but the image arrived of Elisha pitching a horseshoe. Before
Gilby could answer him, Roscoe moved Jazz Baby forward and, when he was in open pasture, rode him at a canter, then into a gallop, across the whole pasture to the woods, and then galloped back to
the stable and slid gracefully off the horse’s back, doubling over in pain.
“What happened?” Veronica said in panic, and she took Roscoe’s arm. “Are you hurt?”
“Just the usual bareback shock waves,” Roscoe said. “It happens to everybody.” He slowly straightened himself. “Ticky,” he said, sitting on the bale of hay,
“tell Gilby what your father told you about horses.”
“Oh, my father,” Ticky said. “Peoples used to say about my father, ‘Oh, he’s a good man with a horse,’ and I’d say, ‘Pa, what you doin’ with
that horse? Is that the way you do it?’ And he’d say, ‘Shut up, boy. You wanna learn, go out on your own,’ and he wouldn’t teach me. I worked for other horsemens and
they’d teach me. But I didn’t have no father about knowin’ horses.”
“Me either,” said Roscoe, who was trying to sit in a way that controlled his pain. “Now, you take my father. He created a big family and then he left us to live in a
hotel. When he lived home he never let me into his bedroom, and if he caught me there he’d lock me in the attic. So I’d stay in my room, reading atlases, memorizing poems and songs and
countries and cities, and my brain got so crowded there was no room for the baseball scores. But I liked it so much they took me to the doctor, who talked to me for a week and then said nothing was
wrong with my head and all I needed was to go up and see those ghosts again, the ones your father and I saw when we were kids up at Tristano—two old men who came out in the middle of the
night and sat by the fireplace in the Trophy House and drank brandy and talked and looked out at the moon until the sun came up on the lake, and then they got up and went away.”
Gilby stared at Roscoe and said, “You saw ghosts?”
“Absolutely.”
“You talked to them?”
“We could hear them whispering. They’d say to one another, ‘Wisha-wisha-wisha-wisha-wisha.’ ”
“What’s that mean?”
“It’s ghost talk.”
“My father never told me about that.”
“He was saving it till you were old enough to appreciate ghosts.”
“I’m old enough.”
“Then I’ll tell you what. I’m of the opinion that your father could very well be up there at Tristano with those ghosts. It’s the sort of place fathers go when they die,
especially a father like yours, who liked to talk and fish and was very fond of ghosts. We’ll both go up there one of these days and wait till the ghosts come out, and then we’ll sit
and watch them and listen to what they say. And when the sun comes up and the ghosts go to bed, we might even do some fishing. Sound all right?”
“All right,” Gilby said. “All right.”
Ticky was nodding, and as Roscoe stood up, in obvious pain, Veronica handed the witch doctor his hat and coat. She felt blackly excited by his presence, a new thing that hinted there would come
a day when her marriage to Elisha would be over. She couldn’t tell Roscoe about this feeling, because she didn’t understand it herself. It was new and unwelcome and she felt guilty for
having it. Roscoe had made Gilby’s smile steadfast, but the boy wasn’t out of danger just because his mood had changed. It was possible to lose him, as she’d lost her sweet baby
Rosemary.
She put her arm around Gilby and squeezed him as they walked toward the house. Roscoe walked very slowly behind her, his coat slung over his shoulder, his hat on the back of his head, always
close in her life, always a puzzle, so gifted, so audacious, so shy Sometimes she decided Roscoe was spiritually illegal, a bootlegger of the soul, a mythic creature made of words and wit and wild
deeds and boundless memory. She looked at him and saw a man
Gilby could answer him, Roscoe moved Jazz Baby forward and, when he was in open pasture, rode him at a canter, then into a gallop, across the whole pasture to the woods, and then galloped back to
the stable and slid gracefully off the horse’s back, doubling over in pain.
“What happened?” Veronica said in panic, and she took Roscoe’s arm. “Are you hurt?”
“Just the usual bareback shock waves,” Roscoe said. “It happens to everybody.” He slowly straightened himself. “Ticky,” he said, sitting on the bale of hay,
“tell Gilby what your father told you about horses.”
“Oh, my father,” Ticky said. “Peoples used to say about my father, ‘Oh, he’s a good man with a horse,’ and I’d say, ‘Pa, what you doin’ with
that horse? Is that the way you do it?’ And he’d say, ‘Shut up, boy. You wanna learn, go out on your own,’ and he wouldn’t teach me. I worked for other horsemens and
they’d teach me. But I didn’t have no father about knowin’ horses.”
“Me either,” said Roscoe, who was trying to sit in a way that controlled his pain. “Now, you take my father. He created a big family and then he left us to live in a
hotel. When he lived home he never let me into his bedroom, and if he caught me there he’d lock me in the attic. So I’d stay in my room, reading atlases, memorizing poems and songs and
countries and cities, and my brain got so crowded there was no room for the baseball scores. But I liked it so much they took me to the doctor, who talked to me for a week and then said nothing was
wrong with my head and all I needed was to go up and see those ghosts again, the ones your father and I saw when we were kids up at Tristano—two old men who came out in the middle of the
night and sat by the fireplace in the Trophy House and drank brandy and talked and looked out at the moon until the sun came up on the lake, and then they got up and went away.”
Gilby stared at Roscoe and said, “You saw ghosts?”
“Absolutely.”
“You talked to them?”
“We could hear them whispering. They’d say to one another, ‘Wisha-wisha-wisha-wisha-wisha.’ ”
“What’s that mean?”
“It’s ghost talk.”
“My father never told me about that.”
“He was saving it till you were old enough to appreciate ghosts.”
“I’m old enough.”
“Then I’ll tell you what. I’m of the opinion that your father could very well be up there at Tristano with those ghosts. It’s the sort of place fathers go when they die,
especially a father like yours, who liked to talk and fish and was very fond of ghosts. We’ll both go up there one of these days and wait till the ghosts come out, and then we’ll sit
and watch them and listen to what they say. And when the sun comes up and the ghosts go to bed, we might even do some fishing. Sound all right?”
“All right,” Gilby said. “All right.”
Ticky was nodding, and as Roscoe stood up, in obvious pain, Veronica handed the witch doctor his hat and coat. She felt blackly excited by his presence, a new thing that hinted there would come
a day when her marriage to Elisha would be over. She couldn’t tell Roscoe about this feeling, because she didn’t understand it herself. It was new and unwelcome and she felt guilty for
having it. Roscoe had made Gilby’s smile steadfast, but the boy wasn’t out of danger just because his mood had changed. It was possible to lose him, as she’d lost her sweet baby
Rosemary.
She put her arm around Gilby and squeezed him as they walked toward the house. Roscoe walked very slowly behind her, his coat slung over his shoulder, his hat on the back of his head, always
close in her life, always a puzzle, so gifted, so audacious, so shy Sometimes she decided Roscoe was spiritually illegal, a bootlegger of the soul, a mythic creature made of words and wit and wild
deeds and boundless memory. She looked at him and saw a man
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