Riding Lessons Read online

  Most of the stalls are empty, although I pass a few whose occupants don't get turned out at all. They are the show horses, the boarders whose owners have visions of making it in breed shows, and the perfection of their coats is evidence of their isolation. Even the possibility of a bite or a kick or a good roll in the mud has been removed.

  I pass by Harry's old stall, or rather, reach it and find myself unable to continue. I haven't turned my head yet, am still facing the aisle that leads to the arena, but I can tell that Harry is there. His presence is large and voluminous, an electrical cloud that swirls and draws me toward it like a vortex.

  When I finally turn my head, I find the stall occupied by a white Andalusian. CAUTION! says a sign tacked to his stall door. STALLION! DO NOT TURN OUT!

  He looks at me curiously with glossy black eyes, and sticks his black-skinned nose out through the space above his feed bucket. His forelock is wavy and impressively long.

  I bring my hand up as though to cup his chin, but drop it again before making contact. He waits for a moment to see if I'll change my mind, and then grows bored. He snorts and swings his head around to his hay net. I walk on.

  As I get closer to the arena, I hear a voice coming through the sound system.

  "Look, you have to find a way of making him canter without staring him down...He knows how to do it--now, make him give it to you...Come on, he's lazy, that is all..."

  I detect a French accent, and am perplexed. My father would never hire a French instructor. My father believes in German dressage almost to the point of religion; precision in all things, regimented training, repetition until perfection. Six strides in each quarter of the twenty-meter circle, eight strides in a full canter pirouette; no more, no less.

  But it is a French accent, and more to the point, it's French classical dressage that's being taught out there. I slide through the door into the lounge and take a seat facing the window that looks into the arena.

  There are a number of parents watching the lesson, waiting for it to end. They turn as one to look at me, but no one offers a greeting, for which I am grateful. I glance quickly at the walls, which are lined with framed pictures of me, and then get up again. I move behind the couch, trying to be invisible.

  Six horses are lined up against the far side of the arena with their riders standing by their heads. There is another horse in the center, being lunged by a student while the instructor watches.

  The horse is a dark bay, a tall gelding that looks like a thoroughbred, although he may have something heavier in him as well. He wears a double bridle, with the reins twisted and then wrapped around his neck, secured by the throat latch. A lunge line runs through the ring of the snaffle to the far buckle on the girth, and he canters in an easy circle around the student, who holds the lunge line in one hand and a long whip in the other.

  "Okay, now put your side rein on," says the instructor. He stands with his back to the window, facing the student and her horse. His hair is light brown, long and thick, and pulled into a ponytail at the back. He is clearly not tall, but like my father, makes up for it with a strong athletic build. He takes three long steps backward, and then one sideways, but I still can't see his face.

  The student tugs the line three times gently, and the horse slows to a trot. She draws the horse toward her, gathering the lunge line into loops, one after another, until finally the horse stops and turns to face her. His head is raised, and his nostrils flared. The student says something to the instructor, but I can't hear her. Only he has a microphone.

  "There are no stupid questions," he says. "Stupid answers, perhaps." I'm starting to like this guy.

  The student fiddles with the side rein, unhooking it from the saddle and attaching it to the snaffle. The horse immediately arches his neck.

  "Now see?" says the instructor, stepping backward so the student can begin lunging again. "He knew what to do all along. He knows where to put his head. You've got to make him do that when you're on top, to remind him of where his head is supposed to be. Now the trot, when you're ready. Trot, please."

  The horse begins to trot in a widening circle around the girl, who releases loops of line to accommodate the increasing distance.

  "That's good," the instructor says. "Good. Allow the horse to enjoy what he's doing and give it to you. And the canter when you want. Smaller circle, smaller circle. Keep a canter, canter, canter...Good. Now, larger circle, trot. Okay, now, did you see that? The side rein is a little long. You can see in the transition that the horse pulls his nose up."

