Black Purse

By Stephanie M Sellers

While history waits for Exilee Sheffield to rise up strong from twentieth century oppression to grab the reins of her destiny’s purse, true love does not.
An adventurous trail ride binds Exilee to the man she loves and to another she has reason to hate. As Exilee stands over the quivering blood covered body of Jake Wilkes, with as much reason as others to want the man punished or dead and with the opportunity for revenge right in front of her pointed boot, she makes a choice that will lead to emancipation.
It's a choice carved into her like words carved into heart pine by underground runaway slaves; daunting. Words taught from one generation to the next by Native American Indians forced to forsake many customs, like wandering Mother Earth, just to survive. Words forged with spilled blood, pride and promise by Whites who marked generations with greed and betrayal. Together, these words form the psychohistory of Exilee Sheffield's Lumbee Indian blood.
Exilee shares this blood with her sister Glennie, who desperately desires the special inheritance only one of them will receive. The true gift of their childhood nanny’s black purse. Glennie knows exactly what’s inside and knows it has the power to make her famous. Glennie is a wealthy artist who paints replicas in a ritzy museum. Exilee just got fired from her college job as a horticulturalist. Now she’s a horse trainer and farm hand and has no idea of what’s inside their nanny’s black purse. All Exilee knows is the gravel in her gut and screams from her horses urges her to fight for righteousness and in the end, her life.
In the darkness, down a harrowing path, the sisters go places they never imagined, places they never wanted to return to and down into a dark timberline to a fall that cuts good from evil.
Black Purse is comparable to The Shack for message. To The Doctor’s Wife for understanding how the past, seemingly in the past, is triggered to consume sanity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephanie M Sellers
• Release date: Aug 14, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465852403

Stephanie M Sellers

I remember ponies calling me over to feed them handfuls of grass from the time I was four. Growing up, ponies and horses dumped me on manure piles then ran to their barns. I’ve tackled their heads to get bits in, only to be scraped off. A pony picked me up once between my shoulder blades in its defiance of being led from the pasture. Its friends the cows chased me. Most of the time I ended up having a great ride getting my teeth jarred loose. A product of the late sixties, my childhood gave me the freedom to ride a bicycle to school. I tied string to the handlebars as reins and named it Lightening. It was my first horse. I rode every mutt pony, horse no one else would, any neglected nag in the back field and made friends with any girl who had two. When I was in my late twenties, after some college, including Language Arts, then the USAF, marriage and babies, I managed to conquer my dream and became a horse owner. One of them died two years ago. Sugarbabe was a Tennessee Walking Horse. She won first place in confirmation in North Carolina. She won my heart the first time I yelled, “Do you want a bath?” And she answered. Sugarbabe blew, tossed her long neck and ran to the barn. Her sister, Class, is still with me. She is twenty. I am forty-nine. Both of us, at heart, are only thirteen when we are out on the trail.

Book preview

Introduction

The key to a better future is in understanding the past.

Is that a scar on your fetlock, Tiponi? Eastwood has a powder tonic that dissolves fleshy tissue right off of there. Mr. Blue uses it on Og. No, it doesn’t hurt. I promise. And no one will ever know, unless you tell them. Exilee Sheffield was all of eight years old. 1985-

Lumbee Boil

Exilee wipes away the hot tear that crept out of her angry eye. Sniffs up snot and strains to stay between the lines. Her face twists as she guns Tiponi’s engine and rage rolls off her tongue out the rolled down windows, I’m gonna explode all over the next fool’s face that messes with me. I just know it.

Alone, she pants open mouthed against the whipping wind. I’m sick of being nice. Sick of it. Long black loosened locks writhe and whip as her eyebrows dig down and nostrils spread. Her palm raises up to slap the steel door’s beveled edge and the slap stings. I rose above those nasty boys for years and still got fired. Where was your freaking Holy Spirit today, Miss Ginger? Out planting tender things for rough times? Out digging some idiot out of a ditch? Oh, you’d be something to see.

