Horse Heaven by Jane Smiley
Yes, this whole thing had a sort of funereal quality to it, and to be honest, you never knew until after the race whether the horse had been claimed, but if not, then. If not this time, then another time. As usual in racing, money and sentiment had gone off in different directions, and here he was.
So he put the jock up, a young kid who needed the experience, and he said, “Just hold on and let him run his race. He knows more about it than any horse out there. At the end, don’t go for the whip. If he’s got gas, he’ll give it to you himself. And don’t be afraid if he gets you into a bunch at the finish line. That’s the way he likes it.”
The jock nodded.
William didn’t go up to his seat, but stood down on the rail with the bettors. Justa Bob had drawn the number-one position, which was okay in a nine-furlong race like this one.
Okay until the number-two horse came out of the gate and bumped Justa Bob toward the rail, and dislodged the young jockey, who slipped to the outside. Then Justa Bob staggered a step, maybe from the uneven weight. And then the other horses were past him, and he was alone in the rear. Then he veered to the outside, and the rider righted himself and took hold. And then Justa Bob took off. Normally, William knew, he was a stalker. He liked to be just off the pace, saving himself for his only move. And he was old. If his only move didn’t work, he didn’t have another one—that was the key to his losses. But now he ran like a different horse, full-bore, head down, body flat. He ran down the horses in front of him one by one, two by two. William was sure the jockey had nothing to do with it, was just sitting there. It was mesmerizing. One, two, three, four, five. He shot them down one by one and kept going. William wasn’t sure the jockey was even looking where they were going—from this distance it looked like he had his face buried in the horse’s neck. They were coming around the second turn and there was one horse left, a chestnut four-year-old by A. P. Indy, a well-bred and once expensive animal who’d had some good wins lately. In the homestretch, Justa Bob blew past him as if jet-propelled, and crossed the finish line a good three lengths in front. “God damn,” said William Vance to himself. “And here I thought I knew that horse.”
He ran out on the track to meet them when they came back a few minutes later. The jockey’s face was blanched. He said, “Hey, Mr. Vance. That was kinda scary.”
“How so, Eddie?”
“Well, I nearly fell off there at first, but he kinda hoisted me back on, somehow, or that’s what it felt like, then he took the bit in his teeth and ran like hell.”
“Were you watching where you were going?”
The jockey licked his lips, then said, “Well, no, sir, not for part of the way.”
“Well, it’s over now. And you won.”
“Yes, sir, we did. I’m sure I’ll be happy about that later, sir.”
William led the horse to the winner’s circle and had the picture taken with just the three of them; then, of course, it happened. The steward came out with the red tag and hung it on Justa Bob’s bit, and there he was.
So he cleared twenty thousand dollars on the race, with the purse money and the claiming price. That was plenty to get him out of here and back to Chicago, Justa Bob’s parting shot, parting blessing. Later, when he was reporting the race to Romero, kind of down in the mouth, Romero said, “You know, the first time you ever saw him, man, the horse was almost dead.”
Six months ago, thought William. Only six months ago. Hard to believe. And then he let himself say the thing he had been trying not even to think. He said, “When they led him away, I thought he was a little off.”
“Well, then, lucky thing you got rid of him, eh, man?”
“Sure,” said William. “Never too soon to sell one, you know.” He guffawed—yes, he did, the way you do, lucky for sure. But if he was so lucky, why didn’t he feel all that good about it?
MARCH
59 / WESTWARD HO
NOW THAT ROSALIND was an art dealer, she discovered that she had fulfilled one of her accountant’s dreams, 100-percent deductibility. Everything she bought, every plane ticket, every hotel stay, every meal out of town or with an artist, every use of her automobile for art-buying purposes, every car rental, you name it, if she spent it, she could deduct it. There was even a reasonable expectation that she could deduct expenses for maintaining her personal appearance, since she had a certain image to uphold. The accountant’s goal of reducing her tax bill to zero was not quite the same as Rosalind’s goal, no doubt a relic of her Midwestern youth, of living a responsible life. There were, after all, plenty of goods and services that the various jurisdictions she sojourned in provided—roads, street lighting, police, flood control, air-traffic control … Rosalind found herself running dry in the face of her accountant’s look of amusement. In defense, Rosalind closed her eyes and granted him a wish. A moment later, he opened his desk drawer and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Go ahead,” said Rosalind. “I don’t mind.”
Full deductibility, though, was something you could only really appreciate once a year, and for this year, the last in the millennium, Rosalind had already appreciated it. Even so, it gave an extra bit of comfort to the first-class flight to Los Angeles that she took just after her meeting with the accountant. She had some money to spend and some space to fill in her gallery, and she was on her way to meet several artists who were eager to fill it. She also had the name of three trainers at Hollywood Park and Santa Anita whom she planned to interview for Limitless. She had no idea what to ask them. She who had once been an owner-in-law, an addendum to the breeder, the wife who came along, was now the responsible party. But, as always now, she figured something would come to her. Or to Eileen, who was nestled quietly inside her carrying case underneath the seat in front of Rosalind. The flight attendant went by, looking a bit harried. Rosalind glanced at her, then granted her a wish. A moment later, the head of the guy in seat IC, a guy whom Rosalind had recognized as Pete Rose, dropped forward into a heavy sleep. The flight attendant noticed this, too, and visibly relaxed. Rosalind wondered if this power of hers had a time limit or a use limit attached to it, and where it came from, and then the sunshine blasted her through the window, and by the time she had closed the shade, she was back to her normal condition of not wondering about anything.
