The Equestrian

By FireWire

Story No. 2

“Fire in the Blood”

“The Flame and the Flesh”

“A Heart for the Taking”

Arrested development. Why else would she be thumbing through romance novels?

He only sees her back, but he knows what kind of woman would be wearing a shapeless brown raincoat which landed near her tennis shoes and a puffy rain scarf straight from eBay. Not his type, that’s for sure.

He walks out the bookstore onto the front porch. It’s raining hard now. He sits down on the wooden swing suspended from the porch’s ceiling by two chains and swings slowly back and forth waiting for the rain to slacken.

He hears the door of the bookstore close. He sees the shapeless brown raincoat trying to decide whether to make a run for it or wait until the rain lets up a little. The woman in the raincoat glances at him for a moment before turning back to the rain.

He stands up, puts his hands in his pockets, and desperately tries to think of something clever to say before she vanishes. Why had he worn the “Real Men Eat Meat” T-shirt?

“It’s a monsoon out there, isn’t it?” he says.

She doesn’t answer.

“You know, if this was snow,” he says, “we would probably end up with six inches for the day.

She looks at him. “Are you a weather man?”

“Oh no. I’m a high school math teacher, but the formula for converting rain to snow just popped into to my head as I was standing here. Based on the wind being 15 miles an hour and the rainfall for the day being two inches, there is a 97% probability the snow‑to‑rain ratio will be between four and eight inches of snow to one inch of rain with a 3% probability it will be between eight and 12 inches. If the wind drops to 10 miles per hour then the probability is 81% we will have six inches of snow.”

“You’re making that up aren’t you?”

“No. It’s for real. It’s the Roebber/Bruening method used by the National Weather Service to predict snow. I read an article on it a while back, and the formula just came to mind.

“Really? And the calculations?”

“Doing quick calculations in your head comes in handy when you’re dealing with high school students.”

“I can imagine.”

“Are you from around here?” he asks.

“I’m staying at Pawleys Island for the week.”

“Pawleys is great” he says. “I’m visiting my grandmother in Edgewood. Do you know where Edgewood is?”

“I should. I’m from Summerville.”

“How about that. What a small world,” he says. “I went to the third grade in Edgewood and spent a lot of summers there. I still have friends there. Do you know Luther Pickett? His family owns the lumber yard. He’s one of my best friends. I’m as close to his mother as I was to my own mother.”

“I don’t know anybody in Edgewood, but I’ve heard of the Picketts.”

“About the only thing I know about Summerville is you have a speed trap right after nine mile curve. I learned that coming down this time.”

She laughs.

“Well, it certainly has been a pleasure talking to you,” he says as they get up from the swing.

Pausing, they look at the pouring rain until he says, “Say . . . it looks like it’s going to be a wet evening. Not much going on,” he says. “I’m driving up to the inlet for an early dinner. Would you like to join me?”

After a few moments, still staring into the rain, she says, “All that water in the parking lot reminds me of a poem written in 1912 by Thomas Hardy.”

"What's the name of it?"

"The Convergence of the Twain.”

"I'm not familiar with that one. What's it about?"

"The Titanic"

She turns and looks at him. “Yes.”

He was surprised how easy it had all been. Traveling every night for the rest of the week back and forth from his Grandmother’s house to her parents’ house on Pawleys Island until the last night, when they walked hand‑in‑hand on a sandy path to a romance‑novel beach complete with a full moon and a warm ocean breeze. He told her he wanted to keep seeing her. She said she wanted to keep seeing him, and, so, in what he imagined was in keeping with the romance‑novel way of doing things, he kissed her for the first time.

It is late on a Sunday night and the interstate between her apartment in Columbia and his apartment in Charlotte is an easy drive now. Familiar landmarks pass by; familiar thoughts cross his mind. She will be leaving on Thursday for eight weeks to do research in France for her PhD. It seems strange she would be coming back in January rather than before Christmas. But then again other things about her seem strange. She never mentions a boyfriend and never spoke of ever having one. He never asks. She never says anything about being on the pill. He only assumes. She never complains that she never climaxes. She never says she loves him.

“Luther, this is Jim.”

“Jimbo! Long time no hear.”

“Didn’t see you at all last time the last time you were here. Your grandmother said you were going over to the Island every night. Said you were seeing a girl from Summerville.”

“I was. And that’s why I’m calling. Do you know Rachel Parker?”

“Who!”

“Rachel Parker”

“That’s who I thought you said. Can’t say I’ve ever met her. But I’ve seen her. Yes Sir. I sure have seen her. You don’t forget a girl who looks like that.”

“I was hoping you could tell me something about her. You know, like who she goes out with.”

“Well, like I said, I don’t know her. Let me make some phone calls, and I’ll get right back to you.”

“Jimmy, bad news. You’re dead in the water old son. Rachel has been going with the same guy, Billy Moore, since she was in high school. Billy’s a real smart guy and is studying to be a doctor. Rachel is working on her PhD, and they’re going to be married as soon as they graduate this December. Billy is also a real religious guy who believes sex should wait until marriage. The girl I talked to double dated a lot with them in high school. She said a couple of kisses and that was it. They don’t even see each other now except at Christmas. She says they were made for each other. You’re not chasing that are you?”

