The Yonahlossee Riding Camp For Girls Part 10

You don't want it to ever end. I knew Leona felt the same way. Naari moved so fast beneath me I could hardly feel her move at all. Father had told us that history was a lesson, a way to never forget what had happened before us. And now I knew from my own experience that you could never leave the past behind. But galloping that Thanksgiving night, the first Thanksgiving I had ever spent away from my family, I was leaving the past behind. And however illusory this feeling was, the faster we went, the more of it was lost.

Naari and I pulled ahead-she was small and compact, built to be faster than King-but then I sensed Leona at her flank, and without looking I knew Leona was racing us. Before, I had simply let Naari run, but now I pressed my legs around her throbbing sides and touched her lightly with my spurs, which was all it took. She shot in front of King, whom I could hear breathing furiously behind us.

Afterward, Leona and I walked the length of the field, our mounts spent. I had never raced before, only galloped solo on my pony.

"She's fast," Leona said, which I knew was half a compliment, half a signal that I had nothing to do with Naari's speed. But horses weren't raced without jockeys.

She spoke again. "Other girls don't like me." She paused. "They think I'm cold." And I knew now she was speaking of Sissy, who had used that exact word. "I don't care what they think. All I care about is horses." I watched her profile as she spoke, her square jaw offset prettily by her sloped nose. I looked down at my hands, red and chapped from gripping the reins so tightly in the cold.

"I know . . ." I meant to go on, but I couldn't find the words, let my voice slip into the night. I knew what it was like, to love horses. But I also knew what it was like to love humans. I knew what it was like to want, to desire so intensely you were willing to throw everything else into its fire. There was a reason that I was not at home for Thanksgiving this year. And Leona? Were the whispers true? It did not seem so-she acted the same as ever. Quiet, impenetrable, strong.

- I lay in bed that night and thought of Mother. I first sat on a horse when I was still a baby, tucked in the saddle in front of Mother, on her old horse, Chikee. He died when I was seven, and that was when Mother stopped riding for good. I used to pity her, quietly, for not riding. Surely she must have missed it, I thought. Surely it was a loss.

I can't remember being told exactly why Mother stopped riding, but I had a vague notion that it related to the pain that sometimes beset her, the pain that was a result of our births. But Mother did not complain.

Mother brought Chikee to the marriage. He was almost twenty-one when he died, ancient for a horse. He was buried where he fell, in the pasture; Father had to hire several men to dig a hole large enough for him. In pictures he is handsome and dark, with gentle eyes. Mother loved him. It is a simple thing, to love a horse.

Mother said that I rode with my head, not with my heart. And that riding with my head would serve me well in many instances, but it would not earn Sasi's enduring loyalty. I always thought that was a romantic view of it.

I rolled over and faced the window. It was like looking into nothing, the night was so black. I had wanted her there, tonight. I had wanted her to see how I floated above the earth. Would she have loved me, then? Watched me and known in her heart that I was her daughter, her daughter who could ride so beautifully, sit atop and not interfere with a horse going as fast as time and s.p.a.ce would allow. Mother, it was as if we were floating. Mother, if you cannot love me with your heart, then at least with your head.

And then a face appeared, and at first I thought I had conjured Mother from my thoughts. But no, a boy. I sat up, my heart racing, though by now I had realized it was Boone. I hurried outside, relieved by Mary Abbott's snoring.

Boone looked at me expectantly, and I realized he must not have gotten Sissy's letter. "She's not here," I said. "She's in Monroeville."

I'd never been this close to him. Usually I saw him briefly, recognizable by his shock of red hair, before I woke Sissy.

But now I was so close I could see his face fall, faintly, as I delivered the news. I knew that he had to borrow a car, drive over an hour, to get here. We stood at the edge of the woods. He took out a slender case and offered me a cigarette with the a.s.surance that I would take it, which made me do exactly that. He cupped his hand around the tip as he lit it, with a silver lighter, and I could see why Sissy liked him. He was quiet and completely at ease with himself.

He leaned against the tree and studied me in his calm way. Meanwhile, I noticed the tip of the cigarette was receding quickly and I tried to take a drag like the stars in the movies did. No one in my family smoked.

Boone smiled. "You've never done this before?" he asked gently.

I shook my head, embarra.s.sed.

"Just think of it like breathing," he said, and demonstrated.

"But with a cigarette," I replied, and he laughed. He wore his clothes casually: a s.h.i.+rt that was pressed, but not crisply; a belt that was cinched around his narrow waist, but not tightly.

I felt suddenly as if we were going behind Sissy's back. She would not like this: me here, with him.

