But more surprising is that I haven’t the foggiest clue what he is. I flip through my internal database trying to come up with a breed—or even a combination of breeds—but his shape is utterly unfamiliar to me. Finally I give up. “What is he?”
“Ha! Good for you,” says Nathalie, keeping her chin out of the way because the horse is using her as a scratching post. “So many people pretend they know everything. He’s a Nokota.”
“A
what
?”
“A Nokota,” she says, pushing the horse’s face away and then straightening his wavy forelock. She puts her other hand under his muzzle. He starts licking her hand.
“I’ve never heard of them,” I say.
“They’re wild horses from the Badlands of North Dakota.”
“This is a wild horse?”
“Well, not Joe, personally. But yes, they’re descendants of the Indian plains ponies. In fact, Joe here is a direct descendant of the horses confiscated from Sitting Bull. A few bands of them got inadvertently closed into Theodore Roosevelt National Park in the forties when the government was rounding up and shooting wild horses. It’s the only reason the breed survived.”
“No kidding,” I say, taking a closer look at this horse. His legs are stocky, his head heavy, his low tail wavy
and thick. There are hints of Mustang, of Andalusian, of Friesian about him. He gazes back at me, bemused. “Well, he certainly looks tough.”
“Tough as nails. Have to be to survive in the Badlands. Eventually the government agreed to leave a demonstration herd in the park, but they also decided they were too ugly and tried to change the phenotype—”
I gawk at Nathalie.
Phenotype?
Did she just slip
phenotype
into the conversation?
“—wanted to replace all the herd stallions with modern breeds. Said that any breed with this many blue roans had to be inbred, or some nonsense like that. I mean, look at this guy,” she says with obvious outrage, swooshing a hand through the air. “Does he look inbred to you? Anyway, in the end two brothers basically saved the breed. It’s an interesting story—I can give you some articles if you want. They’re amazing horses. They give their entire heart and soul to the task at hand, whatever that is, from roping to dressage to whatever.”
“And this is the horse you have in mind for Eva?”
“Yup.”
“Why?”
“Because I saw her ride that other horse—what was his name?”
“Malachite.”
“I saw her take him through a course he had no business being on at all—sorry, no offense,” she says, glancing at me quickly.
“None taken,” I say. “I have absolutely no ego wrapped up in Malachite.”
“And she got a clear round out of him anyway,”
Nathalie continues. “She’s a strong rider, and that’s what Joe needs.”
Tiny little pings of warning register on my maternal radar. “Why’s that?” I ask warily.
“He’s very well-trained indeed—I got him from Yvonne Richards. He’s got enormous potential. Simply enormous. But he’s young. Seven. And strong-willed. And stubborn.”
“I thought you said Nokotas give their heart and soul,” I say slowly.
“They do, but not to just anyone. It’s got to be the right person. So far, he hasn’t taken to anyone here.”
Larger flares now pop in the periphery of my brain. “When you say, ‘hasn’t taken to anyone,’ what exactly do you mean?”
“I mean that he won’t let just anyone ride him.”
The alarm bells are shrieking now. “You know, on second thought, I’m not sure I think this is such a good—”
“Follow me,” Nathalie says, heading for the arena with Joe clip-clopping beside her.
Eva is on the far side of the arena in the center of a group of giggling girls. The top two buttons of her shirt are undone, and she’s pulling it aside, showing off her tattoo. The girls lean in, making admiring noises. A couple trace the unicorn’s outline with their fingers. Another girl lifts the edge of her sweatshirt, displaying her navel piercing. More oohs and ahhs.
“Margot!” shouts Nathalie, striding toward them.
The girls straighten their carriage and clothing and fall silent, waiting until Nathalie and Joe stop in front of them.
“Show Eva where Joe’s stuff is. Eva, I want you to tack up Smoky Joe and bring him back here.”
Margot steps forward to take the lead rope.
“No,” Nathalie says firmly. “I want Eva to lead him.”
Margot shrugs and falls back.
Eva’s eyes widen, and there’s a second’s pause before she steps forward. When she does, Joe’s ears swivel forward, perked. They’re fluted, large as tulips at the bottom. I’ll bet he could hear a bird fluttering from a mile away. He lifts his nose, stretching it forward, sniffing.
