by Nikki Tate
Grandma’s cool hand smoothes my hair back from my forehead. “Shhh. It was just a dream.”
I’m drenched in sweat. At Grandma’s touch, my head relaxes into the pillow. Will the nightmares ever stop?
A nightmare of another kind tortures me the next day when I hear my mother yelling out in the driveway. Grandma opens the front door and waves her in.
“Where is he? What the hell does he think he’s doing?”
Counting the minutes until she leaves again is what I’m doing. Mom stomps up the front steps. She pushes past Grandma and drops her purse on the floor. “Do you think you can get away with this?” she asks, waving an envelope at me. The report card. “I don’t know what to do with you! Say something! Don’t you care?”
About what she thinks? No.
Mom turns to Grandma, who has closed the door and is now perched on the edge of the couch. “Ma, how can you let him get away with this? You’re supposed to be the responsible adult here. And if you can’t handle him, then you should have let me know there was a problem so—”
“So, what, Angel? So you could smack him around? Lock him in his room? Don’t smoke in here.”
Mom jabs her cigarette back into the package and drops the pack on the coffee table. “Damn it, Ma. You’re supposed to be looking after him. That includes making sure he goes to school.”
“I do go to school!”
“And what do you do there? Sleep?”
“Angel, calm down,” Grandma says. “Would you like some coffee?”
Mom’s eyes flick to the cigarettes on the table and she nods. “Sure. Yeah. Why not?”
The entire time Grandma is in the kitchen, Mom is in lecture mode.
“Do you want to wind up in some dead-end job making barely enough money to keep a roof over your head? Is that your plan? Do you even have a plan? How do you think you’re even going to graduate with grades like these? You are nothing without a high school diploma. Nothing!”
The best strategy is to keep quiet. I stare at the edge of the coffee table until it starts to wobble and dissolve. I blink and the edge comes back into focus. The worst thing is, I know Mom’s just getting warmed up. Me winding up in a dead-end job is not her real worry.
Grandma finally comes back and sets two coffee mugs on the table. “Angel. Do you really think yelling is going to help?”
“Whatever you’re doing isn’t helping! Have you seen these grades?”
She thrusts the paper at Grandma. “It’s disgusting! Obviously, he’s not even trying.”
Grandma shoots me a look over the top of the report card. “He got a B in art and another in phys ed.”
Mom jumps to her feet, banging her shin on the coffee table. She lets out a string of curse words and then points at Grandma. “Bs in art and phys ed? What the hell use is that to anybody? Do you think there are any jobs out there for a high-school dropout who likes to doodle?”
I can’t help it. One side of my mouth twitches. She sounds ridiculous.
“You’re laughing? You think this is funny? This is not funny. You obviously can’t see how serious this is. And you”— she turns back to Grandma—”I trusted you to look after him! Taking him to the track is not—”
Here it comes.
“Angel, sit down.” Grandma’s quiet voice is scarier than all of Mom’s screeching. Mom does what she’s told and sinks into the couch. How does Grandma do that?
“Spencer lives here because living with you is not an option.” She says this so calmly I think for a moment that she’s going to get away with it. But then Mom is on her feet again.
“I’m his mother! Living with me should be the only option! You are doing a lousy job of bringing him up! Look at these grades!” She whips the page back and forth like she’s trying to kill flies with it.
“Angel. That’s enough! You are in my house. This yelling must stop now.” Grandma draws the last three words out and, once again, my mother sits. “I agree— the report card leaves a lot to be desired. But Spencer has always had trouble at school; this is not news.”
My mom starts to say something, but Grandma holds up her hand like she’s directing traffic. Mom’s mouth snaps shut again.
“Screaming at Spencer isn’t going to do a bit of good. If you take him home to try to yell at him some more there...well, you know what will happen.”
We all know what will happen. I’ll walk out the door and be back at Grandma’s before Mom has taken a deep breath.
“Spencer.” Grandma looks directly at me. “What do you think about all this?”
