Horse Heaven

by Jane Smiley

  “—Breeders’ Cup. But where did those two go? I can’t go into the winner’s circle alone.”

  “Al, I think there’s something wrong.”

  “What’s wrong? How could anything be wrong? We just won a big stakes.”

  “Adrenaline doesn’t cure everything, Al.”

  “What does that mean?”

  But then he was gone himself, leaving her to make a more dignified progress to the track. A few moments later, she saw him out there. He shook the groom’s hand, then the jockey’s hand. Then he gave the filly a clumsy hug. She made her deliberate way to the filly. Dick was nowhere to be seen, which was rather awkward, though no more awkward than other social situations Rosalind had dealt with in the past. What she hated was that she had not prepared herself for his absence, which she had to do in order to accommodate herself to it. Whatever was happening to Louisa, she thought, could be no more agonizing than what was happening to her (her self vanishing into darkness, irretrievable, deadly), she was just more in the habit of closing down the containment facility to prevent a total meltdown. But the alarms were ringing so loudly while they were standing for the picture that she thought surely every ear in the stands could hear them. And Al said, “What’s the matter with you? What’s the matter with everyone? I don’t get it.”

  LOUISA MALONE-WINTERSON was perfectly capable of understanding what was happening to her—it had been happening for ten years now, and she had had plenty of therapy. She was even perfectly capable of deploring it, excusing it, and forgiving it, but she was not capable of stopping it. She had always imagined a full-blown agoraphobia attack as the experience of knocking at an address she thought she knew, expecting the door to open, and a friend to smile at her and invite her into the house, but instead finding herself sucked into a wind tunnel, slick, featureless, buffetting, with only a slender thread of knowledge to hold on to—progress through the wind tunnel was inevitable, the attack would end, the door at the other side would open when she got there. This thread of knowledge was more comforting when she was not having an attack, but she had learned to hang on to it even when she was. It was also probable, she knew, that she would not get hurt, though falling down, running into the path of a moving vehicle, and even running into a wall were remote possibilities. Ah, well, there was a room in her mind that was separate from this, from which she observed her behavior through a small, protected window.

  She ran through the betting hall and out onto the concourse in front of the track. She found herself where the ramp swooped up to the subway stop, not a good place to be—in fact, the very worst place to be, because the roof of the concourse seemed to run toward her or away from her, as if she were in the center of a funnel, and the grandstand loomed behind her, too tall for her to dare to look at. Now Dick was with her, toppling toward her, and he grabbed her, even though she recoiled. He grabbed her by the elbow and began pulling her back inside, through the pass gate and the vestibule, and into the hallway below the escalators, and from the small safe little room in her mind, she ordered herself not to fight him, but to go along with him. He had always taken her somewhere safe before, and so she ought to have had faith in him, but the reluctance to be touched was so powerful that it came into her mind to bite him or kick him, a horsey thing to do, he liked horses so much. He said, “Darling, close your eyes. Close your eyes.” He took her over to the wall behind the escalators.

  She had done this in the past, long before, and she tried to remember how to do it. But her eyelids were pasted open in horror and fear. She had no control over them. Finally, he did what he had to do, which was to put his hand in front of her eyes and block out everything she was seeing. Then he sat down on the bench against the wall and pulled her down with him, still keeping his arm around her and his hand over her eyes. It was brutal and made her want to run away. But that was the thing about agoraphobia. In the middle of an attack, there was no going and no staying. The impossibility of either course of action put her into a dilemma that could not be solved in this physical universe, so she started screaming. She knew she was screaming; it was pretty obvious, and it echoed around the glassed-in space, but she couldn’t stop. And then Dick said, “Louisa, you will damage your voice. Please don’t do that to yourself, darling.”

  “Let go of me.”

  He let go of her. Immediately, the urge to run lifted off. His hand was no longer over her eyes, and so she put her own hands over her eyes. A bit after that, she was able to take a deep breath. Then she realized what had been happening, and the relief of finding the door at the end of the wind tunnel turned into humiliation and remorse, so she burst into tears. He did not put his arms around her. She had trained him not to. But he sat beside her on the bench while she cried.

