Lord of Misrule

by Jaimy Gordon

  THEN THEY WERE WALKING to the track, Hansel in front, the girl leading the one red horse, Medicine Ed leading the other a few lengths back. The tall old groom dragged his stiff right leg lightly through the gravel, mumbling some old song to himself or the horse. It was a maiden race for a cheap price and these two horses, though you could not easily tell them apart, stood well out from the other horses. Both were chunky and solid, both the red of weather-beaten fire hydrants, with big square chests and a heavy, easy way of going. The Mahdi even pranced, in all his big red cheer, wearing his burnished chest like a Torah breastplate. Mr Boll Weevil went more stylishly, his mane braided and knotted and his feet prettily oiled, for he had a groom of the old school. The others? They were shufflers with their heads hanging down like plough animals, or tremblers, or rearers, their scared penises battened out of sight in purses of loose gray skin, underbellies awash in yellow foam.

  The paddock judge flipped up the horses' lips and read their tattoos, the jockeys were lifted into the saddle. Hansel and the girl were standing at the walking ring when they saw Zeno. They whispered to each other, got a where-did-he-come-from look, and Medicine Ed, watching from under the clubhouse overhang, noted they ain't happy.

  …

  Why didn't you tell me Zeno was here?

  I didn't know, the girl said. He must have been hiding.

  What's he doing here? He can't be betting that horse.

  Why not? Maggie said. Maybe he's been schooling him on the quiet. That's what I was telling you.

  Don't be dumb. It's a nothing horse and he knows it. The horse wouldn't be worth the trouble. Maybe he's hoping to draw a claim.

  This reminded Hansel he was worried about drawing a claim himself-though it was too late to do anything about it-but still he scoured the fringe of seedy horseplayers that milled around the outside of the walking ring in their rumpled jackets and stingy brims for a familiar vulture, and found none.

  Now their two horses went off to the track, and Zeno, whether his company was desired or not, smiling like a man giving a banquet, joined Hansel at the rail. Gus Zeno, who was born in McKeesport, Pennsylvania, liked to dress like a rich rancher: he wore a string tie and a silver belt buckle on which was tooled G / Z between a pair of longhorn skulls. The buckle bit deep into his belly. His cord-piped light blue jacket bunched poorboy style under his arms. Next to this finery, the coiled leather shank in his hand looked small and plain.

  All bums except our two, Zeno panted to Hansel. It's a match race.

  And one of them's a bum too, Hansel said, smiling, and then he stopped smiling. He was looking at the coiled-up shank in Zeno's hand. It was an ordinary, indifferently cared for piece of tack, used for leading a horse anywhere, any time. Medicine Ed was standing under the clubhouse overhang some way off, holding another shank just like it. No racehorse needs two shanks.

  Goddamnit, Zeno, Hansel said, you bought my horse.

  He's a very, very good horse for the money, Zeno said. But you know, Tommy, I like my horse in this race. Sure he's a bum, but the price is right and he likes the distance.

  Damn it, Hansel said. Damn it to hell. He didn't raise his voice, but his eyes were wild. He was pacing up and down the gap, looking at Zeno as if there might be some hole in the deal, some clause or sleight of hand he hadn't yet thought of. But then he burst out raggedly laughing.

  Hey, Tommy, this business will run you crazy, Zeno said, slapping him on the back. They stood there together with their backs to the clubhouse, looking at the tote board.

  IT WAS MOST PECULIAR, them two big heavy-head red youngsters just like twins, save how one was wearing that number 4 with green silks for Zeno, and the other, that number 2 and red and purple, for the young fool. Zeno come out of the clubhouse to saddle the horse, his pop-eyes shining. What could it mean save that Zeno had been to the windows, getting down heavy on his own horse? Mr Boll Weevil went on toepoints to the track and so did his ringer in front of him, his might-could-be twin brother owned by that young fool. But the horse goofer had been made up for one horse and one horse only.

  Under the clubhouse overhang, Medicine Ed, too, watched the tote board. The two horses kept trading back and forth, 6-1, 11-2, 5-1, 6-1. Praise Jesus, the folks with the money liked another horse entirely. The frizzly hair girl flew in her holey sneakers up into the grandstand. The young fool ain't even see her go.

