Ripples Through Time (11 page)

The smile vanished. “Oh…what?”

“There are only enough spaces for us. Last time I came over
with Rickie she ate up stairs. Why won’t she eat downstairs with us?”

A flash of panic crossed Grace’s face.

“No…no honey,” Mrs. White said, looking to Emily for help. “She
wants to…”

She clearly didn’t know what to say. Jason found that odd.

“She doesn’t like us?” Jason asked.

“No, not that at all. She just doesn’t like to eat with
strangers.”

“Oh,” Jason said. That didn’t make sense. They
weren’t
strangers. He’d been over for dinner a few times now, but Jenny never ate
downstairs. Mrs. White would always take a plate quietly to her room, and then
she would smile when she returned. But it was a fake smile. No one talked about
it. It was like they didn’t want to talk about it.

It was like Jenny was the creature in the attic.

“Is she in trouble?” he asked. Sometimes when he got in
trouble his parents would send him to his room. Maybe this was her punishment. But
even that seemed farfetched. What would they have to punish her for?

“No…” Mrs. White said. She was speaking slowly and her voice
was high. She set her wine glass down. “She’s not…”

“Then why won’t she eat with us?
Can
she?”

The two women exchanged a look. Even Jason could tell that
it was awkward. There was something wrong here. Something he was missing. “I
mean she
can
,” Mrs. White said. “We’ve been working on it for a while,
and she can occasionally eat at the table, she just doesn’t like to sit still. But
I suppose…I mean if you don’t mind…”

“Oh no,” Emily said, “not at all. Not one bit. It would be
no trouble at all if she ate with us.”

“Really? I don’t want to impose. She’s gotten quite a bit
better but she still…”

“Oh it’s no imposition at all. By all means,” Emily said.
She turned to Jason. “Jason, be a dear and set out another plate and napkin and
I’ll grab another chair.”

“Sure,” he said, grabbing the plate and heading back to the
dining room. They set up the last placement and he finished setting out the
spoons just as the rest of the group filed into the dining room. Mrs. White
headed upstairs to retrieve her daughter.

Mr. White was hitting the back of his pipe against the palm
of his hand to knock the cake loose as he walked in. He glanced in the bowl of
his meerschaum pipe, nodded in satisfaction, and slid it into his pocket.

Mrs. White reappeared. Jenny was in tow wearing a blue dress
with white flowers. Her hair was messy. Neither she nor her mother looked very
happy.

Mrs. White guided Jenny to the last two chairs and helped
her into one. Jenny sat down, folded her arms, and blew out a deep breath.

“Let’s say grace, Grace,” Mr. White said. Then he and his
wife exchanged a glance and smile, the same they did every time Jason had come
over for dinner. They thought of it as an inside joke, Jason knew. He didn’t
think it was very funny, but they
were
pretty old.

Everyone grabbed the hands next to them and bowed their
heads. Jason closed his eyes, grateful that the pot roast wasn’t on the table. He
could ignore the salad without so much as batting an eyelash, but he had to
admit the roast smelled pretty enticing in the kitchen.

“Heavenly father, we thank you for the meal we are about to
share. And for the friends you have delivered us on this fine evening. We thank
you—”

Jason heard a snigger and his eyes popped open. Mrs. White,
he saw, had a hand on her daughter’s shoulder and Mr. White was resting his
other hand on the table. Both of them still had their eyes closed.

Jenny, on the other hand, was grinning and playing with her
salad, moving it around on her plate with her fingers. She didn’t seem too
concerned that she was interrupting the prayer.

“—for the chance to do your works, here, and so that we
might have gainful employment—“

Jason preferred it when his father prayed. Calvin Greenwood
thanked God for food, family, and occasionally he’d offer a prayer to the dear
baby Jesus as well. Emily didn’t find that so funny, but Jason always thought
it was.

“—in these trying times. We thank you for the continuing
happiness that we find—”

But Mr. White sure did know how to ramble on during these
things. Jenny didn’t seem particularly interested in eating her food, but she
was enjoying playing with it.

“—in our day to day lives,” Mr. White said. A moment of
silence followed, and Jason thought he was finished.

And then: “And lord, we ask that you give us the
opportunity—“

Jason decided that if Mr. White made it into one his stories
as a side character, he would be the annoying preacher that didn’t know when to
stop during sermons. Maybe he would preach to Christians up in the cosmos. Or
some new religion.

