“Hey there.”
Dan is standing in the doorway of Hurrah’s stall, a dark outline with light spilling in around him.
“Hi,” I say miserably. I’m crouching down against the back wall.
“Your mother’s been looking for you,” he says.
I sniff twice, and then run a finger along the lower lashes of each eye.
Dan watches me for a moment. Then he comes in and crouches against the opposite wall. We fall silent.
“I’ve been trying to reach you,” I say after nearly a minute has passed.
“I’ve been busy,” he says.
He’s too polite to say any more than that, and I’m too exhausted to push it.
“I called the police,” I say, twisting my hands.
“You did? And?”
“Same story they gave me before. Which is to imply that even though they didn’t charge me I’m obviously a criminal and don’t deserve to know anything.”
He stares at me, eyes unreadable, and then drops his head. He seems to be studying the floor between his feet.
“I called them too,” he says finally.
“And what did they tell you?”
“They said that normally they auction off confiscated property at the end of the year, but that these were special circumstances.”
“Special how?”
“Well, for one thing, he’s livestock. And for another, McCullough’s in New Mexico, so that’s where the trial will be. They might have to take Hurrah back there.”
I stare at the dark grainy planks that run vertically behind him. My eyes feel like sandpaper. I blink, trying to clear them.
“It sounds like they told you a lot more than they told me,” I say.
“Well, I didn’t find out much that was useful either,” he says. “But I did ask them to call me if anything changed.”
I examine my ringless hands. I’m out of things to say.
Dan looks at his watch, and then back at me. “It’s almost time to go,” he says gently. “Are you ready?”
I nod wordlessly. He gets up and approaches me with both hands extended. I take them, breathe deeply, and let him pull me to my feet.
I brush the dust from my new black dress, and head for the house.
So this is what it all comes down to, is it? A box, poised above an open grave?
I haven’t been to a funeral in my entire life. I’m an anomaly, I know. I foolishly expected the coffin to be lowered into the grave by pallbearers. I expected stony-faced men, three on each side, slowly letting out strap until the coffin finally reached the bottom.
Instead, my father’s coffin rests on two blue straps, held snug by a rectangular device that squats around the open grave like a scaffold.
It’s hard to believe that he’s in there. Harder still to believe that what made him Pappa, the essence of him, is gone. Is it, really? Does it just dissolve, like a wisp of smoke? If so, how long does it take? Or is it still there, in and around his body? Is he aware of what’s going on, terrified at being shut in the darkness? Shouldn’t we let him out?
The priest is singing, a low, beautiful incantation: “In paradisum deducant te Angeli; in tuo adventu suscipiant te Martyres…”
I am flanked by Mutti and Eva. Dan stands grimly on the other side. There are probably three dozen other people here, which is considerably less than at the funeral mass.
I was surprised at the turnout. Mutti and Pappa were never particularly sociable—they never had dinner parties, they didn’t belong to clubs, and the only family either of them has are distant cousins in Austria, but the congregation came out in full force.
“…Dominus Deus Israel: quia visitavit et fecit redemptionem plebis suae. Et erexit cornu salutis nobis, in domo David pueri sui. Sicut locutus est…”
Oh God. It’s going down now. My father is actually disappearing into the earth. I catch my breath, unsure whether I’m going to be able to keep myself from crying out, Stop! Stop! You’re making a terrible mistake! Instead, I hold the air inside my lungs and concentrate on staying absolutely still.
The coffin continues on its way, silently, smoothly, until its burnished lid disappears from sight.
He’s gone. Just like that.
I am unable to fathom this. How can someone just be gone? You know—in theory, anyway—that life is an arc. That you start out as a child, and rise until you are at your peak, and then slowly taper off again until you die. But I can’t seem to apply this to Pappa.
I’ve seen the silvery pictures of his childhood, the fat baby with the huge smile tearing across the lawn in a cloth diaper and white baby shoes. I’ve seen the newspaper clippings and photographs from his heyday as a jockey. I remember him as a father: stern, silent, impossible to please. How instead of praise, he’d give me a single kiss on the forehead if I managed to do something right. I remember him knocking on my door before dawn, clapping his hands and shouting that it was time to get started. In the middle of the day I had a three-hour break to do schoolwork with my tutor, but other than that I was on horseback all day long. I rode until I could barely walk back to the house, one horse after another. I was miserable, I was lonely. I felt like I was living under an enormous black cloud that shut out the sun.