  The girl stops the horse again to adjust the side rein, and the instructor comes and takes over, gesturing her aside. I can see his face now, first in profile, and then from the front, as he comes around to the other side to remove the side rein. He has strong, regular features and a long moustache, a detail I wasn't expecting.

  He unhooks the lunge line and asks the student to hand him a dressage whip. She retrieves one from against the rail, and then waits while he arranges the horse's reins. When he takes the whip, she steps aside.

  He stands just in front of the horse's left shoulder, holding the inside rein near the bit, and the outside rein, which crosses the tall gelding's withers, in the same hand as the whip. He stares at a point somewhere on the horse's rib cage, and clicks his tongue. The horse swishes his tail and throws his head. The man clicks again, and touches the end of the whip to the horse's flank. In a flash, the horse kicks a leg out sideways.

  I catch my breath. My father would never tolerate such a thing, but this man seems unperturbed. He has no reaction at all. He just continues to stare at the same point on the horse's body, and clicks his tongue softly. The horse kicks out again.

  This time, the man stops and approaches the animal's head. He stands motionless beside him for a moment, and then lays a hand on his forehead. The gelding pushes against it, raising his muzzle into the air--one, two, three times--and then slowly drops his head.

  Now when the man stands at his shoulder, the horse begins to dance, moving sideways around the man as though he were a pillar. The horse's motion is liquid and collected, his front and back legs crossing with every stride.

  Jesus. I don't even want to blink--I'm afraid I'll miss something.

  "You've got to do a lot of work-in-hand with this boy," says the instructor, looking back at the student. "The boy doesn't like it, says 'Do I have to?' And the answer is yes, but not until he wants to. To make him want to, that's your job."

  It sounds like he's getting ready to hand the horse back to the student. I head for the door, but when I reach it, I look back one last time.

  The instructor has mounted the horse, and the animal has taken shape beneath him. His back is raised, his haunches forward, his neck arched--he's perfectly balanced and on the bit, although the reins coming from the double bridle are so light as to be nearly slack. I watch, rapt, as he takes the horse through a piaffe--a perfectly cadenced trot on the spot--and then moves forward into an elevated, prolonged passage, all without any perceptible motion in his hands or legs. Descente de main, et descente de jambe. He's showing off, yes, but why not?

  The man and horse are moving in sybaritic union now, floating effortlessly through one maneuver after another: a full canter pirouette followed by a canter half pass with lead change, and then impossibly--brilliantly--a capriole. The horse leaps into the air and hangs there, seemingly suspended. At the apex of his flight, his hind legs shoot out behind him.

  I am rooted to the spot. The student is staring as though she's seen God.

  "You have to put him on a shoulder in, shoulder in, and again, shoulder in," the instructor says as though nothing unusual has just happened.

  "See? He's a faker," he continues, demonstrating perfectly. "He says, 'I can't do it, I can't do it,' but he can. He just doesn't like it."

  He stops the gelding, and smiles beatifically down at the student. Then he swings his right leg elegantly over the saddle and disappears from view.

  I look at the clock.
It's five minutes to the hour, which means the lesson is finishing. And because I'm feeling suddenly shy, I slip out to bring in the horses.

  "Ah, there you are," says Mutti as I come in the back door. She's bustling around the kitchen, gathering cutlery and napkins. "We're almost ready for dinner. Can you call Eva?"

  I do, and she appears, silent and brooding. Together we enter the study, which now holds the dining-room set. Even with all its customary furniture removed, it's a tight squeeze.

  Pappa is at the head of the table, and at the sight of him, I catch my breath. He has never been a large man--he started his career as a jockey--but his shoulders are broad and he's always been muscular enough to have a commanding physical presence despite his height. Now his limbs are wasted and slack, or at least his arms are--I can't see his legs, because they're hidden beneath the table. There's a strap around his chest that keeps him upright against the back of the wheelchair, and his skin is sallow, his skull clearly visible beneath his face. He looks tiny, birdlike.

