Taming the Star Runner (8 page)

​Casey was getting ready for the last big show of the season. She was out on the Star Runner when Travis caught the bus in the morning for school, and usually rode him again following the afternoon lessons. Travis worried about her, at school. If something happened, out there alone during the day, it'd be hours before anyone found her.

Once, on the weekend, when Ken had drifted down to watch, they nearly witnessed a major crash when the Star Runner threw a bucking fit in the corner and Casey put him over a four-foot fence anyway; she'd lost both her stirrups and nearly went over his head as he landed.

“I don't see why she does damn stupid stuff like that,” he'd said. Ken answered, “It's her life, isn't it?” Travis wanted to slug him. But when Casey rode up laughing, they laughed too.

If only the Star Runner were just, just, well, normal. A normal horse. Jennifer's horse, Sandman, was high-strung, apt to spook at things and occasionally run out at a jump; Travis learned to watch it when he haltered him because he would bite.

But that was normal. Travis had always liked animals, had no trouble liking most of the horses. He'd been embarrassed once while brushing a pony, to realize he was listening for a purr. The signals the horses used weren't as blatant as cats' or dogs', but they were there.

The Star Runner … Travis and Jennifer were watching him trot up and down in the paddock, and Jennifer shivered.

“He's so creepy,” she said. “You ever noticed his eyes? There's white showing all the way around. That's supposed to mean he's crazy.”

“I can believe it.” Travis had an idea for a story—an outer-space alien stuck on earth, but nobody'd know it since it looked like a horse.

“I don't see why Casey loves him so much.”

“Love?” Travis couldn't believe she still didn't know better. “Let's ask her. Hey, Case.”

Casey had just turned out the ponies in the next paddock. Now she joined them, hanging over the railing.

“Jennifer,” Travis said, in a breathless Jennifer-voice, “doesn't know why you love the Star Runner so much.”

He really liked Jennifer, but sometimes she was so sweet it irritated him.

“Love?” Casey unknowingly echoed Travis. “Hell, the day he stops jumping I'll shoot him.”

“Oh, Casey!” Jennifer was horrified.

“She'd do it,” Travis agreed. Then, because he was sorry he'd mocked her, he started tickling her, and ended up chasing her back to the barn.

When he looked back, Casey was still watching the Star Runner. Waiting.

The Thursday night before the show, Travis worked late in the barn. He had to pack tack, make sure the big eight-horse trailer was clean, legwrap some of the horses. He'd learned how to pull manes, so that they were short and easy to braid, but the braiding itself, weaving a small strand and knotting it, was beyond him. Christopher could have done a better job.

Kelsey stayed for an extra hour and got four horses braided. They looked classy with the little row of knots down their necks. Travis assumed braiding was just to make them look better, but Kelsey said braiding had been started to keep manes from getting tangled in brush on the hunt field.

Casey was working on post entries. Some people had made up their minds about what classes to enter, or to go at all, at the last second. He remembered a dream he had the night before, involving Casey and her long legs…

“Through?” Her voice made him jump.

“Just about.” He turned away, afraid she'd see him reddening.

“Put the light blanket on Silver Hawk, would you? He's fairly clean right now, but those white ponies can get filthy overnight.”

“Okay.” Travis paused to study her handwriting. She printed, in strong clean lines, like a child.

When he went back to the house and saw Teresa's car but not Ken's, he almost turned around and went back. Being alone with Teresa was not something he looked forward to.

Well, hell, he thought, at least this time he knew she was in the house. Maybe if he made a good impression on her, she wouldn't give Ken such a hard time about splitting custody. He slammed the door so he wouldn't be surprising her.

“Ken?”

Travis went on into the living room. “Naw, it's me.”

Teresa glanced up from the photo album she'd been looking through and took another sip of red wine.

“Oh. Hi. I brought Chris early, I've got to leave town again, tomorrow. It looks like Ken's going to be late.”

Travis thought: Leaving with David? but didn't say anything. It obviously wasn't her first glass of wine.

“Been working in the barn?”

“Yeah.” Travis hoped she could tell by the way he was dressed, not by the way he smelled.

“Ken said you'd been helping Casey. I wish that girl would wear some sun block.”

