Early Warning (13 page)

Debbie had learned to sit calmly on Rufus and say, no matter what Fiona proposed, “That would be fun.” What Fiona saw in her was a mystery, unless it was that whatever she wanted to say about the horses Debbie was happy to listen to: Prince had won three races, his racing name was Ball Four, he was by Shut Out, which meant Shut Out was his sire. One day, out fox hunting, Fiona had stayed in the front, and when they had a kill she got a pad; a pad was the fox's foot; only grown-ups got the brush, which was the tail, or the mask, which was the head. Her boots had cost sixty dollars; her saddle had cost seventy-five dollars; it was from England. Someday she was going to hunt in England; the best hunt there was the Belvoir; she could grow up to be a whipper-in. Now she said, “Okay, I'm going to do it again. You go down the hill and wait on the flat part.” Debbie turned Rufus and went down at a walk while Fiona went up at a canter. By
the time Debbie had Rufus right in the middle of the flat part, Fiona and Prince were at the top, pointed downward. Debbie waved. Fiona clapped her legs against Prince's sides, and he started to canter. Fiona leaned back, and then she was squatting on Prince's back, her hand still clutching the lead rope, and then Prince was galloping right at Debbie and Rufus. Fiona stood up. Debbie held the pony's mane, bit her lip.

Prince kept coming. Fiona stood like someone in the circus, her knees slightly bent, holding the lead rope with both hands—maybe she had decided she was going too fast this time to jump off. But she didn't look scared; she looked surprised and excited. They came on. Debbie had no idea what Rufus would do. The hoofbeats sounded loud to her, even though they were muffled by the grass and the dirt, and Prince looked enormous. They came on. Debbie tightened her legs around Rufus's fat sides. She could see Fiona's mouth open as she raised her right hand and straightened her shoulders, still standing on Prince's back. Debbie's heart was pounding. At the last moment, Rufus jumped to one side, and Prince skipped to the other. Debbie slid but hung on. Fiona flexed and kept her balance. Two strides later, she squatted down again, with Prince still galloping, put her hands in his mane, and dropped to his back. At the lower fence, Fiona brought him around in a big trot circle, then came back up the hill. Debbie fell forward onto Rufus's neck, her face in his bushy pony mane. She did not want to be the one to faint and fall off. She closed her eyes.

Fiona's face was flushed, but she was nonchalant about the whole thing by the time she and Prince got back to Debbie and Rufus. Rufus was nonchalant, too, but Prince was delighted with himself—he arched his neck and picked up his feet and took deep breaths. Fiona said, “Horses are really good at knowing where they are.” Then, “I'm sorry if I scared you.”

Debbie said, “You didn't.”

But for the rest of their ride, all they did was wander around the field. Fiona made Debbie trot in a circle both ways for a few minutes, just to practice. And, of course, when the horses were cooled out and they went in the house for a snack, Mr. Cannon was home, and he said, “You girls having a good time?” Fiona shrugged. Debbie said, “Yes. I love Rufus.”

“He's a good pony.”

After they looked at Fiona's latest issue of
The Chronicle of the Horse
, Mr. Cannon drove Debbie home while Fiona took the horses their hay. All Mom said when she walked in the house was “Hi, honey. The fresh air is doing you good.”

—

JIM UPJOHN HAD
his way, of course, and Frank was brought in by the board of Fremont Oil to “reorganize and redirect operations.” Frank's “objectivity” was secured by means of a very large salary and no stock in the company. Uncle Jens had some proportion of his assets in oil, but none in Fremont. Fortunately for Frank, Hal and Friskie had already moved the corporate offices from Tulsa to Manhattan, so, when Andy and Janny went looking for a new house the better to accommodate Frank's new position, they didn't have to look far. Andy liked Englewood Cliffs, because she could get to the Upper West Side quite easily, and the schools, the private schools, were said to be excellent.

Frank was quite friendly with Hal and Friskie. Hal was thirty-one and Friskie was twenty-eight. Frank alternated between treating them like kid brothers and like experts. Every time Hal told him what to do, Frank smiled cheerfully and said, “I think that's a great idea.” Friskie wasn't much of a suggester, more of a complainer, so when Friskie came charging into his office, upset about something, Frank was sympathetic, offered him a drink (Friskie liked a straight shot of The Glenlivet). He also listened to their views about their father—that he was over the hill, that he didn't understand the modern world, that he always acted on impulse. When push came to shove, that's what he did—shoved them around with those big hands of his. Frank nodded and shook his head with all kinds of sympathy and said that his father had been just the same way, a farmer who had his belt off at least once a day, “The only question was, buckle end or not buckle end?” This made them laugh. They thought Frank was on their side.

