“It’s good to see you, Bo. How’s Alice Dean?”
He glanced away from her, back toward the barn and the people there, who were turning to look at him. “She’s better,” he said. “You should go.”
“Bo!” a woman called. “You need help?”
“I’m fine, Ma!” he yelled back. To Billie he said, “There’s a horse show tonight everyone’s going to. We’re getting ready. I’ve got to go, Billie. Please.”
Billie squinted over the boy’s shoulder, trying to see his mother, Richard’s wife. The sun was behind her, making it impossible to see well, but she seemed slender and possibly tall, the same body type as Sylvie. Billie felt a wave of jealousy. “Where’s the show?”
“At Adam’s farm. Jesus, Billie…” He turned away.
Billie wanted a longer look but did as he asked and headed back to her car. Before she got there though, she turned. “Thanks!” she called. “I’ll find it!”
He had already returned to his mother at the end of the long driveway and was helping her hoist a hay bale into the back of a truck. He paused to look at her for a second then turned back to his work.
After an hour’s drive on crisscrossing country roads, Billie found herself at last on a narrow, tree-shrouded lane that dipped and rose and dipped again before settling down into a long, shaded straightaway that sloped toward the distant sparkle of a river. Small, exhausted-looking houses with peeling paint and missing shingles hung close to the little road. Between the houses sprawled farms, many clearly struggling, but three or four were opulent, manicured, with paved driveways, whitewashed fences, and barns that dwarfed the homes.
She was singing along with the radio when she rounded a sharp curve and slammed on her brakes, nearly ramming into a faded red pickup truck. She realized it was the last of a long line of vehicles creeping toward a sandwich board sign with letters spelling ADAM’S FARM/SHOW TONITE and an arrow pointing to the right. She followed the pickup off the road and into a field. A man took five dollars from her and gave her a program. She found a spot to park in a ragged row of cars and trucks disgorging couples and families with folding chairs, picnic baskets, and coolers. She slipped her cell phone into one hip pocket of her shorts and a wad of cash into the other pocket.
Even though it was past six in the evening, the humid Tennessee heat struck her like a blow when she got out of the car. Grass tickled her ankles. The scent of rich earth, vegetation from the nearby forest, horses, and bug repellant transported her to horse shows from her childhood, to state fairs and carnivals.
A rectangular white fence created a riding arena. People set up their chairs nearby, spreading blankets on the grass and unpacking their coolers. Billie spied a snack stand by the arena in-gate. By the time she reached it, she was sticky with sweat. A sign under a blue shade offered lemonade and sodas. She chose lemonade, and with her first gulp, felt her core temperature plummet. She looked around.
Behind the arena, dozens of horse trailers and RVs were parked haphazardly. Horses were being unloaded and tied to the trailers. A shimmering scrim of insects hovered everywhere. Gnats and mosquitoes zoomed at her ears and bit the backs of her arms. And, although she couldn’t see them, she knew that ticks clung to blades of grass and leaves, poised to latch onto her. Flies pestered the horses, landing on their legs and bellies, their noses and ears.
She was tempted to wander over to the trailers. Instead, she leaned against a sapling and sipped her drink, swatting at the mosquitoes and shivering with each bitter swallow.
By the time she’d finished, she had a sense of the movement around the arena and in the trailer area. Most of it was what she’d expected—owners, trainers, and riders preparing their horses and themselves to enter the ring when their class was called. But gradually she became aware of other factions. Workmen erected portable lights for the arena. Two men moved from trailer to trailer, stopping to shake hands at each vehicle as if they were running for office, a welcoming committee. As she watched, she noticed that with each handshake, they glanced over their shoulders, expecting trouble.
A half dozen horse inspection officers were stationed at the arena in- and out-gates. They had established an area for the horses to be examined, using police tape and traffic cones.
A van with a government logo on its side that Billie couldn’t make out bounced across the field and stopped beside the inspection area. Five men and one woman wearing identical khaki slacks and bright blue polo shirts got out and set up a card table near the other inspectors. They unloaded ice chests, draped stethoscopes around their necks, and loaded clipboards with papers.
Billie spotted Lucille and Addie seated in folding lawn chairs beside the arena.
“Well, hey,” Lucille greeted her. “Come set. Grab her a chair, Addie. Addie’s boy’s got hisself about a hundred of ’em.”
“I’ll get it,” Billie interrupted. “Just tell me where.” Addie pointed to a stack of chairs folded and leaning against a rusted two-horse trailer parked a ways off.
“He won’t mind?” Billie asked.
“Won’t even notice.”
“We’re done for now,” Addie said when Billie returned. “Now the feds are here, everyone will pack up and go home.”
“Maybe not,” Billie opened the chair and sat in it, grateful for its comfort. “No one’s leaving yet.”
“You’re right,” Addie said. “I wonder what’s up?”
“Do you have a horse in this show?” Billie asked her. “Does your son?”
“Not today. We heard the government might be coming, so we decided not to bring a horse. The inspections are bogus, completely subjective and unfair. You can have a horse who’s passed every inspection of his life and still have the feds turn him down. Then what? Then you’ve got a mess for nothing. I’m just here tonight
