Flying Changes (20 page)

“Hey, check it out, Ma,” says Eva, nudging me as we
pass an RV with a portable satellite dish set up beside it.

“Don’t even think about it,” I say in response.

“Har,” she says. “Just wait till I win my first big purse.”

I glance quickly at my bald, happy daughter, who clutches the golf cart tightly while her eyes take in everything.

Nathalie zips around like she’s on methamphetamine, barking orders and checking legs and sending girls back to redo braids or trim the hair above a hoof.

One of the girls—Kris, I think, although I still can’t tell the girls apart—is having trouble with a braid. Each time she sews it up, it’s as fat as a dinner roll. I step up to help.

“Annemarie! What are you doing!” snaps Nathalie.

I stop cold. “I was just helping out with a braid.”

“She needs to learn how to do it herself,” says Nathalie, striding onward, facing the ground. “Colleen! What do you think you’re doing?”

“Putting cornstarch on his socks!”

“And all over his hooves too! Wipe them off!”

Someone grabs my arm. It’s Maureen Sinclaire. She leans in close. “What do you say we blow this joint?”

“What?”

“Let’s go around and have a look at the vendors. We’re just in the way here.”

I look around for Eva. She’s standing on an overturned bucket, carefully sewing braids into Joe’s mane. Her braids are small, tight, and evenly spaced.

I catch her eye—and through expansive arm movements and facial expressions ask her if she minds if I
leave with Maureen. She scrunches her nose and shakes her head, all without removing the needle and thread from her mouth. Then she holds both hands by her head and spreads all ten fingers. She closes them again and then holds up a single finger.

“Eleven?” I mouth.

She nods.

Her dressage test begins at eleven.

At ten minutes to eleven, Maureen and I climb over the low-slung rope that separates the spectator area from the vendors, and take our seats right at the front.

The one-star dressage tests ended at ten thirty, and a man on a tractor is dragging the arena in preparation for the two-star tests. After he leaves, a man comes out on foot, pushing a roller down the center line to flatten it.

The seats are filling up. I twist in my seat looking, scanning the crowd.

“Who are you looking for?” says Maureen, adjusting the brim of her hat.

“My ex-husband.”

“Ah. I have one of those too.”

“He was supposed to show up last night. I can’t believe he’s going to miss her test.”

Maureen shrugs. “Well, what’re you gonna do,” she says. “You’re not responsible for him anymore.”

“No, he’s not like that. He’s not like that at all.”

Maureen elbows me. “Here she comes.”

And indeed she does—looking glorious in her tailcoat, shining black boots, and top hat. You can’t even tell she’s bald. She sits tall and erect, her heels pointed
downward and her black-gloved hands motionless in front of her. Her seat is glued to the saddle.

A murmur runs through the crowd, reminding me of the inevitable reaction when I would first appear on Harry.

“What on earth is that?”

“Gracious, what a strange-looking—”

“Oh! My! I’ve never seen anything quite—”

Joe chomps the bit and throws his head, dancing a bit. They haven’t entered the ring yet, but it’s not a good sign.

Eva approaches the ring. As she turns to enter, I see her eyes scan the faces for her father. When her eyes land on mine, I shrug and shake my head.

She goes down the center line at a working canter and halts in front of the judges to salute. She dips her head and drops her left arm straight down. As she flicks her hand back, Joe skitters two steps sideways.

There’s a collective intake of breath from the crowd.

Oh God. This isn’t good. This isn’t good at all.

Eva proceeds at a working trot and then executes a ten-meter circle that’s more like twelve meters. She’s having trouble controlling Joe—her back is rigid, and her hands and legs show obvious strain. He’s fighting her for the bit, leaning heavily into it, but every time she tries to ease up he goes faster. It’s because her legs and back are so tense, but she hasn’t noticed, isn’t processing all the pieces.

I try to beam positive thoughts toward her: Come on, Eva. Come on. You can do it. Just relax. Don’t think about your father or the crowd or Nathalie. Don’t think about anything but Joe.

She pulls him back, jigging her arms. Joe raises his
muzzle, sending little bits of foam flying from the corners of his mouth. His nostrils flare red. He finally halts, but it’s not before taking another couple of sideways steps. Eva closes her eyes for a moment, collecting herself.

Good girl. Take your time.

She opens her eyes again, her face resolute. After a slight pause they bolt forward into a canter. They’re on the wrong lead, but she’s trying so hard to control him, she doesn’t seem to notice. After a few strides she finally looks down and immediately asks for a flying change. In response, he shoots both hind legs out.

I glance quickly at the judges. One is shaking his head; another writes something on her score sheet with a sour, pinched expression. Yet another leans back in her chair, staring with a finger pressed to her cheek.

When Eva passes me at an accidental countercanter, her face pale as bone, it’s all I can do to keep watching.