Nathalie hands Eva the lead rope and steps out of the way.
Eva’s eyes sparkle, swooping across the whole of the blue roan Nokota, and then going over each inch of him again, and again, and again, as though she can’t believe what she’s seeing. She offers him her hand and he presses his nose into it, nostrils flaring in and out.
And then from deep in his throat he rumbles:
huh-huh-huh, huh-huh-huh, huh-huh-huh.
Oh dear God.
I’m doomed. Eva’s doomed. We’re all doomed.
I glance at Nathalie, who watches the meeting with greedy eyes.
Nathalie takes me to the lounge. Or rather, leads the way to it, because she always manages to stay a dozen steps in front of me.
Nathalie’s lounge is much like ours, an enclosed room with a large window that faces the arena. And like ours, it’s outfitted with mismatched furniture that ranges from worn-down couches to hastily constructed plywood tables to stackable lawn chairs.
Nathalie takes a seat in a white plastic lawn chair in
front of the soundboard, and I follow suit. She crosses her legs and leans back in her seat.
“There’s coffee over there if you want some,” she says, waving behind her.
“No thanks,” I mumble, wishing something stronger were on offer. I glance nervously at my watch.
After a few minutes, a stream of girls enters the lounge. They line up against the back wall, whispering and giggling, throwing their arms around each others’ necks and poking each other in the ribs.
Eva enters the arena with Joe.
“Quiet!” says Nathalie, raising a hand.
The girls shush each other and fall silent. Sort of.
“Three minutes,” whispers a voice from behind me.
“Five!”
“Two, tops.”
“You can’t call two. I already called two.”
“No, Kris called two!”
“Then I call three.”
“You can’t call three—Maggie called three.”
“Fine! Four and a half.”
“Naw, he’ll have her off in one and a half. Remember Elizabeth?”
“I said,
QUIET
!” Nathalie yelps.
Eva leads Joe to the center of the arena and runs down the stirrups. She pulls the right stirrup iron into her armpit to check for length, and then comes back around to the left side and does the same with the other. She checks the girth. She fiddles and adjusts, checking the buckle on the noseband, and then rechecks the girth.
She checks so many things I get suspicious. Has she changed her mind? Is she trying to send me a signal to
get her out of this because things have gone too far for her to get herself out without losing face?
I shift forward on my seat, suddenly on full alert.
Oh, baby, I’ll get you out of here. Just let me know. Just give me the signal—
Her cheeks are bright crimson, her lips set in a grim line. She stands directly in front of Joe and straightens the reins before running them over his head. Then she picks up first his left foreleg and then his right, pulling them forward by the knee, making sure his hair lies flat beneath the girth.
“She’s stalling,” whispers one the girls.
“Do you blame her?”
My face burns. Each time Eva lays her fingers on a buckle, each time she slides them under a strap, I become more convinced that she’s telling me to step in and put a stop to this. Finally I make a deal with myself: if she checks the throat latch, we’re out of here.
Eva steps up to Joe’s head and smoothes his forelock. She leans in close to his face and whispers. Then she slips her fingers under his throat latch.
I whip around to Nathalie. “Nathalie, I—”
“Quiet!”
she barks.
My eyes spring open, but I am stunned into silence.
Eva turns and looks through the window of the lounge. Her mouth moves.
Nathalie lunges forward. She flicks the switch on the soundboard with one hand while snatching up the microphone with the other.
“What’s that, hon?”
“I said, what do you want me to do?” says Eva.
“Oh, you know. Just warm up. Whatever.”
Eva looks horrified. “What?”
“Just warm up. Just do, you know…stuff. I’ll let you know when I want you to do something specific.”
Eva blinks a few times at the window of the lounge. Then she turns and mounts.
My heart is in my throat.
A girly hiss from behind me: “Start the clock!”
“QUIET!”
snaps Nathalie.
My head feels light, and I realize I’m hyperventilating. I close my eyes for a moment, trying to remember Lamaze breathing. Once my fingertips stop tingling, I look into the arena.
Eva and Joe float around the perimeter, light as tumbleweed. Eva sits erect and straight, her lower back pumping in time with his stride so that her upper body remains motionless. Her elbow is bent at a precise right angle. Joe chomps on the bit, and between chomps I see the reins snap slightly. He is giving her his head.
