Bold Beauty (7 page)

“No! Mom kept lots of horse problems from Dad so he wouldn't worry! From Lizzy too!” I broke down into a shoulder-shaking cry that hurt my left shoulder and made me cry harder.

I hadn't wanted to cry like a baby in front of Catman. But the tears ended up doing what my words couldn't. He stuck both his hands in the air. “Chill. You win! Stop crying! I can't dig it, man!”

I wiped tears with the back of my hand. “Thanks, Catman.”

Nobody could know I'd fallen, not even Lizzy. She was scared of horses already. And she'd never be able to keep her mouth shut around Dad. If he found out, he'd lose all con-fidence in me as a horse gentler. Besides, Dad had just started feeling settled in Ashland. He didn't need me to worry about.

For a few minutes, my jagged breaths and sniffs were all that passed between us.

“I won't tell—for now,” Catman promised. “But I don't like it. And I want you to see my mother.”

“Your mother?” Mrs. Coolidge worked in a beauty salon, not a hospital. “Why your mother?”

“Claire finished two years of nursing school before she found her true calling.” Catman wheeled up his bike. “Handlebars,” he commanded. He balanced his bike while I climbed sidesaddle on the bar in front of him.

Catman biked backwards through the pasture as easily as if we'd been coasting on pavement. He didn't stop until we reached Coolidge Castle.

People who stumble across this old mansion think it's deserted. Or haunted. Bart Coolidge lets weeds grow till they bend over and dry out. Only a strip of lawn in front of the house gets mowed to make room for plastic lawn ornaments. Today big orange balls lay on the stubby grass, probably the beginnings of Halloween decorations, even though Halloween was over a month away.

I slid off the bike, brushed off my jeans and shirt, and stared up at the three-story mansion that could have used a coat of paint. Several windows had boards hammered across them. Cats swarmed at my feet, but I didn't bend down to pet them.

Catman helped me up the creaky steps and inside. The cool, dark living room covered me with its perfume. The difference between the outside and inside of Coolidge Castle never failed to surprise me. Nothing inside the house was run-down, although most things were old. I could imagine stepping out of a time machine into a place a century or two ago. A giant chandelier cast a glow on velvet furniture, while thick red drapes kept sunlight out of a living room as big as our whole house.

Catman's mom descended the winding staircase in a lime green dress that reached to her matching fuzzy slippers. Her hair was totally wrapped in aluminum foil, probably some new hair treatment. “Calvin—ahhh! What happened to Winnie?”

“I'm okay.” I braced myself as she scurried down the stairs and shuffled toward us. “Really. Just a sore shoulder—”

“Your hair!” Ignoring my black eye, Mrs. Coolidge dashed straight for my hair and began pulling out twigs and leaves. “What did you do to this gorgeous hair?”

I tried not to flinch as she combed her fingers through my hair. “Mrs. Coolidge?” At least my voice had come back, no hoarser than usual. “It's really all right.”

“Calvin!” she scolded. “How could you let this happen? Get my hairbrush!”

Catman cleared his throat. “Mom.” He called his parents Mom and Dad to their faces, but Claire and Bart otherwise. They always called him Calvin. “Check Winnie out—like, not just her hair.”

For the first time, his mom looked directly at me. Her green eyes through her glasses grew as big as spit curls. “You have bruises around your eye!”

I shrugged, which made me wince.

“Check her shoulder,” Catman said.

“What happened?” Mrs. Coolidge asked, poking my ribs.

“I fell.” I got it out before Catman had a chance to answer.

Mrs. Coolidge dragged in a kitchen stool and made me sit. “Let's have a look at our shoulder.” She kneaded my arm as if I were bread dough. “No swelling. Nothing broken.”

I nodded at Catman. “Told you!”

While Mrs. Coolidge jabbed me, waves of multicolored fur flowed at my feet, cats of all colors and sizes. Moggie, a small light-orange tabby, and Wilhemina scratched at the stool legs.

“Ow!” I cried when Mrs. Coolidge punched my shoulder.

“Sorry, dear. Our shoulder is not dislocated. But we have a nasty bruise there. That must have been quite a fall! Where did you—?”

“Mom?” Catman jerked his head toward the kitchen. “Do I smell brownies?”

“First things first, Calvin.” She held out her palm, the surgeon waiting for her scalpel. “Brush!”

After Mrs. Coolidge performed hair surgery on me, she brought out chocolate milk with ice cubes and straws as long and winding as the Mississippi. Catman and I ate brownies the size of North and South Carolina.

I forced down food so they wouldn't think I was sick. But all I felt like doing was going home and curling up in my own bed. “Catman, will you tell Pat I'll answer my horse e-mails tomorrow after church?”

“That's cool.”

I thanked Mrs. Coolidge. Catman trailed me to the door. I reached for the doorknob, and the door burst open.

Bart Coolidge entered like a gust of wind. He looks like a used-car salesman—maybe because he
is
a used-car salesman, owner of Smart Bart's Used Cars. His hairpiece lay crooked on his round head, and his Looney Tunes Taz tie was flipped back over his shoulder.

