"Moon, Elizabeth - [SS] Horse of Her Dreams [v1.0]" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moon Elizabeth)

Horse of Her Dreams
By: Elizabeth Moon
* * * *
Think of a parade on Main Street, any Main Street, in a small Texas town. Think of the horses, and riding them, tall “Texas girls” with the brilliant smiles and flowing manes of hair you’ve seen on television and in magazines—more spectacular than cheerleaders, more vibrant than California surfers.
A stereotype, you say? Maybe, or a fantasy—most deeply held by those who can never, never possess it.
Elizabeth Moon, who rides and lives in a small town in Texas, has seen those parades and the shadows they cast across even the most sunlit lives.
* * * *
It was just another little wide spot in the road. One of those towns with a hot shadeless Main Street, some old brick or rock buildings on each side, and a big ugly new government building intended to look modern and urban and progressive, but clunky as a cinder block in a display case of Chinese porcelain. Here it combined City Hall, Fire Station, Library, and Community Center, all in one big chunk of beige precast-concrete panels that hadn’t had time to mellow, but had been there long enough for rust streaks to come down the sides. Three spindly little oaks in planters out front hadn’t really taken hold.
We knew the town’s reputation as the county scapegoat—it’s our business to know—but that’s not why we came. We—the Frontline News team, Channel 8— had come to cover their annual festival, producing a thirty-second clip for our Weekend Previews on the Friday-night six-o’clock news. So on this July Wednesday, there we were square in the middle of that two blocks of Main Street, in trouble.
What you want is local color, and what the locals think is color isn’t what you want. Which meant the big sign draped across the City Center saying “Welcome Frontline News!” wasn’t it. Nor the pair of girls in shorts and clogs who stared at us through the windows of Clara’s Cafe and then sauntered out, flipping their long out-of-date hair and pretending to ignore us. Obviously they didn’t understand what a long lens does to a rear view… anyone’s rear view.
Main Street had been modernized back in the Fifties or Sixties, more stucco and plate glass than stone or brick. No old hitching rails, no antique streetlights. There weren’t any shady benches for old men to sit and talk and look rural on—so of course we didn’t see any local-color kind of old men. The fiberglass horse over the door of Sim’s Western Wear and Saddlery would have done, except that the week before we’d used a fiberglass horse over the door of another western wear somewhere else. And that one had had a fancy saddle on it.
Aside from Main Street, all two blocks of it, the town had something under two thousand inhabitants living on maybe sixteen miles of streets. I know, because we drove up and down every single damn street, looking for local color. We found what you always find: a few neat brick houses maintained by fanatics (curtains matching, grass plucked with tweezers at the sidewalk, freshly tarred drive), many more comfortable-looking old brick or frame houses with shaggy yards and big hairy dogs lying in the shade, a few backyards enlivened by a sheep, calf, or pony, and some much older but very dilapidated old shacks that were the wrong sort of local color if we ever wanted to come back.
Then Joe stepped hard on the brakes and said “God bless,” under his breath, which isn’t his usual expletive.
She was the kind of local color you almost never find. Not too young, not at all old, shaped perfectly for the camera, and a true honey blonde. She moved well, too, and she was heaving a big old parade saddle (black with silver trim) onto a palomino horse as pretty as she was—for a horse, that is. White blaze and four white stockings, and they sure looked like a pair, her in those tight jeans and tall white boots and blue western shirt with a little white pinstripe.
There’s a lot that happened later that I don’t understand, but I can’t believe that it was Kelly’s fault. She’s just a normal, healthy, flat-out gorgeous hunk of Texas womanhood, getting ready to lead a parade in three days and happening to catch our eye. Which of course she did.
Turned out she was a junior (at the university, I figured) and wanted to be a schoolteacher, and thought her mom and dad were wonderful, and wouldn’t miss a—well, I can’t tell you the name of the festival, or you could find the town, now, couldn’t you? But she wouldn’t miss it, and if she married and had to move to (her blue eyes rolled up as she thought about someplace outrageous) New York, even, she’d come back every summer and lead the parade the way she had since… a short pause, and I thought she was counting years, but she said, “Since I got Sunny.”
Well, people do tend to name horses stupid things like Brownie and Black Beauty and Sunny, and you don’t have to have more sense than that to be married in your senior year to someone headed for law school or medical school, which was clearly her destiny.
She wasn’t camera shy at all—knew all the tricks, and no wonder, having led the parade all those years. She clucked, and Sunny put those ears forward like a pro. Joe got her talking to the horse, and waving at her mom on the porch. Her mom didn’t look anything like her, but lightning doesn’t strike twice in families, either. My wife’s a show stopping redhead, but our daughter has my hair. And nose. Then he asked her if she’d ride for us, and she beamed, and bounced up on that horse as slick as butter, and pranced him back and forth. It was then I noticed the spurs.