What do I think about all this? I think my mother is a nutcase. I think I hate school. I think I want to be anywhere but in the same room as my lunatic mother. I think I want to be down at the track. All I can offer, though, is a shrug. At least the urge to laugh has passed.
Grandma sighs. “I’m getting too old for this.”
I look up. I hate it when Grandma talks about getting old. I’d be up the creek without a paddle if anything ever happened to her.
“I could maybe find out about that school that Em goes to...” I’m grasping at straws, but I don’t want Grandma to feel like she has to take Mom on alone.
Grandma smiles. “Funny you should bring that up. I was talking to Scampy about Em’s school just the other day.”
So that’s what they were talking about.
“Em? Is that the girl from the track?” My mom says the work track like it tastes disgusting.
“Em goes to ALC—the Alternative Learning Center,” Grandma says.
Mom’s nostrils flare and her top lip curls. “Oh, great idea. The school for bad kids.”
Grandma purses her lips and takes in a long slow breath through her nose. “Angel, the program offers a very flexible timetable. There’s extra help for the kids in the subjects they have trouble with—”
“Ma, over my dead body. Read my lips: N-O. Spencer has enough problems as it is. Schools like that are where drug addicts and teenage moms and losers go.”
“Sounds like the perfect school for me, don’t you think?” I say to my mother, who glares at me like I’m some kind of insect.
“Spencer, do you enjoy taunting me?”
I don’t. But I can’t seem to help myself.
A Beatles tune starts playing in Mom’s purse. She reaches down between her feet and fishes out her cell phone. She glances at the display and says, “It’s Jerry.”
The newest boyfriend. A guy with a bad back who lies around a lot because he’s on some sort of long-term disability leave from his job in a warehouse.
“Hi, honey. Sure, I’ll pick some up on the way home. No, I won’t be long. I think we’re about done here. Love you. Bye!”
She snaps the phone shut. “Jerry’s waiting. Call me with a plan. Because if you don’t have a plan, you need to come home where I can keep an eye on you and keep you away from the track. Because I know it’s the goddamn track and all the losers who hang out there that have got you into this mess. That place—” She pauses and the lines around her mouth harden. “That place killed your father. Why are you so determined to follow in his footsteps?”
With that, she sweeps her cigarettes off the coffee table and stalks out the front door. None of us says good-bye.
Grandma reaches over and ruffles my hair with her fingertips. “I’m sorry, Spencer.” I don’t know why she’s apologizing. Mom is an adult. She should figure out how to behave better.
I sigh. For a moment I even think that maybe I should find something else to do. The thought is too strange. How could I leave the track? And what if the worst did happen? Is it so bad to die doing something you love?
“It’s too bad your mother’s way of grieving is so hard on the rest of us. Give her time, Spencer.”
Time? How much more time? Why can’t Grandma see that Mom was crazy before Dad died? The accident might have made things worse, but no amount of time is going to make her better.
“Don’t look so glum.” Grandma switches gears. �
�That school Em goes to might not be a bad idea. Why don’t you check on the Internet and see if there’s a counselor available during the summer? We should at least have all our facts straight before we talk to your mother again.”
I nod. Having the facts straight won’t make any difference. My mother looks at me and sees my dad, a man who died when a young horse kicked his face into his brain. His accident and my crummy report card are the only facts she cares about.
chapter thirteen
“So, how’d he feel, Stretch?” Em asks as I slide off Lordy and she takes the reins.
“Ha, ha, ha.” Lordy felt like a bomb about to go off. Of course. Today was a walk day for him. Em knows very well the horse is just fine sauntering around the Loop, a two-mile trail that wraps around the outside of the racetrack grounds. It’s great for the horses to have a change of scenery. They seem to enjoy strolling down by the river and alongside the big field just north of the track. Lordy had yesterday off—a quick turn-out in the sand pen for a roll while Em did his stall, and then back inside. He was raring to go and would have charged around the Loop if I’d let him.
