The Yonahlossee Riding Camp for Girls (10 page)

Sam was a very cautious naturalist. His terrariums were full of reptiles that were not poisonous. He only wanted to see a coral snake, not capture it.

“You’re such a city boy,” I said. “You’d have a better chance of choking on your water than being bitten by a coral snake.”

“I’ll take my chances with the canteen,” Georgie said, and grinned. He took another sip of water.

Sam started to delve into the specifics of the coral snake’s bite, and then he moved on to the pygmy rattlesnake, in order to provide context, and I started to walk again, hoping to move things along. I didn’t want to be out here too long. I didn’t know how long the belt would last.

“Quiet,” I whispered, when I saw the grass shiver slightly. I pointed.

“Could be a lizard,” Sam said softly. He dropped to his knees, then crawled to the edge of the grass, which came up to our waists.

Georgie and I watched him, trying to stand as still as possible. Sam could move as quietly as an Indian. We could not. I held my breath and Sam reached into the grass and pulled out a long black snake, an orange band encircling its neck. I felt a flash of pride; Sam was quick.

“Good eye, Thea,” he said, and showed us the snake’s belly, which was beautifully vermillion. “He’s at least twelve inches.”

We watched the snake writhe around in Sam’s net.

“Diadophis p. punctatus,”
he said.

“Diadophis,” Georgie said, “this was not your lucky day.”

“But it was mine,” Sam said, happy.

I watched the snake, motionless in the net, as if it had accepted its fate. It was fully grown, an adult, and unblemished. A lucky snake. Sam would not keep him forever in a glass house, but the snake would not know that.

—

M
other was in my bedroom when I came in from out back, sitting on the edge of my unmade bed.

“There’s blood on your sheets,” she said, and I looked to where she pointed.

“I was going to tell you today.”

She stood, and I thought she was going to leave, but then she came very close to me and untucked my blouse before I could stop her.

“Where did you get this?” Her hand lingered on the belt. I looked out the window, at the great oak that hovered over our house like a parent. Father said it kept us cool in the summers, warm in the winters.

“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I’m sorry.”

She nodded, and took my hand between hers, as if entreating me. But I was her daughter, I didn’t need entreating. “Do you know what this means?”

“That I can’t ride.”

She laughed. “No. It means you can have a child now.”

I was horrified. My mother smiled at me very, very kindly and I wanted her to be angry at me, anything but this tenderness. Usually I eagerly received my mother’s affection, but I did not want any more attention drawn to this thing that had happened to me, to my body. I had not wanted it to happen. I had not asked for it.

“Of course not now,” she continued, “but someday. Doesn’t that please you, Thea?”

I shook my head. My mother drew me close and pressed my head to her chest.

“Oh, don’t cry. I didn’t mean to alarm you. I only don’t want you to think that this is anything to be ashamed of.”

I sprung back. “You won’t tell anyone?”

“Of course not. This is between us. A woman’s matter.” She smiled faintly. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Thea. Nothing.”

I nodded. I didn’t know what to say, so I thanked my mother, and she responded in kind, out of habit, as she left the room.

“You’re welcome.”

I was very good at focusing my mind. That’s what Father called it. Mother called it ignoring the consequences. I had bled twice before this, the first time more than a year ago. And I had kept it a secret because I was confused by the thing that was happening to me. I didn’t understand how something I had expected could make me feel so ashamed. And I knew telling made a thing real. I flung myself on my now-made bed, which wasn’t something we were allowed to do, and pressed my face into my pillow and wished that I would hear a voice, Georgie’s or Sam’s or even Aunt Carrie’s—just a sign that life went on without me, that my bleeding was not really a great or particularly exciting fact. I was a girl, the only girl in our world. How different I was from Georgie and Sam had been articulated by Mother. I felt, for the first time in my life, apart, adrift. A floating girl.

Now I understand that the relief I could see, faintly, on Mother’s face was relief that I was normal. She must have been worried, her daughter fourteen, almost fifteen, and still not menstruating. She’s simply a late bloomer—I’m sure Father would have told her this, uttered these exact words or something so close, and Mother would have agreed with him or not, but still she would have gone away and worried.

