by John McEvoy
“What do these air jackets cost?”
“Right around $400,” Doyle said.
“That’s a helluva lot more than regular flak jackets.”
Doyle said, “Listen. If they provide the increase in safety as reported, they’d be well worth it.”
He got up, stretched, put his notebook in his jacket pocket. “Ralph, I’ve put in an order for one of these things for Mickey. They said Fed Ex would have it to me by the end of the week.”
“Have you talked to Mickey about this?”
“Nope. I’m going to surprise her. And I’ll pay for this air jacket myself. Nothing out of her earnings.”
Tenuta said, “What if she doesn’t like this thing? Doesn’t feel comfortable wearing it?”
“When I think of Wilfredo Gavidia’s condition today, and the dozens of other former jockeys around this country living wheelchair lives for years, I don’t care if Mickey likes the thing or not. If she won’t wear it, she can get herself another agent. See you later, Ralph.”
Chapter Forty-five
A few mornings that summer, Eric would awaken early from an uneasy slumber. Toss and turn, finally concede that further sleep would elude him. Usually at least slightly hung over, he would exercise as a way to clear him for the day ahead. Dressed in jogging shorts, shoes, and sweat shirt, he drove his truck to one of the parking lots that ringed the Skokie Canal. Mist shrouded the ancient elms that bordered the two concrete paths running beside the turgid gray water. There was one path for cyclists and runners, the other for dog walkers, usually knobby-kneed, hand-holding senior citizens of both sexes.
He took one of these fifty-minute runs two days after his unsuccessful meeting with therapist Rita Doty, where he’d been so resentful and dismissive. As he jogged up the long path leading to a canal bridge, he saw a long-legged, pony-tailed woman ahead of him proceeding gracefully. Eric sped up and extended his stride, only to realize that the woman was not Ingrid McGuire.
That realization deflated him. He slowed to a jog, then a trot, and finally sat down on the dewy bank of the canal. Months ago, he and Ingrid had run this route almost daily. Relishing the bird songs, the faces of other earnest and healthy-looking morning athletes, some of them young women chatting away to each other as they trundled infant buggies. “Those bright mornings are long gone for me,” he muttered.
He lay back down in the wet grass, unwillingly remembering. After their graduation from the University of Illinois Veterinary School, and before they moved to Chicago to launch their joint racetrack practice at Heartland Downs, Ingrid had persuaded Eric to join her for a five-day and night raft trip down the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon.
“I’ve always wanted to do this,” she’d enthused. “We raft the river all day in these small inflatable crafts. Tent out on the sand along the water at night. It’s supposed to be fantastic. We’d be able to see all the varied light and beauty of the Canyon.”
They were able to do just that. The young guides in charge of the six-person rafts in their flotilla were all enthusiastic geologists, expert rafters, great meal-makers, some of them even talented musicians and singers in the evening hours.
Their final trip day, Ingrid and Eric climbed in 108-degree heat the arduous eight-mile trail from the river to the canyon rim. Both had been advised to carry a gallon of water to drink. They did. They never had to pause to urinate because all the moisture their bodies produced seeped through their pores under the powerful sun and intense heat.
Halfway up the narrow, dusty trail, Ingrid and Eric caught up with a couple of senior visitors from Scotland who had refused the mules ride upward, determined to walk the trail. Eric figured this sun-browned pair to be well into their seventies. They were taking a break together on the edge of a boulder, sharing water, both wearing large-brimmed sun hats
Ingrid said, “Are you folks okay?”
“Never better, lassie,” the man said. He rose and extended his hand first to Eric, then Ingrid. “Macloid’s my name. This is the missus. We’re doing grand.”
That night, Eric and Ingrid had dinner with the Macloids in the lodge restaurant. Dehydrated from their walk that long day, the two couples had consumed numerous pitchers of ice water, glorying in their conquest of the demanding Canyon conditions. Eric, riding the high of their strenuous achievement, had limited himself to one glass of wine. Later, as sunburned and tired as they were, he and Ingrid made love that night. He would never forget it, try as he might. Her voice. Her smile. Indelible memories of her sweet concern for him.
