Horse Heaven by Jane Smiley

  In the morning, she was so tired. Maia looked like she was crawling around underwater. There was no way Krista could make it to naptime, she thought, three long hours away if she was lucky, so she gave in about 10:00 a.m. and called her mother, who came over. All her mother said before mercifully taking the baby with her to Nordstrom was “Your grandfather loved Sam. I’ll say that.” And then, thank God, she didn’t start in, but just said, “Well, I’m glad everything worked out, honey. I really am. Oh, look at my darling sweetheart. Maybe if some of that first crop get to the track before the New Year—”

  “Some are. No one’s winning yet.”

  “Oh, well. I’m sure they will.” And then, for the first time ever, as Krista was buckling the carseat into her mother’s van, “You know, honey, if you need a bit of a loan, look at that babyface, my goodness—”

  And Krista didn’t get defensive. She just said, “I’ll let you know.” And then, “Say, see if they have a better baby-monitor, one with a longer range.”

  And her mother just nodded.

  45 / JUST THE MIDWEST

  IT WAS NOT up to Justa Bob to analyze how and why he had come to this farm by this pond with these horses and mules and been, you might think, forgotten. In the first place, Justa Bob had only a hazy sense of time. The multitude of sharp pictures that constituted his memory were not sequential in the human sense. They were more like an account upon which current experiences drew. He had plenty of access to them, but he didn’t mull them over; rather, he sometimes had occasion to re-experience something remembered in conjunction with something taking place in the present. At the moment of the re-experiencing, he could not quite tell the difference between what was happening in the present and what it reminded him of, but he always got to where he could in a few seconds or minutes. That would be called learning—he could learn the difference between the past and the present. What set Justa Bob apart from horses of lesser intelligence was that he was ready, and even eager, to learn that difference.

  He had now been in this pasture with these horses and these mules, being taken care of by this old man, for a long enough time so that he knew how he stood. It wasn’t high, and it wasn’t low. On the one hand, several of the other animals were irritable and even, you might say, dictatorial. On the other hand, there was plenty of grass, and you could stand in the pond, which cooled his ankles. Justa Bob stood in the pond during part of every day, and dozed for a long time.

  The fun, for Justa Bob, did not come from the old man, but from three other, small humans who were never around when the old man was, and often around when the old man wasn’t. For example, Justa Bob would watch the old mans white truck leave the place, and then, pretty soon after that, the jockey-like humans would show up, and while the old man was gone, they would run after the horses and mules in the pasture, pet them, give them carrots and apples, climb on them, fall off of them, kick them, yell at them, wrestle among themselves, run around, swim in the pond, and then, at the first sight of the white truck, run away.

  He got more treats after the small humans realized that they could climb on him and not be bucked off. Justa Bob wasn’t a bucker. He had been a hard-working forward-looking racehorse for so long that it never occurred to him to object to a rider. They got on him in a very unjockeylike way, two at a time, pulled on his mane, yelled, stood up, rolled around, urged him into the pond, slapped, patted, and hugged him, then gave him carrots and sugar and apples. They called him “Sammy.” After a while, they would start shouting his name—“Sammy! Sammy! Sammy!”—as soon as they came over the crown of the hill, and Justa Bob would trot or canter out to meet them. He could always feel them, when they were riding him, sliding this way and that, so he would slow to a walk or a halt while they secured themselves or fell off, and he could see them under his feet and under his belly and behind him. Their noise and activity didn’t irritate him the way it did some of the other equines, because he was used to noise and activity, and found life in the pasture rather boring by contrast to life at the racetrack.

  All in all, Justa Bob was having a lovely vacation.