Until Harry. Harry changed everything. For the first time, I was passionate about what I was doing. The problem was in getting me off the horse, not on. But by then Pappa was no longer around to terrorize me. By then, he’d sent me off to train with Marjory.
I feel ashamed now at how happy I was that my parents sent me away. Marjory worked me hard, hard, hard, but she also heaped praise on me. I wanted to please her. I adored her. I felt like a released convict. My life at Marjory’s was nothing but blue skies, rolling horizons, and one enormous striped horse. Are other kids as desperate to get away from home? Probably not, but damn it, he was really hard on me. And that’s what baffles me the most as I stand here by his grave: how did Pappa the Drill Sergeant turn into the older Pappa, the man who defended me against Mutti? The man who defended Eva against me when I found her tattoo?
I stare at the gaping earth.
“…misericordiam cum patribus nostris: et memorari testamenti sui sancti,” says the priest. He looks around solemnly, and then switches to English. “I am the resurrection and the life: he that believed, in Me, although he be dead, shall live: and every one that liveth and believeth in Me shall not die forever.”
God, I hope so. I don’t believe it, but I hope so. Maybe that thought in itself dooms me to eternal death. I can’t help it, though. I don’t think I have it in me to believe.
We’re supposed to recite the Lord’s Prayer now. Silently, but we’re supposed to think it in unison. I begin, falteringly, and then find I can’t continue.
Possessed by I don’t know what, I reach out and take Mutti’s hand. As my hand crosses the space between us, I bite my lip, afraid that she’ll brush my hand away. But when she feels me groping, she grasps my hand like a leg-hold trap. Her cold bony fingers close so tightly around mine that her rings cut my flesh. I hold my breath and close my eyes.
When I open them again, the priest is leaning over and taking a handful of dirt. He swings his fist forward in an elegant arc, releasing a few grains of earth into the open grave. The sound of it hitting the top of the coffin is almost more than I can bear.
“Memento homo quia pulvus es et in pulverem reverteris,” he says, moving his hand back and forth two more times.
I close my eyes again, feeling unsteady. Although the world stops spinning, I’m still nauseous, afraid I might faint. I’ve done it before. I know how it feels. If I did faint, would I fall into the grave? How would they get me out?
Mutti tightens her grip on my fingers, and the pain makes me wince. With anybody else, I’d just shift my hand, silently suggesting a new configuration. But with Mutti, I’m afraid she’ll let go.
Maybe if I focus on the pain, it will help me stay conscious. I’m still pondering this when I feel Eva’s warm hand slip into mine on the other side. I gasp, and suddenly hope that the service isn’t over.
The mood at the reception is not nearly as mournful as I expected. It’s not exactly jovial, but you hear the occasional laugh, muted out of respect. I suppose it’s a stepping stone, a midpoint to help you ease away from the grief of the funeral.
The house is full of people. They stand or sit in groups of three or four, holding drinks and small plates of food. The food appeared with the guests. I don’t know what it is about death that makes people cook, but casseroles and cakes and spinach dips in hollowed-out granary loaves started coming into the house, and now every surface in the kitchen is full.
Other than Mutti and Eva, the only people I know are Dan, Jean-Claude, and the stable hands.
I hold a drink and a plate, although I am neither eating nor drinking. I clutch them as protection, after having my hand grasped by strangers more times than I can stand. If I hear one more person say “I’m sorry,” I might have to scream and throw my plate out a window.
I wander down the hall to the living room and stop in the doorway. Eva is sitting on the couch. Luis is beside her, holding her hand.
“Annemarie.”
A woman I’ve never met appears in front of me. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” she says, reaching out and giving my arm an encouraging squeeze.
“Thank you,” I say, looking past her, or rather over the top of her head. Dan is kneeling in front of Eva, is talking earnestly. She nods, and looks up at him.
