“No Complaints?”
“No, he’s after me to retire, take the rest of life off. I ask him what for and get no answer of course. But I told him I would try it to stop him badgering me—one whole month with the family. No work, just do what a retired man does. Nothing.”
“It didn’t work out?”
“That’s putting a fine finger on it! It was hell on rusty wheels. I’m telling you, I went bonkers up there, I was ready to put dynamite under the house and run for the bus.”
“How did Noel take it? Disappointed?”
“Sure he was disappointed. He wants me retired because I embarrass him. He wants to say, Meet my dad the retired gentleman. Not, meet my dad who waits on table.”
“Your own kid?”
“Looks down on waiters.”
Wiley’s boy is afraid he will end up like Carroll Shilling.*
“I told him the story one day, that’s all,” he shrugs. “Noel isn’t rational on the subject. And his wife thinks that Satan is the Racing Commissioner. What can I tell you?”
It’s a story you don’t forget. But who is to say Shilling was in the wrong place. Maybe he died with a smile in his heart. Probably not, yet maybe. And if not, he would have been no better off someplace up in the Bronx, or the suburbs of Katmandu.
A shock to see her this morning. So young—just a child. We exchanged a greeting from twenty paces but it is chaos on the backstretch this weekend and I was loathe to interfere with her work. Delighted to get the greeting accomplished and leave it at that for now.
Somehow in my memory bank I had trimmed the spread, so instead of 49 and 19 we were maybe 39 and 29, almost within reach. I never counted out the years incorrectly, just one side of my brain was fooling the other—all within the same noggin.
Possible that a mental picture weathers the same way a real picture would. Like a snapshot you take from your wallet, after sitting on it for a few months. The picture has aged a lot faster than the person pictured, like an old parchment, or a piece of leather.
Bogart’s Baby, who she rubs for Farr Brothers, had a nice win on Saturday and I told her so. She looked older already, dusty and quite mature today.
“Yes we were pleased to have a first.”
“She ran well in the summer.”
“Two seconds. She had a string of good races, but she never even made the lead before Saturday’s race.”
“A professional maiden. Anyway, second pays too. You could step her down a little.”
“We have, down and up, like a yoyo. She ran third at 7500, so we dropped her and she ran fifth at six thousand. Wes decided she was insulted, so he moved her back up to seventy-five and she came through.”
“That’s it. I hope you have the same luck with Sound the Trumpet today.”
“Thanks, but don’t bet your new hat on him. He hasn’t been working his hardest this week.”
“He’ll make it at six furlongs. All summer I thought that horse wasn’t designed for a route, and he could win a sprint for you—now I have to put my money where my mouth was.”
“It’s your money.”
“So far it is—for at least a few more hours.”
That got a smile from her, three seconds of happiness supplied by yours truly without even trying. When I would lie awake in Saratoga Springs and watch the moon, I would attempt to map out a conversation with Caddy. Weather, politics, the latest in the world of show business. But horses! That’s the language we share in common and I don’t have to drum up my lines.
A good thing, too. Because my mouth kept working but my mind was stuck on what she said—that she noticed the hat was new.
“Did you really back Sound the Trumpet yesterday?”
“Even better. To win, and also I put him in a quinella with Bolo Punch. So I cleaned up.”
“How much did you make?”
“By the hour it was more than Henry Ford makes. Of course it was just two minutes worth.”
“Well I wish I could say I gave you the hot tip.”
“But you did. Because I decided you are luck.”
“I guess that’s a compliment.”
“Sure it is. What beats luck?”
“Ask me again when I’m old and wise.”
“Like me. No Caddy, you get older but not necessarily wiser. Unless you’re lucky. So now I need a hot tip for tomorrow.”
“We have nothing going until next week actually. But I don’t handicap the horses—I don’t have a clue, and when I watch them parade they all look terrific to me. Do you win a lot usually?”
“Only when I’m lucky. I win enough.”
“Enough to support your family?”
“No one does that, except the high rollers who bet ten grand on a favorite to show. Anyway, I don’t have a family to worry about.”
“You never said what it was you did before you were a waiter. Remember I asked you?”
“A business man.”
She looked surprised. Maybe because she still thought I was Pretty Boy Floyd the outlaw, or maybe because to her a business man was something much bigger than Carnovsky’s Fine Liquors. Like General Motors, or whatever her daddy did to get his first two million. So I added,
“Small-time. A little business of my own. Although I made ten times the money I’m getting now.”
“But you didn’t like it.”