  "Pappa," I say. Despite my best efforts, my voice cracks. I force myself to walk to him, hoping that what I'm feeling doesn't show on my face. I lean over to hug him, hesitating for just a moment while I figure out how. In the end, I drape my arms around his angular shoulders and press my face to his. His skin is cool and loose, his collarbone prominent.

  "It's good to see you, Annemarie," says Pappa. His voice is slower and raspier than it used to be. I can hear the effort involved, both for breathing and articulating. The sound of it causes the muscles in my own throat to constrict.

  When I straighten up, little stars explode in my peripheral vision. I close my eyes, waiting for the blood to return.

  "Eva, come say hello to your Opa," I say.

  She remains frozen, eyes huge, lip twitching. Suddenly I wish we were alone in the room so that we could both express the horror and sadness that we are trying so hard to contain, so that we could mourn the death of this man who is still living without making him miserable with the knowledge of it. But it's stupid to think that he doesn't know what's going on. Pappa always knows what's going on.

  "It's okay, Annemarie," says Pappa. "Leave the girl alone."

  Mutti enters the room carrying a plate in one hand and a bowl in the other. I spring into action, grabbing them from her hands.

  "Here, let me," I say, setting the dishes on the table. "Is this it?"

  "No," she says. "There's still the salad, the bread, and the wine."

  "Eva, will you help me?" Before I even finish the sentence, Eva is following me from the room.

  When we get to the kitchen, I take her in my arms. She wraps her arms around my back and leans into me, whimpering. It's an animal sound that rises from deep within her throat. I'm shocked, almost stricken, by the contact, because I can't remember the last time she tolerated an embrace.

  "Oh, Honey," I say, stroking the back of her head. "Oh, Honey. Shh, be quiet now, or he'll hear you."

  We stand like this for several minutes. Eventually she pulls away, wiping her eyes. If mine are as red as hers, we don't have a hope of hiding what we've been doing out here. But they know, of course. They know.

  We gather the rest of the food in silence, and then return to the study.

  For the first time, I notice the extra place setting. "Are we expecting someone?" I ask.

  "Jean-Claude usually has supper with us, but he called a few minutes ago. He can't make it tonight."

  "Jean-Claude?"

  "The instructor."

  "He lives here?" I ask. I realize, too late, that there's affront in my voice.

  "He's staying in the apartment above the barn," says Pappa. "He had to move for the job, so it seemed logical to offer it."

  I look at him when he starts to speak, and then instinctively turn away. I feel terrible instantly, but I can't turn back to face him now. I couldn't make a worse hash of this if I tried.

  Mutti picks up a plate and holds it out toward Eva. Eva peers at it, leaving her hands in her lap.

  "I don't eat meat," she says.

  "Of course you do," says Mutti, continuing to poke the plate at her. "Here."

  "No, really. I'm a vegetarian."

  "What kind of nonsense is that," says Mutti. "A growing girl like you needs protein."

  "I get protein from other sources," says Eva. She is steadfast, remaining polite, but still refusing to touch the plate.

  "Nonsense," says Mutti. She stabs a veal cutlet with a fork and slaps it down on Eva's plate. Eva's face clouds.

  I step in. "Actually, we support Eva in her decision not to eat meat."

  "We?" says Mutti, staring at me with one eyebrow raised.

  "I support Eva," I say loudly. "And if she doesn't want to eat meat, she doesn't have to. Here, sweetheart. I'll trade you."

  I pass my plate to Eva, who then hands me hers, holding it by the very edge to indicate her disgust.

  "Crazy, the ideas these young people get," mutters my mother, as though to herself. "I suppose next thing you'll be telling me that we shouldn't wear leather, or that we should free all the lab rats. Perhaps we ought not to ride horses, either."

  "Of course I think vivisection is wrong," starts Eva, turning the color of beets. "It's monstrous. It's evil."

  "Vivi-what?" says Mutti.

  Dear God. The woman has no idea what she's getting into.

  "Eva has a right to her opinions, just as you have a right to yours," I say loudly.

  Mutti turns to me, and just as I feel the wrath of God about to descend, the phone rings. She stares at me for a moment longer, and then leaves the room.

