by Brad Smith
The horses were loaded in the gate. There had been two scratches—due to the track conditions, Pete speculated—and the field was down to eight. The route was seven furlongs.
“You make the bets?” Pete asked suddenly.
“I made them.”
Fast Market, the gelding with the cracked hoof, and Chrissie Nugent, the bug girl with the hangover, came out of the five hole flying, took the lead at once, and headed straight for the rail. The lead was four lengths at the clubhouse turn, and in the stretch it was no contest. Chrissie never went to the whip, never needed to, stayed tight to the rail, hunched over the gelding’s neck, her face tucked between his ears. From where he stood, Ray could have sworn she was joking with the animal.
Fast Market won by seven lengths. Chrissie ran the horse out to the first curve, then loped him back to the finish line. Ray was there with Pete Culpepper. Chrissie jumped down lightly, trying to hide a smile.
“So much for our strategy,” Pete said.
“Hey, never let ’em kick mud in your face, that’s my theory,” Chrissie said.
Pete was looking at the hoof. When he straightened up, Ray could see that he was happy.
“Well, I got a mount in the seventh; thanks for the ride,” Chrissie said. She walked past Ray and chucked the gelding under the jaw as she strode away. “See ya, handsome.”
It took Ray a moment to realize she was talking to the horse.
Pete wasn’t sure when he’d run the horse again, so they loaded him into the trailer and took him home. It was well past dark when they arrived back at the Culpepper farm. They’d had a good day financially, with the purse and their winnings and they stopped at the Stevensville Hotel for chicken wings and a pitcher of beer.
Arriving home, Pete put the horse in the barn and gave him grain. Ray backed the trailer around behind the machinery shed and unhooked it, parked the truck, and went inside. Pete was sitting at the kitchen table, some paperwork scattered across the tabletop, along with his winnings and the check for the purse.
Ray put on a pot of coffee and sat down.
“Figuring on a new truck, Pete?”
“No, figuring how to fill a bushel basket with six quarts of potatoes.”
“Today had to help.”
“It didn’t hurt none. That old gelding showed his blood today. Not enough to pay my taxes but—”
“You got your corn to come off yet,” Ray said.
“It won’t amount to much,” Pete told him. “The spring was too wet and the summer too damn dry. Third dry summer in a row. Starting to remind me of Oklahoma back in the ’30s.”
“I somehow doubt you remember Oklahoma back in the ’30s.”
Pete looked over. “Thought you were making coffee.”
When the coffee was ready Ray put the pot on the table, retrieved cups from the cupboard. Pete gathered up his paperwork and tucked it in a drawer beside the sink, then reached into a door just above and brought out a bottle of Cutty Sark. They cut the coffee with the Scotch and sat there at the table. Pete was tired, Ray could see. He had circles under his eyes, and his jowls were heavy with fatigue. Ray realized that he had no idea how old Pete was. Seventy, at least. Maybe seventy-five.
“Stick with the girl, and you might get a couple more wins out of the horse this fall,” Ray said.
“I might at that,” Pete agreed. “I’d breed that other mare in the new year if I had the jack. Horse throws a nice foal.”
Ray sipped at his cup and watched the old man.
“I don’t know,” Pete said. “Maybe I should fold my cards, sell the place off. I never fancied these Canadian winters from the start, and the longer I get in the tooth, the less I like ’em.”
“Where would you go?”
“West Texas, I guess. There’s a woman there who I believe would still be agreeable to my company.”
“You’ve been here—what—twenty-five years. And you figure this woman is still waiting on you? You must have quite an effect on the ladies, Mr. Culpepper.”
Pete jumped to his feet, did a quick two-step around the kitchen.
“Now don’t you doubt me, Raymond,” he said. “There may be snow on the roof, but there’s still fire down below.”
Ray smiled, and he poured more coffee for them both, topped the cups off with the scotch again. Ten minutes later the old man was asleep in his chair. Ray sat in the scant light and finished his drink. It was midnight when he rousted Pete Culpepper and sent him off to bed.
