Wild Horses

The shoes were the shoes of invisible soldiers. His father had been a Navy man, eighteen years. After that, a retired Navy man for twenty-two. Wherever he went after that, whatever the universe's plan for him, he was some kind of Navy man still. And, like a good Navy man, he knew the importance of order. And discipline. And he taught their importance to his son. And his son learned the lessons.

And that's why the son's shoes, eight pair, were lined up like he'd used a ruler. He did, sometimes. It wasn't just the shoes, either. His clothes. The dishes in the cupboards. Didn't matter if company was coming. Didn't matter if company wasn't. Company usually wasn't, as a matter of fact. Dorothy wouldn't be coming by anymore. She was a first-grade teacher. A messy occupation. She'd come over for dinner with bright dabs of tempera on the hem of her skirt. Other stains. Children make stains. Leave children alone: they'll break things, dirty them up. They're wild. No, you don't punish wildness, but you do train it into straight rows. Nature is curved. It's man's job to straighten it. Right angles inspire orderly thoughts and an orderly attitude and an orderly respect and outlook.

When he called her first-graders "feral," she got angry. "Not feral," she said, eyes jumping. "Free. Full of life. Life hasn't been squeezed out of them yet, or forced into line." And that was the problem, he knew. That was why she could come to his apartment with paint on her skirt.

He broke the cookie jar once. Pieces of ceramic and cookie crumbs, all over the kitchen. It hit the floor and exploded, fragments everywhere. Months later, he was still finding pieces. His father would occasionally step on one and flash over into readiness. He learned. No, it's not easy. Children are strong-willed. Like wild horses. Dorothy was right. Wild horses are free. And they're beautiful. But they have to learn to accept the bit.