When Exilee looks up into the rear view mirror at her angry face the caustic reflection startles her and Tiponi’s tire veers onto the sandy easement. She eases back onto the road. Exilee drives the long stretch of blacktop, allowing eleven miles of hypnotic rhythm to seduce her. Guess my time is coming for something else, right Tiponi? She pats the truck’s door like a pet. Tiponi is an older model truck, hard steel and scarred like Exilee.

A fat crow feasting on fresh road kill hops to a clump of sandgrass as her old truck passes, pissing hot oil and stink. It lingers in the air like a smoking curtain as she rears up to the invader’s sports car.

Exilee drives with both hands on the wheel and blasts the horn as she passes the bug. The neon green sports car, with its sloped headlights bugging out in Exilee’s rear view mirror, looks like a fruit fly. Giant white furry dice hang from its antenna wiggling like larvae.

Jake Wilkes, a classmate from school now seven years out, guns his neon green up to seventy-five and bravely scoots past, back to leader of the pack. Exilee gets a full view of her old classmate, Lanky Hanky, in his open convertible. Jake leans forward with his bird chest poked up, forcing his shoulder blades to jut out behind him like little fly wings under his crisp white button down shirt.

Exilee guns Tiponi as her gracious lips square up over her big white teeth and she glares down at petrified Jake. The old V8 lifts her up off the couch cushion she uses to see over the dash. The corner is tight. Exilee's abs grab at her ribs like she's racing a real horse, blasting past the neon green once and for all, screaming, Fart!

Jake lingers back on the road. A quarter mile along, collects himself and tries to whistle.

Exilee’s head teeters as she heads on down the road. Tiponi roars as her worn shocks jolt over a pit in the road jerking cuss words out of Exilee. Getting fired today was a big surprise, upsetting the well-mannered raisin’ Miss Ginger worked so hard to instill into her little charge down to the level of one of those rough names given Lumbee Indians like her.

It’s all so queer and tragic. Exilee looks like a vanilla flavored Cherokee candy bar. Really, she does. Her hair is shiny black with waves. She has light golden brown skin with sprinkles right below her big brown chocolate eyes and red licorice lips. And that pretty face sits on a body that’d shame a preacher boy. She’s got nuggets in all the right places. Exilee looks like her momma did. Her momma’s blood was mixed with Cherokee and Lumbee, two totally separate tribes, one real and one not. Top that off with her White daddy and this North Carolinian child has a psychedelic psychohistory. Poor Exilee’s heard pert ner every slang imaginable, including names of candy bars.

In1790 White census takers scripted that no Indian settlements existed in the Robeson County area. Lumbee’s been real fussy ever since. Never mind what they’ve done to bring themselves down by intermarrying, creating physical and language anomalies which add to the slang list. Gray eyes and lisps are real common. ‘Mulatto’ or ‘mutt’ is slang slung by old timer Democrats from days when everybody believed Lumbee’s were a Negro and Native Indian mix. Now the youth in the direct area keep their Lumbee slang hushed real low. Theirs is bold and real tacky. They keep it hushed because most Lumbees around here are knife-toters. Exilee carries one.

Republican slang is ‘Croatan’ or simply ‘faker’. It’s real ironic considering that in 1885 the State of North Carolina finally identified Lumbees as Croatan Indians because Croatan Indians are recorded as being friendly to Whites. With the chip on their shoulders and knives in their pockets, friendly is the last adjective used. But believe it or not, Indian Gypsy is the one most commonly used by educated Whites. And everyone knows Gypsy means a friendly type folk, like the kind you’d imagine out dancing for coins and trading for goods. It’s all so ironic, because Lumbees around here don’t like nobody but Lumbees around here.

The long winding road to uncovering the facts on Lumbees is riddled with guilt, greed and grit, the very road one Miss Exilee Sheffield travels every day. Which century discovers the truth holds the key to healing a whole heap of hurt and then the Lumbees could be happy just to be.

Uncle Green’s Garden is a good thirty minutes away from where Exilee lives. It gives her just enough time to vent, which she’s done regularly since she started working at Green’s. The road is level, straight for the most part and March’s fallow fields line the sides more than trees. She passes Beaver Bridge Baptist Church. Exilee is almost home.

