SISTER JUNE

1958

It was with an edge of fear in her voice that Claire spoke to June and Evelyn as they climbed out of the car one autumn afternoon and sauntered toward the gate of the stables. “You two be careful, now,” she said, peering through the speckled windshield. “Hear?”

June smirked at her sister, then turned around. “Goodbye!” she shouted, flapping her open hand. “Thanks for the lift!”

“We’ll be all right,” said Evelyn.

Smiling, Claire wagged a finger at them, waved, then pulled away.

When at last the car disappeared around a bend in the gravel road, June cocked her head sideways, gathered her hair together in one hand, and with the other plucked a red bandana from her hip pocket. She tied off her pony tail and smiled. “Mother’s afraid we’ll be deflowered against our will,” she said, laughing. “Please!”

“I’m sure that’s not what she meant,” Evelyn said, brushing June’s bangs away from her eyes. “You just like to twist things.”

“No. I’m not afraid to speak the truth, that’s all. Good manners and looking on the bright side are for squares.”

“Don’t start. We’re here to have fun, right?”

June sighed. “Of course,” she said. “Let’s go.”

They followed the dusty path down to the barn. As they approached, the distinctive sounds of the place—neighs and laughter, jingling tack—reached their ears. Within the ample doorway they saw a saddled Appaloosa silhouetted by harsh light. Two young women walked beside the animal, turned its head, then led it through the building and out to the other side. A pair of grackles quarreled in the hayloft.

Once inside, June and Evelyn made their way to a small room in the center of the barn where George, the stable hand, sat whittling an arm-sized stick. On makeshift shelves all around him stood dozens of crudely fashioned wooden figures. June and Evelyn hovered just outside the door, peering in. George glanced up from his work.

“Ladies,” he said.

“Hi, George,” said June. “This is my sister, Evelyn, that I was telling you about.”

George nodded. “You here to ride ol’ Windsor, huh?”

Evelyn blushed. “Yes. I can hardly believe June’s had him a whole year and I haven’t come out till now. She’s been very insistent.”

“Yeah, she’s like that,” George said. “You been riding much before?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“She’s pretty green,” June said.

George chuckled. “Well, you want to be careful on ol’ Windsor. One false move and he’ll throw you. Don’t say you wasn’t warned.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Come on,” June said. “He’s just trying to scare you. You get a big kick out of that, don’t you, George?”

“Aw,” George said, and chuckled again.

Windsor’s stall lay at the far end of the corridor. June and Evelyn hurried toward it. The aroma of manure and fresh hay filled the air. The view of the fields outside, framed by the back entrance, grew larger as they approached—split-rail fences, busy riding ring, and glassy lake beyond. The sky shone a deep pure blue.

Windsor’s head emerged through an opening above the stall gate. Solid white like the rest of his body, it bobbed and nodded as the girls approached.

“Hey there, Windy,” June said, patting his nose.

“My, he’s a handsome devil, isn’t he?” said Evelyn.

“You better believe it.”

“Just look at his eyes. So soulful.”

“Yeah, he’s a regular Perry Como.”

June reached around Windsor and retrieved his headcollar from a hook inside the stall. As she began working the collar over the horse’s snout, she said, “We’ll need to clean up a little first. There’s a room just across from George’s office where we keep most of the equipment. See if you can find a wheelbarrow, a pitchfork, and a rake. Bring back a load of straw, too.”

“All right,” Evelyn said, and left on her errand.

With the collar in place, June opened the gate and led Windsor out into the corridor. Then she turned him around and clipped his collar to a post. She stood for a moment stroking his neck, then examined his teeth, coat, and hooves. Finally, she stepped into the stall to fetch his bit and bridle.

The window in the back wall let in little light, but June knew the place well enough that she didn’t need to wait for her eyes to adjust. She crossed to the far corner, opened a wooden chest, and pulled out a saddle blanket, which she then draped over a rail. She was about to close the chest again when she remembered the watch. It was an antique pocket watch in a silver casing that she’d found in the woods nearby. She’d been out with Windsor on one of the trails when she saw something flash in the leaves. The watch’s crystal was cracked, its chain a bit rusty, but it still kept good time. She’d stashed it here in the blanket box, wrapped in a swatch of burlap.

