Double Standards Read online

  Sis waited, inhaling tanbark dust, hearing Gull’s muffled hoofsteps on it, thinking about shortcuts. She’d seen them used at the riding school—cruel methods, gimmicks, force. Lee must have a heart, she decided, for in spite of what Laurie said, he was giving Gull a break even though Gull earned nothing. She persevered, “You’ll let me handle him, then?”

  “Go ahead, for a couple of weeks. Mind, I’m only willing because you showed me what I hoped to see, that you have a little savvy. But Gull showed me he hasn’t changed, and I doubt he ever will.”

  To help her cause, Sis said, “Where I rode in Brown’s Mill, they claimed I do pretty well with problem horses. So if it’s okay, I’ll ride Gull every day, not schooling much, just pleasure rides.”

  “Pleasure?” Lee grinned. “Help yourself. You can show me results at the next horse show. But if you get hurt, home you go. Which reminds me, don’t you have a hunt cap?”

  “Yes, but it’s so hot, I thought—”

  “Next time, wear it,” Lee ordered.

  During the busy afternoon, Sis’s thoughts were on Gull. She learned from the children that they competed at horse shows throughout the summer. The next one would be at the end of the month, a schooling show at Windy Hill. Melissa Murphy, her favorite of the under-tens, confided, “I never win anything. Usually I fall off.”

  “But you still like to go?”

  “Oh, yes, Ms. ’Specially the overnight times, at the fairs, where there’s a roller coaster, and lots of screaming and loud stuff. At one fair, they shoot this lady out of a cannon, bang!” Melissa bounced her red curls in glee.

  Screams, bangs, and cannons—just what Gull needed!

  By late afternoon, Sis was thinking of the evening ahead at the Ashbys’. When at last she was free, she hurried to shower and to shampoo her cap of short hair.

  After she’d put on her green slacks and the blouse, she added the little gold heart-shaped earrings that her sisters said matched the glints in her eyes. She said good-bye to the squirrel at the window, and “I’ll try to bring you a squirrel bag tonight.” Lastly, she set her alarm for extra early next morning. She would have to feed Gull and clean his stall when the boys fed and cleaned, or he’d start an uproar.

  A car braked outside, and she snatched her white sweater and stepped out.

  A boy—older, she thought—smiled at her from his Volkswagen and called up, “I’m Jeff Ashby.” As she joined him, she saw surprise in his blue eyes when he went on, “Maybe you aren’t Sis. I was expecting a grim sort of Amazon type.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said primly, “if your mother got that impression.”

  “Oh, not at all. Mother didn’t—she just—”

  “Got that impression.” Sis laughed, smug at sounding so composed.

  Jeff talked easily while they wound out the ranch road, past the crossroads marked Junction, where Blanche’s Place was already lit up. He had a throaty chuckle that was cute, as if he were privately laughing at her, but also kind of pleased with her. Of course, it didn’t matter, since he must be at least seventeen, maybe eighteen. He’d probably die of boredom tonight. Well, this outing hadn’t been her idea. She was Mrs. Ashby’s date, not Jeff’s.

  She saw by stealthy glances that his hair was a sun-bleached thatch above his tan. His hands on the wheel were tanned, too. He drove with assurance on the freeway nearing Berkeley.

  “Going up,” he said suddenly, and swung off on a side street. They climbed up steep S turns, past homes perched on what looked like cliffs compared to the flat of Brown’s Mill. From decks and balconies, the occupants looked west over the bay, the two great bridges festooned with lights, and San Francisco between them, twinkling on its hills.

  At the Ashby home, they walked through to a deck overlooking the view. Mrs. Ashby met them, and before long the three sat down to dinner, still on the deck. It seemed funny, old-fashioned or something, to be eating with just a boy and his mother. Sis’s social evenings usually had been haphazard; disorganized, her stepmother called them. It was true her crowd seldom knew where they were going or when.

  Refusing help, Mrs. Ashby went to the kitchen and back whenever necessary. She struck Sis as pathetic, for when she sat withdrawn, sadness was there on her face.

  In the course of talk, the subject of jobs came up. Jeff was working as a carpenter’s helper here in Berkeley, a summer job. Five months ago, he said, when his mother started to ride, he’d worked weekends for Lee.

