7

After Jonah left me that note at the party last fall, we started to send e-mails. It was kind of quaint like that. We’d send long meandering updates on life at our respective schools, filled with boatloads of questions at the end for the other to answer. Sometimes an e-mail just full of answers would come back. Other times it was a series of texts, rapid-fire, one after the next.

So, while I went through each friendless day at Forever Friends, my phone would hum with his responses to questions I barely remembered asking.

Orange Soda. No question. It has the most grams of sugar per ounce.

Or:

Are you kidding me? Invisibility! It used to be flying, but then I went through puberty.

Or:

Cinemax at my friend’s house. There was a movie on about a sorority car wash. It only took five minutes for the first bikini to fall off. I never saw the sequel though. And I’m really concerned about the car wash. Did it stay in business?

Or, as the questions grew more personal:

Brooke, a girl I knew in fourth grade. She was diabetic and she had to carry around a little drink box of apple juice in case her blood sugar got too low. Watching her sip her drink box filled me with the most intense sensation of love I have ever felt. She kissed me under the slide, and then moved a year later. I don’t know where she is now. I’ve never even looked her up. I just want her to exist in fourth grade forever.

And eventually:

I’d like to. Scratch that. I’d LOVE to, but I don’t think I can afford the ticket right now. Don’t worry, though. It will happen soon. So soon! There is no one I would rather see right now. No one.

The more I asked when he was coming to see me, the more I got answers like the one above. They were always positive, full of hope and enthusiasm, but each time, they completely shut down the idea of a visit. At first I thought he wanted to break up, but he didn’t have the guts to tell me. Yet, if anything, his messages got more romantic.

Probably we should just get married. People in religious cults don’t have a monopoly on marrying young. Anyone can do it. I’m not going to officially ask you yet, but just think about it. Holy Matrimony. With me. Soon.

Til death do us part.

Is that really what he said at the end?

Yes it is.

I have the saved message to prove it.

And I was looking at this message, staring at those very words on my phone, when my father leaned over across the aisle of the airplane and removed the earbud from my ear. The drone of the engines filled the music’s absence, and I was yanked back to the present. A present that included Dad and me on a chartered flight, speeding toward an unplanned horse funeral.

“Leroy Labelle,” he said.

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” I asked.

“He’s the guy I’m working for. I thought you might want to know more about the job. You know, since you’re coming.”

“Thanks. I don’t really.”

I sat in a plush leather seat, feeling wholly detached from reality. The funeral was going to be in Ocala, Florida, the racehorse capital of the world. And while my interest in going was about the same as my interest in a pelvic exam, my options had become limited ever since my icy plunge.

Dad handed me a cell phone and pressed play on a voice mail. And before I could give it back, a voice that couldn’t have sounded more Southern came through the speaker.

“Mr. Fowler, this is Leroy Labelle phoning you. Got your information by way of your website. I wonder if we might have ourselves a talk sometime today or tomorrow in regards to a great loss my family has suffered . . . wait . . . oh Goddamnit I seem to have pressed a . . . I don’t use this touch screen very often . . . I tried that . . .”

(Incoherent swearing)

“Okay . . . I’m back. I’ll be honest with you, Fowler. Not more than a nickel’s worth of preparations have been made for this thing. Usually we don’t go too gaga over a dead animal around here, but I guess we underestimated just how we’d feel about our boy Sarge.”

I thought I heard a sniffle.

“He was a hell of a Thoroughbred and the best damn stud we’ve ever had. He deserves a heck of a send-off. Now, I heard you specialize in this sort of thing, so I hope you can work quickly. I’ve got seventy-two hours to get this body in the ground before I’m in legal trouble. My only question to you is: How soon can you get down here?”

When the voice mail was over, my dad flipped through some pictures on his phone and handed it back to me. Then I found myself staring into the pained, obsidian eyes of a blue roan horse. A now extinct blue roan horse. Its eyes were so black it was unnerving. My dad must have caught me staring.

