It had been the spring after Ford’s twelfth birthday and I had been so excited. His gift had been a yearling we’d bought at the Keeneland sales for him. We’d given it to him that morning before he left for school. I knew he would look forward to coming home. Together, we would train and raise the young horse and Ford would know the joy I felt for Carlos.
Carlos had since been retired and grazed the fields between the barns and the Steeplechase complex that had eventually gotten built. From time to time, we had hitched him to a lightweight carriage and Ford and I would ride the estate behind him, stopping to chase butterflies, peek into birds’ nests or fish in the stream that ran through the back half of the estate.
So many things had changed since Linc’s death. Not only was the threat removed, but we managed to put it behind us almost as cleanly as when the first Linc died. No one spoke about it.
Mother had taken it hard. Linc had been her ticket back to society and prosperity. Although no one asked her to leave, she couldn’t afford the upkeep for the farm and we all agreed it would be better if she down-sized again for her own sake, and ours. Mother had thought otherwise.
She’d become a living scandal, chasing after one man and another. She was literally selling herself for the price of upkeep and while a few of the old-timers bit at the beginning, no one could bear to keep company with her for long.
I think Dad considered helping her out, for old times’ sake, but she saw it as an offer of renewing their marriage and he had other ideas. He asked Mrs. LaViere, Worth’s mother to marry him, and she accepted. She now lived with Dad at his farm and the condo sat empty. Mother had fastened her attention on getting that, but there was no way I wanted her influence in my life, and most especially Ford’s. We chose to more or less leave her to her own devices.
One winter night, Mother had chosen to go after a relic from the old days. His name was Albert Morgan and he was last in the line of Morgans of Woodford County. On the final leg of his journey, he refused to give up his driver’s license and there was no one to force him into it. He’d been driving and Mother was with him. They’d missed a sharp turn on one of the hilly back roads between Louisville and Lexington and slid off into a stream. They’d both evidently been knocked unconscious and went into hypothermia. By the time they were found the next morning, they were both dead.
We held a respectable funeral for Mother. We all pretended to grieve, but I don’t think there was anyone there who didn’t feel a sense of intense relief. It’s a very guilty feeling to not grieve for your own mother, but perhaps there was enough of her in me that it made it somehow tolerable. It seemed there was a purpose in being cold-hearted after all.
Worth had donated his family’s farm to an organization that maintained it as a sort of camp for kids with autism and other handicapping conditions. The children rode gentle, older horses and even spent the night, sitting around campfires and then sleeping in tents scattered about the grounds. Worth proclaimed it the Margaret LaViere Kids Camp and his mother had been wholly honored and visited it regularly with platters of homemade chocolate chip cookies and trays of flowers to plant along the many sidewalks. Dad helped her with these and the two of them had settled into a happy and stable way of life. I don’t think Dad grieved for Mother any longer than it took him to blink.
Worth’s businesses had thrived and while he no longer took on personal counseling patients, he did keep his hand in things. We had agreed that he would hire no more women as directors for his clinics. It wasn’t a sexist thing; it was my thing. He now had branches in over thirty cities and was gone for periods of time as he flew between them. He was no longer an entrepreneur. He had become a brand synonymous with overall good health and a balanced life. He had taken on speaking engagements and authored several books, all of which went toward making him a man of high visibility and recognition.
I had turned over my part in the Sunset Foundation to Brandon after Mrs. Jessup passed on. Sadly, even the best dialysis can only sustain you for a limited period of time. I do drive by there from time to time and the flowers and gardens, not to mention the picturesque stable with its carriages, have become a favorite for those out driving on a Sunday afternoon.
Worth wanted to send Ford to a military academy in Indiana. He insisted their credentials were impeccable and his chances of Ivy League school admission were far higher than the local school in Kentucky could provide. I knew what he said was right, but Ford was my life and I couldn’t imagine him being away from us. As it happened, my hand was forced.
Ford was in the seventh grade at Kendrick Middle. I received a call from John Beacham, the principal. “Mrs. LaViere, we have a bit of a situation here with your son.”
“What’s wrong?” I panicked instantly.
“He’s fine, but I think you’d better come down and check in with me at my office,” he requested. My voice was shaking when I said I’d be right down.
It was early spring and raining. I grabbed my rain slicker from the front hall closet and told Betsy where I was going.
I loved the reminiscent smell of schools. It was a combination of crayons and hot lunch, books and white paste glue. As I headed to the office, I scanned the drawings that had been taped to the wall along the hallway. It was amazing how so many children of the same age had such a variety of talent. This series was horses and while some of the drawings were not much above stick figures, a couple were far closer to portrait quality. I looked for one that might bear Ford’s name but didn’t see any. I was soon to learn why.
I was escorted to the principal’s office and took one of the small chairs opposite his desk. These were obviously most often occupied by errant students and not intended for comfort. Mr. Beacham shook my hand and retook his seat.
“What’s the problem, Mr. Beacham?” I began the conversation. “Where is Ford?”
“He’s in class, Mrs. LaViere,” he said calmly. I wondered how he could remain so calm with hundreds of screaming children surrounding him. “The problem is this.” He held up a drawing.
I looked at it momentarily and then burst out laughing. This took Beacham by surprise. “What’s wrong with that?” I asked.
He frowned, his glasses sliding down his bulbous nose and he was clearly at a loss of what to say. “I think it’s apparent that his drawing is rather indecent in nature,” he pointed out.
I looked again. “Mr. Beacham, we are a horse family. I own one of the premiere breeding facilities in the country, if not the world. Ford is exposed to the natural way of things on a daily basis. You are obviously offended by the protruding, enlarged organ of the sire as he is about to approach a dam in heat. This is quite normal and the fact that you’re offended only means that you’ve not been around farms.”