I stamp down a foot and imagine an entire flock of crows scattering before me. “Me.”
Thirty-Nine
Dear Miss Sweetie,
My wife ain’t talking to me. She talks fine to our children and our dog, so I know she ain’t gone mute. What happened is she pruned the trees too early and now they stunted. I told her she should have never fooled with stuff she don’t know about. Then she told me I’m the one who’s stunted. How can I get her to talk to me again?
Stunted
Dear Stunted,
The two words that will change your life are “thank you.” Like a candle that can light a thousand more without shortening its own life, appreciation is a gift that, when given, can set the whole world aglow. Do your part in passing it along.
Yours truly,
Miss Sweetie
—
Even the horses fall silent at my proclamation. Mrs. Payne’s mouth hangs half open in shock. “You.” She shakes herself free of her stupor. “I’m sorry. It wouldn’t be proper.” Maybe hearing the hypocrisy in her words, she adds, “Not to mention unsafe, not just for you, but the other horses and riders.”
I stroke Sweet Potato’s sleek nose. “You can avoid a protest.”
“Those suffragists will protest regardless.”
“Not if I win.”
She snorts, and the sound squares my jaw. But she is glaring at a knot in the floor, and I wonder if her reaction is more complicated than I think.
Noemi finishes tying her rope and busily stacks pails. “Remember that baby-eating spider, ma’am,” she casually drops. “Controversy sells.”
Mrs. Payne straightens a halter hanging askew on a nail. It flops to one side again, and she shakes her head. Before she can refuse me, I put the final feather in the cap. “Plus, I have been told there is horse-riding in my blood.”
The statement stamps a hoof before her, daring her to turn away. It is the first acknowledgment of our shared lineage, a final choice between pride and shame. Her choice.
Her chin becomes a small fist. “I will add you to the roster.”
“Thank you. And one more thing. I trust there will be no unmasking of Miss Sweetie. Seems she is not the only one wearing a mask.”
She coughs. The dust seems to hold its pattern around her, until at last, she nods. “I understand.”
—
IRIDESWEETPotato through Six Paces, though having my skirts hitched up on the cross saddle hinders my speed. On the turnaround, I nearly tumble off. I will be wearing trousers in the race, but I begin to doubt myself all over again.
There will be professional jockeys in the ring, men who know all the tricks. The only trick I know is the one where you pull up your knees and pivot in the saddle, but that one’s not going to speed me to the finish any faster.
Returning to the estate, I kiss Sweet Potato’s face and hand her to Mr. Crycks.
Only his door-knocker mustache moves when he talks. “Tell Old Gin to come back before Sweet Potato decides she likes me better.”
“Will do, Mr. Crycks. Thank you for watching after her. See you tomorrow.”
When I return to the Bells’, Old Gin stares dreamily out the open window. There’s a slow but steady limp to his breathing. On the nightstand, a half-empty cup of tea weighs down a copy of today’sFocus. He doesn’t seem to notice me, even when I kneel in front of him. Bear sits patiently at attention next to me.
“It’s the tincture,” whispers Mrs. Bell, pulling a basket from under the bed. “I used it once when my arthritis was bad, and it really sets your mind to sail. But at least he won’t be feeling too much pain.”
I touch his arm to assure him that I am here. “Sweet Potato says hello, and so does Mr. Crycks, Daylily, Portia, Charlie-Sam, Bullet, and Justice. Pirate, Frederick, Ameer, and Liberty Bell are out working.” His good eye wanders to me and then closes.
