limps into the room, aided by
her aunt. She looks like hell—
gaunt, pallid, and uncertain
of her balance. But I keep that
to myself and smile. “Hey, Hillary.
How are you feeling?” Lame.
Marginally better than I look.
Peg guides her into a chair, says
she’ll return in a few. I sit on
the adjacent sofa, call Gabe over.
“I don’t think you two have met
officially yet. Hillary, this is Gabe.
I’m not sure how much you remember,
but he’s the one who found you.”
She stares at him for several
long seconds. I remember your eyes.
Finally, she twists her attention
in my direction. And I remember
you telling me Niagara was okay.
Things are blurry before and after.
Well, I’m glad we found you when
we did. Gabe has been studying
her intently, eliciting a small barb
of jealousy, an emotion relatively
novel to me. I do my best to ignore
it. “The team sure misses you. Syrah
tries hard, but she can’t match
your speed. We’ve got a tourney
in two weeks. Wish you could play.”
Me too. And ride. I’m turning
into a regular slug. But I can’t take
a chance on an accident, and my
equilibrium will be off for a while.
We Talk for Twenty Minutes
All the time Peg
Grantham will allow.
Gabe and I learn:
Only three people do,
in fact, live there, in
the eight-thousand-square-
foot house—her dad,
Aunt Peg, and Hillary.
Her dad, who’s a high-
powered lawyer, spends
long stretches of time
in Sacramento, where
he practices. He’s also
running for the California
State Attorney General’s
office. Which is why Peg
is living with them.
As long as she can keep
up with her schoolwork
despite her injury, Hillary
will graduate in June
and go on to Stanford,
her parents’ alma mater,
and where the two met.
Her mother and older
brother are dead.
They Were Killed
On September 11, 2001,
when the twin towers of
the World Trade Center
were leveled by terrorists.
I barely remember Mama,
says Hillary, and if not
for photos, I wouldn’t be
able to picture Brent at all.
I was only three when it
happened. We were visiting
Aunt Peg in upstate New
York, and I came down
with some virus, or I might
have been there, too.
Mama had taken Brent
into the city to sightsee.
They were staying at
the Marriott at the foot
of the WTC. When the towers
fell, the hotel was sliced
in two. Everyone on one
side lived; but on the other . . .
She shakes her head sadly,
but her eyes don’t tear up,
and it’s obvious many years
have passed—enough for
a young child’s grief to
be swallowed up by time.
Wow, says Gabe. It’s weird
to know someone personally
affected by 9/11. I was little,
like not quite five, but I totally
remember my mom glued to
the TV, praying and crying.
Not for anyone she knew,
but just because of how many
people died, including first
responders. It hit her hard.
I overheard my dad and her
talking, saying how terror
was not supposed to affect
us at home, and no American
would ever feel safe again.
I didn’t get it then. It took
years to understand.
The only thing I can think
to say is, “I’m really sorry,
Hillary. That sucks so bad.”
Gabe’s right. It’s strange
to find out someone you know
was personally affected by such
an infamous piece of history.
All I Know About 9/11
Is what I’ve learned in school,
usually on the anniversary.
I asked Dad about it one time.
It didn’t surprise me, he said.
The only thing that did was
that it took them so long,
and that Saudi Arabia
masterminded the whole
dirty thing. I figured it would
be Iran or Iraq, and shit, who
knows? Maybe their stinking
fingers were in it, too.
In the years that followed,
as American casualty counts
grew in Iraq and Afghanistan,
Dad commented once, Hell,
it could’ve been me over there.
And for what? Upsetting
the power structure is only
going to fuck things up even
worse, you mark my words.
Shit’s gonna get ugly, and,
intelligence or not, the US
of A is not immune. There
will be more attacks at home.
Guess he knew a thing or two.
We Change the Subject
And now we learn
that Hillary’s new car
is on order. It’s an
all-wheel-drive
Long Beach Blue
BMW X6 M,
not that I’ve got a clue
what that is, except
Gabe says, Holy crap!
Those are beautiful
cars. Definitely a step
up from a Ford.
“Hey, now, without
that Ford, I’d probably
be on foot forever.
