Jane Smiley - Early Warning

Torch’s hindquarters were disappearing into the tunnel that must have led to the stabling, and Debbie went after him as smoothly and calmly as possible — she knew how to act around horses. A moment later, a short man — the groom, no doubt — appeared and held out his hand. Fiona, who had taken off her hard hat and her hairnet, gave him the reins. As he led the horse away, Debbie called out. Fiona looked around, took off her gloves, made a little fake smile, but kept walking, though more slowly. When Debbie caught up with her, she said, “Debbie! How nice to see you! I had no idea…”

“You did so well! I loved how you went for that water jump! You really—”

“It’s a fun class.” Then she said, “Well, wonderful to see you. I have to get ready for the next class.” And she turned and walked away.

Debbie ran after Fiona and grabbed her by the arm. Fiona spun around and shook her off. She was strong — Debbie could feel the tension of her biceps through her jacket. Debbie said, “I am glad to see you! I wish you were glad to see me!”

They stood staring at one another for what seemed like a long time, and then Fiona said, “I am. I really am. You look grown up.” Debbie laughed, and said, “Is that a compliment?”

“I don’t know.” But she did smile. She did at last smile. Then she said, “Do I look grown up?”

“No,” said Debbie. “You look like a boy.”

“Dreams do come true, then.” She was back to being serious. Then she said, “I am sorry, Deb. I was very wound up about that class. We’ve never come all the way to the Garden before. You know me. I was never very nice.”

Without meaning to, Debbie said, “I loved you.”

Fiona smiled again, leaned toward her, and kissed her on the cheek. She said, “You were very patient. What are you doing now?”

“I teach eighth grade at a private school.”

“Do you ride anymore?”

Debbie shook her head.

“You should. You were so game, and I made you do lots of things that most girls would have been scared shitless to do. I am scared shitless just thinking about them.”

Debbie laughed.

“So what is your cute brother doing?”

At first Debbie thought she meant Dean, and she said, “He graduated from Dartmouth in the spring, and he’s—” But then she realized, and she said, “Oh. Do you mean Tim? I didn’t realize you knew him.”

Fiona said, “How could I not know the cutest boy in school?” She looked blank, innocent. Debbie licked her lips, and her eyes filled with tears. “He was killed in Vietnam six years ago.”

Fiona went white.

It was funny how it all rolled back through you, how you relied on everyone you knew knowing that your brother had been killed, had had his skull pierced by a grenade fragment, and so you never had to say the words or think the thought, because every time you did, it was too fresh to tolerate, if only for a minute.

Fiona twisted her gloves in her hands and said, “I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.” She looked down. “Did he ever tell you that he used to”—she paused—“he used to give me rides sometimes in his car?”

“I never knew what Tim did.” But had Tim somehow been Fiona’s boyfriend? This idea was so impossible that Debbie couldn’t process it, and therefore decided not to.

But the tears now in Fiona’s eyes spilled down her face. She brushed them away with her hand, and then she said, “I do have to get ready for the next class. The horse is pretty green and takes a lot of warming up.”

“I’m glad I saw you.”

“Me, too,” said Fiona.

She turned and walked down the tunnel toward wherever they kept the horses.

Debbie made her way back to her seat and sat quietly for the next two classes, but she didn’t see Fiona again, even though she was in the program, on a horse named Restless. There was no explanation or announcement. With the traffic, Debbie was home by midnight, and she lay awake in her bed until four, wondering if they had ever really been friends, she and Fiona, or if it had always been the way she sometimes saw among her students — the one girl, Fiona, the dedicated, oblivious rocket heading into the future as fast as she possibly could, and the other girls milling about her, locked in the day-to-day contest for position and love. Which would you rather be? Debbie thought. And yet there was the picture in her mind of that chestnut horse, airborne over the Liverpool, his forelegs folded, his neck stretched, his ears pricked, Fiona crouched on his back. As with every arc, she knew, there was a moment of weightlessness in there. Once you felt it, you were doomed always to long for that feeling again.

JANET THOUGHT that Marla Cook, who moved into their house after Liza went to live with her boyfriend, looked exactly like Cicely Tyson, but she knew perfectly well that you weren’t supposed to talk to black people about how they looked or discuss how they looked with others. There were a lot of land mines there, because, even if you came from a family where only your grandparents ever used the word “Negro” (no one in Iowa that she had ever heard used the other “n” word), there were plenty of words that you had to be careful of, like “boy.” When she was (and it was rare) feeling fond of Richie or Michael, she would say, “You are a cute boy!” And then, one day in Oakland, when she was talking to Hunter Morrison, who was about the same age as the twins and worked with her at Lasagna Paradise, she laughed and said, “Oh, you are a cute boy!” and that was that. They were both so embarrassed for her that they never joked around again, and yet she couldn’t apologize.

Marla’s room was next to hers, and they shared a bathroom — she had moved in because she knew Bobby at Safeway and also knew Cat, who had gone from nude modeling to being in a movie — admittedly, a short movie, but nevertheless a movie. Maybe because Marla was so beautiful, she and Cat were rather formal with each other. After about four days, Marla got more relaxed with Janet, and invited her into her room. It was important in a house like theirs not to form teams or gossip about one another, and so neither of them talked about anything that was going on (including food storage, which was an issue). They talked about French plays and movies. Whereas Janet had seen two Alain Delon films, Marla had seen eight — if there was a tiny little theater somewhere playing something obscure, Marla made an effort to get there. As beautiful as she was, she did not want to be a movie star; she wanted to be a director. She was saving the money she made working two jobs so that she could go to France — she wanted Janet to talk French to her. Marla knew two things about France: a beautiful woman, black or white, could get ahead there, and a play in France could be about anything; it could be about four people sitting on a stage, crossing and uncrossing their legs and occasionally coughing.

Marla was from Los Angeles — not Hollywood, but Crenshaw. Nothing about Los Angeles impressed her. When Janet asked her about it (especially on rainy days), she turned her feet edgewise and wiped them on the rug. Her father worked for the city and her mother for the costume department at Paramount, sewing.

Marla was impressed only by Paris — all Janet had to do was say words like “Tuileries” and “Montparnasse” and Marla would smile. After a week, she got Janet to read plays to her in French. The first one was Rhinocéros , by Ionesco, then Antigone , by Jean Anouilh. They each had a copy; Janet would translate a line, then read it in French, and then Marla would read the line. If her pronunciation was wrong, even a little bit, Janet was supposed to stop her and correct her. Marla was absolutely dedicated to this, and since she had a sense of her own future that was built of stone, Janet thought of this as her vocation more than her job at Lasagna Paradise. She told Marla that her father was a farmer in Usherton, Iowa, and that she had gone to the University of Iowa. Marla didn’t ask if the University of Iowa had a junior-year-abroad program. Anyway, in a just world, Uncle Joe would be her father and Aunt Minnie would be her mother. It was a good thing to lie about.