  Two minutes to post and now the young fool also went off to bet. It happen him and Medicine Ed hit the windows at the same time. From his eye corner Medicine Ed couldn't see, to the fifty-dollar window, exactly how much come off that roll, but the young fool was in for a bundle.

  Medicine Ed was fading away down the center stair to the lower deck when the young fool taken him by the shoulder. I like the way you handle horses, he say. Whatever Zeno pays you, I'll add a dime to that. My woman, you saw her, she's strong as a horse, he smiled, but I need an experienced hand.

  I done work for Mr. Zeno eight years now, Medicine Ed said, and he has been good to me.

  You think about it, the young fool say, and Medicine Ed say: I think about it. What he don't say: Gus Zeno gone be here tomorrow. Gus Zeno gone be here next year and three years from now. Where will you be? And more he don't say: I done heard that run-crazy laugh, I seen you throw the frizzly girl in the dirt for talking her mind. In the name of the Holy Ghost, let this man go home to hell where he come from, let him take away that Devil he's carrying, and keep me wide of a boss such as that.

  For he liked the frizzly hair girl a little better now. Old Deucey had spied into the heart of this young woman and seen there slavery of the man-woman kind. Medicine Ed could see the chains on the girl. They were thick and heavy as railroad couplings, but they lay in a loose necklace round her neck and shoulders. She was no little bitty silky thing. The weight of them chains had raised muscles on her. She had a long bird neck with strong cords in it, and square shoulders. And Medicine Ed saw this: While the young fool ain't looking-suddenly he had something else, probably the money he fixing to lose, on his mind-the frizzly hair girl lifted the heavy chains off her shoulders like a daisy chain and laid them down again. She stepped out from the place where the young fool thought she was and run away on goofered feet up into the clubhouse, gone to play some other horse than the master play. She was a slave but she had the power to ride the grandstand just like the master do, if she see her chance.

  Gates clang open and Mr Boll Weevil, he is looking for a home all right. He's still looking around that gate like he's thinking about putting up wallpaper in it, making a down payment on a living room suit, moving in for life. Finally he drops his big head and it soaks in that all them other horses have done already gone and left him behind. He takes off running, passing horses right and left, and you can see he ain't half trying yet. He just eats holes for hisself between them other animals in his weevilly way.

  But the young fool's red horse has long since flew to the rail and all Ed can see is the dusty thunder under his red behind, barreling round the clubhouse turn. Then Medicine Ed blinks his eyes and he is into the back stretch. The horse has some speed, Jesus take me home, that horse be at the half-mile pole already heading into the far turn-and he is five lengths in front, going on six, by the time Mr Boll Weevil comes creeping. If this keeps up, Medicine Ed is gone to lose his lucky money, never mind how much goofer powder he has thrown.

  Meanwhile Mr Boll Weevil has steadily climbed up the rest of the racetrack in his sideways-frontways weevilly way. He passes all the rest of the pack but he's still running in the red dust of the young fool's horse. He ain't gaining on him, just hanging four, five lengths behind him, and the young fool's horse look like loping out there, jogging down the medder for a morning look-around.

  And then it's like Medicine Ed has called the race. The young fool's horse does just that. He looks around. He pulls up at the head of the stretch, drifts out from the rail, maybe eyeballing all the white paper flapping in the grandstand, which is all them people looking at they
cards, trying to make out who that 2 horse is. What is the matter with that boy on his back? Well, now he comes to life, busting on the horse. But Mr Boll Weevil has crawled up on the inside in his weevilly way, eats along the rail, gets his ugly red nose in first.

  Medicine Ed and Zeno pass the young fool in the gap on their way to the infield. Hansel has a torn-in-half look in his burning eye, like he aspires to be freehearted and to exult with Zeno, but he ain't able. Well, Zeno, that's the last time a nothing horse beats The Mahdi, he hollers.

  I ain't worried, Zeno says, and they shake hands. The frizzly girl has slipped away to cash her tickets. Medicine Ed sees the young fool's hands are trembling.

  When they got to the winner's circle, it was just the two of them. Soon as the young fool was out of sight, Zeno blew it out his top like a factory whistle, so only Medicine Ed could hear. Jeezie peezie, Ed! I got us a live one this time. Did you see the way that horse run?

  Sho is, sho is. He pay pretty good too. I see he gone off a little on his right behind foot… Medicine Ed craned up on his good leg, gazed at the hot horse that the jockey was jogging back to them. He wanted to set Zeno down gently, let him know he won't have this horse much longer.

