assistance does thisâuh, animal do?â Susan said.
âLeading the way for the vision-impaired.â
âGuide horse for the blind,â Ida murmured clarification.
âCannot come in,â the manager stated.
âIâm afraid it can,â Susan said.
âNo.â
âYes.â
âButââ
âThe Americans with Disabilities Act requires businesses to admit service animals.â
âDogs, well behaved only, who wait under the table.â
âThere is no specifications as to species,â Susan said. âProperly trained, no service animal of any kind can be banned unless it disrupts business or poses a threat to health or safetyâ
âGinger is exceptionally well behaved.â The woman stroked the horseâs neck.
âIt is impossible. Guests will flee in droves. What if sheâ¦â He held out a hand, palm up and bounced it up and down.
The horsewoman drew herself up in offense. âGinger is house-trained.â
The manager stepped back in defeat, muttering in some language Susan didnât recognize.
âI suppose you have something official that says this animal is more than someoneâs cute pet,â Susan said.
A purse was unsnapped, a paper drawn out and handed to her. She read that Cinnamon Ginger, a miniature horse, had been trained as a guide for the visually impaired. She returned the paper and it was snapped once again into the purse. The woman and her friend walked into the dining room with Ginger, in her two pairs of tiny white sneakers, stepping smartly along beside them. Diners stopped eating to stare, but nobody fled, in a drove or otherwise. If anything they wanted a closer look. Susan told Ida to get back on patrol, and joined Fran at a booth in the far corner.
Fran was giggling so hard, tears glistened in her dark, exotic eyes. With her cloud of wild black hair, clothes of vivid primary colors and silver bangles, she always brought to mind gypsies. âI must say, Chief, you handled that well. Decisive. Informed. Inââ
âOh, shut up.â
Fran tore off a chunk of bread. Silver bracelets jangled with every movement. âI wonder if the manager doesnât have a point. What if itâ¦â Hand palm up, she mimicked his up-and-down motion.
âThe horse is house-trained.â Ginger, small enough to stand under the table where her owners sat, was waiting patiently.
âI didnât know you could do that with a horse.â
âI didnât either.â
âWhatâs the difference between a horse and a pony?â
âGod knows.â
âA horse to lead the blind,â Fran said in that flat voice of utter disbelief people use for the preposterous. She smeared butter on the bread. âJust what kind of con do you think these people are running?â
Yeah, Susan was wondering that, too.
Fran stuffed a chunk of bread in her mouth and studied Susan while she chewed. âYou look like shit.â
âThanks. Itâs great to see you, too.â
âDid you make an appointment with your doctor?â
âThereâs nothing wrong with me. Iâm not sleeping well, thatâs all.â
âItâs not all, youâre tired all the time andââ
The waiter sauntered up and rattled off specials. Susan ordered fettuccini and Fran asked for catfish. When the waiter left, Fran went on right where she left off: ââyou droop around all the time. Go see the doctor. You might be anemic.â
âYes, Mom.â
âWhy arenât you sleeping?â
âI donât know.â Susan moved around cutlery. âI have these weird dreams.â
âReally?â Fran leaned closer. âWhat kind of weird? Erotic?â
âMore like a sense of dread. I hear gunfire and Iâm running around trying to prevent somebody from getting killed.â
âWho?â
The waiter returned with Franâs wine.