  Sis considered this while sounds of the city drifted up and night sharpened the lights across the bay. She assumed Mrs. Ashby had taken up riding as a distraction after her husband’s death. Presently she asked Jeff, “Did you ever know Sea Gull?”

  “I sure did.”

  “So tell me about him.”

  Mrs. Ashby went to the kitchen, and Jeff spoke of Gull, his ability, his good looks, his nervousness. “About six months ago at a horse show I saw him jump well, like a different horse. I have no idea why, not being a real horseman.”

  “Lee must have known why,” Sis said.

  “Lee wasn’t there. He was sick, and somebody else hauled the horses to the show. The girl you replaced rode Gull, and she was scared of him, so all the more credit to them both.”

  “Did you ever see Gull act mean?” Sis asked.

  Jeff grinned. “I saw him dump a cowboy who was too free with the spurs. It was probably one of the few times Lee ever laughed. That made the other guy mad, and he said, ‘Let’s see you ride this horse.’ The stirrups were too short, but Lee swung on, just casual, and with a loose rein Gull walked off like a gentleman. Lee put him into a lope, and when Gull got a little snorty Lee just told him to knock it off, and he did.”

  “That’s my idea of horsemanship,” Sis said.

  She described in detail her plans for Gull, then was silent. A burst of laughter rose from some garden below.

  Jeff’s hair shone in the dim light; his eyes were teasing as he asked, “You’re dead serious about reforming Gull, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am.” That sounded stuffy.

  “Well, good luck.” Was he laughing at her, thinking that where others had failed, she was crazy to expect success?

  She felt horribly stiff. Staring straight out at the city lights, she refused to look at him, though she knew he was looking at her. She knew it without raising her eyes. Seconds ticked on and on. The silence had a strange, self-conscious quality. But it had lasted too long. Move, she begged herself, say something. But she couldn’t. She had turned to wood.

  Mrs. Ashby’s steps approached, and Sis jumped up to leave. She remembered her squirrel, but she couldn’t ask for a squirrel bag—it would be embarrassing.

  Before his mother came out, Jeff asked with his chuckle, “Did anyone ever tell you you’re different?”

  More than once! But this was the first time it had sounded nice.

  And then he had to spoil it by reaching to tousle her hair, exactly as if she were one of the under-tens.

  FOUR

  TWO FRIDAYS LATER, Sis’s alarm shrilled earlier than usual.

  Right away, she remembered: she was to jump Gull for a friend of Lee’s. Why, and what friend, she didn’t know. Lee’s orders were to meet at six, so they’d have the ring to themselves.

  On her feet, she realized the room was stuffy. Even the floorboards were warm. So, open the door. There’s nobody around at this hour. No one stirring, not Burper or the chickens, or the rent horses up on the hill. How lovely it was out, in the cool dawn. Yet there was a breathless quality that meant heat later. All week the weather had been building up to a hot spell.

  I’ve been here over two weeks? Not possible, Sis thought, pulling on her jeans. Each day the ranch and people had become more real to her. She was learning that Lee had his good points. You could count on his being always the same. But Laurie’s toughness was part act. Sis knew too what Mrs. Ashby needed; that Jeff could be her friend, if not exactly her boyfriend. Most important, they’d all accepted her.
r />   Ten minutes later, Gull greeted her with a mumble, which she returned with a hug. She thought of this barn as his, his and Bud’s. The other barn was Manuel’s. From the feed room she brought him a quarter pan of alfalfa meal, then dropped half a flake of hay in his manger. He’d get the rest of his breakfast after work. He hardly minded lately that she cleaned his stall while he ate, to save time. So now she fetched one of the manure carts and shoveled his droppings into it. His stall was bedded in shavings, although these were more expensive than straw. She always loved to open a fresh bale, to see the clean, blond shavings pour out, smelling of pine or fir. But nobody here opened anything without Lee’s okay. “Ol’ Lee counts every blade and every grain,” Bud said.

  Sis emptied the cart at the pile behind the barn, then borrowed a box of grooming tools; some day, she’d buy Gull his own. She didn’t approve of brushing a horse while he ate; he should be left alone. But this morning, with time pressing, she had no choice.