He’d probably have to die too.

“—to show you our love, as you have shown us yours in your
works. We pray thee, God, to watch over us and protect us. In the name of the
Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, Amen.”

“Amen,” the rest echoed, minus Jenny. Jason didn’t really
understand the Holy Trinity—how could God also be his own son as well as a
ghost?—but kind of figured it wasn’t one of those things that got easier to
understand as he got older. He also sort of figured that after a while he would
just stop caring.

Jason was almost finished with his salad when the flowers
disappeared, followed closely by the appearance of the pot roast. It was almost
too much waiting for his food. He smacked his lips as the plate was set down
and promptly dug into the meat. A bowl appeared to his right loaded with greens
beans. He heaped a portion on his plate and continued passing, and then did the
same with mashed potatoes.

The table grew quiet. Jason focused on his food. It was
delicious. He’d never say so, but it was way better than his mom’s cooking.

Everyone else seemed to think so, too. A minute passed with
the only sounds being mouths working over their food and the clatter of
silverware. There was also the occasional: ‘could you pass me the…” followed by
a flurry of bread and bowls.

Another minute passed as the meal evaporated. Jason’s only
regret was that Mrs. White portioned out the food perfectly. The pot roast was
gone, the mashed potato bowl empty, and the bread basket held only crumbs and
edge pieces.

The frantic pace slowed down as people transitioned from
starving to full. Mr. White grabbed the last bits of bread and used them to
soak the gravy off his plate. The sound of chewing disappeared, replaced by
contented sighs.

Jason picked up his plate to lick it. His mom gave him a
look, one of her ‘you were raised better than that’ looks, but Jason chose to
pretend like he couldn’t see her. Rickie, on the other hand, started scraping
his spoon across the bottom of the plate to get the last bit of gravy. Jason
found the sound to be obnoxious.

Suddenly Jenny started screaming.

Everyone froze.

Mrs. White put her arm on the little girls shoulder. It was
promptly shoved away and the girl screamed louder.

“Quiet her down,” Mr. White said, raising his voice to get
over his daughter’s screams.

“She doesn’t like the scraping sound. The doctor said she
was more sensitive to—”

“I don’t care what she’s sensitive to,” Mr. White said,
reaching a hand over and clamping it on his daughter’s mouth. “No daughter of
mine—”

Mrs. White’s eyes went wide. “Robert, don’t you dare put
your hand over her—”

Mr. White cursed and jerked his hand back.

“She bit me,” he said, sounding astonished.

I would have too, Jason decided.

Silence descended over the room, thick with anticipation.

And then Hell erupted.

Jenny began banging the table and screaming, knocking the
half empty pitcher of juice over. It stained the white tablecloth and began spilling
onto the floor.

“Goddamn it!” Mr. White shouted.

“Robert!” Mrs. White said again. “Don’t take the Lord’s name
in—”

“Would you shut up?”

“Mom! Why is she—?”

“I
told
you we needed to be harder on her.”

Jenny started banging the table. A glass fell free, landing
with a crash on the floor as broken shards went flying.

Rickie whispered something in Adam’s ear and they both burst
out laughing.

Bethany covered her ears with her hands, shouting for her
mother.

And Jenny kept right on screaming.

“Robert, don’t you dare—!”

“I don’t care
what
that doctor—”

“No daughter of mine…”

“Robert!”

Mr. White picked Jenny up, yanking her away from the table,
and started carrying her toward the stairs. She was struggling, kicking and
screaming, and her face was a mask of anger. Mrs. White chased after him, her
voice high pitched and energetic.

“…is going to—“

“Robert she is not like normal—“

“—misbehave at dinner and this is why I told you—“

“—children she needs to be treated differently and cared
for—“

“—she has to eat in her room…”

They headed up the stairs, feet thudding quickly on the
landing. No one moved at the table, watching the parents
exeunt
with
their daughter.

A door slammed shut upstairs. There was more shouting, but
Jason couldn’t make out the words anymore. A moment slipped past.

And then another.

“That…” Rickie said slowly.

Uh oh,
Jason thought.

“…was…”

Don’t do it!

Rickie was grinning, as he shouted: “Awesome!”

Back at home they were quickly ushered through the nightly
routine. Brushing their teeth and putting on their nightclothes. The attitude
around the house was decidedly somber. Rickie just wanted to go to sleep, and
that was okay with Jason, but he found that once he was in bed his mind was
racing.

