Another Kind of Cowboy (20 page)

MARCH 17

THE DAY WE
took Detroit back was like the day of a big funeral. The whole world seemed to speak in whispers. Alex and I went for a little ride around Limestone before we took Detroit back to Ms. Reed's. I rode Turnip while Alex rode Detroit. Tandava had recovered from her colic, but it hadn't mellowed her any. She's no trail horse.

After we rode every drenched path and trail on the property and filled our noses with the smell of leather and damp horse, Alex said he was ready. We stopped the horses outside the barn and Fergus and Ivan came out to say good-bye. Ivan patted Detroit and briefly tapped a finger on Alex's booted calf. It was Ivan's version of bursting into tears
and giving him a hug.

Fergus's face was drawn and unhappy. He whispered something into Detroit's ear and then looked at Alex.

“So you're all set?”

Alex nodded. “Grace is going to drive his stuff over.”

“I'm glad you brought him by for another hack around the place. We'll miss him.”

Then Fergus ran out of words.

Alex moved Detroit off and I followed. We turned the horses up the driveway and into the shadows. After we hit Yellow Point Road, we rode in single file until we reached Cedar Road. In what seemed like no time we were at Ms. Reed's. A new, wrought-iron gate across her driveway was opened by a man I'd never seen before. He'd obviously been waiting for us.

“Ms. Reed's not home,” he said. “I'm doing some, uh, landscaping for her. She told me you'd be coming and said that you were to put the horse in his pasture and leave his gear in the tack room.” The man coughed, embarrassed. “She wanted to make sure all his stuff came back, so she gave me a list.”

Alex was stone-faced. He swung out of the saddle and led Detroit toward the barn.

The man turned to me. “I'm sorry. I've got my instructions.”

“Don't say anything else to him, okay?” I said. “Don't worry about the list. She'll get everything back. Someone will be here in a minute with the rest of it.”

“Has it all been cleaned?” The man looked even more embarrassed. “She told me I had to ask.”

“That horse's gear will never be this clean again,” I said.

I held Turnip while Alex untacked Detroit and brushed him one last time. He was just finishing when Grace and the twins pulled up in the IROC. The landscaper waved them in, and I helped Grace and the twins unload Detroit's blankets and sheets and accessories, most of which Alex had bought for him in the few months he'd been riding the horse. Alex insisted they all belonged to Detroit now and should go home with him. Judging by the stacks of neatly folded blankets, Detroit had more clothes than Alex did.

When he was finished grooming the big horse, Alex put Detroit's new, bright-green winter rug on. The color was electric against the horse's gleaming bay coat. Then Alex led Detroit into his pasture and
slipped off his halter. I snuck a glance at the twins. They were both in tears. I was afraid to look at Grace.

Detroit snuffled Alex's chest and then nudged at his pockets until Alex produced a treat. Then Alex walked out and closed the gate. When he reached us, I handed him Turnip's reins. His face was still a mask.

“I'll be home in a while,” he said to no one in particular as he led the old paint down the driveway and out the gates. Detroit followed Alex and Turnip as far as he could and when he could go no farther, he began to whinny and trot back and forth, calling them back.

APRIL 6

IT WAS FRIDAY
night and Alex was wandering around the house, floating on a thick sludge of boredom and depression. Grace had taken the twins to kung fu and gone off to torture some poor woman's hair into shape, so he was on his own. His father was in his RV but he might as well have been on the moon for all he'd had to do with Alex in the few weeks since their little talk.

With Detroit gone, Alex found the hours stretched in front of him like years.
So,
he thought grimly,
this is what life is like for people who don't ride.

The first couple of weekends he went to Limestone Farm to help out but it was obvious that Fergus and Ivan didn't really need him and he felt
pathetic cleaning stalls because he had nothing better to do. Princess was too old to work, and seeing Cleo ride gave him pains in places he couldn't name.

Grace and Maggie and May did what they could to cheer him up. Grace cooked him several revolting dishes, which he pretended to enjoy, and she highlighted his hair, which he actually did enjoy. Maggie and May offered him the role of Man Who Gets Beaten Up in their new fifteen-minute film,
Murder at Deadwood Junior High
, but he didn't much care for being pummeled, even if it was in the service of art.

