“You might say that. I think it’s more of an overdue one.” Tom scrolled down to Wendy’s name and pressed dial.
Two rings and her voice came on the line, “Hello, Ben.”
“It’s me,” Tom said, pausing. “I want to meet your boys.”
“Okay.”
“Good night.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
It was the day of B-Bo’s race, a crisp morning, and lots to do. By eight-thirty, three of their horses had tracked and Dawn was headed up to the Henderson barn to video Cracker Jack’s interview on why he loved horseracing. She smiled when she saw him standing under the eaves of the shedrow. It looked as if he’d made an attempt to comb his hair and it actually looked worse than normal.
His son Jeff agreed. “Mess it up.”
Cracker Jack shook it hard, roughed it with his fingers, shook it some more side to side and back and forth, and posed again. “Better?”
“Much,” Dawn said.
“Good. But you’d better hurry because I think I’m going to faint. I’m all dizzy now.”
His son laughed.
“Here comes Dusty,” Cracker Jack said.
Jeff Henderson led his “big horse” out of the stall, his father’s favorite, and walked him up the shedrow. Cracker Jack stood next to him and reached up and smoothed the horse’s mane. “There’s no sense both of us looking crazed.”
Dawn smiled. He didn’t look crazed. He looked like a Harvard Professor she once knew, down to the Henley sweater, Khaki pants, and scuffed penny loafers. Dusty had a script and nodded for Dawn to start taping. “We’re here today on the backside of Nottingham Downs with Cracker Jack Henderson. Some of you may remember Cracker Jack as a handicapper and talk-show host.”
Cracker Jack smiled and looked at the camera.
“And this here is Kentucky Bandit, owned and trained by Jeff Henderson.” Dawn zoomed in on the horse for a second, a handsome horse with big knowing eyes and a wide blaze. “How do you feel about the future of horseracing, Cracker Jack?”
“Well, I have my concerns.” He hesitated, looking at Kentucky Bandit. “I remember when this horse was born. I remember the anticipation. The hope.”
Dawn zoomed in on the two of them. “I remember seeing him run for the first time. I remember when he broke his maiden. I remember the night he got sick and we all sat up with him right here at this track. I remember tears of joy…” his voice cracked, “in the morning when he finally stood back up, wobbly on his feet, but standing.”
Dawn struggled to keep her hands steady.
“I think if I had to sum up Thoroughbred racing today, I believe I’d have to say we’re somewhere between fear and hope, just like that night. We don’t know where the industry is going, which direction it needs to take. We just know we want to get there. We want to get back to the joy, back on our feet. It’s all about the horses. And say what you want, but a Thoroughbred wants to run.”
Dawn stepped back, slowed the video down….and faded away.
“That is a wrap!” she said, hugging him and hugging the horse, hugging Dusty.
Cracker Jack wiped his eyes. “I’m glad I only did radio all these years. This would have killed me a long time ago.”
His son patted him on the back, tears in his eyes as well. “Way to go, Dad. Us Hendersons will all be known as wusses now.”
Wendy was not at her desk, so Dawn left the video and a note, and headed back to the barn. With B-Bo in the eighth race, once they were done with the horses this morning, she’d have time to go home, be with the children, turn the ponies out and be back at the track in plenty of time. Whenever they had a horse in, Ben stayed at the track all day, and one of them had to be at the barn at all times.
“Why don’t you go get something to eat,” she suggested.
“All right.” Ben walked up to the track kitchen.
Red was untacked and in his stall eating hay and Tom was gone, so Dawn started doing up the horses. She had them all done by the time Tom and Ben returned.
“I’ll be back around three-thirty,” she said, and left.
B-Bo nickered for hay. “Sorry, buddy.” He was being “drawn” for the race. No hay. No full belly for the athlete about to perform.
“Don’t you want to hear the news?” Tom asked.
“No. Tell me when I get back.”
He’d already shared the news with Ben. Rupert had decided to move his tack shop to the old maintenance shed with the Sycamore Street entrance and having given it more thought, he seemed rather excited about the prospect.
“Did you talk to him about ordering in the soft whips?”
“Yes. He said he’d order in ten of them. Any more than that and he wants us to cover the cost upfront. He said he won’t be able to return them. His cost is over $45 each.”
Ben shook his head. “How many jocks do we have here?”
“At least seventy or so.”
“That’s a lot of money.”
“That’s what Rupert said.” Tom smiled. “I think it would be almost worth the investment and just hand them out. That way, how can they complain?”
Ben looked up from his desk. “Where are you going?”
Tom was looking in the mirror and combing his hair. He put on his cowboy hat. “I thought I’d go over and see how Wendy’s doing with the offices.” He stopped in front of B-Bo’s stall, but only for a second. They had a firm “don’t mess with a horse the day of a race” policy. He was just checking to see if he was emptying out. He nodded to Ben. There were manure piles everywhere. When B-Bo raised his head and snorted, Tom walked on, chewing on a toothpick.
“You’re just like your old man,” he said, referring to Beau Born. “Make him proud.”
Tom checked Wendy’s office, then walked down to the second floor “mirror room” and found her there. “Wow!” he said.
