Horse Heaven (41 page)

“Who with?”

“Rosalind Maybrick.”

“Were you having it when I came out to watch that race?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so. Did you love her?”

“Yes.”

“Did she love you?”

“I don’t know.”

“I like that, that you know what love is with her, and you know that you love her, but you don’t with me.”

“I was ambivalent about her, too.”

“I hate that.”

“What?”

“Just get the fuck out.”

“Out of?”

“Out of this apartment. This is my apartment. This is my furniture. These are my dishes and my napkins and my chairs and my—”

Her face was blazing. He saw that she was being as bad as she could be, to say “my, my, my.” She had been kind and generous all their life together. She closed her eyes and thought of another way to be bad. She said, “You have no sense of rhythm. When you were playing with the band, your tempo was always uneven.” She smiled nastily. “Everyone talked about it behind your back.”

It almost made him know he loved her, that these were the worst punishments she could think of. He sighed again and stood up from the table. He thought he would go pack, but he would do it slowly, in a way that would goad her and cause their marriage to devolve as far as possible in one day. That, he thought, was their only hope. He turned away from the table and headed for the bedroom. Behind him, she burst into noisy tears. He found that incredibly irritating, but recognized that this was an excellent start, about which he wasn’t in the least ambivalent.

F
LORENCE
S
CHMIDT’S
therapist, paid for by her husband’s death benefits from the Army, was Marguerite, a sympathetic and lovely woman who was always perfectly groomed and beautifully dressed, but who didn’t have that air of impermeability that most of that sort of woman had in Florence’s estimation. Marguerite did not push Florence, because, as she said from time to time, she was waiting for Florence to push herself, and, as the fact that she had raised seven children showed, she was a woman of endless patience. Since Army death benefits were endless, too, they could wait all this lifetime and into the next, said the lovely therapist with a smile. There was no hurry. Florence told her friends that she went for the therapy, but really she went for the beauty tips. These tips had nothing to with attracting another man, everything to do with trying to discover her own identity; that’s why, Florence thought, she didn’t scrutinize women on the street, only Marguerite. While they would be sitting, sometimes talking, sometimes quiet, Florence would note what her therapist was wearing and how she had done her hair and what her natural physical advantages were and how she was making the most of them. For example, the woman had dark-brown eyes, but she was a blonde, an unusual combination. After several weeks of therapy, Florence deduced that she dyed her hair, and went home and looked in the mirror. It was true that her dark hair streaked with gray was too contrasty, and so she went to a beauty salon and the therapist there, Martine her name was, gave her a color weave. If she had expected Marguerite to comment, she would have been disappointed, but she didn’t expect that. She knew Marguerite wanted her to announce her color weave and solicit comment, but she wasn’t ready to. For a while, the color weave looked to Florence like an optical illusion, and then she got used to it. The next thing she observed in Marguerite was that her stockings were certainly not L’eggs. So she went to the lingerie store and did a little survey. The ones that looked like Marguerite’s were silk, and cost fifteen dollars a pair. She bought two pair, and allowed Natalie, the sales consultant, to slip into a bag
two pair of cream-colored thong underpants and a pair of peach-colored silk pajama bottoms. After that, she spent about four weeks, and four hundred dollars of military allocations, observing Marguerite’s shoes. Marguerite wore different shoes every day; that would be four different examples of European leathercraft at, on average, $175 a pop. The next time Florence went to Macy’s, she walked into the shoe department
as
Marguerite and allowed Denise to sell her one pair of black Arche flats, zippers up the back, and one pair of tan, woven slingbacks. The next time she went for an appointment, she wore the tan shoes with the stockings and the underwear. Marguerite hazarded the comment that Florence seemed to be more self-actualized than usual. But even so, the waiting went on. Florence was a follower. Had always been a follower. She knew perfectly well that she couldn’t have bought those things without Marguerite, Martine, Natalie, and Denise.

The next day, she went with Audrey to Los Angeles, to visit Richard’s parents for the first time since his death. She knew she would miss Marguerite, but, on the other hand, the rapidity with which Marguerite was forcing change upon her was exhausting, and she needed a break. She also didn’t know why she was being required to change, since it was entirely possible, and even desirable, for her to go along looking exactly the way Richard knew her for the rest of her life, alone with Audrey, supported by the taxpayers, and her mind blank with overwhelming grief.