Eric shook his head as if to erase that memory. He jumped up off the grassy canal slope and jogged back to his truck. An empty day lay before him. He hated his life, the lonely, late afternoons that sometimes found him, a supposedly strong young man, weeping. Shamed. Embarrassed.
Eric showered quickly at his condo. Booted up his computer. Concluded, once again, that he would attempt to create a change in his now miserable life by paying back his betrayers. At ten, he checked his suddenly declining stock market balance. Another bitter blow in a percussive succession of them. The phone rang. He ignored it. Eric had heard someone once say in a university literature class that revenge was best as a dish served cold. He had something else in mind for Ralph Tenuta, who had effectively destroyed his vet practice, his livelihood.
He got up from behind the computer, stretched, walked into the kitchen and reached into the freezer of his refrigerator for his helpful weapon, his defense of choice. His best friend, now. Mister Stoly.
Chapter Forty-six
Mickey strode from the jocks’ room where she shared a private area with Heartland Downs’ only other female rider, Elaine Yanover. Mickey was smiling as she waved to some girls in the paddock area crowd who were hollering encouragement to her. She was a picture of confident expectation, having already won one race and finished a good third in another. As usual, she was in a great mood, especially since she was now prepared to guide Plotkin in the Futurity Prep for two-year-olds. At 4:44 on this gorgeous midsummer afternoon, the sun glinted off the fit and polished horses as their grooms walked around the paddock ring prior to the call for “Riders Up.”
Ralph Tenuta smiled as he saw little Mickey approaching. “That kid sure loves this business, doesn’t she?” Groom Paul Albano nodded in agreement. “We’re lucky to have her,” Albano said. “She’s a sweet person and a helluva rider. Reminds me of the great Bill Shoemaker. Physically small but very smart. And with a great touch that makes horses respond to her.”
“You should tell her that sometime, Paul. She’d appreciate it. Hi, Mickey.”
“Hello, Mr. Tenuta. Hi, Paul.”
Tenuta, still under suspension after attorney Englehardt had thus far failed to obtain a court stay, was prevented from saddling Plotkin. He had named veteran groom Albano his assistant trainer, and Paul would undertake that familiar task.
Plotkin was brought by groom Luis Ortega to his stall in the wooden paddock. Ortega was having a hard time leading Plotkin to where he was supposed to be. Mickey watched the colt closely as he approached. She frowned. “Jaysus, Mr. Tenuta, this little horse looks like he’s on the muscle today.”
Albano took over from Ortega. For the first time, Albano had trouble turning Plotkin around so he could be saddled. “Why the hell is he so jumpy?” Tenuta said. He tried to pat Plotkin’s head, but Plotkin kept tossing it up. “Paul, I’ve never seen Plotkin like this,” Tenuta frowned.
“Me, either,” answered Albano, who was struggling to adjust the shifting Plotkin’s girth before applying the saddle. Plotkin suddenly let out a trio of loud snorts, astounding all of his connections.
“Never heard him do that before,” Tenuta muttered. He boosted Mickey up into the saddle. He said, “Plotkin’s acting real different today, Mickey. Kind of strange. Watch yourself out there.” He slapped Plotkin on the rump as Albano began to lead the horse out through the tunnel leading to the track. Mickey nervously tried to calm Plotkin down by whispering to him and strokin
g his neck. He was beginning to lather up, another first for him. Mickey used her whip to gently flick away the strands of white sweat. Her calming efforts had no apparent effect. They walked out of the dark tunnel and into the sunshine of the racetrack as the bugler played the traditional “Call to the Post.” The crowd cheered.
***
Minutes later, track announcer John Tully said, “All are in the gate except Plotkin, who is acting up. Jockey Mickey Sheehan seems to have her hands full with him. Once Plotkin’s in, we’ll have a start… And they’re off.”
Plotkin was still tossing his head when the gates opened. He broke flat-footed, nearly three lengths behind the field, quite in contrast to his usual style. But once in stride, he bullied his way up between horses while running on the inner rail, almost pulling Mickey out of the saddle. Her left riding boot scraped white paint off the inner rail.
“Jaysus, what’s got into him? I can’t control him. Room, room, give me some room…No, no, we can’t go there. No. No…”
Announcer Tully’s voice rose. “Plotkin is very rank. Rider can’t control him. Oh, no! He’s hit the rail and dumped his rider over it into the infield. Mickey Sheehan is down.”