  NORMALLY AL LEFT the track after any race his horse ran in. He wasn’t all that interested in the horses belonging to the other men he knew. One group of men to be in, his AA group, was enough for him. But this time, he was so confused that he just followed the groom and the horse. Frankly, he didn’t quite know what to do. Dick and his wife had disappeared in a very mysterious way, and then Rosalind had said that she couldn’t take it anymore and gotten into their limo with the damned dog. When he had tried to get in with her, she said, “Later, Al, if you don’t mind.” Well, actually, he did mind, but perhaps, if she couldn’t take it anymore, it was better not to give it to her anymore. Of course, this was not unexpected. Even though she had never said that before, that she couldn’t take it anymore, he knew that people had been wondering for years how she could take it with him. In his AA group, they even said it to his face—how can your wife take it with you?

  So, after the filly pissed the way she had to following the race, to show that no one had dosed her with any illegal substances, he followed her back to her stall. This guy, Luciano, was there waiting for her. He told Al he was the horse masseur. Now, this was immediately interesting to Al, and he forgot for the moment that his wife couldn’t take him anymore. He said, “What am I paying you? You massage the horse?”

  “Dick pays me fifty dollars a session, and yes.”

  “I pay my own guy that.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Well, I got a couple of massages up at the spa last summer for ninety. Not a bad gig, to tell the truth. That’s what I think. Though after my guy does me he is in a sweat.”

  “Has trouble releasing you, huh?”

  “I guess.”

  Luciano had begun on the horse, but now he cast a professional eye over Al, then said, “Looks to me like you need some chiropractic. Massage can only do so much. If you’re out of adjustment, you walk around and just get back into the same way of going. Muscles do hold the bones, yes, but the bones pull on the muscles. I think of it as a dialectical process, myself. Thesis—your spine is out of alignment. Antithesis—your muscles are working against your spine. Synthesis—kablooie. Fuck, that hurts!” Al and Luciano laughed together, and Al leaned against the doorway of the filly’s stall. The filly looked at him for a moment, the way she had before the race. Then she stretched out her head and closed her eyes. Al said, “She likes that, huh?”

  “Don’t you, when you get it done?”

  “I don’t know. I guess. I must like it if I get it done regularly.”

  Luciano was an easy sort of guy, Al thought, not like most of the guys he spent his time with, so he made himself even more comfortable. He said, “The time this filly won that race in Florida, there was this big celebration. I paid a pile for that party. And that wasn’t a big race like this one.”

  “I was there. Excellent champagnes. Thank you.”

  “Yeah, well. My wife does all of that. You know—” But he stopped.

  “What?”

  “I don’t understand what’s going on here. Dick and his wife ran off, then Rosalind ran off, and here I am. The barn’s empty. It’s a big-stakes race, and it’s like nobody cares.”

  Luciano stopped massaging, his hands still on the horse, and thought of telling
Al that Dick and Rosalind were having an affair, but then Al went on, “I guess I’m kind of a grumpy guy, and I bitched about that bill after I got it, but that doesn’t mean I don’t like to celebrate. You know”—he eyed Luciano for symptoms of envy, and, seeing none, went on—“I’ve got so much money from my business that the win doesn’t count for much, so that isn’t in itself a celebration. And the filly probably is just as happy to be getting worked over as anything else. I just want to get to the Breeders’ Cup, that’s all. I nominate all my foals. Costs me five hundred dollars apiece. That’s not pocket change when you think about it, but I’ve never—”

  “You sound lonely.”

  “Who, me?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Lonely?”

  “I would say so.”

  “Huh. Maybe I should call my sponsor in that case.” But he didn’t want to do that. Al hated calling Harold, because Harold would just tell him some practical steps he could take that would involve submission to something or other. “Say,” he said, “Dick and his wife ran out of there. I couldn’t figure that out. He didn’t see the end of the race. She let off a little cry, like she got hurt or something.”

  “She has a mental condition. He told me what it was. It’s a fear thing.”

