Elizabeth Moon - Horse of Her Dreams.pdf - Elizabeth Moon - margozap

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out-of-date hair and pretending to ignore us.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

Elizabeth Moon - Horse of Her Dreams.pdf

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