Tenuta had his binoculars trained on the track near the five-eighths pole. Doyle gripped his arm. “What do you see, Ralph? Where is she?”
“She got tossed over the rail like a rag doll,” Tenuta growled.
The riderless Plotkin had now moved to the outside, circling his rivals, obviously determined to be in his usual place, on the lead. When the field turned for home, he veered out to the grandstand fence, sped past the finish line, and kept going. It took the strenuous efforts of two outriders to finally chase him down and snatch his reins and pull him up. Plotkin fought them all the way. Doyle and Tenuta were paying no attention to that.
“Ralph, God damn it, what do you see?”
“Oh, Jack, our girl is still down.”
Chapter Forty-seven
Ralph Tenuta said, “Jack, stop pacing. You’re wearing a trough in the carpet. You’re making me nuts.”
Six-thirty in the evening. Doyle looked down at where Tenuta was perched on his plastic chair in the emergency room waiting area of Holy Family Hospital some six miles from Heartland Downs. Rose Tenuta sat next to her husband, working her worn rosary beads with her right hand. Her left hand held Nora Sheehan’s hand.
This tableau had existed for the past ninety-five minutes, beginning immediately after the paramedics had wheeled the semiconscious Mickey up the hospital ramp. Since it was late afternoon, the waiting room was not nearly as populated as it would be once night developed. A skinny, pale, leather-wearing biker with a red-streaked mullet sat across the room, nervously tapping one of his booted feet, looking like he was desperate for a smoke. “My bitch fell off my bike,” he had announced when Jack and his people came in. He hadn’t said a word since. An elderly Hispanic man leaned forward in his chair, head buried in his hands, saying nothing. His gray “Jose Velasquez Yard Service” tee-shirt was dark with sweat stains. He gave no indication why he was there.
As Doyle paced, thinking about the little Irish girl’s bruised and battered face, he recalled the depressing statistics he’d researched before agreeing to become a jockey’s agent. The number of deaths of jockeys on the racetrack. The larger number of former riders now wheelchair ridden quadriplegics or paraplegics scattered about America’s racing nation. The fact that at least a third of the jockey license holders in the US earn an annual income that positions them below the poverty line. But it had never previously occurred to him that anything as bad as this could actually happen to Mickey Sheehan.
***
At 5:49 p.m. Dr. Paul Mann entered the waiting room wearing the solemn look of an emergency-room specialist. Doyle stood still. The physician walked to where Nora sat. “Are you Nora Sheehan, the next of kin?” Doyle’s heart sank. “Next of kin” had a dire ring to it.
Dr. Mann, who looked to Doyle to be about the fresh-faced age of a college senior, continued after Nora nodded yes. “I have good news,” he said solemnly. “Your sister suffered a slight concussion and, obviously, severe facial bruising. That’s the extent of her injuries, except for a sprained left wrist, probably damaged ligaments there. It was fortunate she was wearing that air jacket device. It probably worked to prevent severe spinal damage from the terrific impact with which she hit the ground.”
The physician stopped talking to take a message on his beeper, then continued. “She should be fully recovered physically in ten days to two weeks. Amazingly enough, she didn’t even incur any dental damage when her face smashed into the ground.”
Nora and the Tenutas were looking up hopefully at the ultraserious physician. Doyle muttered, “If this is how the man delivers good news, I’d hate to be on hand when he brings the bad.” Nora said, “Thank you, doctor. Thank you very much. When can we see Mickey?”
There was another beep on Dr. Mann’s phone. He listened, then replaced it in the pocket of his green hospital top, frowning. “What? Oh, I’m sorry, I have to get back into ER. As to your question, Ms. Sheehan, you can go and see your sister now for a few minutes. I plan to keep her here under observation for at least twenty-four hours. “
Dr. Mann’s smiled briefly as he offered, “She’s a spunky, gutsy little person. She’ll come out of this fine. Physically, I mean.” He nodded at the group and turned to leave. Doyle grabbed his arm. “Doctor, what do you mean by ‘fine physically?’”