Travis couldn't make that connection, but said, “Yeah. Hey,” he added, “I'm sorry about the other night. I didn't mean to scare you guys.”

Teresa nodded. She had beautiful dark deer-eyes, like Christopher's.

“Ken told me you were having a fight with your mom. She called earlier, by the way. She sounds real sweet. You ought to talk to her.”

“She doesn't care about me,” Travis said, the anger at her betrayal flooding back. “She doesn't even
know
me. She had a baby once, and still loves it.”

“Well, honey, don't knock it. That's the strongest hold you'll ever have on anybody.”

She went back to her pictures, but something made Travis think: She's picturing the fights she'll have with Chris when he's my age.

Ken had already made him feel peculiar that way; sometimes he'd look from Chris to Travis with an expression just short of horror. Like:
This
is what's coming.

“You ever see these?” Teresa held out the album. “Ken and I took a trip to Morocco in—oh, a long time ago. We took a freighter over, slept in train stations, on decks, in fifty-cent rooms.”

“Geez, did you guys really look like that?” Travis stared at the photos. Teresa was so young-looking, really skinny, her hair longer and darker, parted in the middle and hanging down her back. She was wearing granny glasses and an Indian headband. She said that was Ken with her, but he wasn't even recognizable, with his hair to his shoulders and a drooping walrus mustache around his mouth. Both had on outlandishly long bell-bottomed jeans and gauzy Eastern shirts.

Travis was flabbergasted. Sure, he'd heard about hippies and stuff, but to actually have walked around looking like that! Didn't people laugh?

“This was my Gloria Steinem look. I think Ken was supposed to be Elliot Gould.”

This didn't help Travis much, since he didn't know who those people were.

“I'm really glad we did that once, scrounging around and sleeping on sidewalks—but Ken's really sad we won't do it again.”

“Yeah.” Travis was on an entirely new train of thought. “So—you guys were into drugs and everything?”

“You think you invented it?” Teresa laughed, then said quickly, “You ought to know by now Ken is no substance abuser. Oh, no. Ken has entirely too much control for that.” Teresa polished off her wine and said, “Would you get me just another half glass?”

When he brought it he said, “How'd you guys mess up, anyway?”

“What's Ken's story?”

“Well, when I asked him all he said was ‘It all started with the Cuisinart.' ”

“Sounds like him.” She went on turning the pages of her album, and Travis gave up on getting a straight answer. Adults probably didn't even know straight answers anymore.

“You ever see Ken at the barn?” she said suddenly.

Travis thought it over. “Not much,” he answered. Ken never did go to the barn, other than to stop by with a message or watch for a second. Travis had never seen him on a horse.

“See? It was always his big dream to raise quarter horses, and when that didn't work out just the way he planned, he quit the whole thing. He just can't stand any deviation from the plan.

“I just don't think I'm working out the way he planned either.”

“So—Ken got into being a lawyer to help people and all that stuff?”

“Don't be silly. Ken got into being a lawyer because he thought he could make money. Don't get him wrong. Ken likes having money, it's just spending it that bothers him … well, he grew up poor and I didn't, what do I know? And—don't tell him I said this—but the law's just up his alley. He always did want to know the rules, the penalties … I just think there's more than one dream to have. And I don't know why happiness shouldn't be as trustworthy as any other emotion.”

Travis was ticked off now. Garbage. She was sad, Ken was sad, why didn't they do something?

Ticked off, and scared too. Not me. Not me. I'll always know what I want, how to get it…

She said, “You ever have to read that poem at school, about the guy sitting in the snow at the fork in the road, wondering about the road not taken?”

“Yeah.” Travis had read it, but not at school. He just liked Robert Frost.

“What they don't tell you is, every time you turn around there's another goddamn fork.”

He didn't think he'd be able to sleep that night, but he conked out immediately. He was real surprised to find Teresa in the kitchen the next morning, making pancakes with Christopher.

“Hi,” she said cheerfully as he poured himself some coffee. She didn't look at him. He managed “Hi” with a straight face, but it was real hard to keep from smirking when he ran into Ken at the bottom of the stairs.

“Teresa thought she'd stay over,” Ken explained, a little too rapidly. “She doesn't like to drive when she's been drinking.”