  And so he was not happy to see the face and figure of William Vance standing at the gate one morning. He had a perfect memory of William Vance, though he had not thought of him once since coming to this place. Along with his memory of William Vance came plenty of pain and discomfort, which Justa Bob did not feel as a thing that was happening, but as a thing that could happen in the presence of William Vance. And so, rather than going up to the gate as the other animals were doing (the old man was carrying buckets of feed), Justa Bob turned and trotted the other way, over the brow of the hill and down to the trees on one side of the pond, where he secluded himself in the shade. Sure enough, after a while, here they came, halter and leadrope in hand, carrying a bucket of feed. Justa Bob was hungry for that sweet taste, but he recognized this trick and ducked out from his current spot. Because he was an enterprising horse, it didn’t take long for him to understand the possibilities of the pond, and so he waded into it, up to his knees and hocks, though the weather had gotten a little chilly for this sort of activity lately. It was not that he had the foresight to understand the reluctance of the men to go into the pond, it was that, once he was in the pond, he could see the men stop at its verge and stand there. He was in, they were not; that was enough. He swiveled his ears. He could hear them talking.

  “God damn,” said William. “What now?”

  “That guy loves this pond. He stands in here a couple hours every day.”

  “I ain’t got all day. I want to get back to Chicago tonight.”

  “It’s only about two feet deep. Go on in and get him. But we could also go get some breakfast ourselves. My bet is, he’ll come out and go up and eat with the others. I ain’t seen ya in, what, three or four months?”

  And then the men turned and walked away, over the crest of the hill and out of sight. Justa Bob felt the urge, a primal urge, to see where they were going and what they were doing. That was the way it was with humans—when they turned their backs on you, you found yourself following them. Dogs were the same. Dogs ran into the pasture, you ran away; the dogs veered off in that easily distractible doglike way, and you trotted after them. But Justa Bob did not follow the men. The sense he had of William Vance, that wherever he was pain could be or would be, was too strong. And the chilly pond was soothing. Sometime later, the other equines appeared over the hill and came toward him, seeking a post-breakfast doze. Once they had situated themselves, Justa Bob felt even less motivation to leave the pond.

  At some point, the humans appeared again. Justa Bob had moved, the water had sloshed around him, but it was still again. William Vance said, “Well, shit. You got any boots?”

  They turned and went back over the hill.

  While they were gone, the rest of the herd moved off to another part of the pasture, where there might be fewer flies. The trees were turning and the weather was cooling, but the flies were still everywhere. As a Cal-bred, Justa Bob found these swarms of flies unprecedented. He contemplated following the others, because, to tell the truth, the flies were getting annoying. There were at least three kinds: Big horseflies that got into his ears and under his mane and latched on. These you had to actively bite off of yourself, or shake off. Then there were smaller ones that bit and flew, bit and flew. Their bites were sharper and more annoying. You could switch your tail all day against those and still not get anywhere until night fell or you got inside somewhere. Other little flies flew around over the surface of the water. They didn’t bite, but they got into his belly hair and tickled, crawling around sensitive areas up between his back legs, where the hair was sparse. Sometimes during midday, all of the pastured equines found the flies too much to bear, and they ran around until they were worked up and sweaty trying to get away from them.