I don’t pretend to be much of a cowboy, but one thing I do know is that those big old roweled spurs you see pictures of aren’t in use anymore. The humane society had something to say about it, I think. But she had these blued-steel spurs with rowels as long as my fingers, and needle-sharp, or looked like it. Wicked things, that could have hurt if you’d just bumped into them. And she was digging them into that sleek golden horse like he had no nerves at all, with a pretty smile on her lovely face. I looked at the bridle. Sure enough, hung on that fancy black and silver parade bridle was a blued-steel bit that would have held a charging grizzly.
Funny thing is, that gold horse just pranced back and forth, never jumping sideways when she jabbed the spurs in, never gaping its mouth when she gave a little yank to the reins. And that’s not natural. A horse that’ll prance like that is usually the kind that’s pretty touchy about having its reins yanked and spurs stuck in its sides. I wondered did she have it tranquilized, but the horse’s eye was a clear shining… green.
It’s a wonder I didn’t grab Joe’s arm in the middle of a shot. Green! Horses don’t have green eyes, and if they did it wouldn’t be that bright, clear emerald green, wickedly alight with mischief. Horses are (forgive me, ladies) stupid. I mean, any animal that could buck people off, but prefers to carry them around on its back… any animal that runs back into a burning barn and sticks its dumb legs in fences and then fights to get loose, tearing itself to shreds… that’s stupid. Black Beauty and all those horse stories aside. Besides, my cousin Don’s horse ran under a tree with me and scraped me off when I was ten or so, and any animal with brains would have known that I was lighter than anyone else around, and if it got rid of me it would only mean more work. I live on the edge of the city, and my ranchette came with a two-stall stable and corral (courtesy of the previous owners who had two teenage daughters) but we don’t have a horse even though Marcy’s as horse-crazy as any other girl.
Joe didn’t notice, but then Joe’s from Houston, and where he grew up he never saw a horse in real life till he moved away. For all Joe knows, horses might have eyes every color of the rainbow. Joe just nodded and swung the camcorder around as usual, and let me do the interview.
Kelly kept chattering away, telling us about her friend named Charlene—she thought maybe we’d like a shot of both of them on their horses. Charlene had always ridden right behind her in the parade, she said. I guess Joe and I both were thinking the same thing: girls like Kelly had girlfriends with names like Charlene, and the girlfriends were always a lot less pretty but very energetic and sweet. Sweet, out here, means nothing to look at, and not enough spunk to leave. I tried not to let myself think about Marcy, my Marcy, who was born to be sweet…
Charlene, Kelly went on, wrote poetry and painted pictures, and was going to be a famous writer someday. Joe and I looked at each other and managed not to sigh, and said, Sure, we’d be glad to meet her friend, but the folks back at the station couldn’t ever use all we’d shot. We always had that excuse. So Kelly rode off down the street, and for once, a back view looked good in the long lens. Joe caught some of it, just for us.
When she came back, we had another shock. Charlene could have been Kelly’s twin for size and shape, with long curly black hair and a face out of an art book. Kelly was pretty—Kelly was typical golden-girl all-American long-legged gorgeous—but Charlene had bone to keep her beautiful for years, while Kelly would find out in her thirties that a round chin can double all too easily. Charlene had a black horse to match her hair, the blackest, shiniest horse I ever saw outside of a china figurine, not a brown hair on him. And green eyes.
Now one green-eyed horse would be a marvel, the sort of thing that’s a freak. Two green-eyed horses— one black, and one palomino, and both with the prettiest girls I’d seen in years on their backs—that’s something else. The black horse gave me the same mischievous sidelong glance as the golden one had, and I noted that Charlene also wore wickedly roweled spurs and had one helluva long-shanked bit, like Kelly’s, in that beast’s mouth. I got a cold feeling on the back of my neck, and decided not to worry about it; it wasn’t my business, and the girls were easy to look at. That was our business.
“Charlene used to lead the parade,” said Kelly, throwing her friend one of those smiles that cuts your hand if you touch it. “But then I got Sunny.”
I think I’d have let them lead it together—it must be spectacular anyway, with two gorgeous girls on those two handsome horses—for horses—and why not both in front? But Charlene was giving Kelly a smile to match the one she’d been given, and her voice, when she spoke, was husky and warm and in keeping with that face.