This is the first chance
I’ve had to thank you
in person for the Focus.
No one’s ever given me
a gift like this. Not sure
how I can repay you.”
The debt was mine to pay,
Ariel. You and Gabe didn’t
have to stop. A lot of people
would’ve driven right past.
So, thank you. Both of you.
It’s a Natural Break
In the conversation, and Peg
must’ve been listening for one
because she comes bustling in.
Okay, we’d better let Hillary
rest now. This is the most
stimulation she’s had in a while.
We say our good-byes and I
comment, “Next time I see you,
I’ll be driving a pretty red car.”
Wait by the door, says Peg. I’ll take
Hillary up to her room and then
give you that tour of the barn.
When they go upstairs, Gabe
asks, So did your dad commit
to signing off on your driver’s license?
“Not yet. But I’m not taking no
for an answer. You don’t happen
to have any ideas about blackmail?”
He grins. Maybe I could wait till
he and Zelda are busy in the bedroom
and sneak a pic with my phone?
“I don’t think that would work.
Where are you going to post i
t, for one
thing? Like, who would care?”
Just Stating the Obvious
And Gabe can only agree.
Peg returns, wearing riding
boots in place of her earlier
slippers. She gestures for us
to come along with her.
It’s kind of a hike to the barn,
she says. If you’d rather drive,
go ahead. I can use the exercise.
It is a decent walk, but the sun
has warmed the autumn air,
which is scented with the sweet
wood smoke that has escaped
the chimney. For no other reason
than to make conversation, I ask
Peg, “Do you like California?”
Well enough. I’ve been out here
for fifteen years, so it pretty much
feels like home. Why do you ask?
“Just wondering. Hillary told us
about her mom and brother.
I figured that’s why you’re here.”
You figured right. I’d probably still
be in New York if Charles didn’t need
me to take care of Hillary. When she
goes off to college, I could leave, but
I won’t. All that I am is right here.
All That I Am
Interesting turn of phrase.
I’ll have to dissect it later
because we’ve reached
the barn, which is massive.
In the center is a huge indoor
arena with a decent block
of seats. “Do you put on shows
here, or just use it for training?”
We used to host regular events, but
then life got busy. Maybe we’ll do
it again in the future. Who knows?
Meanwhile, it’s good to be able
to work the horses year round,
not that Sonora rain can rival
upstate New York snow. I would’ve
killed for this facility in Albany.
We follow her to the long row
of stalls edging the barn. As we
stroll, I ask, “So you trained
horses in New York, too?”
Oh, yes. I moved there to be with
my fiancé. We were both Olympic
equestrians and met at a competition.
Love blossomed over dressage.
She’s Human After All
I’d love to know more of the story,
but I don’t know her well enough
to ask her to tell it. Shame.
My curiosity is screaming, ASK!
But my logical side wins out.
We walk down the line of stalls,
studying the horses inside them.
Most are Thoroughbreds—tall
and fine-boned, with chiseled
heads and the quick tempers
associated with hot-blood horses.
But a couple of warmbloods
stand out. Though a bit shorter
than their stable mates, they’re
obviously athletes, and strength
is what makes them beautiful.
“What breed are they?”
Hanoverian. I brought the mare’s
dam with me from the East Coast
and bred her here. The stallion
I found in Oregon. He’s amazing,
not only handsome, but he has
an unparalleled temperament.
We plan on breeding the pair next
time the mare comes into heat. These
horses practically beg to do dressage,
and they’re talented hunters, too.
It is Gabe who asks, Do you
show anymore? You, I mean.
No. It’s a time-consuming hobby,
and I don’t have a lot of spare time.
The Thoroughbred breeding program
is our bread and butter. Hillary
showed Niagara, but most of the colts
are racetrack-bound. Now Peg does
a double take. You like horses, too?
More like I put up with them—
and the people I know who like
them. He winks at me. Actually,
horse lovers tend to be pretty great.
We pass Niagara’s stall and
the mare comes over, as if
she recognizes me and wants
to say hello. Maybe she does, because
she sticks her nose over the door
and nickers softly. “Hello to you,
too. Sorry. Fresh out of carrots.”