  Not this one, man! Boll Weevil ain't shit. I mean The Mahdi. Hansel's horse. The one I claimed. Zeno shook the extra shank at him.

  The one I claimed. How had he missed it? Zeno never said a word in front to nobody when he was fixing to take a horse, but generally Medicine Ed would see it coming. Mr Boll Weevil had blinded his eye. Now fierce dread fingered him in the back of his neck, for he recognized the confusing and riddlesome power of the gray green goofer dust. You know it gone change your luck, they it is, but what it will change into, that you cannot know.

  You're going down and get him for me in a minute, soon as Stieglitz here gets his camera loaded. The track photographer was fussing with his plates. Treat him like Kelso, you hear? He run a half mile in under 45, and if there'd been a jock on his back instead of a sofa he would have kept on running at the sixteenth pole. He wasn't used up. He thought the goddamn race was over.

  The photographer was finally ready and Gus Zeno smiled tremendous into the camera. Medicine Ed smiled a little too, even with them icy fingers in the back of his neck. He was relieved Zeno didn't set too much store by his own horse, for solid as Mr Boll Weevil looked now, standing there blowing and sweating, Zeno was sure to lose him.

  Still, the horse had paid 13.40. Zeno had the red horse he had claimed, and his own bet, and the purse. And Medicine Ed could pay a little down on a trailer he knew about in Hallandale, in the old lot for colored behind Major Longstreet Park.

  I already made my nut on Boll Weevil, Zeno preened. If he win one or two more on top of his maiden, that's gravy, but Tommy Hansel's horse, Ed-that one's a raceho-ho-ho-Gus Zeno got stuck on that word. He tried to wheeze his way around it-ho-ho-ho-ho-His lips peeled back and set in that wet red O, and his eyes bulged out of their dark rose rims. Medicine Ed leaned around to look down his throat. The flash drenched them in white and Gus Zeno was still stuck behind that word-ho-ho-ho-His happy face went plum color, then black.

  Medicine Ed saw what it was. Luck, a ho if there ever was one, got her bony fingers in his throat and was pulling on that word. She wanted that word back. Zeno wasn't giving it up. He tried to go the other way but she pulled and pulled. She pulled him flat over on his face. He was still kicking a little behind. You want your luck? There's your damn luck, she say. And he was dead.

  Medicine Ed looked up and saw the young fool, with his eyes like burnt-out stove coals, standing empty-handed in the gap. Then he saw himself in the time to come, hauling five-gallon buckets for the young fool, bandaging ankles on his doomed horses, walking hots for him, waiting for the fall.

  That was when Medicine Ed finally heard what Mr Boll Weevil had been trying to tell him. He's looking for a home. That was one way of singing that song. Gonna get your home. That was another. Gray green goofer powder hanging on the wind: Wasn't no big win and free money that Mr Boll Weevil was singing to him about. It was the passing of Gus Zeno. And it wasn't no new home for Medicine Ed he was bragging on, no down payment on a little mobile home with a green stripe awning and a palm tree behind the track in Hallandale. It was the end of the good home he do have. It was goodbye to the easy life he know now.

  THE RACETRACK ASLEEP AT NIGHT is a live and spooky place, especially if you think somebody might jump out at you, and she did think so-small world that ends at a fence, the dark blue restless air fragrant with medicinals, Absorbine, liniment, pine tar-everywhere light chains clanking, water buckets creaking and sloshing, round glimmers of water, horses masticating or snorting out dust, straw rustling, skinny cats glimpsed everywhere but only for a moment, always in motion, noiseless. She could not make herself walk in a straight line to Barn Z without stopping, stiffening, seeing something move in the corner of her eye, feeling a strand of fine cobweb blow across her face.

  They had no horse to bring back from their race. There was a queer feeling of empty-handedness and when she looked up again, Tommy wasn't there. She had wandered away across the backside, looked in on Miss F in one barn and Railroad Joe in another. She espied the handsome blacksmith Kidstuff drawing a red-haired exercise girl into the shadows. She stepped into other shadows, the better to look on.

