Horse Heaven (51 page)

“Predictors. Now there’s a word. Personally, I have more faith than you can have in predictors.” He leaned forward, ready to tell Mr. Snowdon something important. Jesse looked out the window. Leo said, “There are signs. There are always signs.”

“Signs of what?”

“Whether or not you are going to have a winning day.”

“I thought you owned a liquor store, Mr. Harris?”

“I do. That’s a going concern. But a man has to have passions, too. Do you have a passion, Mr. Snowdon?”

“I, uh, do some woodworking. I wouldn’t call it a passion. Perhaps we should get back to Jesse. Jesse in general shows a great sense of responsibility. I admire that very much in him. Well, Jesse is a fine boy.”

“Never gets into trouble, huh? Well, I’m glad to hear that.” Leo laughed cheerfully.

“I mentioned when I called you that I felt that Jesse’s excused absences to the track were not in his best interests. I have to say I do not feel a child should be taken out of school to attend sporting events of any kind.”

Leo sniffed. “But it’s clear to me that Jesse here, though he’s my boy, and I say so, is wise beyond his years. You tell me which of these other kids has a system? Jesse has a system.” He leaned forward and said to Mr. Snowdon in a low voice, “It’s the dad’s responsibility to bequeath his son a system, maybe his only responsibility. I take my responsibility very seriously.”

Now there was silence in the room. Jesse could tell that his father had been too much for Mr. Snowdon, because Mr. Snowdon was starting to put together his papers as if it were time for the conference to be over, and it had only been about ten minutes. But it was as though there was nothing more to say, that saying things had ceased to be worth the effort. Jesse felt a collapsing in the stomach, as if Mr. Snowdon were giving up on him. He looked at the man, and saw that he was smiling at him, Jesse, and realized that Mr. Snowdon wasn’t giving up on him, but perhaps on Leo. That, in fact, was not unusual. Then the teacher put his hand on Jesse’s head and said, “You have a fine boy, Mr. Harris. I admire him.” He sounded sad, as if he were saying good-bye, although the school year was just beginning. But Leo didn’t seem to notice that. He stood up, or, rather, bounced up on his sneakers, and said, “Well, thanks for everything, those words. He is a fine boy. Nobody knows that better than I do, unless it’s his mom.” He laughed. “And thanks for giving us this ten-thirty time. Opening day of the meet today. I love Santa Anita. There’s always a little dry spell in southern California between the end of Del Mar and the opening of the Oak Tree meet. Simulcasting is all very well in its way, but a day out at the track, well, that’s an education and a pleasure. You ready, boy? I don’t want to miss the daily double.”

They strode out of the room, out of the school. Got into the car. When they were settled and had buckled their seat belts, Leo said, “Got your lucky socks on?”

Jesse nodded. Leo said, “I can’t hear a nod.”

“I’ve got them on, Dad.”

“Good boy. Now, lets see. We need some signs.”

Jesse looked over at Leo, who was driving, leaning forward, glancing around, smiling, eager, the way he always looked when they were headed out to the track, as if he didn’t remember that chances were he would be disappointed and angry at the end of the day. But how could he not know? Jesse was only eleven, and he knew. His mom never went to the track, and she knew. Jesse was used to thinking of his father as smart. No one talked like his father, no one impressed upon him all those differences in class and talent and pedigree the way his father did, and yet here was a simple thing, the simplest thing in the world, that his father didn’t know. Jesse looked out the window. They were approaching the 110.

School would be over for everyone by now, so there was nothing to miss, but Jesse thought that he missed it anyway. What if Mr. Snowdon had forbidden Leo, had simply said, “No, Mr. Harris, I won’t let him go. I can’t let him go.” A showdown, like a movie. But as soon as he thought of it, Jesse knew it was impossible. Leo could do whatever he wanted to with him, and even a man teacher couldn’t stop him. Mr. Snowdon was someone else’s father. You could think of it this way, Jesse thought as they went up the ramp: there had been one chance out of however many to be Leo’s son, and nine chances to be Mr. Snowdon’s son, and he had beat the odds, in a manner of speaking. The car accelerated, and Jesse’s body was pressed against the back of the seat.

