Philipp Meyer - The Son

“Not really.”

“Of course it is. We hear everything is bigger in Texas.”

She shrugged. “It’s not as nice as this, though. It’s not nearly as green.”

“How many acres do you have?”

It was a rude question — the last thing you would ask someone in Texas — but she knew she had to answer. “Three hundred ninety-six sections.”

“That’s not so much,” said Topsy.

“She said sections, not acres.”

“How much is a section?”

“They don’t even call them acres. An acre is too small.”

“How much is a section,” Kiki asked, for the second time.

“Six hundred forty acres.”

For some reason this caused all the girls, with the exception of Corkie, to break into hysterical laughter. Corkie was watching the driver, waiting for him to open the door.

“Are you going to be a cattlewoman as well?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What are you going to be, then?”

“She’s going to be someone’s wife,” said Corkie. “Just like the rest of us.”

THAT AFTERNOON, THEY went riding. Below the main house was a stable with twenty or so horses, an immense corral that they called an arena, and a large pasture. It was all set in a manicured wood but she did not ask where the property ended. There were men in the shadows, cutting branches and loading them into a cart.

She was wearing jodhpurs and knee-high boots borrowed from Corkie’s younger sister. She felt ridiculous, but everyone else was dressed the same way. She presumed they were going for a long ride, four or five hours, and she wished she had eaten more at lunch.

“I imagine you must have horses,” said Natalie.

“Yes,” she said. “Do you?”

“There isn’t really enough room for them in Tuxedo Park.” She shrugged.

“There’s room for Jews, though,” said Topsy.

“Topsy and Natalie were neighbors with the girl you roomed with.”

“Her father bought a house there ten years ago,” said Topsy, “but they wouldn’t admit him to the club, so his family couldn’t so much as dip a finger in the lake. If they ever heard them splashing around down there, someone would call the police.”

“Tell her about the wedding.”

“They had a wedding last summer, and all the kids in Tuxedo Park went and turned the signs around, so none of the guests could find their house. Completely ruined the ceremony.” She smiled. “The problem is when people think that just because they have money…”

Jeannie nodded. The horses were brought out. They were sorrels, smaller chested and longer legged than cow horses.

“I had them put my sister’s saddle on this one,” said Corkie. She handed the reins over. “You’re about her height.” The saddle was simple, without a pommel or high cantle, and when Jeannie climbed up, the stirrups felt short and awkward, as if they had been set for a child.

The horse was tall and long legged, near sixteen hands; it looked like a fast horse but it did not look nearly as fast as it really was. It was so much more powerful than a cow horse that it felt closer to an automobile. With a cow horse (quarter horse, these girls called it) there was a negotiation, there were times you let the animal have its way, but this horse was both fast and anxious to please; giving it its head just confused it, like letting go of the steering wheel of a car. It seemed — like everything else in these girls’ lives — to have been created just to serve them.

She found she barely needed the reins; the horse responded if she even tensed her legs; he was so responsive, in fact, that he was difficult to ride at first. She wondered if she was a sloppier rider than she thought. She was uncomfortable in the saddle and when they hit a gallop she had a hard time maintaining her seat. They were going fast down a groomed path and there were a series of hurdles ahead; Corkie went over the first one and Jeannie got a bad feeling but followed anyway. There was nothing to worry about. The horse cleared the gate without any input from her at all.

After an hour the rest of the girls were tired and decided to return to the stables. She put her heels in and brushed through a small gap between Topsy and Bootsie, hoping to spook them, then passed Corkie as well. The horse was enjoying itself, so she did a hot lap of the corral ( arena, she corrected herself), which was nearly a half mile in circumference. It was a good horse; it did not want to stop and she was overcome with sadness, for the life it lived in this corral and these few miles of manicured trail, ridden by these girls who spent longer getting dressed than they did in the saddle. A pointless existence.

By the time she’d cooled the animal down and walked back to the stable, the other girls were waiting and their horses were already being curried by the groom and his children.

Bootsie was saying: “She does ride like a cowboy, doesn’t she?”

“Does it feel strange, not having a handle to hold?”

“You don’t touch the saddle horn,” said Jeannie. She knew she’d looked awkward at first, but she thought she’d recovered well. It was plain she was a better rider than any of them, perhaps even Corkie. It was equally plain that none of them would admit it. Or they would find some way to turn it into an insult. She had an impulse to get back on the horse, gallop into the woods, and begin her long journey back to Texas. Certainly no harder than anything the Colonel had done. Her father would pay for the horse.

“Then why is it there?” said Bootsie, still talking about the saddle horn.

“It’s for holding your tools. Tying your rope to and such.”

“Well, you looked uncomfortable. I’m sure you’ll get used to it.”

“I’m a better rider than all of you,” she said. She felt her face get hot; she had been pressed into saying something she wasn’t sure of. “Except Corkie,” she added.

“Still,” said Bootsie. “You looked strange.”

“That was nothing compared to what we do at home.”

“Because it’s bigger down there, I’m sure.”

“Because we’re roping big animals and trying not to get gored by their horns.”

“I believe she said we’d be gored,” said Topsy.

“She meant bored. To actual death.”

“I’m going inside,” said Corkie. She was standing against the stall door, looking tired. “Dinner will be ready soon.”

THAT NIGHT, SHE couldn’t sleep, and after a good deal of wandering down dark hallways, she found her way to the kitchen for a glass of milk. She had just gone into the icebox when she heard someone behind her.

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” said a voice. It was one of the maids.

“I’m sorry.”

The woman’s face softened. “You just ask, sweetie. We’ll bring you whatever you need.”

After drinking her milk she decided to go outside. It was dark, but there was a light on at the stable and she made her way down the hill in the wet grass — wet, everything here was wet — she was not sure what she had in mind. To talk to her horse, sneak him out for a night ride, to ride away and never come back. As she approached the stable she saw the light was coming from an upper window, in what she had presumed was the hayloft. There was a person moving behind a thin curtain, the faint sound of music. She was close enough to smell the stalls. The person passed behind the curtain again and she realized it was the groom. He lived with his family above the horses. She watched as he sat down in an armchair and appeared to close his eyes, listening quietly to the radio. She could not believe it. Even the lowest hands, who did nothing but stretch fence all day, slept in the bunkhouse. They did not live with animals.

She felt very tired and turned to go back to the house, her legs cold and damp from the dew. It was only September, it was just the beginning. Things will get better, she told herself. She thought of the Colonel being held by the Indians; if he had survived that, she could survive this, but even that did not feel true, it was just words, it was a different time.