It didn't take long to dry off when she emerged in the heat of the day. It was always hot; it never rained.
Marjorie never asked what she did with herself all day and Agnes didn't tell her. Neither of them ever mentioned the horse or the pond. In the evenings, after dinner, they fell into a quiet routine. After the dishes were done they would sit out on the front porch with their books and a hurricane lamp to read by. Marjorie would have her glass of wine; Agnes drank warm Dr Pepper or RC Cola. Sometimes Marjorie read aloud. It was always poetry. There were poems by T. S. Eliot, Emily Dickinson, Gerard Manley Hopkins, Wallace Stevens, D. H. Lawrence, Marianne Moore, W. B. Yeats. Often she did not understand what she was hearing, but still she was moved by the sound of the words. The horse and the pillow friend had come between them, but poetry drew them back together. Gazing at that familiar face in the lamplight while the magical words spiraled up and around them like scented smoke in the warm, dark air, she was possessed by longing, almost overwhelmed with love for this woman who was so close to her and so far away.
She wished that this was her life, that it would go on forever, but of course it was nearly over. On her last day she thought her heart would break when she said good-bye to Snowy. She had lain awake for hours the night before, fingers in her ears to block out the sounds from the next room, while she tried to think up a way around it. But even if she could make up some convincing story as to how she'd found him, even if she could convince her parents that he was her horse and talk them into financing his keep at a local stables—both tall orders—she couldn't believe it would work. She couldn't imagine Snowy with a saddle on his back, a bit in his mouth, the prosaic business of exercising him in some paddock or on a trail ride through Memorial Park with a bunch of other kids and their ponies. They belonged to each other and always would, but he wouldn't fit into her real world of school and parents, car pools and scheduled visits. He belonged here in the country, in the shadowy woodlands where she could only be a temporary visitor. After their last ride together she tried to think of some way of explaining herself, realized that she couldn't and, praying that he would understand this as he had seemed to understand everything else about her, she kissed him, slapped him sharply on the flank, and then ran away. Head down, half-blinded by her tears, she ran until she collided finally with her aunt.
“There you are! I was beginning to think you might miss your bus. We have to walk into Camptown, you know. I've packed your things—what's wrong? Why are you crying?”
“Oh, please, I don't want to go. Please, won't you let me stay here? I won't get in your way, honestly I won't. I'll be out every day, just like before, and I'll help with the housework, I won't be any trouble, I could go in to school on the bus, just like you and Mother used to and—”
“Don't be ridiculous. Of course you can't stay here. You're going home where you belong. What's gotten into you?”
“Please. Just another week, then, let me stay another week—”
“Stop it. Just stop it. I don't have time for this. Run on in and wash your face and use the toilet if you have to and then we're off. You're not going to miss that bus. Not after what I promised your mother.”
So she went back to Houston—what else could she do? It was just getting dark when she arrived, and at first when she stepped off the bus she could not see anyone she knew in the crowd. Then her father stepped forward and gave her a smile that looked like it had been borrowed from somebody else.
“Where's Mother?”
“What kind of greeting is that for your father? Don't I count?”
“Of course—I was just—”
“I thought I'd take you out to dinner. What would you like—barbecue or barbecue?”
Barbecue was always their special treat, just the
Marjorie never asked what she did with herself all day and Agnes didn't tell her. Neither of them ever mentioned the horse or the pond. In the evenings, after dinner, they fell into a quiet routine. After the dishes were done they would sit out on the front porch with their books and a hurricane lamp to read by. Marjorie would have her glass of wine; Agnes drank warm Dr Pepper or RC Cola. Sometimes Marjorie read aloud. It was always poetry. There were poems by T. S. Eliot, Emily Dickinson, Gerard Manley Hopkins, Wallace Stevens, D. H. Lawrence, Marianne Moore, W. B. Yeats. Often she did not understand what she was hearing, but still she was moved by the sound of the words. The horse and the pillow friend had come between them, but poetry drew them back together. Gazing at that familiar face in the lamplight while the magical words spiraled up and around them like scented smoke in the warm, dark air, she was possessed by longing, almost overwhelmed with love for this woman who was so close to her and so far away.
She wished that this was her life, that it would go on forever, but of course it was nearly over. On her last day she thought her heart would break when she said good-bye to Snowy. She had lain awake for hours the night before, fingers in her ears to block out the sounds from the next room, while she tried to think up a way around it. But even if she could make up some convincing story as to how she'd found him, even if she could convince her parents that he was her horse and talk them into financing his keep at a local stables—both tall orders—she couldn't believe it would work. She couldn't imagine Snowy with a saddle on his back, a bit in his mouth, the prosaic business of exercising him in some paddock or on a trail ride through Memorial Park with a bunch of other kids and their ponies. They belonged to each other and always would, but he wouldn't fit into her real world of school and parents, car pools and scheduled visits. He belonged here in the country, in the shadowy woodlands where she could only be a temporary visitor. After their last ride together she tried to think of some way of explaining herself, realized that she couldn't and, praying that he would understand this as he had seemed to understand everything else about her, she kissed him, slapped him sharply on the flank, and then ran away. Head down, half-blinded by her tears, she ran until she collided finally with her aunt.
“There you are! I was beginning to think you might miss your bus. We have to walk into Camptown, you know. I've packed your things—what's wrong? Why are you crying?”
“Oh, please, I don't want to go. Please, won't you let me stay here? I won't get in your way, honestly I won't. I'll be out every day, just like before, and I'll help with the housework, I won't be any trouble, I could go in to school on the bus, just like you and Mother used to and—”
“Don't be ridiculous. Of course you can't stay here. You're going home where you belong. What's gotten into you?”
“Please. Just another week, then, let me stay another week—”
“Stop it. Just stop it. I don't have time for this. Run on in and wash your face and use the toilet if you have to and then we're off. You're not going to miss that bus. Not after what I promised your mother.”
So she went back to Houston—what else could she do? It was just getting dark when she arrived, and at first when she stepped off the bus she could not see anyone she knew in the crowd. Then her father stepped forward and gave her a smile that looked like it had been borrowed from somebody else.
“Where's Mother?”
“What kind of greeting is that for your father? Don't I count?”
“Of course—I was just—”
“I thought I'd take you out to dinner. What would you like—barbecue or barbecue?”
Barbecue was always their special treat, just the
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