“I didn’t want to hog it forever,” she said. “Besides, the Texas flag looks better with a black horse. And I know you’ll be just as generous when someone else is ready to take over.” Kelly smiled back, a little stiffly, and I figured they weren’t really friends. How could they be? Two pretty girls in such a small town are born rivals, and if they don’t know it, everyone makes it clear to them. About the time that one beat the other out for class sweetheart or most beautiful, friend had become an empty term. You don’t, right out loud, talk about enemies.
When I got home, I told Marcy about the horses. Like so many girls her age, she thinks anything with four legs and a mane is wonderful. For years she’s been saving her allowance and birthday money to buy her own horse and take lessons at the stable up the road.
“Could we go see them, Daddy?” I should have expected that. I looked at Denise. Mothers have rights, I’d learned, and besides we had planned to go to Hal’s poolside barbecue on Saturday. I had hoped Marcy would learn some things from his daughter. Suzi wasn’t a patch on those gorgeous girls with their horses, but she did have style, and Marcy was going to need all the help she could get.
Denise gave me one of those inscrutable glances she’d been giving me lately and shrugged. “If you want…” She’d already told me she didn’t much like the party idea, back when I made the mistake of saying I thought Suzi was pretty sharp for a kid her age. Denise said yes, like a knife, and Marcy was a wonderful girl who needed to be recognized for what she was.
We hadn’t exactly argued, but I’d felt uncomfortable. She should know I love Marcy more than anything else; I just want her to have a happy life, and pretty girls are happier. Denise should know that; she was a stunner.
So I said, “If it’s clear,” and Marcy grinned at me, half braces and half teeth.
We ran the spot Friday, on schedule. I’d noticed on the monitor that the horses’ green eyes didn’t show up well, and decided not to mention it. The girls were pretty enough, one all gold and blue on a gold and white horse, and one all black and green (did I mention that Charlene wore a green western shirt, something that glittered, with black jeans and boots?) on a black horse. Not quite as gorgeous as I remembered— in fact, not more than middling pretty—but things rarely look the same on tape, and I’m used to it. After all, we’d had to shoot the spot in midafternoon in July. Maybe those little lines came from squinting at the bright sun—the camera sees what’s really there; it doesn’t make allowances for lousy lighting. Kelly’s voice I’d figured wouldn’t tape well—breathy, a little too high—but I was surprised at Charlene’s—it sounded more hoarse than husky. But again—a hot day, midafternoon—maybe she’d been thirsty. Marcy thought the horses were great; I don’t know if she even looked at the riders.
Saturday morning, traffic held us up north of the city, and if Marcy hadn’t been humming tunelessly beside me, I’d have turned back. It was nothing but a little pissant country town with two pretty girls riding horses in a tacky parade; we’d get hot and dusty, and eat too much cheap greasy food—Hal’s pool would be a lot more fun. But Denise had sent us off smiling; she wouldn’t like it if I changed plans on her now.
We had to park at the far end of a dusty field beside the town’s rickety little football stadium, crammed in between a pickup truck with its bed full of assorted junk, and a rusty barbwire fence. It was a two-block walk to the parade route, nothing much in the city, but here a hot, sweaty trek past sunburned yards and houses flaking ancient paint. They looked even older, more faded, today than they had on the Wednesday before. Two people came out of one house, and glanced at us without speaking.
We got to the main street a little late, and had to crowd in behind a double row of others. A little boy rode by on a bicycle decorated with crepe paper, holding a red ribbon in his teeth. I glanced at my watch. Time and more for the parade to start. Sweat trickled down my sides; I could smell the hair spray from the huge bouffant arrangement on the tall woman next to me. A puff of wind blew a wiry strand of it across my nose; I batted it away, blinking at the dust, just as another, sharper puff spanked my other cheek. Marcy shook her head, but when I looked down, she flashed her metallic smile at me. One thing about her, she’s no complainer, our girl. If she had the looks she deserves, she’d be a match for anyone. I squeezed her shoulder, and felt my heart contract at the look she gave me. I didn’t deserve that kind of trust—no man could.
More little gusts of wind, carrying the smells of a summer celebration: bubble gum baked on the pavement, horses, barbecue. Scraps of paper lifted from the street; a small child chased one, was captured by a tired-faced woman wearing an apron over her dress. It crossed my mind I hadn’t seen a woman wear an apron like that in years. Then the dust hit, a soft fist pummeling our faces, our eyes, stinging; wind jerked my shirt and hair first one way then the other. Marcy grabbed my arm and squealed “Daddy!” then coughed. I could hardly breathe myself. For an instant, sight and hearing blurred, caught in a whirl of wind-noise and grit. Then I could hear the chokes, coughs, children crying, even screams.