You really believe Hell is just a theory Mr. Bobby D. Longstockings? That ‘nasty’, Exilee growls through clenched teeth. Sixty-five miles an hour doesn’t get his stinking breath out of her nose. Seventy doesn’t either. She throws longs gulps of water down her raw throat, the bottle on the floor board. I didn’t even say it. I was just thinking it. Perv’s been told to go to Hell so much he thinks its some kind of joke. He’ll be up to his dingaling with fire before he sees the light. Can’t piss out the fires of Hell, Longstockings! Oh, he was just waiting on me to say it. Just waiting to hear me get down and get ugly. My Ginger’d be so proud.

Her head teeters back and forth making her long black braid, up over her chest, stroke the bouncing girls’ full C cups as Tiponi’s worn shocks manage the unleveled pavement. Exilee spanks her hot hand against the steering wheel. The horn whines, whistles and gussies as she spanks it again and again down the lonesome black top. I’m announcing my graduation from Southern Reality, she shouts, disfiguring her gentle face, I’ve finally accepted the facts. Hallelujah, Amen! Even in 2010, a mixed race woman hasn’t got a chance of rising up any good ol’ boy’s business ladder. And I know you’re glad. I just know it, wherever you got to, Miss Ginger. This is probably some crazy jinx you put on me to get me married and have babies. That woman. Her jaws clench as she seethes. Just exactly how am I going to pay my way now?

Nasty words spring out a’ her mouth before she can even think about holding ‘em in as she pounds the steel door with her forearm. There’s no way I’m waitressing with Robin. I’d be slapping the first fool to come on to me with a fifty on the table. She pounds till her flesh burns. Good, God! Robin can handle it. I can’t. I just can’t. Next nasty man to mess up my life is gonna pay! Exilee takes a few deep breaths, adjusts the girls with one hand, tugging the elastic against her chest. I just don’t belong anywhere. Maybe not even this century.

The dirt road jerks her stiff neck and lightens her big dog feeding the gas. Dust swirls behind her for over a quarter mile. Exilee flings her arm out Tiponi’s rolled down window. Gradually, she gives to scoop the currents by cupping her palm and releasing the caught cups of air. She turns into the sand drive, leaves the dust storm behind and slows to a stop. She closes her eyes in delight as her nose fills with farm.

Exilee Sheffield was raised on a patch of ground a lot like this. As soon as she got her first paycheck from her college job she whizzed over to check on this place. The little house was open. She’s been paying rent on time every month. Left her daddy’s big house and never went back.

Exilee slams the heavy truck door shut with a twang of metal, lands on sand and fescue, soft matting for hard dogs and exhales. She checks her pretty face in the side mirror. Doesn’t even look like she’s been tore up. The dash of freckles over her high cheekbones darkens like her big brown eyes as she fits a ball cap over her head.

Exilee scopes the farm. A fresh load of ponies wait for training. She answers Mr. Crowson’s beckoning wave from the pony lot, Sure thing, she calls out with a kick in her step and a smile.

Mr. Crowson’s pony lot is a collage of colors. From the bundle of locked heads and switching tails gathered in the center, a paint gelding steps out. When his eyes lock with Exilee’s she talks softly, low and walks slowly. Three feet in front of him she stops and whispers, Easy, o-gi-na-li-i, my friend.

The pony blows then lifts his head to inhale her scent. He takes a step forward, lowers his head and takes another step. Oginalii, little one. She reaches for his withers. They make contact. And then, with the rope in her hand she gently rubs his neck, circling and sneaking closer to his head. The halter is tucked into the waist of her jeans. The gelding lifts his head for her to rub underneath. Yes, like this? This rough enough? The moment is right. She guides the halter up and over, cooing in a sing-song voice, I know. You like this too much too bolt. She hooks the clasp onto the pony’s halter. The crisp clasp sound makes his head nod. He steps back. Exilee hums as she stands at his shoulder working from his withers with the rope in a circling motion. The paint gelding leans onto her, inviting the little tomboy inside of her to come out and play. And she does, like a cool dip in a spring fed creek on a hot summer day. The medicine pours over and into Exilee’s red hot core.

