Door County Fiction: Farmer Brown’s Daughter

I hadn’t thought about it in years. It sat in the corner of the attic, hidden by boxes of too-small children’s clothing and Christmas decorations that had fallen into disfavor. The rocking horse was crudely carved. It hung mid-air, suspended from its framework by four rusting springs. Against the flaking white paint of its rough cut head and neck lay a leather bridle…
 

****

She was standing out in the side yard of her home, feet planted, back arched. Her face was tilted up toward the sun. Hair the color of corn tassels trailed down to her waist. Her left hand rested on her hip; the right stretched toward the sky, wrist cocked, palm open, ready to catch the baton that she had sent into orbit just moments before. Its rotating form was a blur of silver. Her catch was absolute. Jeez, she’s perfect, I thought, applauding wildly.

"I’m working here," she scowled. "Who are you and who said you could watch me?"

"Your dad," I replied, tucking a wiry curl behind my ear. "I came over with my dad to get some tomatoes and corn and your dad said you were out here practicing."

"Right. Prac-ti-cing," she bit off each syllable. "I’m competing in less than a week. You can watch but you have to be quiet. I’m Belinda. And you’re…?"

"Um, Margaret, but they call me Mattie," I said, pushing my glasses up the bridge of my nose. I do that when I’m nervous. And I was nervous. She reminded me of the eighth grade girls at my school, the ones I was certain were never nervous about anything. "With two tees," I added.

"What?"

"Two tees. Mattie with two tees – after my great aunt." I thought my nickname was kind of cool. I was the only ten-year-old girl in my class that wasn’t called Mary or Pat or Ann or some other name with a good patron saint to go along with it.

Belinda seemed unimpressed. She turned away, picked up her baton and began her routine. Catch and release. Catch and release. I really had to go to the bathroom, but I was afraid to budge. Finally, she did a couple of stretches and walked toward me. She’ll tell me to get lost now, I thought. Instead she said, "C’mon. Let’s walk back to the house. I have something to show you."

She led the way down the cellar stairs of the old farmhouse. At first I couldn’t see anything, but then my eyes adjusted to the dimness. In the middle of the largest area of the cellar was a pony, bridled and saddled and standing stock still.

"Oh," I gasped. "Is he yours? Can I ride him? Please, oh please."

"Well he’s not real, you dope. Who would keep a horse in a cellar? Go look at him close up."

Not real? How could that be? I could see the texture of his coat, the liquid brown of his eyes and the shade of pink just inside his nostrils. I approached him slowly, still not sure of what I was seeing. When I was close enough to touch him, I discovered that she was telling the truth. He was not real, but it didn’t matter.

"This is Toby," Belinda explained. "He’s my pretend horse until I’m old enough to get a real one."

"You’re getting a horse?" I blurted. Sure you are, I thought, girls like you get everything.

"Yep. Next spring when I’m 14. Maybe when I get my real horse, I’ll give Toby to you. Do you want to get up on him?"

My heart was pounding. What had she said? Sitting in the saddle, holding the reins, patting the real horsehair that covered him, I almost believed that maybe, every once in a while, God got bored with beautiful, blonde baton twirlers and took a shine to girls like me.

****

"Do you want to take a drive out to Farmer Brown’s with me?" my father asked one warm spring afternoon. "Belinda got a horse and Farmer Brown says you should come out for a ride."

I hardly had the car door closed before I blurted out the news.

"Oh my gosh, Daddy. You won’t believe this, but Belinda said I could have Toby when she got her horse. I didn’t tell you sooner because I didn’t want to jinx it. Do you think we can borrow Farmer Brown’s truck to get him home? I’ve been waiting for this all winter. I know just where I’ll put him."

My father raised an eyebrow and I chattered on the rest of the way.

At Farmer Brown’s, I burst out of the car, barely waiting for it to come to a stop. "Hi, Belinda! I can’t wait to see your horse! Mr. Brown, do you think we can borrow your truck to get Toby to our house?"

"Get Toby to your house? What’s this about?"

"Well, Belinda said she’d give him to me once she got her horse, so…" my voice trailed off. Farmer Brown didn’t look right. Not angry exactly, more like unhappy.

"Mattie," he said quietly, "I wish you’d told me about this sooner. I’m sure Belinda meant well, but I’m not giving Toby away. I found him in Germany during the war and brought him home as a special gift for my daughter and, eventually, her children."

Belinda stood mute.

"But she said…You promised!” I cried, turning to look at her. Still she said nothing.

"Well, she should have known better," said Farmer Brown. "Toby is not hers to give. Come on now, let’s go see the new horse."

"No!" I shouted. "No! I’m not going in there. I don’t care about her stupid horse. She lied to me. I thought we were friends, but it was just a joke. She thinks I’m a joke. I hate her!"

I ran back to the car. My father followed a few minutes later. He threw something in the trunk and then slid behind the wheel. We drove back into the city in silence, his hand on my knee the whole long way.

****

For weeks, I had not been allowed in our basement where my father had his workshop. But the morning of my birthday my parents rushed me down the back stairs before we even had breakfast. The air smelled like fresh sawdust. My father opened the door to his shop and stepped aside.

The horse was carved from thick wood. He was painted white and had a grey mane and tail with thick black lines running through them. He had no legs. Instead each corner of his torso was attached to a large wooden frame by big shiny metal springs. His brown saddle was painted on and it had pegs for my feet instead of stirrups. But the reins of a real leather bridle lay over his neck.

"The bridle is from Farmer Brown," my father said. "For when you’re old enough to have a real horse."

I took it all in, but I couldn’t seem to wrap my mind around it, couldn’t find words big enough for what I was feeling. My throat felt swollen and my heart hurt. I felt ashamed and happy at the same time and somehow changed – as if I’d caught a glimpse of what lay beyond childhood.

"Thanks, Daddy," I finally managed to whisper as fat, hot tears ran down my face. My father just smiled and put his arms around me…and we stood like that until my mother called us up to breakfast .

****

…Up in the attic, dust motes swirled as I shifted boxes around. I shook my head and wrestled the horse from its corner. My horse, made by my father’s hands for my eleventh birthday, was about to get a fresh coat of paint before meeting my granddaughter. Many times in over as many years, relatives and friends had tried to persuade me to part with it. Always, I declined, patiently explaining to them that it really wasn’t mine to give.