  The men came over the hill again, leadropes, carrots, bucket, smiles on their faces. The man he was suspicious of began to wade into the water. Justa Bob stood quietly. The
man spoke to him kindly. He said, “Hey, baby. How ya doin’? I’ve missed you. Don’t you want to go back to the track, baby? Look at you. A horse with forty-some starts, a real racehorse, a tough guy, Justa Bob, a horse with a plan. You don’t want to waste your life hanging out in a field with a bunch of mules. You’re too good for that, baby.” He was almost there. On the one hand, Justa Bob liked his voice. On the other hand, his belly began to twitch uncomfortably. Without really understanding why he was doing so, Justa Bob backed a step or two, then turned and walked farther into the pond, which disturbed the insect life that had colonized him. His skin quivered all over and his ears twitched. The man’s voice stayed the same. He said, “Now, don’t do that, baby. Don’t walk off like that. These aren’t waders, they’re just boots. I don’t want to get my feet wet. And this water is cold. You like this? That what you like? My daddy says you stand here all the time. I bet you’ve done yourself a world of good. That’s what I bet. Come on, sweetie. Come to this guy. We’re going to have fun together. I make friends with all my runners, yes, I do.” His voice was so low that Justa Bob had to turn his ears in that direction to hear it. And there was another thing about him, he was a slow-moving, easy sort of person. Justa Bob, like most horses, had a good sense of that. There were jittery humans. No matter what they did, it was kind of scary, and you sometimes wanted to give them a monitory kick, both to wake them up and to get them out of your vicinity. There were peaceful humans, and whatever they did, even if they smacked you a good one, it wasn’t scary at all, but just what you deserved. Those humans, well, it was nice to be near them. Then there were all the others, not consistently identifiable. You just kept alert and did what the situation required with them. But even these reflections didn’t halt Justa Bob’s progress deeper into the pond. Pretty soon, he was belly deep, deeper than he had ever been. The bottom of the pond sucked his hooves right down into it, which was rather a pleasant feeling, and the surface of the water lapped coolly where the bugs had formerly been. Now the bugs were crawling over his flanks and haunches.

  William Vance stood where he had stopped, his hands down at his sides. Justa Bob could see him with his right eye but not his left. With his left eye, he could see the other equines some distance away. A few of them were grazing, but most of them were looking at this human. William waited for a moment, then turned partly away from Justa Bob and looked in the other direction. Justa Bob felt that primal urge again, the urge that made him want to approach and see what the human was doing. His feet were stuck in the mud enough for him to resist the urge. Now there was a long moment. Having very little sense of time, Justa Bob could not have said how long this moment was, even relatively. Things happened during this moment. Flies bit him and he bit them. He switched his tail rhythmically, back and forth. He took a drink of water. He manured into the pond. The other horses moved off. But William Vance stayed still. He did not move his hands or arms or legs or head. He did not bring his gaze back to Justa Bob. He said nothing. He breathed, that was all. Justa Bob could hear that, see that, and sense that, one breath after another. And while the human was breathing, Justa Bob felt the possibility of pain and discomfort move further away. He learned—the pain and discomfort were not taking place now. The human had no pain and discomfort with him at this time, but, rather, he had with him quiet, gentleness, peace, carrots, sweet feed. Feelings and scents that mingled pleasantly together, that made a promise. It wasn’t a long-term promise, for Justa Bob had no way of understanding a long-term promise, but it was a short-term promise that grew increasingly attractive. The man laughed. The sound itself was pleasant, and it drew on several memories that Justa Bob had of humans. Laughter meant good things—more treats, more pats, a general cheerful feeling. Then the man turned away and stepped out of the water. Justa Bob right then didn’t see why he shouldn’t just follow. And so he did. The man kept walking. Justa Bob kept following. Out of the pond. Up the hill through the grass. Over the hill. Across the flat piece. To the gate. The man turned. Justa Bob stopped, stepped forward a few more steps, and then touched the man on his front with his nose. He understood then that this was a man you could be right next to without feeling a disturbance. The man put the halter around his head, buckled it, gave him a carrot chunk by chunk, spoke to him, opened the gate. Justa Bob felt no pain, and so the possibility of pain receded even further, and he allowed himself to forget about it.

  William Vance, who only dimly understood this process, was patient nevertheless. Like Justa Bob, he had a sense. He could stand inside the personal space of a horse and know what was there—intelligence, a good disposition, ready forgiveness, curiosity, pleasure in work. All of these he sensed in Justa Bob to an unusual degree. That didn’t make him any more certain that he would earn back what the horse had cost him, but it did fill him with gladness that he had spent the money. Later, when they had finished their journey from Missouri to Chicago, he put him in a good stall, between a couple of nice geldings whose owners always had carrots and liked to make much of their animals. And even though he tried not to, he took a special interest in him, stopping to talk to him a little more than the others, giving him a carrot himself from time to time. The adventure that was always the same and always fresh, finding out about a new horse, began again. Made William Vance feel a little happier all over.