Funny, says Peg. She’s picky about
who she relates to. Max said he offered
you a job here. Hope you’ll consider
taking it. Niagara would appreciate
it, and so would I. Hillary won’t be
able to ride for quite a while, I’m afraid.
Job Offer Assured
I ask what my duties
would be if I came
to work at the Triple G.
It would come down to:
exercising horses
brushing horses
feeding horses
moving horses
from stall to paddock
and back again, no
manure shoveling involved.
Plus, if I’m interested,
Peg is willing to
teach me dressage
teach me to jump
teach me to hunt
teach me cross-country
which add up to eventing,
something she did as a member
of the US Equestrian Team.
I’m not sure I’m equal
to all of that, but I kind
of want to give it a try.
And that’s what I tell her.
Once Again
It comes down to
convincing Dad to let
me work, and allow
me to transport myself.
And, if I can manage that,
to finding the time
commitment. Basketball
finishes in February,
and that will free up
my after-school hours.
Meanwhile, it would
just be weekends. Oh,
one final question,
“How much could I
expect to get paid?”
A pragmatist. I like that.
I’d have to check in
with Max, but I think
we could start you at
twelve dollars an hour,
as long as you’re an able
rider. Some of the colts
are pretty green.
“Sounds fair. I’ll talk
it over with my dad
and let you know
as soon as I can.”
We Wrap It Up
Head back toward the house.
But the rest of her story
is gnawing at me, and I know
it won’t let go unless I shake
it off, so what the hell. “May
I ask a personal question?”
You can always ask. I can’t
guarantee I’ll answer it, though.
“What happened with your
fiancé? I mean, when you
decided to move out west,
why didn’t he come, too?”
She considers her reply,
and her sigh is heavyweight.
He and I had planned our
future, start to finish, and
for him that meant eventing,
and New York, not babysitting
in California. In his eyes, I chose
family over him, and I guess
that was accurate enough,
though I didn’t feel I had
a choice, and begged him
to come along. I learned
love can’t always weather
the circumstances of ou
r lives.
Such Loyalty
To family is humbling,
and also completely alien.
The only family I own
is Dad, and though of course
he loves me, I’m sure of
that, sometimes he makes
me feel like a burden
he’d rather not shoulder.
Yes, he stepped up when
my mother deserted us,
but should he ever actually
fall in love again, would he put
me first? Could he love Zelda?
I don’t know, and thinking
back over the years, it’s odd
he hooked up with so many
women, but never connected
on a deep emotional level
with even one. Is my father
really capable of falling in love?
Maya
For Casey
I haven’t updated your journal in a while, but it’s been a hard few months. Your daddy was transferred to a new army base, so we’re just getting used to life at Fort Bragg. North Carolina is a long way from Texas, and part of me doesn’t mind that so much. I left a lot of bad memories in Texas.
In North Carolina, the weather is different. The people are different. The twang of their voices is different from our gentle drawl. And there’s new stuff to see when Daddy puts us in the old Chevy he bought and takes us for drives. There’s even an ocean—the Atlantic.
We’ve been to the beach a couple of times. You’re so cute when you sit on the sand and it shifts under you. Your eyes go wide, you coo surprise, and try to grab a handful. Of course Daddy cusses about that. “Keep her on the blanket, would you? That crap’ll get everywhere!”
He uses worse words, but I’m cleaning up his language here in your journal. Too bad you have to hear it sometimes. I’ve asked him to please not swear in front of you. He tells me I’m “f***ing” crazy, that you’re too little to understand. To be totally honest, I had to scrub my own vocab, too. You listen to everything. I want your very first word to be “mama,” not the f-word.
Our new house is a little bigger, a little newer. But it’s still just like the one right next door. Soldiers might be creative in how they fight, but not so much in how they live.
I did change things up for you. Instead of the yellow I painted your first bedroom with, I chose bright green for this one because it reminded me of new grass. We moved here in March, right before the official first day of spring.
Spring in Texas meant bluebonnets stretching as far as you could see. One day I’ll show you bluebonnets, but they don’t have them in North Carolina. Here there are columbines and bleeding hearts and wild geraniums. I hoped the blooming flowers would ease my growing depression, but they haven’t helped much.