The pony’s brilliant blue eyes sparkle in contrast with big brown patches on his white coat. With her lips barely parted, Exilee’s enchantment continues. Indians say animals with blue eyes are from the spirit world. He cocks his head to the side. He’s already hypnotized.

Are you a little ‘a-tsu-tsa’ sent to bring me peace? Watching his ears and shoulders for distress, the rope rounds his hindquarters. Then with a small tug on the butt rope and a pull on the halter, he takes two steps forward at her command. Over and over they repeat the lesson. When she stops, always, she tells him, Whoa.

The palomino pony trots over. Oginalii, Exilee whispers. Nose to nose with the gelding, the palomino trumpets a neigh, but he ignores her. The gelding’s ears are aimed hard at Exilee in strain of reading her next command. The palomino noses the rope on the gelding’s hindquarters while she keeps one eye steady on Exilee and signals the gelding with clicks and nudges. But when Exilee and her new blue-eyed friend walk away, the palomino sulks as only a pony can do. With her head low and tail sassing short fast swipes against her hind end she joins the bundle awaiting their turn with Exilee.

Exilee smiles as she bends down to her little Oginalii. She lifts his muzzle to her face. His eyes are open so wide that the whites shine. But when she breathes into his open nostrils and then kisses him between the eyes, his eyes half close. His conditioning goes well.

She leads her little Oginalii around the lot’s perimeter, making quick mention to Mr. Crowson that she needs a new job, starting now. His slumped shoulders straighten as he calls out, I got’cha, when she passes.

Exilee takes Oginalii three times around, asking him to whoa on the third. Turns him around and leads him in the opposite direction. Asks him to whoa and stand quietly in the center of the lot. He nudges her arm. She ignores him. Then he pushes his head between the crook of her arm and waist. She can’t resist the little charmer and pets his forehead with her fingertips in a hypnotizing motion.

His blue eyes shine up at her.

Warm fuzzies dizzy her head. The gelding presses his head deeper into the crook of her arm and rests his eyes. I’m going to call you Misun. You silly, don’t push me over. Fresh pony scent permeates the air as he rubs his hot sweaty body against her.

Abruptly, she stands aside, nearly laughing out loud. A snort escapes her nose. Eyes roll upwards. Through her locked jaw smile Exilee looks up at the sky and says, Ah, he’s a fine pony, for sure, hot even. But I’m wantin’ a real man. Got one on order with you a long time now. You know, Lord. Kind Miss Ginger talked about, why don’t cha send him?

Back, Misun. She lightly pops his chest. That’s enough now.

Exilee’s eyes shoot back to the sky. She aims, Don’t send me a gelding either, you hear me? She licks her lips and shifts her hips. I’ve been good long as I can stand.

Misun, the paint gelding, puff talks and tries his best to gain Exilee’s affection. He looks up at her, his thick winter coat all askew from rubbing his hot sweaty body against her thighs. Foam worked up from his excitement during his first training session drops in wads from his undercarriage and is quickly absorbed by the sand. Exilee grins and though she’s completely enamored with the pony, does not give in to rubbing him.

Mr. Crowson stands about ten feet away, thumbs in his pockets, a half smile and steady stare. His stance tells everything. Exilee, he yells, walk that gelding over here.

Without the butt rope, she signals Misun to walk with only a small tug on his halter. Misun hesitates. Closed mouthed, she clicks. His ears prick. Oginalii, she reminds him. Forward they go at an easy walk toward the gate where Mr. Crowson stands.

Carnival starts tomorrow night. My son, Ken, always helps, but I sure could use a lady’s touch with those youngin’s. The ponies we’re taking are already cleaned and stalled. Just help brush ‘em over, you know, freshen ‘em up and get their tack on. Mr. Crowson leans down to her and pats her shoulder, Exilee, don’t worry about rent. And I’ll pay you the same as my son, ten dollars an hour. Long as you need.

