Ride a Cockhorse Read Free

Franklin Street football field. The music was so loud that Barbara didn’t hear her mother’s remark, obliterated as it was by the grunting of the tubas going past. “I’d like to change his diapers,” said Mrs. Fitzgibbons.
    She never knew what had come over her, nor was she much inclined to think about it, but for a week running, Mrs. Fitzgibbons dressed up for herself every night and went riding in her car. One evening, before going out, she caught an unexpected glimpse of herself in the hall mirror and was delighted to discover a stranger looking back at her. She was wearing the dark violet Charmeuse dress that she had worn to her daughter’s wedding, and had accessorized with the silver and amethyst choker that her late husband, Larry, had given her one Christmas; her hair was tied back, and her face made up with obvious skill; even the lift of her own breasts struck Mrs. Fitzgibbons as the attraction of someone else. For more than an hour that evening, she drove around town in her dented Honda; she had the windows down and was listening to the Top 40 on the radio. It was the car that Larry had bought for them back in 1982, two years before he died. “Everybody thinks that the Chinese make junks,” he used to say, “but the Japanese made this one.” (Larry was witty. Mrs. Fitzgibbons never denied him that. On his deathbed, when he knew he was finished, he smiled at her, and said, “What were my last words?” That was Larry’s farewell. He never spoke again.)
    A few minutes before eight o’clock, after darkness had fallen, Mrs. Fitzgibbons spotted the Sugrue boy walking under the maples on Nonotuck Street, with his red nylon bookbag slung over his shoulder, his pale hair glowing under the streetlamp, and she pulled up next to him in the Honda. Her heart was thumping when he came over to the car window. She had signaled to him. As so often in the days to come, Mrs. Fitzgibbons hadn’t a notion in mind what she was going to say before she actually spoke.
    â€œI’m having motor trouble,” she said. “It’s skipping.”
    Obeying her instincts, she took an even franker approach. “You’re the boy in the band! I know who you are.”
    She sat behind the wheel, with her elbow on the window, smiling at him.
    â€œI’m the drum major,” he said. He was tremendously vain, she thought. She liked that. She liked vain men. Larry, unfortunately, had not been that way.
    â€œDon’t I know it! The band goes past my house every week. You march beautifully!”
    â€œThank you,” said the youth. Being tall, he was forced to lean over.
    â€œI’m Frankie Fitzgibbons. My husband,” she said, “was an alderman.”
    â€œYour name is Frankie?” said the boy.
    Mrs. Fitzgibbons continued smiling. She couldn’t help herself. She had never seduced anyone in her life. Larry had been like an appliance; he’d done what he was warranteed to do. The Sugrue boy was another animal altogether. Already she had intimations of success. She would tell him what to do, and he would do it.
    â€œDo you know anything about cars?”
    â€œI’m not good at mechanics,” Terry answered. He was staring blankly at the dashboard.
    â€œCan you drive?” Mrs. Fitzgibbons got into the passenger seat. “Drive it around the block,” she said, “and tell me what you think.”
    As he climbed into the car, Mrs. Fitzgibbons admired his long blue-jeaned legs. He looked a little distressed at attempting to correct something for which he had no proficiency. “It sounds okay,” he muttered softly.
    â€œWell, it’s not okay. It stalled on me twice.” She was lying but gave no thought to it. “Drive it around,” she said.
    The drum major complied. He put the car in gear and started slowly up Nonotuck Street. Mrs. Fitzgibbons was watching him cannily. “What’s your name?” she