Firehorse (9781442403352) (16 page)

He shrugged. “Better is a slippery word, Mrs. Boon. I'm a better man for my education. I help animals get better. And, let's see, how does that verse go? ‘There's nothing
better
for a man than that he should find enjoyment in his toil.'” It was his turn to lean across me. “Ecclesiastes,” he whispered to Grandmother.

A smile tugged at her lips, though she tried to look serious. “I like a man who knows his Bible,” she said approvingly.

Enjoyment in his toil. I looked down at my lap. Did that count for
her
toil as well? I had to wonder, because my hands were burning like they'd grabbed hold of stinging nettle. The fiery—and yet somehow thoroughly enjoyable—sensation had sparked when that foal touched his tiny muzzle to them. I closed my eyes, shutting out the city noises and trying to recall his excited, high-pitched whinny. I shut out the smells and tried to
breathe in the lingering aroma of his sweet breath. From his very first movement he'd been so full of life, so eager for it. I wanted to race back there and hug him to me.

Before I was ready, we were home again. I didn't want to end the dreamlike morning by climbing out of the buggy and touching ground. I didn't want to go back to holding a needle in my hand, squinting over a circle of stretched linen. I wanted to hold a tiny head in my hands, to hold life. But Mr. Stead climbed out and took Balder's bridle while I helped Grandmother down. She tackled the stairs alone, allowing me to linger. I pretended to check the buggy for anything left behind, when of course we hadn't carried anything with us but our excitement.

“Shall we check on your mare?” Mr. Stead suggested, and I nodded. The dream would last a little longer.

We found the Girl dozing. The silver pin was still in place. Just below it, a drop of blood showed black against a remnant of her light coat. Quietly, Mr. Stead stepped into her stall and pressed his fingers against her throat to check her pulse. I knew my own was racing. He nodded satisfaction, then felt for the cotton he'd stuffed deep into her ears. That was to keep her from hearing a fire alarm, to keep her from hurting herself, but I instinctively recoiled at the dulling of her senses. “She's doing fine,” he said in a low voice.

Someone must have stuffed cotton into my own ears, because I was moving in a stupor. I knew we were walking back out to the buggy, but there was a buzzing in my head that brought my world in close. The day had grown so stewingly
hot that when a bead of sweat trickled down my arm it seemed like liquid fire. The tingling in my palms was explosive. My hands felt foreign to me, as if someone else's hands had been attached to my body. In a way I felt newly born myself, and as if this new person, not me, was speaking, I heard the words: “Teach me.”

“I beg your pardon?”

My breath caught. What was I saying? This was unknown territory.

But there was no use in hesitating; I was galloping. “I want to be a veterinary too. I want to help horses. I want to feel-”

“Hold on there,” he said with a laugh. “You're talking faster than my ears can listen. You want to be a
veterinary?'

I nodded. My heart was pounding so hard inside my chest. I was galloping toward the biggest fence I'd ever faced. It was terrifying and exhilarating at once.

“Girls don't become veterinaries,” he said with that same patronizing smile Father often wore, and my chin hit mane as the hooves slid to a stop. Anger flared inside me. He'd suddenly joined all the rest of the men and boys who'd laughingly pushed me away. “Although if any young woman could, I'd lay money on you.”

I went as cold as forged iron. “Teach me, then. I want to learn.”

“I don't know….” He rubbed his chin, looking doubtful. I suspected he was recalling Mr. Lauber's warning.

“I won't bother your clients, I promise. I'll stay out of the way. And I have a horse care manual that I'm already studying; I've read nearly half of it.” I clenched my fists. “You don't understand; you can't, I suppose, but I have to do this. I
know
I have to.”

He took note of my fists. “A whole half of a manual, have you? Well, then, answer me this: How would I go about treating a case of thrush?”

That was easy, thanks to Peaches. “Clean the affected hoof well,” I recited, “then soak a rag in turpentine and pack it into the hoof.”

He withheld his opinion and presented another question. “When do tushes appear?”

“When a horse is between four and five years old.” I allowed myself a sly smile. “They're also called ‘bridle teeth.'”

He raised an eyebrow and rubbed his jaw again. “True or false: Distemper is most likely to appear in young animals.”

I had to think about that one. “Diseases of the Glands” had been a difficult chapter, though I thought I remembered that distemper was akin to smallpox. “False. It's very contagious for every horse.”

He finally grinned. “You don't need me,” he said. “You already know more than most of the so-called horsemen in this city.”

“Then you'll teach me?”

The small gap in our years was nothing compared to the greater one in our gender. “Veterinary medicine is not all bandages
and birthings,” he said with a laugh, as if I were a little girl asking to play dress-up. “There's a rather ghastly side to it that's just not suitable for young women. Or any women. And it does take a certain amount of strength to wrestle the beasts.”

He thought he had me, but he was wrong. “You didn't use your strength to treat the Girl,” I argued. “You used your mind, and me, to keep her off balance, and you rewarded her with peppermints.”

“Yes, well-”

“And as for the ghastly side of it, what does it matter what an animal looks like or what the treatment requires, when you own the ability to heal it?”

He looked taken aback. “Did you say veterinary or lawyer? You argue your case like the latter.”

“Veterinary,” I stated firmly. I could feel my fists clenching again.

He paused, studying me. “If it's not too personal, may I ask how old you are?”

“Sixteen in September.”

With a guarded nod, he said, “Well, that's on the young side for veterinary school, though age isn't as important as practical experience and, of course, money. It's a three-year course, you know. But, the thing is, I've never heard of any lady veterinaries in the Boston area.”

