Double Standards Page 7

  They gorged on roast chicken, ears of corn, salads and pies from home. Meanwhile, they watched an ornate motor home maneuvering into another camp, like a great ship docking. It was followed by a gold Corvette. When the occupants of both stepped out, voices rose, with tipsy laughter. Among the voices, Sis recognized Karl Kramer’s. She turned away in disgust.

  “Something wrong, Freckles?” Murph asked her.

  “Only a jerk I hate,” she answered.

  “Where? I’ll kill him.”

  She laughed. “And if you call me Freckles, I’ll kill you.”

  “Let’s go to the Gayway,” he suggested. Anita and Bud already had disappeared, and the younger ones were edging from the table.

  Mrs. Murphy raised her voice. “Listen, children. Murph, you keep an eye on your sister and her friends. You’re to be back by eleven, no later. You’ll be up early tomorrow, and we don’t want you half dead.”

  “Sometimes I don’t want them on any terms,” Mrs. Nelson said to her, and the two laughed together.

  On the Gayway’s rides, Sis screamed as loudly as anyone. She threw rings, shot at targets, guessed weights, won an ash tray, laughed at the clowns, ate junk food, and saw the girl shot from the cannon. It was all a blast, and she and Murph didn’t really mind that the three little Tanbark kids trailed them. But before eleven those three were worn out and had to be returned to camp.

  There, Murph asked, “Now what? Back to the Gayway?” His red hair glowed by the dying fire.

  “No, I’ve had it,” Sis answered. “Let’s just go see that the horses are okay.”

  They made their dark way to the barn around silent forms in bedrolls, between campers and tents, past muffled laughter and arguments.

  At Sis’s step, Gull nickered. She straightened his blanket and talked to him while Murph refilled his water bucket. He seemed calm, but for double safety she fastened his top door shut. Then she and Murph checked the other horses, and found no problems.

  Hand in hand, they strolled back to camp. Whether inspired by the starlit night or by the excitement they’d shared, he gave her a good-night kiss. It was too quick to count, because their faces had barely touched when a voice from the dark cheered, “Turn on!” Afterwards, she felt treacherous—pleasantly so—for using Jeff’s sleeping bag.

  In the chilly dawn light, the campgrounds looked less glamorous. From her bedroll, Sis made out sleeping mounds here and there, scattered boots, kitchen equipment. At her first motion, a head popped up in her own camp. She ignored it, knowing she looked a mess, and as best she could, struggled into her work clothes. Then she dashed for the barn.

  That was her first dash. With Gull fed and watered, she next dashed to the rest room, a steamy and slippery place. Then back to camp, where the mothers decided breakfast would be in the 4-H tent.

  They ate amid green and white decorations, to a chorus of bleats, squeals, bawling, and cackles. It was a great breakfast—for most people. Sis’s stomach reminded her she had the first class this morning, Open Jumpers.

  “I’ll see you guys after my class,” she told the children. “I’ll help all of you all day, only let me first get through this class. Uh, alone. Now I’m going to gallop Gull on the track.”

  “Won’t Gull be in the stake, too?” somebody asked.

  “Lee wouldn’t risk it,” Sis admitted. “We had to make entries for here right after Windy Hill, and you remember Gull’s performance there.”

  “Yeah, rotten,” said Bobby Nelson.

  “Smart-mouth,” Murph snapped at him.

  A little later, Sis was obliged to accept Bud’s offer to watch Gull while she changed. Gull had been spooked when a Future Farmer of America chased a pig past the stall. He shouldn’t be left alone. Murph, too, had offered his help, but he was less experienced, and scarcely knew Gull.

  Too soon, it seemed, the loudspeaker came on. “Testing—one, two, three. Can you hear me, Ed? This is a heck of a—ouch, I better shut her off.” But shortly the dreaded call followed, “Open Jumpers, ten minutes.” And then, surely in less than ten minutes, “Open Jumpers to the ring.”

  The riders gathered from various barns, about a dozen in all, to stand at the ring gate, some restive, some calm. They gazed in at a carpet of tanbark still smooth, and at brightly painted jumps. Judge and steward were conferring in there, and the ring crew waited to pick up fallen fences—or riders. No, the ambulance man would do that. His long gray car was parked at a discreet distance, under a pine tree.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, our National Anthem.”