"I should go," I said, and let my cigarette fall to the ground. Boone moved forward and I thought for a second that he was going to kiss me; he crushed the cigarette into the leaves with his shoe and then retreated, and I was such a foolish girl, seeing signs where none existed; believing, always, that I was an object of desire.

"Thea," Boone said, and it was a bit of a shock that he knew my name. "Does Sissy . . ." Two girls pa.s.sed by Augusta House. I recognized one of the voices as Jettie's.

I turned back to Boone. "Does Sissy?"

"Does she say anything?"

"Many things," I said, and Boone smiled. He seemed earnest.

"She likes you," I said. "And you?"

He nodded slowly. "I want to make sure I'm doing everything right."

I smiled. That was impossible. "I wouldn't worry . . . But you should leave, now. Someone might see us."

I turned, and he said my name again. I looked back.

"David?" he asked. "He's my friend."

I had not imagined they talked about us like we talked about them. But of course they did. I shrugged. "We'll see."

Boone was not the type of boy to press an issue. He seemed very kind. Whatever Boone and Sissy had gotten themselves into-and who knew, really-at least he was kind. Perhaps he would not make her regret him.

- Dear Sam, I'm writing in the dark (there's the moon, like a sun, brighter than it ever is in Florida). All the rest of the girls are asleep.

Did you have orange cake? Were there candles?

I would describe how it is here, how different from home, but I don't know where to begin. It is exactly the opposite of home. There are so many girls.

I went for a night ride last week. It was pure fun, Sam. Sometimes I forget why I'm here, sometimes all of that just slips away.

I've never written you a letter before. Or received one from you. Not ever. Do I sound like myself, Sam? How would you sound, I wonder. I suppose you might not be reading this at all. You might like to pretend I don't exist, that I won't ever return home, and I can't say I blame you, Sam, I can't say that at all.

I think of you at home and wonder if you do the same things you did when I was there. I wonder if you and Mother and Father have any new jokes, or if Idella has made any new foods. You won't know this until you go away, too, but it is impossible to think that life continues on without me. Does that sound proud? I don't mean it to be. I think you know what I mean.

When you go away you will see that there are other people in the world besides me. And Mother and Father. There are so many girls here. Hundreds of them. They have names I've never heard before: Harper, Roberta, Mary Abbott, Leona. I like them. Not all of them, but many of them. I think once you have seen how many other people there are in the world you won't hate me as much. Although I know you don't hate me-you were very clear on that point. You hate what I did. But is there a difference, Sam?

I'm teaching three little girls how to ride. Well, one isn't that little-she's just turned twelve. But my favorite, Decca, is seven years old. She reminds me of you-she's good with animals, horses all like her immediately. She's so young. She doesn't know about anything. She asks the strangest questions. Yesterday she asked why I was a girl and not a boy, as if I had any choice in the matter. I don't remember much from when we were six. I remember you.

You can't know how lonely I am sometimes.

I'll stop before I'm too sad. But before I do, I have to ask-does our cousin continue to heal?

Your Sister, Thea I knew there was a very good chance that Mother would read any letter I wrote. She might not even give it to Sam. I thought she would, but I wasn't certain; she had always given us our privacy, had called it our autonomy, as if we had any real idea of what that meant. Mother read books on child rearing, and marked pa.s.sages for Father to read. She considered herself progressive. That Sam and I were allowed to roam freely most of the day was evidence of her progressiveness, of her desire to raise children who thought and acted independently.

Mother had sent me a birthday present, from everyone, though I doubted Sam had any part in it, and a signal from him was all I'd wanted. A pair of drop pearl earrings, with diamond filigree. They were small but beautiful. I tucked them into my vanity drawer without showing anyone. They were her earrings, she wore them on special occasions. It was a mystery, why she had sent them to me. Did she think I'd have a chance to wear them, here? I would, probably, at a dance, but she couldn't have known that. The gift seemed like a gesture, an extravagant one, but I saw it as what it truly was: a way not to see me. They were just earrings, earrings she never wore anyway.

"Happy You Day," Mother would have exclaimed when she first saw us, at the breakfast table, kissing Sam's temple and then mine. "Happy Birthday to You and You."

Last year, for our birthday, Idella had baked a spice cake with orange frosting. She made her own orange extract every year, my great-grandmother's recipe. Last year, my present had been a new dress and two books from Father. I'd wanted perfume from Paris, something I'd seen in a magazine, and I was disappointed I hadn't gotten it. But who would you wear it for, Mother had asked, amused. Sasi?

Last year, things were just beginning in earnest. Sam had received a hunting rifle, and Georgie had been given a matching one even though it wasn't his birthday. Sam had wanted a chemistry set he'd seen in a magazine, not a rifle, and he'd been so disappointed when he'd been handed the long box, clearly a gun.