A
FTERWARDS
, Krista didn’t know what made her go out to the barn. It was cold and damp for October, and she and Pete were about to go to bed. At nine, when she’d checked the horses, everything had been fine. Now it was eleven, and Pete wanted to watch one last thing on CNN, but Krista was tired of listening to the TV. Maia was sleeping peacefully—she checked her on the way out. She had no inkling, no inkling at all—how could that be? The old mare, Wayward, was rolling back and forth in the corner of the pasture, colicking badly. She dialed Sam’s emergency exchange on her cell phone as she ran back into the house, and when she told Pete, he was on his feet in a second, heading out the door and putting on his coat. But they couldn’t leave the baby, could they? She ran back into the house and looked at Maia, then she ran out again, but as soon as she ran out again, she wanted to run back in again.

The old mare was a sight to behold, on her back like a dog, snaking her head in the wet grass, her legs folded above her, slowly twisting and rolling from one side to the other. She was making a sound deep within herself, a groan like the creaking of her whole body that went on and on. Her belly, which didn’t seem that large when she was standing, spread out over her as she rolled, and Krista found herself paralyzed by the thought of the foal inside, shifting back and forth like that. Several months before, Sam had ultrasounded all the mares and Krista had stared at the ghostly little horses within, their threadlike legs wafting in the amniotic fluid, their upside-down heads and necks waving and floating. It was much stranger than the pictures of Maia had been. She seemed at home in the watery bath, rounded and curled like a fish, but foals did not—their legs were too long, made for running, not swimming. Krista approached the mare from the head and bent down over her, speaking softly. “Hey, Mama! Got a bellyache? Can you get up, sweetheart?”

The mare noticed them. That was a good sign—when they were really far gone they noticed nothing, or at least that’s what the emergency-vet-care book said about colic. The mare was willing to get up, though. She rolled onto her
chest, her legs folded, and let Pete snap on the halter. Then he patted her on the neck, and she got up with a different sort of grunt, not so much a groan. Krista answered the cell phone. Sam was in the neighborhood, on his way, and said not to make the mare walk. Then Krista went back in the house to check on Maia. The mare stood quietly enough next to Pete, with her head down. Pete scratched her ears. Krista came out again, stood for a few minutes, then said, “Maybe I should bring her out here. The baby monitor doesn’t really work this far.”

“She’s asleep, right?”

“Yeah.”

“She’s been sleeping through the night for four months—”

Krista opened her mouth to say something, something irritable, but here came Sam, saving everything, even that, once again. Getting out of his truck, he was already pulling on his vinyl sleeve that went all the way up to his shoulder and greasing it with lubricant. He didn’t have to reach far up the mare’s anus. He said, “Uterine torsion, twisted to the right, clockwise.”

“What’s that?” said Pete.

“Well, the whole uterus—foal inside, of course—has flipped over. I can feel the left broad ligament on top and the right broad ligament underneath.”

“Oh my God,” said Krista. “I’m wondering if I should get Maia—”

“Well,” said Sam, “I need both of you. There’s a lot we can do, but four or five would be better than three.”

“She’s fine,” said Pete.

“Okay,” said Krista, but she felt doubtful. A baby’s loudest screams, it always seemed to her, came when the mother wasn’t there to hear them.

Sam said, “Got a board, like a two-by-twelve, about twelve feet long?”

Krista ran and got one, from the stack of boards they kept for fixing fence, and dragged it over. It was dark, and she stumbled several times, but didn’t fall. Sam was giving the mare some shots. He said, “That should take a moment or two.” He sounded rather calm, actually. Krista couldn’t tell if this was because a uterine torsion wasn’t all that serious, or because he was just Sam the vet, professionally serene in every crisis. Then he stood by the mare’s shoulder and gently bent her head toward him. The mare’s legs began to buckle at the knees. He pulled her head a little more toward himself, then pushed her shoulder away. The front went down first, then the back end. She sank onto her sternum, then eased over onto her right side. Her eyes were half open, and Sam lubricated them with something, then tucked a towel around them. The mare’s legs extended. She was now laid out flat. Sam took the board and placed it like a seesaw, with her belly as the fulcrum, one end resting on the grass and the other
sticking past her spine about a foot and a half. Then he said to Krista, “Sit on that, honey.”

“What?”

“Sit there on the board, right on the mare, about halfway between the spine and the midline. Pete and I are going to roll the old girl over, and your weight is going to keep the baby in place.”

Krista and Pete exchanged a glance.

“I wish we had one other person,” said Sam, “to handle her head.”