* * *
Monday morning, Dean and Paulie headed back up to London to retrieve the impregnated mare. Paulie was waiting for Dean when he showed up, red-eyed and cranky, at the big farm. Jackson had the trailer hooked to the Ford pickup, ready to go.
“I’ll get you the check,” Jackson said, casting a bad eye on Dean before he went into the house.
“You’re driving,” Dean said to Paulie.
He’d been at the casino Sunday night, with Big Billy Coon and his bunch. In the back room. They’d bet the thoroughbreds out of Santa Anita, then played poker until first light. And they’d drank, everybody except Billy, that is. Billy’s cousins—he seemed to have a never-ending supply of them—had seemed overly interested in Dean’s connection to Earl Stanton and the racehorse business.
It had been a long night, and everybody was pretty much drunk before it’d been half over. Some bad feelings had risen over the card game. Dean had gotten a little mouthy under the liquor; at one point he realized he was very close to a good old-fashioned shit kicking. He seemed to recall Billy Coon stepping in at some point and saving his ass from that eventuality. He had no recall of driving home.
When Jackson came down the front steps with the check, Dean and Paulie were already in the cab of the Ford, Paulie behind the wheel. Jackson handed the envelope over.
“Get a receipt,” he told them.
“Yeah, we never done this before,” Dean said.
“Just get it.”
“We bringing the mare back here or the other farm?” Paulie asked.
Jackson looked to the house a moment. “Better bring her here,” he said. “I’ll see what Sonny wants.”
“Where is he?” Dean asked.
“Well, it’s not noon yet,” Jackson said. “So my guess is he’s still in bed.”
Dean slept, and Paulie drove. That suited Paulie fine; it meant that he could poke along at his own speed and listen to the country station out of Kitchener. He set the cruise control, pulled his hat down low, and kicked back, watched the big Ford eat up the miles.
Paulie loved to drive, although Dean almost never let him behind the wheel. On the road, Paulie always imagined he was heading out on some great adventure, bound for greener pastures. Where those fertile fields might be he had no idea, but that didn’t stop him from thinking about them. Somewhere where people took him seriously, where he had a piece of land to call his own. Maybe a few cows, some chickens in the yard. Maybe a woman like Misty waiting in the house, something good in the oven. Paulie doubted that Misty was much of a cook, though.
Dean was still sleeping when they pulled into the yard at the farm. The mare was in the corral, standing hipshot by the water trough, eyes half closed. The hired hand Jim Burnside came out of the barn when he heard them pull in. He wore a ball cap and carried a pitchfork. He removed the cap to wipe his brow with his sleeve, leaned the fork against the paddock fence.
Dean came to slowly, took a moment to figure out where he was. Paulie was already out of the truck, his foot on the bottom rail of the corral fence, regarding the mare.
“I’m supposed to get a check from you guys,” Jim was saying.
Dean climbed out of the truck, took over.
“I’ll need a receipt.”
Jim took the envelope and walked up to the house. Dean walked over to where Paulie stood.
“Well, we better get her loaded,” Paulie said.
“Let whatsisname Jimmy boy load her. It’s his job.”
“I thought it was our jo
b.”
“Our job is transport. And we’re underpaid at that.”
Jim came out with the receipt, handed it over to Dean, then he and Paulie put the mare in the trailer.
“Well, I hope she throws you boys a nice foal,” Jim said, closing the door. “That stallion has a good record; he’s got a colt making some noise down at Belmont. Two-year-old.”
“Well, maybe we’ll see him,” Dean said. “We’re thinking ’bout running Jumping Jack Flash in the Breeders’ Classic. Just waiting to see how he came out of the Queen Anne’s.”
Paulie smiled. “Yeah, we’re just waiting to see that.”
Dean felt well enough to drive the return trip. Paulie was relegated to shotgun, where his dreams weren’t as real, what with Dean’s bragging and the radio blasting heavy metal. In truth Paulie liked Dean a lot better when he was sleeping.
When they hit the 401 Dean took the envelope from his pocket and opened it to have a look at the receipt. “Fifty grand,” he said. “I thought he was bullshitting me before.”
“That Jim’s a pretty nice guy,” Paulie said.