Thank you. That’s very generous, Mr. Crowson. I’ll be there. What kind of time do you want me to spend on the new ponies?

Work ‘em at your own pace, at their pace. Each one’s different. Get it to lead, whoa, all on verbal too now. And when you believe it’s right, put on a saddle and lead. You know what to do. His hand grips her shoulder. Exilee, I don’t throw a lot of fluff at folks. But you must know it. You have a gift girl, horse-sense.

We go back, a lot of hours. Horses and I get along. Exilee locks onto Mr. Crowson’s face. Horses know what I’m thinking. When he doesn’t blink she smiles.

He studies on Exilee’s assumption. Animals’ll figure us out, that’s for sure.

Exilee eases her fingers through Misun’s mane, up to his ear and rubs it till he loves it. The gelding holds his head up to her sideways while his lower lip wags in delight.

Mr. Crowson pats her back. Don’t get here before eight in the morning. My wife sleeps in now. The ponies will go to neighing and whinnying for you once you get a routine set. Next to selling hay and cows, pony rides are all we’ve got to pay taxes on this place. You know what taxes are on five hundred acres?

A couple of thousand?

He pats her shoulder as his head tilts back and spouts out a guffaw. Smiling with his eyebrows up like he’s telling secrets, County thinks a lot of this place. Go in that office every year, like I own the place. Stomp inside. Make sure my boots got a thick coat on ‘em and demand a new evaluation. Doesn’t do much good, but I feel better when I get in the pick-up and my boots are clean. He laughs through his nose as Exilee smiles at the white whiskers he missed while shaving his neck. White hairs curl out of his ears and one shines from his left nostril cupping it like a silver nose ring. With the darkening age spots and sun damage he reminds her of an aged Appaloosa.

With an outstretched arm he spans his property from behind them at the timberline over fences to barns and out to the drive meeting the road. This dirt’s been in our family since before English came. His open palm lands on his chest. My wife’s people lived here. Became landowners when one married a White. More like one white man married a family of Indians. Her people stayed on a long time. Cherokees always traveled with the seasons, ya know. He points to the family cemetery. Lot’s a reckoning been done here. How Cherokees traded for African slaves is beyond me. Honey says the Whites killed off so many of her own people they didn’t have a choice but to have slaves work the land.

I didn’t know that, about them owning slaves.

Yep. He takes a deep breath, filling his wide chest, holds it with his lips clinched and slowly lets it loose. We don’t tell too much of what went on here.

Like what?

Honey tells me, it’s not good to talk about the dead.

When Exilee’s eyes plead for more, Mr. Crowson holds his jaw and tells her, Well, I can tell ya this much, owning land was new for Indians. If they didn’t work their section they couldn’t keep it. Nineteenth century ways meant going along, fittin’ in, any way how to survive, even if it meant turning against Mother Earth. Their ways of wandering with the seasons was over. It was a lot a compromising, not just a way of life, but their religion, ya know. As the screen door slams he smiles wide as Mrs. Crowson waves from the front porch. Her hair is in a long braid down her back. An apron covers her day dress, a gray and white square patterned shift complimenting her petite figure. Working slaves was something they had to do to survive, but believe me, Exilee, there’s been many lives saved on account of Cherokees workin’ ‘em over Whites workin’ ‘em.

The herd rustles. In unison with Mr. Crowson and Exilee, the ponies turn toward the swirling sand. A giant circle of sand filters from the ground up. Noses blow. Heads scold. Hooves pop, stop and settle; spooked one of those strange scents on a wind current like a ghost from the stories about this place.

A March wind gusts over as little pollen pieces and bits of tree debris settle and Mr. Crowson focuses again on Exilee. Now if you want to spend eight hours a day, that’s just fine. If you’ve got somewhere to go, check out job leads, like at the greenhouse up in Flatwoods, you just go do it. Keep track of your time here ‘cause I don’t want to have to do it myself. I’m busy with farming, ya know. Something’s always gettin’ tore up. Parts got’ta be picked up now for my tractor. Don’t send my honey on account of they’d give her anything in a box and she’d think it’s the right thing.