A few hours later he heard the door open as his mom peeked
in on them. She did that a lot, especially when they were younger. He was ten
now, and he figured she only checked on Bethany nowadays.

He sat up:

“Mom.”

A second passed, and then the door opened further, spilling
light into the room.

“Yes dear?” she asked. She looked sad, surrounded in a halo
of light in the doorway.

“Why did Mr. White carry Jenny upstairs? It wasn’t her
fault, it was Rickie’s.”

“Because…” Emily started. A long moment passed. She shook
her head and came into the room. She sat on the edge of his bed and put her
hand on his leg.

“Because Jenny is different,” Jason said.

“Yeah,” Emily agreed. “Jenny is different.”

“That doesn’t make her bad.”

“I know,” Emily said. Another long pause. “Some people just
get embarrassed around someone like Jenny.”

“Like Mr. White?”

Emily hesitated. And then she nodded.

Jason thought about it. “Mom,” he said, his voice timid. “Am
I different?”

She smiled. It was a sad smile. “Everyone is different. You
are special, just like everyone else. In your own way. One day you’ll be a
great writer, and we’ll all be very proud of you.”

That made him feel better. He relaxed back into his pillow.

“I think I’ll use Jenny in one of my stories,” he said. “And
you, and dad, and Rickie.”

“What about Beth?”

Jason smiled. He felt sleep approaching. His mom always made
him feel better. Safer. The world made sense with her around. “Yeah,” he said,
then yawned. “She can be in my story too; because every good story needs a
monster.”

1975 -
Bethany Greenwood

I smile as he finishes talking.

“That would have been an interesting day,” I say. “Definitely
sounds like Mellie. Trying to keep everyone calm.”

“She was a saint.”

That she was.

“I…” I say, then hesitate. Suddenly I want to curse at
Edward, because these memories feel like they are ripping me apart.  I didn’t
want to remember any this. That’s why I wasn’t planning on anyone coming by. “I
missed so much. I loved my children completely, but I just missed so God damned
much.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Then whose fault was it?” I say.

“No ones,” he says. “It’s just…life.”

I shake my head. “I missed
so
damn much…”

“You got a lot back,” Edward says. “You even started
working at the track again.”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“The track?” I ask. “Gods, yes. I loved going to the
track. It was one of the few places I felt safe, like the world actually made
sense.  It was something I could actually confront. Actually deal with.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I loved taking my kids there, but they
didn’t like going. Thing was, I didn’t really know how to talk to them, and
things were just…easier when we were around the horses.”

“How-so?”

I pause, thinking about how to explain it.

“I only worked at the track part time, and this was years
after I started working for the factory. Let me tell you about one of the times
I took Bethany, and maybe it’ll make more sense to you…”

Bethany felt the rough texture of seasoned wood beneath her
fingertips. The last time she came to the track with her father he spent an
hour digging six splinters out of her fingers when they got home. This time she
was being much more careful when she sat on the bench. Wherever her hand
touched the wooden frame it came away with loose slivers of paint that were
faded red.

The thin sticky pieces clung to her skin. She brushed them
absently onto her pant leg but they didn’t want to let go. She didn’t care that
she was dirty. Or sweaty. Or tired.

Right now all she cared about was the deep pitched thrum of
hooves on sand. She closed her eyes and let it wash over her, carried on the
wind that blew strands of hair about her face.

The horses were on the far side of the training track right
now, on the backstretch. Four of them, pacing in a line at just over a
two-nineteen clip: Deborah’s Breeze, Golden Anchor, Noble Land Sam, and of
course Maribeth’s Vision.

Quite naturally, Maribeth’s Vision was her favorite, if only
because of the name.

The sound transported her imagination. Maybe she was on a
beach, far from the racetrack outside her hometown. She imagined the horses
were proud Destriers, bearing armored Knights into combat against a hated
enemy. Or perhaps they were sleek Arabian stallions with wedge shaped heads
traversing an endless desert landscape. Still again she pictured Mongol warhorses,
outliers for the horde as they traveled across fields of tall grass. Mountains
rising in the distance, striving to touch the skies.

When she opened her eyes, she knew, the illusion would
disappear. She clenched them shut tighter, feeling more than hearing the
horses’ approach. The noise intensified, which meant they were rounding the
turn. That meant they would be coming into the stretch in only a few seconds.