“He’s a fucking drunk. You see the eyes on him?”
“Yeah, they look like yours.”
“Fuck off.” Dean turned the radio up. A mile down the road, though, the news came on, and Dean turned the volume down.
“What’re you getting a week, Paulie?”
“Five hundred.”
Five hundred dollars a week, Dean thought. Jesus wept. Dean was getting six and living in near poverty. Buying fake Armani suits, living in a cheap apartment. Driving his uncle’s car, for Christ’s sake.
“What’re you getting?” Paulie asked.
“Same as you,” Dean said at once.
“What—you thinking about asking for a raise?”
“I’m thinking about something. You got any idea how much money we’re dealing with here? Shit, I bet Sonny goes through five grand a week in pocket change. Way he gambles.”
“Yeah, well Sonny’s got a lot of money.”
“Sonny doesn’t have two nickels to rub together. He’s never worked a day in his life. It’s all the old man’s money. Where we gonna be in five years, Paulie?”
“I don’t know about you, but I’d like to have a little place of my own.”
“Be an awful small place on five hundred a week.”
* * *
When they arrived back at the home farm Dean and Paulie knew right away that something was up. A couple of strange cars were parked in front of the house, stopped at odd angles as if they’d been parked in a hurry. Jackson, walking quickly from the barn to the house as they pulled up, never favored them with as much as a glance. Dean and Paulie got out of the truck, unloaded the mare, and put her in the corral behind the barn. When they walked out of the barn Jackson was coming across the yard, headed for his truck.
“Sonny wants to see you guys,” he said.
“What’s going on?” Dean asked.
“The old man’s had a stroke,” Jackson said, and he started the truck and drove out of the yard.
Sonny was in the kitchen, eating a ham sandwich at the table and drinking beer from a pilsner glass. He had his hair tied back in a ponytail. There were two men in suits in the dining room, speaking in hushed tones, papers strewn across the table in front of them. Dean sat down across from Sonny, folded his hands on the tabletop. Paulie stood inside the door.
“How bad is it?” Dean asked.
Sonny shrugged, his mouth full. “They’re doing some tests,” he said around the ham. “Right now he can’t talk, and he’s flat on his back.”
“Where is he?”
“Still in the Bahamas. They’re not gonna move him, not for a while, anyway.”
“Is he gonna be all right?” Paulie asked.
“What the fuck I look like—a doctor?” Sonny asked. “Either he’ll be all right or he won’t. Maybe he’ll be a veg, who knows? One way or the other, we’re still in business. I’m taking over the horse operation. Which means Jackson is gonna answer to me, and you guys are gonna start pulling your weight. This isn’t some halfway house for fucked-up relatives.”
“If they start firing fucked-up relatives, won’t you be the first to go?” Dean asked.
Sonny was drinking. He put the glass down slowly. “Don’t fuck with me, Dean,” he said. “As of today, I’ve got full authority. And you’re gonna walk the straight and narrow, you and Bozo over by the door there. You think you’re indispensable? You can drive a truck and shovel horseshit. I could train a couple of apes to do that.”
Paulie was looking at the floor. Dean got to his feet.
“That what you wanted to tell us?” he asked.
“I wanted to tell you that things have changed,” Sonny said. He pushed his plate away, leaned back in his chair.
The two lawyers appeared in the doorway then, side by side. For a moment Dean thought they might get stuck there, like two-thirds of the Stooges.
“Well?” Sonny said when they didn’t speak.
“We’ll need the medical records,” the first lawyer said.
“Then get them,” Sonny said, and he looked at Dean and Paulie. “You boys got something to do? I imagine Jackson’s got stalls need shoveling.”
* * *
It was dark when Dean and Paulie finished cleaning the stalls. They would have been done earlier if Dean had spent more time shoveling and less time leaning on his shovel, complaining about shoveling.
It helped that Paulie worked hard enough for the pair of them. When they were finished he was drenched in sweat. He ran the wheelbarrow outside, hosed it clean, did the same with the shovels. Back inside, Dean was smoking a cigarette, watching Jumping Jack Flash in his stall.
