The silvery moonlight lit on Johnny’s hat and fell down over his shoulders and poured over Little Gus, too. Since Little Gus had finally exhibited a bit of patience within the stall, Johnny would allow him the run of the pen until late at night. Johnny was giving him a pinch of tobacco. Little Gus saw her and pricked his ears, causing Johnny to turn and look at her. She went toward him slowly, out of the glow of the pole light and into the softness of moonlight.
She said, “It's a nice night, isn’t it?”
Johnny nodded and agreed. Little Gus poked his nose at her, and she stroked his forehead. He lowered his head and blew on her belly, as if exchanging breaths with the little girl inside. Etta put her nose against Little Gus and inhaled the familiar musky horse scent of him.
When Johnny, uncharacteristically, said nothing more, Etta asked, “Do you still plan to race him over at the rodeo tomorrow?” She kept her gaze on the horse, stroking him.
“I’d like to.” Johnny looked down at her. “Are you goin’ to let me?”
She grinned at him. “Do I have a choice?”
“Well now,” he said, “I wouldn’t feel right about takin’ him, if you were against it. He is your horse.”
“But you would take him,” she said.
He raised an eyebrow and stared at her, and she didn’t think he was thinking only about horses and rodeos. He said in a slow drawl, “Are we goin’ to have to find out . . . or are you gonna let me take him?”
“I’d like to take him,” she said. She watched Johnny’s strong, callused hands reach out to pat Little Gus’s forehead. She wished he would touch her.
“Okay. I’ve lined up Woody Lee to ride him—he’ll do better than I can with my poor knee.”
“I have the entry money,” she said, making certain he understood she was paying her own way. “And I plan on going along. I’d like to see him race.”
“Well now, that’s fine, Miz Etta,” he said, and his eyes rested on her thoughtfully. Then he added, “I figure we’ll run him at least twice. I’ve already set up a match race for him before the rodeo, with a horse of Bitta Fudge’s.”
“You made an awful lot of plans with my horse,” Etta said.
“Directing a horse is a trainer’s job,” he replied. Then he surprised Etta by saying, “I think I’ll turn in. Good night, Miz Etta.” He gave her a tip of his hat and walked away.
Etta was thoroughly annoyed. She had somewhat expected him to kiss her. To at least exhibit a possibility in that direction. She almost called after him in the darkness to take him to account for it. Closing her mouth tight, she walked back to the house.
* * * *
Johnny dropped himself down on his bunk, tossed his hat aside, and raked his hands through his hair. He felt all tight. He ached, and he rubbed his knee absently, but it wasn’t his knee he needed to rub, so much as his groin.
He was wrought up about how he felt about Etta and about the prospects ahead of him, racing the red gelding and having himself proved out as a man who knew what he was talking about. After a minute he stretched out, took up the detective novel he had begun, and tried to read. But his mind kept wandering. He finally got up and went to the barn door and smoked a cigarette. He never would let himself smoke inside the barn.
As he stood there, he looked at his truck and considered driving down to the roadhouse and getting a few drinks to relax him. Maybe a woman, too, although after what had happened to him the last time, he was hesitant in this direction. He considered the few drinks, imagined them, even tasted them, but he didn’t move, except to throw the butt of his cigarette in the dirt and step on it.
It was a heavy thing he had taken on, he realized—Etta had put her trust in him, and he sure didn’t want to disappoint her.
Thinking about her trust suddenly made him very worried. What if Little Gus did not win?
The possibility jumped out at him as unexpectedly as a spook from a closet. Amazingly, he had not heretofore considered that the horse could lose. Where before he’d imagined over and over the red gelding gleaming brightly across the finish line, was certain of it, he now saw with stark clarity the horse losing and all the consequences this would bring.
If Little Gus lost, Johnny would not only disappoint Etta in his abilities, but he would lose her money, too. This possibility grew in his mind by leaps and bounds. He realized that he had put himself into a position of responsibility such as he never had in his life. Etta was not believing in the horse; she was believing in Johnny’s opinion of the horse.
