Flying Changes (16 page)

“We’ll be finished in just a minute,” I say. Then I turn back to Eugenie.

“If you’re not going to buy something, you’ll have to—”

I swivel around in my chair. “I
said
we’ll be finished in a minute.”

His mouth snaps shut. I see the beginnings of hurt pride blossom in his widened eyes.

I figure we have about three minutes before he decides to boot us out or call the police.

I pick my purse from the floor, set it in my lap, and pull out my red leather wallet. I unsnap it carefully, pause for effect, and remove a wad of twenties that I know equals exactly four hundred, but I lick my finger and count them one by one anyway.

Eugenie’s eyes are glued to the bills. I’m still looking at the money, using the edge of the table to stack it neatly, like a deck of cards, but I’m watching her in my peripheral vision. Her mouth is slightly open. Her tongue comes out slowly, like a lizard’s, wetting first her top lip, then her bottom.

I lay the stack on the table and raise my eyes to hers.

“Take it or leave it,” I say.

Eugenie stares at me. Then her gaze drops to the money on the table. Finally she reaches out a hand.

“Uh! Uh!” I say, wagging my finger.

Her hand freezes. Her eyes snap up to mine.

“Sign first,” I say, pushing the paper and pen across at her.

She looks at me for a long time. Then she picks up the pen and signs.

I fold the bill of sale in half and slip it into my purse. Then I stand and put on my jacket. “Well, that’s that,” I say. I almost add, Thank God.

“You don’t know what it’s like living with a man like that,” she says. “It does things to you.”

“No doubt.”

“You shouldn’t be so judgmental, you know. You don’t have any idea what my life’s like.”

“No, I’m sure I don’t.”

“Of course you don’t. How could you? You’re a spoiled rich bitch.”

I had started to leave, but this makes me turn back around. “I’m a what? What did you just say to me?” I stare into her eyes for a moment. “My God—to think, I actually felt bad for you. When I saw your little girl, and especially your husband…” I shake my head, almost at a loss for words. “I felt bad for you even though I knew what you did to that horse, even when you called and accused me of stealing him.”

Her eyes linger on mine, and then drop.

“Maybe you didn’t used to be like this. Maybe he turned you into this. Or maybe you just like to blame him, but I’ll tell you what—you don’t have to stay like this, and I hope you won’t, for that little girl’s sake. Because I can save your horse, but I can’t do a damned thing about your little girl. I wish I could, because mark my words, if I could take her home with me, I’d do it in a heartbeat.”

She stares at me with mouth and eyes open.

I step up to the counter and the astonished clerk. “I’ll have a large coffee with double cream and two sugars. To go, please.”

The clerk watches me for a second—almost as though he’s afraid it’s a ploy—and then reaches for a cup.

When he finally hands it to me, my hands are shaking too much to take it. With burning cheeks, I leave both the money and the coffee on the counter and walk out.

It turns out that barn cats are a dime a dozen. In fact, people seem almost desperate to get rid of them. A quick perusal through the back section of the paper connects me with a family that has six and wants to part with three; but since I’ve never had a cat before, I decide to dip my toe in the water and start with just one. I pick Freddie, a long-haired silver tabby with seven toes on each foot who comes recommended as an especially good mouser. Certainly his rotundity suggests he has talent.

He’s a bit reticent about entering Harriet’s crate for the ride home, but his previous owner manages to stuff him in, even if it does require the help of her two older children.

Freddie spends the entire trip home howling at me from the backseat. At one point, when his efforts suddenly redouble for no apparent reason, I nearly cross the center line into the path of an 18-wheeler.

With my heart still pounding, I persuade myself that this is a good thing, that he’s got a great set of lungs, and that surely some rats will decamp from the noise alone.

When I get back to Maple Brook I drive right past the house and park my car out by the stable. Then I carry Harriet’s crate and the now silent Freddie into the center of the aisle.

I open the door, but no cat appears.

“Kitty?” I say, stepping in front of the crate.

Nothing.

I crouch down and peer inside. Two retinas glow back at me.

