Breeding Ground (11 page)

Buddy shut the gate before he went after her, then changed his mind, and turned around, and rushed off to the barn to grab a scoop of grain.

Jo locked the wheels on Toss' chair and handed him Emmy's leash, then started quietly toward Maude, as Buddy came out of the first broodmare barn, slowing his pace as he walked toward Maude too, who had one eye on Jo on her right, fifty yards away, the other on Buddy on her left, twenty yards and closing.

That was when the gate got nudged open – the gate Buddy hadn't bolted properly – and Magic Mile, a generally well-behaved, very nice young filly, shot out of her paddock and ran full tilt to her barn. She was moving too fast to make it unscathed through the doorway, with the sliding door half closed, and she scraped her shoulder on its metal edge as she headed toward her stall.

“Buddy,” Jo said just loud enough to be heard, “grab Magic. Leave the grain for me to bribe Maude.”

Ten minutes later, Maude was in her stall looking pleased with herself, while Toss lectured Buddy, and Magic quivered in the aisle-way as Jo cleaned her cut. It was more of a tear than a deep gash, but stitching would help minimize the scar and speed up the healing. And Jo had already called the vet to come stitch her up.

“You can't not latch the gate, boy. You know that.”

“I do. I'm sorry, Mr. Toss. I thought I'd gotten it fastened.” Buddy was pouring scoops of grain into the waist-high feed tubs in the left front corner of every stall, his thin back bowed as he worked, his blond hair hanging on his forehead, his long bony face looking dignified, but worried too when he glanced at Toss.

“Sorry ain't good enough in this business. That filly belongs to Mr. Mercer Tate, and now I gotta call him and tell him what's happened, and that don't help our reputation none.”

“I feel real bad, Mr. Toss. I'll figure out some way to pay the vet. I can't do it quick, but—”

“That's a real good idea. I'll phone Mercer and see what he says while you bring in the others.”

Jo listened to Toss talk to Mercer in the kitchen, telling him Buddy hadn't had much bringing-up, with his father who he was and all, and he was trying to train him up while he had the chance.

“He's a good boy. He'll end up fine, but he needs a few lessons along the line.” Toss didn't say anything for awhile, and then Jo heard him say, “That's a fine idea, Merce, a real fine idea. We'll bring him along tomorrow and let you have a little talk. He could learn a lot in your barn. He's bound and determined to be a trainer, and you folks can teach him a whole lot more than me, and introduce him around. He's got a nice little mare too he got instead of wages, and if he could breed her to a decent stallion he might could get him a start… Thanks. You too. See ya tomorrow. The vet just drove in.”

Saturday, April 21, 1962

Tomorrow ended up drizzly and cold, but the inside of Toss's pickup seemed even colder than the outside, as Jo drove Toss and Buddy over to Mercer Tate's. She was dropping Buddy, then taking Toss to the doctor's, which was always an adventure.

Buddy was vibrating in the seat between her and Toss, licking his lips and swallowing a lot while Toss made a point of saying nothing, making Buddy feel worse.

It was one of Jo's favorite drives, regardless – north toward Midway, then west past Airie Stud, north again toward Spring Station. She watched the world of stone walls and lazing horses, bordered by huge old trees – tall and sweeping and green now and flowering – that made the farms look primeval
and
designed, as though God and farmers in the nineteenth century had consulted together daily.

Mercer's land was a piece of that rolling stone-walled peacefulness, part of it running cattle – a breeding herd, established by his great-granddaddy – part of it grazed by stallions and mares, bred not to be raced by Merce himself, but to sell to folks who would.

The driveway to the house was lined with giant oaks, and as they drove in, Toss turned a sharp eye on Buddy. “You gotta understand something about Mr. Tate. He ain't nothin' like me. His great-granddaddy come from England a hundred-and-twenty years ago and started up a real fine breeding farm. Folks have come in from everywhere since, up North and Europe too, to buy breeding stock from the Tates.