On the plane, sitting next to Audrey, who was perusing the
Thoroughbred Times
, Florence added up what she had spent on her appearance so far, none of which was covered separately from her living expenses. The answer was six hundred dollars, about five hundred dollars more than she could afford to spend on shoes, underwear, and hairdressing. She sat back and looked out the window, wondering if she was trying to improve her appearance, or simply to have one. Next to her, Audrey said, “Do you think Grandpa will take me to Del Mar? They’re running five stakes races Saturday.” Speaking of appearance, Florence thought, Audrey was no longer a slender little girl with a narrow face and lank, dark hair. Her shoulders were broadening, her hair was thickening, and her chin was beginning to square up, as if the first step in instituting her life plan was coming to look more like Richard.

“If you want to go, I’ll take you, Audrey,” said Florence. It wasn’t that Florence gave Audrey whatever she wanted. It was that Audrey, like Richard, had a mission, and Florence did not. Taken all in all, Florence thought Audrey’s mission was fine enough.

What Richard’s father did, though he had to work that day in his clothing store, was to give Audrey a hundred dollars to bet, and so, once they made the long drive to the track, Florence found herself following Audrey back and
forth from the paddock to the betting windows to the stands, watching the intensity with which Audrey made her choices. Of course, it was Florence who had to place the bets. Audrey coached her. She said, “Now, you go up, and you say, ‘First race, ten dollars on number five to win,’ and then you give him the money and take your ticket. Don’t forget to check your ticket before you leave the window.” Florence didn’t mind what most mothers would call Audrey’s imperious tone.

Horse number five in the first race was dark and the jockey was wearing red and white diamonds on his shirt. That was all Florence noticed, but Audrey was informative. She said, “This filly’s by Rainbow Quest out of a Gone West mare. I don’t know. She looks good, but the jockey I’ve never heard of. He’s got a double bug.” She looked up and scrutinized the boy again. In fact, she glared at him, Florence thought, as if reading his mind. And then, oddly, he looked straight at her, and smiled. Without taking her eyes off him, Audrey said, “That’s his apprentice weight allowance. But okay. He’s okay. Let’s go place the bet.”

The horse came in at eight-to-one. Florence barely had time to get her ninety dollars back before they were headed for the paddock again. The weather was pleasant and Del Mar a garden of colorful flowers. This was, Florence thought, very similar to, in fact almost indistinguishable from, a vacation. Had she not known better, she would have said she was having a good time. Audrey said, “Put the ninety dollars we won in one pocket and the ninety left from what Grandpa gave us in the other.” Florence did so. Audrey took up her post again, and made her pick. She chose a red horse with a jockey in purple on its back, but then, when the jockeys were going out of the paddock to the track, that apprentice jockey, who was on another dark one and wearing green, smiled at Audrey and waved, and when she went in to bet, she told Florence to put fifty on that one, and only ten on the other one. “But it has to be fifty out of our winnings from the last race. The ten has to be out of Grandpa’s.”

“What’s the difference, Audrey? Money is—”

“Please, Mom?”

When they got back their three hundred dollars on the green horse, Florence wadded it up and put it into her pocket without question.

For the third race, Audrey’s pick was the favorite, who was going off at only three-to-two, a bad bet, but Audrey wanted to put ten of Grandpa’s money on him anyway. But the young jockey, whose name they had discovered was Roberto Acevedo, looked for her again. She stood right where the paddock gave onto the path under the stands. As he went by, this Roberto leaned down
quickly and touched Audrey on the top of the head. Audrey didn’t have time to react right then, but afterwards she pushed Florence ahead of her as they ran to the betting window. They put a hundred out of the right pocket on Roberto’s horse. He came in at twelve-to-one. Florence could hardly breathe when she picked up the thirteen hundred dollars after the race. They had won $1,580. Audrey looked Florence firmly in the eye. She truly was Richard all over now, with the look he’d had the day he told her they were going to France. She said, “We’re going to bet a thousand dollars, Mom.”

But Roberto wasn’t in the fourth race, and all Audrey did was bet ten of Grandpa’s money on a gray filly who came in fifth.