Nathalie scootches forward to the very edge of the plastic chair, leaning forward, rapt.
“One minute,” whispers someone behind us.
Nathalie swings around on her chair. “If I have to say it again, there’s gonna be trouble.
Capiche?
”
There is now utter silence behind us.
I concentrate on the scene in front of me, trying to remember to breathe.
Eva rolls her hands down at the wrist by half an inch and presses her legs into him—this is apparent only by a microscopic change in the width of her calf. Joe’s body rounds further, his haunches coming forward. He’s still chomping the bit, still giving her his head. His ears are perked, his tail trailing them like a banner.
Shoulder in, shoulder in, shoulder in; then haunches in, haunches in, haunches in. A half halt, and they rock
forward into a canter. His back and neck are as arched as a Halloween cat, his hooves drumming the sand like fingers.
“Ahhhhhh…” says Nathalie, leaning her chin in her hand. “Oh, that’s nice.”
“Have I mentioned that Eva can be a real handful?” I say.
“What?” she says, distracted, and without taking her eyes from the arena.
Eva crosses to the left rail using a half pass, a sideways canter in which Joe’s legs cross at each stride. Then they begin a
passage.
Oh God, it’s perfect—it looks like someone has filmed a high-stepping trotter and is pressing the pause button once a second.
I lean toward Nathalie. “Eva. She can be difficult,” I say with increasing urgency. “You know, boy trouble.”
“Ahhhhhh…” says Nathalie.
Eva halts Joe without any perceptible movement in her legs or hands. He just suddenly plants his feet squarely and stops. A pause of three seconds, and then he rolls forward into a canter. Eva circles him at the far end. Coming out of it, I see her fingers tighten, his ears perk, and I hold my breath—
They execute a perfect
pirouette.
“It’s not just boys. She smokes. She talks back. Heck, just this week she—”
Nathalie lifts a hand and wiggles her fingers at me, all without looking away from Eva and Joe.
I stare at the back of her head. I’ve never been shushed like this in my life. And then I wonder why the hell I’m trying to sabotage Eva’s audition, and sit back with my mouth firmly shut.
Eva canters directly past the window, so close I get a good look at her face—she’s concentrating so hard her chin is jutting and there are lines etched on her forehead. She looks just like Mutti.
She pulls Joe out of the corner, still cantering, and crosses the arena on the long diagonal. Within seconds I see why.
They’re doing flying changes, one after another, literally skipping across the arena.
“Did you see that?
Did you see that?
” Nathalie spins on her seat to face me, jabbing her finger at the window.
I am speechless. The girls behind me buzz with excitement.
Nathalie swipes the microphone from the table in front of her. “Thank you, that’s enough,” she says.
Eva pulls Joe up. “What?”
“That’s enough. You can dismount.”
“What? You don’t want me to audition?” says Eva, horrified. Her fingers tighten on the reins, her face goes pale.
“Honey, you just did,” laughs Nathalie. “Nobody else has stayed on Joe for more than six minutes since we brought him here. Congratulations.”
Eva’s face moves seamlessly from horror to pure joy. She slides her feet from the stirrups and leans over to give Joe an enthusiastic pat. Then she dismounts and stands by his head, sliding her hand under his muzzle.
Joe stands perfectly still, licking and licking and licking the flat of her hand. When the girls pile out of the lounge and skip and laugh their way across the arena, Eva turns, beaming. And when Joe lifts his muzzle, wraps his neck around Eva’s, and lays his head on her chest, I realize that there’s no turning back.
“Don’t worry, Mom.”
I turn, startled. Nathalie is staring right at me.
“I heard every word you said about Eva. The interesting ones are always a handful, but I run a tight ship. I only take students who are between sixteen and twenty-one, and they tend to be a pretty self-contained unit. They work ten to twelve hours, six days a week and have no transportation of their own. If they want to go somewhere, they have to ask Margot or me. But mostly, at the end of the day the only thing they want to do is go to bed.”
“Oh,” I say, looking back into the arena. Eva is accepting congratulatory pats on the back, with a broad, open smile. I realize suddenly that her earlier reticence was not a wish to be rescued, it was a fear of not measuring up. Furthermore, had I followed through on my instinct to get us out of here before she rode, she probably would have taken out a contract on my life.