—

M
y father came home later than he had promised, and Mother was waiting for him by the front door. I was afraid she was going to tell him I’d started menstruating, so I waited in the sun porch where I could hear them.

“They’re waiting outside,” my mother said, and my father nodded.

“How are they?” He put down his black doctor’s bag, which was always with him. “How do they seem?”

“Fine,” she said, and helped him out of his white coat.

“Fine?”

“Fine, Felix.” Her voice was soft but firm. The conversation of adults was often coded, impenetrable. And though I usually cared very little about the adult matters my mother and father discussed, this was something else, something that involved my aunt and uncle, and, by extension, Georgie. And I cared about Georgie, deeply.

I waited a second and then followed them to the back deck, where the adults went to have cocktails before dinner. I was surprised by my disappointment that Mother hadn’t mentioned me to Father. Everyone sat in our low deck chairs, green-painted metal, around a table set with canapés and a bottle of champagne for the ladies, a decanter of whiskey for the men. Though liquor was technically illegal, getting it was like a game everyone played, and won. Uncle George knew someone in Gainesville who kept him, and us, supplied. This was usually my favorite part of the visits, the time when the adults were happiest.

I walked up behind Father, kissed the top of his head. He smiled up at me, and Uncle George winked at me. Georgie and Sam sat on the ground, a little bit behind everyone, watching the snake. Sam had filled a terrarium with dirt and moss and rocks; a miniature of the snake’s former home. I sat down next to them.

Aunt Carrie caught my eye and smiled. “Is your pony better, Thea?”

I looked at my aunt blankly before I remembered. “Oh, yes,” I said. “He just needs to rest for a few days.”

“Good.” She smiled and smoothed her skirt over her plump stomach.

My father watched my mother as she tipped the champagne bottle to her glass, lifted it away just as the bubbles threatened to flood the rim. We were all watching her, now, and I thought of what she had said earlier, about being a woman. It seemed very womanly, to have everyone watching you.

“Well,” Uncle George said, and paused. He held a pipe in his hand, a thin stream of smoke curling to the heavens. I loved the smell. Idella stepped onto the porch then, carrying a platter of tiny chive biscuits. Sam stood and grabbed a handful before she set it down on the table.

“Sam,” Mother chided softly. She seemed distracted. All of the adults did.

“It’s eating. That’s soon. The last one didn’t eat for days,” Sam said, ignoring Mother, kneeling down and pointing at the snake, which was indeed eating an earthworm. I shuddered.

“Are you going to catch all its food?” Georgie asked. “Seems like a lot of work.”

Sam swallowed the last of his biscuit. I tapped my cheek, to show him there was a crumb, but he was lost in the world of the snake. He could do this, devote himself completely to an animal; I could, too, with Sasi, but it seemed entirely different. Sasi was warm-blooded, like me.

Sam gently lifted the snake from the terrarium and stroked its head. The snake seemed calm, mollified. Mother said it was Sam’s gift, calming animals that frightened most people. He lowered the snake to the wooden ground and it started to slither away, slowly. “It needs its exercise,” Sam murmured, as he crawled on his hands and knees to follow it.

Georgie looked at me and rolled his eyes, and I smiled. I could not imagine loving a snake as much as my brother did.

“He’s a snake charmer,” I said, and Georgie began to say something else, but then we both turned, drawn by the odd, unmistakable sound of someone weeping. My aunt. I felt chilled. I couldn’t ever remember seeing her cry. In fact, I’d only seen my mother cry once before, when her horse had to be put down; my father, never.

I turned to Georgie, but he was watching his mother.

“It’s worthless now?” my mother asked quietly. “All of it?”

My aunt closed her eyes, and pressed her fingers to her lips. My uncle watched his pipe, which he held carefully, pinched between his thumb and finger. He would not meet Mother’s eye. Neither of them spoke. I turned to my cousin again, and there were bright red splotches on his cheeks and forehead, the redness colonizing his fair skin. He knew.

“Miami,” Aunt Carrie said dolefully, and shook her head. “Miami.”

Miami was where Uncle George had been going for years, since I could remember. He drove down there once a month, to look after his property, property he would eventually sell.

