Read Online Make Something Up by Chuck Palahniuk - Free Book Online Page B

she ran a curry mitt over his flanks, Lisa said he was responsive to commands. His gait was smooth. Nothing, not passing cars or barking dogs or low-flying crop dusters, nothing spooked him. No one had said anything unkind. She seemed unfazed by everyone’s reaction. They’d looked at the horse, but none of the girl’s relatives had come forward to touch him. They’d simply ordered their girls to dismount and go no farther.
    That night, after dinner, as Randall and his daughter washed dishes, a car stopped on the road, near the far end of their drive. The day’s events had him nervous, and Randall listened for it to drive away. Instead, the living room front window burst. Footsteps retreated down the gravel to the car, and tires squealed into the distance. Amid the shards of glass on the carpet was a dark, curved shape. A horseshoe.
    Lisa regarded the weapon, her lips bent into a little smile.
    The next Saturday, they loaded Red Sultan’s Big Boy into the trailer and set off for the Merriwether stables. Enid Merriwether had been teaching dressage to comers since Randall was a boy. The paddock parking lot was mobbed with females, mostly mothers and daughters and their horses. When Lisa swung open the gate of their trailer, the din of chatter fell to silence.
    A girl giggled. The ladies glared the giggler into silence.
    A voice said, “Well, if it isn’t Red Satan’s Bad Boy…” All heads turned to regard Enid Merriwether as the great horsewoman herself approached. The leather of her riding boots creaked. The sun glinted on the buttons of her tailcoat. In one hand swung a dressage whip. Her gaze took in the crowd of stewing, sullen women. Turning to Lisa, she said, not without sympathy, “I’m sorry, but we seem to be a little overenrolled for the season.”
    Randall stepped forward, saying, “I’ve seen more riders than this many.” Not counting mothers, only counting girls and horses, it didn’t appear to be more than an average turnout.
    As if she hadn’t heard, Lisa was leading the Arabian down the trailer ramp. Enid stepped back. Enid Merriwether, who’d never backed down from the most cantankerous beast, she eyed that Arabian and motioned for the crowd to give the horse more room. She brought the whip up, ready to use it. “I’ll thank you to load that animal right back in your rig and remove him from these premises.” The onlookers drew their breath.
    Lisa, with a defiance that her father had never heard in her voice, his daughter shouted back, “Why?” Her face wasn’t just flushed. She was the red a person sees when he looks at the sun with his eyes shut.
    Miss Merriwether barked a laugh. “Why?” She looked at the crowd for agreement. “That horse is a killer!”
    Lisa nonchalantly examined her manicure, saying, “He’s not.” She put her cheek against the horse’s cheek and said, “Really. He’s a lover boy.”
    The great horsewoman motioned to enroll the crowd. “He’s worse than a killer. And everybody around these parts knows it.”
    Lisa looked at her father. Randall was dumbstruck. The stallion lifted his head, stretching his neck to sniff new air. The horse yawned.
    Compassionately, even piteously, Enid Merriwether looked at the smirking girl. “Lisa Randall, you know darned well that horse is evil.”
    “He’s not!” Lisa purred. She kissed him. The crowd of mothers flinched.
    That night Randall banged together some boards to cover the busted front window. In the dusk he could see, out in the yard, where he’d mounded up some earth and planted a cross, two boards nailed crosswise, painted white and lettered with the name “Sour Kraut.” He’d told Lisa her horse was buried there, but the truth was a flatbed had trucked the poor dead beast to a rendering plant across the state line in Harlow. As he watched, Lisa picked a bunch of daisies from a flower bed his mother’s mother’s ma had planted. She brought the bouquet to the fake grave and knelt. The evening breeze