The Secret Life of Roberta Greaves Read online

  The Secret Life of Roberta Greaves

  The Secret Life of Roberta Greaves

  a novel by

  ANN BIRCH

  INANNA PUBLICATIONS AND EDUCATION INC.

  TORONTO, CANADA

  Copyright © 2016 Ann Birch

  Except for the use of short passages for review purposes, no part of this book may be reproduced, in part or in whole, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronically or mechanically, including photocopying, recording, or any information or storage retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher or a licence from the Canadian Copyright Collective Agency (Access Copyright).

  We gratefully acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund.

  Cover design: Val Fullard

  eBook: tikaebooks.com

  The Secret Life of Roberta Greaves is a work of fiction. All the characters and situations portrayed in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Birch, Ann, author

  The secret life of Roberta Greaves / Ann Birch.

  (Inanna poetry and fiction series)

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-77133-325-2 (paperback). -- ISBN 978-1-77133-326-9 (epub). --

  ISBN 978-1-77133-327-6 (kindle). -- ISBN 978-1-77133-328-3 (pdf)

  I. Title. II. Series: Inanna poetry and fiction series

  PS8603.I725S43 2016 C813’.6 C2016-904859-4 C2016-904860-8

  Printed and bound in Canada

  Inanna Publications and Education Inc.

  210 Founders College, York University

  4700 Keele Street, Toronto, Ontario M3J 1P3 Canada

  Telephone: (416) 736-5356 Fax (416) 736-5765

  Email: [email protected] Website: www.inanna.ca

  To Nicholas, John, and Hugh

  “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.”

  —Elizabeth Barrett Browning

  1.

  AS ROBERTA GREAVES OPENS THE DOOR of the hall closet, the aura of eau de cheval assails her. “James,” she says to her husband standing behind her. “I wish you’d keep your jodhpurs in a separate closet.”

  “Just hand them to me, please. I don’t need the lecture, and we’re running late.”

  He sheds his jeans, grabs the jodhpurs, and pulls on his gear while Roberta buttons her favourite orange summer jacket. Perhaps the open air will dissipate the stink. She ducks just in time to avoid the riding helmet that crashes down from the closet shelf as James reaches for it.

  At the front door, their two sons wait. Roberta notices that Ed has taken time to shave, while Charlie’s stubble is still apparent. “What the hell, Ed,” Charlie says, tucking in his T-shirt. “Do you understand old people? They get us up at the crack of dawn, and then we’re the ones who have to––”

  “Okay, okay, we’re gone,” James says, flipping the car keys to Ed. “You drive. I’ve got to sit in the back and try to keep calm.”

  As he climbs into the car, he smooths back his auburn hair, still abundant though he’s forty-six years old. Roberta recognizes it as a gesture that betrays his nervous excitement. She moves in beside him and reaches for his hand.

  Fair Hills is two hours’ drive north of Toronto, and it’s eight a.m. by the time they get there. The day looks as if it will be sunny, although clouds hover on the horizon. Already the parking is almost full. James takes off at a run down a gravel road toward the red-roofed stables while Roberta and the boys follow close behind. Roberta still thinks of them as “boys” even though Ed is twenty-five and Charlie, twenty-two.

  “I’ve learned to trot,” Charlie says. “Too bad I don’t get a chance to participate in the day’s events. But I know, I know. Four legs good, two legs bad.” He has a fund of quotations that he produces at appropriate moments. Roberta had once hoped that he might become a teacher or perhaps a professor, but he’s chosen to be a chef. And that’s okay. Everyone in this world must surely appreciate good food.

  “It bugs me sometimes the way Dad speaks of Bucephalus as if he was a pal,” Ed says. “‘He has such a nice smile,’ blah, blah.” He puffs a bit as he tries to keep pace with his brother. Ed is articling with a major Toronto law firm, and he spends long hours sitting at a desk reading correspondence and talking on the phone. He’s tall and thin, like Charlie, but Charlie is in better shape because he rides his bicycle daily to his chef classes at George Brown College.