“Its midnight,” said Krista. “Margaret Lerner might be up, but she—”

Sam stared at her for a moment, then said, “I think I can do it. Get me some more towels.” Krista, who was reluctant to sit on the mares belly to begin with, ran for them. Too soon, she was back. He built up a little stack of them under Wayward’s head, lifting her nose in the direction she would be going. He said, “Don’t make any noise. We don’t want her to wake up.”

“Now?” said Krista.

“Now,” said Sam.

Krista and Pete exchanged another glance, but she sat down on the board. She could feel the mare’s belly give underneath her weight. Then Pete and Sam each went to a set of legs, Sam in front, where he could monitor the head, Pete behind. They began slowly to lift. Krista sat still, trying not to think of the pressure of her weight on the foal inside. They paused and Sam did something with the head, then they resumed lifting the mare’s feet and knees. Krista sat. They lifted. Krista sat. They lifted, heaving, groaning, breathing hard. The mare showed no distress, breathed, in and out, softly. She was on her back. The two men skittered sideways, grunting, Sam stepping carefully over her head and neck, and then they lowered the legs, bit by bit. “Jeez,” said Pete. Sam switched the stack of towels to the other side just before the mare’s hooves came down on the damp grass, and she was facing the other direction. Sam and Pete paused to catch their breath. “Jeez,” said Pete, again, panting. “Heavy load.” Krista stood up.

“Four or five hundred pounds apiece,” said Sam, who was also panting. They stared at each other, catching their breath. Then Sam got his rubber sleeve on again, and knelt down behind the mare and inserted his arm. He was shaking his head as he pulled it out. He said, “Still twisted. Let’s try again.”

They lifted off the board, and, with Krista holding the head, they rolled the mare back over.

The second time was easier. Everyone knew what to do, and did it. Whereas the first time it had seemed to Krista that she was sitting on the board for hours on end, the second time went quickly, possibly because she dreaded
what Sam would say when he palpated the mare again. He said what she dreaded, “Nope.” Then, “Once more.”

They did it once more. Now the time was scudding by to Krista, because she knew what the end would be—something horrible, like death.

When Krista stood up this time, she closed her eyes and waited for that to come up.

Instead, Sam said, “She’s waking up. That’s good. We’re going to try one more thing.” He cleared his throat and put his hands in his pockets, waiting. Pete said, “Maybe one of us should check on the baby.”

Krista nearly jumped out of her skin. She had forgotten about Maia, another thing to be ashamed of. What if—She ran for the house, where the baby slept on, quiet, revealing nothing. Krista bent down in the dim light of the nightlight and checked her cheeks for drying tears. Nothing.

By the time she got outside again, the mare was lifting her head. Krista removed the towel from around her eyes, and saw that she was wide awake now. Then the old girl got up, with a grunt, and braced herself, all four legs spread a little wide. She shook herself. She seemed perfectly alive. Krista couldn’t help imagining what that would be like, having your uterus and baby simply turn 180 degrees to the right. She had never heard of its happening in a woman, though. Thank God for that.

She said, “Does this, uh, happen more with older mares or anything?”

“Oh, I don’t know. The problem with horses and big dogs is that everything is pretty loose in there. Gets to rolling around.”

Pete said, “I thought maybe I missed some signs at feeding time.”

“She was probably totally fine at feeding time. You know, some things in life, you see them coming. Other things pop out of nowhere. A hole opens up right where you’re standing, and something unexpected is present.” He shook his head, and said, “Let’s lead this mare over into the light, here, and then rig up something, some kind of light source. I want to be really able to see what I’m doing.”

It took about ten minutes to find a couple of utility lights. By that time, the mare was fully awake and looking around for some hay, still full enough of painkillers not to worry about the potential inner catastrophe. But Krista was worried. She was worried that this easy moment right now would be the last easy one for a long time, that she would look back at this very moment and remember it so clearly as the peak she might never climb again, if the mare died, and the foal died, and there were bodies to get rid of and grief and regret and another chance to say, “Well, that’s horses.” She imagined the foal as a corpse, known and recognized only for a moment. Himself was a chestnut; the mare was a bay. All those Nearco-Nasrullah-Bold Ruler-line
horses were bay or brown, so the foal would be one or the other, no doubt. But maybe Himself would have thrown a bit of color, a little star or a blaze, a white sock or two. You never knew. Krista imagined herself looking at the baby—so little at this stage, maybe the size of a large rabbit, lying there in a little dark bundle, a white marking standing out on his forehead like a moon.