He brushed Turnip until Maggie pointed out that he was going to brush the old gelding's hair right off. He cleaned the small stable until it gleamed. He raked symmetrical lines into the shavings in Turnip's stall. He color-coordinated his brushes and transferred Turnip's pellets and supplements into attractive, matching plastic bins in graduated sizes.

He did homework.

And he thought constantly about calling Chris.

He hadn't told Chris or Sofia about losing Detroit. After he'd shut Chris out at the show, their friendship had slipped back into slightly awkward casual acquaintance territory. Sofia had recently been elected secretary general of the Model U.N. Club by
several boys who had tremendous, knee-shaking crushes on her. When she was off at lunch practicing human-rights speeches and conflict resolution, Alex and Chris hung out together, but they barely talked. Chris sketched and listened to his headphones and Alex pretended to read. And every so often their eyes met and Alex felt a fresh wave of confusion.

Enough time had gone by that Alex was beginning to think he'd imagined the electricity that had leaped between them when Chris had helped him on with his scarf. He couldn't stop thinking about how he'd pushed Chris away when he needed him because he was too scared to be honest. Alex had begun Googling the bands he saw on Chris's T-shirts, telling himself that he'd be ready if Chris ever wanted to discuss the history of the Pixies or Radiohead or Sonic Youth.

Another wave of boredom washed over him. It was six-thirty
P.M
. Was that too early to go to bed? He tried to remember what he did before he got a horse. Oh, right. He used to ride his bike around and pretend it was a horse. He wandered into the garage and found Del Magnifico le Noir tucked away in his little corner. The blanket that covered the bicycle was dusty. Alex took it off and laughed
when he saw that the red dog leash was still attached to the handlebars.

He rolled the bike back and forth a few times. It was so small. He glanced quickly around and then sat on it. He had to poke his knees out at almost right angles so they wouldn't hit the handlebars.

There wasn't enough room to ride in the garage, so Alex hit the button to open the door, then slowly pedaled Magnifico out onto the driveway. His knees practically brushed his ears as his legs rose and fell. He made a grab for the leash and nearly lost his balance.

“Whoa,” he muttered as he tried again. The bike wobbled crazily but stayed upright. He rode slowly in a big circle and then up to the fence where Turnip stood watching him with a look of concern on his plain, honest, roman-nosed face.

Alex used his feet to stop the bike and reached a hand through the fence.

Turnip softly lipped his hand and then, having convinced himself that the contraption wasn't about to kill Alex, went back to grazing. Alex rode in a few more big circles, repeating the old words, “dressage, dressage, dressage.”

“I must have been the weirdest kid,” he muttered
to himself, then promptly fell over when he made another grab for the leash reins.

“You hurt?”

Alex, face burning, tried to stand up but a handlebar was caught on his clothes. When he stood the whole bike came with him. He looked in the direction of the voice as he extracted the handlebar from his pocket and set the bike back on the ground.

“Good thing that little rig's closer to the ground than one of your horses, eh?”

His father sat on the steps of his motor home. Alex wondered how long he'd been there.

Alex rubbed at his scraped knuckles and then felt his bruised elbow. “Yeah,” he said.

“You used to ride that damn thing all over hell's half acre,” said Mr. Ford. “You were the damndest sight. Making horse noises and talking to yourself like I don't know what. Christ, we had some good laughs about that.”

Alex had seen his father only a few times since the confrontation and only from a distance. Something had changed. His father looked different. Thinner. Steadier.

“Are you
sober
?” he asked before he could stop himself.

Mr. Ford looked down at his big hands, which rested on his knees. Then he looked up at Alex.

“I am.”

They stayed that way for a moment, Alex holding his childhood bicycle between him and his father.

“That's good, Dad.”

Mr. Ford cleared his throat. “I've been going to some meetings. To talk about things. Get a handle on my drinking.”

“That's great,” said Alex, and he meant it.

“I guess we're going to have to talk about…your, your situation, at some point.”

Alex stared straight into his father's eyes.

“Do we have to?”

Alex's father gave a short, unexpected bark of laughter.

“A guy just needs a little time,” Mr. Ford said, almost as though he was talking to himself. “Does it have anything to do with me living in the RV?” he said suddenly.

“Are you asking if your RV made me gay?”

Alex's father winced. “Not my RV,” he said. “Me living in it.”

“No, Dad. The fact that you live in a motor home in the yard didn't make me gay. And it isn't
because Mom left. Dressage didn't do it to me, either, in case you wondered.”