He had managed to get himself in a good predicament again, he thought morosely and looked toward his truck, stepping out toward it, although he did not move, except in his mind, which pictured him behind the wheel and driving away to get just one beer. He felt it cold in his hand and sharp on his tongue and landing warm in his belly.
But he knew it wouldn’t be just one beer, once he started. He’d end up being a disappointment to Etta even before they got to horse racing.
Turning, he went into the deep dark of the barn, pulled on the light, went into Little Gus’s stall, and closed the horse in from outside. The horse pricked his ears and sniffed Johnny’s shirt for tobacco.
“You are gonna win at least one of those races tomorrow," he whispered, scratching the horse’s forehead. “I know you can do that.”
Then, speaking even lower, his voice barely a whisper, he added, “You and me, we’re gonna be her heroes, boy.”
Returning to his bunk, once more taking up the paperback, he glanced out the small window that faced the house. He saw the lights in the kitchen and imagined Etta and Latrice there in the warm glow, radio playing, Etta at the table and Latrice in her rocker. Imagined the delicious scent of Latrice’s biscuits and the heady scent of Etta’s skin. Imagined their feminine laughter. Imagined himself looking through the door, then going in and sitting there among them, and their welcoming, Latrice handing him a cup of coffee, and Etta . . . Etta touching his cheek, then bending to kiss his lips, seductively, her silky hair falling over his face . . .
He suddenly saw her belly and realized that his fantasy had neglected to recall Etta was pregnant. He backed up and thought of how she would look and be, not pregnant. He let himself see how he would be with her then.
* * * *
“How much are you gonna bet on the horse?” Latrice asked. She sat in a kitchen chair, and Etta sat on a pillow on the floor below her. Latrice was rolling Etta’s hair in cotton strips. “Hold still,” she added when Etta went to look up at her.
“I haven’t made up my mind to bet,” Etta said. “I think maybe I should stick to just entering the race. Twenty-five dollars will be enough to lose, if Little Gus doesn’t win. I don’t need to gamble. That way is just foolish.”
“What do you think payin’ an entry fee is, if it isn’t gamblin’?” Latrice asked.
“It isn’t the same thing,” Etta maintained. “When a person pays an entry fee, he is buyin’ time to put his horse on the track. I get to race Little Gus for that entry fee, and if he wins, I’ll get the purse. It’s an honorable exchange.”
Latrice gave a grunt. “It is gamblin’, and if you’re goin’ to gamble, you might as well make it worthwhile and go for as much as you can get.” She jerked tight the last cotton strip and rose.
“Puttin’ up an entry fee is not the same thing as wagerin’ all around. When I put up an entry fee, I’m buyin’. When I just bet, I’m just betting.”
Etta got herself to her feet and gathered the brush and comb and remaining rag rollers. She wished her hair was not in these silly rags, because it was difficult to hold what was amounting to an argument with Latrice with her hair looking like that of a sock doll.
“I am not talkin’ of gamblin’ every penny, but a couple hundred out of that Folgers can won’t keep a roof over our head, so you might as well give it a try on the horse. We have more furniture we can always sell.”
“How many times do you think Roy probably said the same sort of thing?”
“I don’t think Roy Rivers ever sold his furniture or much of anything else. He simply owed people,” Latrice muttered, wiping the table with a cup towel. Then, hand to her hip, “I have never seen the sin that has been attributed to gamblin’. Gamblin’ itself is not the sin—people gamble that they are goin’ to live a few more days every time they buy green bananas. The sin is in the extreme. Moderation is the key to life, and Roy Rivers was an immoderate man. He kept dropping the key.”
“Moderation is what I intend to keep,” Etta said. She paused and looked at Latrice. “I wish you would change your mind and come with us tomorrow.”