Now she took it out again and wound the stem. She held it to her ear but, for the first time since she’d found it, heard no ticking. The slender hands were stuck at one and nine. She thought for a moment, debating the wisdom of letting someone in on her discovery—then abruptly stood up and headed for George’s office.

On the way, she passed Evelyn trundling the wheelbarrow, heaped with straw, back to the stall. The tools lay crossed on top.

“I’ll be right there,” June said. “There’s a manure pile out back. When you’re done, just spread the new straw out over the floor.”

“Aye-aye, Captain,” Evelyn said, puffing.

When June arrived at George’s door, she found him still whittling away.

“What do you know about watches?” she said.

George laid his stick aside and dropped the knife into its sheath. He looked at June with a vexed expression. “Watches?”

“You know. Watches, clocks, time pieces.”

George nodded. “That they cause more trouble than they’re worth, mainly.”

“I mean,” June said, “can you fix one?”

“Miss June, have you got yourself a busted watch?”

June held out the instrument, dangling by its chain.

“Well well well,” George said, taking it from her. “Fancy. Where’d you get it?”

June hesitated. “Found it in the woods,” she said. “See, there’s still some dirt in the seams.”

“Sure enough.” He turned it over in his hands. “Whoa now. Did you happen to notice these initials engraved on the back?”

“No.”

“Look here. O. R. Why, this is old Mr. Raspberry’s watch you found.”

“Who’s Mr. Raspberry?”

“He’s the man that built these stables. Died about two years ago.”

June felt a flash of panic. “Oh! I didn’t realize. What do you think we should do with it?”

George pondered, then shrugged. “Finders keepers, I reckon. There’s no one else it should rightly belong to. Hell, I bet he’d want you to have it.”

June smiled. “That’s fine. But, George, do you think you can make it run again?”

“I’ll do my best,” he said. “You go on out now and show Big Sister how to ride.”

“Okay.” June turned to leave, then suddenly whirled back around. “She’s not that big!” she cried. “She’s only thirteen months older, you know!”

Back at the stall, Evelyn was just finishing up her chores. June marched right around Windsor and back through the open gate. A few seconds later she reemerged, a leather bridle looped in her hands. “All right,” she said sternly. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

When the bridle was fastened, June and Evelyn returned to the equipment room to replace the wheelbarrow and tools. Several rows of saddle racks bolted to one wall cast jagged shadows against the planks. June pointed to Windsor’s and said, “Help me carry this back. As soon as we get old Windy saddled up, we’ll see about making a rider out of you.”

They lugged the saddle between them, advancing with awkward but steady strides. As they approached, Windsor seemed to regard them with either amusement or disdain, his eyes placid. June took the saddle away from Evelyn and instructed her to stand on Windsor’s other side. “And slide that blanket over his back while you’re at it,” she said. Together they lowered the saddle into place. Then June crouched down and pulled the girth up under the animal’s ribs. She buckled the strap and tightened it, notch by notch, then patted his belly with her hand. “He likes to puff himself up while you’re fitting the saddle,” she said. “Once you’ve mounted, he’ll relax and you’ll slide sideways and fall off. It’s his idea of a practical joke.”

Evelyn laughed. “Windsor, you rascal!”

“So you’ve got to let him know you’re on to him. Come on, Windy.”

The horse released his breath, and June tightened the girth another notch.

“There,” she said. “That should do it. Grab the reins now and I’ll take off the headcollar.”

“Gosh, this is so exciting. I feel like Dale Evans herself!”

“Don’t be a square,” said June.

They led Windsor out into the sunlight. A flock of geese in wedge formation flapped by overhead. From a distant pasture June and Evelyn heard the shouts of other girls urging their horses on. A chill breeze swept across the fields.

As they made their way up a gentle slope toward the riding ring, Evelyn said, “Well, George seems like a nice man.”

June sighed. “Yeah, he is. Ornery as a wasp, but nice.”

“Does he always sit in there whittling like that?”

“No. Hardly. It’s one of his many mysteries. You’ll seldom see him working, but he keeps this place in perfect order. No matter what the gossips say, he’s been good for the stables. He just loves horses.”

“Speaking of gossips, they sure have got under Mother’s skin, haven’t they? She doesn’t trust George to know his own name.”

“It’s like I said before. She probably thinks he’s sexy.”

Evelyn laughed. “Oh, come on, June!”

“I’m serious. Your problem is, you’re hopelessly naive.”

