Unhappy Appy (10 page)

Nickers came in from the pasture to greet me in her stall and nickered. She must have rolled in the mud. Dirt caked on her back and tangled her mane and tail.

“Is that your horse?” Madeline asked. “It looks so different from the other day.”

“She just needs a good brushing.” I led Nickers out to the stallway. “Come and meet Mason, Nickers.”

Madeline stood behind Mason, her hands on his shoulders. Neither of them budged.

Dad took Mason's hand and led him over. “Come on, Mason. Winnie's great with horses.”

Madeline trailed after them, her hands still on her son's shoulders, as if he were helium-filled and might float like his furniture.

Next to Nickers' stall, Towaco stood over his hay trough, not bothering to munch hay from it or from the hay net.

Mason turned and stared at Towaco the way he'd stared at the window, like there was nothing in the barn, in the world, except that horse. He started toward the Appy's stall.

“Not that horse!” Madeline shouted, directing him to Nickers. “This pretty white one.” She held Mason's arm up so he touched Nickers' belly.

Nickers' skin twitched, the way it does when a fly lights.

Madeline jumped back, pulling Mason's hand away.

Nickers didn't like the sudden movement. She tossed her head and pawed the ground.

“Easy, girl,” I cooed, wishing I could tell Madeline to take it easy.

“She's kind of touchy, isn't she?” Madeline asked, backing away.

“No.” I answered too quickly. I tried again. “Not exactly. Arabians have thinner skin than most horses. But every horse has a muscle, the Panniculus, right under the surface of the skin. That's what makes their skin twitch for flies and dirt and stuff. It doesn't mean anything.”

“You don't think she's too . . . spirited . . . too wild, maybe? Not for
you,
of course. But for Mason?”

“She's not wild,” I muttered, thinking how people used to call my horse Wild Thing
.
She's spirited and sensitive. She reads moods, like Madeline's fear. But she's not wild.

“You haven't really given this a chance, Madeline,” Dad said.

“You're right,” Madeline admitted. “You're both right.” She glanced around. “Mason?”

He'd moved to Towaco's stall and was staring at the Appaloosa. The Appy craned his neck around to stare back.

“Let's give this horse another try, Mason,” Madeline said, picking him up and carrying him back to Nickers.

“It's really better if Mason walks up on his own,” I suggested.

“I'm sure you're right, Winnie. It's just that he's not used to horses.” Still holding him, Madeline moved closer to Nickers.

Nickers danced in place as if the floor were hot.

Mason twisted in his mother's arms.

“What's the matter with Nickers?” Dad cried.

“Nothing's wrong with
Nickers,”
I snapped. “She's just picking up on human fear.”

“I know,” Madeline said. “Mason's always been afraid of horses.”

But it wasn't
his
fear I was worried about. I'm not even a horse, and I could feel Madeline's fear.

Mason squirmed and managed to slip through Madeline's long arms. His feet dropped to the floor. Madeline snatched him up again.

Nickers whinnied and jerked back on the cross-ties.

Madeline screamed.

Mason cried.

“That's it.” She carried the crying, struggling Mason over by Dad. As soon as she did, Nickers settled down. “This was a mistake, Jack. I'm very grateful to both of you for trying, but—”

“Didn't the doctor say it would be good for Mason to ride horses?” Dad reasoned. “You can't give up after one try, Madeline.”

“I know it's my fault. I've never been good around horses,” Madeline admitted.

Mason had been crying so loud I had trouble hearing anything else. Now he stopped crying so suddenly it was as if someone pressed an Off button. He was staring over his mother's shoulder at Towaco.

“Maybe we've had enough for one day,” Dad suggested. “Let's go inside and talk about it calmly.”

I stayed in the barn and finished grooming Nickers. She was as sweet as could be.

Later, when I walked into the house, Dad and Madeline were still talking about Nickers. Peter Lory sat on Madeline's shoulder. At least she wasn't afraid of birds. Lizzy and Hawk were sitting on the couch with Mason between them.

“His name is Larry,” Lizzy said, stroking her lizard with her index finger.

“It's just that the white horse is so high-spirited, Jack,” Madeline was saying. “Maybe I should find a pony, something more Mason's size.”

“Ponies can be very high-spirited, Ms. Edison,” Hawk explained. “Mason can ride Towaco. Lately, my Appaloosa will not do anything but walk. He can be barnsour with
me
and trot back to the barn whether I am ready or not. But you can trust him.”

“You can trust Nickers too.” I knew my horse would be just fine with Mason if Madeline weren't there.

“Hawk's horse is that other one in the barn,” Dad explained. “Mason did seem to like him.”