“It was a lovely service. I’m sure he would have appreciated it,” says the tiny woman in front of me. “And Ursula is holding up so well, poor thing. Such a sad business.”
I look down at her. She’s older, her hair dyed into a stiff blonde mass. Her face is an unnatural pinky-rose color, somehow spongy and powdery at the same time. There are deep vertical lines running from her upper lip to the bottom of her nose. Her lipstick has bled into them.
I turn my head. From where I’m standing, I can see straight through the hallway to the kitchen.
“My husband has been dying to meet you,” the woman continues. “Oh, I’m so sorry—” she says, clapping a jeweled hand over her mouth. “I didn’t mean that. But Anton spoke of you so often. He was so proud of you. Ernie and I remember when you used to compete, and that was before we even knew your parents. We used to see pictures of you in Sport Horse Illustrated, on that spectacular Hanoverian. So you see, we’ve known of you for a long time.” She takes my elbow, tugging it gently. “Come meet him. He’s right over—”
I start to walk. All I can think of is getting away from this woman and her husband Ernie, of making it to the back door before I blow up. A few feet into the hallway, I ditch the plate on the telephone table. As I pass the staircase, I reach through the railing and set my drink on a stair.
My need to get out is overwhelming, all-encompassing. I have the sense that I’m walking through a tunnel, and the sides are closing in on me. People’s faces keep popping in front of me, distorted, as though I’m viewing them through a fisheye lens. I don’t stop, so they all disappear, and I’m glad, because if they didn’t, I think I’d just stretch my arms out and shove them aside.
As soon as I’m outside, I can breathe again, although I don’t dare stop. I’m afraid someone will take that as an invitation to follow me.
Halfway to the stable, I reach down and take off my shoes. My sheer nylons are no protection from the gravel, so I move over to the grass, watching carefully for thistles.
I have to cross a bit of crushed stone and I tiptoe gingerly, as though walking on lava. When I finally reach the stable, the cement floor feels cold and smooth.
These stockings cost a fortune—they’re a shimmery black that I bought because the sample puff on the rack felt like water in my fingers. I splurged for two pairs, convinced I would put a run in the first pair just getting them on. I should remove them before they’re ruined, but I don’t have much use for black stockings. My colors are blues: periwinkle and indigo, robin’s egg and cobalt. I’ve only had one other black outfit in my entire life.
I had just started at InteroFlo. I was going to my first departmental meeting, and wanted to come across as serious, no-nonsense, the consummate professional. I wore a fitted skirt and soft ribbed turtleneck, both black as night. I felt sleek and streamlined, like a cat burglar, or an artist in a loft. Later on, I went to the washroom and found a green lollipop stuck to my shoulder, planted there by Eva as she clung desperately to me in the morning. And why was Eva sucking a lollipop at eight in the morning? Because she wanted to wear her winter boots in July, and I needed to get to work. Besides, she’d had a healthy breakfast.
I stop at Hurrah’s stall, and then walk past. I also stop at Harry’s stall, which hardly even feels like Harry’s stall anymore. It feels like Bergeron’s, although soon he will be leaving, too. If Hurrah were here, I’d move him into it the second it was empty. It’s the prime stall, the best real estate in the place.
I’m sitting in the lounge when Dan appears in the doorway.
“Hey,” he says. “You okay?”
“I don’t know,” I say. I’m slouched on the faded green couch, staring blankly through the window. My bare feet are on the table in front of me, crossed at the ankles. My Italian leather shoes sit in a heap in the corner, on top of my crumpled stockings.
Dan steps forward, surveying all.
“Do me a favor, will you?” I say quickly. “Lock the door.”
He stops. “Do you mean with me in or out?”
“In,” I say.
He looks relieved. He shuts the door and depresses the button in the middle of the knob with a click. Then he joins me on the couch, sitting so close our hips are touching. A moment later, he reaches over and takes my hand, pulling it into his lap.
He doesn’t say a word. He just sits holding my hand, and I am grateful for the silence. After a few minutes, I drop my head onto his shoulder.