“I need a drink,” I say, heading into the tack room. I grab a can of iced tea and sip while Em gets Twitter ready. I double-check the whiteboard to see if Scampy has added anything since I looked earlier this morning. Good thing I do. Beside Breeze quick ¼, he’s added Gate. That’s where we’ll start, with some practice at the starting gate. Twitter hasn’t been with Scampy for long. She was racing in Alberta and only arrived a few weeks ago.
“Hurry up in there,” Em calls. “You know how patient she is!”
Out in the aisle, Twitter tosses her head and paws the ground. “Behave!” Em says, giving the reins a sharp tug. “Come on!”
I refasten my helmet strap and pick up my whip. Em and I spin in place as she gives me a leg up and the filly turns in a tight circle around us.
“Jeez, this horse is a pain!” Em says, holding onto the bridle a moment longer as I pick up the reins and nudge my boots into the stirrups.
Twitter dances all the way down the aisle and out the door at the end of the barn. She walks sideways as we reach the end of the building. She flips her head and lets out a couple of huge snorts.
“Easy, easy...” I draw the words out and keep my voice low and calm. She hardly seems to notice. Her coat glistens with a sheen of sweat as we reach the entrance to the track.
I let her trot and then canter a slow couple of laps. Then we make our way to where the starting gate stands ready at the end of the track. Several other horses walk circles in the area behind the gate, waiting their turns to load.
The starting-gate crew works quickly and calmly to load one horse into the gate. The starter makes notes on a clipboard. Horses that don’t load safely aren’t allowed to race.
When it’s our turn, one of the assistants at the gate slides a length of webbing through the bit ring and leads us forward. Two others link arms behind Twitter. She tosses her head, but doesn’t make too much of a fuss until the padded doors are pushed closed behind her. We’re trapped inside a narrow chute barely wide enough for a horse and rider. We can’t go forward until the starter opens the doors at the front. We can’t back out after the guys lock us in from behind.
Without warning, a thousand pounds of pent-up racehorse energy explodes. There’s nowhere to go but straight up. On both sides of me, the guys scramble to help calm the filly.
Twitter’s sides heave, and she thrashes back and forth. Then, it seems like she has settled. I count to three and nod at the starter, who releases the front barrier. In that exact moment Twitter goes nuts again. She launches herself up and forward. Off balance, she plunges out of the gate and loses her footing.
Her shoulder drops. The dirt rises to meet my face. I have a crazy flash of my nightmare, of my head drilling into the track. The next thing I know, I’m flat on my back, staring up into a blazing-hot blue sky.
“Spencer! Jeez, you gave us a scare.” Scampy kneels in the dirt beside me. There’s a paramedic on my other side.
Spencer. Yes. That would be my name. My head feels like someone split it open with an axe. I reach up and my fingers touch my helmet.
“Lie still, son,” the paramedic says.
“I’m fine,” I mumble.
Scampy unsnaps my helmet. Someone else takes it off while another person holds my neck still. I realize there are actually two paramedics.
They put a stiff collar around my neck and slide me onto something that’s more like a board than a stretcher.
“Hey, I’m fine, really.” I wiggle my toes to prove it.
“Better safe than sorry, Spencer,” Scampy says. “They’ll take you to the emergency clinic and check you over. You’ll be back at work in no time.”
The paramedics slide me and my board into the back of the ambulance.
“I’ll call your grandmother. She’ll catch up with you there.”
“Is Twitter okay?”
Scampy nods. “That’s just what your dad would have said. Raymond always worried about the horse first. She’s fine.” The ambulance door clicks shut. Scampy’s words about my dad are strangely comforting during the short drive to the clinic.
Grandma arrives right after I get back from having my head X-rayed.
“Spencer,” she says. “What were you thinking?” She smiles and kisses my cheek. “The idea is to keep the filly on her feet. She’ll never win a race coming out of the gate like that!”
“Scampy told you what happened?”
“Do I need to call your mother?” Grandma asks.
