"I wrote this book and sent it to a publisher and it's going to get published. So I was trying to celebrate."
Ken looked skeptical. "Sorry, kid, I haven't gotten the impression you could write a compound sentence. You wrote a book?"
"Yeah, I write all the time. I'm really good at it too. Want to see the letter they sent me?"
He pulled the crushed envelope from his back pocket. A little mashed since he'd slept in his clothes, but still in one piece.
"You wrote a book all by yourself?" Ken scanned the letter quickly.
"Yeah, and I talked to Mrs.--Ms. Carmichael yesterday and she's coming here to talk about it."
"Why didn't you call me? I'd have joined you in a light beer or something. This is great!"
Finally there was someone to get excited with him. "I tried to, but you were in a meeting or something. And Mom wasn't home. Nobody was here. I just wanted to move for a while."
"You could have left a message--you haven't signed anything yet?"
Travis shook his head as he lit up a cigarette.
"Don't sign anything until I read it."
"Okay. But I want to talk to the publisher by myself, when she gets here." Travis looked for an ashtray for his match and ended up stuffing it in his pocket.
"Sure. Sure. I can't believe this! I wonder if it's some kind of record, at your age? Call your mom."
Ken paused, then said, "You know, you could be dead from those things by the time you're fifty."
"Hopefully," Travis said, in a very good imitation, "I'll be too senile to care."
"Flirting with death," Ken said. "I remember doing that." But he didn't sound mad.
Travis remembered, on his way to the kitchen phone, that he'd meant to let Ken know he was sorry about last night--he was, too, because in a funny kind of way he cared about his uncle now, more than just as someone who was keeping him out of a juvenile home. Somehow, he thought he had, though nothing had been said.
He called Mom and listened impatiently to her dazed exclamations, and spent more time than he should have on a call to Joe, who mainly wanted to know how much money he would get, would he sell it to the movies, would Travis get to be in People magazine?
Although Travis had asked himself the same questions, he hung up peeved and restless. Nobody, absolutely nobody, seemed to grasp what this meant. It meant he really was a writer.
Well, hell, he thought, he'd known that since second grade.
He got cleaned up and went down to the barn--he was anxious to see Casey (he still half thought, maybe half hoped, he wasn't in love with her)--and he was anxious to get away from Christopher, who was nagging him to play trucks. Ten minutes of playing trucks was all Travis could stand.
He wasn't surprised to see that the Star Runner was still in his paddock, in spite of the rain--in his stall he kicked the walls until the rest of the horses were nervous wrecks. Casey kept putting him in the stall to eat, she said he had to be stalled at the shows so he had to get used to it, but it had to be pretty bad weather for her to bring him in for a long time.
God, he's big, Travis thought, hurrying by him. The Star Runner stood staring over the top of the gate. You didn't notice how big he was until you stood next to him, because of his proportions. Nothing gangly, or too heavy--a perfectly streamlined horse. Only big.
He finally noticed Travis, whirled, and flashed across the paddock, splattering mud.
"Thanks a lot," Travis muttered, brushing off his jacket, then wiping his hands on his jeans. He jogged into the barn and almost bumped into the white pony.
"Hey, Silver Hawk, what are you doin', wandering around loose?" He looked around, grabbed a halter off a stall door, and fastened it around the pony's head. Silver Hawk, who had the disposition of a cocker spaniel, stood docilely, snuffling Travis's pockets for carrots.
"Hey, Casey?" he yelled. One of the stall doors was open, the wheelbarrow parked outside. Travis knew by now that if you had to clean a stall with the horse still in it, you used the wheelbarrow to block the door. Something is really weird here, he thought. "Casey?"
Robyn stepped out of the stall. She wasn't wearing a shirt. She wasn't wearing a bra.
"Casey went to the feed store."
Travis said, "Oh."
He hadn't noticed the Jeep was gone. He remembered one time Kirk yanking him out of the street, saving him from a passing truck, laughing. "You'll walk into a burning building, someday..."
He remembered that, listened to the rain, felt the pony's nose nudging him, and all the while he never took his eyes off Robyn.
"I got hot," she said. "I've been strip-searched for drugs four times. I've got to where I'm good at taking my clothes off."