Jim Upjohn had led him to believe that Dave Courtland would be buying property somewhere nearby—if not Manhattan or New Jersey, then a place in Southampton. But Dave Courtland hated the East as much as he hated the North. His favorite places were Caracas and Galveston. Frank did not mind not seeing him, because he and Jim Upjohn were in complete agreement about developing the Venezuelan
oil fields to their most attractive potential, and then allowing a hostile takeover by Jersey or Getty. When Frank expressed a bit of nervousness about Dave Courtland's reaction, Jim laughed and said, “Oh hell. Millions of bucks are a good tranquilizer. He'll have a tantrum and then, no doubt, decide to use that money to do a little more exploring. And that will rejuvenate the old coot. We'll buy him a nice donkey. The fellow who started a company can't run it when it's going strong. They get bored and cranky, so you have to send them out to start something new. Maybe he'll get remorse, like Carnegie did, and build something for the workers.” Jim Upjohn was the only man Frank regularly spoke with who pronounced it like Eloise did, “the workers.”

Frank said, “What about Hal and Friskie?”

“They're both engaged, as you know. Hal's marrying into the Corneliuses, and Friskie's got himself a Sulzberger cousin. First cousin. The fate of the company is a problem for them, not a project. The way I see it, we're pointing them all toward a form of family happiness they've never experienced before.” Then he laughed. Jim Upjohn was the most casually self-confident person Frank had ever met.

—

BILLY WESTON
, who lived down the street from Richie and Michael (for now, but Mommy said that they would be moving soon, and to a much nicer neighborhood), had gotten a tent for his eighth birthday, and had invited Richie and Michael to help him set it up; Billy's dad had shown him how to pound in the stakes and said that he could work on it on his own. As far as Richie was concerned, there was only one thing wrong with Billy Weston, and that was that he didn't have a twin. Richie had to watch very carefully to see whether Billy, who had lots of good stuff, seemed to be playing more with Michael or with him. If Billy had had a twin, then he and Michael would each have had a friend, but Billy had four sisters, who ran into the house every time Richie and Michael came over.

The tent was not a tepee. It was long, and each end was a triangle with flaps that hung down, and the flaps had four ties. There was a floor in the tent, and Billy said that you could take it into the woods when it was cold or rainy and zip up the flaps and have a lantern inside
and sleep all night, even if a bear showed up. They were not taking it into the woods; they were setting it up in Billy's backyard.

What you did was, you spread the tent out on the grass, and made sure that the floor was smooth and that the edges were straight. Then Billy, who was inside the tent, gave Richie four stakes and Michael four stakes. A stake was a pointed piece of iron with an L-shaped bend at the top. Richie did what he was told, which was to go along the long edge of the tent on one side and pull out the loops, then set a stake beside each loop. Michael did the same thing on the other side.

Billy had one hammer. The three of them took turns. Billy pounded a stake on Richie's side and a stake on Michael's side; then he gave the hammer to Richie, and Richie started to pound the stake. It was easier than a nail, because the L-shape wasn't as small as the head of a nail. Richie hit the L-shape twice, and it went in a little. Michael said, “I want to do it.” Richie didn't pay any attention to him, and pounded twice more. It got in a little ways farther, but still not halfway. Richie stopped and took a deep breath. Michael stuck out his tongue. Richie hit the stake twice more.

When the stake was finally in, with two hits from Billy, they took the hammer around the tent, and Michael did his first one. He got it in on four hits. Pretty deep, too. This made Richie mad. It always made him mad that he was older but Michael was bigger and stronger. Michael never let him forget it. His dad said that that should make Richie fight harder and smarter, but that didn't work every time. Billy brought the hammer around, and the other two boys watched Richie do his second stake. Because he'd had some practice in aiming this time, he got it in on four hits, so he felt not as mad. It went like that. After all the stakes were in, they walked around the tent and crawled into it and sat and lay down, then crawled out of it. It smelled bad, but Richie thought it was neat—a little dark, like you could hear a ghost story in there. Billy must have felt the same way, so he went into the house to get a blanket and some comic books. He was still talking more to Michael than to him, and Michael kept giving Richie that look. The thing about Michael was that he didn't have to say a word to get Richie—his every look and movement rippled through Richie, no matter whether he wanted them to or not.