“They have cable,” he said. “You can stay in the house the whole time and watch those terrible reality shows you like. I don’t care.”

“You already told me about the cable,” I said.

“Well, I’m telling you again. It could be relaxing. Like a spa.”

I shot him a look that I hoped said: Do not make this horse funeral sound like a vacation because we both know that is a load. We sat quietly next to each other for the next few minutes. Finally, he leaned over again and said:

“I got my GED.”

“What?” I said.

“You said I dropped out of high school. That’s not really true. I got my GED. It was important to me. I’m proud of it.”

I stared at him.

“I remember,” I said finally. “Mom was so happy for you.”

He didn’t break eye contact.

“Eventually, you have to talk to me about what’s going on,” he said.

Maybe that’s true, I thought, but not right now. So, I put my earbud back in and picked up the newspaper from the seat back in front of me. It was from Ocala and all the articles inside were horse-related.

There was a roundup of recent victors in national races, profiles about historic farms, and, on the very front page, there was a long story about an outbreak of equine herpes. I read the whole thing, just to keep myself distracted.

My takeaway: Do not get equine herpes.

■   ■   ■

When we landed, the ride to Leroy’s farm was long and slow. Our driver, Skip, whose head looked slightly too large for his body, took us down winding country roads bordered by wooden fences and historic horse barns. All around, there were brushed, shining horses galloping across sun-kissed meadows. They looked like they were auditioning for a nine-year-old girl’s wall calendar.

“You loved horses when you were little,” my dad said.

I watched a glassy-eyed Appaloosa follow the progress of our car.

Dad continued: “I spent hours watching that show with you. The one about the rainbow ponies.”

“You used to watch My Little Pony with me?” I asked. “Why did you subject yourself to that?”

He shrugged and looked out the window.

“I wanted to spend time with you. It was what you liked to do.”

We were silent after that.

Until Skip the Driver began to speak.

“As you can see,” he said, “we’re approaching Stoneshire Estates.”

I looked in the mirror and found some life in his eyes. It was like someone had just plunked a quarter in him.

“Located in the famed Golden Corridor of Ocala,” he began, “this lush and opulent acreage is proof enough that Ocala is the true Horse Capital of the US.”

A huge metal gate slid open, and our car entered a white gravel path. Inside was a secret garden overflowing with wildflowers.

“This is all thanks to the stewardship of Mr. Leroy Labelle, a second-generation Florida horseman with an enduring vision and an irrepressible spirit!”

I hoped Skip got paid a lot of money to say these things because he sounded like a bit of an asshole. The car was reaching the end of the path, and we were approaching a New England–style home, painted the color of fresh egg yolk. Surrounding it was a canopy of moss-draped oak trees.

As soon as we stepped out of the car, a man began walking toward us, dressed in a butterscotch-colored suit. He wore a pink dress shirt beneath the jacket and a pair of shimmering gold cuff links at his wrists. My first thought was: What is Willy Wonka doing on a horse farm? Of course, it was Leroy.

“There he is!” he shouted. “The man of the hour!”

He walked right past me and squeezed my dad’s hand in a desperate grip. He smiled and sucked his teeth. I got out of the car.

“This must be your daughter!” he said, and clapped his hands together. “Welcome to Stoneshire! Welcome to horse country! If God didn’t make this place, then who did? That’s what I want you to tell me, young lady.”

I looked over the house and the lush lawn surrounding it.

“Sorry for your loss. Apparently, I used to be really into ponies,” I said.

Leroy blinked. He had a sizable mustache. It twitched.

“Yes,” he said softly. “Of course. Thank you, sweetheart.”

He turned back to my dad.

“Skip will take your bags, and he’ll show the young lady around. But before we get started on the planning, there’s something we need to do. There can be no inspiration without it.”

“Do you want to tell me more about Sarge?” my father asked.

“No,” said Leroy. “I want you to see his body.”