“Freddie? You can come out now. This is your new home.”

Still nothing.

I retrieve the cat kibble and stainless steel dish from the car, and—after determining that the disembodied green globes are still at the back of the crate—fill the dish noisily while trying the high-pitched and distinctive kitty call I heard the previous owner use.

Apparently I’m going to have to work on that. It doesn’t produce a kitty, and my tongue gets tangled in the back of my throat.

I crouch down and peek in. The liquid crystal orbs still float in the blackness.

After spending nearly a quarter hour trying to entice the latest member of our family to
please
get the hell out of Harriet’s crate, I get desperate, pick it up, and turn it over.

Cat and towel come sliding out—Freddie splays his wide feet, scrabbling desperately to remain inside, but even his million toes can’t get purchase on the smooth plastic. The instant he touches the floor, he scampers off, flush with the wall.

I stare ruefully after him, because I had sort of hoped the little fellow would like me.

When Sunday morning finally rolls around, I pack Harriet into Mutti’s truck and head for Columbia.

I follow a Ford Explorer with a trailer hitch through the wrought-iron gates, down Wyldewood’s long drive, and park beside it in front of the barn.

“You picking up your kid?” says the large-bosomed redhead who climbs out.

“Sure am,” I say.

“Which one’s yours?”

“Eva Aldrich,” I answer. “I’m Annemarie Zimmer. I’d ask which one’s yours, but I don’t know the rest of the girls yet.”

“Ah, Nathalie’s new star student. I’m Maureen Sinclaire, Colleen’s mom. So how did you survive your first week?”

“Ech,” I say, shrugging. “Actually I hated it. I hated it so much I think I got a cat to compensate.”

“I felt the same way at the beginning. You’ll get over it.”

“I hope so. How long has Colleen been here?”

“Eight months and I’m loving it. The peace. The quiet. The good grades. And the manners!”

“Really? You’ve seen a difference?”

“I love this place,” she says, clasping her hands together and looking skywards. “All the advantages of a boarding school—and best of all, Colleen thinks it was her idea.”

I follow Maureen through the spotless barn, the freshly dragged arena, and out the other side.

As we approach the girls’ house, the front door opens. A girl and her mother come out.

“Hey, Mrs. Sinclaire,” says the girl. “Colleen’s still drying her hair. Maggie busted my hair dryer.”

“Well, thank you, darlin’,” says Maureen. She throws her arms open and greets the other mother with a bear hug. “Ellen! Girlfriend! Meet Annemarie Zimmer.”

The other mother’s eyes widen. “Ah, yes! I’ve heard all about you,” she says, shaking my hand. “Maureen, you know who this is, don’t you?”

“Yeah, Eva’s mother.”

“No, I mean, you know who
she
is, right?”

Maureen looks confused.

“Remember that striped horse? Last year? In the papers?”

“Oh! Yes!” Maureen’s eyes widen. “Of course! I thought the name rang a bell.”

“I…uh…think I’ll go find Eva now,” I say, slinking away as a familiar burning sensation creeps across my face and neck.

“Nice meeting you, hon—I’ll see you next week at the show!” says Maureen, waving enthusiastically.

Just as I’m reaching for the door, it swings open. The girl behind it takes one look at me and shouts over her shoulder, “Heads up, Eva! Your mom’s here.” Then she and her mother pass, joining the noisy group that’s gathering in the area between the house and the barn.

Eight or nine girls mill about the house in various states of dress. Some are already slinging backpacks, some are still wrapped in towels. As one, their heads spin to look at me. I see a collective widening of eyes.

“Oh hey, Ma.”

I spin, smiling, toward Eva’s voice. Then I shriek, clapping a hand over my mouth. “Eva! You’re bald!”

“I am not,” she says, scowling and running a hand across her naked scalp.

“Why, Eva? Why? Why would you shave your head?”

“I didn’t shave it. We used clippers.”

“Clippers?” I repeat weakly.

The other girls skulk away, giggling, sliding into hallways and bedrooms. I hear the click of an interior door, and then an explosion of muffled laughter.