Seconds after Eva and Joe leave the ring, the loudspeaker crackles to life. “Eva Aldrich, number forty-two, has now completed the test.”

I wince, bracing myself. Maureen’s hand creeps across the divide, seeking mine. When it makes contact, I clasp it in a death grip.

“It looks like Judge H gives her a score of 50.5,” the man on the loudspeaker says in a slow drone.

“Oh no,” I say, clutching my chest.

“…and Judge M comes in with a…” the man pauses and sighs deeply, disingenuously aggrieved. “Oh dear, it looks like a 51.8 from Judge M, and Judge B gives her a 51.2. And so we have Eva Aldrich, our
first two-star competitor, with a provisional score of 51.167.”

There’s a ripple of sympathy from the audience. I leap out of my white plastic chair, knocking it over in the process.

“It’s okay, honey, I’ll get it,” says Maureen, reaching for it. “You go be with your girl.”

When I find her, she is collapsed against Nathalie’s chest, sobbing. Margot stands off to the side, holding Joe, whose head and tail hang low. Five or six girls stand watching, their faces long. There’s a pall over everyone.

I approach slowly, almost timidly.

Nathalie makes eye contact with me, still rubbing Eva’s back. “It’s all right, Eva. It’s all right. You can make it up tomorrow and the next day.”

“But I just don’t know what happened!” she wails. “We were fine in the warm-up ring. But then something happened, and I couldn’t get it back.”

“What was it that happened?” says Nathalie, taking Eva by the shoulders and looking deep into her eyes. “Honey, talk to me. What was it that happened?”

“I have no idea!” cries Eva, her body wracked by sobs.

Oh, but I do. I do.

And so help me God, he’s going to pay.

I walk over to Eva, turn her around by the shoulders, and pull her to my chest, claiming her as mine. Nathalie hovers for a moment, and then goes about her business.

Day Two—the endurance test—and I don’t know who’s dreading it more. When the damnable, damnable alarm goes off, scaring the bejesus out of us for a second morning in a row, Eva smacks its top with deadly precision, flicks on her light, and goes immediately to the bathroom.

I can’t remember ever seeing her this upset. Mad, yes. But this is something other. I’m not sure that she connects her failure yesterday with Roger’s absence, but I do. She was looking for him, distraught over his absence. That tension translated to the horse beneath her, and once they were out of whack, there was no recovering.

Roger and his new family still haven’t shown up. Nor has he called. I’m not proud of the message I left on his voice mail last night, but there you are. He hurt my daughter—our daughter—and I won’t forgive him, no matter what his excuse. He can’t pretend he didn’t know what this meant to her. He knew.

I crawl out of bed, bleary-eyed, and pull the curtains back to get a take on the day. I should have known. The
sky is a deep, even gray from horizon to horizon, like the universe is in sympathy.

At breakfast, Eva pokes at a plate of fruit, sighing and staring off into the distance. She looks pale, and although I know she didn’t sleep much last night—she thrashed enough that she kept me up too—I worry about her diet. Despite my hope that she would consider fish and poultry to be a form of vegetable, she has eaten nothing but plant material since we got here, even going so far as to ask the servers what type of fat was used to cook it. How can she possibly be getting enough protein—never mind iron and trace elements and selenium and all the other things bodies need to run? A ripple of worry runs through me as I examine her face, her hands, her hair for signs of malnutrition. I’m going on a research mission when I get home.

In the meantime, in defense against whatever the day may bring, I shore myself up with coffee, pancakes, and sausage. I had a revelation last night—it came just as I opened my mouth to order a grilled chicken caesar, as I always do. I suddenly realized that there was no reason to deny myself, and so I ordered the grilled half-pound black angus burger with blue cheese, bacon, extra pickles (Klaas, of course), and fries on the side. I ate the whole thing too, washing it down with a comforting Guinness. I know without a shadow of a doubt that I’ve gained back the three pounds I lost, but I don’t care. I can gain thirteen pounds and I still won’t care. Maybe I’ll turn into a blimp and wear tent dresses. Maybe I’ll be one of those women who are so big they look like they’ve got tiny feet. Maybe they’ll have to break a hole in the wall to get me out when I die. Harriet and Freddie
won’t care, and they’re the only ones likely to see me naked in the foreseeable future.

By the time Eva and I head out to the car, it has started to rain. The air has an icy edge, and the sky a solid gloomy look that promises more of the same all day.

As we drive, Eva sits looking out the window, her shoulders slumped, her hands between her knees. She says not a word. After giving up on ridiculous small talk that she ignores anyway, I throw her sympathetic looks and occasionally reach over to pat her thigh.

The parking lots aren’t nearly as crowded today. I guess the idea of standing outside in near-freezing rain isn’t all that appealing unless you’ve got a friend or relative riding.