Latrice shook her head. “I’m not goin’ to go. I have no desire. A rodeo is no place for a middle-aged colored woman."
“Oh, Latrice,” Etta said, “over at Anadarko there’ll be lots of different people—whites and Indians and Mexicans and Negroes, and all ages, babies on up to grandmothers. You know that. You’ve been over there when Daddy was rodeoin’.”
“I was a young woman then and mostly I went because you were too small to be goin’ on your own. I never liked any of it, except the flirtin’ with young bucks. I don’t flirt any longer, so why should I waste my time?” Then she added, “You know what my mother used to call rodeos? The endeavors of idiots. I agree. I think I’ll have a holiday while you and Johnny are gone tomorrow.”
Etta regarded her. “A holiday with Obie?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Perhaps,” Latrice said, turning to wipe the sink.
“Just what is goin’ on with you and Obie?” Etta asked.
Latrice looked over her shoulder. “You are pryin’.”
Etta got rather piqued at that. She put her hand on her hip and opened her mouth, but feeling her rag curls bob she felt a little silly, so she toned herself down. Still she said, “I don’t think it can be called prying between two people as close as we are. I just want to know if you have decided to encourage Obie.”
“Obie Lee has never needed any encouraging. If you are asking have I decided to enjoy him, the answer is yes. I have—and to what extent is yet to be decided, but is definitely my business.”
“Well, I’m glad for you,” Etta said. She made herself say it. She was glad for Latrice, but a little disconcerted as well. It was difficult to fathom Latrice having a boyfriend. Perhaps a lover. And it made Etta feel very sad and envious.
For some reason, she felt called upon to go across and kiss Latrice’s cheek before she took herself off to bed, where she lay gazing up at the dark ceiling for quite a while before she could fall asleep. During this mulling time she considered Latrice’s opinion about betting and thought she found merit in the idea.
If she could not have Johnny Bellah, she might as well bet. She needed to break out somewhere. It would be good for her spirit.
* * * *
Latrice made her nightly inspection of the kitchen, putting everything exactly as she liked it. Etta generally dried and put away the dishes, but Latrice checked behind her, making certain the glasses were set just so.
When she was certain Etta would not be back downstairs, Latrice went to her own room, bent down, and removed a small section of baseboard, drawing out a bulging stocking. From it she pulled out a tiny black book, flipped to the last entry, stared at it, debating. Then she dug into the stocking, extracted a roll of bills, pulled off two hundred dollars in twenties, replaced the black book into the stocking and the stocking into its hidey-hole. She folded the money, went out the back door, and hurried across the yard lit by bright moonlight, to the barn and Johnny Bellah's room.
Low yellow light spilled from his doorway. He reclined in his bed, reading a paperback novel with a trashy cover by the light of the rusted metal desk lamp. He was surprised to see her, of course. For an instant he just stared at her with his mouth slightly open. Then, as she came into the room, he scrambled himself up and buttoned his shirt.
“I have some money,” she said. “I want you to bet on that horse tomorrow.” If he could be more surprised, he was.
“Me to bet?” he repeated.
“That’s what I said. What do you think the odds will be?”
He swallowed. “Well, I don’t know. Four or five to one maybe, depends.”
Latrice decided she was not likely to get exactly the information she wished, so she said, “I have two hundred dollars here. Do not tell Etta about this. It is not lying to simply not mention it. It is my own money.’’
He stared at the roll of money she extended toward him. "Yes, ma'am."
“You bet it all on the match race, and then two hundred of what you win there on the rodeo race.” When he didn’t take it, she poked it at him, and he at last got his hand moving to take it.
“I can’t guarantee the horse will win that match race,” he said.
She shook her head, chuckling. “I didn’t think you could. That’s why it is considered riskin’ money.”
She turned and left him, went back to the house and to bed, sleeping soundly, as she always did when she followed her inner direction. She thought perhaps she would write a book on following the Inner Guide. Maybe that’s what she should do with the second half of her life.