  "Here, Eva," I say, handing her the bowl of potatoes.

  "Give her the salad too," says Pappa. "And the bread. Put some meat on her bones. Or bread, anyway," he says.

  I look over at him, and see that the edges of his mouth are pulled into a terrible grimace. He's trying to smile.

  "Thanks, Pappa," I say, hoping I won't burst into tears. I look into my lap, blinking furiously.

  "So what do you think of our new instructor?"

  I touch my fingers to the corners of my eyes--somehow it seems that if I staunch my tears with fingers instead of a napkin, it won't be so obvious that I'm crying.

  "Oh," I sniff. "I think he's very good. I watched him for a while this afternoon. He was riding one of the boarders."

  "He's French, you know."

  "Yes, Pappa. I noticed."

  "Your mother hired him."

  "Well, that would explain it," I say, trying to laugh. "How long has he been here?"

  "A couple of months," says Pappa. He reaches for his napkin with a drooping hand, and lifts it from the table with great effort. The movement seems to come from his shoulder, to involve his whole arm.

  "Do you like him?" I ask, watching the napkin's progress. I can't decide whether to help or pretend I haven't noticed. This new terrain is full of land mines.

  "He's not bad," says Pappa, finally dabbing the napkin to the corner of his mouth. "He coddles the horses, though. Into all that New Age stuff."

  "Then why did you hire him?"

  His shoulders buck. I wonder if he's in pain, and then realize he's trying to shrug. "Your mother liked him. And she's the one who's going to have to live with it."

  The wine isn't open yet, so I take the liberty. I am just sitting down again when Mutti returns.

  "Who was that?" asks Pappa.

  Mutti looks askance at the wineglasses, and then takes her seat beside Pappa. "Dan," she says.

  I look up quickly. She's staring straight at me, dripping with self-satisfaction.

  No. She couldn't have. "Not Dan Garibaldi," I protest, rising to the bait before I can stop myself.

  "Yes, Dan Garibaldi."

  "Why is he calling?"

  "Why shouldn't he? He's our vet."

  I frown. I had assumed Dan was calling because Mutti told him I was back, but to find out that he and my parents have a relationship completely outside of me--well, somehow I was
not prepared for this.

  "I didn't know that," I say, chastened.

  "No, how could you?"

  "Enough, Ursula," says Pappa.

  He waves a hand in irritation, but then instead of putting it back on his armrest, he reaches for his spoon. I hadn't noticed before, but it's the only implement beside his plate. He wraps his fingers around it, laboriously, and then pauses, gathering strength. Every one of the separate movements involved in getting a single bite of food to his mouth is a struggle. I cannot watch.

  When he is finished, Mutti lifts his wine to his mouth. He takes a sip, and she sets it back down again without spilling a drop. Throughout this, neither of them looks at the other or the glass, so synchronized are their movements.

  "So why was he calling?" Pappa says.

  "He got a horse at auction that he wants you to see. You, too, Annemarie."

  "So you did tell him I was here," I say.

  "Of course I did. You are here. Was it supposed to be a secret?"

  When I see the way her jaw is set, I regress at the speed of light. These tiny movements, these subtle shifts--a simple hardening of the lips, a nearly imperceptible jutting of the chin--and my maturity strips away like birch bark. I almost say something nasty, but then I see that Eva is watching me, waiting to see what I do. She's slouching again, poking limply at her salad, but beneath her feigned boredom I can see that she's very interested indeed.

  "No, of course not," I say. "I don't care who knows I'm here. Anyway, what auction?"

  "Dan runs a horse rescue center. They go to the feedlots each year and save as many foals as they can. Then they adopt them out."

  I should be impressed, but instead, I'm increasingly grumpy. It's as though Mutti is holding Dan up for inspection, has him grasped firmly between the thumb and forefinger of each hand like a paper cutout. Exhibit A: Dan, the veterinarian. Dan, the patron saint of horses. And what about you, Annemarie? Hmmmm? What have you got to say for yourself?