Horse Heaven (66 page)

“Why is that?”

“All his forebears were revolutionaries. I’m the black sheep of the family. My grandfather would have died to see his grandson a rabbi. He nearly died, or said he did, when my father revealed he was investing in the stock market. When he told us he bought a racehorse, my mother took him to his doctor. She really did. But now we don’t mind. I’ll tell you something. My father is a man of perfect innocence, at least as far as I’ve ever seen. He never manufactured a toy that had to be recalled or was even rumored to be unsafe. But that’s not what I mean by innocent. That’s just not guilty. It’s more like every experience is new to him, no matter how many times he’s done it before.”

“I’ve noticed that,” said Dick. Epic Steam went into the gate, then backed out, then went in again, then backed out again. Two men closed in on his rear. He kicked out but missed both of them. Then he went into the gate and stayed there. Dick said to the rabbi, “There they go.”

The big dark horse broke from the third slot and bounded forward. For Dick, he alone was distinct in the swirl of horseflesh. It wasn’t even voluntary. His gaze simply picked out Epic Steam and focused on him and the others disappeared. The horse was not in the lead, but about four lengths back in the third lane, running forward like a normal racehorse. It went on like that. Dick began to think he was a genius again. Thinking he was a genius felt like a sort of inner melting—gravel turning to molasses. Or maybe that was just the feeling of relief. The horses came out of the first turn, Epic Steam as crystal clear as the moon on a dark night. Dick could see his tail streaming, his muscles stretching, the hand of the jockey on the rein, holding but not pulling. “Every horse is trainable.” That’s what he would say to the press when they asked. There were other good horses in the race, horses people were talking about in only positive terms. Dick couldn’t make them out. Down the backstretch, Epic Steam went a little wide, into the fourth lane, and then the fifth lane. The horses went into the second turn. The leaders, three of them, were bunched on the rail. Epic Steam was fifth. But he was wide.

The rabbi said, “The horse seems to be awfully far to the outside. Geometrically, isn’t that unwise—”

“Watch this,” said Dick.

The big dark horse swept around the turn, far away from the others. And then they were in the stretch. Epic Steam was in the middle of the track now, all by himself, and Dick realized that this was how he had to run, way to the outside. It was the only safe way. But, of course, the horse was fit enough to climb Mount Everest. And here was the payoff. With nothing to distract him, the horse bolted for the finish line, passing so far to the outside of the other
animals that they didn’t see him and so didn’t hook on and catch fire. Maybe even the other jockeys didn’t see him. He was a stealth bomber. The jockey didn’t even have to go for his whip—in fact, it looked like, the guy just had to hold on tight and hope he could stop the horse in time to get to the winner’s circle. The horse won by a length. It was only then, sitting there for a moment, that Dick felt the depths of his own fear, all that fear he had been covering over for God knew how long. Then he stood up and shepherded the Newmans down to the winner’s circle. They, of course, were amazed.

While they were standing there with the photographer and with the actress who was to help the track president give out the trophy, waiting for Epic Steam and his jockey and his groom to return from the next borough, Dick said to the rabbi, “Your father really deserves this.”

“You may think so,” said the rabbi. “Sure he does. But the wonderful thing about my father is, he never even thinks about what he deserves.”

Dick wondered what Herman Newman would possibly talk to other owners about, should he find himself engaged in such a conversation.

And here came the horse, exhausted but still alight, his neck arched, his nostrils flared, all his veins standing out, full of himself, and, you might say, happy. Herman Newman, forgetful of every warning Dick had ever given him, went up to the horse and embraced him around the neck. And then they drew up in a line and the cameraman clicked the photo, and Dick remembered that in horse racing, always and forever, luck was better than genius. And that’s what he told the guys from
The Blood-Horse
and the
Thoroughbred Times
when they asked him.

J
ESSE OFTEN WONDERED
whether his thoughts influenced events. For example, his mother had just called him to dinner, and he was walking toward the table and noticing that she had made eggplant parmesan and thinking that he didn’t like eggplant parmesan when the front door slammed open and Leo burst in. His mother said, “Oh, Leo, there you are, I just put—”

But Leo ran into the bedroom. Jesse went to the doorway of the bedroom, and saw that his dad had a gun in his hand, and was loading bullets into it. Jesse had never seen a gun before, except in the movies or on television.