* * * *
The afternoon was cloudless and bright, the sun warm and the wind yet cool with spring, perfect in the way days in Oklahoma could be. The sort of day on which it seemed to Etta only good things could happen. She tried to convince herself of this, to look for signs that things would go as she wished.
Etta dressed in a blue skirt and maternity blouse, and tied her curls back with the yellow ribbon. At a last check in the mirror, she decided to add tiny dangling earrings, turquoise disks that brought out her eyes. To help shade herself from the bright sun, she took along a wide-brimmed straw hat.
When she stepped out on the porch and Johnny looked at her, she could tell he liked what he saw. He was up in the back of the truck with Little Gus, whistling, and he let out a low wolf whistle on sight of her, then ducked his head and fiddled with securing his saddle on the top rail.
Johnny had decided to leave his golden dun behind, and Little Gus was nervous about being alone. He moved, and his hooves made a sharp staccato on the wood floor of the truck bed, startling him and making him dance and make more noise. Johnny put a hand on him and spoke soothingly.
Latrice brought a large picnic basket, and Obie put that into the middle of the seat, then he helped Etta into the truck.
“Thank you, Obie.”
He grinned at her as he firmly shut the door. “Good luck to you, Miz Etta.”
Etta thought his words and smile amounted to a blessing. Johnny came around and got behind the wheel. “All ready?”
She nodded, and Johnny started the truck away, slowly, glancing in his rearview mirror and listening for Little Gus, making certain he got his footing in the moving vehicle.
Etta turned to wave out the window at Latrice and Obie standing side by side on the porch. Obie’s hand was around Latrice’s shoulder. The sight of them like that struck her. Obie grinned and waved in return, but Latrice just stood there looking at her, like she always did. “I’ll call you!” Etta yelled.
Then they were going down the drive and up onto the highway. Etta glanced over at Johnny. He laid his hat on top of the picnic basket and let the wind blow his hair.
A sense of relief swept Etta. She hadn’t known until that minute that she’d been worried about a number of things. That the truck might pick that morning to break down, or that it would rain, or that Johnny would be suffering a hangover, or maybe not show up that day at all. She saw his eyes were clear, and he smelled of aftershave and sunshine, not whiskey.
Gazing out the windshield, squinting in the brightness, Etta didn’t know why the day and racing Little Gus was all that important. She could win money, yes, maybe as much as a thousand dollars—Johnny was speculating that morning about the odds and what could be won, and no doubt inflating everything, Etta thought but did not say, not wanting to damper him.
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br /> Just then her eyes met his. His were so bright and warm upon her that she had to turn away or risk throwing her arms around him. She had the curious thought that she had just started her first day around the world, and it seemed as if she had started it riding the red winged horse.
“If wishes were horses”—she heard her mother’s voice, saw her sweet, sad face—”we’d all ride.”
* * *
Chapter 15
The rodeo grounds weren’t much more than a wooden grandstand and some fencing rising up out of the flat bottomland at the edge of town. Even though it was hours before the performance, people were already coming on a bright Sunday afternoon, to visit friends and to be daring in showing off skills and horses, or to watch others be daring in showing off their skills and horses.
Trucks and cars pulled into the surrounding area, bouncing over the grass, parking in a more or less orderly fashion, with men directing participants one way and attendees another. Horses were brought in the beds of pickup trucks, in trailers of wood or steel, and quite a number were ridden to the rodeo. Etta and Johnny passed three groups of riders along the highway.
Johnny, keeping a sharp eye, drove through the clumps of vehicles, trailers, people, and horses to the far side of the arena and grandstands, where he drew to a stop, saying, “This looks like it’s gonna be the place.” At her puzzled expression, he gestured and added, “Those cars and trucks make up the outer line of the racetrack there.”
Looking out the dusty windshield, Etta saw the dirt track made in the flat ground and the vehicles parked in a line at the edge. It looked rather like a string of trucks and cars in a parade.
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