He talks on as he looks around the farm taking inventory with his eyes of all the things on his list of things to do. Mr. Crowson tells her the calves he just sold only got half of what they got five years ago. He tells her things are changing, not just here but all over. He says that his son wanted to farm when he was young but went to college and took up teaching.

Misun nudges her so hard it knocks her off balance, but she ignores the pony and looks up at Mr. Crowson with her big sullen eyes and says, It has to be awful hard to know all you’ve ever worked for could be gone when you’re gone. It’s just so sad.

Mr. Crowson looks like he could cry. The long lines on his weather-worn face deepen and elongate. His Adam’s apple disappears and reappears as he swallows. When he’s done scoping the farm he finally looks back at Exilee.

She tells him the plan for her ponies: separate, gentle, walk and whoa.

Mr. Crowson pats her back. I’ve got faith in ya, Exilee. Now promise me you won’t go teachin’ any of ‘em to talk. ‘Cause I bet they’d be as fast and sassy as you. Another pat and he turns to make long strides for home.

With regret of her daunting words to dear Mr. Crowson on losing his farm deep in her throat, heaviness pulls her shoulders down as she looks around the pony lot. Don’t make any trouble. It’s us making taxes on this place or trailer rides to The Sale. Ponies nicker and twitch, scuffle to tuck their noses under the others’ necks. Exilee feels the pull, the draw, the connection, again, after all these years. As her dry grit covered lips part into a big wide smile she tells her new friends, I know. I do. I hear you, guys. Choctaw runs from his stall flinging his head and rears up squealing. Lands and blows a happy trumpet. See. Now, stop worrying. Exilee scans the lot. I got a good feeling about all this.

Hindsight, Heroes and Fate

Ken’s car eases up the sandy drive. He passes his house, the one his dad renovated, the cemetery and then Exilee’s rental. Both are cozy clapboards, white with black trim. Ken pulls up and sits in his car, just past the gate. And just in time to help separate the new ponies.

Exilee backs Misun. Pets him. Then walks him in a tight circle allowing it to widen with each loop. Circling Misun allows her to look toward Ken naturally, not like she’s standing there waiting and gawking. She wets her dry lips and presses down the nap near her temples as soon as her back faces him.

Her eyes meet with the cemetery as she widens her loops with Misun. The cemetery is over two hundred years old. Rocks mark the graves. Big rocks with natural organic shapes with carved names and dates are family graves. Slave graves are marked with rocks cut into triangle wedges. Without names or dates, like old rumors from days of the Underground Railroad, they have no written words.

Next, her eyes land on the main house. Mr. Crowson’s house is nothing like pictures of big plantation mansions. It’s a cozy place, just another white clapboard with tin roofing, but bigger than the others with larger windows. Two big pecan trees on either side of the thin slate rock path announce the front porch. One red oak is nearer to the house than the others and long leaf pines dot the sprawling front yard. The big screened in back porch overlooking the pastures is the give away.

Easy, Tiponi, I mean Misun. Don’t jog just yet, little show off. Easy. I know. I let too much slack get in the line. Let’s tighten up your circle. Easy now. She brings Misun to a slow stop, looks down at her tennis shoes and kicks away a round of fresh green pony poop, a maneuver to check the girls. There’s just enough coolness in the wind to tweak them. But it’s safe. She wears a padded sports bra so no one will notice her nipple erections. She runs her fingers down Misun’s mane. His eyes half close. Misun blows. She releases him and walks toward the other side of the lot.

The ponies switch tales, flick up furry fetlocks and dart from her approaching steps. She looks back at the gelding to see if he follows. No. Misun stands precisely where he was released and watches. Exilee hums a quiet tune to ease the nervous ponies. Their ears prick. Heads lower.

When Ken’s car door shuts she wipes the sweat from her palms.

Hey, Exilee yells to him from the middle of the lot, Come help separate the herd, Ken. The cadence of his steps matches the thumping heartbeat in her thighs. She points to the gelding she just started out leading. What do you think of naming the gelding with the brown patch on his face and the blue eyes, Misun?