The dirt road that leads through the miles of parking lots has turned into slick mud dotted with oily puddles. As my tires thump from one hole to the next, I try hard to keep from picturing Eva and Joe galloping—and slipping and skidding and crashing—on the cross-country course. The images come anyway—each time I smack them down in one part of my mind, they come around and try a different angle, prying, levering their way under the edges. But I am determined to ignore them, to concentrate instead on my daughter’s flagging spirits.

When we finally park, she is so slow to climb out of the car that I come around and open her door for her.

I want to say something encouraging, but I can’t think of anything that wouldn’t sound trite and Pollyannaish. Despite what Nathalie said, Eva and I both know she can’t make up enough points to place. She got the lowest dressage score of all the two-star
competitors. All she can hope to accomplish today and tomorrow is to redeem enough pride to walk away holding her head up.

This time when we park, there is no golf cart to whisk us past and through to the horses. And so I wrap my arm around Eva’s shoulders, give her encouraging squeezes, and hold her tight against me under our one umbrella.

But the moment we get through the chain link fence that encloses the temporary stabling, everything changes. Eva speeds up to the point that I’m stumbling behind her, thrusting the umbrella forward to keep it over her head.

She stops and turns around. “It’s okay, Mom, I’m going to get wet today.”

And she’s right. The stalls have roofs, but the area between them doesn’t. The only shelter the girls are going to have is in the gooseneck trailers.

“Put your hood up! I don’t want your hair…I don’t want your head to get cold!” I call after her.

She heads straight to Joe’s stall, which is instantly recognizable by the red-and-blue stall guard that is bolted across the open top of the Dutch door. Eva yanks the snaps open and pulls it aside. Joe’s muzzle pokes out immediately, seeking her hands, pressing against collarbone and chin. She runs both hands up the side of his face as he rumbles his throaty greeting.

It’s like watching lovers reunite. He’s apologizing, and so is she, each of them telling the other
No, it was me—No, no, it was me, and of course we’re okay.
Eva slides the latch on the bottom of the door and disappears inside his stall.

I stand watching with a lump in my throat. Twelve
seconds with Joe has done more good than any of my attempts at cheering her up over the last eighteen hours.

I suddenly miss Hurrah. And then I miss Dan.

And then I have to turn around and leave because I’m starting to cry.

I run—
whoomp!
—into Maureen’s large chest. She and Colleen are headed for the stabling.

“Honey! Where you going in such a hurry?”

“Oh,” I say, sniffing and wiping my eyes in what I hope is an inconspicuous manner. “I thought I’d grab a cup of coffee and wait in the food tent.”

“Excellent idea. Colleen, you okay without me?”

“Duh!” says Colleen, striding off toward one of the gooseneck trailers.

“Well, then,” says Maureen, perfectly cheerful. “Let’s go where it’s dry. Is that umbrella from the Misses’ or Women’s section?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Got room for me under there?”

“Oh—of course!” I say, scrambling to get it over her head.

We start walking toward the fence.

“So,” I say. “Have you watched anyone ride today?”

“A couple of the Prelim riders, but it’s pretty mucky out there. A lot of the Juniors and Training-level riders dropped out, and the Prelim times are very slow. Not slow enough, in some cases.”

“What do you mean?”

“Two people came off.”

I stop. “Anyone hurt?”

She pauses, pressing her lips together. “Well, there’s
no official word yet, but rumor is one of the horses had to be put down. He dropped a shoe, slid into a jump, and tried to take it anyway.”

Panic surges through my breast. I close my eyes, breathing through my open mouth. I’d do anything to have a wall to clutch.

“Honey, are you okay?” Maureen grasps my hand, which must be outstretched.

I open my eyes and find myself hanging on the end of her arm. I blink a few times, and then hand her the umbrella. “I’ll be right back. I have to check something.”

I turn and run back to Joe’s stall.

“Ma!” says Eva as I barge inside. She sounds indignant, and I understand that—she and Joe are coming to an agreement, are still making up for their lovers’ quarrel from yesterday. She’s fondling his ears as he rubs his face up and down her chest.

“Sorry, honey. I need to check something.”

“What?”

I lean over beside Joe’s haunch and pick up one of his back feet. Someone has already screwed studs into his shoes. I check each of the studs and then the shoe itself, running my fingers around the outside edge of his hoof, feeling for the ends of the nails. I sigh with relief—his pedicure is as perfect as mine.

“Ma, what on earth are you doing?” says Eva as I move around Joe and pick up his other hind foot.

“Just checking his brakes, sweetie,” I say. Since his other hind hoof also checks out, I dart for the door.

“Wait! Ma!” Eva calls after me.

“Yes?” I say.

“What jump are you going to be at?”

“I don’t know yet. You got a preference?”

“I guess not. I just wondered.”

“Just tell me where you want me to be, Eva.”

“It doesn’t really matter. I guess what I was really asking was if you’re going to watch.”