  “Then Rosalind—” Al’s face fell. Soon enough he was going to have to deal with the fact that she couldn’t take it anymore. And she had been so good at taking it, a real champ. He sighed. There was silence punctuated only by the low grunting of the filly as Luciano released the tight spots in her haunches one by one. “But you know, I deserve a run in the Breeders’ Cup. The filly’s a good filly. She deserves a run in the Breeders’ Cup. You know I’ve been in this game for eleven years? All the time I’m reading about guys who started running horses three or four years ago, and already they’ve got a Derby winner or something. You know what? I don’t care about the Derby. That’s how I’m different. I do care about the Breeders’ Cup, though—” After all was said and done, he was beginning to feel a little angry.

  Luciano glanced at Al, then at the filly, then at Al again. Finally, he said, “You like gnocchi? A little glass of wine? This is my last horse of the day.”

  Al, who hadn’t actually had a relationship with another man undefined by obligations and one-upmanship on both sides in maybe forty-five years, if ever, at last shut up about the Breeders’ Cup. After a moment of silence that even he appreciated, he said, “Well, okay. Yeah.”

  25 / PITTER PAT

  TIFFANY WAS SITTING with her new trainer. Tiffany had been to the races three times—twice to Aqueduct, and also to Belmont to visit the trainer’s barn. She liked Belmont better. It was the closest thing she had ever seen to never-ending beauty, she thought. Lawrence had used his contacts to find Ho Ho a trainer named Dagoberto Gomez. Dagoberto was all business. His barn was spic and span, his grooms were all Cuban, he kept his owners in line with a blazingly firm gaze. There were several things owners were absolutely not allowed to do: raise their hands above waist level, feed the horses anything except carrots supplied by Dagoberto, in the presence of the groom, wear inappropriate clothing or footgear, bring children into the barn, have a condition book and make suggestions about upcoming races, talk to any other trainers or owners who were with any other trainers. On the other hand, an owner was allowed to ask Dagoberto any question in the world, about horses, about cuisine, about music, about politics, about literature, about God, and Dagoberto would immediately give that owner a considered and articulate answer. Yes, said Lawrence, Dagoberto was a control freak as only a Cuban could be, but a year with Dagoberto would teach Ho Ho and Tiffany something that they might not otherwise learn.

  Tiffany was wearing what Dagoberto had told her to wear, a respectable black pants suit and black Gucci loafers. He did not like his owners’ female connections to wear anything filmy, ruffly, or pastel-colored, nor did he like them to wear jeans. The track was a class society, said Dagoberto, and everyone there, horses and people, had to exhibit class. The whole entourage gave over their L.A. rap-singer clothes and put on their sport jackets and button-down shirts. They grumbled that it was like going to school. Yes, Tiffany thought. Yes. The others had begged off going to the track today—even Ho Ho, who really was going to own the horse should they get one, thought it was kind of boring. They all liked fifteen-minute quarters, for example, not sporting events that ended a minute and a half after they had begun. But Tiffany couldn’t wait to come. She had made a tape off the radio of a guy calling the Kentucky Derby. Quite often she played it. All the words he used and the excitement in his voice made her happy. She had a whole new list of words that she sang voicelessly to herself: furlong, off the pace, sire, dam, yearling, gaskin, withers, hock, router, cannon bone, garden spot, long shot, favorite, girth, blinkers, colt, fetlock, and, of course, filly. That was the loveliest word of all, she thought, filly, a word of great natural sweetness. She had noticed that Dagoberto always said that word a bit affectionately, hard-hearted and hard-headed self-made man that he was.

  Dagoberto liked Tiffany. He sat with her in his box as the horses went out onto the track, and he questioned her about them. “Number one, missy. What do you like about that filly?”

  “She’s got a pretty head.”

  “Yes, she does.”

  “She takes big steps.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, it looks like the back feet go in front of where the front feet step.”

  “Now number two.”

  “She’s got a very rounded butt. And she shines.”

  “What don’t you like about her?”

  Tiffany contemplated. The horse moved into a trot, was brought back down. “There’s something wrong with her back legs. They’re too straight or something.”

  “Number three.”

  “She looks scared. Her head is up. She’s all sweaty.”

  “Number four.”

  “She’s very pretty all over. She’s littler than the rest, well, not littler, but more delicate. She reminds me of a ballet dancer. I saw a ballet on the TV a couple of times.”