My father said nothing, sat very still, his hands on his knees, his face blank. But I understood that this blankness meant something: my father was angry.

“Tell her, George,” Aunt Carrie said, “tell her.”

Uncle George looked at his wife, and she nodded. “Go on.”

“To put it plainly, as I told my brother this morning, I owe the bank more than it’s worth. It was a foolish investment from the beginning,” he said finally. “But it seemed a sure thing. Bryan himself called the light ‘God’s Sunshine.’ Everyone wanted a piece, Elizabeth. There were so many people who wanted to live there . . .” He trailed off. “It seemed a sure thing.”

When my father spoke, his voice was soft but clear. “Nothing in this life is sure, George.” A bright red cardinal landed on the railing, and gave a little chirp. My father turned his head in the direction of the sound, gazed at the bird for a moment, and then turned back to his brother. “Nothing.”

“Especially land speculation,” my uncle said, and laughed nervously.

I felt sick to my stomach. The air was thick, the adults were so distracted they hadn’t noticed me and Georgie. Sam was still following his snake.

Georgie stood, and walked off the porch into the backyard without asking to be excused. I waited for an adult to call him back, but they just watched him go, their foreheads creased, and I was suddenly so angry at everyone—my stupid brother, my stupid parents, my stupid aunt and uncle.

I ran after Georgie. My mother called after me—“Thea!”—but I ignored her.

When I caught up to him, I touched his shoulder.

He spun around. “What do you want?”

I couldn’t say anything. I didn’t know what I would say. His meanness surprised me; Georgie was never mean to me.

“Let’s go to the barn,” I said quietly. I knew he would follow me. When Sasi heard me, he nickered and swung his pretty head over the stall door. It was nearly time for him to eat. I patted his broad forehead, and waited. I sensed that Georgie would speak when he was ready.

I murmured to Sasi, told him what a good boy he was. I hoped the bleeding would not last too long this time. I hated not riding, hated spending a day or two reestablishing things with Sasi before we could begin again where we had left off.

“My father thought we were going to be rich,” Georgie said, from behind me, “like you.”

Sasi nipped my hand, lightly, mouthy because he was hungry.

“We’re not rich,” I said.

Georgie gave a short, hard laugh. “You have the oranges.”

It was true. We did have the oranges.

“Do you know what it means to mortgage your house, Thea?” he asked. He stepped closer to me. He touched the tail of my braid, and I shivered. “It means my father borrowed money from the bank against our house.”

“Why?” I could barely breathe. Georgie’s finger lingered on my back, toying with my hair.

“To buy more land, in Miami,” Georgie said. “He was happy to sell soon.” He was almost whispering. “And now the country is doing very badly, and he can’t pay the bank back, and he asked for money. From your father.”

I could feel Georgie’s breath on my neck. I could smell him: strong, oily, like he had been out in the woods.

Very badly.
Those were our parents’ words. Father had said the same thing about the country last week. But our parents’ world was separate from ours, another place entirely. Georgie need not worry about the matters of adults. I spun around and faced my cousin, who looked mournful, the opposite of how God had made him to look. I took his hand.

“They’ll take care of it. You’ll see.”

I could see Georgie wanted to believe me.

“Trust me,” I said.

I would show Georgie I was not afraid. Money meant nothing to me, then. If Uncle George borrowed money from my family, that was fine, because everything was shared in a family, and besides, there was always more money. There was always another set of silk drapes from Orlando, another pony, another ivory-handled knife.

“All right,” he said. The old Georgie had returned to me. “All right. I’ll trust you, Thea.”

He kissed me on the cheek. I blushed, but I was pleased because I had pleased my cousin, because I had cheered him up, because I had shown him that the money did not matter.

I believed all those things I told my cousin that day. I had everything I loved in the world within one hundred feet: my parents, my aunt and uncle, my brother. My cousin and pony within arm’s reach. My understanding of our world, I thought, was complete.

T
he rain fell in sheets. Naari and I were halted at the head of the ring, next to Mr. Albrecht, watching Leona complete her course. She rode badly today, perhaps distracted by the rain. She and King had nicked several jumps, knocked two over entirely.