“I saw you talking to Eva,” I say.
“Yes, and I think you’ll find what she had to say very interesting.”
“What’s that?” I straighten up and turn to face him.
“She asked me what courses she would need to take to get into vet school. She also asked me if she could continue helping out at the center over the winter.”
I stare at him, letting this sink in.
“Oh Dan…” I say, suddenly overcome. My eyes grow moist. “Oh Dan,” I say again before dissolving into tears.
He pulls me forward, holds me tight. I want to melt into him, and stay like this forever. I can feel strength flowing from his body to mine.
It’s not long before I find myself running a hand tentatively along his arm and shoulder—gingerly, in an exploratory fashion. After a moment, I look up at him. His blue eyes are so intense it takes my breath away.
I kiss him, and he responds instantly. His lips are warm and full, his face smooth. He puts his hands on either side of my face, kissing me so tenderly I’m afraid I might melt.
I lean back and unzip my dress. He stares at me.
“Annemarie,” he says.
“Shh,” I say, wiggling out of the top half of my dress.
He glances down at my breasts, pale mounds in a black lace bra, and then back at my face. He looks quickly at the window. “Can anyone see in?”
“Not unless they’re on a horse,” I say.
There’s probably a tenth circle of hell reserved for people like me, people who make love just hours after burying their father. But nothing has ever felt so right—his naked body stretched out along mine feels like a homecoming, a final piece in the puzzle.
Afterward, we lie in a lazy tangle of limbs on the couch. He is stretched against the back of it, and I am stretched against him, my leg thrown wantonly over his. He strokes my skin with the very ends of his fingers, from shoulder to hip and then back again. He traces the scar on my abdomen, the outline of my breast, my raised nipple. Then he leans forward and plants a breathy kiss in my ear.
“You’re incredibly—”
There’s a noise. We both freeze, and then scramble onto our elbows, trying to see out the window.
Eva has led Bergeron into the arena and is preparing to mount. She has one foot in the stirrup, and is gathering the reins in her left hand. Then she grabs the pommel, and next thing I know, she’s sitting in the saddle.
Dan wraps his arms around me and rolls us onto the floor. I land on top of him. My heart pounds wildly.
“Oh my God,” I say, clapping a hand to my mouth. My fingers are trembling wildly.
“Shh,” whispers Dan. His mouth is right by my ear.
I look over at our clothes. It’s hopeless. There’s no way to get to them.
“Jesus Christ, Dan—what are we going to do?”
Dan continues to hold me. Then he lifts his hips and scootches both of us over until we’re against the wall, directly under the window.
“We can’t do anything,” he says, once we’re there.
“Can she see us? What if—”
Dan rolls me over so that I’m wedged between him and the wall. Then he lays a finger on my lips. “She can’t see us. But we’re stuck here until she leaves.”
I glance up at the window, still desperate.
“Don’t worry. She can’t see us. I promise you. It’s impossible.” He leans up against me, pressing me against the wall. His breath is moist and warm. “Look on the bright side,” he says. “There are worse places to be trapped.”
His body feels so good against mine, so warm and solid, that despite the peculiar circumstances I relax into him. Incredibly, I feel a stirring against my naked hip.
“Dan!” I say, shocked.
He moves my hair aside with his fingertips and touches his tongue to my ear.
“Mmmm,” I say, shivering.
“I love you, Annemarie Zimmer.”
“Oh Dan,” I say.
“You don’t have to say anything back,” he says, still whispering. “I just wanted to tell you that.”
I am choked with emotion, my eyes full of tears.
“Oh Dan,” I say as he rearranges me into a position more receptive of his intentions. “I love you too. Oh, I do, I do, I do.”
Later that night, Mutti and I sit facing each other in the winged armchairs. She kneels down to light the gas fire, despite the fact that it’s August, and then turns out all the lights.
The guests have long since gone—even those who stayed behind to help clean up and pack the food. Eva has gone to bed, pleading exhaustion. Before she did, she stood on tiptoe and kissed me on the cheek.
Mutti and I sip Jägermeister from cut-lead crystal, neither of us speaking. After today’s events, we are grateful for the silence.