“So that’s it, is it? Well, I’ll tell you what I think. I think you think he’s sexy.”

June scoffed. “Please! He’s eighteen years old. That’s practically an old man!”

“You can deny it all you want, but I know the truth. You’ve got a crush.”

“Let’s change the subject,” June muttered. “I’m about ready to give you a black eye.”

When they arrived at the riding ring, they found it empty. The dirt inside was packed solid, whorled and rippled. Evelyn led Windsor through the gate. Then June took the reins and talked Evelyn through the process of mounting. Once Evelyn was in the saddle, June said, “We’ll start off with a few practice laps, just walking. The most important things to remember, especially when you take him out to run, are rhythm and balance, rhythm and balance.”

“Rhythm and balance,” Evelyn repeated. She patted Windsor’s flank, then tapped his ribs with her heels.

They began a leisurely walk along the perimeter of the ring. June stood in the center, barking instructions: “Keep your back straight! Stay relaxed! Rhythm and balance, rhythm and balance!”

“This is fun!” Evelyn cried.

“Good. Now stand up in the stirrups and lean forward. That’s the position for a gallop. Hey, kid, you’re a natural!”

Then from behind them came a low rumbling of hooves. Evelyn brought Windsor over to where June stood and together they looked out over the fields to an approaching trio of riders. The middle horse, leading the group, was an enormous chestnut stallion with a white blaze between his eyes. The woman astride him resembled a blood-crazed Hottentot. Her arms and shoulders were as strong as a man’s, and her greasy hair snapped in the breeze. As the horses drew closer, Evelyn said, “My word. Who is that?”

A pallor crept over June’s face, and she spoke as though in a trance. “That’s Lana Lipscomb,” she said. “The meanest, nastiest, fire-breathingest woman this side of the gates of Hades. She eats babies for breakfast, tortures small animals just for sport, and bashes people’s heads with hammers whenever she’s feeling peevish. No man ever crossed her but was found dead the next morning, and no woman can resist the power of her evil incantations. She’s got a posse of women that follows her around like disciples. That’s two of them behind her.”

Evelyn laughed. “Mercy, what a description! Are you sure you’re not embellishing just a bit?”

“Judge for yourself,” June replied.

Now the three women stood before them. Their horses’ nostrils flared and snorted. Lana stared straight ahead through slit eyes and curled her lip with contempt.

“What are you two doing here?” she said.

June’s voice caught in her throat. “J-just riding, Lana. What does it look like?”

Lana cackled, then pulled a cigarette out of her shirt pocket and brought it to her mouth. She struck a match on her jeans. As she lit the cigarette, her cheeks sank against her skull. Two plumes of smoke swirled away on either side. “Looks to me like a pair of little princesses is out getting their jollies,” she said. “You getting your jollies, Junie baby?”

“Excuse me,” Evelyn said. “Aren’t you a little old to be acting like a schoolyard bully?”

Lana turned to Evelyn and smiled. “I’d expect that kind of remark from this one,” she said, nodding at June. “But you—whoever you are—possess a look that suggests you might actually have a brain in your pretty little head. As such, I’d hope you’d gather that my stance toward the world is bred not of ignorance nor malice nor an unreflective sadism but rather by a philosophical system which apprehends reality at its deepest ontological levels, a refined perception of the interlocking social, economic, and political forces which conspire to form an historical milieu inherently hostile to radical critique, a cultural order which, by its very nature, seeks to silence the voices of renegade intellects and crush dissent under its collectively-sanctioned jackboot. The task of one who has pierced the facade of the dominant order is to shine upon it the unwelcome light of truth, to dissect and expose the invisible machinations of power.”

“Listen to that!” cried one of the women behind her. “You ever heard such brilliance?”

The other woman whistled. “She’s so smart, don’t nobody know what she’s talking about.”

Lana shrugged. “Yes, well, I’m ahead of my time.”

“All right,” said Evelyn. “But what’s that got to do with calling us names?”

“It’s not my fault if you’re made uncomfortable by a little trenchant observation,” said Lana.

“You’re full of crap,” June said, seething. “You’re just mad because you don’t have a boyfriend.”

Lana sighed. “See what I mean?” she said. “Some people are just born to be sheep.”

Then Lana whooped and reared back on her stallion and galloped away toward the barn. Her two cohorts trotted dutifully behind.

