand for a hundred yards and then, tossing her mane, cantered back toward Tom.
“We’ve gone four miles,” Ginger called. Tom had supposed more; it had been hard to tell. “Ready for lunch?”
“Oh yes, very ready.”
“I should say so, after that run.”
They rode toward a grove of low wax-myrtle trees by the border of the woods. When they had dismounted, Ginger showed Tom how to fasten the reins to a branch. Then she untied a bag of sourdough and salami from her saddle. A large driftwood log lay nearby. Perched on the log, Ginger opened a Scout knife and began slicing some salami and bread. Tom had brought a small flask o
f brandy, and he wondered whether he should offer some to Ginger. Though he thought she would probably refuse, he wanted some for himself. He pulled the flask from a jeans pocket.
“Brandy?”
“Why, Tom, you know I plumb forgot the lemonade.”
“Have some then.”
“No—you go ahead. I’m making the sandwiches.”
When they were done, they sat sharing the flask, looking across sand and ocean. A wind was gusting offshore; Tom supposed it would be going on two o’clock.
“That horse enjoys a good run,” Tom remarked.
Ginger laughed. “I told you she’s an endurance horse.”
“So she thought I was an endurance rider?”
“She thought you’d go along.”
“I see.”
“A few more days in the saddle and you’ll do fine.”
“Oh my, a real Californian.”
“I bet you were bored by those stuffy people back East,” she teased.
“I sure was.”
“People here go away on weekends,” she continued. “They have things to do.”
She leaned away to put the wrappings back in the saddlebag, and when she’d finished, seemed to come in closer. The beach was cool and windy, ending in a steely blue. He wondered if there were any sheltered areas but, glancing around, thought probably not. Suddenly he held her hand and she allowed him, though seeming hardly aware of the touch.
“How about a walk down the beach?” she suggested.
They left the shaded log and wandered toward the surf. He’d never learned how old she was but supposed somewhere near thirty. He wondered if she’d been seeing someone—how else would she know of so many places to go?—and why she was pursuing, if that was the term, a family man. Maybe she’d had no man in her life; would she know how to have a simple affair? Or would she demand that he free himself from Marian? But that was getting ahead of things.
Tom suddenly grasped her arm, pulled her to him, and kissed her hard on the mouth. She yielded for a moment and then moved away.
“Can’t leave the horses alone for long,” he heard her say. Then she added, “We could have dinner before we go back. There’s a place in Bolinas.”
So, she was in no real hurry. They’d just had lunch; the sun was high over the water. Near them by the water’s edge three seagulls followed the receding surf, darting around clumps of seaweed. Another gull was hovering overhead. Tom and Ginger passed surf-borne branches, bleached and smelling of rotting seaweed. Along the shallows the stuff lay in rubbery vines, held afloat by vegetable fins and air bladders. Tom had removed his shoes during lunch; he was enjoying the feel of wet sand underfoot. He’d never camped on a beach, even as a boy; surely the sounds and smells would make all the difference. Ahead of them to the south was a fog bank, concealing the meeting of land and water. Tom slowed down and glanced toward Ginger.
“My, my,” he remarked.
“It’s lovely.”
There was a pause, and she moved away.
Tom followed, aroused, but Ginger was already leading him back. They were heading for the grove of trees, the horses, the run through the woods. As they approached the horses, he could see Haley’s ears moving around. Nearby, Cassandra was tearing at the lower branches of a wax-myrtle tree. Tom came up on her left, sensing her steamy, pungent heat, and found himself looking over the sopping haunches into Ginger’s eyes. Her cheeks were flushed from wind and sun, her eyes an ocean color, gray-green and flecked with brown. Behind her the woods lay in shadow. They would be soothing after the beach and the gleaming sun, unforgiving as the stadium lights during an evening game.
FOR DINNER, THEY had beer and fish and chips in a Bolinas cafe. Then they followed the road unfurling like an idle ribbon bordering the narrow lagoon. Beyond the lagoon the western ocean lay illumined, like a vast and vacant stage beneath the gloaming of a candle. Wooded hills rose to the east, where the moon shone nearly full above the trees. Ginger parked the car by the side of the road and they got out. Tom heard the murmur of a stream flowing through a culvert under the road and into the lagoon, spreading before them in a liquid plane, a stagnant expanse choked by reeds and the broad floating leaves of water lilies. Shadowy light gathered on the dull surface, as though the moon lay imprisoned in the depths below. Tom heard the cry of a seagull overhead, followed by the soft lapping of water. He looked out across the lagoon to the far shore darkening in an elemental streak, sands and foam stretching forever forth. Tom glanced at her face, illumined by the same moon that shone dully in the watery mass. The seagull sounded its cry, dropping in slow arrow’s flight along the water’s rim.
