Saddles & Secrets (An Ellen & Ned Book)

by Jane Smiley

  Sometimes, when I lie in bed at night, wide awake, and lots of times I am wide awake, I wonder why being ten is so much different from being nine. Six months ago, I was nine. Six months doesn’t seem all that long (but ask Joan Ariel—six months is her whole lifetime), but when I remember being nine, all I remember is doing what I wanted to do, or at least keeping at wanting it until I was finally allowed to do it. There is this book that Mom used to read to me, back before I could read for myself, called The Little Engine That Could. The engine in the book has a face, and it has to pull a train full of toys up a mountain. Your job, if your mom is reading it to you, is to say to yourself, “I think I can, I think I can.” I remember that even when Mom wasn’t reading it to me, I would turn the pages and look at the animals in the train cars, and maybe “I think I can” were the first words that I learned to read. It seems like I’ve been saying that ever since then. I was sure that the only good thing about growing up would be that I would get to do what I wanted every day, all the time. I didn’t really understand about things like Ruthie’s grandpa dying when her dad was fourteen, and her dad having to go to work to support his mom. (I have been to the cannery—that’s where they used to bring the fish from the bay and put them in cans and send them out to be sold. It is run-down and a little scary, though my dad loves sardines.) My great-aunt died, too, and that’s how we got this house—she left it to my mom in her will because Grandpa and Grandma had their own house, which is bigger and has a bigger yard. I’ve always known that she was forty-five when she died, but either I never thought about forty-five until I got to be ten, or I never cared, but now I think that forty-five is pretty young—only four and a half times ten. Mom and Dad and Grandma and Grandpa never talk about her, except to say what a wonderful gardener she was and how, if it weren’t for her, our garden would just be a few roses and tulips and dandelions. But was gardening what she wanted to do? I don’t know.

  What we do at school is different now, too. In fourth grade, Miss Cranfield just wanted right answers. She would ask a question, and if you cared, you would raise your hand. Melanie had the right answers 100 percent of the time, I had the right answers 95 percent of the time, and Jimmy Murphy never raised his hand. One of the boys, Brodie Maxwell, just sat at his desk and picked his nose. I am not saying where he put it, but finders keepers, losers weepers. I know which desk was his (it had the initials LP scraped into one corner by someone long ago, and the school never sanded them away). I wouldn’t go near that desk. If Miss Cranfield called out, “Brodie, what do you think?” he would jerk in his chair like she’d startled him to death and his mouth would drop open, but he never had an answer. The other kids lots of times had some right answers and some wrong answers, but we all acted like it didn’t matter much—what mattered was passing notes and making faces and avoiding spitballs. (Though one time, which made me laugh out loud, so that Miss Cranfield’s head whipped around to see what I was laughing at, Brad Caswell looked at Jimmy Murphy and opened his mouth wide, and Jimmy Murphy threw a spitball across three desks and two rows and made the basket. I wasn’t the only one laughing, either.) In fifth grade, we still answer questions, but Mr. Nathan likes to have discussions. That social studies book Jimmy Murphy hit Brian with is really big because it is full of discussions—first there’s a story with some pictures, then a couple of lists, then some questions. And yes, I still have my hand up all the time, because I always have something to say, but then other kids have something to say, and I don’t always end up agreeing with myself. You could say that school is more interesting now, but I’m not sure that’s good.

  Later that night I started thinking about Tater, not Ned. My lesson on Tater was getting closer and closer. There he was, red, white, cute. He is much more cooperative than the pony I rode before I started riding Blue. He’s perfectly trained, and you don’t have to worry about anything when you’re on him. I’m sure he will be great in a show, if I get to go in a show next spring (I’m not stupid—I started saving some of my own money for that in the summer, and I now have four dollars and eighty-five cents); we could have ribbons coming out of our ears. But as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, I thought, “Ho hum, turn left, turn right, go around in a circle, jump the coop. Bleh.”