“I know.” She nodded. The windows were perfectly clear and sparkling clean. “It was some kind of finish and all on the inside. The maintenance men said it came right off.”
Tom looked down at the racetrack. “What a view. Maybe we can rent this out as a penthouse and make big bucks.”
“Actually,” she said, hands on her hips as she looked around. “Mr. Spears’ desk will go right there, the rest of his furniture over here, and my desk will go right here.”
Tom smiled. “And he’s okay with that?”
“He seems to be. Ben says he doesn’t want a desk, so I thought the big table in Mr. Swingline’s old conference room could go right there.” She pointed to an area on the far side of the room.
“Here, look,” she said, tugging Tom by the arm and taking him to the exact spot. “You can see the entire racetrack from here, even some of the backside.”
Tom smiled. “He’ll like that, that’s for sure. What about the big room downstairs?”
“Well, I haven’t gotten that far, but having both areas as offices seems to please Mr. Spears. This way, if he needs quiet, or a reason to get away….”
Tom shook his head and sighed.
“I know you don’t want to hear this, but there are times, lots of times actually, where the everyday routine of the racetrack has no bearing on what he does.”
Tom shook his head. “You’re right; I don’t want to hear that.”
Wendy smiled. “Think of it like this: When Lee Iacocca came in and turned Chrysler around, do you think he was out on the factory assembly floor every day?”
Point taken. Tom studied her eyes. “Who are you?”
Wendy laughed. “I am Nottingham Downs’ new Assistant General Manager.”
“Does Spears know about that?”
Wendy shook her head. “It’s not important. I know.” She looked around the room. “Unfortunately, all of this can’t be done until Monday.” When her phone rang, she looked at the Caller ID. “It’s Ben. Hello.”
“Hello. I was just sitting here looking at this phone and I like it. Thank you.”
“That’s it?”
“Yep
, that’s it.” Click.
Wendy hung up and looked at Tom. “Ben likes his phone.”
Tom laughed. “I know. He called me earlier too, told me to meet him up at the kitchen. We may regret his having that phone.”
Wendy smiled.
When they heard a noise behind them they both turned. “Well, look at you,” Tom said. It was the bugler, all decked out in a red Hunt Coat with tails, riding breeches, black patent leather boots, and black velvet riding hat. Joe Feigler stood at his side.
“I’ve been practicing all week,” the young man said. “Listen to this.” He raised his bugle and played the race announcer’s tune.
“Now that’s just plain beautiful,” Tom said.
Joe had to agree. He held out his hands. “Something special, just for today.”
“Forever,” Tom said. “The Lord willing.”
Joe nodded. “Well, I didn’t know. He came into the secretary’s office, and….”
The young man was busy tuning his bugle, paying them no attention.
“I’m sorry,” Tom said. “I should have told you.”
“I thought it was a joke, you know, like one of those singing telegrams.”
“It’s no joke,” Tom said.
“Well, I figured I’d better bring him up, just to be sure.” Joe turned. “Oh by the way, the jocks are having a fit.”
“Why?”
“The new whips.”
“That damned Rupert.” Tom shook his head. “All right, I’ll go talk to them.”
Tom entered the jocks’ room and traded fake punches with Johnny. “Hey, Tom.”
“Johnny.”
Juan Garcia glanced up from across the room and nodded. There was definitely some tension in the room. Tom sat down. “Well, who wants to go first?”
Everyone looked at Juan, the leading jockey, the leading “Miller barn” jockey. “Ben should have talked to us about this,” Juan said.
“About what?” Tom asked. “Ordering in some soft whips so you all could give them a try and see how you like them? I don’t understand what the fuck the problem is?”
Questions followed a collective wind taken out of their sails.
“Is that it?”
“Is that all?”
“For the time being, yes.”
“But…?”
“Come on,” Tom said. “This isn’t rocket science. Racetracks all over this country are facing this issue. I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t want to take anybody else’s word for it. I would want to know firsthand if it makes a difference.”
Silence….
Tom looked around the room. “Has Pastor Mitchell been in yet?”
Juan nodded. “Yes.”
Pastor Mitchell came into the jocks’ room every day of racing to say a prayer for the jocks’ safety.
“Good,” Tom said. “Amen.”
Tom phoned Ben on the way back to the barn. “I’m going to go talk to Rupert. I think maybe I’m going to go kick his ass.”
Ben sighed. “Let it go.”
“Come on, Ben. We’re bending over backwards to get along with this man, and look what he does.”
“Never mind Rupert, I think you need to go talk to the Stewards. Tell them what we’re doing. They need to hear it from one of us.”
“But who knows what all Rupert is saying,” Tom said.
“It’s not about being right; it’s about doing the right thing. Isn’t that what you just said to me the other day?”
“Something like that,” Tom said. He glanced back at the grandstand. “All right. But if God’s not looking and I catch Rupert alone one of these days, I’m still going to kick his ass.”
All three Stewards looked up when they heard a tap on the door. “Gentlemen,” Tom said.
They waved him in. “Have a seat, Tom.”