Leo was jamming bullets into the cylinder. Jesse turned and went out,
went over to his mother, who was sitting quietly at the table. He sat down in his place. She didn’t say anything, didn’t even seem to notice him, but then, when Leo came into the room, she startled. Leo said, “I’m going to Park Min Jong.”

This was a park that Jesse had never heard of. “Why are you taking a gun, Dad?” said Jesse as Leo snapped the gun into his shoulder holster and then slipped his arm into the strap. “Are there gangs there?”

“I’m just going to make sure. I won’t use it unless I have to, but I’m going to make sure.”

“Make sure of what, Leo?” said his mom, quietly, more as if she had to say it than as if she really wanted to know.

“Well, it’s simple. I called that bookie yesterday at eleven-thirty. I can get the phone-company records to back me up. And I said, ‘Give me fifty on the sixth horse in the first race and fifty on the third horse in the second race.’ The odds were eight to one on the first horse and six to one on the second horse. I know those were the bets, because I remember the feeling I had—six one three two—you know, that was the address of that apartment we lived in that time, remember that?”

“That was six one three three,” said Jesse’s mom.

“Well, exactly, but you can’t make the daily double on the third race. It’s got to be on the second race.” He looked at her with fond irritation, and said, “You know, I don’t understand why you can’t get a grasp of that thing. That’s the simplest thing in racing, what the daily double is. Anyway, those were the bets I made. Do I have to record myself now? Keep some kind of unimpeachable record? I mean, what is happening to this country? When Mickey Cohen ran things, well, my dad would tell you, they ran pretty well, but that’s because, between you and me, they were run by Jews.”

“Where are you going with the gun, Leo?”

“These Korean bookies have their own boss, you know, they all do. That’s what happened to this country. Every ethnic group has its own boss. It isn’t like when I was a boy, Jess, when things were more centralized. Now you’ve got to be schlepping down to Korea Town, or—” He broke off. His hair seemed to stand on end. Jesse always had this feeling, that when his father got angry his hair stood on end. “What the hell am I wasting my time here for? The Goddamned payoff on that bet was over fourteen hundred dollars, and if I don’t get it, there’s going to be a payoff, let me tell you!”

“Leo—”

But his dad was out the door, throwing on a jacket, before his mom finished her sentence. She got up and went into the kitchen without looking at him. Jesse sat down at the table and focused on the eggplant parmesan. It was
red, with white cheese over the top, and there were orange streaks of grease on the cheese, blackish crusty things around the sides. It had a strong smell, probably not a bad one—he could imagine its even being a good one if you were in a certain mood. But he wasn’t in that mood. He knew that he should look away from the eggplant, that he was making the eggplant look worse to him than it had to, but he just kept looking at the eggplant anyway.

His mom came out of the kitchen with some bread in a basket and a smile on her face. She set the bread down and then sat down herself, and pretty soon a big spoon went into the eggplant, and a big lump of it went onto his plate. Steam rose around it like a ghost. A big lump of it went onto his mom’s plate. She was still smiling. Jesse knew all about that smile. It was a smile she was doing a good job at, and it was all she could manage for right now. As Jesse incorporated most of the eggplant into his system, he thought about the jockeys at the track, their stomachs, and he thought about the eggplant going around the knot in his own stomach, just sliding around it, and it got down okay. After they had finished, she said, “I’ll clear this up, honey. It isn’t much. Why don’t you go do your homework right now, and then maybe we’ll play a game before you go to bed.”

He didn’t have any homework, so Jesse read a few chapters of an old
Goosebumps
book that he had under his bed. Then he cleaned out some of the stuff under there—there were lots of candy wrappers, some popcorn, and a couple of withered apple cores, as well as shreds of this and that. He didn’t understand how things under the bed got shredded like that, but okay. Finally, because his mom seemed to want him to, Jesse came out of his room and walked across the living room and sat down beside her. She smiled instantly, and then said the very thing that Jesse had refused to say to himself all evening: “I hope your father doesn’t get hurt.”

“I didn’t know he had a gun,” said Jesse.