At the head of the Knight patrol would be a brave knight
with strong features and wind whipped hair. She pictured him in her mind,
involuntarily smiling as the horses approached. She couldn’t help but imagine
him (the fictional man she would one day marry) and wish that the real boys at
her school could be even half as perfect as the man she dreamed about.

The wind carried on it the myriad smells of sweat mixed with
leather tinged with manure from the surrounding fields. Some were more pleasant
than others, but each contributed to the whole. The sound pitched higher as the
horses passed her bench, rounding the next turn and heading into the
backstretch, and then it diminished. The drivers eased the horses down at a
gradual pace, letting them relax to a more comfortable jog.

“Damn it,” her father growled from beside her.

Her eyes popped open and she glanced up at him. He was
standing on the six-tiered bleachers next to her, frowning at the pocket watch
in his hand. “I told him to push that last quarter. Six seconds too slow.”

“They looked good to me,” she said.

He looked at her, still distracted. He was wearing dirty
overalls and an old boiler hat, a gift from Mr. Rhodes. Argus Rhodes was the
owner he occasionally worked for when he found time around his job at the
factory. Mr. Rhodes had hired him years ago and they’d become friends.

Her father looked tired. His skin was blotched and burnt
around the neck from constant exposure to the welding equipment he used, and
his hair was turning salt and pepper as he got older. His eyes were hard,
though, and intensely focused. Especially when he was angry.

“Six seconds too slow,” he repeated. “I told him to hit
two-oh-nine, he hit two-fifteen.”

Bethany wasn’t sure which driver ‘he’ was of the four men.
Probably Jarod. He was the driver that worked most often for her father. And
she only knew him because he’d been over to dinner at their house a few months
ago. He was several years older than she was (and occasionally it was his face
she imagined on the Knight, but only occasionally). He was friendly, handsome,
and perpetually dirty.

He rode in all of the races for Mr. Rhodes. That meant he
also helped train the horses. He was also the man who drove Maribeth’s Vision
in all of her fair starts, which endeared him to Bethany right away. Especially
her most recent streak of wins.

She watched as the horses headed for the track exit. It was
a quiet day in late June, the air heavy and sweltering. Her hair clung to her
face and she found herself absently brushing it away every few seconds. The
wind was nice, when it rolled by, but when it didn’t the air tasted stale.

And if she was hot, she couldn’t even imagine how hard days
like this were on the horses. They worked the horses around nine miles on
training days. Her father always told her that was what made standard-bred
horses better than thoroughbred. Standard-bred horses were desired originally
for strength and durability.

Thoroughbred were only prized for speed. Endurance mattered
for longer races, but never at the cost of increased speed. Thoroughbred
horses—through generations of inbreeding with speed as the only desired
quality—were prone to breaking legs or hurting tendons. She knew her father
trained thoroughbred when he was younger, but Mr. Rhodes worked around the
county fair circuit. That meant standard-bred.

Her father always told her that if you ever wanted a horse
that was useful beyond racing, to buy a standard-bred. That’s what the Amish
always wanted, because they needed horses that could work all day.

It was also the everyman racing animal. Mr. Rhodes horses
raced locally where everyone could watch and enjoy in person. Most owners were
blue collar people, getting their hands dirty right alongside trainers and
grooms. It wasn’t just rich families or Sheikhs competing with million dollar
animals.  

She liked them because they reminded her of carriage races
in the Roman Coliseum, albeit less dangerous and with lighter carriages.

She loved to come to the training track with her father. Occasionally
Jason came too. He never offered to bring Rickie, and Rickie never wanted to
go.

And to be honest, she didn’t really care that much about the
races. It was being around the horses that she loved. It didn’t matter that
these weren’t the fastest horses alive. They were strong, beautiful, friendly,
and intelligent. She loved petting them. Touching them. Taking care of them. They
were simple and happy, each with a unique personality not unlike that of a
person.

It was fun when her family went to county fairs and watched
Mr. Rhodes’ horses compete. They sat in the grandstand along with a few hundred
other spectators and cheered along with the crowd.

But it was an entirely different experience to go into the
stall with the animal; to rub its muscles down after a hard workout and offer
it an apple.

Maybe she would get to give Maribeth’s Vision an apple once
her workout was complete.

Her father dropped down off the bleacher to the sand below
and Bethany dropped down after him. He marched toward the barn like a man on a
mission. The grooms were removing the carts and the four horses were being led
into the barn, out of the sunlight, so the horses could get a breather. The
barn had twenty-six stalls, two baths, and enough cross-ties down the aisle for
seven horses to be prepped for training simultaneously.

