Early Warning

DEBBIE, indulging herself by going for the first time in her life to the National Horse Show in Madison Square Garden, was sitting maybe eight rows up and toward the middle of the arena. She was watching the “Gambler’s Choice” class, in which the horse and rider had a minute to get over as many jumps as they could. The jumps were assigned points — most points for most challenging jumps. She hadn’t looked at the program, but she recognized Fiona as soon as she trotted into the ring. What was it now — eight years — since she’d spent the night at Fiona’s house before Fiona left for college out in Missouri, and they’d gotten into a little argument, though any argument was unusual for them. Fiona was riding a wiry chestnut; she cut the turn and headed for the triple bar (a big one, too). Debbie nearly stood up and shouted with glee. How terrific she looked, how light her hands and how straight her back as the horse jumped perfectly, landed on his left lead, did a flying change, and galloped for one of the high-point fences, a hogback heading away from the gate. Debbie looked at the scoreboard, and maybe Fiona did, too — she had ten seconds, so she sat deep, pulled the horse sharply around, and raced for the Liverpool, a water jump at least fourteen feet wide. As the bell rang, signaling the end of Fiona’s minute, the horse landed, never touching the water with even his back toe. Debbie stood up clapping, and so did a few around her, but then Kathy Kusner, who had been on three Olympic teams, came in on a gray, and everyone was looking at her. Debbie watched Fiona leave the ring on a loose rein, nodding at Kathy as she went out. She looked at her program. Fiona’s horse’s name was Torch. Fiona Cannon, the girl who would do anything, was now Fiona McCorkle, and her barn was called Ranlegh Stables. If she was in the “Gambler’s Choice,” then probably she would still do anything. Her trainer had ridden in some Olympics. Debbie couldn’t remember which one, though 1952 stuck in her mind. Debbie picked up her handbag.

At the aisle, she made her way along the barrier until she came to the gate. Then she waited, looking at the standings. Fiona was third, but there were six more riders. Debbie sat down and watched. Of the last six, four had knockdowns, which lopped four points off your total, and one had a refusal, which was a loss of three and wrecked his time. Fiona had jumped seven jumps in a minute; this guy got over two. When the class ended, Kathy Kusner was first and Fiona was third. She was beaten for second by a single point. Debbie wondered whether Kathy had ever galloped straight downhill, standing on her horse’s back. All the winners entered the arena and received their ribbons and their applause. The “Gambler’s Choice” was not an Olympic-type class, but the audience appreciated it. Debbie made sure that she was visible when Fiona led her horse past, smiling and holding up her ribbon. Fiona glanced in her direction, smiled an impersonal smile, and then, after she had passed, looked back. Debbie saw that she was recognized — the impersonal smile changed to a look of surprise and then seriousness. Debbie jumped the barrier. There were a few “Hey!”s but she hurried away from them.

Torch’s hindquarters were disappearing into the tunnel that must have led to the stabling, and Debbie went after him as smoothly and calmly as possible — she knew how to act around horses. A moment later, a short man — the groom, no doubt — appeared and held out his hand. Fiona, who had taken off her hard hat and her hairnet, gave him the reins. As he led the horse away, Debbie called out. Fiona looked around, took off her gloves, made a little fake smile, but kept walking, though more slowly. When Debbie caught up with her, she said, “Debbie! How nice to see you! I had no idea…”

“You did so well! I loved how you went for that water jump! You really—”

“It’s a fun class.” Then she said, “Well, wonderful to see you. I have to get ready for the next class.” And she turned and walked away.

Debbie ran after Fiona and grabbed her by the arm. Fiona spun around and shook her off. She was strong — Debbie could feel the tension of her biceps through her jacket. Debbie said, “I am glad to see you! I wish you were glad to see me!”

They stood staring at one another for what seemed like a long time, and then Fiona said, “I am. I really am. You look grown up.” Debbie laughed, and said, “Is that a compliment?”

“I don’t know.” But she did smile. She did at last smile. Then she said, “Do I look grown up?”

“No,” said Debbie. “You look like a boy.”

“Dreams do come true, then.” She was back to being serious. Then she said, “I am sorry, Deb. I was very wound up about that class. We’ve never come all the way to the Garden before. You know me. I was never very nice.”

Without meaning to, Debbie said, “I loved you.”

Fiona smiled again, leaned toward her, and kissed her on the cheek. She said, “You were very patient. What are you doing now?”