“Hold his head!” Mr. Albrecht shouted, his voice dulled by the wind. He held an umbrella, which Naari eyed warily. We were to be assessed individually, today, my first time, but I wasn’t nervous.

When Leona was finished I nudged Naari into a trot from our standstill: she was distracted by the storm, and her ears flicked back and forth. I murmured to her, kicked her twice, and she gave me her attention for a moment. We passed Leona, who was muttering furiously to King.

“Knees, Thea,” Mr. Albrecht yelled. My knees had a tendency to slide upward during jumps.

“One minute.” Mr. Albrecht timed our courses, as we would be timed in a competition. I slid my right heel back and asked Naari to canter.

“Time,” Mr. Albrecht called, and we were nearly aligned with the first jump, but not quite. I had learned early on, before Mr. Albrecht, to forget my mistakes. Remembering could easily ruin a course.

“Now,” I hissed to Naari as we cleared the first jump, but barely. The rain seemed to quicken, or maybe I was just going faster. The wind whipped. There was no thunder or lightning—camp rules would force us to take cover, then—but I could hear the weak branches of the oak trees snapping.

A pelt of Spanish moss flew into our path, and Naari skittered. I tapped her shoulder with my crop and tightened the reins.

“Balance,” I heard Mr. Albrecht yell, but he was barely there.

I directed Naari toward a triple, the most difficult combination of the course.

“Two, two, two,” I repeated to myself—there was room for two strides between each jump, no more, no less.

“Yes,” screamed Mr. Albrecht.
“Gut!”
I could barely hear him. “Now,” I heard him yell, and I cleared the first jump. One, two—Naari soared over the second jump, I could barely feel her beneath me, she was a coil between my legs.

And then the last jump. We were nearly done. The wind picked up, then, between the second and third jumps, and Mr. Albrecht’s umbrella flew toward us. Naari swerved to the right, and I lost my right stirrup, and then I heard the unmistakable crack of leather, and my saddle slid to the left. My girth has broken, I thought, incredulously. I looked toward Mr. Albrecht, as if to say—Do you see this?

But then the saddle lurched even farther to the left, and I couldn’t believe my bad luck—how could I straighten myself out, move the saddle to the right, when I had lost my right stirrup? It was impossible. I felt horribly dizzy all of a sudden, perched at an angle nearly parallel to the ground.

“Circle her.” Mr. Albrecht yelled. “Circle.”

But I was so disoriented I didn’t even know which rein was right and which was left. I pressed my right leg to Naari’s flank as hard as I could, the only pressure that was keeping me from hurtling to the ground. And I would not fall cleanly. I could see from my vantage point that the girth had not broken completely, so if I fell I would likely be trapped beneath Naari, tied to her by the stirrup I had not lost.

“Do something,” Mr. Albrecht called desperately. “Something!”

Naari galloped by them, and Leona flashed through my tilted field of vision; she was looking at her hand, held in front of her in its navy glove, fingers splayed, palm upturned. Dye streaked her forearm.

In a burst of strength, I somehow threw my arm around Naari’s neck, and hitched myself upright again. And then the world was back to its normal order, and I was able to turn Naari in a circle until she slowed.

Mr. Albrecht approached us, holding out his hand to Naari, who looked at him warily. “It is all right,” he murmured, and then to me: “Are you all right, Thea?”

I nodded. I felt fine, strangely fine. I knew I should have felt relieved, or still scared, but instead I felt blank; relaxed, even. I had been so close to an accident; but wasn’t I always that close, whenever I was on top of a horse?

Leona stood in the same place as before, watching us, and I understood that I had witnessed a weakness: Leona hadn’t wanted to watch. She had been afraid.

“She’s spooky,” Leona said later, at the barn, as we sponged warm water over our horses’ backs. Steam rose. “King’s not. He’s dull. That’s how a horse should be, dull and obedient.”

“I like my horses smart,” I said lightly.

“Too smart for their own good, is that how you like them? You lost your stirrup, you almost fell. She would have dragged you around the ring if you had.”

“But I didn’t.” Naari was exhausted, stood perfectly still in the cross ties.

“But you could have,” Leona said. I was about to argue, but Leona continued: “The duller a horse is, the better.” She slapped King on the neck. “People are killed in horseback riding accidents, Thea.” She unhooked King’s cross ties; Naari started at the sound of the metal snaps against the concrete floor of the wash rack. “You should request a different horse.