“I don't know, Jack.” Madeline Edison looked like she'd rather ride lions than horses. “Could Winnie work with that one?“

“Sure!” Dad exclaimed.

They still hadn't looked my way, even though I was all of five feet away from them. Maybe I really was invisible.

“What do you think, Mason?” Dad asked, squatting down by the couch to Mason-level. “Want to ride that pretty, spotted horse?”

Mason smiled, but his gaze went past Dad to our worn-out carpet. He scooted off the couch to touch an old carpet stain, staring at it as if it were the most wonderful thing in the world.

Dad stood up. “So we'll try again tomorrow! This time with Towaco?”

Madeline sighed and nodded.

Dad drove Madeline and Mason home after Lizzy fed us toasted tuna sandwiches.

“She seems nice,” Hawk said after they'd gone.

“I like Madeline,” Lizzy threw in, picking up plates and disappearing into the kitchen.

“You like everybody,” I muttered.

Hawk yawned. “It is nice that your dad has a friend.”

Something twisted inside me. “Dad doesn't need
her
for a friend! He has lots of friends.” I imagined them together in the green van right then. I didn't like it. This whole Madeline-Dad thing was out of control, like a runaway horse.

“But, Winnie,” Hawk reasoned, “your dad must get lonely sometimes. She seems like a nice friend. That is all I was saying.”

A nice friend? Her?
“You don't know her at all. Madeline Edison is . . . is . . .” I scrambled for something—anything. “She's . . . divorced! And I feel sorry for Mason.”

Hawk got up from the couch. “I need to call Summer.”

She was still on the phone when I got out of the bathtub.

We settled in for the night, Lizzy and Hawk in the beds and me on the floor between them. “I can sleep on the floor,” Hawk offered for the tenth time.

“Honest, Hawk,” I assured her, “I love your sleeping bag. Besides, even Peter Lory agrees this is the best spot.” The bird had fluttered around the bedroom before selecting the foot of the sleeping bag as his bed.

When we'd all gotten quiet, Lizzy whispered, “Hawk, it's fun having you here. I love the flowers your parents sent. And doesn't Mason rock!” She rolled over onto her back. I couldn't see her, but I knew she'd still have her eyes open.

“So God, thanks for letting Hawk stay with us, and for making flowers smell like that, and for that little dimple in Mason's cheek when he looked at my lizard. Oh, and I love the webbed feet on Geri's favorite frog. And thanks for having Robert say hi to Alan so they're not mad at each other anymore. And it was super when—”

I glanced at Hawk, hoping she knew Lizzy well enough to know the prayers weren't for show. I've been eavesdropping on Lizzy's prayers my whole life, and I don't think anything of it when she switches over from talking to praying. But I didn't want Hawk to think it was weird.

Hawk stared at the ceiling, her hands behind her head. When Lizzy finished, Hawk turned on her CD. Soft night sounds filled the room, recorded crickets and dozens of birds. It reminded me of Madeline's bathroom, but I didn't say so.

After a few minutes Lizzy was making her little snoring sound. Hawk rolled on her side and looked down at me. “Winnie?”

I looked up. Pale moonlight flooded in through the window.

“Does Lizzy always pray like that?” Hawk whispered. “For every little thing?”

“I guess. Our mom prayed like that too.” Sometimes Mom and I would be riding, and she'd shout to the clouds, “Thank you, God, for horses' manes!” Or “Thanks for the sound of hoofbeats!” Or “I love fetlocks!”

“Do you?” Hawk asked. “Do you pray for every little thing?”

I scooted deeper into the sleeping bag, fighting off the draft. “I have enough trouble remembering to pray for the big things,” I admitted.

The verse from the church bulletin flashed into my head, complete with the gold bulletin and all the announcements:
“He delights in every detail of their lives.”

“Does it work?” Hawk asked. “Praying for the big things?”

I thought about it. I'd prayed my mom wouldn't die. I'd prayed we wouldn't sell our ranch in Wyoming. I'd prayed Hawk would be my best friend.

On the other hand, I'd prayed we could stay in Ashland, and here we were. I'd prayed for a horse, and now I had the best horse in the world.

“Sometimes,” I finally answered. “I mean, prayer probably
works
all the time. But you don't always get what you pray for.” I knew I wasn't making sense. I wanted to wake up Lizzy so she could explain about Jesus and praying. Lizzy had kept praying just as hard after Mom died. It didn't bring Mom back, but I think praying helped Lizzy through it.

Hawk rolled over. “Good night, Winnie.”

“Night, Hawk.”

It took me a long time to get to sleep. It had been over two years since Mom died, and still, in the middle of the night I missed her so much I was afraid to close my eyes.