Horse People

356 HORSE P EOP LE Cary Holladay Barrett Fenton believed his father really did love all his sons the same, Barrett and his six brothers. By October 1927, the oldest, John, was eighteen, and the youngest, Dudley, was two and a half. Barrett was next to last, almost eight. One Sunday, when church and dinner were over, Barrett was on the porch when his father started for the stable. His father said, “Want to go riding with me?” Barrett knew he was just lucky, being out on the porch at the right time. They were going to fetch a cook, his father said. Buttheyalreadyhadacook.“WhataboutNehemiah?”Barrettasked. “Time for Nehemiah to go on home,” Barrett’s father said. “Retire.” Barrett could hardly imagine the kitchen without Nehemiah stoking the coal stove and the woodstove, snacking on biscuit dough, and sharpening knives. Nehemiah was old, but he still seemed fine. “Why is it time?” Barrett said. “Is he going to die?” “My guess is, Nehemiah’ll be around a good many years, but your mother wants to hire somebody younger.” They would continue to pay Nehemiah every month, his father said, same as if he still worked for them. But they were going to hire Philip, a son from a different family, to be their new cook. Philip’s father was sick, Barrett learned, and his own father had asked the doctor to go see him. Barrett knew that his father, Richard Fenton, was an important man, a judge for the Orange County Juvenile and Domestic Court. People fiction 357 sometimes came to the house to seek his help outside of court. They might want a divorce or be worried about a wayward son. Barrett’s father would sit with them on the porch, talking, and they’d leave with a lighter step. They’d tell Barrett, “Your father’s a good man, a fair man.” His mother was not as fair. She had favorites among the boys, usually Alex and Miles, the second and fifth ones. These days it was Dudley, the youngest, because he was sick with scarlet fever. At the moment, Barrett knew, his mother was writing letters. She spent a great deal of time on correspondence with relatives, friends, and business associates. Aunt Iris, his father’s sister, who also lived with them, was reading to the other boys. Barrett was supposed to be with them. He was on the porch only because he’d left a book there. “I’ve spoken to your mother already,” his father said, “and Iris.” Barrett set his book on the porch swing, and off they went. It would be the first time Barrett had ridden since getting over scarlet fever himself. His father would ride Hurricane, a charcoal mare. Barrett had taken a long time to name his pony. It seemed to him that the best names were already taken by his mother’s horses—Card Party, Florian, Arrow, and She Will. At last, he’d settled on Skedaddle, a word his father liked to say. “Blood from the sire, beauty from the dam,” Barrett’s mother often said. Racing and horses were what she loved. Barrett knew his father didn’t feel the same way, though Hurricane was a great favorite of his. He’d tell Barrett’s mother to watch out for horse people. Barrett didn’t understand: Weren’t his mother and father horse people, too? They were foxhunters. They were on the board of directors of the county horse show. His mother, Nelle Scott Fenton, didn’t trust people anyway , only horses and dogs. Pride of Virginia, her stationery said, with dark red letters and a design of a horse jumping a fence, and though Barrett knew Pride of Virginia meant the horses, he always thought of his mother’s straight-backed posture. She was a Yankee and proud of it, daughter of a Philadelphia lawyer. Barrett’s father saddled up Hurricane and had Stanton, the stable boy, saddle Skedaddle, and Barrett and his father took off for the back pasture. It was a blue-skied day, warm for October, “beauteous,” Barrett’s father said, leaning his head back and letting Hurricane carry him along cary holladay...