“A good listener. You are a very good listener, young lady.”
Except I did like it. But what the hell, conversation is an art, not a science.
We coincide and speak each day, just like that. Nothing to it but to do it. A few men on the backstretch might eye me suspiciously and maybe they say, Who is this old guy hobnobbing with the girl swipe. Because they still freeze her out by polite agreement. Well I will tell them who, it’s Fish the conversationalist. Doesn’t even bother to rehearse—a charmer, doing what comes naturally.
Really, such a nice girl is easy to talk to. It’s no trick. The fact is this girl respects me. Because I am a track rat and she is a rookie. And because there are two kinds of young people: those who hold their elders are fools and those who hold their elders are wise men. Respect for the decrepit, she’s got. I became a genius the minute I watched Citation run. The Genius of Racing Past.
“How many times did you see him?”
“Six or seven. No one was close to him, no one ever beat Cy fair in his prime. Even after he was lamed out west and lost his four-year-old season, it took a great horse to beat him.”
“Who was in his class? Whirlaway?”
“No one, that I saw. Next rung down you have Whirlaway, and maybe Count Fleet, Stymie—the War hurt them both. Seabiscuit on a given day, and Armed. War Admiral. But no one you could bank on like Citation. You know, Caddy, I saw the Man O’ War too, though I admit I was too young to appreciate what I was seeing. My father took me.”
“What did he do, your father? Business?”
“No, work. He came here from Russia and he worked. His father, who I never met, was a newspaper man. My father spent twenty years in a print-shop, eleven hours a day, for wages.”
“Low wages.”
“Bupkis. Please excuse my language.”
“I like it, though.”
“Pardon me if I don’t, in that case.”
“What about Nashua. Wes says he could beat any of them head to head.”
“Maybe he could. Certainly he is a head to head runner—you saw him yourself in the Grey Lag. Native Dancer was another great one, you might have seen. They both came up short in the Derby and they both won everything else. To me it says the Derby is an over-rated horse-race, too early in the year. Pretty soon they will be retiring a horse to the stud farm before he ever runs a race. The Nashua you will see here in the Gold Cup is one strong horse—a year ago May he was still a young colt.”
And my golden girl marvels in disbelief that I can be such a genius, to have lived so long and seen so many horses of distinction. I have seen Presidents too, starting with the fat man Taft. I re
member Wilson very well, seeing his long puss every day in the Eagle. But I don’t merit a genius rating for recalling these men, only for recalling the horses.
A boon to have Wiley back in the sheepfold. My sachem, my father-confessor. I can bring my problems to him, in all his wisdom, and get some of the usual bullshit in response.
“A man my age, a girl so young—where can it lead?”
“Where it always leads. Don’t worry so much, don’t underrate yourself. I don’t think you appreciate your own charms. You are a lovable guy, Oscar, not some wet dog with an odor. Age makes no difference at all.”
“Wait, I know the line. It takes two to tango but only one to waltz.”
“And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t kid me, you’re the one who said it. To me.”
“I said it? Then it must be right.”
Terrific. After all the time I put in on that pearl, he is disowning it. And I think to myself: It’s not a fountain? And I say to my sachem,
“Wiley you are such a bullshit artist.”
“Let’s not talk about me. Have you heard what happened to the scholar’s ass in the stable?”
“Tell me about it.”
“The poor dumb beast starved to death halfway between two bales of hay—from indecision.”
And he’s got me again, with another Wiley wisdom. He is a bullshitter, no question, yet when I listen to the actual bullshit it always smells sweet. As Wiley says himself, What is bullshit anyway but sweet timothy hay? And if he can make it smack of truth, well figure that as the artist part.
But I am not the scholar’s ass, I am on the move. Yes I could have starved to death in sight of food by playing deaf and dumb, the shy guy, but I did the job, and I am getting to know this girl. And I didn’t honestly come to Wiley seeking advice, I came to show off a little. I’ll advise myself.
Still it is fine to have Wiley’s reassurance, because plenty of people would say that it’s robbing the cradle—or else raiding the crypt!—to act on such an attraction. You read The Post and it’s always the psychological rigamarole, mid-life crisis etcetera. As though it makes no difference the individuals involved. There is a mid-life crisis all right, also a begin-life and end-life. Every day it’s a goddamn crisis right there at the crossroads of your own front doorstep.