“Of course!”

“I mean,” she says, lowering her voice to a loud whisper, “are you going to keep your eyes open?”

I pause, and swallow deeply. “Of course. Yes, of course,” I say, plastering a big fake smile all over my face. But then I lean forward and allow my voice to become urgent. “But please, take the weather into account. No heroics, okay? The footing stinks. Take your time approaching the jumps. Just concentrate on getting through in one piece. Remember, these jumps are solid.”

“Yes, Mother. I know, Mother,” she intones. I’m considering telling her about the dead horse when she adds, “Sheesh, you sound just like Nathalie.”

“Good,” I say. I step out of the stall and close the Dutch door behind me.

As I walk back to Maureen, Nathalie and I lock eyes. I give her a single approving nod, and she tilts her head quizzically.

As soon as Maureen and I settle at a plastic-covered table in the food tent, my anxiety blossoms. The rain continues—the grass outside the tent is saturated to the point that the droplets bounce up again when they hit.

“Did the rat ever show up?” says Maureen, ripping the plastic tab from her coffee cup.

“No. He did not,” I say grimly, taking a sip of my own. The coffee is dreadful. It tastes like it’s been on a
burner for seventeen hours, and they only have powdered non-dairy creamer. Which, it occurs to me, probably makes this coffee vegan.

“Just as well at this point,” she says. “It’d probably upset her all over again if he showed up.”

“Probably. But he’s not getting out of this one without a damned good explanation.”

“How long have you been divorced?”

“Ten months.”

Maureen makes a face and leans back in her chair. “Ouch.”

“You don’t know the half of it. Here, can I see your program?”

“You looking up Eva? She’s third out of the start box.”

“How about Colleen?”

“Sixth. If I let her run.”

I glance up quickly. “You’re thinking of pulling her?”

“Maybe.” She pauses, and then lifts her eyes to mine. “I saw that horse go down this morning.”

We stare at each other, mother to mother.

“Wanna go check out the course?” I say.

“Let’s go,” she says, swiping her program and hat from the table.

We trudge across the field, feet squishing the rain-soaked turf. I’m wearing Lands End all-weather clogs, but they’re backless, so my socks are soaked through. We have also managed to miss the marked walkway, and have to wait as one final one-star competitor gallops past before we duck under the rope divider and dash across the course.

“Do you care which jump we’re at?” says Maureen, as we reach the other side.

“Not really,” I say. “To be honest, I don’t usually watch.”

“What do you mean you don’t watch?”

“Nothing,” I say, embarrassed and speeding up.

“No, what do you mean?” she says, catching up and peering sideways at my face.

I sigh. “I mean that I park myself beside a jump, wait until I see her, and then close my eyes. And then when I can tell she’s landed, I clap like crazy and hold my breath until I hear that she’s finished the course.”

“Ha!” says Maureen, turning her delighted face toward mine. “I have to say you’re full of surprises, Annemarie. I’m glad we met.”

We make our way to the water jump, but there is already such a crowd around it that we wander around in search of another.

“Listen, since you admitted that you close your eyes, can I tell you something?” says Maureen.

“Of course,” I say, surprised.

“I’m pretty sure I’m going to pull Colleen even though she’ll kill me. So can we find a jump that’s close to the start box?”

“Of course,” I say nodding emphatically and with encouragement.

I glance at Maureen with genuine gratitude, because she’s just shown me that I’m not crazy after all. I’m just a mother. I look around at the other soaking people, wondering how many of them are parents of riders, and how many are considering dashes to the start box.

The PA comes to life. “And coming out on course
now is the first of our two-star riders. Number twenty-six, Johanna Daniels, on Paraffin’s Puffet.” It’s the same voice as yesterday, the man who sounds like he’d rather be doing golf commentary.

Maureen and I stare at each other for a second and then hurry onward.

“Here! Here’s a good one,” I say, coming to a stop just in front of the rope. It’s jump twenty of twenty-three. Judging from the scant number of spectators, it’s also not a very popular jump, but that’s okay. It’s a solid thing that resembles an overturned canoe built onto several feet of logs. In fact, it may well
be
an overturned canoe.

“Where’s the start box?” asks Maureen.

“Right over there,” I say, pointing across the course and behind some trees.

“…just the one horse on course now, with a provisional score of twenty and no time faults,” the man says in a nasal voice.

I pull the edges of my jacket closer around me, and clutch the cold metal of the umbrella handle with frozen fingers.

“…and here comes David Shykofsky, number seventeen, on Devil’s Angel…He’s cleared number one, the log piles, and is on his way to the ditch and rails…Johanna Daniels and Paraffin’s Puffet are now over the brick wall and heading for the in-and-out…And there they are, in…and out again…And here comes our third rider on course, Eva Aldrich, number forty-two, on Smoky Joe, the blue roan Nokota…”