  Roberta laughs. “I know what you mean, but I tell myself, it’s silly to be jealous of a horse.”

  “Yeah, but what about the expenses, Ma?” Ed says.

  “I put up with them.”

  Ed’s the practical one, and he’s absolutely right about the expenses. There’s the boarding, the vet, the farrier, the tack –– all that stuff. Though she and James are both university professors and make decent salaries, there are times when she thinks, hey, can we really afford all this? For the last year, Bucie’s comfortable stall in Fair Hills has had to be paid from her account.

  And besides the expenses, there’s the time commitment James makes to the sport: all weekend, every weekend, year round. But she recognizes that he needs excitement and charging over barricades and tearing up turf seems to keep him happy.

  “I’m glad you never went in for riding, Mom,” Charlie says, laughing.

  “She knows the lingo, though,” Ed says. “I’ve heard her talk to Dad about cantles and pommels, snaffle bits and nightingales––”

  “Martingales, please. Oh yes, I know the lingo. But I don’t have the guts for riding. I now make a confession. I did get up on an eleven-hundred-pound lump of brute force once when I was a kid, but they had to lift me off, pronto. I couldn’t even remember the steps in dismounting. Except for the first one, of course: ‘Bring your horse to a complete stop.’ Which wasn’t that difficult since I’d never got the beast started up in the first place.”

  “Just as well, I’d say. Wouldn’t you, Charlie?”

  When they get to the stable, they see that James is already inside the first stall on the left near the open door.

  “Quick,” Charlie says, pausing just outside the door, “deep breaths, guys.” But it’s too late. The stench of horse shit has already invaded their lungs.

  James has just pulled an apple from the pocket of his riding jacket, and Bucephalus has drawn back his soft velvet lip to accept it. He makes gentle whuffling noises. He’s a tall, chestnut thoroughbred with four white stockings, the favourite gelding of James’s horse-breeder uncle who died two years ago, leaving his beloved possession to his nephew.

  They have come to the Fair Hills site for the big competition that always takes place on the Civic Holiday weekend in early August. Though Roberta and her sons seldom join James on his weekend adventures, he wanted them along for this one. Eventing, he calls it. It involves three tests: dressage, cross-country, and show jumping. “Cross-country is where the fun is,” James says, as he leaves Bucephalus munching his snack. “So let’s get moving. I’ve got to walk over the course and have a look at what’s what.”

  “Isn’t Bucie coming along?” Charlie says.

  “No way. We’d be in trouble with the officials. He’s expected to race it blind.”

  So they walk the course together. “Oh jeez, Dad,” Charlie says. “Those fences are somet
hing else.”

  “And don’t you love their names?” Ed looks at the map of the terrain as they make their way around. “Elephant Trap, Bounce, Palisade, and Coffin. I especially love that last one. Is it just so much hype, Dad, or do people really die on cross-country?”

  “I think the fences are mostly named for effect. But people have died.”

  “I checked it out on the Internet yesterday,” Roberta says. “Someone posted a blog saying that six riders in England had been crushed to death last year when their horses fell on them going over jumps. It’s an absolutely crazy sport when you think about it.”

  James stops for a moment to look back at the fence named Coffin. “I’ll bet the riders got a decent send-off––priest, incense, and liturgy––but some of those poor lovely beasts probably died too, and they’d be fed to foxhounds— in great, bloody chunks.”

  “Yikes!”

  “But it’s all part of the scene, as I told you. It’s the challenge that provides the fun.”

  “Galloping your horse full tilt at fences he’s never seen before?” Roberta says. “That’s fun?” She turns toward the line of spectators that’s beginning to form. “Come on, boys. Let’s give your dad a chance to get tacked up. We’ll go find ourselves a place to stand before the crowd overwhelms us.”