June and Evelyn followed the women with their eyes. As soon as the trio had disappeared through the shadowy barn door, Evelyn said, “Don’t pay her any mind. She’s nothing but a child in a grown-up body. An obnoxious one at that.”

“I hate her,” June said.

Evelyn looked down at her sister, watching her face churn with pain and confusion. “I think I’m ready to run now,” she said.

June led Windsor over to the gate, then nodded up at Evelyn. “Remember what I taught you,” she said, and gave Windsor a hard smack on the hindquarters. The horse whinnied and took off. Evelyn squealed.

Now June stood alone in the riding ring. As the sound of Windsor’s hooves faded into the distance, she walked over to the fence, placed one foot up on the lower rail, leaned forward, and sighed. She gazed out over the surrounding fields and lake. The sky above the trees bore streaks of purple at the horizon, and thin tracks of cloud stretched from rim to rim.

Eventually, Evelyn rode Windsor back to the ring. Sweat beaded on her brow, her face flushed red, but she beamed with happiness. “That was fantastic,” she said, gasping. “Your turn.”

“No,” June said. “I’m not really in the mood. Anyhow, this is your time.”

“Well, I’m worn out. Are you sure?”

“Yes. Let’s give Windy the rest of the day off.”

Evelyn dismounted. She took Windsor’s reins in one hand and ruffled his mane with the other. “You’re the greatest horse ever,” she said. Then she and June and Windsor set out again for the barn.

Along the way, as they walked silently together, the two sisters took stock of each other with surreptitious glances. The sharp autumn wind swirled against their bodies.

Back at the barn, they went about the business of putting Windsor’s stall in order. Evelyn lugged the saddle back to the equipment room, while June remained behind, hanging up tack. Windsor himself stood calmly on the straw, his head cocked back. The late afternoon light sifting through the opaque window dimmed imperceptibly, deepening the shadows within.

When Evelyn returned, June stepped out into the corridor and turned to latch the gate. As before, Windsor’s head appeared through the opening above. In a moment of rare abandon, June stretched up on her toes and wrapped her arms around the horse’s neck. She stood in this position, locked in an awkward embrace, until Evelyn touched her shoulder. June turned bashfully away.

“Mother will be along soon,” Evelyn said. “Maybe we should go tell George goodbye.”

“Yeah,” June said. “He’ll be cross with us if we don’t.”

“He’d probably call us stuck-up debutantes.”

This time, when the girls arrived at George’s door, only the soles of his boots were visible, dangling from a hole in the ceiling. They heard him above, rummaging about.

“Hello?” June called. “George?”

The commotion stopped. “Be right there,” George shouted, his voice muffled. “Where’s the damn First Aid Kit?”

June glanced at Evelyn with alarm, then back to the boots. “Are you all right?”

“No sweat. Cut my finger, is all. Bled on my shirt. Hell fire!”

“Now what?”

“Damn iodine stings like fury.” His boots kicked forward, then a loud crash shook the rafters. “Ouch! Lord, I’m getting clumsier by the minute. Better quit while I’m ahead. Look out below!” George dropped suddenly through the hole and landed in a crouch on the desk top. An avalanche of clothing followed him down, tumbling over his head. He looked at the girls, winked, then held up his finger, wrapped in a fresh bandage. “See there?” he said, grinning. “Good as new.” Then he hopped off the desk and began gathering the clothes in his arms.

“What’s up there?” June said, still gazing at the ceiling.

“Home sweet home,” George said.

“You mean, you live in this place?”

“Why, sure.”

“Oh, George. I had no idea.”

“Aw, Miss June, it ain’t no tragedy.”

June looked at him, her eyes shining. She smiled. “I see you’re wearing a new shirt,” she said.

“Yep. Plaid. Just like all the others. You like it?”

“It’s very becoming.”

George laughed, then settled into his chair. A heap of laundry now covered the desk. He propped his feet up on an open drawer, leaned back, and sighed. “So how’d your riding go?”

“Very well,” Evelyn said. “Windsor is a dream.”

“He’s a good horse,” George confirmed, nodding. “No trouble then?”

“No. None but Lana Lipscomb.”

“Evelyn!” June cried.

George chuckled. “So you met ol’ Lana, huh? Ain’t she a piece of work?”

“She certainly is,” said Evelyn.

June growled. “She’s a witch! A wicked old witch! That’s what she is!”