Her plane landed just after 10:00 a.m. She was on her way to Santa Anita by eleven. She who had been to Belmont Park, Saratoga, Churchill Downs, Newmarket, Chantilly, Longchamp, Cheltenham, Gulfstream, in some cases time after time, in suits and hats and lace and silk and every kind of expensive shoe, had never been to Santa Anita, but she saw immediately that it was her kind of place. It was across the street from an arboretum and not far from the gardens and the collection at the Huntington Library. It was painted green and buff, there was topiary in the courtyard, there was art deco running the entire length of the grandstand, there were mountains setting off the track, and there was a shopping mall across the parking lot for rest and recuperation. She had the strong sense of having arrived at her home racetrack, and she crossed off her list the name of the trainer who was based at Hollywood Park.
The trainer, who was famous and already in the Racing Hall of Fame, was to meet her at the front entrance, and she expected to recognize him, because she had seen his picture, but the man she recognized first was the tall fellow who had fallen upon her at Saratoga last summer. Well, staggered into her. He recognized her, too, and came up to her with a warm smile, and took both of her hands in his all of a sudden, not as if he did this all the time, but as if he couldn’t help himself. He had a kind look and a friendly voice. He looked more like a teacher or scientist than a horse-trainer, but he also had that air of unlimited patience that good horse-trainers always seemed to have. Rosalind said, “I’m supposed to meet Richard Case here. I think I’ll recognize him.” They looked around. But he held off, and Rosalind said, “You’re a horse-trainer, too.”
“Yes.”
“Do you have any room in your barn? I have a horse—”
Sh
There didn’t seem to be. Richard Case came up a moment later, and he was a perfectly acceptable world-famous horse-trainer, the son of a legend, the nephew of a legend, and well on the way to being a legend himself. He was handsome and articulate and had gone to Oxford and, moreover, had room in his barn. He had met Al once and liked him. He kept his hand firmly on Rosalind’s elbow as he guided her up the steps to his box so that they could talk at leisure and watch a race or two.
The race was five furlongs, for two-year-old fillies. There were ten horses running, and the Form made it clear that they were top-class company—A. P. Indy, Seeking the Gold, Mr. Prospector, Holy Bull, Affirmed. Southern California was where the money was, so here was where the best horses gathered to sort themselves out. Eileen sat on a separate chair. As always, she put her forepaws on the railing, and looked alertly down at the track. Rosalind said, “I told you my horse is a homebred, and he hasn’t done much in his three two-year-old starts. On paper he doesn’t look at all like these fillies.”
“He’s not fashionably bred,” said Richard Case, “but I’m familiar with his sire. He had his first crop last year, and they haven’t done much, but he himself was—”
“Himself. That’s what they call him at the farm.”
“—a late bloomer. He was bred in Europe and ran mostly in Europe. The Europeans loved him. The horse is inbred to Ribot through one of his European sons on the top line and through Tom Rolfe on the bottom line. I always thought it was odd that the old man brought him to this country, but he was a funny old man. Once he wrote a piece I saw about upgrading Thoroughbred stock by breeding to classic European bloodlines. Very old-fashioned in some ways. Didn’t go over big with the Kentucky boys.”
“My husband chose the stallion. I never knew why. But the horse has a lovely stride.” One of the fillies in the race was named “Avarice.” Rosalind gave her the win. She found another gear in the homestretch, covered the last two furlongs in twenty-two and a quarter seconds, and came in at thirty-three-to-one. Even her jockey looked astounded. Richard Case laughed cheerfully and said, “That was nice. Shall we go around and look at the horses?”
But Rosalind felt as though she were on someone else’s date. The prospective mate was as desirable as could be, and she could claim him at any time, but he had “no” written all over him. As they entered the path to the barns, Rosalind saw Farley Jones in the distance, with his girlfriend, who took his hand and kissed him on the cheek, and nestled into his armpit, while Farley himself seemed to expand a bit, as if the girlfriend’s proximity opened him up. She was little and blonde, built of much the same materials, Rosalind thought, as Eileen. Richard Case was saying something charming and knowledgeable. Rosalind nodded, but hadn’t heard a word. Win percentages, training philosophy, footing at the track, racing in southern California in general, the meet at Santa Anita was ending, Hollywood Park, then Del Mar, had she ever been to Del Mar. It was a pleasant sound, like the burble of a fountain. Then it fell silent. Rosalind came to understand that she was supposed to say something. She said, “The horse is quirky. I want him to do what’s easy for him and to have a purpose in life. My husband cares about winning, not about the money but about having that jolt. We just retired a good filly who gave him that jolt on a regular basis. He misses it. But it’s more important to me that the horse enjoy his work. If he doesn’t like racing he can do something else, but he’s fast. Everyone agrees about that.”
