(10)Thanksgiving

Sarah lay on her bed, listening to the sounds from downstairs—clinks and clatters as Dad and Gramp did the Thanksgiving dishes, their voices, music on the stereo. She should be down there being sociable, but it was impossible. Gramp kept saying she should stop moping, look alive, take an interest in something, and Gram was always asking questions about “her” horse. Barney was the last thing she wanted to talk about right now.

She rolled over, staring at the row of books along the opposite wall. She knew exactly which pleasures each held, and none was quite what she wanted. Restlessly, her gaze wandered around the room, lighting finally on the one picture she had of Barney. Mom had taken it as they came into the yard after that horrible morning at Albert’s. Her tears had dried, and Barney looked pretty, cheerful, and virtuous. It reminded her of the pictures at Missy’s house. From that, she looked to her old riding school ribbons, hung above her bureau. They conjured up a picture of long-faced, docile horses endlessly circling a ring.

All her old pride of accomplishment was gone. After all, what was so great about being able to sit in perfect form, with light hands, on smooth-gaited, mild-mannered Thistledown? If he’d ever had an independent thought in his life, it must have been back before he was weaned. He was lovely, amiable, tractable, and competent—but he never did anything.

If I could learn to ride Barney, it’d really mean something, she thought. If he ever responded the way Thistledown had, it would mean that she’d gained his love, that he was really her horse … but how could that ever happen? Even if Missy did bring him back.…

There was a knock, and Mom looked around the door. “Sarah?”

“Yes. What, Mom?”

“Just seeing what you’re up to.” She crossed over to the bed and sank down, sighing. “Oh, I’m getting old. Thanksgiving preparations tire me more than an all-day ride used to.” She leaned back, eyes closed. After a few minutes, when neither of them had spoken, she said quietly, “Something more is bothering you than just losing Barney for a week, isn’t it?”

Sarah didn’t answer for a while. Somehow it seemed hard to lead directly into the subject. Finally, she asked, “Was your Mary hard to handle?”

“She was an old darling,” said Mom. “She just knew how to get her own way. At first she only did what she wanted, and when I scolded, she’d give me this big-eyed, hurt look as if to say, ‘But I didn’t understand!’ And she had countless tricks—shying, pretending to stare at something faraway, acting lame or sick or sad or bored—she was a wise old mare. I ended up being able to outfox her most of the time, but we were never completely sure which one of us ran the show.” Sarah could look up now. Mom’s eyes were faraway, resting affectionately on an old white mare.

“Do you miss her?”

“No, dear,” said Mom slowly. “It’s been many years now, and I’ve gotten used to living without her. But I loved her very much. She was a good friend.”

“A friend, when she did all that?” Sarah was thinking of Barney’s tricks and stubbornness that made her despair of ever establishing the proper horse-rider relationship.

“Oh sure, hon. It’s just the way they are. They’re not puppets, they have minds and wills of their own, and they don’t like being bossed anymore than you do. At least, that’s the way it is with family horses, ones you’ve grown up with.”

“Yeah, but … but Barney never obeys unless he feels like it! Missy wrote to be careful of his mouth, but he won’t do anything unless I pull, and she came and saw me hauling on his mouth, and I know she won’t bring him back.”

Mom, thank heaven, took it all seriously. She spent a moment forming her answer. “I’m sure Missy was angry, and you can’t blame her, of course. But maybe she’ll understand, when she has time to think about it. She’s had him long enough to realize how difficult he can be.”

“He’s probably not like that with her.”

“Oh, I bet he is, or would be if she didn’t know how to get around him.”

“Really?”

“Love, there may be perfectly mannered horses that anticipate your every command and whose only desire is to please you, but I’ve never met one. And frankly, I don’t think I’d want to.”

“What d’you mean?”

“If your horse did everything you wanted, all the time, it might as well be in a book, or in your head. The resistance is part of its being real, if you see what I mean.” Like the difference between games with toys and games with people, Sarah thought. Unpredictability was part of their being alive. But realizing that didn’t help her much now.

“Do you think she’ll send him back?”

Mom frowned. “Probably. I understand how she feels, of course, but she does need a place for him, and that gives you another chance.” She stood up. “I’m going downstairs now—come on whenever you’re ready.”

Slightly comforted, more by being talked to realistically than from any new hope, Sarah lay back listening to Mom’s retreating steps. Just before she reached the bottom of the stairs, the phone rang. “For you, Sarah. It’s Albert.”

Albert’s voice sounded childish over the phone. “Hi, Sarah. Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Same to you. Did you eat a lot?”

Albert groaned. “I could hardly walk away from the table. Hey, you want to go for a ride and work some of it off?”

Regret and worry made Sarah’s voice sharp. “I can’t. I don’t have a horse.”

A pause. “Oh, I forgot. Well, there wouldn’t be time to go far anyway. When do you get him back?”

“I don’t know.”

“Hey, Sarah, are you all right? You sound really strange.”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Um … I’ll come up sometime this weekend, OK?”

“OK, be seeing you then. Bye.”

“Bye.”

Now she didn’t feel like going back upstairs. In the living room, Dad and Gramp were playing chess, and Mom and Gram were talking, mostly about old friends in Boston. That wasn’t too interesting, but they were bound to branch off soon. Sarah sat on the hearth to listen.

Gramp looked over at her, grinning. “So, getting calls from the boys already, are you? Starting early?”

“No.” Sarah felt herself blushing. Idiot! Gramp always asked her about the boys; it didn’t mean anything. But now, of course, he had a specific boy to ask about.

“Who is this Albert? What’s he like?”

That was always a difficult question, even if you’d been friends with someone since second grade, and she really didn’t know Albert that well. “Oh, he’s very nice,” she managed.

“Seems like a good kid,” said Dad. “He could stand to lose a few pounds, but he’s polite and intelligent, and he shares her mania for horses. Nice boy.…”

“Which reminds me,” Mom interrupted skillfully, “do you know if Pete and Elaine know where we are?” Sarah shot her a grateful look. Ridiculous to talk about Albert as if he were her boyfriend—and even more ridiculous for her to be embarrassed by it!

The phone rang again. “Will you answer that, Sarah?” Mom asked, from the depths of her chair. Sarah went to the phone. “Hello.”

“Hello, Sarah? This is Missy O’Brien.”

Sarah’s heart leaped wildly. She couldn’t get a word out, even if she had been able to think of something to say.

“I noticed yesterday you seemed to be having some trouble with the Bear, and I thought maybe if you could come over sometime, I’d give you a few pointers. Would you like to?”

Sarah’s voice exploded with relief. “Yes! Yes, I’d love to!”

Missy laughed. “Tomorrow afternoon OK? Good, I’ll see you then. Happy Thanksgiving!”