George’s face turned solemn and he gave June a piercing stare. “Now, Miss June, ol’ Lana may talk a lot of rot, but she ain’t no witch or any such thing. She’s had it rough. Maybe you’ll understand that a little better one day.”

“I certainly hope not!” June cried.

George shifted in his seat and turned abruptly away. He unsnapped the sheath on his belt and pulled out the knife. Then he wiggled his stick from beneath the laundry pile and resumed whittling. A full minute passed before he spoke again.

“I remember the first time I met ol’ Lana,” he began. “Back then she had her a gigantic black stallion—good twenty hands high—named Michel. Well, first time I heard that, I says, ‘Michelle? What’d you go and give that he-man horse a girl’s name for?’ And Lana looks at me crosswise and says, ‘No, fool. Michel.’ And spells it out. ‘It’s French.’ So then I knew where I stood with her.

“Now this Michel—” George broke off and shook his head. “I reckon I shouldn’t tell you all this,” he said. “But, ladies, Michel had damn near the biggest cock I’ve ever seen on one of God’s creatures. I mean, a bazooka. And Lana, she thinks it’s such a hoot, claims it stands for his ‘intellectual prowess and vast ambition’ or some such—you know how she talks. Well, naturally, Michel just looked like the perfect stud horse. But no matter how many times we tried, Michel just couldn’t get it going. And we wondered about it and wondered about it until one day ol’ Michel wanders up behind another stallion, rears up, and next thing we know . . . that was some scene. If Michel hadn’t been twice as big, he’d a been mush for sure. It took five men plus Lana to break it up, and afterwards we’re standing up against the barn, just catching our breath, and I says to Lana, ‘Looks like your Michel is a Michelle after all.’ Lord, we laughed like crazy people.

“Come to find out, though, that Michel was real sick and had to be put down. Poor Lana, she carried on like a banshee. But finally she straightened out, and we talked it over calm-like. Our main trouble was, with a horse that size, you don’t want to have to haul him any further than necessary. So we figured the best plan was, dig the hole, walk Michel up to the edge of it, then do the deed. Nice and simple. He just falls in. Well, Lana went out and picked a suitable spot way on the far end of the pasture, and we set aside a whole afternoon for digging. Damn hole was so huge we coulda buried a bus in it. Anyhow, that evening Lana spends several hours with Michel, just cooing and blubbering over him. And that must have tipped him off, because the next morning we show up with the revolver, and there’s Michel—dead as a hammer in his stall with four hooves sticking straight in the air.

“Well, once the shock had wore off, ol’ Lana took to bragging on him for the trick he played. ‘The perfect revenge,’ she kept saying. ‘We weren’t gonna get off so easy. Hell no. You want to bury Michel, you’ll have to work at it, buster!’ We did, too. Tore out all the planks in the back of that stall and called in a goddamn tow truck to move him. A goddamn tow truck! Lana thought that was a hoot.” George whittled quietly for a while longer, then stopped. “So you see, ladies,” he said at last. “Lana’s a good ol’ gal. Just takes a while to appreciate her special charms.”

June and Evelyn stood in stunned silence. They watched George’s knife curl thin shavings out of the tender wood. Some time later, a car horn sounded outside.

“That must be Mother,” Evelyn said. “I’ll go see.”

Evelyn disappeared, leaving June alone in the room with George. Standing before him now, she fell into confusion. He continued to carve on his stick, a dim smile creasing his ruddy face.

Then Evelyn called to her from outside, standing at the entrance. “Time to go!” she shouted. “C’mon, June!”

June stepped back, then halted. “Well, George, I guess I’ll see you again soon.”

“Mm-hm,” George said.

“Goodbye, then.”

“Goodbye.”

June turned and ran from the office, down the long corridor, past stalls and posts and doorways, until at last she stumbled out into the twilight. About a hundred yards away, just beyond the iron gate, she saw her mother waiting with Evelyn in front of the station wagon. Both waved their hands at her.

Racing along the dusty path, she choked back bitter tears. Her mind and memory spun with thoughts she couldn’t understand.

When she’d made it almost halfway to the gate, George’s deep voice boomed behind her. “Wait!” he cried.

June turned and saw him standing before the barn, one arm lifted above his head. Mr. Raspberry’s old watch—her watch—swung like a pendulum from his bleeding, bandaged hand.