hand for her to shake.
TO HELP COVER THE EXPENSE of her horseback riding when she was a girl, Nancy worked at the stable. She was allowed unlimited riding on a horse named Star, an old gelding with a lopsided trot and a habit of shying at jumps. It was almost like having her own horse, but she knew the difference. There were other girls who owned horses they boarded at the barn—horses worth thousands of dollars—and they didn’t do stable work.
The school bus dropped Nancy off at the barn, and then one of her parents picked her up before dinner. If she was running late, her mother would wait for her in the car, but her father would always come in and give her a hand finishing up. On weekend mornings when Nancy’s father drove her to the barn, she’d turn out Star in the fenced pasture, and then her father would help with her chores. They’d work in companionable quiet, dividing up what needed to be done—raking up manure, spreading fresh wood chips, filling water buckets—without ever discussing it. It was a secret between them. Not that Nancy’s mother had ever stated that the chores should all be done by Nancy herself, but there was an unspoken understanding between Nancy and her father that her mother might not approve of his doing any of the work.
One late afternoon in winter, after they’d given Star his grain and hay, they lingered for a while, leaning on the half door of Star’s stall. They stood together, Nancy’s father’s arm around her, listening to Star eat, to the swish of his tail, and the occasional soft whinnies from other horses in the barn.
“We should be pushing on,” her father said, “it’s about time for dinner.” But they hadn’t left just then; they just stood there, smelling the comforting smells of hay and wood chips and warm manure, and listening to the sweet peacefulness of the barn.
Most often when Nancy thought about her father, she thought of things he said. But strangely, he was most present in memories like this one, when nothing was said and when nothing much was happening—just a horse eating his hay, and darkness settling in around a lighted barn.
WHEN NANCY GOT BACK TO HER HOUSE, she started turning in to her driveway, then backed out again and kept going along the road. She slowed as she neared the Kleinholz farm. The vet’s black pickup was gone from the driveway. There was a raw, brown rectangle in the far corner of the field where Jackie had been lying, as if someone had just prepared the ground for a new garden.
“No!” Nancy cried out. “No, no, no, no, no.”
She drove up to the Kleinholzes’ house and ran up to the back door. Teresa was in the kitchen baking pumpkin muffins. The first batch, on a cooling rack on the counter, had been overdone, and the kitchen smelled of burned pumpkin.
“What happened to Jackie?” Nancy asked.
“A virus of some kind,” said Teresa. “He got so weak he couldn’t stand. So the vet put him down.”
“And he was buried, right there?”
“That’s the way it’s done,” said Teresa. She laid her fingers on Nancy’s forearm. “Herb Miller came over with his backhoe. We were lucky to get him to come right over.”
It was Nancy who was crying.
“He was an old horse,” said Teresa.
OATES’S FLIGHT WAS DELAYED, so Nancy ate dinner by herself, leftover ravioli that she didn’t bother to heat up. When his car finally pulled up in the driveway, it was almost eleven. They didn’t even make it upstairs; they made love in the kitchen, standing up, Nancy with her back against the counter.
In bed, later, on the clean sheets that still carried a hint of lavender, Nancy told Oates about Jackie dying and being buried, about lunch with Chris, who warned her about the jeopardy of joining the Leopardi Circle, about licorice (which Oates liked as much as she did), now a pariah of candies.
“That’s a lot to think about,” said Oates. “Do you think you can add one more thing?”
“It depends what it is,”
TO HELP COVER THE EXPENSE of her horseback riding when she was a girl, Nancy worked at the stable. She was allowed unlimited riding on a horse named Star, an old gelding with a lopsided trot and a habit of shying at jumps. It was almost like having her own horse, but she knew the difference. There were other girls who owned horses they boarded at the barn—horses worth thousands of dollars—and they didn’t do stable work.
The school bus dropped Nancy off at the barn, and then one of her parents picked her up before dinner. If she was running late, her mother would wait for her in the car, but her father would always come in and give her a hand finishing up. On weekend mornings when Nancy’s father drove her to the barn, she’d turn out Star in the fenced pasture, and then her father would help with her chores. They’d work in companionable quiet, dividing up what needed to be done—raking up manure, spreading fresh wood chips, filling water buckets—without ever discussing it. It was a secret between them. Not that Nancy’s mother had ever stated that the chores should all be done by Nancy herself, but there was an unspoken understanding between Nancy and her father that her mother might not approve of his doing any of the work.
One late afternoon in winter, after they’d given Star his grain and hay, they lingered for a while, leaning on the half door of Star’s stall. They stood together, Nancy’s father’s arm around her, listening to Star eat, to the swish of his tail, and the occasional soft whinnies from other horses in the barn.
“We should be pushing on,” her father said, “it’s about time for dinner.” But they hadn’t left just then; they just stood there, smelling the comforting smells of hay and wood chips and warm manure, and listening to the sweet peacefulness of the barn.
Most often when Nancy thought about her father, she thought of things he said. But strangely, he was most present in memories like this one, when nothing was said and when nothing much was happening—just a horse eating his hay, and darkness settling in around a lighted barn.
WHEN NANCY GOT BACK TO HER HOUSE, she started turning in to her driveway, then backed out again and kept going along the road. She slowed as she neared the Kleinholz farm. The vet’s black pickup was gone from the driveway. There was a raw, brown rectangle in the far corner of the field where Jackie had been lying, as if someone had just prepared the ground for a new garden.
“No!” Nancy cried out. “No, no, no, no, no.”
She drove up to the Kleinholzes’ house and ran up to the back door. Teresa was in the kitchen baking pumpkin muffins. The first batch, on a cooling rack on the counter, had been overdone, and the kitchen smelled of burned pumpkin.
“What happened to Jackie?” Nancy asked.
“A virus of some kind,” said Teresa. “He got so weak he couldn’t stand. So the vet put him down.”
“And he was buried, right there?”
“That’s the way it’s done,” said Teresa. She laid her fingers on Nancy’s forearm. “Herb Miller came over with his backhoe. We were lucky to get him to come right over.”
It was Nancy who was crying.
“He was an old horse,” said Teresa.
OATES’S FLIGHT WAS DELAYED, so Nancy ate dinner by herself, leftover ravioli that she didn’t bother to heat up. When his car finally pulled up in the driveway, it was almost eleven. They didn’t even make it upstairs; they made love in the kitchen, standing up, Nancy with her back against the counter.
In bed, later, on the clean sheets that still carried a hint of lavender, Nancy told Oates about Jackie dying and being buried, about lunch with Chris, who warned her about the jeopardy of joining the Leopardi Circle, about licorice (which Oates liked as much as she did), now a pariah of candies.
“That’s a lot to think about,” said Oates. “Do you think you can add one more thing?”
“It depends what it is,”
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