  This opening always tingled the spine, Sis thought. Here the recorded music was a bit scratchy. But nothing could spoil the backdrop, with its dry mountain smell. When the song ended, a meadowlark shot up from the infield with music, this time faultless.

  Judges and officials were introduced; the ring gate swung open; the first horse was called. Sis waited to go fourth, a good spot. She studied the course and planned just how to take it: nine fences, in a figure eight. The hardest for Gull, because of his size, would be the in-and-out, to be jumped twice. It was tight, so he’d have to be well-collected to put in a short enough stride between the two parts. Otherwise, there was nothing too tough, though the angles were sharp. Success would depend on how they took those angles, and on his attitude.

  So far his attitude was good. In spite of the crowds and noise, he stood quietly between other horses. He’d raised his head, and turned it a little to follow the rider in the ring, as if he were keeping score. He breathed evenly, and the early heat hadn’t dampened his neck.

  But Sis felt the heat through her hunt cap, and on her back where the sun beat. She hoped her hands would stay dry, so the reins wouldn’t slip if Gull pulled.

  “Six faults,” the announcer said as the first rider left the ring. Then, “Number ninety, Apache, owned and ridden by Karl Kramer.”

  Apache’s round was short. Three refusals at the in-and-out eliminated him. Poor horse; Sis hated to think how he’d be punished.

  So don’t think, she told herself, and don’t worry. We’re going to be lucky. She knew it, because Gull felt just right. There was nothing in there he couldn’t jump clean, as long as he wasn’t keyed up. And he wasn’t. It struck her that she wasn’t, either. She thought, this is exactly what I want to do. And I know how to do it. I don’t have to depend on luck.

  The third rider was the professional who’d ridden so well to win at Windy Hill. She rode just as well now, but a different horse. It was a wild thing that flung itself at its fences, and threatened to take both parts of the in-and-out together. In spite of that, she scored only two faults. She left the ring shaking her head, but the audience applauded her warmly.

  Sis felt only a brief flutter at the next call. “Number twelve, Sea Gull. Owned by the Tanbark Ranch, ridden by Sis Reynolds.”

  When Gull strode into the ring, his appearance brought scattered applause, quickly hushed.

  Just as she’d planned, Sis circled slowly to allow him a better look at the course. He was so relaxed that she had to drive him into a canter for the first fence, a brush. His pace stayed right for the second, the in-and-out, maybe because it faced him before he could speed up. Pop, stride, pop, and they were over it, clean. Change leads now, turn left, sharper, and here’s the panel. Let him go. Hey, good, no faults yet! No rap on wood. No sound but muffled hoofbeats and steady blowing. Wind stings the eyes and blurs the wall of faces swinging by. Muscles of horse and rider work together.

  Crossed bars next, and circle left or—where? For a ghastly instant Sis was lost. But the next fence—now—was the post and rails. Off course or not, Gull cleared it—didn’t he? Or was that a tick, or was it flying tanbark? Wow, we’ve done the sixth fence okay! But look out, we’re headed toward the gate—now’s when he’ll pull. He’s starting to! So take back, collect him for the in-and-out once more.

  With legs, hands, voice, Sis lifted Gull, steadied him one stride, lifted again. Clean! Somebody yelled “You got it made!” But no
t yet. A squeeze, more rein, a huge leap to soar over white picket teeth. We’re done? We’re done!

  Applause burst out, and cheers from the Tanbark kids. Through the noise, the loudspeaker gave Gull’s score, “One half fault.” So that had been a tick at the post and rails.

  Outside the gate, Sis slid off, trying not to smile too widely. Friends surrounded her, but she saw only Gull, her dear great horse. From a cloud, she heard their words.

  “You were super!” “Nice goin’, Freckles!” “Lee should have been here.” “It was perfect.”

  “No, not perfect,” she said. “Half a fault. Someone’ll beat us, or we’ll have to jump off.” She tugged up her hunt cap for air.

  “I told you we’d be lucky.” It was Bud, and he winked.

  “I hope you didn’t bet me to win,” she said.

  “No, to place. You’re bound to. If it was me, I’d make ol’ Lee share the check.”