“But,” she said, as she led King past us, “you won’t, because you’re proud. A horse is a weapon.”

I stopped and looked at her, and I realized that I had something Leona did not. I was fearless. And that counted for something.

“Smart horses will work for you,” I said. “Once you win them over. Dumb horses”—and here I looked at King—“they don’t care enough.” Leona stared at me, then turned her face away quickly, her long blond braid snapping like a whip; we both knew I was right.

I was currying the saddle marks from Naari’s back when Leona appeared again.

“I want to tell you something,” she said. Her tone was neutral. “I come from a riding family.”

I banged my curry comb against the wall. A curry comb–shaped clump of hair fell to the floor.

“I know.” We all knew.

“Yes,” she continued, “a family where everyone rides.” She paused. “My sister walked behind a horse, too close, and she was kicked in the head. She died.”

I didn’t say anything.

“It was a long time ago. I was born later. She died in three days.” She held up three fingers. “It was not the horse’s fault. It was her fault, she walked where she should not have. It is never the horse, Thea.”

She turned, then, and began to stride away in precisely measured steps.

“Leona,” I called.

She turned. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry for your sister.” I took a step forward, and though I must have been more than twenty feet away from this girl, this exquisite giant, she took a step back.

Leona shook her head. “It was before me.”

As I watched Leona walk away, I could see that her disclosure did not mean a door into her soul had opened slightly and forever, as it would have with Sissy. But I liked Leona, in spite of her imperiousness. In spite of what Sissy said. I felt linked to her: we were the best riders here.

—

M
ary Abbott knelt beside my bunk.

“Thea,” she whispered. “Thea.”

I opened my eyes. There was no moon, and the cabin was dark as coal. I saw Mary Abbott by the flash of her pale skin. My chest felt tight.

Yes, I wanted to say, but my voice would not come.

“Your breathing,” Mary Abbott said, “it woke me.”

I sat up too quickly and banged my head on the bottom of Eva’s bunk, which I hadn’t done since my first morning here. My hair caught, my scalp burned. I tried to speak again and my voice came out as a bark.

“You don’t sound well.”

I shook my head and began to cry. I couldn’t speak, I could barely breathe. When I’d gone to sleep I’d only had a cold. I’d felt a bit achy, but otherwise fine.

Sissy came to me then, and pushed Mary Abbott aside. She took my hand and felt my forehead.

“Fetch Henny.” Mary Abbott disappeared.

Sissy freed my hair from the metal netting. “Lie back,” she whispered.

“Thea?” Eva’s head hung over the bed.

I tried to speak—Nothing, I wanted to say—but Sissy shook her head.

“Quiet.”

Sissy wasn’t allowed to accompany me to the Castle, where I spent the night in the windowless infirmary. Mrs. Holmes checked on me every hour while I slept fitfully, alone for the first time in months, nothing to lull me to sleep but the sound of the wind disturbing the trees. I had become used to the sounds girls made: Gates snored lightly when she first fell asleep, and occasionally Sissy spoke to herself, in nonsense, until Victoria reached down and tapped her. And there was always the heavy sound of breathing to soothe when I woke and believed, for the briefest instant, that I was at home in my own bed, where I used to belong.

I fell into a delirium. Mrs. Holmes was careful not to touch me when she slid the thermometer in my mouth, held it there with the tip of her finger against my tongue’s thrusts.

“Leave it, Thea.” But I would not, my quiet resistance.

“Mother,” I said.

“She’s not here, Thea,” she said quietly.

My breathing became more labored as the night wore on; my fever rose. Each time I woke I thought I was home.

Another figure followed Mrs. Holmes into the room—by this time, perhaps, I truly was delirious—I saw the sharp, slim outline of a tall man.

“Sam,” I called.

“Hush,” Mrs. Holmes said.

Mother would come to me, once she learned that I was ill. She would have to.

—

W
hen I opened my eyes again, Mrs. Holmes and a man—the doctor, I knew—stood over me.

“May I examine you, Thea?” he asked.