“Of course,” said Richard Case. When they got to his barn, she saw that it was perfectly clean, beautifully decorated, a model of order and system. Farley Jones’s barn was the next one over. While Richard Case took a call (that was a thing that every horse-trainer did, you couldn’t hold it against them), she spied. They went in and out of the office. The little girlfriend went over to one of the horses, a white one, and stroked his ears and nose, then kissed him. There was a head hanging over every stall. Richard Case said, “Excuse me just one more second, if you don’t mind,” and took another call. That was when Rosalind bolted.
When she got to Farley, she said, “It’s funny. I know I haven’t known you before this, but I feel like I’ve missed you anyway.”
FARLEY NEVER GOT to say anything to Rosalind Maybrick about that time in Saratoga. Maybe he had made too much of it by now, and so he thought it would sound silly. She was a pleasant warm woman and what she wanted from him for the horse was a nice change from the usual. Their conversations were friendly, about plans for the animal’s shipment and supplements and extras Rosalind wanted to be sure the horse received, but there was nothing personal in any of it. Even so, her presence reminded him forcibly of something he still could not label or define. What it was closest to was some sort of electrical process, where she made contact at one point and contact at another point and the molecules between the two points straightened themselves out. What Elizabeth had said was “She crossed your heart.”
What did that mean?
“Well, that’s how you get electrocuted, you know. You have one live wire in one hand and another live wire in the other hand, and boom. People don’t always die from electrocution. Sometimes they just get put in order.”
Well, maybe.
At any rate, a stall opened up as if by magic, and when the horse arrived a week later, Farley looked at him a long time with Joy. Rafael held him and they walked around him and around him. There was a way in which he looked like just a horse. He was bay with a touch of white—a tiny star on his forehead, and a little triangle on the inside of his right hind fetlock. He had a long narrow head, dished, and long ears. He was plenty fit—the previous trainer had conditioned him perfectly. His belly was tucked up and his neck was slender and muscled even though he was a stud colt. He was long in the back, long in the leg, long in the forearm.
They watched him go out, they watched him come back. Farley said, “Try that again, please.” They watched him go out. They watched him come back. It was hypnotizing. Joy said, “That must be an eighteen-inch overstep.”
“He’s—what would you say?—sixteen hands, maybe sixteen one? But he’s got the hind legs of a seven teen-hand horse.”
“Who’s going to ride him?”
“I don’t know. Why don’t you get on him and walk him around and get a feel of what his manners are like.”
When he threw her on top of the horse fifteen minutes later, she said, “I don’t know that I’ve ever felt anything like this. It’s not exactly power.” She walked off, around the end of the shedrow. A few minutes later, she reappeared at the other end of the shedrow. She was grinning. She said, “I don’t want to get off.”
“Don’t, then. Walk him out to the track and give him a little trot.”
It was late in the morning, and the track was hardly in use. The horse walked calmly along, turning his head this way and that, taking everything in. He was calm. When another youngster suddenly reared up some fifty yards away, Limitless stopped, watched, moved on. That is, he flowed to a halt, flowed through it, flowed back into a walk. They entered the track, turned to the left, and flowed into a trot along the outside rail. Farley noticed that Joy had maybe a finger’s contact with the horse’s mouth, and then she let off on that. The horse continued to trot, his strides big and supple, his head up, his body balanced. They went once around the track. When they got to the gate again, Joy reined him up and he threw up his head so high that he nearly knocked her out of the saddle. “There’s the problem,” said Farley, standing at the rail.
“But that was my fault. I didn’t need to do that. He was coming down on his own.” She patted the horse and let out the rein. The horse dropped his head. He continued around the track again, walking that walk.
When they put h
THE NEXT MORNING, Joy called Elizabeth, who, it turned out, was negotiating the contract for her three books, which were out to twenty publishers. They were in the middle of the auction. So far, six publishers had come in with offers ranging from $250,000 to $475,000. Elizabeth was very Elizabethan about it. She planned to take the highest offer, whatever it was, and place half of it with Plato’s friend in commodities and half with Mr. T. She would then observe the relation between her sense of what was about to happen to the money and what did happen to the money. After that she expected to train herself to view the future as the past and the past as only one possibility of the many that woulda shoulda coulda happened. “For example,” she said, “and if I take a call waiting while I am explaining this, I apologize, let’s say that you and I disagreed about something that happened. Let’s say that Nathan Zada and I disagree about every single thing that went on in our marriage. Well, that could mean one of three things. One of them is that neither of us was there to witness the disaster. Another is that two separate things happened that bear no real relationship to one another. And a third is that nothing happened at all. He was dreaming his dream, I was dreaming my dream. Am I going to tell him that he dreamt the wrong dream? Actually, I told him that for years, but I forgive him for that now.”