  And then I thought that what was really going on was that there were so many things to think about—Tater, Ruthie, Ned, Aunt Johanna, Jimmy Murphy, the Pilgrims, the cannery, Joan Ariel, the path through the forest, Mr. Nathan asking questions all the time with his pencil tapping on his teeth and his eyebrows up by his hair—that for the first time in my life, I didn’t know what to think. So I closed my eyes, stopped looking at the quarter-moon out my window (the moon is always brightest in the fall), and I thought, “Ned! Ned!” There he was, off in the distance, but he didn’t come closer. One thing did happen, though—I heard Abby’s dad singing that song, “From this valley they say you are going. We will miss your bright eyes and sweet smile,” and I let that song go around my head all night long, and it was still there when I woke up in the morning. I hummed it over breakfast, and Mom gave me such a nice, happy look. She said, “I’ve always loved that song.”

  On Friday, Ruthie did pass me the Man o’ War book back at lunch. During reading time, I read a little of it again. When I walked home, I was in a pretty good mood, even though it was not sunny and I could barely see the bay. I hummed. Everything was quiet in the house. I kissed Mom. Joan Ariel was still napping. I ate my cookie going up the stairs, then I spent some time copying the picture on the front cover. Man o’ War was a chestnut, all red everywhere. Very flashy, as Grandma would say, and then roll her eyes.

  Things stayed quiet. No crying. Not even much noise out on the street. And then Dad was late for dinner because he’d gotten a flat tire on the way home.

  While Mom was pulling the fried chicken out of the oven and shaking her head, Dad said, “Don’t worry about it, I like it crisp!” Then he said, “Ellen, after dinner, let’s call Oak Valley Ranch and see if you can have your lesson out there tomorrow.” Oak Valley Ranch is the name of Abby’s place. He was quite jolly for someone who’d had to change his tire and been an hour and a half late for dinner. Usually, Dad likes his dinner right on time. Joan Ariel was sitting in her high chair. He took her out and bounced her on his knee. She started waving her arms.

  By the time he called Abby, it was after nine. Abby gets up really early, so I thought she might have already gone to bed, but I didn’t say anything. I could hear them talking and talking and talking.

  He knocked on my door and pushed it open. I was reading my chapter of The Witch of Blackbird Pond for reading class. He still seemed very happy. He said, “Okay! She can’t do the lesson until three, and Tater is at the stables, so you have to ride Sissy.”

  I said, “At least Sissy has some personality.”

  Dad laughed and kissed me good night.

  In the morning, it was misting, but I didn’t have a thing to do, so I walked with Mom to the market and helped her choose apples for apple tarts. And for Ned.

  Everything about that Saturday was strange. We left early, so that Dad dropped me at the ranch before two. It was misting there, too. He then pulled out of the driveway and drove off with a wave. Abby and her mom were gone, so I had to be with Mr. Lovitt all by myself. The first thing I did was walk over to the pasture fence and call out to Ned, but I didn’t need to—he and Gee Whiz came trotting over like they were old friends, and yes, Gee Whiz pushed Ned’s nose out of the way for the first piece of apple, but he did let Ned have the second piece. And the third. But then, when I was talking to Ned (“Hi, Ned, do you miss me, how are you?”), Gee Whiz tossed his head and trotted off and Ned followed him, and about six times I had to remind myself that maybe I was not his best friend. I went over to the mare fence. Sissy was standing there, so I gave her a piece of apple, too. The mist had stopped and everything smelled nice, so I went and sat on Abby’s back porch and watched Rusty dig a hole for
a while until Mr. Lovitt came out of the barn and chased her away and kicked the dirt back into the hole and stamped on it. He smiled at me, took off his cowboy hat, shook his head, put his hat back on, and looked at his watch. I said, “What song were you just humming?”

  He sniffed, then said, “Well, I have to think about it.”

  “ ‘Red River Valley’?”