“Let’s play Uno Stacko.”

“Okay.”

She went over to the shelf and got the game, a tall stack of red, green, yellow, and blue plastic pieces shaped like I-beams. The point was to try and remove the lower beams and place them on top of the stack, until you had a very unstable tower that suddenly fell over. Leo would always give him a dollar if it fell over on his turn. But, then again, Leo would always take a dollar from him if it fell over on Jesse’s turn. Leo was a believer in justice rather than mercy. He had said that over and over for years, since long before Jesse knew what either justice or mercy was.

She carefully set up the stack, aligning it with the cardboard piece that came with it, then she handed him the dice. He rolled a two and pulled one of
the number-two pieces out of the middle of the stack, then set it on top. Then his mom pulled out a four, and so on and so forth. He was terrified that she might say something about Leo, but when she started talking she said, “I called up the place tonight, and I’m going to learn to drive.”

“You are?”

“He said it would take longer because I’m thirty-five, but I think now’s the time.”

“Why?”

“Well, sweetheart, I don’t think I’ll ever get back to New York, you know?”

“I never thought we would get back to New York, Mom. Dad grew up here, and he hates Aqueduct.”

“I’m joking, honey. I know we won’t get back to New York. I wouldn’t want to go, either. But I’m going to learn to drive. It’s kind of exciting, really.” She had two turns, and pulled out a one and a three. Jesse pulled out a four. They kept going quietly, and Jesse felt himself get a little into the game. A long time ago it had been his favorite game, say when he was four and five. He’d found the growing tower almost scary, but he’d been quite proud of the stillness with which he could place those I-beams. He was really into the game, which was why it surprised him when he himself said, “There’s something wrong with Leo.” He didn’t say “Dad,” either, he said “Leo,” just like he didn’t know his own father very well.

“Oh, Jesse,” said his mom.

“There is. I think he’s got a brain tumor.”

“Why is that?”

“Because there’s something wrong with him. The things he says don’t go together right.”

“I don’t think he has a brain tumor, darling.”

“But you do think there’s something wrong with him.”

“I do.”

“Tell me what it is.” Jesse thought sure she was going to use some word he didn’t understand, some kind of disease word, but she said, “He’s just so full of longing.”

“What does he long for?”

“To stop longing for things, I suppose.”

This Jesse understood perfectly. In the first place, he knew what longing was, and in the second place, he could easily imagine this endless circle of longing to be freed of longing. He said, “Do you think Leo is handsome?”

“Yes.”

“Me, too. Is that why you married him?”

“Maybe. He was different then. He was only twenty-two. None of this stuff had taken hold. And I was only twenty. The thing is, Jesse, Leo needs someone to tell him that he didn’t do anything bad.”

“But he did. He’s done lots of bad things.”

She sat back on the couch and looked at him. She said, “I know, Jesse. That’s the problem I can’t solve.” She looked at him. She said, “You can’t solve it, either, honey.” Jesse said, “I know.” And he did know. So many times, he had said, “It’s all right, Dad,” but Leo had never believed him. Here was the thing, Jesse thought: On the one hand, there was the track—money, signs, horses, getting out of school, sunshine, and a general nice feeling to begin with that could get better or worse by the end of the day. Jesse knew all about that. But now, on the other hand, there was a gun and the will to use it and the men who might have to have it used on them. And it was all the same thing. What was Jesse supposed to think about that? He said, “Are you scared, Mom?”

She nodded, and then she said, “Not all of the time, though,” and Jesse understood that all along there had been more going on than he had known about, that all along he had been in a car in the fog on a winding highway, and he was the only one in the car who didn’t know that sometimes, maybe quite often, the car veered toward the edge of the road and only just kept going out of luck.

Fortunately for everyone, whatever had happened with Park Min Jong, it had been all right, because Leo was in a terrific mood when he got home. He came into Jesse’s room and got him up and sat down on the bed and told him some things he had to know. Jesse’s mom came to the doorway, and one time she said, “Leo, it’s two a.m.,” but Leo said, “When a boy has to learn something about how the world works, it doesn’t matter what time it is, honey.” Leo never spoke to Jesse’s mom in any voice but a loving and kind one.