“Jarod!” her dad shouted as they stepped through the haze of
the summer sun and into the gloom of the shadowy barn.

Bethany sneezed. Dust hung in the air, caught by rivulets of
light piercing through holes in the ceiling. The barn was old, the ventilation
lacking, and just being wreaked havoc on Bethany’s allergies.

Jarod was unbuckling his helmet, mild fear in his eyes. He
dropped the helmet on a nearby gray tack trunk and turned to her father.

“I know what you’re going to say…”

“You damn well better know what I’m going to say,” Calvin
said. “I told you to push them for two-six. Or at
least
hit two-nine.”

“Sam had a hitch in his step when I tried to pick him up. I
think he tossed a shoe.”

“Well did you check?”

The driver opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it
again. Bethany was fairly certain he was about to ask her father
when
he
was supposed to have checked, since he just now got into the barn and hadn’t
even had time to finish tying the horse off. Or, at least, that’s what she
would have asked if she was in his shoes.

But it would have been what her father liked to call a
‘smart-ass comment.’ He didn’t like ‘smart-ass comments’.

Instead, Jarod turned to face the standing horse. Noble Land
Sam was breathing in and out of his nostrils, occasionally tossing his head.
His coat was covered in frothy sweat where the leather equipment rubbed his
sides.

Jarod first checked the rear hooves, and after verifying
that the shoes were still solidly attached, moved to the front. The right shoe
was still fine and solid, but the front left was missing. The horse was also
reluctant to adjust his weight off that side. Jarod squeezed the callused knob
on the inside of the leg, just above the horse’s knee, and finally got it up.

“Well?” Calvin asked, folding his arms and staring at Jarod.
He leaned back against a tack trunk.

“Uh. He lost it.”

“No shit.”

A moment passed.

“Well, Jarod, what are you waiting for?”

“Uh…what…?”

“Go. Get. It.”

Jarod opened his mouth again, then closed it, then opened it
again. This time it stayed that way for a good five seconds. Her father stared
at him, narrowing his eyes and waiting for an objection.

The driver thought better of it. “Okay,” Jarod said,
nodding. With a sigh, he took off his driving jacket and dropped it on the tack
trunk. Then he disappeared back out into the sunlight, plodding his way toward
the track.

Finding a lost shoe on the track, Bethany knew, was about as
hard as finding a needle in a haystack. It was a half mile oval and there was
no telling where the shoe might have landed or when it came loose. It could be
in the grass of the infield, buried under the sand of the track, or any number
of places.

The only thing worse was searching for a lost shoe in a four
acre field of grass. That was why her father often pulled their shoes before
turning them out into the paddock.

Her father turned to face her. “Clean Sam down and give him
a bucket bath.”

“I thought this was a training day?” she asked, scrunching
her nose. On training days they normally took the horses out for at least four
separate trips. This was only Noble Land Sam’s second time out.

Calvin shook his head. “He’s done for the day. Mr. Rhodes
has to get a blacksmith out here and that’s going to take an hour. And then
he’s going to have to reshape the shoe and put it back on which is
another
hour.
I’m not going to make him stand in full gear during that time.”

“Oh,” she said.

“Plus he has a hurt leg,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the
tied animal.

“The front left?” she asked. He shook his head.

“The front right,” he replied. She scrunched up her face
again.

“But it was the left one he wouldn’t pick up,” she argued

“That’s because he had his weight on it. He didn’t want to
put any weight on his right leg, which means that’s the one that’s hurt. He’s
standing okay, though, so it’s just sore. Go ahead and rub that leg down too
and wrap it up.”

“Okay.”

“Use poultice,” Calvin said, then shook his head. “No never
mind. We ran out. Use Green Cool.”

“Okay,” she said, removing the bit from the horse’s mouth.

She began unhooking the equipment and hanging it up in front
of Noble Land Sam’s stall. The harness was a mix of both old and new leather
straps, reused whenever one horse retired and another took his place. The girth
that went over his back and snapped under his belly was particularly expensive.
She carefully dried all of the leather with a towel.

Several of the leather lines were stiff from age and wear. They
could use a good application of leather softener, but right now she had neither
the time nor ambition. Instead she made sure they were clean and dry and turned
her attention back to the horse.