My parents were always doing that, giving Georgie a present to match Sam's. And my cousin and aunt and uncle were always there, had celebrated all our birthdays with us. As we had celebrated all Georgie's with him. Even his birthday celebrations took place at our house, with a cake baked by Idella, though Aunt Carrie was a marvelous cook. It had never seemed strange. Our house was, of course, where everyone wanted to be. Just the presence of Uncle George and Aunt Carrie's neighbors felt like an intrusion. And we had all the land out back to play on.

I told no one about my birthday this year, not even Sissy, who was pleased that Boone had revealed to me how much he liked her. "See?" she'd said. "He loves me." And I'd had to agree; it did seem that way.

I wondered what Sam had received for his birthday. I should have sent him a book along with my letter; a book where someone makes a mistake and pays the consequences. But that could be any of the books I loved: The Portrait of a Lady, The House of Mirth, The Age of Innocence. And Sam would not read a book I'd sent him.

At Yonahlossee we celebrated after dinner, each girl took a slice of an enormous sheet cake; but, mercifully, my birthday had gone unnoticed. Perhaps, in the Thanksgiving preparations, it had fallen by the wayside. Or perhaps Mrs. Holmes had not wanted me to have a birthday celebration. Either way, I was grateful.

{9}.

Last Thanksgiving, I spent the morning in Uncle George and Aunt Carrie's guest room, sleeping and running to the toilet to vomit. I could hear my aunt and mother in the kitchen, cooking; Sam and Georgie up and down the stairs. I loved this chaotic preparation, cursed the illness and my father, who could not fix it though he was a doctor.

I was dozing, half awake; I opened my eyes and saw Georgie, sitting next to me on the edge of the bed.

"You came to visit me."

"Yeah." He grinned. "Yeah, I did."

Perhaps because I had just been asleep, had woken, and my brain had not yet reset itself; perhaps because I had been sick, and now was feeling a little better-I can't say why, but my cousin sitting next to me filled me with an intense pleasure. I felt almost buoyant; my hands tingled. His grin seemed like some kind of path to another world.

"I'm glad," I said, and my voice sounded strange. I touched his hand, above the covers. "Thank you."

"Sam came, too," he said, and I realized my brother was there, sitting in the corner of the room. They had both come to see me, to wake me from my nap. Then Uncle George tapped on the door and told us to come downstairs, and though I'm sure we all went, I'm also sure that I walked around in a kind of dream, still woozy, not completely understanding the pleasure I'd felt with Georgie but greedy for it, not wanting it to disappear.

- Aunt Carrie was a marvelous cook, the compliment my father routinely gave her. My mother was not; she didn't care enough about eating her food-picked at her meals, ate half of her plate-to care about preparing it. Her thinness was part of her beauty; her sharp angles carved a s.p.a.ce for her wherever she went-my mother was a woman you were required to look at. Mother's beauty was delicate, fragile: a swan's neck, abrupt cheekbones, eyes that could never decide between hazel and green.

Aunt Carrie was plain. In her youth, I imagined, she looked st.u.r.dy in that Midwestern way: straw-blond hair, dark blue eyes, a capable figure. When I knew her, Aunt Carrie was what Mother referred to as stocky, in a constant battle with her figure, and I wondered what happened to her figure after the trouble, whether or not she abstained from food in grief or turned to it for comfort. So when I thought of her at Yonahlossee, I saw her in two ways: as slender and pinched, her full cheeks replaced by dull hollows; or obese and slovenly, her neck folded, her arms ringed with fat. That she would look the same as when I last saw her was impossible.

I woke early the day after Thanksgiving, my sense of time disrupted as it is in illness. I felt completely well. I slept in the bed, Georgie and Sam on the floor; I sat up and saw Georgie was gone. My brother was a lump beneath an old blue quilt.

Aunt Carrie had little flair when it came to decorating. The guest room would have been better plain, in simple solids instead of competing florals. I fingered the duvet cover; burgundy cotton embroidered with gold medallions. Stiff and ugly, the whole room was a study in burgundy-the curtains, the chairs, the Oriental rug. The brooding, mahogany bedroom set. Mother had been acquiring more and more art deco furniture, which was all clean lines and simple geometry. Aunt Carrie's house looked like it was out of the last century.

Still, the house held a certain charm, my family lived there.

The door opened, and a c.h.i.n.k of light shone through the curtains and cast a shadow over my cousin's face. I had wished him here and he had come; I felt nervous, suddenly, as I watched him enter the room, watched him shut the door a little too firmly, a thick thud and surely Mother would come see how I was. But no one came.