“Sa-a-ay!” he shouted. “Winnie! Listen to this one. So this fellow loses control of his automobile and crashes into a cornfield. He manages to drive the car into town, cornstalks sticking out his bumper. A boy observes said car as the fellow motors down Main Street. What do you think the lad asks his mother?”

I laughed. I may not always understand Bart Coolidge's jokes—and he does have a million of them. But he always makes me laugh, usually way before the punch line. “I give. What'd he say?”

“‘Mommy, look at that bumper crop!' Get it? Bumper? Crop? I got a million of 'em!” He leaned in. “Young lady, have you and Calvin been fighting?”

I couldn't even imagine peace-loving Catman in a fight. “I fell.”

“Bart!” yelled his wife from across the room.

“Claire!” They ran into each other's arms, like in a sappy, romantic movie.

Outside, Catman walked with me as far as the orange pumpkin-wanna-be balls. “I can ride you home,” he offered.

“No thanks. I'm fine.” I did feel better . . . on the outside. Inside I felt like a pinball machine, thoughts banking off each other and never scoring. What had really happened at that hedge?

A window opened, and Bart Coolidge yelled down, “What did the car say to the Canadian goose?”

I gave up, palms raised.

“Honk, eh?” He laughed in wind-filled huffs, like a donkey braying.

As I walked home, I replayed the jump in my mind. I'd been so sure I could get Beauty over that hedge.

At the pasture Nickers trotted up to meet me. She stuck her head over the fence, and I pressed my forehead against her silky cheek.

As I walked on to the house, I glanced back at the hedge. It couldn't have grown in the last hour, but it seemed twice as tall as it had that afternoon.

Dad's truck, the old cattle truck we'd driven from Wyoming, hogged the curb in front of our house, so I knew he was home. I spotted him in the side yard. He was rocking frantically in his chair invention. I kept my head down and waved as I hurried inside.

Lizzy was clearing the table. “You missed dinner!”

“Not hungry.” I darted back to our room. But I wasn't quick enough for my sister.

“Winnie!” She raced past me and blocked our bedroom doorway. “What happened? Did you get in a fight? I'll bet it was Summer Spidell! But you could beat her with your hands tied in a bow behind your back! Not that you
should
beat her! I didn't mean
that
! She must have had help! That's so unfair! Does it hurt? You have to get hold of that temper of yours—!”

“Lizzy!” I finally got a word in. “I didn't fight!”

Lizzy's green eyes widened. “You didn't? But your eye—!”

“I fell.” I ducked under her arm and slipped into our room. “You know how clumsy I am.”

No lies here. Not really. I did fall. I am clumsy.

“Are you okay? What did Dad say?”

“Lizzy, all I need is a good night's sleep.” I kicked clothes out of the way, clearing a path to my unmade bed. Lizzy's bed was made with hospital corners, neat as her half of the room. “Don't make a big deal out of this to Dad. Tell him I'm fine. I fell. I'm going to bed.”

I knew Lizzy wanted to ask a hundred questions. But I convinced her to go so I could rest.

When I was sure the coast was clear, I moved to the foot of my bed and gazed out the window, where night was taking over. Crickets chirped, growing soft, then loud, as if reading the same music. I could make out Nickers and Towaco grazing on either side of Bold Beauty as if they knew she needed a friend.
I'd
sure let her down.

In the middle of the night, I jerked bolt upright in bed, gasping for breath. My clothes stuck to me in a clammy sweat.

I'd had nightmares, replays of Bold Beauty in the air, the sound of the hedge scraping her belly. The landing. The fall. Catman's blurry face as I tried to breathe.

This is stupid! I've fallen before. It's just a nightmare,
I told myself.

But it wasn't. The pictures were more real with my eyes open. Details formed, things I hadn't noticed—a glimpse of a white hoof boot, the reins slipping from my hands, a patch of clover as I thudded to the ground.

Over and over the pictures raced through my mind. Again and again, I fell. I couldn't stop the pictures. The nightmare wouldn't end.

Sunday I woke a dozen times before finally hauling myself out of bed. Nothing hurt except my shoulder. All I wanted was to get through the day without having anybody suspect I'd fallen off Bold Beauty.

When I looked in the mirror, I winced. A purple-green-yellow splotch circled my left eye. A matching bruise stretched from my left shoulder to my elbow.

Voices floated in from the kitchen, along with the scent of bacon and pancakes. Lizzy and Dad were laughing at something as I slipped into the bathroom. I hung a washcloth over the doorknob, our substitute for a lock, and ran the bathwater as hot as I could stand it.

After my bath, I braided my wet hair and dressed in the same denim jumper I'd worn last Sunday, adding a long-sleeved shirt under it to hide my shoulder bruise. But there was nothing I could do for the bruise circling my eye.

Here we go, God,
I prayed as I plastered on a smile and walked to the kitchen. “Morning, Lizzy! Dad!”

I made a beeline to the fridge and squatted behind the open door, conducting a slow search for the orange juice that sat on the top shelf.

“Heard you had a great fall, Humpty Dumpty,” Dad said. “Must run in the family. First time I held your mother in my arms was when she tripped over a sidewalk crack and I caught her.”