  “Maybe. I have a song running through my head all the time.” Then he scratched his chin and said, “Oh, I remember, ‘Lorena.’ ” And he started singing, “The years creep slowly by, Lorena, the snow is on the grass again. The sun’s low down the sky, Lorena, the frost gleams where the flowers have been.”

  We were outside, but the tune rose anyway, like it was vibrating on the still air and wrapping around me. I must have smiled, because he smiled, too, and went on, “A hundred months have passed, Lorena, since last I held that hand in mine.” The tune seemed to expand. I saw why he had such a beautiful voice—his mouth was really big, and he didn’t mind opening it all the way. After another verse, he said, “I’ll stop. It’s a very long song.”

  “I never heard that one before.”

  “It’s old. From before the Civil War.”

  “The Civil War was a hundred years ago. It’s in our social studies book.”

  “I’m sure it is. Well, Abby should be home soon. You want to start grooming Sissy?”

  I said I did, and so he got her out of the pasture for me, and we walked along to the barn just like he was not the scariest man I know. Then he handed me the brushes, and while I was grooming her, he sang the song again while he was cleaning stalls, this time in a low voice, like he couldn’t help himself, but because I have excellent hearing, I sang along in my own mind and made the words with my lips, which is a good way to memorize something. I didn’t mind that Abby was late (3:10), because it was fine sitting on Sissy while she wandered around the arena, making her go, but letting her go where she wanted, and also watching Ned from a distance. He looked a little ragged, the way horses do in autumn, when their summer coats are falling out and their winter coats are growing in. When I petted Sissy, some of her hair, in short clumps, came into my hand. The hair that was growing in was darker than the hair that was falling out, and it was smooth and made me want to pet her more. Sissy was turning into a good horse. I should have wanted Sissy.

  Abby still had her raincoat on when she opened the gate. She took it off, wedged it between the gate and the fence, then said, “Half an inch! Not here, I know, but at the stables. It could come this way if we’re lucky. Okay, hi, how are you? She looks good!” And so I let the song go out of my brain, but I knew it would come back if I wanted it to.

  Sissy is not a Thoroughbred, like Ned. She is half quarter horse and half whatever, as Abby’s dad once said, something old-fashioned like a driving horse, because she will trot faster and faster in order to avoid cantering, so you have to ask her to canter from the walk. Once she is cantering, she doesn’t mind continuing to canter. Abby said, “Transitions! Transitions! We’re going to do a lot of transitions,” and we did. A lot of transitions means you have to pay attention, and so I couldn’t keep my eye on Ned in the pasture anymore. Which was a good thing, because I could stop thinking about him turning and following Gee Whiz when he trotted away from the fence.

  We did the transitions by the numbers—eight walking steps, then trot. Eight strides at the trot, then walk. Two walking steps, then do your best to get her to canter. Okay, three walking steps, try again. Across the diagonal, step step step, right in the center, ask for the canter. This one I did just right, and it felt good, too—Sissy lifting herself up and rocking forward. After that, Abby let me canter one whole circuit to the right, and then it was back to transitions. Sissy was saying, “Oh, my goodness me, so complicated!” She sounded just like my grandma. Now serpentine transitions. Start at the far end of the arena, curve through the jumps, first left, then right. In the middle of every curve, transition up or down, walk-trot, trot-walk, walk-canter, canter-halt, halt-trot, trot-walk, walk-halt. Now the hard one, halt-canter. Hooray, no problem. Abby came running over, patted me on the leg, and gave Sissy a lump of sugar. The more transitions we did, the better Sissy did them. I must have been talking about this without realizing it, because Abby said, “Yes, it’s partly that her muscles loosen up, but it’s also that her mind loosens up. She gets into the habit of paying attention.”

  I said, “Oh.” Then, “How long have I been talking?”

  “Five minutes or so.”

  “What else did I say?”

  “Well, you sang a song.”

  “Your dad taught me a song.” I sang the first line of “Lorena.”

  She said, “My dad has a cousin—well, second cousin—who plays guitar and sings. He’s in a band called Mad Hatter.”

