the presence in the house of another desirous woman . . . confused him. But now that I know, I can be on guard against it. It won't happen again; I won't let him go to you.”
“That's the most horrible thing I've ever heard! You're sick—you must be sick if you think I would want for some horrible naked old man to come crawling into my bed at night! I don't want a lover—I don't want sex—I'm not a woman, I'm just a kid!”
“My dear, you protest too much. He knows what you want—that's all he knows. He responds to desire—that's all he can do. And your body knows, too, even if you'd rather think otherwise. Your body's betrayed you.”
“I need to go to the bathroom. Can I have my light back, please?”
In silence, her aunt handed her the flashlight.
She didn't see the pillow friend again during her visit but she heard him at night with Marjorie. That was the meaning of the sounds she heard, the heavy breathing and soft moans, the rhythmic creaking of bedsprings: that was not her aunt dreaming, as she had first thought; that was Marjorie having sex. The thought made her unpleasantly excited, and although she didn't want to think about it she couldn't seem to help herself recalling the male nakedness she had seen, trying to figure out how something like that would fit together with her body, and why such a coupling would be pleasant.
Maybe the curse was a blessing, in some ways: at least Marjorie didn't force her out of the house every morning. She could lie in bed as long as she liked, read all day indoors if she wanted. By the third day she had read six of the twelve books she had brought with her and was feeling overstuffed with words and restless. She wasn't bleeding anymore and she wanted to move. She missed her bicycle and the company of other children. She began to think about the horse, her horse, in a different way.
Yes, she had been frightened, but there had also been something wonderful in the connection between them, the power that carried her along in response to her unspoken wishes. She found herself re-creating the ride in her mind, changing it so that the fear and discomfort vanished and it became purely exciting, like something she'd read about. She became different, too, the skillful rider of the horse, someone brave and free. On the day that she finally went out to look for him she even had a name for the horse: Snowy Miles. It made her think of that poem by Robert Frost which she'd memorized a couple of years ago, “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.” He was white, too, as white as the snow she'd seen only once in her life.
He was waiting for her, just where she'd known he would be, a little ways into the woods, beside a fallen log. He tossed his head at the sight of her and whickered.
“Hiya, Snowy. Good boy.” She'd brought him an apple. She stroked his neck while he munched it. Then she used the log to mount him and they rode away.
The long, hot days passed in a dreamy haze. She rode him barebacked and barefoot and was soon more comfortable than she could have dreamed perched up so high, controlling his movements with a nudge of her heels in his sides, or a slap on his flank or neck. He was immensely sensitive and responsive to her, despite his great size, and as she came to appreciate how careful he was of her, she no longer feared falling off. He would not let her fall.
As they explored the area, keeping well away from the highway and Camptown itself, they never met anyone. Sometimes they would catch sight of a logging truck or hear men's voices, but no one ever saw them. Sometimes she would take a packed lunch and have a picnic on the shores of the pond, where she would swim and float for a long time, washing away the accumulated dirt and sweat of the morning and enjoying the beautiful silence. She swam naked rather than risk raising her aunt's suspicions by taking her bathing suit—that was something she had never done before, and it added to the illicit delight.
“That's the most horrible thing I've ever heard! You're sick—you must be sick if you think I would want for some horrible naked old man to come crawling into my bed at night! I don't want a lover—I don't want sex—I'm not a woman, I'm just a kid!”
“My dear, you protest too much. He knows what you want—that's all he knows. He responds to desire—that's all he can do. And your body knows, too, even if you'd rather think otherwise. Your body's betrayed you.”
“I need to go to the bathroom. Can I have my light back, please?”
In silence, her aunt handed her the flashlight.
She didn't see the pillow friend again during her visit but she heard him at night with Marjorie. That was the meaning of the sounds she heard, the heavy breathing and soft moans, the rhythmic creaking of bedsprings: that was not her aunt dreaming, as she had first thought; that was Marjorie having sex. The thought made her unpleasantly excited, and although she didn't want to think about it she couldn't seem to help herself recalling the male nakedness she had seen, trying to figure out how something like that would fit together with her body, and why such a coupling would be pleasant.
Maybe the curse was a blessing, in some ways: at least Marjorie didn't force her out of the house every morning. She could lie in bed as long as she liked, read all day indoors if she wanted. By the third day she had read six of the twelve books she had brought with her and was feeling overstuffed with words and restless. She wasn't bleeding anymore and she wanted to move. She missed her bicycle and the company of other children. She began to think about the horse, her horse, in a different way.
Yes, she had been frightened, but there had also been something wonderful in the connection between them, the power that carried her along in response to her unspoken wishes. She found herself re-creating the ride in her mind, changing it so that the fear and discomfort vanished and it became purely exciting, like something she'd read about. She became different, too, the skillful rider of the horse, someone brave and free. On the day that she finally went out to look for him she even had a name for the horse: Snowy Miles. It made her think of that poem by Robert Frost which she'd memorized a couple of years ago, “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.” He was white, too, as white as the snow she'd seen only once in her life.
He was waiting for her, just where she'd known he would be, a little ways into the woods, beside a fallen log. He tossed his head at the sight of her and whickered.
“Hiya, Snowy. Good boy.” She'd brought him an apple. She stroked his neck while he munched it. Then she used the log to mount him and they rode away.
The long, hot days passed in a dreamy haze. She rode him barebacked and barefoot and was soon more comfortable than she could have dreamed perched up so high, controlling his movements with a nudge of her heels in his sides, or a slap on his flank or neck. He was immensely sensitive and responsive to her, despite his great size, and as she came to appreciate how careful he was of her, she no longer feared falling off. He would not let her fall.
As they explored the area, keeping well away from the highway and Camptown itself, they never met anyone. Sometimes they would catch sight of a logging truck or hear men's voices, but no one ever saw them. Sometimes she would take a packed lunch and have a picnic on the shores of the pond, where she would swim and float for a long time, washing away the accumulated dirt and sweat of the morning and enjoying the beautiful silence. She swam naked rather than risk raising her aunt's suspicions by taking her bathing suit—that was something she had never done before, and it added to the illicit delight.
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