Ken rests a fist on his narrow hip. His other hand points at the gelding. Misun, is that what you said? Then his fist flips over as he opens his hand. Isn’t that an Indian word? His hands pop against his tight thighs.

Yes, Exilee answers, Misun is Cherokee.

The pony neighs.

Sounds like he likes his name. You going to name all twelve ponies Indian names? Ken opens the gate. His short shiny black hair catches the sunlight forming a halo.

Ken allows only one pony through and quickly shuts the gate. Walks behind the pony in the narrow passage toward the corral on the furthest end. There are four corrals. Each one has a water tank and a wooden hay bin filled with sweet coastal Bermuda hay.

Ken walks straight up to her as his bare buff arms gleam down beside his taut body. The lowering sun behind him shines in Exilee’s eyes, making her squint.

I don’t know if they all deserve Indian names. Misun is special. She cautiously compares Ken’s blue eyes with the blue-eyed gelding. Who named the other ponies? She asks with a glance at the stalled ponies over in the big barn.

Ken follows the cue to look at the stalled ponies. A couple of blinks from the sun in his eyes, then the shine, like crystal marbles, only they aren’t shining at Exilee.

Dad names them most of the time. Has fun with it too, uses the names of his friends and relatives. When one of ‘em comes over, Dad takes him out to meet his namesake. He’ll tell him to get out there and teach his namesake to use the bathroom proper and go in one place instead of all over kingdom come or brush his teeth, anything that might be embarrassing. He told Uncle Roscoe, right after Easter Dinner to go pick up his Easter Eggs. He said he’d find his eggs wherever pony Roscoe just went.

Oh.

Ken’s teeth are so white. And if people didn’t know better they’d swear he had on lipstick. And his lips aren’t just red, their beefy. He closes the corral gate, steps sideways and allows another pony through, stepping even closer to Exilee. The heartbeat in her thighs dangerously inches upwards. She backs up a couple of steps and watches him. When her insides contract, on their own, she shivers.

Through it all, Exilee is quietly giggling, still, about his dad naming the ponies. I had no idea Mr. Crowson was so funny. Ken, what grade do you teach?

Ninth grade, the transitional year of youth, Ken informs. Then he closes the gate and signals for another pony to walk toward the corral.

What do you mean, change in education or maturing type change?

Both, Exilee, remember you in ninth grade? You started combing that wild mane of yours. His cheeks puff up when he smiles. I sort of miss the mangled-just-got-out-of-bed-look. Ken gives her a check-out, a calculated fast move with his eyes moving, not his head. You gave up your horse coat in ninth grade. Remember?

I stay on top of my hair nowadays but that horse coat is still in my closet.

Ken looks around the lot, makes the ponies move with a wave of his arm and steps close to Exilee. I hope you’ve washed it, his deep hushed voice is nearly a whisper. Warm blood fills her face. They stand close enough to smell one another’s breath. Ken resists feeling the length of her braid and jams his hands into his pockets. Her mane still curls, not in ringlets, just waves, shiny-sheen waves. But ringlets are there, right at her ears like baby-doll wisps. A head taller, his scent hovers down, a day’s perspiration and homemade something, like a bakery. Exilee inhales deeply. Pony poop filters out. All she smells is sweet.

Yes. My horse coat’s been washed. Exilee uses the extra saliva flowing around her full mouth to wet her dry lips. I got that coat the same day I got my first horse, Tiponi. I didn’t want it washed because I wanted to smell my horse while I was at school. I had to hang it under the carport. It would’ve been washed if I took it in.

I bet so. Ken interrupts, nose wrinkling up in disgust, but with a sly smile. You had a nanny, right?

Yes. She understood the whole coat-horse connection. She hesitates. It did get ripe on those bus rides home in June. But it smelled better than any boy. Then adds, Real horse people love horse smells.

Smell is one of the strongest senses. Ken turns teacher. People remember smells before they remember faces or names. It’s a fact.

The palomino pony is next. She’s hyped, trying to get ahead of the others. Exilee steps aside and lets her get in front. A pony strikes at the palomino with a sidekick. It hits her on the flank. The palomino