  “Number five now.”

  “She looks sad.”

  “I think so, too. Number six.”

  “She’s boring-looking. Pretty enough but not really pretty. She looks like she wants to work at Wal-Mart for the rest of her life. She wouldn’t be my friend.”

  “Number seven.”

  “She looks mean or something. I don’t like her at all.”

  “Number eight.”

  “She looks like a baby, but I like her brightness.”

  “Her brightness?”

  “The others look like they, uh, dated too many guys in the neighborhood and think they know everything, but she’s still interested.”

  Now for the big question. “Which one do you want?”

  “Which one of these?”

  “Ho Ho said to claim one for you now you’ve got your owner’s license, so I put in a claim. Which one do you want?”

  Tiffany rattled her Racing Form, but Dagoberto put his hand on it before she could open it. “No, chiquita, you look, cara mia. Tell me from looking.”

  Now they were cantering. Tiffany scanned the field, choosing. She threw out the boring one, the mean one, the one with straight hind legs, the scared one, the sad one. After a moment, she threw out the ballerina. Now it was between one and eight, big steps and brightness, big steps and brightness. Tiffany licked her lips. She said, “You always got to make a choice, huh? Because the bright one can’t be the one with the big steps.”

  “Not at this level. At this level you have to make a choice. But making choices is good.”

  The fillies loaded into the gate. Tiffany said, “Number eight. I like number eight.” The gate clanged open.

  “Bueno,” said Dagoberto. “That’s the one I chose for you, because she hasn’t learned yet to lose. She is not the fastest or the best built or the best bred, but she is the easiest for me to teach, so I have claimed
her.”

  Tiffany looked at the program. “Tellmeenow.”

  “That is her name.”

  “Tellmeenow.”

  They watched the race. Number one faded in the stretch. The mean one ran second to the ballerina. Tellmeenow went wide on the turn, then came on to take third from the bored one.

  “She didn’t win,” said Tiffany.

  “This is her third start,” said Dagoberto. “She still hasn’t learned to run. But she wanted to beat the fourth horse, and she did. Let’s go look at our new baby.”

  Tiffany’s heart started to pound as they stood up and went out of the box. She followed him down the steps until they were overlooking the winner’s circle. They watched briefly as the winning filly and her connections celebrated, then she followed Dagoberto away from the grandstand. While she wasn’t noticing, she saw, someone had hung a red tag on Tellmeenow’s bridle. That was for her. That was her red tag. Tiffany walked behind the horse without expressing her excitement, and saw the two white hind feet—her feet now—and the shining, fluid tail—her tail now—and the square shape of the “haunches” (another great word)—her haunches now. For now, that back end was enough to enjoy, to possess, that and the ringing on the concrete of the filly’s shoes—Tiffany’s shoes now. Dagoberto was nodding and muttering, “Sound. Pretty good mover.” Tiffany didn’t hear it all. The filly’s dark coat gleamed in the late-afternoon sunlight. Dapple. That was another word. The filly turned her head to the left, then to the right. She walked along. She was tired, Tiffany thought. Now they walked along a wide path toward the building with a fence around it. On the fence was a sign that said “test barn.” They walked into it, and Tiffany saw one of Dagoberto’s grooms step up to the filly with a halter. Now the groom who had been leading her took off her bridle—he brought the piece that went behind her ears over her head and waited a moment. The filly paused, then opened her mouth and let the metal piece, the bit, go. Then the halter was on. Dagoberto was saying to Tiffany, “Okay, now. Want to pet her?” Tiffany reached out the tips of her fingers and ran them down the filly’s neck, then she stepped closer and touched her lightly over her splendid large eyes. “That’s right,” said Dagoberto. “That’s right. Don’t stand right in front of her. She’s got a blind spot there. Stand to the side. There you go.” Tiffany put her hand down, cupped upward, and the filly put her nose into it and snuffled, tickling Tiffany’s palm with her whiskers. Her breath was warm and soft. Tiffany, who knew all about beauty, thought she was certainly the most beautiful creature she had ever seen, and at least twice as lovely now as she had been as someone else’s horse. “You’re moaning,” said Dagoberto.