  From the row of spectators along the barricade, they watch as James and Bucephalus move to the starting point. Roberta loves the way James looks in his riding gear, when she can’t smell it, that is. One lock of red hair has escaped from his helmet, and the jodhpurs and tall boots show off his long legs. The horse seems to be in high gear, like a souped-up racing car. He’s pacing forwards and back, making snorting noises. Roberta can tell that James is nervous by the way he whacks his riding crop against his right leg. He’s the first competitor, and she remembers how he always prefers to be drawn late, so he can watch the other competitors and learn from their mistakes.

  He and Bucephalus take off at top speed and ace the first half of the course. James seems to be rising to the challenge.

  By the time they come up to the Elephant Trap, Roberta can see that James has conquered his nerves. He’s leaning forward over the horse’s neck and smiling. Bucephalus appears to be enjoying himself too. He seems energized by the crowd, or maybe it’s the touch of the beloved hand on his shoulder, or the sun on his hide and the gentle August breeze behind him, nudging him forward.

  And perhaps that’s what goes wrong at the Elephant Trap. He’s having too much fun. As he approaches the fence, Roberta sees him lengthen his stride without waiting for James’s signal. He takes off into the air, soaring over the trap like Pegasus. But James is unprepared for his sudden upward rise. He loses his centre of gravity over Bucephalus’s back, upsetting that perfect balance between horse and rider. Their landing is skewed. Roberta watches as James struggles to get himself properly balanced for the gradual left turn that leads into the downhill slope. She can tell that his weight is still behind the horse’s centre of balance.

  Within seconds, horse and rider arrive at the next jump, a high vertical fence placed halfway down the hill. Bucephalus is galloping flat out. They watch as James tries to slow him down, but Bucie is not listening.

  “Christ! It’s a disaster,” Roberta says as she grabs Charlie’s hand.

  She has a clear moment of recognition. It’s her Friday Classics in Translation class right here in Fair Hills. It’s Phaethon’s fatal plunge with the horses of the sun god. James and Bucephalus close in too fast on the base of the fence. The horse sails into the jump, but he’s too near to clear it. He hits it with his chest, flips over it, and crashes onto his back. And James––oh merciful heaven––falls clear, landing ten feet beyond the fence.

  Roberta and the boys push their way past the line of spectators who are crowding onto the field to get a closer look. James struggles to his feet. He holds his neck at an odd angle, and his left arm hangs, useless. He stumbles over to Bucephalus who tries to get up. A jump judge has already grabbed his reins. As the horse flounders, Roberta can see that something is terribly wrong. “Look,” she says to her sons. “He can’t seem to put any weight on his left hind leg. And your dad is hurt––”

  James is screaming now. “For God’s sake, get help!” But a second jump judge has already used his cellphone to summon the horse ambulance. It careens down the track from the parking lot. James runs towards it, and there’s a hurried consultation with the vet. Then a brief examination of Bucephalus. The vet shakes his head.

  “Oooh, it’s the end for that horse!” says a woman beside Roberta. There are mutterings of excitement from the crowd. They are lusting now for the coup de grâce.

  Roberta and the boys rush over to James. Tears are running down his cheeks, making tracks through the dirt on his face. “Bucie has a hip fracture, but by God, he’s not going to provide the day’s entertainment for jerks,” he says, looking at a woman who has run out onto the course to get a closer look. “Let’s get him out of here.”

  James keeps his right hand on Bucephalus’s neck as four cross-country attendants struggle to get the horse into a sling and on board the ambulance. He doesn’t struggle much. He seems subdued as he faces the end. The back doors of the ambulance close, and Roberta, Charlie, and Ed run after it, back to the stables.

  James tries to help as the other men ease the horse gently from the back of the ambulance and lay him on a soft bed of straw. “What now?” Roberta asks, feeling totally useless.

  “I won’t have the bolt.” James is sobbing now. “I won’t have the bolt. It would tear apart his beautiful head.”

  “Barbiturates,” the vet says. “An intravenous injection will do it.”