The wind went as it had come, without warning or reason; I watched the tawny blur of the dust-devil follow the road out of town, as steadily as a drunk driver trying to be careful.
But the crowd’s noise yanked my attention back to the street. Something had happened. I cursed myself for coming without even a pocket ‘corder, but I’d promised Denise the trip was for Marcy. Still I edged us leftward, back toward the disturbance.
Another news team stood where I usually stand, in the middle of things. How was I going to explain this at work? With Marcy clinging to my hand, a little nervous in the crowd, I couldn’t push my way through as I usually did. I went up on tiptoe, trying to see. There was an opening: that usually meant someone was on the ground. Just beyond the gap, a well-polished pickup had both doors open; behind it was the parade’s first float, and the girl who should have been perched on a throne waving was stepping across the trailer hitch from the float to the pickup, hampered only slightly by her formal gown, intent on seeing what had happened.
Suddenly a siren went off in my ear, and I jumped. It was the fire engine that should have cleared the way for the parade; we had come around it, with the rest of the crowd, hardly noticing it—now its lights flashed, and the siren beeped and squealed. The volunteers, in their blue shirts with lots of insignia, began pushing the crowd back, and I saw another flashing light coming along a side street: the ambulance.
Of course, everyone was talking about what happened, but already there were five or six stories just in those few minutes. Only a few, it seemed, had been on the spot, and they’d been squinting against the sudden dust storm the same as anyone else. The girls were hurt; the girls were killed; the girls had been bucked off; the horses had run away… I figured then who it had to be, of course. We backed up with the others, as requested, and let the ambulance through; I couldn’t see any more than the stretchers being loaded aboard it. Then the siren whooped again, and the parade went on, just as parades always do go on in spite of accidents.
Marcy was less disappointed than I’d expected. There were other horses to exclaim over, and after all, she never had seen the palomino and black that weren’t there anymore except on tape. I felt it more; I’d really looked forward to seeing those two girls ride by, all proud and beautiful in the sunlight, and without them the parade was a predictable mixture of sentimentality and cheap glitter. The girls on the homemade floats, the pride of each little town in the festival circuit, were pretty enough, but nothing like Kelly and Charlene on horseback.
But I set myself to being a good father, and Marcy enjoyed herself. I even waited patiently while she walked around talking to the people who had ridden in the parade. She petted their horses, flashed that metallic grin more than I’d seen in months. I caught myself thinking that if she looked like Kelly, I’d buy her a horse and let her ride in parades—she looked so happy. And that was almost enough for the day, except that I really did want to know about Kelly and Charlene.
The late news that night had coverage from our competition; I sipped my drink as I watched, and tried to figure out how to salvage my part in it while criticizing the camera angles the competition used. The announcer said it was Kelly and Charlene, but the pictures certainly didn’t do them justice. Kelly’s golden hair looked dusty, and I guess it’s hard to be cute and pretty when someone’s splinting your broken wrist. Charlene must have been hurting, too; she looked almost gaunt, those gorgeous bones ready to break through the skin. Nothing was said about their horses on one channel; the next, when I flipped to it, had already done the story, and the other one stuck it on last and mentioned that the horses had run off in terror at the “sudden storm.” Our station ran the tape we’d done before, and a brief shot of their faces, and Melanie, who has the evening news spot on Saturday and is trying for more, said what a horrible ordeal for two such pretty girls.
I don’t read the paper all that often, unless I’m researching something, but the Sunday paper had it on the front page—mostly because their Congressman had been there. I could have shot the old buzzard at City Hall, for not telling me he was coming when I picked up the brochure; if I’d known, I’d have brought a ‘corder no matter what. Mysterious disappearance of famous parade horses, they called it. I quirked my mouth over that “famous” but let it ride. Anyone who’d seen Kelly on that palomino wouldn’t have forgotten it. I wondered then if she’d ever ridden in anyone else’s parades, or if she’d been content to reign in a small realm. The horses, the story ended, had not been found.
It occurred to me that I could salvage our station’s position by getting a human-interest continuation. That would justify seeing them again, and (my fatherly conscience being tender) I could even ask their advice about Marcy: would riding in parades do anything to help a girl get along in high school? So about midweek, I took a camcorder and told my boss I might get an interview, and he raised his eyebrows but nodded. I also took a present I didn’t tell him about, two copies of the original tape we took of Kelly and Charlene (all but the rump shot, of course).
Kelly’s mom didn’t look real friendly when she opened the door, and I was glad I’d come in my own car, not the station van. I told her I’d heard about it, and thought maybe Kelly would like a copy of the pictures we’d gotten before her horse was lost. The woman’s eyes glittered dangerously.