I’m sitting sideways in my chair, with a leg thrown over the arm. I’m playing with my glass, holding it in front of me and trying to catch the flames in its facets.
Mutti tips hers upside down, draining the last drops into her mouth.
“Do you want another?” she says, rising.
“No thanks, Mutti,” I say, continuing to rotate my glass in front of me. “You go ahead, though.”
She walks over to the collection of crystal decanters that she set out for the reception and pours herself a tiny second. Then she returns to her seat.
“Mutti?”
“Yes?”
“I was serious about using the house money to bail out the farm.”
“You don’t need to do that.”
“Well, yes, I do, actually.”
Mutti stares at me for a very long time. “It’s because you are feeling guilty.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Yes it is. You don’t owe him this. He loved you, and he knew that you loved him. That is all.”
“He did?” I ask. Tears fill my eyes, spilling over before I have a chance to check them.
“Of course, Liebchen.”
“Did he ever forgive me?”
“For what?” she says. “What nonsense is this?”
“For never riding again?”
Mutti stares at me in horror.
“No, I’m serious. I know I broke his heart. I know—”
Mutti shakes her head and lifts a hand, signaling me to stop. “Pappa loved you. He was disappointed, yes, but he never blamed you.”
“But all those years we barely spoke…”
“You could not bear to be with us.”
“That’s because I was ashamed of what I’d become.”
Mutti is silent for a moment, weighing this. “We were hard on you. Harder than we should have been, I think. It was because you had such opportunities…” She shakes her head. “We thought that if we encouraged you, then you would find another horse. That you could still make it. I don’t know. Perhaps we were wrong.”
I can’t believe I’m hearing this, am afraid to speak in case I break the spell.
“Your father,” she continues. “He wanted so much for you to have a career in riding. I know he pushed, but it seemed for the best. After all, you advanced so quickly…” Mutti pauses, tapping a finger repeatedly on her lips. “If we were wrong, then may God forgive us, but we thought we were doing the right thing. You were so good. It seemed a waste of God-given talent. And we thought you would be happy.”
“I could have been, I think.”
“You found your own way in the end,” she says.
“No, I never did. I mean, I’ve done things, one after another, my whole life. But I’ve never exactly found my way. I’ve never found anything that made me feel the way I did when I was riding Harry. That’s why I think I went a little bit nuts when Hurrah turned up. It seemed like a second chance. I don’t know. It does sound crazy, doesn’t it?”
I stop for a moment, afraid that if I don’t, I’ll cry. Mutti sips her drink and waits.
“I still want to use the money for the farm.” Another pause, as I grope for words. I’m not sure how to make her understand. “It’s not because of Pappa. It’s because of us. All of us. You, me, and Eva. Listen,” I shift to the edge of my seat, gathering steam. “I don’t want to leave here. What am I supposed to do? Go back to Minneapolis? I’d rather move to Iqualuit. And anyway, there’s a horse I want to get for Eva. She’s talking about going back to school and working at the center. The last thing she needs is more upheaval. Me either. Or you. No, the only sensible thing is to stay here. You can manage the stable, I’ll teach.”
“You can’t teach,” she says dismissively.
“Why not?” I can’t keep the hurt out of my voice. “I was riding at the FEI four-star level at—”
“I know all that,” says Mutti, cutting me off with an irritated wave. “I was there, remember? But how can you teach if you don’t ride?”
“So I’ll ride.”
She turns quickly, staring at me as though I’ve completely lost my mind.
“What? What are you looking at me like that for?”
Mutti’s forehead twitches, but she doesn’t say a thing.
“What’s so crazy about that? I’m not offering to compete again.”
“All these years, you’ve gotten angry at the mere suggestion—”
“Yeah, but it’s different now. Things are different.” I pause, wondering how to explain to her that my entire world has shifted, that staying here now means everything to me. That I see my future here, and Eva’s, and I’m willing to fight for it. That I can’t stand the thought of losing Dan. That I really do want to start riding again, have been itching for it, dreaming about it at night.
In the end, I decide I can’t explain it. The only thing I can do is show her.