I covered my heart with my hand, embarrassed. I wondered if he’d lifted my gown to hear. Even through my stuffed nose, the doctor smelled musty. He didn’t wear a white doctor’s coat, like my father did when he saw patients. He wore instead a regular suit. It was Sunday, he had made a special trip to see me. He was short and fat, he matched Mrs. Holmes better than Mr. Holmes did. His wife was probably tall and slender; that was how the world worked.

He took my wrist in his hand and pressed his fingers to it, to feel my pulse.

“She rode in the rain for hours last week,” Mrs. Holmes said, “she chilled herself to the bone. And,” she added, and lowered her voice, “she’s been very homesick.”

“An equestrienne?”

“Yes,” I said. Mrs. Holmes went to the closet and pulled out a stack of white towels; I saw a reflection of myself in a mirror that was nailed to the door as it swung shut. I looked very pale. “All the girls ride,” Mrs. Holmes said, as if it were an unavoidable, slightly disappointing activity.

I wondered if she was angry at Mr. Albrecht—whom she seemed to like, who sat at the head table with the Holmes family—for letting me ride in the rain.

“I didn’t make myself sick,” I said. I wasn’t the kind of girl who would do that.

Mrs. Holmes said nothing. Mr. Holmes had become easy to read, for me; his face was always moving in response to the things girls said, always expressing pleasure or dismay or confusion, but Mrs. Holmes was entirely self-composed, a trait I admired in spite of myself. I would like to learn to be that composed. Her clothes were so old-fashioned, of another era: her skirt that fell to the floor, her cameo that closed her blouse at the neck to prevent even the tiniest glimpse of skin. The Holmeses were considered progressive: they’d done away with sidesaddle when they’d taken over, for which I, at least, was grateful. And under the Holmeses’ direction, many girls applied to ladies’ colleges as seniors, and though some married before they could go, many actually went. And yet here Mrs. Holmes sat like a relic of an earlier time.

The doctor felt my neck. “An illness is a mysterious and often inexplicable event, Mrs. Holmes. To know its cause would mean that you knew more than God, Mrs. Holmes. Knew more than science.”

Mrs. Holmes murmured, but the murmur gave away neither assent nor dissent, and the doctor chuckled and winked at me, asked me to sit up so that he could place the cold stethoscope, warmed by his breath, on my back. I wore only my nightgown, no underclothes.

I was nearly naked in front of this man. My chest ached, and it pained me to breathe deeply, but still I was ashamed.

I closed my eyes and took deep breaths when the doctor asked me to. I was relieved I was not at home, because then Father would have examined me and seen me unclothed. But if I were at home, I would have been well.

“A bad cold,” the doctor announced when he was done. I liked him. He had taken my side.

—

T
here was a knock on the door and I put down my book.

“Come in,” I called.

It was Mr. Holmes. He was wearing a suit; it was Wednesday, camp life continued without me. Everyone here dressed formally; Mr. Albrecht wore a black show coat with his breeches, and the female teachers wore nice, if plain, dresses. I smoothed the covers over my lap.

He folded himself into the chair by my bed, which seemed too small for him.

“Hello,” he said, and smiled. He was too tall to ride horses, it would be hard for him to keep his balance. Maybe if he had learned when he was a child, but it was almost impossible to teach a tall adult how to ride. It should feel strange, I knew, to be alone in a room with a man who was not family for the first time in my life. And yet it did not.

“Hello. How are you today?”

“I’m just fine. I should be asking that of you. Do you feel better?”

I nodded.

“What are you reading?” He gestured to my book.

“Howards End.”

“Do you like to read?”

“I love books.”

He picked up the book and examined its cover. “I love them, too. There’s such cruelty and such goodness in Forster’s world. But I don’t want to ruin it for you. I see you’re only halfway through.”

“That could be said of any book, couldn’t it?” I asked shyly. But I knew I was correct. “If the people in them are real.”

“I suppose it could.”

I could tell I had surprised and pleased Mr. Holmes. We were quiet for a moment.

“I’m concerned, Thea. Mrs. Holmes thinks you are homesick—” I started to protest, but he held up his hand. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Thea. Many of the girls are homesick. It always goes away. But you’ve been here for two months.”