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The hills of Virginia were the finest and prettiest
anywhere. Cindy hiked her son a little higher on one hip. He squirmed, angry
because she wouldn't put him down to toddle along beside her. The child was
almost an exact replica of his father, in that he hated being closed up in a
room at night, hated being alone, or told what to do. Stubborn little cuss. He
was her pride and joy. So what if he was but one of dozens Benny Greylov had
sired? Ben was hers, to do with as she pleased, not the surrogate carrier of
another's fertilized egg, living in some third world nation. She had held her
son's father in her arms, in her body, taken his seed for herself. Not had a
pre-fertilized ovum implanted in her uterus. Benny and Ben were hers. Hers,
dammit. And bedammed if she would ever give either up.
That old woman had left quite a legacy when she
died. The Project was now Cindy's to run as she pleased. If old Grace Hylnn
hadn't demanded she give up Ben, that bitter old harridan would be alive
today.
Cindy smiled.
At the tightening of her arm, the baby squirmed
harder and whimpered. He turned sky-bright eyes on his mother. Almost, she
could hear his thoughts. Cindy loosened her arms, and Ben clutched at her
shoulder.
“It's all right now,” she whispered to him, and
pressed her lips to the silken thatch of hair. He smelled so good, like a
baby, dusty and clean. “I love you, Honey.”
The sweet-sour fragrance of horses filled the
breezes. The warm and homey scent of a vast barn-like structure. The double
doors were open to the afternoon sun, the worn cobblestones of the aisle had
borne the feet of Washington and Jefferson in their day. It was said the blood
of more than one Yankee soldier had been spilled here, in defense of the
McAllen horses, that the prize stud had acquired a strong distaste for the
color blue.
Roses, their trunks twisted and brittle with age,
held the promise of an early spring. Roses and horses, her mother used to
laugh, Horses and roses, saying that no true Virginian could ever live without
either, like the runaway Scottish and Irish slaves who settled here before the
War of Revolution. Cindy nodded in agreement. Her mother had, at times, seemed
so distant, so cool towards her children. Yet the woman could enthrall an
audience with her tales of the hunts and of the politicians she had known.
Mama, God help them all, was on her way here to
recover from her latest jaunt. She'd broken a leg while climbing in the Alps
like some Auntie Mame.
The baby squealed and demanded with a rage-red face
to be put down. From the depths of the stables an elderly voice quavered in
song.
“Mr. Jamison?”
The voice cut off. A smiling man stepped out of the
cool gloom and into the warm sun.
Mama, and of course Berta, would never approve, but
Cindy enjoyed her visits with this old man. He was the first to show her even
a McAllen daughter wasn't God's gift to the world. Her bottom had felt his
anger on more than one occasion when she overstepped the bounds of Jamison's
propriety with her airs as a child. Oh, but the times she wanted to flay the
black hide from his flesh, and tried with words . . . and he was the only one
who ever cared enough to make her straighten up and fly right.
Her first nip of whisky, her first kiss by a man not
related to her, her first real dance. And at fifteen, when Cindy felt the heat
of need for more, he sat her down and explained why he would not and why she
shouldn’t waste a gift from his God. He was more a father to her than
William McAllen could ever be.
If Mama only knew, she'd kill him for paddling her
precious daughter. And Mama would never know.
“How-do, Miz McAllen,” he said and doffed a worn
and faded Phillies cap. It was a memento of glorious days long gone, when he
could crack a ball clean out of the stadium. “Hey, you brat.” Jamison
smiled at Ben. “You want to ride one of my ladies today? He has him a fine
seat, Miz McAllen,” and he took the liberty of an old and trusted retainer
to wink at her.
Cindy laughed. “Ben can't be more than he is, Mr.
Jamison.”
“He's your son,” the old man declared with the
heat of pride in his voice. “I expect he'll be jumping the ring, this time
next year.”
They both laughed at that. “As much because of his
father as me. He has quite a way with horses.”
Jamison's eyes twinkled. “Good with mares, is
he?”
To hide her blush, she put Ben down on the stone of
the aisle. Benny chortled, the soft fat under his chin wobbled. A stray beam
of sunshine wandered in to amuse him. He grabbed at it, and followed as it
wandered out. High in the dark rafters of the stable a raven watched in
wonder.
Time to head north? Benny gave the crossroads a wary
scowl. Like hill country everywhere, unless you knew the area or had an
intimate map, all roads were innocent until you found yourself in the wrong
country.
He shrugged and held a finger to the wind. West. He
let the Red Sun drift through the intersection and carry him closer to
the smoky blue of the distant mountains. They looked like the hills of home.
Benny swallowed an angry lump in his throat.
©2003 StoriesByEmail.com
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