  She was a little scared to go home, not that they had a home-they had only that tack room for the night, but they had already managed to wake up the flesh in there, they were good at that, and so had surely awakened, too, the animal ghosts that were everywhere you looked on the racetrack, and everywhere you didn't look, restless and hungry but off their feed forever, mouths that couldn't taste food, the shades of so many large animals, stirrings of so many throwaway lives.

  Scared to get to Barn Z, she loitered in the dark of the unlit parking lot fence beside Barns X and Y, the twenty-odd stalls of the leading trainer at the Mound, whose hot-walking machine, JOE DALE BIGG STABLES stencilled on its housing, squeaked all day in the back gate and was still idly turning, whose horses looked like shit-dry dung puckering their flanks, straw dangling from their tails-but who knew how to win at a riverfront half-mile track in the West Virginia panhandle. She wondered had she seen this paragon of cut-price horsemanship, peered up his shedrows, what would he look like? when she heard a noise that eased her back into the shadows, a sound that, come to think of it, you didn't hear around the backside near enough-some man or woman crying.

  Then here was Deucey Gifford, and that little bay horse again, pretty as a palfrey, and she was walking him, one arm slung over his neck, her face next to his, and crying. She was walking him on somebody else's shedrow, after midnight, which made no sense, since he hadn't been to the races, just plodded sleepily along. And along side of her, rolling so slow in the dirt road it made less sound than her weeping, just popping a stone now and then, was a dark, dark car with a swanky silver roof, a Cadillac, Maggie surmised, but she couldn't see who was driving it.

  You fuck! Deucey sobbed. I'll rub him for nothing, when I got the time, but you can't make me take this horse.

  You're taking him.

  I ain't taking him.

  I hate this horse. You're taking him. He's your horse, Deucey. He'll win for you. You don't know how much I'd like to dump him at the fairs, use him up, finish him, but the horse owes me.

  I ain't scared of you. I don't owe you nothing. I ain't taking him.

  They turned the corner of the shedrow.

  Deucey, who didn't scare, so scared of a man in a dark Cadillac she was crying. His calm, insistent, fake-reasonable voice-New York, not West Virginia-scared Maggie too. And Maggie was scared of Tommy. She was scared to find out how much money he had lost, scared to let him see her own wallet bulging with cash from a bet on the other man's-the dead man's-horse, even though she could call it a sensible hedge of his own bet and put it at his disposal. She was scared to see him in any weakness, scared to let him see her seeing him. It felt like turning t
he key, fatal whir and crunch of tumblers, on Bluebeard's locked room. But that was crazy-why should she even think of such a thing?

  She had a sense that his kingly pride would suffer no abridgement. It was a complete world, but it was a flat world too-one pure unmitigated plane of being, all the way to the edge, where you fell off. Then it was all void, all menace. He had a beautiful feline walk, spare, athletic, no cowboy loose-jointedness about it, but there was something odd about his hands. They curled backwards behind his wrists, hiding themselves, as if they knew they were not to be trusted. She knew, herself, that they did not always mean her well. They knew how to do many things, or rather, they knew how to do one thing, how to tame animals, but this they did from a whole forest of angles, and always on sufferance, for under their gentleness was threat.

  Or maybe it was all on account of the way she and Tommy had first met, why she should fear he would spring out at her and bring her down. Two years ago she had been living in a little house with only cold water in the kitchen, down by the two rivers at Harper's Ferry, on the Maryland side, and when she got dirty enough she would walk a couple miles down the canal tow path to the youth hostel late at night and feel for the key on a hook under the eaves and take a shower. Hazel, the Irish girl who ran the place, was used to her and wouldn't even get up to see who it was, and anyway Hazel was away a lot herself those days. Maggie liked her. She was a slight, grinning, hard-handed, never-say-die young woman in an orphan boy's chopped haircut, the kind of woman who would have cheerfully run a hospital for amputees during the war.

  This night when Maggie passed by Sandy Hook, fog rose in a white loaf out of the river, such that she couldn't see her own feet clapping along the towpath. They sounded wrapped in gauze and faraway, and when she finally spotted the bare electric bulb glowing fuzzily on the lintel of the youth hostel, she had somehow got it on her right hand side, so why hadn't she fallen into the canal? She made for it, one wary step at a time, and when her hand groped the crumbly shingles for the key, it came on another hand. And something queer happened: their two hands seized each other fast, and before they had ever really looked at each other, Maggie and Tommy embraced, or at least clinched like boxers.