Once they had the blanket and the comics, Billy decided they needed 7-Ups because they had worked hard, so he headed back to
the house. Michael took the blanket into the tent to spread it out. He said, “Leave the comics alone. I get first dibs.” Richie didn't say anything. He most of the time didn't say anything.

Squatting there by the side of the tent, Richie saw that one of the stakes might be coming out, so he picked up the hammer where they'd dropped it in the grass and hit the stake. It went in a little, so he hit it again. It was after the second hit that he saw the bump moving along the roof of the tent. Of course he knew it was Michael's head—he wasn't an idiot. The bump pushed out, then slipped to the right, then pushed out, then slipped to the right, and he lifted the hammer and hit it. There was a loud groan. The bump went away, and there was a sound of rustling. He went around and looked between the flaps. Michael was lying on his side.

Just then, Billy showed up with the 7-Ups and said, “What happened?” And Richie said, “I hit him with the hammer.”

Billy ran for the house.

That was when it got scary, because Mrs. Weston came screaming out the door and the girls were behind her, and all the girls gave him mean looks. Billy looked worried, too. Michael was still lying there; “out cold” was an expression they said on TV. This must be it, Richie thought.

Mrs. Weston dragged Michael out of the tent and laid him on the grass, and the oldest girl, Randy, ran into the house to call Nedra; as quick as could be, Nedra came running down the street and through the gate, shouting, “Oh my Lord, oh my Lord! What a pair of boys, it's always something.” She smacked Richie on the head and said, “This time maybe you killed him and got your wish, you naughty child. I will deal with you later.”

Nedra had a stick of butter in her hand, and as she started to open the paper wrapping, Michael groaned and moved. Nedra held him down and said, “Now, don't move, Michael; that a boy.” Mrs. Weston patted Michael on the arm. Nedra felt around on Michael's head and said, “Well, here's the goose egg—heavens to Betsy—big as my fist,” and she put the butter on it and made him lie there. The girls went back inside. Then Nedra said, “What in the world did you do this for? Two days ago, they were pushing each other on the stairs. They said it was just a game, but it looks like all-out war to me.”

Richie said, “It was just a game.”

Mrs. Weston started shaking her head. “Well, boys don't know the difference half the time. And girls! Well, I don't know which is worse. He's coming around.” Michael sat up. Richie wondered if Nedra was going to tell on him. Nedra said, “Maybe I should take him to the doctor. Mr. Langdon is in Venezuela again, and the missus is over the river.”

“Oh, I don't think so,” said Mrs. Weston. “He's fine. Let's have a cup of coffee. Look at him. Michael, you okay?”

Michael nodded.

“Do you feel like you need to go to the doctor?”

Michael said, “I don't want to go to the doctor.” He felt his bump, then sniffed, but he didn't cry. He didn't have a single tear. “Can we go in the tent and read some comics?”

“Sure,” said Mrs. Weston. “But if you feel like you are going to pass out, you send Billy to get me, okay?”

Michael nodded.

Nedra said, “I need a smoke.”

Mrs. Weston said, “Me, too.”

The two women stood up, and after a moment, Michael crawled into the tent, then Billy. Richie crawled in after them. They settled themselves, and Billy handed each one a comic book and a 7-Up. That was that, thought Richie. For now. But he was going to have to watch out, and not for Nedra. He looked around Billy at Michael, who was reading and touching the bump in the back of his head with his finger. No, Richie thought, he wasn't sorry. It was a good thing he hadn't been made to say he was.

—

THE NEW HOUSE HAD
a long driveway, but Andy had already foreseen the blizzard and left the car at the end of it—all she had to do was wait for the plow and shovel it out. As soon as she got up, she pulled on her warm clothes and went out to check. The snow, still quietly balanced just where it had fallen, undisturbed as yet by wind or movement, was a work of art. She stood beside the car, staring around. Though she had never been one to make use of snow, like her brother, Sven, and the other Norwegian relatives, she had always appreciated it as a type of raiment, hiding, smoothing, brightening.