“Yeah,” Travis said. “Sure.”

When their eyes met, Ken grinned and turned red.

Travis was oddly happy the rest of the day, though he couldn't put his finger on just why.

Girls and horses! What was the big deal about girls and horses? It was weird. It was almost sick. At first he thought being at the show, being surrounded by cute girls in skintight breeches, was going to drive him horny-crazy; he could understand now what had happened to the twins—why if you worked at McDonald's, the sight of a fry could make you sick.

They petted the horses, fussed over them, combed and brushed them like they were going to a prom. Baby-talked them and even kissed them! That was a definite turnoff. He didn't get it. Like, he loved Motorboat, but couldn't imagine ever carrying on like this.

He was grumpy anyway. Five o'clock in the morning wasn't his favorite time to get up. It wasn't a bad time to go to bed sometimes, it usually meant a pretty good night before; but there wasn't anything great about a five o'clock rising.

And here it was eight-thirty, the show had been going on for a half an hour, and he'd been too busy to go watch anyone.

He was helping a frantic Jennifer tack up for her first class. Somehow it didn't surprise him that she was late.

He barely had the throatlatch of Sandman's bridle buckled when Jennifer grabbed the reins and trotted him out.

“Tell Casey I'm in the schooling ring.”

“Where is she?” Travis hadn't seen her for an hour.

“Small arena.” Jennifer's voice floated back. “With the ponies.”

Casey was standing by the rail next to a woman Travis recognized as one of the pony moms, although he wasn't sure which.

Molly was leading Silver Hawk out of the arena, picking up a yellow ribbon on her way out.

“You really got a good deal on that pony,” Casey was saying. “He's going great for her.”

“Yes,” said the mom. “But, well, I wish we'd found a chestnut.”

Casey looked blank. “A chestnut?”

“You know Sarah Jerome has that little palomino that just matches her hair. They look so cute together.”

“Matches her hair,” Casey repeated calmly.

Travis felt he had to do something quick, so he said, “I know, you can dye Molly's hair white.”

While the mom gave him a you-smart-ass look, he pulled Casey along with him.

“Jennifer's in the schooling ring, come on, she's late.”

They were across the road when Casey spoke again. “I won't have to dye my hair to match my horse. Another year in this business will turn it solid gray. Match her hair! My God!”

And suddenly she gave him a slap on the back and said, “Good for you, kid.”

The schooling ring was chaos. There were two jumps set up in the middle of the ring, side by side. Trainers stood by the jumps, yelling instructions, praise, abuse, while the riders came from both directions, sometimes narrowly missing head-on collisions. There were frantic yelps of “Heads up!” which Travis took to mean “Watch out!” And all around the ring people were warming up, trotting or cantering, the horses bucking and kicking if a stranger got too close behind. Travis thought the whole mess looked like some bizarre sort of horse bumper-cars.

“Leg-in-front-of-the-jump.”

Travis recognized the voice and realized Casey had dodged through the traffic to stand by a jump, and Jennifer and Sandman were taking it.

“Again,” Casey shouted. “And don't jump out in front of him.”

Sandman cleared the poles easily and beautifully, barely missing a little girl on a black pony.

Travis heard the announcer on the loudspeaker. “Beautiful Day on deck. One away, Forget Me Not. Two away, Sandman. Three away…”

“You know your course?” Casey shouted, and Jennifer shook her head. Travis handed her the number as they left the schooling ring to stand with the others just outside the gate of the big indoor arena.

“Oh, bless you,” Jennifer breathed, tying the strings around her waist so the number 263 was clear across her back.

A girl on a dark bay was in the arena.

“That first line should be an easy five, let him start rolling in the warm-up circle. The second inside diagonal is the tricky part—use all your ring, deep in the corner—see there, see there—”

The bay slid to stop and his rider nearly went over his neck onto the jump—“She cut in too quick, didn't give him enough distance. Be sure and go deep in the corner. And, Jenna, don't get antsy on that last single. Just stay the same, you don't have to be making any moves. It'll seem like you're not seeing the spot, but just wait for it. It'll be there. Now, what's your course?”

“Outside, diagonal, outside, diagonal, single.”