“No.” I hope Grandma agrees.
“I didn’t think so. At least, not just now. I saw the doctor out front. You haven’t broken anything.”
“Well, hallelujah!” Scampy says, pushing his head through the curtains. “Good help is hard to find!”
Grandma seems to bring out the best in Scampy.
“How’s the patient?” Em asks, crowding into the cubicle after Scampy.
“Shouldn’t you be feeding some horse?” I ask.
“You want me to leave?”
“Looks like Stretch is feeling better,” Scampy jokes. “How long do you have to stay here?”
“They want to watch me for a little longer. But they don’t want me here overnight.”
“When can you come back to work?” Em asks. Scampy gives her a little shove.
“Get your priorities straight,” Scampy says.
Grandma looks from me to Em and back to me. “I think her priorities are straight enough.” She looks at her watch and then at Scampy. “I tell you, I’m losing it.” She laughs. “In the time it took to walk from the car to here I almost forgot about the parking out there! Do you have change for a twenty?”
Scampy raises an eyebrow and takes a break in his gum chewing.
“I’m in the short-term emergency spot,” Grandma explains. “I have to move the car, and the meters only take change.”
Scampy’s cheeks puff out and he starts chewing again. “It’s all wrong, charging for parking at a hospital.” He digs in his pockets and gives Grandma a handful of coins.
The curtain swings shut behind Grandma. Em plunks herself down on the bed. Em and Scampy look at me like I’m supposed to say something. So I do.
“Scampy—”
“That’s my name. Don’t wear it out.”
“You know what you said about my dad thinking about the horse first?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it’s true. I do try to do that.”
“I know. I like that about you. The filly is fine. Not a mark on her. Stop worrying about her. Worry about getting better.”
“Yeah,” Em pipes up. “So you can get back to work.”
I swallow hard and push on. “I’m not talking about Twitter...”
“Then what?”
“Oh, Spencer!” Em says.
Surely even Scampy wouldn’t fire me in the emergency room.
“I need to know what you
and Tony are giving Lordy.”
Scampy’s jaw drops like I punched him in the mouth.
“Is this about that day you saw me coming out of Lordy’s stall?”
I nod. I’ve caught him by surprise. Maybe he’ll confess.
“Spencer, it’s lucky you are lying in a hospital bed or I’d smack you upside the head right about now.”
Em’s back stiffens.
“I would never—I repeat—never give a horse an illegal drug. Is that clear?”
This doesn’t sound like a confession.
“When you get back to the barn, I’ll show you exactly what every one of my horses has ever received. I have no secrets. You can check the list. Every last Lasix injection and tube of wormer is written down. And, for your information, that day when you saw me I was taking Lordy’s temperature. Is that okay with you?” Scampy has turned a brilliant shade of red. “Jeez, Spencer, what makes you think—”
Then he stops, pulls off his ballcap and runs his fingers through the thinning gray fuzz that passes for hair. He places his hat carefully back where it belongs. “What did you say about Tony giving something to Lordy?”
“The other day he took a syringe into Lordy’s stall. I was in the stall with Bing Bang Bong—”
“Stretch likes to listen to the horses eat,” Em says.
Why, oh, why did I ever mention that?
Scampy doesn’t seem to care.
“So Tony didn’t see you?”
“No.”
“When was this?”
“Wednesday. The Wednesday before Lordy’s last race.”
Scampy shoves his hands deep into his pockets. He stares at the bed railing. “Hmm.”
“What’s hmm mean?” Em asks.
“Nobody but me or the vet gives the horses medication.”
Em’s eyes widen. “You won’t even let me give them anything other than wormer.” Em looks at me when she says the last part. I really must have banged my head hard. Wormer almost sounds romantic.
“I’ll kill him,” Scampy says softly.
“No, you won’t,” Em says.
“Fine. It’s just an expression. But I’ll fire his ass faster than—”
“Wait,” I say. “If you fire him, he’ll just do whatever it is he’s doing to someone else’s horse.”