What the Horse Knew

Laura’s boxes remained in the car until the following morning. She had brought them home after graduation, carried her overnight bag inside, and gone to bed in a room that looked much as she had left it. A few books still stood on the shelf. The curtain caught on the same nail when she opened the window. Only the things she had brought back seemed out of place, stacked in the car beneath a blanket.

After breakfast, she went to the barn.

The horse was standing near the far fence with her head lowered to the grass. Laura leaned on the gate and watched her for a moment, foolishly unwilling to call out. During college she had come home often enough that this was not a reunion after years apart. Still, she had arrived with more belongings than she had taken away, and the next place she might take them was uncertain. She wanted the horse to look up.

At last Laura gave the small whistle she had always used. The horse lifted her head, considered her from across the pasture, and walked over without haste. She stopped just beyond Laura’s reach.

“That’s fair,” Laura said.

Laura opened the gate. The horse stepped close enough to put her nose against Laura’s shoulder and began a thorough inspection of her sleeve, her pockets, and the empty hand she had held out. When she found nothing to eat, she allowed Laura to scratch the place beneath her mane where the brush never quite reached. Laura stayed there longer than she had intended, with one hand resting against the horse’s warm neck.

Later, after she had brushed and saddled her, they went out along the field road. The horse knew the first stretch so well that Laura had to remind her they were going for a ride, not merely changing pastures. They passed the shed, followed the fence line, and climbed toward the stand of trees at the top of the property. Laura felt the familiar adjustment of the horse beneath her, attentive to the ground and to the weight on her back. She had ridden other horses while she was away, but with this one she could settle into the saddle and pay attention to where they were going.

Near the trees, two visitors were repairing a section of fence. Laura knew one of them by sight. Both stopped to let her pass, and she brought the horse around so she could thank them.

The younger man asked how long she had been riding her.

“Since I was a girl.”

He looked from Laura to the horse. “I didn’t see you pull on the reins once coming up that road.”

Laura glanced down. The reins lay loose against the horse’s neck. “I did a little.”

“I was watching,” he said. “I couldn’t tell how you got her to turn.”

Laura tried to answer. Her leg had moved, certainly, and the reins had shifted in her fingers. She had looked where she meant to go. None of it would have seemed like much from the fence. The horse stood quietly while they talked, then took a step toward the shaded path as Laura thought about heading on.

“There,” the man said. “You did it again.”

Laura laughed. “She knows the way home from here. That may be what you’re seeing.”

But on the ride down, she noticed how often the horse waited for a cue before taking a familiar turn. Laura made an effort to be clear. Once, distracted by a loose board on the fence, she let her weight shift before she meant to, and the horse started toward the gate. Laura straightened, asked her to continue, and felt a brief resistance before they went on. A person watching from the field would have seen little more than the horse changing her mind.

That afternoon Laura unpacked. Her graduation folder went on the desk; the old essay she had found in the professor’s office went into a drawer. Beneath it lay the acceptance letter, where she had placed it before graduation so it would not disappear among the boxes.

She took it to the kitchen table with a pad of paper and the figures she had gathered before applying. Tuition was only the beginning. She wrote down rent, books, and what she thought she could earn over the summer. After an hour she knew more about the gap between her savings and the cost of going, though she had not closed it. She would have to ask about aid. She would also have to find a place to live in a city she barely knew.

Her mother came in while Laura was adding a second column. She put a bag of groceries on the counter and saw the letter.

“Is the answer due soon?”

“In three weeks.”

Her mother nodded and began putting things away. After a moment she asked, “Do you want me to look at the numbers with you?”

“Maybe tonight. I think I need to finish them first.”

When her mother had gone outside again, Laura turned to the page that came with the letter. The school had invited accepted students to call with questions about financial aid. She had passed over that sentence each time she read it. Now she copied the number onto the pad beside the unfinished figures.

The next morning, after feeding the horse, Laura made the call. She reached an office where a woman listened to her questions, explained which forms were still needed, and gave her the name of someone who could discuss her aid offer. Laura wrote it down, along with an address and the date by which the forms had to arrive.

After she hung up, she left the papers spread across the table and went to get her boxes from the car. She carried them inside one at a time. On the last trip, the horse called from the pasture behind the house. Laura set the box on the porch and went to see what she wanted.