“Nothing serious. Just curious. That’s all.”

“You still planning to give up teaching and move to Australia.”

“I’m thinking hard about it. I’m stuck in a rut. If I don’t do something soon, I’ll be stuck in it forever. And, I tell you, I don’t want to be stuck in this rut forever. I want to do something with my life.”

“Well at least they speak English.”

“Yea. Listen, tell your Mom and Dad, I said “Hi,” and I’ll see them at Christmas.”

In December, after the school semester was over, Jim quit his job and prepared to leave for Australia. In the first week of January, Rachel returned and invited him to Summerville for the weekend. She said the forecast was for record high temperatures, and they could go riding at her uncle’s farm.

“I started riding Betsy when I was in junior high,” Rachel says. “When I was old enough to drive, I came every day after school and rode her. I would love to start riding in the afternoons again. Maybe one day,” she says, shrugging her shoulders. “How about you? Where did you learn to saddle and ride a horse so well?”

“I worked at a dude ranch in Montana one summer while I was in college. I was the tour guide. Every morning, every afternoon, every Tuesday night, every Thursday night, I would lead a group of guests out of the stable, down a road, up a mountain, down a mountain, across a creek, across a pasture, and back to the stable. I know now why the cowboys in the old Western movies would ride into town on Saturday night, drink a bottle of whiskey, and shoot up the saloon.”

“Did a horse ever throw you?”

“No. Every so often a guest would fall off a horse, but that was about it. How about you?”

“One day, when I was in the eighth grade, something spooked Betsy, and she threw me.”

“Were you hurt?”

“I was messed up. Real bad.”

“Looks like you came out of it OK. No scars or anything like that. Let's go for a run.”

“Did you know you had a crack in your ceiling? I’ve never noticed it before.”

“Where?” he asks.

She points towards the ceiling over the foot of the bed. “There.”

“You're right. I never noticed it either, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll be gone soon.”

"You don't have to go to Australia you know,” she says. “If you don't want to be a school teacher, you can work in Dad's company. He told me he would like for you to do that. You would be here. I want to be with you.”

"I do want to be here, but, like I've said ‑ going to Australia ‑ seeing how I can do there ‑ is something I have to do. I know you want to go with me, but it's something I have to do on my own. Give me a year; I'll come back whether I make it or not, and we can be married. It will be a good experience for you to teach a year ‑ to be on your own. Everybody needs to do that before they get married; it's a maturing experience. You learn who you are ‑ what you can do.”

She stares at the crack in the ceiling. After a while, she asks, “Would you like to have children?"

"Of course,” he says. “At least two.”

It had been there. He knew it would be there. It had been only a matter of time before her wedding was announced. But he had to see the announcement for himself ‑ in black and white ‑ no matter how much it hurt. The ladies at the Summerville Star were probably wondering who Jim Bodine is and why he would have Federal Express roll up to their office every Thursday to overnight a copy of their weekly newspaper to Sydney, Australia.

"Jim, you made the front page.”

In four weeks she would be gone. Gone forever. Why had he been so insensitive—so self‑centered he couldn't listen to what she was telling him. She would have given up everything for him. And he had hurt her so deeply in return. If he could just tell her he didn't know, he didn't understand. If he could just tell her how truly sorry he was. But now it was too late.

The man came into the office holding a newspaper. “Jim, did you hear me? You made the front page of the big one, the Australian Financial Review.” He held the newspaper forward.

Jim waived the man back. “Kevin, I have no interest.”

"At least let me read it to you.”

"Really. I'm not interested.”

"Please, Jim. It's worth a listen.”

"All right.”

"The article is on page one,” the man says, “and it reads:

The names of Australia’s ten top income earners in Australia are in and it’s business as usual at positions number one and two. At the number one position is Brian Ashcroft and at number two is Rodney Patterson, the same as last year, but the number three position has a brand‑new name: Jim Bodine.

“We would expect Mr. Ashcroft and Mr. Patterson to be at the top of the list: Mr. Ashcroft is a well‑known mining magnate whose mines, processing plants, and shipping interests stretch around the world; while Mr. Patterson is a well‑known media mogul who has global media properties in film, television, and publishing. Mr. Bodine, on the other hand, is a little‑known American expatriate whose major asset, his brain, resides here in Australia.

Mr. Bodine’s fortune, like Mr. Ashcroft’s and Mr. Patterson’s, came from the global market, but not by making and moving material goods or communicating ideas and dreams. Mr. Bodine buys and sells things which do not exist, at least not in the present. He buys and sells all manner of things on the world’s commodity futures market: Canadian wheat, European euros, Brazilian coffee, Russian crude oil, African gold, American lean hogs, etc., etc., and etc.