“Peaceful, isn’t it?” Her voice sounded in the warm, breezeless air, like a penny tossed into a tranquil pool far below a waterfall. “They say folks used to raise ducks here for the San Francisco market.”
When they were back in the car, Tom rolled down the window and looked out across the dimming lagoon.
“If you come again, you can ride Champion.”
He turned and saw her profile against the dark, massy woods across the road.
“That’s the palomino stallion they’ve got. He rode dressage when he was younger.”
Tom murmured a vague reply; he could not remember having seen the stallion. They had passed the lagoon and were entering a wooded, winding stretch of road. The headlights glided among trees like the beams of a search-and-rescue party, illuminating a halo of low trunks and smudges of hillside. Tom remembered the path and the galloping horse beneath him. From time to time he could make out the contours of the ground or the leaves of a bush, gleaming into life and then gone. He wondered what lay beyond the foreshortened headlights.
The road was now passing canyons. Near the dead center of a sharp curve they had slowed, nearly stopped, when Tom saw a boulder glaring suddenly on the outer rim of the road. It hung there; then it was swallowed by darkness and matted underbrush. Through the trees came shuttered flashes like a porch lamp seen through a picket fence, and then an oncoming car sped toward them around a bend, followed by two others coming close on.
The cars passed on; they were once more alone.
“In the old days, they had beef and dairy ranches and a ferry to San Francisco,” Ginger was saying. “Up by the ranch, there were a hundred Jersey cows only a few years ago.”
“Oh my.”
“There was even a copper mine. During the war, some army men came over to keep an eye on things. There were rumors of Japanese, wearing blue denim and passing as farmers. Trying, anyway.”
“You mean there’s more than blue denim involved?”
“There sure is.”
The road had reached another canyon, crossing a stone bridge and plunging through a blur of fog, dense and glowing, illuminating itself alone. The car jerked to a halt. Ahead in the blur Tom saw two shiny spots, like silver dollars gleaming from the bottom of a sunny pool. As he stared, they seemed to blink and then swivel to one side before vanishing in the darkness. “Deer?”
“Could be. Or maybe elk.”
She waited for another deer or elk, and when none came, slowly started up. The road was climbing along the other wall of the canyon; as Tom turned, he saw that the fog had thinned and he now gazed upon a wide expanse sloping toward the sea. Low fingers of fog snaked among the hollows of the hills. Tom was gazing from the window on the slope, mysterious and immense, when the road careened around a curve and dropped down among a grove of trees, where it wandered for some ways before ascending again and emerging upon an open summit.
Ginger found a pullout and parked the car. Bare and unadorned except for patches of shrub laurel, the earth fell away from the road. Tom smelled damp dust. Fog hung in the canyons below, as they stood together in the windless hour of night among the secrets of the ridge. Tom took her hand, drew her to him, and kissed her.
Then he stood, hearing the soothing hum of far-off surf and thinking of farms and villages nestled far below.
“Seems awfully dry for farming
.”
“Only in late summer and autumn.” She paused. “I used to love seeing the stars on the farm.”
Tom was surprised to find them there, in vast numbers, though he’d rarely seen or thought about them. But Ginger, it seemed, had always remembered them.
Before long, they approached the bridge crossing, and soon they entered San Francisco, passing through the Presidio. They reached the corner where Tom had parked the car.
“See you on Monday, Tom,” she chimed as he opened the door.
“Oh yes.”
She sped away.
Soon he was heading for the Bay Bridge, passing through the clogged streets of Chinatown. Paper lampshades hung from awnings. Barrels loomed in doorways. By the curb, men unloaded goods for a wholesale noodle company. From the seeming chaos, some form of synergy emerged as they worked. Soon the Chevy was passing Joy Long Garden, where some boys ran among the crowd. Glancing through the doors of Joy Long, Tom saw large family groups and maroon-clad staff. Through the doors emerged an elderly couple, then some women and girls, followed by a man and a young boy. The man was spare and wispy, in loose-hanging trousers; the boy hung back by the curb, eyeing the goods on a woman’s cart. People were the same everywhere, Tom thought, as the lane began moving. By the Dragon Palace, he saw a white couple passing the doorway, the woman in furs and blonde cascade. Then the paper lampshades gave way, edged out by photographs of pinup girls under flashing red and white lights.
Traffic was flowing smoothly up the ramp and over the Bay Bridge as Tom followed an Oldsmobile wagon carrying some boys in back. He would manage things. Ginger was good, he would hang on for more. Her gray-green eyes rose in his mind, teasing and close over the horse’s back. She would lead, as she’d already done. So far there was no hurry. He was enjoying the suspense of seeing where things could go, if only he could hang on and ride.