  Sis led Gull aside where she could hear the loudspeaker.

  The next ten minutes were agony. As the last horse finished, applause broke out—too much of it. He must have gone clean. She strained to hear the score.

  The announcer gave it. “One fault.”

  No jump off!

  The winners were called in for awards, and Sis heard the thrilling words, “First, Number Twelve, Sea Gull, owned by the Tanbark Ranch, ridden by Sis Reynolds.”

  EIGHT

  SIS HAD TO get up as early as usual the next morning, since it was Manuel’s Monday off. But getting up wasn’t too bad because she could think about yesterday.

  It had been almost midnight when the Tanbark bunch got back, after a good show for most of the horses, and a great one for Gull. Too bad he wasn’t entered in the stake, they’d all said to Lee.

  Lee was waiting up for them, Burper with him. He’d helped unload horses and tack, and sent tired people home. Then he’d talked a while with Sis, and finally left too, and she’d looked in on Gull. He was asleep. “Good night, my horse,” she’d said softly, and at last had stumbled off to her cabin.

  Now, as she dressed, she thought that at least Manuel would have done his yesterday’s work thoroughly. He always made sure there were no leftover jobs for her and Bud. She was eager to see Fury; also Laurie, for Laurie’s vacation was due to start.

  Down at the Wagon she found the atmosphere stormy. Lee looked his sternest, Laurie defiant.

  “Is Fury—?” Sis began timidly.

  Lee shook his head, his attention still on Laurie. Then he said, “Fury’s doing okay. But he’s not used to being shut in. I’ll graze him a few minutes today.”

  “I could do it,” Sis offered.

  “No, I’ll find time,” Lee said. “You might let him move too much. Remember it’s still six days before his stitches come out.”

  While Sis ate her breakfast, the other two concluded their argument with a bargain: Laurie was to find another job unless she could give up smoking. She had two weeks’ vacation in which to decide.

  “Of all the darn nerve!” she fumed when Lee had left. “He figures this is Russia, and he’s the king.”

  Sis didn’t think Russia had a king, but that wasn’t important. She spent a few minutes reasoning with Laurie, mainly on the basis of friendship. “I’d miss you like crazy if you left for good,” she said.

  “And I’d miss you, kid,” Laurie told her.

  “What does Ernie say?”

  Laurie’s full lips pouted, but she admitted, “He says to quit smoking.”

  Sis felt she might as well change the subject. “Is your replacement coming tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, some old chum of Lee’s. Lee has to go fetch him clear from the Delta.”

  “And he’ll sleep in your place?”

  “No way. In Lee’s office. Say—” Laurie’s smile returned. “I heard you were the star yesterday.” She never could stay mad long.

  The rest of the day, Sis basked in the congratulations of other friends. But next morning, the ranch seemed sad without Laurie, and without Lee, who had gone to fetch his new help. Manuel too for some reason appeared depressed, or troubled, and Sis realized he’d looked that way for a number of days. It might even have been weeks. Now that they could communicate better, she would have to find out what was worrying him.

  Meanwhile, while working, she cheered herself by thinking about her date with Jeff tonight. They were to see a movie on TV at his home.

  It was good to get away from the ranch for a change, she felt this evening as she sat on the Ashbys’ deck enjoying the view and Mrs. Ashby’s casserole. For more change, she wore her peasant dress, with the heart-shaped earrings that were supposed to match the gold flecks in her eyes. From Jeff’s expression, she concluded that brown hair and eyes weren’t exactly repulsive.

  The movie was one she’d been wanting to see for years, National Velvet. Since it wouldn’t start until eight, there was time for talk, more comfortable in a way because Mrs. Ashby was out, playing bridge.

  Sis decided that one of the best things about Jeff was his being uncomplicated. On impulse, she tried to tell him so. “After some of the characters at the ranch, it’s great to be with someone who’s just—well, cheerful. Simple. Nice.”

  Jeff laughed. “You make me sound half-witted.”

  “I didn’t mean that, and you know it!” Sis gazed off at the city lights. “It’s just that people do wrong things, and I always seem to get so upset by them. For instance, certain people cheat in the shows. I can tell they think I’m dumb because I don’t.”