  “That’s from Alice in Wonderland.”

  “Ellen, have you read everything?”

  “Not yet.” I was serious, but Abby laughed anyway. We continued with transitions, adding in some jumping exercises. The first one was to do a figure eight—transition to the canter at the end of the arena, go down the diagonal on the left lead, jump the two (small) jumps on that line, halt at the other end of the arena, canter off on the right lead, and take two more jumps down the right diagonal. I said, “Do I change leads?”

  “No, let her choose. See what she chooses.”

  Sissy is much better trained than she was, because after the second jump on the left lead, she saw where she was headed and landed on her right lead. After that, she was a little slow halting, but she did it better on the second try. I had my lips pressed closed so that I would not say anything. I was not actually afraid that I would tell Jimmy Murphy’s secret to Abby—she doesn’t know who in the world Jimmy Murphy is—but practice makes perfect, as Mom would (does) say.

  Now we did something more complicated. You can’t stop your horse when she’s facing the jump, or she will think that you want her to refuse, so I went over a jump in the middle of the arena, turned right, cantered a circle, went past the jump to the rail, came down to the walk, turned in a little circle, then cantered to the left and down over the jump going the other way, doing the whole thing backward. It was hard to remember, and took me three times, but at least Abby wasn’t screaming commands the way the colonel does at the stables. When I was done and walking around, I walked past Abby, and she said, “It’s okay to talk. You can talk.” I nodded, but didn’t say anything. I cooled Sissy out and looked for Ned. He was at the far end of the pasture, in the shade of some trees. Their leaves fluttered a little in the late-afternoon breeze. I thought his name, I whispered his name, I thought his name again, with my eyes closed. I opened my eyes. He hadn’t moved. It was now four, but no Dad. Dad is getting more and more peculiar.

  When Sissy was untacked and put away, Dad still hadn’t shown up, so Abby said, “Let’s put Ned in the round corral for a few minutes.”

  I said, “Let’s teach him a trick.”

  “Let’s do!”

  Blue knows tricks, but no one has ever taught Ned a trick.

  By the time we got to the gate of the pasture, the horses must have thought it was suppertime, because they were all standing there. Abby let me lead Ned from the pasture to the round corral. He wasn’t terribly good—he trotted a couple of strides and got in front of me, but I slowed down like molasses, and he stopped trotting and turned to look at me. We went into the round corral. Abby came over to where I was standing outside the railing and showed me her pocket. Sugar lumps.

  But the first thing Ned had to do was walk and trot in both directions, to loosen up, which he did, only once turning his head and then tossing it when someone in the pasture whinnied—maybe Gee Whiz, but not as loud as I remembered Gee Whiz being. Ned knows how to be good. Finally, Abby backed up a step and lowered the whip, and Ned looped and trotted toward her. He stopped. She said, �
�Good boy,” and stroked his cheek. She crooked her finger. I climbed through the bars and went to the middle. She whispered, “What trick?”

  I whispered, “Telling left from right.”

  “That’s a useful one!”

  Ned was staring at us with his ears pricked, like he was eavesdropping. This is how we did it. I took his halter and led him to the middle of the round corral, then stood beside him. Abby stood behind him, maybe five feet away. Then she lifted her left arm to the side and said, “Ned! Go left!” I gently moved his head to the left and clucked. After a moment, he turned and walked to the left. Abby exclaimed, “Good boy!” and gave him a treat from the left. Then we let him relax for a minute. I took him to the center again and did the same thing. It took about four tries for him to follow the command without thinking about it, then we did the same thing four times to the right, with me standing on his other side and Abby raising her right arm and saying, “Ned! Go right!” After those four, we did one more to the left, which he did fairly quickly, and one more to the right, which he did after hesitating. We petted him and praised him, and then I held his bucket of feed—just a little oats—while Abby threw the evening hay into the wheelbarrow. Dad still hadn’t arrived.