  As she talked, gradually Gull relaxed. Once he tried to mumble at her with his mouth full, and only managed a gargle that was so comical she laughed out loud. She kept away from his head, so as not to annoy him, and worked on his hindquarters and tail. Brushing hard uncovered faint dark spots that she hoped would be dapples if he were ever clean enough.

  When he’d finished eating, she haltered him, led him out, and cross-tied him in the aisle, one rope snapped to a ring in either wall. Worried about time, she glanced at Lee’s storeroom, but of course it was locked. She couldn’t remember if there was a clock inside, though she’d looked in once when he’d left the door open. It was a dreary place, a barely remodeled stall. A skylight lit it, and dusty old boxes filled it—rubbish, she’d thought, that should be thrown out.

  Now, in the aisle, she picked up Gull’s feet one by one and cleaned each with the hoof pick. She just couldn’t imagine he would ever kick or strike at her. Then she finished brushing, and wet down his mane and foretop, and sponged eyes and nostrils. For a special touch, she borrowed Mrs. Ashby’s hoof grease and greased his hoofs.

  “There, now you look elegant,” she told him, standing back to admire. She would have loved to braid his mane and tail and trim his ears, like a show hunter’s. “Ooops, fly spray.” And she ran for the plastic container and enveloped them both in mist.

  She took a few minutes to shine her saddle and Gull’s bridle, and to polish the stirrups and snaffle bit. A look into the tackroom mirror showed her face flushed with heat already, and hair untidy. Darn, no comb. Oh, well. She wet her hands under a faucet, smacked down her hair, dampened her face and gulped a mouthful of water, breakfast. Now, her hunt cap, and change sneakers for boots. Lee wouldn’t allow riding in sneakers, and he’d fire anyone for bare feet. Hear the rooster? Let’s go. We’ll just have time to warm up. Hey, my stomach’s okay.

  The ring was cool and dim when Gull catwalked in, snorting a bit under his breath. Sis was surprised to see several jumps, which Lee must have set up last night. She ignored them as she first walked, then trotted Gull all around. Passing the entrance, she caught sight of a gold-colored car by the Chuck Wagon. It looked like a Corvette, and positively glittered in the early sun rays.

  Soon at close range she saw that the car’s owner, a heavy young man, glittered too, with a diamond ring and gold belt buckle. Ugh. There were no introductions, only Lee’s orders, “Show Mr. Kramer what Gull can do. Take several fences, any ones, in both directions.” Lee’s eyes approved Gull’s grooming.

  Usually, when Sis had ridden for a few minutes, she could interpret her horse’s attitude. This morning the signs told her Gull was going to be good. He’d passed the jumps without shying, he’d quit snorting, he was bridling nicely. Still she didn’t hurry him, but cantered steadily on the rail until she saw Lee look at his wristwatch. This, she had learned, meant “Get to work.”

  She headed for the brush jump, and immediately Gull tensed. But she sent him on over it, then over a white panel, then the post and rails. He was jumping big and rough, clearing his fences with ease. Sis felt a surge of pride. She changed directions, and Gull slowed, eyeing the brush with mistrust. “Silly,” she muttered, and urged him on with legs and voice. He put in a short stride in front of the brush, then jumped it awkwardly, too fast. The next two fences were better although he was hurrying, as if to get the work over. But he’s not freaked out, Sis thought. She was pleased with him, and told him so.

  Lee motioned her to the center, where the men stood. “That’ll do,” he said.

  While she led Gull around to cool him, she tried to overhear the men’s talk. The only phrase she caught was Lee’s, “You’re still interested, Karl?” She watched the two leave, and instantly disliked Karl Kramer when he kicked at Burper. The cat had come to be petted, and burped. What harm was that?

  When Sis next saw Lee she was preparing to teach an English rider. She’d been dying to find out what Lee meant by asking if Mr. Kramer was still interested in Gull. Not in buying Gull? That would be awful! Maybe in showing him? But Lee didn’t like questions from his help, and seldom answered them.

  Her silence was rewarded when he said, “I don’t believe you’re doing Gull any harm.” To herself she translated this into “You’re doing a fantastic job.”

  “We’ll haul him to the Windy Hill schooling show next Sunday,” Lee went on, “if there’s room in the van, and if he continues to improve.”