“There are some lady doctors on Warrenton Street; we walked by their offices on our way to the photography gallery. What's the difference?”

“Well, one difference is that their patients can at least say where it hurts.” He chuckled at his own joke and I smiled politely, waiting for a more serious answer. The silence made him uncomfortable. Clearing his throat, he adjusted his hat and tugged at his collar. “The Selbys certainly are a determined lot, aren't they?” He had no idea. “Well,” he began again, glancing skyward, “I suppose that I could at least teach you some of the basics.” And then, as if finally convincing himself of the possibility, he said, “All right, all right, here's what I'll agree to do.” He took on a newly stern expression and I stood as tall as I could. “I'll allow you to accompany me when the situation and client are suitable, and we'll see how long your interest holds up.”

I opened my mouth to protest his evident doubt. He shut it with a warning finger. “But you have to agree to do a few things as well.”

I nodded like a whirligig in a windstorm. I'd do anything.

“You have to keep studying your manual. Which one do you have?”

“
The Reliable Horse Care Manual for American Owners
. My brother gave it to me.”

“That's a good one,” he replied. “Accurate illustrations. I can warn you that not all the books out there are as reliable as their titles. Let's see … you'll have to pass a few more tests of my design. And … you'll have to obtain your father's permission.”

The utter hopelessness of that last assignment must have shown in my eyes.

“Oh, come now,” he said with an all-too-patronizing chuck under the chin. “Just think of him as a stubborn horse and apply your obvious talents. And remember this from someone who's been around five more years than you have: Nothing worth having comes easily.”

FIFTEEN

T
HE REST OF THAT DAY MY HEAD BUZZED LIKE
I
WAS
stuck inside a beehive. It had to be exhaustion, yet I didn't feel tired. In fact, I absolutely threw myself into Mother's household chores. Whatever she asked, I did more. I ripped away the dead morning glory vines from the backyard and went on to rake the dirt off its stubbly attempts at grass. I lugged crates down to the cellar and unpacked their contents onto uneven shelving. I scrubbed the hall floor with a tremendous ferocity. All the while I tried to summon the courage to go to battle with Father.

Mr. Stead had simply asked me to get Father's permission, but that was like playing jackstraws: Touching one topic would invariably wiggle others. Permission to learn about veterinary medicine would lead to a discourse on what girls
couldn't
do, which was attain higher education. (He'd written a column once that quoted a professor from Harvard University who believed that grappling with university-level topics caused a woman's organs to wither.) And that would lead to a lecture on what girls
shouldn't
do, which was anything outside the home, anything not corseted, buckled, bound, protected, or otherwise restrained. Certainly nothing as dangerous as treating horses.

I scrubbed so hard the soapsuds went flying.

By late afternoon, the house was spotless. Mother was soaking one of my soiled dresses and mending the sleeve of the other, and Grandmother was slicing cooked potatoes for supper—er, dinner—when James surprised us by coming in the back door. The shocked look on his face stopped my heart cold.

“No, no, she's fine,” he said right off. “I picked up a copy of Father's paper on my way home. His first column's in it.”

To a one, we stopped what we were doing. Mother held out her hand, prepared, along with the rest of us, for the worst. She carried it into the parlor and sat down. We gathered behind her, making no pretense of not peering over her shoulder. After taking a deep breath, like she was preparing to jump into a pond of cold water, Mother read aloud:

“Esteemed poet and former son of Boston Mr. John Greenleaf Whittier wrote, ‘Men said at vespers: “All is well!” In one wild night the city fell.' He was recounting, of course, the innocent trust pervading the city of Chicago on the eve of last year's Great and Terrible Fire.

“Poets, as we know, lament the tragedies in our lives. And while their verse is beautiful to the ear, it is completely ineffectual. Rhymes are mere afterthoughts, wreaths thrown on a coffin. A singular moment of foresight, however, and one well heeded, can prevent the need for these wreaths.

“That is why I repeat Mr. Whittier's words to those men of Boston who, at this very moment, innocently trust their city and ours to the same antiquated firefighting equipment used when President James Buchanan led our nation, when the North and the South worked shoulder by shoulder in harmony, and when fire's presence in our homes was little more than a flame in the hearth.

“And I remind them that this is the year 1872. President Grant resides in the White House, a Great War has been fought, and many of Boston's homes boast their own basement furnaces, which carry warmth, yes, but also the risk of fire throughout our wooden structures. Fireplaces and chimneys are abundant. Every kitchen has a red-hot stove fed by wood or coal. Lamps full of burning fluids teeter on table and mantel. In short, never before has fire been such a permanent visitor within our homes.

“But this visitor, I warn you, is not to be trusted. Having recently arrived from one of the Western states, I can attest to a thorough knowledge of firewood. And I can assure the good citizens of Boston that this city, although one of great sophistication and possessing all the latest in conveniences, is in truthfulness nothing more than a stacked cord of seasoned wood, awaiting the spark from a match head. When this spark is struck—and, trust me, such a spark will be struck—Boston will burn as the grandest campfire which history has had the privilege to witness.

“What can be done, you ask, to avert this imminent tragedy? Collar your elected officials and request, nay, demand new firefighting equipment for every fire station in Boston. Order
them to erect additional fire stations. Tell them to release funds for the improvement of water mains and hydrants. Because until our wives and children can sleep soundly in their beds, and until we husbands and laborers can rest assured that our businesses and goods are secure, this editor and this newspaper dutifully warn its readers that, in Boston, most definitely, ‘all is not well.'”

Mother folded the paper, ran her hand along its length, and laid it in her lap.