A Horse Named Sue

It was my mother’s first day of her second year teaching English at Saginaw High. She’d done so well her first year, they’d rewarded her with the remedial class. Turns out - in no shock to her offspring - that she was really good at making kids behave.

She was kinda bummed because she was looking forward to teaching kids to write better, and they gave the advanced class to the teacher who couldn’t handle these kids.

She was standing at the front of the classroom as expected when the bell rang, with most of the kids in their seats. About a half minute after the bell rang, a denim-clad, dark-haired girl no taller than 5 feet appeared in the doorway, appearing unconcerned about the bell.

“Stop.” The first demonstration of my mother’s teaching style has begun.

“What is your name?”

“Sue.”

“Sue what?”

“Jones.”

“Well, Miss Jones, I will need you to be on time for this class every day.”

“Call me Sue.”

“Ok, Sue Jones, I will need you to be on time for this class every day.”

“Yeah, ok.” Chuckles around the room at either the sarcasm or the unlikelihood, Ruth couldn’t tell. 

“Well, you can go to the office today, and try again tomorrow.”

Miss Jones huffed off, slamming her fists against the lockers as she stormed down the hall.

The next day she crossed the threshold only a few seconds after the bell, and hurled her books at her desk three rows from the door. As if gravity were law, they made all kinds of noise crashing all over the desk and floor.

“Pick them up and return to the doorway.”

“No. You can’t kick me out again. They said they’d send me home if you did.”

“Pick up your books and return to the doorway, please.”

Sue picked up her books, raising her eyebrows and turning slightly as she reached the doorway.

“Now walk quietly to your seat, and set your books down on the desk like a lady.”

“Like a lady!!” This time Sue got a real laugh. “Fat chance.”

“Well, try doing it like a civilized person and we’ll take it from there.”

The next day Sue came through the door before the bell, and only tossed her books the last few feet. My mother still sent her back to the door to try again.

By the end of the week, Sue was showing up on time and settling into her seat without fanfare. And Mrs. B was her new favorite teacher.

Soon she was showing up for dinner. She wasn’t very tall, and I liked that. Her voice was raspy and deeper than the girls I knew.

She called my mother “Mrs B”. It was brave, genius. Who knew you could call grown people something other than what they told you to.

One night after I went to bed there was a lot of extra talking, and in the morning Sue Jones was sleeping on the couch. 

“Is she poor?” At that point, I kinda thought “poor” was just the word for “people with problems”.

My mother laughed in that way that seems a little mean. Like “Hmmph”. “Oh, hardly. They just… they want a different kind of daughter than they got.”

I realized only later she wasn’t kidding about the money. Sue would have been seventeen, I’m guessing, maybe even sixteen. She drove an MG Roadster convertible. It was 1970.

She drove me out to her parents’ place once and I met her horse. Midnight was black and shiny and much higher up and twitchier than any of the fat hairy circus ponies I’d encountered at seven. She said my mom had said no riding, and I was pretty relieved.

On the way back we got a milkshake. “Don’t tell your mom,” she said. “She told me no snacks.”

Mom, later:  “Sarah, you’ve hardly touched your dinner. Are you not hungry?”

“No, I’m just… It’s just a lot.” I feel Sue’s foot tap mine underneath the table.

“Sue, did you all have something while you were out? I specifically asked you not to feed her.”

“I didn’t, Mrs. B! I swear.”

“Sarah.” I can hear when I’m in trouble, and I really don’t like it.

“What did you have while you were out?”

Feet swinging under my chair, I mumble, “just a milkshake”.

“Sue. And Sarah. Understand me right now. I don’t care about the milkshake. But I am appalled that either of you would lie to me. Sarah, you may be excused.”

I was still able to hear what she said next, to Sue. 

“If I ever imagine that you have asked my daughter to lie to me on your behalf, you will never cross my threshold again. Am I clear?”

“Yes, Mrs. B. I’m sorry.”

Sue did cross our threshold another time or two that year, but then we moved.

She became a bit of a folk hero to me, my almost famous friend with the convertible, who showed me my first real horse and did not seem terrified of my mother. 

In the summer of 72 we all got the German measles. Well, not all of us, but it turned into a week-long sleepover with the girls from down the street.

One morning, I woke up to find a plastic horse sitting on the breakfast table. Not just any plastic horse, but the one that looked exactly like Sue’s horse Midnight.

My mom explained that she had been there, and she knew I would be upset to have missed her but she came after I was asleep, and she couldn’t stay because everyone was there with the German measles.

By the next year, I was riding my bike down to the stable by the river and trading stall cleaning for a chance to climb on.

I had started a Horse Club, and made my debut in equestrian journalism, with a heartfelt tribute to the town’s last big horse farm.

Sue Jones became part of the family lore, a symbolic character who belonged somehow to me. My older sister wasn’t really a fan due to her bookwormhood and The Kid was too young to remember.

She traded the MG and Midnight for a motorcycle, and rode away from those people who’d thrown her out for, as my mom confirmed, years later, being an Artichoke.

When I grew up enough to occasionally notice other people, I asked my mom if thought Sue’s affection for me was just because of her taste in vegetables. 

She said no, I was a great kid, and my admiration for Sue made her feel like she was okay the way she was. 

At some point, I ended up with a horse named Jones.