Free The Carousel by Belva Plain Page A

come.”
    The horse and the pony emerged from the woods at a brisk walk, on the verge of a trot. Tina’s braids were bouncing, and her round face was reddened by the wind. She was laughing.
    “Let’s do more,” she said immediately when the two animals came to a stop.
    Dan lifted her down. “So you liked it. You liked having your own pony.”
    “Yes, and we gave her a name. Do you know what it is?”
    “No. Tell us.”
    “You have to guess.”
    Sally said promptly, “Princess.”
    Dan said, “Brownie.”
    “Whitey.”
    “Speedy.”
    “Wrong. All wrong,” Tina shouted. “Susannah. Her name’s Susannah.”
    The parents looked at each other in a kind of dismay. Dan was the first to object.
    “No. That’s your sister’s name, not a name for a pony.”
    Sally followed him. “We can’t have two Susannahs. Nobody would know which one we were talking about.”
    “We won’t have two,” Tina retorted, “because you’re going to take the other one back.”
    “Now, that’s enough of that,” Dan said firmly. “We’re not taking our Susannah anywhere. She’s ours, you’ve been told that a hundred times, and you’ll have to think of some other name for the pony or you won’t keep the pony.”
    “Take it easy,” murmured Sally, putting her hand on Dan’s arm. “Tina, I’ll help you think of a much nicer name for the pony.”
    “Uncle Clive said I can call her anything I want because she’s mine.” Saying so, Tina screwed up her face in preparation for defiant tears.
    “I didn’t mean your sister’s name,” Clive said hastily. “Come on, don’t cry. Here, give over the reins”—for a man had come out to lead the animals into the stable—“and we’ll go back to the Big House for hot chocolate with marshmallows. Plenty of marshmallows. How’s that?”
    Undeniably, he had diverted Tina and squashed the argument, but bribery was not the way. No matter how well meant, interference was unwelcome and made more complications in the end. Somewhat resentfully, then, Sally went along to the Big House.
    In a moment, the tea wagon would appear at the door to the library. You could hear it being trundled down the hall, could hear the clink of china cups. It seemed as if the kitchen must be a mile away. Two large families could fit easily into this house, Sally thought. It must be dreary for Clive here in these echoing spaces, especiallywhen Oliver was away, as he often was, and was right now.
    “Father phoned from Washington this morning,” Clive said. “They’ve put him on another museum board. And there’s some sort of project, going to bring art to inner-city schools. Of course, that’s the kind of thing he feels is so important. He sounded pretty pleased about it.”
    Clive was sitting on a cushioned, low chair that might well have been specially ordered for him so that his feet might rest on the floor. Known as a “slipper chair,” it was a kind that was usually placed in bedrooms. The jaunty, erect appearance he had presented when on horseback had gone; he looked not merely frail as usual but ill, Sally thought. Here now he was drawn and wasted, as if he had suddenly lost weight.
    Taking a cigarette from his pocket, he asked politely, although surely he knew what the answer would be, “Do you mind, Sally?” And when the reply was as always a shake of the head, he struck a match, tilted his head back in a movement almost luxurious, and let the smoke drift from his nostrils.
    “Your cough,” Dan chided gently. “Your lungs. When are you going to stop?”
    Clive grinned. “Probably never. Or until it kills me.”
    “A man with your brains! Maybe you should go teach graduate mathematics at Harvard or someplace. Then you’d have to wear corduroy jackets with elbow patches and smoke a pipe. Atleast a pipe would do you less harm than what you’re doing to yourself with cigarettes.”
    “Trying to get rid of me, are you? No, I’m satisfied the way things are. More or less.”
    Clive was