Travis knew she was stoned. He'd never liked Robyn, never understood why Casey had hired her.
Well, hell, he thought, looking around for a place to tie the pony, what's "like" got to do with it?
"Robyn"--Casey's voice behind him made him jump--"you're fired."
She didn't sound mad, but she did sound final.
"Okay." Robyn dropped her shovel, picked up her shirt, and walked out of the barn. Travis felt his face flaming. He hadn't even thought of Casey coming in.
Casey took the pony's lead rope and put him back in the stall.
"I should have done that a long time ago."
"Listen," said Travis, "I didn't have anything to do with that."
"Good. No tellin' what you would have caught."
"Why'd you ever hire her, anyway?"
"She used to be a really good rider," Casey said. "She was one of the best."
Travis had heard before that Robyn rode, but one of the best?
"We both started training with Jessie Quincy when we were twelve. Robyn was a natural. As good as I was, believe it or not. You want a job?"
"Me? Doin' what?"
"Stable hand, groom--I'm not proposing. And if I ask you to water the horses, you don't hose them down."
Travis saw she wasn't trying to bug him, and grinned wryly. "Yeah, I'd like a job."
"Think you can learn to tell a pelham from a snaffle?"
"Sure. Those different kinds of horses?"
Casey sighed. "Different kinds of bits."
"That's the part that goes in their mouth, right?"
Casey rolled her eyes.
"Look," Travis said, "I can learn that stuff. I used to work for a vet, I'm good with animals."
"Okay. There's the shovel, there's the stalls." Casey turned to go into the tack room.
"Hey, Casey."
She stopped.
"Whatever happened to her, Robyn?"
"Everything wonderful. She was winning like crazy, her dad was buying her thirty-thousand-dollar horses, flying her to Dallas eve
ry weekend to ride with a big trainer, putting her on the Arizona circuit, aiming her toward the Olympics..."
Travis waited for the tragedy. Maybe the dad died. Maybe a crippling fall...
"The catch was, Robyn didn't want all that. She wanted to ride for fun, not ride for her dad's ego trip. It was like her riding wasn't hers anymore. You've got to have talent to do this, but you've got to have will too. It was like the only way out of it for her was to get fat and fried. Well, I had to get rid of her. It could have been one of the pony moms walking in just now."
Travis picked up the shovel, writing up Robyn's story in his head. He'd give the dad a mustache, and a silver Rolls...
He opened the stall door, and wished, again, that he didn't have a hangover.
The barn was quiet, except for the rain drumming lightly on the roof. Casey never had the radio on when she was here alone. He could hear her on the phone with a pony parent. It amazed him how patient she was with the parents. Anxious parents, pushy parents, parents who seemed to think buying lessons meant buying the trainer--some were okay, and tried to be helpful, but once, after listening to a mother raving about a ribbonless show--was it the pony's fault, did she need a new pony? And, it was implied, a new trainer?--Travis said, "Why do you put up with that stuff?"
Casey replied, "It's my paycheck. I need to earn a living. It comes with the territory. If it was just training horses, it wouldn't be work."
Now he listened to her explaining why a class of five couldn't be rescheduled around one grandparent's visit and thought: Whatever they're paying her, it's not enough.
He'd also been listening to a dog barking outside, Ken's old Labrador by the sound of it, and it seemed to be getting more and more excited.
Travis decided to go take a look. Maybe Motorboat had caught a rabbit, which seemed to be one of his great goals in life lately.
It was the biggest snake he'd ever seen, coiled and lunging at the dog, who jumped and kept barking.
Biggest, hell. As far as he knew it was the only snake he'd ever seen, and he couldn't account for the revulsion and almost mindless terror that he felt.
And then he saw Motorboat, flattened into a stalking position, eyes glittering, creeping up by fractions of inches, getting ready to go in for the kill.
He had the shovel in his hands, swinging the edge at the snake, yelling at the dog to get back, knowing he was going to trip over the damn mutt and fall right on top of the snake. He got the head pinned as Motorboat leapt on the thrashing body, grasping with his teeth, thumping hard with his hind claws. The head was severed with a sickening crunch before Travis realized he was using all his strength on the shovel handle.