“Better not let Jackson catch you smoking in the barn,” Paulie said.
“Fuck Jackson.”
Paulie walked over, leaned his elbows on the top rail, and looked at the bay. The horse was standing smack in the middle of the stall, not looking at Paulie or Dean either, just staring off haughtily at nothing at all, as if nothing there was worthy of his gaze. His ears were straight up, and his jaw was set, the full jowls impressive. Every now and then the huge muscles in his forelegs would twitch under the copper skin.
“He’s a beauty, isn’t he?” Paulie said.
“A beauty?” Dean said. “You know what that motherfucker’s gonna be worth if he wins the Classic?”
“I don’t know. Thousands, I guess.”
Dean snorted. “Try millions. As in twenty, thirty million. Shit, he’ll be standing stud for a quarter mil a pop.”
“You’d never know it to look at him,” Paulie said. “He seems like just any other horse. Funny, isn’t it?”
“What’s funny is that Sonny’s gonna own him if the old man dies,” Dean said. “I’ll tell you something else. Sonny is gonna find a way to get rid of us, Paulie.”
“You really think so, Dean?”
Dean walked to the window to look at the house. “I got a feeling we’re already gone.”
9
Homer was lying on his bed, fully dressed, wide awake and scared. He couldn’t get his thoughts straight today. Worse yet, he had no recollection of yesterday. The clock beside his bed said ten o’clock, but he couldn’t remember if he’d had breakfast, or even been downstairs yet. He’d had a feeling for some time now that he was suffering a fever, and that as soon as the fever passed, his mind would clear.
He rolled over and looked at the wallpaper. He decided to play the Clear Springs course in his head: he thought if he could play the whole eighteen, his fever would pass. The first hole was a straight par four, 390 yards. Gotta watch that pine on the left off the tee; the green was bunkered front left, so the best approach was from the right anyway. Driver off the tee and then a five wood in. Chip and a putt for par. Second hole was a little dogleg left, hit a long iron out into the middle, and then it was just a flip in. Short was better than long, the green running up the hill. On the third hole he hit his dr
ive into the right rough, and then he started thinking about the spring plowing and he couldn’t get his mind back to the course. After a while he went back to the first tee and started over.
* * *
Etta was vacuuming when Homer came down the stairs, his eyes wet. He sat unsteadily in the big chair by the bay window and looked out over the fallow field to the north. When Etta shut the vacuum down she heard the hammering from the barn. Homer heard it too, and he turned toward her.
“That’ll be the Monroe brothers,” he said. “Come to put up the chicken house.”
Etta went into the kitchen to look out the window. From there she could see an extension ladder against the front wall of the barn. At the bottom of the ladder was Ray Dokes’s Cadillac, and at the top of the ladder was Ray Dokes. When she turned around, her father was watching her expectantly from the other room.
“It’s the Monroe brothers,” she said. “Come to put up the chicken house.”
Etta took her jacket from a chair and went outside. It was a cool morning, and she buttoned the coat as she walked across the lawn. She stopped a few feet from the barn and watched him a moment.
Ray had pried a metal patch from the roof and was fixing the hole beneath properly with cedar shingles.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
He replied without looking down, like he knew she was there. “What do I think I’m doing? I know what I’m doing.”
“Must be a strange feeling, for you.”
He turned to look at her. “Well, I’m gonna try not to analyze it too much.”
“Who asked you to fix my barn roof?”
He slipped a shingle into place, drove home two nails as he pondered the question. “Maybe I’m a Samaritan. Didn’t you ever read the good book?”
She went back inside, and Ray went back to work. There was maybe a dozen tin patches nailed here and there over the roof. He removed them one by one, tossed the tin down to the yard below, and reshingled the bad spots in the roof. It took him all morning. The day warmed as the sun climbed high, and soon he was down to his shirtsleeves.
By noon he was on the back side of the barn, out of sight of the house, finishing up. He’d heard a vehicle pull in the driveway thirty minutes earlier, heard a door slam when someone got out. He patched the last hole. It was pure luck and not good management that he ran out of shingles at just about the same time he ran out of places to fix.