“Mercer, he's traveled all over, and he's real educated. His granddaddy was ambassador to some country somewhere. Something small, I don't remember where, but him and me, we're friends. Horses brought us together. The way we see 'em and care for 'em. It's like that around here. Horses put folks at the same dinner table who wouldn't never see each other in the normal course of events.

“So you just be yourself and treat him real fair. 'Nother thing, too. He lost his two sons in the Pacific, so don't you go and talk about the war or ask about his kids.”

“I won't.”

Toss nodded, half-way down the drive – and that was when the sun came out, flooding the red brick Greek Revival house with a shaft of clear yellow light – right as the front door opened and Mercer Tate walked out.

“I'll take you to see the stallions on the way over to the broodmare barns, while we have a quiet word.” Mercer Tate was a small man, trim and wiry and fit-looking, but he moved as though most of him hurt, as though age and arthritis were enemies he knew well but had decided to overlook.

“My most experienced hands work with the stallions and oversee the breeding. There're too many ways they can get hurt, and hurt the mares too. 'Course, you and I know horses, don't we? How sensitive and how worried they can be, and how easily they can get ruined.”

“Yes sir. I'm real sorry. I know it was my fault I didn't get the latch locked good, and I want to make it right. I know there'll be a scar, but I'm—”

Mercer had held his hand up and Buddy closed his mouth. “Scars aren't good, but the training's more important. We don't want Magic to learn to take advantage. We don't know now what her future will be. She might be bought and trained for the track. She might be bought as a broodmare. Either way, handling's important, and why I use Toss Watkins for the extras I don't have hands for. Magic's going to need manners, and you've got to do your part.”

“Yes sir. I know. I promise I'll do better, and I'll pay for the vet. I could see my way to two dollars a week for as long as it takes.”

“I've got a proposal to make, and you see what you think. I'll let you work here six hours a week as a groom with my broodmares. I've got good help, and they can teach you a lot that you might want to learn. Toss says you'd like to be a trainer, and if you keep your eyes and ears open here, you'll meet a good number of trainers and buyers, and get to see how things are done. I figure you owe me thirty hours, at the going rate of a dollar an hour, if that seems right to you.”

“Yes sir. That sounds real good to me. If I can work the hours out with Mr. Toss. I gotta give him first say.”

“Of course. I wouldn't have it any other way.”

One of the grooms who worked in the stallion barns was scattering fresh straw in a stall when they walked in. Mercer Tate introduced Buddy to Frankie D'Amato, the newest hand with the stallions. Half of them were out in their paddocks, but Mercer introduced Buddy to the others. Frankie was short and dark and seemed friendly, and when they were walking out the door he asked Mr. Tate if he could ask him a question.

“Certainly.”

“Well, I heard that your granddaddy was the first real famous breeder around here, and that the train line through Midway was put in so rich folks from up in the North could come down and buy his stock. That can't be true, can it? A railroad line and all?”

“That's what they say. Whether it's true I don't know.”

“My goodness, that's somethin', ain't it? And you've kept the bloodlines going just the same. That's real impressive.”

Mercer Tate glanced at Frankie, then walked on out of the barn. Buddy looked back and saw Frankie watching, chewing a toothpick and grinning.

Booker Franklin looked down at his wife as they walked along Spring Station Road between two rows of old trees bordered by dry stone walls.

It was one of their favorite walks, though there weren't many Saturdays when they could enjoy it, with their work at Blue Grass Horse Vans being what it was. But after he'd mowed the lawn, and she'd paid the bills, and they'd hacked their horses at Spencer's, they'd decided to get outside and walk. So they'd headed west from Midway, where their house sat back from the main street, to walk beside the fine old farms that were still kept up and working.

Alice's hair was wrapped on the back of her head, and she was moving fast the way she liked to, but Booker thought her mouth looked tense, and her eyes seemed preoccupied behind her sunglasses, and her shoulders were jammed up tight. “What's going on, Allie?”

“Hmmm?”

“You've been off somewhere else thinking hard all day, so I figure there must be a reason.”

“Well. First of all, I have to have a hysterectomy.”