“Bloody hell, this is hard,” said Mr. Ford.

“You're telling me,” muttered Alex.

All of a sudden Alex was overcome with exhaustion, but strangely, he felt lighter, too, like he'd been packing around a hundred-pound bale of hay and finally just put it down. He noticed his dad slumping a bit on the stairs.

“Well, I think I'm going to head inside. I'm kind of tired,” said Mr. Ford.

“Me too,” said Alex, slightly too emphatically.

“Talk to you later,” said his dad, giving him a little wave.

“Okay,” said Alex, waving back.

Alex rolled the bike back to the garage, closed the door, and walked back into the house. On his way through the kitchen he grabbed the phone. He went into his room and shut the door. He sat on his bed and took several deep, calming breaths before he dialed Chris's number.

APRIL 6

UNDERGOING A RADICAL
personal transformation is no easy thing. Since Tandava colicked and I decided to become a responsible person, I've made a lot of changes. I've been showing up for lessons on time. I've been attending almost all of my classes at school and am on the verge, the very precipice, of catching up. I do almost all of my work around the barn. I still complain quite a bit, but I like to think that's part of my charm. I've also become one of those extremely self-reflective people. Maybe a better way to describe it would be “personally concerned with self.”

Since Jenny got kicked out and I got my room all to myself again I've been spending a lot of time writing in my journal. I'm pleased to say that it's no
longer a journal of despair. It's more of a journal of self-involvement, really. At least that's what Alex suggested when I read him some of it. He said it in a loving way, though, similar to how he speaks to his sisters and aunt.

On this journey of self-discovery, I've discovered that I have a pattern of giving things away, or rather, letting people take my shit. And my parents' shit.

As Phillipa pointed out, my generous impulses are not the problem. It's the targets and methods of my generosity. I'm choosing unworthy people. Also, there's been a certain underhandedness to my giving. A certain
illegality
, if you will, what with enabling people to break into our house and allowing other people to sell my stuff to get money for drugs.

It occurred to me that there's nothing wrong with helping if you can help the right people the right way.

When Jenny came to pack up her stuff she looked just like she always does. You'd never know that she'd been on a tear for over a week. The only sign that she was in trouble was that she was accompanied by the school's new security guard, Mrs. Mudd's sister, Barb Mudd-Mulvaney, and Ms. Green herself. Mrs. Mudd-Mulvaney is in charge of keeping Stoneleigh students from sneaking out at night. She stood in the
doorway making sure that Jenny didn't do anything illegal while she packed up. Ms. Green, who was driving Jenny to the airport, was presumably there for backup.

“Do you mind if I close the door?” Jenny asked. “I've got to get changed.”

“We'll be right here,” said Ms. Green. “Right outside the door.”

Mrs. Mudd-Mulvaney nodded, frowning.

“You do that,” said Jenny, swinging the door shut.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

Jenny threw herself onto my bed. “I'm fine. Things just got a little out of hand. Everyone is totally overreacting.”

“But you're kicked out.”

“So I'm told.”

“What did your parents say?”

Jenny slowly closed her eyes. “That's a very good question.”

“Didn't you talk to them?”

“Not exactly. I have been informed that I will be flying directly to the finest treatment facility money can buy where my parents will visit me on the very first family day.”

“You're going to treatment!” I tried to keep the
awe and horror out of my voice.

“Treatment centers are excellent places to meet celebrities,” she said, putting her hands behind her head. “I just hope this place has a pool. The last one didn't. That's probably why I'm not recovered.”

“What about Rio?” I asked. “Is she going with you?”

Jenny took a hand out from behind her head and wiped shakily at her nose, betraying, for the first time, that she wasn't completely well. “No. My parents have decided that show jumping is part of the problem. Too many fast people in the jumper world.”

“So what are you…?”

“Sell her,” Jenny said shortly. “I'm supposed to sell her.”

“That's awful,” I said.

Jenny sat up suddenly and her hair fell into her face in a fine, blond curtain. She nodded and I thought I heard a sniffle.

The knock on the door made me jump but Jenny didn't react.

“It's time to go, Jennifer. You have a plane to catch,” came Ms. Green's voice.

“Is there anything I can do?” I asked.

Jenny pushed her hair to the sides of her face. “Know anyone who wants a nice horse?”