“Okay, try to let him move on out right away—but the first line can be a short six if it has to, just make it smooth.”

Travis said, “A short six what?”

“Strides. Twelve feet. A normal horse stride is twelve feet. You allow six feet on either side of the jump. The course is set for a certain number of strides between jumps. If you goof up, too fast, too slow, take the jump too big or too close, you have to decide to lengthen or shorten to the next jump.” Casey used her teaching voice.

“Oh,” Travis said. And he had thought the big deal was to stay on. He didn't see how Jennifer learned the course from watching one person go —he wasn't sure which jump she was supposed to take first, much less the order of the rest of them. The girl on the bay pulled him up into a finishing circle and left by a gate at the other end of the arena. Casey opened the entry gate and Jennifer trotted in.

“On course, two sixty-three Sandman, ridden by Jennifer Hailey.”

Jennifer circled, picking up a canter, and Casey leaned on the rail, muttering to herself—once, as Jennifer went by, she said, “Clear into the corner,” and as she came at the last fence, “Steady, steady,” but to Travis it looked as though she'd had a perfect round—at least Sandman cleared all the jumps and hadn't stopped anywhere.

Casey ran outside to be there as Jennifer came out.

“Not bad, not bad, late with that second lead change and he chipped in a little at the gate, but you've got a shot at pinning.”

Jennifer nodded, too breathless to speak. She smiled at Travis, her lipstick unnaturally bright in her white face.

“I always forget to breathe, on course. Casey, wait—listen, what time do you think it'll be over tonight?”

Casey paused. “Look, you know I can't time these things.”

“I'm sorry,” Jennifer apologized. “I just have piano recital tonight.”

“You're in the last class and it's your shot at a medal, so you decide.” Casey disappeared into the schooling ring again.

Jennifer slid off. “She's trying to quit smoking,” she said. “It's making her mean. Well, we had a good first round, anyway, didn't we baby?” She patted Sandman's neck. “Such a good boy.
Such
a good boy.”

Travis winced. It was a wonder the horses didn't puke.

“That was real pretty, honey.” An older woman in jeans and a western jacket paused beside Jennifer. “You looked real nice.”

Jennifer shivered. “Oh, thanks, Mrs. Kencaide. I'm just glad it's over. I'm not like Casey, I'm scared to death before every class.”

The woman said simply, “Then why, child, do you do it?”

Jennifer opened her mouth, then shut it. You could tell she couldn't come up with a real good reason and hadn't tried to before.

“You must be Katherine's new groom.”

Travis was still uneasy with the word
groom
. It made him feel like he should be standing on top of a wedding cake.

“Uh, I'm workin' for Casey Kencaide.”

“That's right. K.C.—Katherine Caroline. I'm her momma.”

Oh. So that was where she'd gotten her name. Hastily Travis said, “Nice to meet you,” and shook her hand. He'd be nice to her and get her to talking—he'd learned from Ken and Teresa it was easy to get somebody talking about their kid. So now he knew her real name—who knew what he could pick up next?

“I'll see you around,” he called, as Amber ran up, wanting help with her bridle.

The show went real slow. It seemed to Travis that there were hours of nothing to do—messing around at the stalls, hanging out in the stands watching the rounds (he was bored after ten minutes); able to tell if someone fell off, or if the horse stopped at a jump, but other than that having no idea what the judges were judging by.

Casey was either running from one arena to the other—the ponies and low jumps were showing in the smaller barn, the more advanced riders and horses in the larger arena—or shouting instructions in the schooling ring, or hanging out with the other trainers, comparing horses and riders.

Travis watched Kelsey slink out of the ring after the off-course whistle blew, her hands held over her face, squealing, “Ohmigod, I'm
so
embarrassed”; Amber's black pony refused three times and she was dismissed from the ring; the older lady, Mary, had a perfectly smooth round, which would net her a third, and Travis heard Casey remark, “The kids are more supple, the kids are braver, but the older riders can
think
.”

He overheard something else. He ducked into the curtained-off tack stall to look for Amber's spurs. Casey was in the stall right behind him, hidden by the curtains, brushing the bay gelding she was riding in the pregreen classes, and he heard someone say, “God, Casey, where'd you get that foxy groom?”