  “So, forget ’em.”

  “I can’t,” she said, and thought she was the one who sounded half-witted.

  “Want to tell me more?”

  She told him about Laurie and her smoking, and finally, to her own surprise, about her dad and his real estate deal.

  Talk of one parent led to talk of another, and Jeff spoke of his mother.

  “I can’t really discuss your dad,” he said, “not knowing all the circumstances. But I’ll advise you: don’t try to change the whole world.” The light was bright enough to show concern on his face.

  “What do you mean?” Sis asked.

  “I mean, if you can help people, that’s fine. If. But you have your life to lead, and they have theirs. Don’t knock yourself out trying to make them over. Not many can be made over, anyway. I don’t mean to depress you, but you may as well realize there’ll always be people who’ll do what you call wrong things.”

  “I guess that’s true,” Sis answered. But she wasn’t depressed. On the contrary, a warm sensation filled her. Jeff was the only person to whom she’d confided her dad’s story since coming West. What a relief to talk! And how neat that they could act like friends, putting aside for the moment the boy-girl business. She wouldn’t have thought it possible. Just the opposite, it added something exciting to their relationship. Maybe maturity was the word.

  Soon, settled before the TV, they watched the picture, and for two glorious hours Sis was National Velvet.

  When Jeff drove her home and parked below her cabin, he left the motor running. Well, all right. She wasn’t going to ask for his kiss and make a fool of herself. She waited a moment while an owl spoke in the woods. “Hoo hoo. Hoo hoo.” Another answered, deep and solemn. Then she said, keeping her tone light, “You want me to come back in a year, right?”

  Close to her, Jeff chuckled. He didn’t touch her, but asked, “Did I say that? How long ago?”

  “Almost two months.”

  “Then come back in ten months.”

  “It’s a date.” And Sis left him. She was resigned to playing it his way—temporarily.

  But maybe temporarily wasn’t going to last long. Inside her cabin, she stood in the dark, listening. Jeff hadn’t left—so what was he doing? Would he turn off his motor, and would his footsteps come to her door? He’d knock, or just walk in, and—

  She stopped breathing to hear better. Small sounds of the outdoors intruded. Then the car door slammed. She exhaled. Jeff was
leaving.

  She switched on her light and said aloud, “Okay, Jeff Ashby, you’re taking a chance I’ll change my mind. Ten months is a long time.”

  But the weeks seemed to rush by, so that the middle of August arrived much too soon. The woods were in a dark green shadow, the hills brown, the creek only a gurgle. Sunburned kids wore stark white lips and noses under zinc oxide. Mothers relaxed their discipline. Everyone wished summer would last forever.

  “Nothing terrible’s happened lately,” Sis wrote her sisters one evening. “The barn boys are behaving, though there’s always some mystery with them. I mean, at every show Bud bets for or against us, and wins. It’s spooky how he figures right each time.

  “Manuel won’t go off the place alone, although his English is much better. So is my Spanish, which I’ve been sweating over in a grammar of Jeff’s. Besides his wages, now he gets paid by Mrs. McCauley, one of our grandmas, for yard work. Still he looks worried, and once or twice he tried to tell me something, and then veered off as if he was afraid.

  “Doctor Nesbit took out Fury’s stitches, and his lovely foretop is growing bushy again. Lee’s in a good mood, nobody knows why. Mrs. Ashby took some of us shopping in San Francisco. I spent most of my money in a neat saddle store on grooming tools for Gull. Mrs. Ashby pointed out the Hall of Sports that even you guys must have heard about. It’ll house nearly a thousand horses next month for the National, and Jeff’s promised we’d go see it as our last date before I leave for home. And Laurie and Ernie got back today, and now I have to go help her unpack, so I’ll finish this later.”

  Laurie was prowling the Wagon with a frown.

  “Shorty sure left things clean for you,” Sis remarked.

  “Hmm.” Laurie sniffed. “Trying to steal my job. Or to give Lee ideas, like keeping this dump old-maid neat.”

  Sis was about to ask if Laurie’d quit smoking when Lee walked in. He too looked extra neat in a suit, which changed his image. She wondered if this was due to Shorty’s influence, and smiled at the thought.