  Sis drew in a sharp breath. Skipping Lee’s “ifs,” she asked faintly, “You mean, enter him in the show?”

  “That’s the idea,” said Lee.

  “Who’ll show him?”

  When he answered “You will,” she tried not to look insanely happy. But then Lee spoke again, as if to himself. “I don’t want to sell the horse. I know he has ability. If I could just put my finger on why he goes so well at some shows…”

  So he was thinking of selling Gull to Mr. Kramer, Sis realized with dismay. If she’d known that, she could have brought out the worst in Gull this morning. Only that would have been cheating….

  That day was the first of a hectic week. As the heat increased, it affected different people differently. Lee appeared unmoved as ever, no matter how much he sweated. Laurie wore thinner blouses, and got mad when her mascara ran. Manuel drooped, and so did the rent horses. Bud evaded work whenever he dared.

  Sis didn’t mind the heat much because it lessened Gull’s pep; but her cabin was stifling. One noontime in desperation she seized her scissors to make cutoffs of her oldest jeans. But at the last second she changed her mind at the sight of white legs that hadn’t had a chance to tan.

  She moaned to Laurie, “If only we had a pool!”

  “I’d push the mothers in, and grandmothers too,” Laurie answered, lifting limp curls from her neck. “Thank goodness we’ll have our vacation next month, Ernie and me. We’ll spend it at the beach.”

  The beach sounded great to Sis, but she didn’t want a vacation. “Who’ll take your place here?” she asked.

  “Who cares?” said Laurie.

  Unlike the adults, the children hardly noticed the heat. They were burning with a different fire—horse show fever.

  Lee had put Sis in charge of entries for Windy Hill. This meant tricky decisions, depending on how many parents could or would haul trailers, among other conditions. Half the kids wanted to enter the same classes on the same horses, which naturally was impossible. They disregarded entry fees, inadequate clothes, all competition, and their own and the horses’ endurance. They argued, each claiming Sis for an ally. Patty alone refused to go, to Sis’s relief. On the other hand Melissa, the small redhead, was desperate to go, if it was only to groom. “I’ll even wash tails!” she kept repeating.

  “It’s always this way near show time,” her mother told Sis with a resigned sigh.

  Sis understood. Back home, when her coach took her along to shows, she’d burned with the same fever.

  On this Monday, after their last class, her group had gathered midway down the aisle of
Gull’s barn, where it was coolest. Lee evidently had gone home. Bud had disappeared with Anita Pickett. Manuel had vanished, which he did so quietly that one seldom missed him.

  Sis sat on the ground with the children, her back to the wall opposite Gull’s stall. In the dim light, she peered at the Windy Hill entry form smeared by grubby fingers.

  Turned to the jumper section, she mumbled aloud. “Jumpers, Novice, No, he’s past that…. Jumpers, Ladies, maybe; they won’t score manners…. Mm, let’s see…. Ah, Open Jumpers! What’s the purse?”

  “Let me see.” It was Bethie Nelson, an English rider. She breathed heavily over Sis’s shoulder to see the page. “I could go in Equitation Twelve and Under, and in English Pleasure.”

  “Except your eq stinks,” her brother said. “And you can’t go in Pleasure because you lost your hunt cap.”

  “Shut up. I’ll borrow one.”

  “Who from?”

  Nobody volunteered, and Bethie mopped blue eyes as soft as her name. The mothers had a rule against borrowing.

  “I’ll try for high point junior,” Bobby Nelson decided.

  “He’ll probably win it again,” someone said glumly.

  It was maddening to the girls that Bobby could win with little effort. Now one of them accused him, “You haven’t even practiced.”

  “Can I help it,” he retorted, “if I’m just naturally good—I mean great?”

  “Ground him, Sis, ground him!”

  As evening crept in, the group drifted away. Before she too left, Sis lingered for a last word with Gull. He came to the stall door, ghostly in the dusk. With one hand she pushed aside his foretop, then gently stroked his face. His eyes were dark pools, his nostrils warm velvet. His whiskers tickled her palm, and then his tongue curled out to lick the salty sweat on it. His breath had the good smell of grain.

  “Good night, my horse,” she said softly, and turned to go.