Tom took off his hat and sat down. The last time he came before the Stewards was years ago as Ben’s assistant trainer. That day left a bad taste in his mouth. He looked each one of the men square in the eye. “Ben and I would like your opinion on the soft whip.”
All three men sat back and crossed their arms. They’d heard.
“I asked Rupert about ordering some in, so we could see what they’re like, and maybe have some of the jocks try them out.”
All three men nodded.
“Good.” Tom sat there for a moment.
“Anything else?” the state-appointed Steward asked, the man in the middle.
“Nope, I think that just about does it.” It’s not about being right, it’s about doing the right thing, Tom said in his mind. It’s not about being right. “Thank you for your time.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
When Dawn walked into the foaling barn and both ponies came to the front of their stalls, nickering to her, she felt like a kid at Christmas. The sun was shining; there was no standing water in the pasture. This was their day and it was as if they knew. Dawn put on their halters and lead shanks, led them out of their stalls and out of the barn, one on each side, and walked them to the pasture. They both turned to face her, both stood like gentlemen to be released, and both took off trotting. They rolled, they bucked and played, and then they grazed.
They looked so happy. Occasionally one or both of them would raise their head and look at the other horses, look at the barn, look at Dawn. Then they would graze some more. The horses in the other pastures seemed perfectly bored with the newcomers’ presence today. They were old news, just two more horses that belonged here.
Carol walked the children down to visit and they all stood watching the ponies. D.R. leaned down so he could see through the fence rails. “Pretty horsey, Mommy.”
Dawn smiled. It was going to be nice having horses the children could be relatively safe around. When Poncho walked over to the fence to investigate this little person, Biscuit followed. They both sniffed his hair and he giggled. Maeve touched Poncho’s leg and he leaned his head down and licked her hand.
“Okay, that’s enough,” Dawn said. “Let’s take this a little at a time.” She glanced at her watch. “Oh my gosh, speaking of time.” The ponies had been out close to a half hour; time for them to come in. Dawn climbed the fence, lead shanks in hand, and both ponies trotted off.
D.R. and Maeve giggled and clapped their hands. “Run, horsey! Run!”
“No, don’t,” Dawn said, motioning for them to stop clapping. “Don’t.”
Carol laughed. All this time living on the farm and this was the closest and most she’d ever done with the horses. “What if they won’t let you catch them?”
“Oh, they will,” Dawn said, walking around as she tried to coax them to come to her. ‘I’ll give you carrots.”
The two ponies kept trotting and playing, pushing at one another.
“Enough.” Dawn gave up and walked to the gate, thinking she’d go get some grain to entice them. The ponies stopped and looked at her. Was she leaving them? Poncho lowered his head, appearing totally puzzled. Biscuit stood at his side.
“Look,” Carol said.
Dawn turned, and as soon as she turned, the ponies started trotting and playing again. She quickly put her back to them and opened the gate, hesitated, and here they came, at an obedient walk and stood to have their lead shanks snapped.
“Lesson number one,” she said to Carol and the children. “Lead the way and they will follow.”
Carol laughed.
“That’s good boys.”
It had been a long time since there was this much excitement during the races at Nottingham Downs. At times, it rivaled a circus. The track announcer Bud Gipson, the photographer Denny Sergeant, and Cracker Jack Henderson were all old friends and hammed it up over the loud speaker. Add this to the video playing Cracker Jack’s morning performance and the new bugler, who was a huge hit. Most everyone seemed to be having a fun time. Some of the spectators had actually ventured outside, a spillover of sorts, capturing the mood of the day.
“Yes, but will it reflect in the handle?” Spears
said.
Wendy shrugged, standing at his side, both staring out at the racetrack in what were to be their new offices. “Probably not today, but hopefully it’s a step in the right direction.”
Spears glanced at her and waved his hand. “This is all superficial.”
“Yes,” Wendy said. “But sometimes you have to look good to feel good.”
Spears smiled. “I wish some of your optimism would rub off on me.”
Wendy nodded. “Me too.”
Spears chuckled. “I don’t know what to do. I mean, I know what to do, I just don’t know how to go about getting the end results we need in the short time that we need them.”
Wendy looked at him. She liked Spears, she always has. She felt he was a good man and a hard worker, and he had always treated her well, but admittedly….
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the track announcer said. “You have only two minutes to wager on the seventh race. Do not get shut out!”
Wendy couldn’t help but notice how Spears cringed at that announcement. “I have to ask you, do you want to be here at Nottingham?”
“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “I really don’t know.”
She looked out the window and motioned to Ben, making his way slowly to the paddock from the barn area. “He wants you to want to be here, he wants you to care. And the only way he thinks that will happen is for you to get caught up in the passion.”
Spears watched as two men approached Ben. Ben shook their hands, patted them on the back, and walked on. “I can’t imagine getting that much respect.”
“Imagining it is the first step,” Wendy said. “That’s what my father used to say.”
Spears glanced at her. “You’ve done well. I’m sure he’s proud of you. What does he do for a living?”
Wendy smiled. All these years as his administrative assistant and he’d never asked her anything about her family, about her life. “He’s a Presbyterian minister.”
“Here?”
“In Florida.”
Ben stood leaning on the rail nearby the paddock to watch the seventh race.
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