“What!”

“They've scheduled it for next week. Dr. Winters doesn't seem alarmed, but he will want to do a biopsy.”

“He thinks it's cancer?”

“No. Not really. Pre-cancerous, possibly, but I should be fine once it's out.”

“Why didn't you tell me?” Booker was tall and lanky, his face tanned and deeply lined, his jaw broad, his nose bony, his mouth large and friendly, his eyes blue like Spencer's, but worried then, when he stopped in the road and pulled Alice against him.

“I only found out yesterday, and you got home so late, we both needed to sleep.”

“I'm sorry, honey.” His chin was on the top of her head when a pick-up truck flew by.

“I'm not really worried. Winters must do hundreds a year.”

“I'll postpone the trip to Europe. Spence and I can go in July or August, when we see how you are.”

“You don't leave for a month. You've had it planned since Christmas. And you know you need to evaluate the feasibility of—”

“Exporting to England and France. Yes, I know, but even so—”

“I'll be fine by then. They say I can't drive for six weeks, but Peggy can drive me if I need her to, and she can bring me correspondence from the office. I've been looking forward to staying home and painting the two weeks you're gone. And Martha says she'll come up from Charleston in time for the surgery.”

“Good. That's what daughters are for.”

“They get stuck with caring for family anyway, whether they want to or not.”

They both smiled, before Booker said, “True.”

“But she can't stay for too long. She's in the midst of mounting an exhibit of Catesby's and Audubon's work.”

“Why don't we wait and see how you are after surgery? If you're not well, we won't go to Europe.”

Alice nodded, and slipped her hand in his. “I agree. But you shouldn't cancel now.”

“There's something else that's—”

“Michael Westlake's not doing well. He's been coming to work late and leaving early, and drinking again at lunch. I talked to him for a long time Thursday and made it very clear that if that doesn't stop we'll have to let him go. That we have to have standards that apply to everybody.”

They were walking again, from sun to shade and back, as strips of cloud blew by, when Booker said, “He's a very competent mechanical engineer, but we can't let that go on. It's not good for him and it's not fair to the rest. Did you talk to him about A.A.?”

“He didn't take it terribly well. He says he doesn't have a problem.”

“I would've been glad to talk to him myself. I hate for you to have to do that.”

“I appreciate that. I do. But men will sometimes admit to having problems easier with women. Some men. Sometimes. As I suspect you know.”

Charles “Booker” Franklin laughed, before he said, “True.”

“We left it that if he's late without calling in with a very good excuse, or leaves work early, or shows up with liquor on his breath, or acts unpredictable the way he does when he's drinking, it will have to be his last day.”

“That's what I would've done.”

They walked on in silence, until Alice looked over at Booker and saw that he was smiling. “What are you thinking about? Not poor Michael.”

“Do you ever wish we hadn't started the business? Life before was less complicated.”

“No. And you don't either. It's the family part that's the hardest.”

Booker said, “
That's
putting it mildly. But there are great opportunities too.”

“Richard wants to be promoted.”

Booker stopped walking and stared at Alice. “And his justification for this is what?”

“Time in his present position.”

“Lily's behind it. Don't you think?”

“Yes, but Richard wants it too.”

“He's thirty-nine years old, and he's a kid! He cares more about model trains than he's ever cared about the business. He has no curiosity or enthusiasm for it, and he's a mediocre performer.”

“Do you want to talk to him, or have me do it?”

“Typical. That he'd talk to you instead of me.”

“Because I'm head of Personnel, he said.”

“And he's half-afraid of me. Nuts. There's no good solution is there? No way to tell him what he needs to hear, that spares his feelings too?”

“Nope.”

“Let's talk about it later. If I had it to do it all over again, I would've made him work somewhere else before I considered hiring him.”

“And now there's Spencer marrying Tara.”

“How can he have been such a good judge of character all these years, and be so perceptive in general, and fall for her?”

“Giselle could be part of the appeal. She's a cute kid with a lot of personality, and I think he wants to give her a decent dad.”