The backyard was the flattened acres of abandoned farms with a few clumps of trees left here and there. We built a fort in one of those tree stands, an oasis amid tall grasses and weeds. Whole days unwound there. We hung from homemade swings, chewed on monkey vines, told big stories about the land, saying that some child had died in the bottomless pond out back. We imagined quicksand in those places where no one but our bravest brother, Anthony, ever ventured.
Anthony stole rides on Mr. Stragg’s horses. Mr. Stragg owned the house and the land. He lived in a small ranch-style house built to the side of the clapboard giant in which we lived. His face was waxed and red—a glistening turnip—and when they came, his words were mangled and choked, as though sifted through a wad of burlap in his throat. A farmer paid by the government not to farm, Mr. Stragg was quietly kind, my mother told me years later, and left groceries on our steps when he knew we had nothing. But in Albion, all I knew was that Mr. Stragg was crotchety and preoccupied and not to be pestered.
His wife was sick, her body curled into a wiry gray ball. When things got quiet, she’d surprise everyone. She’d have a fit, unwind herself, claw the clothing from her body, then run wild and naked from her bed. She required constant care. To add to Mr. Stragg’s troubles, Anthony would not stay off the horses kept out back, horses that Mr. Stragg had clearly stated were not for riding.
Our mother begged Tony not to and punished him when he did, but the temptation to feel acres pounding underfoot, the soft power of the horse in his hands, the tall grass at his heels, the wind at his back—these things proved too much for Anthony, who hopped onto those horses’ backs whenever someone wasn’t looking.