  As he opens his kit and prepares the syringe, a strange thing happens. The other horses in the stable stop their stamping and nickering. They stretch their heads toward the dying horse and prick their ears forward. “It’s like they’re mourning,” Charlie says. “I wouldn’t believe it if it wasn’t happening right here before me.” He wipes his eyes on his sleeve.

  James seems to have a broken collarbone. There’s a bone jutting out beneath his skin. He holds his head with his right hand and eases himself down into the straw beside Bucephalus. He tries to stroke the horse with his left hand, but he cannot seem to make his fingers work. Probably he has a fractured arm as well. Charlie gets down beside his father and pats the animal’s glossy flank. Bucephalus appears to be comforted by the friends beside him. His brown eyes seem fixed on James and Charlie, and they close gradually as the barbiturates take effect. It is a quiet death.

  For a moment, the only sound is James’s sobbing. He struggles to his feet with Charlie’s help. Then, three pairs of arms encircle him.

  2.

  ROBERTA HAS CLIMBED CAREFULLY onto the dining-room table to clean the chandelier. The table is a solid mahogany structure, but the two leaves added to it make it a bit unsteady in the middle. From her perch, she looks across the hall to the living room where James is slumped in his chair reading The Gazette. He is wearing the same blue sweater he’s worn for several days.

  “Wish you’d do this for me,” she says. “Of course, I know you can’t, but I feel so teetery––”

  “Get down before you break your collarbone and arm, too. Why don’t you leave it for Ed or Charlie?”

  “Good idea.” She climbs down onto a chair, then onto the floor. She waits a minute, adjusts the cotton bandana that holds back her long, wavy blonde hair, takes a deep breath, and climbs back up onto the tabletop. “I’ve got to get it done. But as soon as that cast and sling come off, the job is yours.”

  She and James bought the chandelier in Venice. It filled the back seat of their rented Volkswagen on their honeymoon tour of eight countries, and when they came home, they had to unwrap all of its eight-hundred tiny crystal drops for inspection by a fascist customs officer.

  Now, she concentrates hard on each piece,
spraying and polishing, until it shines pink and glows like the sunsets she and James watched from the vaporetto on the Grand Canal. “It wasn’t all romance and glowing sunsets though, was it, James?”

  “Huh?”

  “Our honeymoon. Remember that guidebook we had? Venice on $50 a Day?”

  “Yeah. Didn’t it recommend sleeping in a moored gondola?”

  She laughs, happy that he is playing along with her now instead of sleeping or reading the paper. “We did stay in that hotel they described as ‘a favourite hostelry of Garibaldi’s Red Shirts.’ Remember the one?”

  “Yes, it had that lumpy mattress –– not that we cared on our honeymoon. And the cupboard was lined with filthy oilcloth, and the windows were dirty, and there was no bathroom. And didn’t you come down with Garibaldi’s Revenge?”

  “‘The Red Shits,’ you called it, and that exactly described it. And there were only two bathrooms in the whole place: one on the first floor and one on the second. Do you remember what you did for me that day?”

  “Sort of.”

  She is stretching now to the top crystals, and the table rocks a bit under her, so she waits until it steadies, then continues. “Remember the bathroom on our floor? It had a broken lock on the door, and my loperamide pills hadn’t taken hold. So you brought the rickety chair from our room, and posted yourself outside the door, and sat reading for one whole morning while you rerouted the traffic to the downstairs toilet. Oh James, I loved you for that.”

  There is no response to this. She gets down from the table and looks at him. His chin is on his chest, the bag of ice for his collarbone has slipped into his lap, and he seems to have fallen asleep again. She touches his shoulder gently.

  He looks up, his brown eyes unfocused, his red hair greasy and too long over his ears. “Sorry, Roberta. I can’t stay awake.”

  “Want to take a slow hike around the block to get some fresh air? I could go with you now that I’ve done my complete housewife shtick.”