“We were trimming Joe’s whiskers and talking about hair and Karen said mine looked like Ashlee Simpson’s, and I
hate
Ashlee Simpson, so I went back to blonde.”

I blink stupidly, trying to comprehend. “You shaved your head because you’re going back to blonde?”

“I didn’t shave it, Mom. I used clippers. Turns out once you dye your hair black, it’s black until it grows out. Who knew?”

“Well, I did, actually,” I say.

“Then why didn’t you tell me?”

“What? After you dyed it?” I exclaim in righteous indignation, because of course she didn’t consult me before the fact.

“Well, anyway,” she continues breezily, “I definitely didn’t want to look like Ashlee Simpson, and since Margot didn’t think two-tone hair would go over very well with the judges at Strafford, we buzzed off the black part,” she says.

“Margot thinks they’ll like bald better?”

“I’m not bald!” she says, clearly exasperated.

And she’s not—exactly. She’s got about half an inch of hair, which stands straight up and shines almost white against her pink scalp. Fortunately, her head is a
nice shape. She’s also pretty enough to carry it off. She looks delicate and birdlike, like Sinéad O’Connor.

I wonder if she’s even heard of Sinéad O’Connor. I like her, but decide not to mention it in case Eva lumps her in with the out-of-favor Ashlee.

“What?” says Eva, frowning and running a hand across her head from back to front.

“What do you mean, ‘what’?” I say. “It’s a bit of a shock. I think I’m entitled to have a look.”

I circle my frowning daughter slowly and come to a stop in front of her. She looks up from beneath knitted brows.

“Can I touch it?” I say.

Her face brightens. “Sure!” She leans over and offers me her head.

I run my hand across it. It’s soft and bristly all at once, and each hair springs back as my hand passes over it. The effect is addictive.

“Mom! Stop it! You’re going to rub my hair off!” she giggles, because before long I’m rubbing her head like a genie’s lamp.

“What hair? Got your stuff?”

“Yeah, let me grab it from the bedroom. Wanna see it?”

“Sure, but quickly. Harriet’s in the truck.”

Harriet pounces on Eva as soon as she gets in the truck, standing on her hind legs and licking her face.

“Seat belt,” I say, backing out.

Eva puts Harriet on the bench beside her and buckles up.

“So you’ve been working hard this week?” I say, putting the truck into gear and heading up the drive.

“Unbelievably. Oh my God, Mom—I’m so tired. I thought I was going to die the first couple of days. But you should see my thighs! I’ve lost five pounds!”

I glance over. “Huh. Maybe I should come here. I can’t quite fit into my blue dress and I have a big date next weekend.”

“You haven’t gained weight, have you?”

“Not really. But it’s migrated.”

“So what’s the big date?”

“My birthday. Dan’s taking me somewhere special.”

“Oh. Right,” she says. “Hey, is he coming with us to Strafford?”

“I dunno,” I say, glancing over at her. “Do you want him to?”

“Yeah, sure. Dad and Sonja are going to be there too. And Jeremy, of course.”

“Ah,” I say, taking a deep breath. “Well, I’ll ask him. So how’s Joe?”

“You mean Smokin’ Gun?” she grins. “He’s great. He’s a dream. A big, Nokota jumping machine. Oh, and it’s the funniest thing! He’s like Seabiscuit—he likes to sleep lying down, and there’s this little gray barn cat who comes into his stall and curls up with him.”

“We’ve got a cat,” I say, pulling onto the highway.

Eva squeals in delight. “Really?”

“Yup. Picked him up day before yesterday.”

“Is he a kitten?”

“No, he’s about two.”

“What’s his name?”

“Freddie. And he’s got a million toes. Seven on each foot.”

“That’s…weird. And what does Madam think of him?” she says, suspending Harriet in front of her so they’re nose to nose.

“I don’t think they’ve crossed paths yet.”

“How can that be?” she says, setting my long-suffering dog back down.

“He’s made himself rather scarce since I got him home.”