The doctor said, “Well, what I’ve been told happened to her, Mickey Sheehan was catapulted off a horse going thirty-five miles an hour. Landed face first. Had her head bounced off the infield grass. And passed out. Only to fully awaken in our ER room. I would think that coming to grips with an experience like that would be emotionally, well, difficult.” He shrugged and turned to the doorway.
Nora stood up, eyes blazing, to face Dr. Mann. “Not for a Sheehan,” she barked. She took a deep breath and offered her hand to the startled physician. “I didn’t mean to sharp at you,” she said. “I thank you for your treatment of my sister. Believe me.”
Dr. Mann nodded and left.
Doyle sat down next to Ralph. “You’ve been in this game for years. Have you seen accidents like what happened to Mickey?”
Tenuta sighed. “Yes, Jack. Unfortunately, yes. Not many. But the ones you do see you never forget. It’s a tough, tough business. There are too many riding accidents that I’ve seen and can’t forget.”
Doyle got up and walked over to a window. Over his shoulder he said, “Why do people do this? Get into this potentially very dangerous business?” He shook his head. “I’m not sure I want to be involved in this anymore.”
Tenuta got up and grabbed Doyle’s shoulder, his face red. “Don’t tell me you’re walking out on your jockey, Jack.”
Doyle, seated again, put his head in his hands. He peered through them across waiting room at the anxious-looking Latino man wearing the landscaper tee shirt. The man was sitting back in his chair, head tilted up and eyes closed, either trying to doze off as he waited, or praying.
Tenuta knelt in front of Doyle. He said, “Jack, what you’ve got to understand is that these people who ride race horses, men or women, young or old, do it because they love doing it. Hell, I’ve seen riders come back from broken arms, legs, ankles, collarbones, crushed ribs. Bad internal injuries from getting accidentally kicked. They can’t wait to start racing again. To get back into it. You just can’t stop them. There was a rider on the Kentucky-Ohio circuit couple of years ago, guy named Cowboy Jones. He won a race when he was sixty-eight! They used to say Jones was way tougher than ancient leather.”
Tenuta stood up. Shrugged. “It’s in their blood, Jack. They’re not like most of us. They can somehow wipe out the memory of what terrible thing tore them up, and still insist on wanting to return doing it. I can’t explain it. These are some of the toughest human beings in the world.”
Doyle said, “You think Mickey Sheehan is like t
hat?”
Ralph smiled. “No, I don’t ‘think’, Jack. I know she’s like that. If it all works out for her physically, she’ll come back to race riding as soon as she can. I suspect Nora will try to talk Mickey out of it. That won’t work. Mickey is committed to being a good jockey.”
Tenuta said to his wife, “Let’s go get some dinner.” Rosa pocketed her rosary beads. Patted Nora on the hand. At the doorway, Ralph turned back and said to Doyle, “You going to stick here, Jack? Ah, I thought so. Talk to you later.”
“See you tomorrow morning, Ralph. Good bye, Rosa.”
Doyle sat down in the ER waiting room to wait for Nora. Nearly an hour elapsed before she returned. “She’s conscious, God love her,” Nora said, teary-eyed. Doyle took her in his arms. She shook there as she sobbed. “It’s just so hard to see a small, sweet creature like Mickey looking like she’d fallen under a feckin’ truck. Pardon my Irish.”
Finally, she stepped back and wiped her face with the already sodden handful of tissues she’d been carrying. “Sorry about all that,” Nora said. “Most of the Sheehans don’t show much emotion. Too tough, ya know.”
“We’re lucky Mickey’s tough enough.” Doyld looked up at the wall clock. “Would you like to go and have something to eat? Or drink?”
“No, thanks, Jack. I’m going to stay here tonight in Mickey’s room. She’s lucky they gave her a private room. I can’t bear the thought of her being in this place by herself. She seems to drift off into sleep, then suddenly awaken, looking around like ‘what the hell am I doing here?’ I want to be with her.”
“The nurses will allow this?”
Nora said, “The head nurse I just talked to said she would bring a chair and a pillow into Mickey’s room. She was kind. Very kind.”
Doyle put his jacket on. “I understand. Just give me a call if you change your mind. Or if you need anything. You’ve got my cell number.”