“That one’s a right piece of work,” Addie said.
“Amen,” said Lucille. “Now let’s get back to what we were talking about. You wanted to know how soring’s allowed to continue?”
“Yes.”
“It’s allowed to continue because the people with power want it to. Simple as that.”
“And as complicated,” Addie said. “My son, for example. I didn’t raise him to be cruel to animals. But it’s all around here. You want to make a living with walking horses—with any breed of horse—you got to win. And to win with walkers, you’ve got to sore them.”
Billie nodded. “Who’s in charge?”
“What do you mean?”
“If I follow the money all the way up to the top, who will I find?”
“Honey, you won’t find anyone.”
“When I looked for the owners of the big farms around here, I couldn’t find them. Is that what you mean?”
Lucille nodded. “Corporations. Stuff like that. Syndicates.”
“But who’s in charge of them?”
“Hush. It’s a secret.”
“Really?”
Lucille cleared Billie’s plates, setting them down with a clatter out of sight behind the swinging doors, then she wiped down the counter with a sponge. “No, not really. Old boy’s network doesn’t begin to describe this,” she said. “You got to understand our society to get how this all works. If you’re not born into it, you won’t understand it.”
“Help me,” Billie said. “I’ve got to or I won’t do you, or this topic, justice.”
“Now there’s a word!” Addie said.
“What do you mean?”
Lucille said, “Your justice, mine, your friend Richard’s…they’re not the same.”
She hopped up to deal with a couple more customers, preteens in shorts and T-shirts, carrying backpacks and iPads. The kids seated themselves at the counter near the front of the store. Lucille slapped down menus, scribbled their orders, and barked, “Gotcha!” before ducking through the doors and disappearing for several minutes.
Addie’s eyes followed her, as she talked softly to Billie. “This you do need to know. I’ll try to explain. Take my son. Please. Sorry! Old joke.”
“Rodney Dangerfield.”
“Dangerfield is right. My son’s a good man, like most folk in this industry. He did well in school, went to college, served in the marines. He’s done four tours of duty and has two Purple Hearts. He married his college sweetheart, and they are raising a fine family—four good kids so far, another due at Thanksgiving. Everything’s just right. Except for the horses.”
The door to the shop opened again, and a crowd pressed into the narrow space.
“Lunchtime,” Lucille said.
Addie looked at Billie. “Tell you what, why don’t you follow me back to my place and we can go on talking there?”
“I’d like that.”
She paid Lucille and thanked her then followed Addie outside.
Addie pointed to a black Subaru Forester. “That’s me. If we get separated, I’ll wait for you at the next stop sign.”
Addie drove fast. Billie followed her out of the town square, south on a twisty tree-shrouded lane, feeling that at any second she would lose her and be lost. But good to her word, Addie waited at every stop sign until Billie had caught up.
Addie’s house sat up on a hill that fronted onto a lane, making it look taller than it really was, just a normal-size two-story farmhouse, painted white with black shutters, surrounded by sumac and azaleas and dogwood and some dark green shrub with rubbery leaves that Billie couldn’t identify.
She parked beside Addie, and together they climbed three wide wooden steps to the porch. Billie smelled honeysuckle and wood chips. Heat made sweat pour down her sides. Behind the house, a red barn stood with its doors wide open. Billie saw light from the doors at the far end falling on the wide aisle floor.
“Lemonade sound good to you?” Addie asked.
It sounded perfect.
The kitchen had a speckled linoleum floor, old white appliances, red and white cafe curtains at the windows, and a big standing fan instead of air conditioning. Billie sat at the claw-footed table, placing her glass on the square of paper towel Addie tore off for her. She admired the kitchen’s crisp white walls. Through an open door, she noticed a smaller room with walls hung with horse show ribbons.
“My son’s office,” Addie said. “Have a look if you want.”
Billie saw a rolltop desk, computer, printer, and bookcase. It was the walls that drew her inside. Framed photographs of Big Lick horses standing beside a bald stocky man in his late thirties hung beside rows of championship rosettes.
“My boy’s done well for himself,” Addie said at her shoulder.
“Do you ever talk to him about it?”
“Not anymore,” she said as she turned back into the kitchen.
Addie set a blue and white plate of cookies in the center of the table and sat opposite Billie.
“I’m going to spell things out for you because you don’t have time to figure them out for yourself. It’d take you years to catch on, if you ever did.” She put a cookie in her mouth then took a sip of lemonade. She got up and came back with a bowl of sugar.
She offered it to Billie, who added a spoonful to her drink. “What you need to know,” Addie said, as if it were the title of an essay, “is that everything and everyone here’s connected to everything and everyone else.”
“May I record?”
Addie nodded and waited for Billie to get ready. “Okay? Things are connected here, as I was saying. Not in just the regular way that all people in all small towns are. It’s special here.”
“I don’t understand.”
“No, you don’t. Since you know Richard, let’s start with him.”
Billie nodded and pushed the recorder a little closer to Addie.
“Richard is married to Mary Lou Collier, nee Simons, whose family owns car dealerships here and most of the rest of the state, all the major American makes. They also own a tractor company—I forget their name. Those tractors and the trucks from their dealerships are used on most of the farms around here. Now this family also owns a meat business and raises hogs and sheep for