  46 / A MAIDEN

  INSIDE HER STALL, behind the metal-mesh stall guard, Froney’s Sis stared at the assembled group with interest and pleasure. The warning sign posted both on the stall guard and on the wall beside the stall indicated that the filly could not be approached, at least by strangers—she was racing today. Joy always thought those signs were like “No Trespassing” signs. They registered the trainer’s intent, but didn’t do anything actually to protect the horse from interference. Her support network did that, and here they all were, Joy herself, Farley, Oliver, the groom, the exercise rider, Elizabeth, Plato, Mr. Tompkins, who had been in L.A. on other business, and, of course, Mr. T. This was the filly’s third start, a maiden special weight for two-year-old fillies, sixteen thousand dollars. In the Form, next to the filly’s record, the handicapper had written, “Why do they keep racing this filly?” They had agreed that he had just overlooked her last start—she had run fifth, beating two other fillies.

  But it didn’t matter what anyone said, or that the morning line on her was thirty to one. Every day, there was some horse who had a morning line of thirty to one.

  “Okay,” said Farley, looking at his watch. “Time to get her out there.” Oliver unlatched the stall guard, and the groom went in, speaking softly. Mr. T. stood calmly in his assigned spot. Elizabeth was looking at him. Farley said to Mr. Tompkins, “This filly is easily frightened, so we give her a very strict ritual, so that she always knows what’s going to happen next. For example, Umberto, the groom, never approaches her without speaking to her, always halters her in the same way, always tacks her up in a certain order. When she goes out to train with Mr. T. here, they always go at the same time of day, and in the same order—him in front of the line, her just behind him. They always take the same path to get where they want to go.”

  “Sounds like you’re indulging her, to me,” said Mr. Tompkins.

  “I am,” said Farley, “but it’s worked. It’s the only thing that’s worked.”

  “Her head fills up with fog,” said Elizabeth, helpfully.

  “What?” said Mr. Tompkins. “Who are you?” Joy noticed that Mr. Tompkins was actually taller than Elizabeth, and broader, too. She hadn’t thought of anyone as bigger than Elizabeth.

  “We’ve met before, in the summer, but perhaps you don’t remember that occasion. I am an animal communicator. I’ve communicated with her. If she gets outside boundaries that she understands, her head fills up with fog.”

  Mr. Tompkins looked at Elizabeth, his face a blank, for about three steps (they were going out of the barn now), then he said, “You’re a horse psychic?”

  “Yes, I suppose.”

  “Who’s go
ing to win this race?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not a seer or a prophet. I’m just an animal communicator.”

  “I’ve had racehorses for forty years,” said Mr. Tompkins. “I’ve never—”

  “She’s an unusual filly,” said Farley.

  “Oh,” said Mr. Tompkins, his face perking up.

  “Not unusually talented,” said Farley.

  Mr. Tompkins’ face fell.

  “Just unusual.”

  “Then why train her?”

  “Because it’s interesting,” said Farley. Joy smiled at him. The timbre of his voice was often enough for her. He didn’t have to be talking to her or attending to her in any way, but his voice vibrated right through her, setting up a harmonic effect. In her last relationship, with Dean, back at the university, nothing had ever been quite enough, either for him or from him, but this was much different. There was no waiting or wishing for the next thing, only being grateful right then, as she was right now just to hear him talk to Mr. Tompkins.

  “Who are you?” said Mr. Tompkins to Plato.

  “I am a futurologist.”

  “Is the horse going to win the race?”

  “Futurology is not equipped to track either a small sample or an immediate event.”

  “What is it equipped to track?”

  “The course of your family’s fortunes over the next fifty years, or maybe a hundred, depending on the model and the precision of your tracking requirements.”

  “Do you work at the track, too? You sound like one of those guys with a betting system and no money.”