When they were standing by the railing before the sixth race, Roberto came out of the jockeys’ room, stopped, looked around, saw Audrey, and came straight for her. He was cute—Hispanic-looking, Florence noticed, and young. He was about Audrey’s height, about Florence’s own height, five three—when had Audrey gotten that tall? He walked right up to Audrey, put his hands on her cheeks, and kissed her full on the lips. Florence was startled, but Audrey was not. When Roberto turned and ran over to his mount, laughter and murmurs following him as he went, Audrey turned and raced for the betting windows. Florence ran after her. They put down their thousand dollars.

The horse came in at three-to-one. They had now won $4,580. Florence said, “Audrey, I want to go home. We’ve got a lot of money, and it scares me to carry it around.”

“One more,” said Audrey, in Richard’s commander voice. Florence licked her lips. Mostly, she wondered what Roberto would do to follow up that kiss. She said, “That was quite a kiss, Audrey. You don’t even know him.”

“He’s a jockey.”

“So what?”

“I’m a rider, too.”

“So what?”

“So everything’s okay about that. It’s not about kissing, Mom. If it were about kissing, it would be disgusting. You know that.”

Well, Florence had to laugh, just out of gratitude that Audrey wasn’t so grown up after all.

So they stayed around for the eighth race. The horses came out. The owners and trainers came out. The jockeys came out. Roberto looked around for Audrey, who was already staring at him, waiting for his gaze. When they saw each other, it was a long moment, and after he mounted, Audrey stood there for a while, indecisive. “Well?” said Florence. The odds on the horse were five-to-one. They could bet two thousand, keep two thousand. Florence was excited
the prospect, already counting the fourteen thousand dollars they were destined to go home with. The horses paraded out of the paddock. Roberto gave Audrey a kind smile as he went by. “Well?” said Florence.

“No bets. He’s lost it.”

“What?”

“I don’t like the horse. Roberto’s lost it. Bad race. Too many horses, and they’re all old. Let’s go home.”

“Don’t you even want to see it?”

“No. Let’s go.”

“How do you know he’s lost it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Does he know he’s lost it, or just you?”

“He’s wondering, but I know. That’s why I didn’t really look at him. I don’t want him to go into the race knowing he’s lost it. He might get hurt or something.”

“Audrey, I don’t understand this.”

“Well, jeez, Mom. I don’t under
stand
it, either. But it’s true.”

“Don’t say ‘jeez’ to me like that. It’s rude.”

“Sorry.”

This, Florence thought as they looked for her father-in-law’s car in the parking lot, was something she understood, rudeness between a twelve-year-old daughter and her middle-aged mother. And it was sort of a relief, to tell the truth. In her right pocket, the wad of cash bulged like a lightbulb. They got into the car and bore their winnings northward.

Y
OU HAD TO KNOW
the hell of Keeneland in July to recognize the heaven of Saratoga in August. Even if it got hot, which wasn’t very often, thought Buddy, the trees were so large and shady that you were inspired with thoughts of earlier, pre-air-conditioning times, and were led to believe that you could not only endure but thrive on the heat, become one of those nineteenth-century men, like Colonel Bradley, who raced Man O’ War, men who had fewer conveniences but more energy, less education but more intelligence, and shorter lives but longer days than poor late-twentieth-century sinners like himself. Saratoga was the one place he’d been to lately that didn’t make Buddy Crawford wish he were dead.

Buddy distinguished this wish from a desire to commit suicide, which he had none of, because he was not a depressed sort of guy and never had been. He was an angry sort of guy, and always had been, and Jesus fully understood that, and, you might say, even sympathized with that, because hadn’t he himself gotten mad at that tree, whatever it was, that didn’t fruit out or something when he ordered it to? Buddy wasn’t much of a reading man, either, and even though he’d gotten himself one of those Bibles that were written in regular English, he tended to fall asleep over the stories unless he skimmed them, but the fact was, if you read really fast, your eyes picked up the main points and then Jesus came into you and told you what was important about the rest. The difference between wishing you were dead and wanting to commit suicide was that wanting to commit suicide was a kind of sad-sack impulse characteristic of losers, and wishing you were dead was just a choice, like oatmeal for breakfast instead of a cup of coffee and a cigarette. Especially now that Buddy knew that his eternal reward was waiting for him, wishing he were dead seemed more like, say, wishing to move to Hawaii or something.