Georgie was losing his baby fat, developing an athletic posture, suddenly broad instead of awkward. I was still skin and bones.

"Are you up?" he asked.

"Almost."

I lifted the covers and he got into bed beside me.

"I ate some pie for breakfast."

"You couldn't wait for brunch?"

"I'll eat again," Georgie said, "don't worry."

He s.h.i.+fted onto his side, and I could feel him staring. I closed my eyes. The cover rustled, and Georgie put his finger on the bridge of my nose, and traced it to its tip.

"Such a pretty nose," he said, half seriously.

I giggled, and pulled the top sheet up over my face. Georgie's hand was trapped, he moved it to my throat and my breath quickened, but it was not unusual for Georgie and me to find ourselves in intimate postures. We had always had an easy affection with each other, the consequence of being children together. But this felt, I knew even then, in that moment, different. I couldn't see Georgie, his hand rested warmly on my throat. His fingers moved, slightly, and I s.h.i.+vered. I rolled onto my side and faced him, pulled the sheet over both of us. His hand was beneath my cheek, now, his eyes were closed. We were so near I could feel his breath on my face, moist and peppery. I could hear perfectly each intake of breath. I put my hand on Georgie's shoulder; he didn't move. I s.h.i.+fted and felt that my nipples had hardened beneath my nightgown. I arched my back, to be closer to him, and in that instant there was a knock at the door, and Mother entered.

"Rise and s.h.i.+ne," she said, and I sat up, flushed, revealing Georgie as well, who had curled into a ball and was feigning sleep.

Mother paused at the foot of the bed, her eyes traveled over me, then Georgie, and I crossed my arms over my chest, though I knew she could see nothing.

"Feeling better, Thea?" Her face was calm and unreadable.

Georgie and I had slept in the same bed just last month. We had done nothing wrong.

"Yes, thank you. Ready for brunch."

"All right," she said. "Georgie, why don't you wake up and come downstairs with me? I think your mother wants you."

My mother had always been a bad liar. Her voice became thin, turned up at the ends of her words.

I sat in bed after they had gone, a little stunned.

"Morning, suns.h.i.+ne," Sam said, and I jumped. I had forgotten he was here. He lay on his pallet, his head propped up by his bent elbow.

"You're up?"

"Evidently." His voice was strange, and he would not meet my eyes, stared at some spot near the door. He had a perfect view of the bed. I wondered how long he'd been awake. The tone of his voice-sullen, brooding-made me feel as if I'd been caught a second time.

We ate brunch, and I watched, relieved, as Sam's sour mood lifted, as he and Georgie competed over who could eat the most crepes. "Sam," Aunt Carrie said, "it's time for you to grow."

Mother had cast her glance sideways at Aunt Carrie at that comment, but that had been the only note of tension I'd noticed. n.o.body had uttered the word Miami, for which I was grateful. It had been a place I only knew about, because of our orange groves there, but never visited; now it was where Uncle George had been imprudent.

Father made me take a sip of his champagne to settle my stomach. I waved good-bye to Georgie from the back window of the car, stopping only when Sam tugged at my sleeve, pulling me down next to him. I sat down willingly. I felt guilty, though I didn't know why; like I had done something wrong, though I couldn't have said what.

- The day after Thanksgiving, Mother and Idella disappeared into the bas.e.m.e.nt and emerged with our Christmas decorations: gla.s.s ornaments so fragile we weren't allowed to touch them; four hand-carved wooden reindeer purchased from a catalogue; a long, slender Santa whittled from a single piece of wood. A silver nativity set pa.s.sed down for generations through my father's family, Spanish names engraved on the underside of each figurine: Jose, Maria, Jesus.

The next week, as we sat in the sunroom with Father for our lessons, we heard thumping and pounding as my mother and Idella put everything in its proper position.

"Do you think they need help?" Sam asked, his finger planted somewhere on his book so he would not lose his place.

Father ignored him, and I kept reading: we were in the middle of mythology, which I loved. So expansive and lovely, those G.o.ds and their heavens. We were supposed to keep quiet while we read. Father was strict about this rule, at least as strict as he ever was.

I raised my eyes and met Sam's gaze; he watched me impa.s.sively. I lowered my eyes and returned to the tale of Narcissus.

I wore an old dress of Mother's, a cotton s.h.i.+ft with a square neckline. The dress hung on my frame. I was of average height for a girl my age, but almost too thin. Because I only rarely saw other girls my own age, only had Mother to truly compare myself to, I didn't realize that girls were not immediately women once they reached a certain age, that there was an awkward dividing period. I was too comfortable in my own skin, perhaps. I wore Mother's old casual dresses because they made me feel more adult.