Like all successful traders, Mr. Bodine does not share his secrets. In fact, he doesn’t share any information at all, secret or not. As a result, very little is known about him except he migrated to Australia from America last January where he had been a secondary school math teacher. He taught math at night at Sydney Technical College, landed a job as a back‑office statistician for Newland Trading Ltd. on the recommendation of one his students, and not long afterwards left Newland to trade commodities on his own.

His associates at Newland Trading said other than doing statistical calculations in his head because he found the computer to be slow, he was a regular bloke. There was also general agreement his social life during his time at Newland consisted of sitting in front of a trading monitor watching the movement of commodity prices. Reports are that since leaping into the exclusive circle of the world’s top commodity traders, Mr. Bodine’s social life has expanded to riding horses at his new Texas‑size ranch in the Snowy Mountains.”

The man lowers the paper. “Not bad—considering you turned down three requests for interviews from them.”

“They got the whole story without an interview. There’s nothing more to tell.”

The man reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out an envelope. “By the way, I know you said to toss all future issues of the newspaper you get from back home, but this was stapled to the front of today’s paper.”

Jim takes it. “Thanks. Probably a renewal notice. I’ll cancel it. I’ve seen what I had to see.”

The man leaves the room and Jim opens the envelope.

Jim,

Call me as soon as you get this. Mom wants to talk to you. It must be important because she said why doesn’t that dimwit have a cell phone like everybody else.

Luther

Jim picks up the telephone and dials.

“Luther, this is Jim. I got your note.”

“Jim, how’re you doing? We haven’t heard from you since you left. Your Grandmother didn’t even know how to get in touch with you. If Julie Grant’s mother didn’t have a friend who worked at the Summerville Star, we never would have found you. You really should stay in touch. You might need some help if things get tough over there. It’s not easy starting out in a new place where you don’t know anybody. Anyway, the reason I wrote you the note is Mom and Dad were in a restaurant in Summerville when Rachel Parker’s mother came to their table, introduced herself, and asked about you.”

“So?”

“Hold on. Let me asked mom. She’s in the attic.”

“Mom says it means if you still care for the girl, you better get your bottom on the next plane home. If you need money for the ticket, she said to give you her credit card number.”

“Tell her thanks, but I can cover it.”

Walking out of his office, Jim says, “Kevin, I’m headed for the airport. Close out all the open orders except the rubles. Close them out when they reach 30. Get me on the next flight to anywhere in the U.S. Charter a jet from where it lands to Columbia, South Carolina and reserve a plain vanilla, midsize rental. I’ll call you when I get there and things settle down.

“Here. Take my cell Jim, so I can phone you the flight arrangements.”

“Good idea. Thanks. How do you work this thing?”

At seven, he sits down in the reading room of the graduate school library, opens a magazine, and hopes she still studies at the same table as always. If so, she will see him when she looks up from her books. If not, he has no idea how he will find her other than to call her parents and hope Jim’s mom is right. She changed her cell phone number before he left for Australia. She moved because his letters came back as undeliverable.

It’s eight‑thirty when she comes in. She sits down, but doesn’t open her books. She sits there for a few minutes looking at them before opening one. After a few seconds, she glances up and looks his way. Frowning, she abruptly gets up, quickly puts on her coat, and walks out of the room.

He follows and finds her standing at the top of the steps.

Reaching out to touch his arm, she says, “I never thought I’d see you again.” But she abruptly pulls her hand back. “It’s too late. Way too late. I’m engaged to be married in three weeks.”

“I know you are, but I’m here to apologize. I came here to apologize for not listening to what you were telling me. If I didn’t apologize for hurting you so and never saw you again, I would carry a deep sadness in my heart for the rest of my life. I only said I wanted children because I thought you wanted children. It’s you I wanted. I can live without children, but I can’t live without you. Please understand. I just didn’t get it.”

Her face has no expression, shows no emotion, but her eyes are searching his soul.

“As for Australia, I had to go. Initially, I guess it was to prove to myself I was a man or something like that. Who knows? But I was worried about how I was going to support you. A teacher’s salary couldn’t keep a horse in hay. In Australia, it would have been impossible for us to have gotten by. If I had failed there, we would have really been in serious trouble.”

She says nothing. Her eyes don’t move from his.

“I know your Dad would have taken care of us if we had needed help, but that’s something I couldn’t live with. I had to take care of us. I knew you were engaged to a doctor, that you were offering to give him up for me, but I didn’t think I could repay you unless I was a financial success. And I just didn’t see a way at the time so I ran away.

I know you believed in me, and I let you down. Let you down big time and in the worse way. I’ve thought about you every day and promised myself if God would give me one more chance, I would undo the wrong I did to you and make things right. Well, tonight is my one more chance, and the best I can do is to say I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry for hurting you. Please forgive me. I need to know. Can you love me again?”

After a moment, she smiles. “You still sound confused to me,” she says, “but at least this time it’s in the right direction.”

Her hand touches his and then holds it. “I understand. Everything is all right now. Love doesn’t die,” she says.

Holding her hand tight, he says, “Let’s take a walk. I have something to tell you. And to ask you.”

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