Which is my way of saying that I haven’t actually laid eyes on the beast since releasing him from the crate. If it weren’t for the disappearing cat food, I might think he’d left for greener pastures.

“She doesn’t sniff him out?” says Eva.

“He’s a barn cat. And you know Harriet—she only goes into the barn when absolutely necessary, generally on her way to bed.”

“Barn cat schmarn cat. He’s coming into the house.”

I look over at my happy bald daughter, who is bobbing her head to whatever schlock she’s found on the radio, and decide to fight that battle later—if at all.

No sooner do I stop the truck than Eva jumps out and disappears into the stable. I watch her recede from between dog’s ears, because Harriet is standing with her feet up on the dash, also staring in disbelief.

When I catch up with her at noon, she’s lunging Flicka at the far end of the arena.

“Eva!” I shout, standing in the doorway and cupping my hands around my mouth. “Lunch is ready!”

“I’ll be there in a minute,” she says, adjusting the lunge line and clicking her tongue. She clicks again, urging Flicka into a trot.

“She looks good,” I say, trying to jumpstart a conversation.

“Uh-huh,” replies Eva. “Trot, Flicka! Trot! Good girl.”

After a while I give up and go back to the house.

I enter the kitchen just as Mutti sets a plate of sliced tomatoes and fresh mozzarella down on the table. The food is beautifully arranged—alternating slices of cheese and tomato separated by basil leaves, with balsamic vinegar drizzled over top.

“Where is Eva?” she says.

“Lunging Flicka. Said she’d be here in a minute,” I say, washing my hands. “Oh, have I mentioned that she’s now bald?”

Mutti stares at me for a moment. Then she goes to the table and sits.

Fifteen minutes later, Eva bursts through the back door.

“Hey, Oma,” she says.

“‘Hey, Oma?’ You don’t see me for five days, and all I get is ‘Hey, Oma’?”

Eva peels off her boots and drops them by the back door. Then she walks to Mutti and plants a kiss on her cheek.

“That’s better,” says Mutti.

“What do you think of my hair?”

“I hate it. Anyway, you’re late for lunch. I thought you told your mother you’d be just a minute.”

“I was! I had to put Flicka away. Besides, I’m here now,” she says, slipping into a chair.

“Uh! Uh!” says Mutti, wagging a finger. “Your hands!”

Eva sighs, and heads for the sink.

Mutti goes to the counter to slice a loaf of bread.

Eva slides behind her plate, and stares at it. “Oh,” she says. “I don’t eat cheese anymore.”

Mutti stiffens. She turns slowly with widened eyes. “I beg your pardon?” she says.

“I’m a vegan now.”

“You’re a vegan now,” Mutti repeats flatly.

“Yup!” Eva says happily, separating tomatoes and basil leaves from the cheese. “There are four of us. Most of the other girls are also vegetarians, but we’re, you know, more
hard-core.
”

Mutti stares evenly at Eva. Then she says, “Are you sure you don’t want me to wash those for you, seeing as how they’ve been contaminated by the cheese?”

“No, that’s okay.” Eva puts her napkin in her lap, and picks up her knife and fork. She holds them European style, the fork upside down in her left hand and her knife in her right.

Mutti blinks at Eva another couple of times, and then goes to the fridge for wine. I happily accept a glass, because while I’m musing about Eva’s new table manners, I’m also wracking my brains for knowledge of vegan food. Other than tabbouleh, I can’t think of a single vegan dish. And I’m not entirely sure about tabbouleh.

In the middle of the afternoon, I take a load of clean clothes up to the stable apartment and find Eva sitting
cross-legged on my bed. She’s feeding Freddie tuna from a can.

“Eva!” I say, propping the clothes basket on my hip.

She looks up in surprise. “Oh, hi, Mom! Look, I found Freddie.”

“So I see. What on earth are you doing?”

“Making friends.”

“You’re feeding him tuna? On my eiderdown?”

Her eyebrows raise ever so slightly, daring me to be angry. She runs a hand down the cat’s back, scratching him near his tail. His back end springs upward.