“He's Ken Harris's nephew. At first I wondered how a classy guy like Ken could have such a sleazy punk relative, but he's really okay. He's good with the horses.”

“Well, watch out for him. I think some of the girls are planning to kidnap him. Is that your pregreen?”

Travis didn't stay any longer. He ducked into the men's room and stared, puzzled, into the cracked and dirty mirror.

Sleazy punk. She must be crazy. His hair was way too long to look punk. Damn hicks around here probably had never even
seen
a punk! And sleazy?

Suddenly he thought of something else: Ken saying, “Sorry, kid, you haven't given me the impression you could write a complex sentence.”

And Ms. Carmichael saying, “I don't believe you wrote this book.” And just last week his English teacher had kept him after class to say, “You know, your attitude problem is really starting to bug me. And I thought you might like to know that behavior is counted in my grading.”

He had been shocked and outraged. What attitude?

“So what am I doing?” He certainly wasn't talking in class—he wasn't talking much in school.

“Oh, you know, slouching back there with that sneer on your face—if you get your grade knocked down much lower you'll flunk.”

“Big flunkin' deal,” Travis had said, and she'd sent him to the principal. She must have had PMS.

Now, though, he wondered about this weird impression people were getting of him. Sleazy punk. Was that what everybody thought?

He stared miserably at the mirror and a wave of homesickness almost knocked him down. He'd been so cool at home…

He made sure he sat next to Casey's mom during the pregreen class.

“You ever get nervous about Casey jumping?” he asked her. Earlier one of the pony-kids' moms had gotten hysterical when the kid fell off and had the wind knocked out of her.

“Hell, no, honey. Life's way too short to get nervous about.”

Mrs. Kencaide looked older than she was, brown and weather-beaten, her short brown hair teased up like a lot of ladies her age—like at one point in their lives they'd learned The Hairstyle and never ever thought about getting another. Travis's mom wore her hair almost the same.

She lit up a cigarette and Travis was suddenly horrified to realize all those little lines around her mouth came from inhaling…

For the first time in three years he thought about quitting smoking.

“No, I was a barrel racer myself, and I always thought Katherine would want to rodeo—then my brother took us to the big Charity Horse Show one year, I reckon Katherine was eleven, and we saw the jumping. She says, ‘Momma, I
got
to do that,' and I says, ‘Okay, honey, let's figure you out a way'—'cause I knew Katherine, and her mind was made up.”

She paused. Travis had had a hard time understanding her drawl—she sounded so country-western, and that was one kind of music he couldn't stand.

“So, what'd you do, get her lessons?”

“Sorry, honey, I was just watchin' that round. Those ol' quarter horses are the kind I like. That one is quicker than a cat, ain't he? Some of these skinny ol' Thoroughbreds look like poor feeders to me. Oh, yeah, well, I couldn't afford any fancy lessons, but my brother, he's a horse trader and an auctioneer and he asked around about jumpin' trainers, and he heard this lady, Jessie Quincy, was supposed to be the best. And I drove Katherine over there and she talks Ms. Quincy into lettin' her work in exchange for lessons; Ms. Quincy done that with a couple of other little gals and sometimes it worked out, and sometimes it didn't; but she never had anybody who worked like Casey, both groomin' and ridin'. Time she's sixteen she was gettin' paid to ride, she was giving lessons.

“About a year ago she turned pro, and at the same time my brother tells us Ken Harris is lookin' to lease his barn. There was a crazy bronc out at the Circle J racing stables that keeps jumpin' out of his paddocks. Real fast, my brother says, but so loco none of the jockeys want to mess with him. The owner was ready just to put him down.

“Casey came back from lookin' at him and she says, ‘Momma, this is it.' ”

“Is what?” Travis asked.

He saw that Mrs. Kencaide was watching the entry gate where Casey had ridden up on the bay.

It took him a couple of seconds to recognize her; she'd been wearing a sweat suit over her riding breeches and white shirt to keep them clean. She was in a dark gray riding jacket and black velvet hard-hat; her long legs in knee-high black boots. She looked like an elegant Park Avenue preppy. It was the first time he'd seen her wearing lipstick.