You cannot always simplify it. They give it a cute name, that explains it without explaining it. People fly the coop at any time. They might go after a single night together, a month, a year, a decade. They could go all of a sudden after fifty years bliss, it has happened I know. They will not depart on a neat schedule, however, so that someone down at The Post can play Sigmund Freud and call it by a cute name that doesn’t touch the truth of actual people.
Mrs. Kearney up at the library remembers me. I reported to her for duty, told her I was away but keeping up on my reading. She knew enough not to ask me for titles.
Nothing for me this time, except an apology. No more Walkaways. That’s all right, I told her, I’m studying new subjects. And for today I’ll be content to leaf through magazines, get reacquainted with the facilities. Novels? Maybe next time.
I returned her the Jewels of Opar, three weeks late. Rated a fine of eighteen cents. She wouldn’t take a quarter for it, insisted on making the 7¢ change.
Today the subject was me. Not Citation and Whirlaway, just Oscar Fish. She caught me off base unprepared, when she asked if I happened to be a married man. I was not sure what the answer should be. If I say I am not, then it isn’t the truth and if I say I am, the same will be so. And what’s a Walkaway to her, if I was in the mood for lengthy explanations of my status?
“I was.” The best I could manage on short notice. That I was married.
“Do you have children?”
“No children.”
I await the next arrow, death and divorce, but her mind takes a different turn, to the subject of herself.
“I won’t get married.”
“Not yet, no. Maybe you can’t imagine it. I understand. But don’t be surprised if in a few more years you can think of nothing else.”
“That’s an insult, Oscar.”
“Not at all, I didn’t mean it that way. Just small-talk. But I remember myself at your age and believe it I had no thoughts of marrying either. A few years later I was ready to toss my hat in the ring.”
“I have one friend who is getting married next June, right after this school year.”
“Too young, in my opinion. But what do I know?”
“I want to go to England next spring, or summer, and ride on the steeplechase circuit.”
“A pioneer. The Jackie Robinson of the girl jockeys?”
“The Sheila Wilcox, you mean.”*
“And would you take it for your life’s work? If you could become a jockey?”
“For a few years—till I got fat. I wouldn’t do any one thing all my life. You wouldn’t either.”
“I would have, I just didn’t. What else would you do?”
“All kinds of work, and travel. Read and write and everything trite. I mean, when you have never seen or done anything at all really, there must be quite a lot to see and do.”
“I’m sure.”
“Whereas if you get married you see the same thing every day.”
“More or less you do. So then freedom is the cry for Miss Caddy Moore. For myself also, by the way. I’ll tell you sometime.”
“Sometime soon, I hope. I’m leaving in two weeks, you know, for a while.”
“Yes I know.”
We are friends. I know about her family, her house on Long Island, cottage out in Pennsylvania, and her horse The Doormat. But it made no sense to hear her remark that I was her “best friend in a way” so I argued the point on the spot.
“After The Doormat, I’m sure. But seriously, we are still getting acquainted, still strangers.”
“What I mean,” she said—and said as though it was all thought out beforehand—“is that you are the person I most look forward to seeing, right now.”
Some category, as I told her. And some mouthful too. But if she looks forward to racing days so we can talk together, then that’s nice. So do I.
“If you didn’t show up, you know, I would be very disappointed. I realized that the other day.” (And I realized the same thing a long time ago, on the last day of the summer meeting at Belmont, when she went AWOL.)
“Well I’m as good as clockwork, as it happens, and so are you too. You could be out shopping for school supplies one of these days, and your back-to-school dresses.”
“Not a dress.” But why not? A blue dress, I would choose for her, the color of laughter in her eyes.
“A coat, then, a pair of shoes.”
“I did buy a sweater over the weekend. And I was trying to find a little present for you, Oscar.”
“Me?”
“But I couldn’t. I didn’t want to get something stupid, and I couldn’t think of anything nice.”
“A cigar.”
“You seem to have those. Besides, it’s too much like Father’s Day. But I haven’t given up yet.”
“Don’t worry too much about it. But listen, we could have a cup of coffee sometime, away from Jamaica I mean. Before you go. We could have a nice civilized talk—sitting down.”
“Sounds luxurious. I would like that—so long as you know how it is.”
“How it is?”
“You know. That I’m not interested.”
“In a cup of coffee?”
“Don’t be coy. In a love affair. And not because you’re older than I am, or anything like that.”
“Fine. I’m not interested either. And not because you are younger than I am, or anything of the kind.”
“Touché.”
“As a matter of fact, Caddy, I make it a point to never become romantically involved with anyone born after the Man O’ War.”
“Good. In that case you might want to apply for the job of my chaperone next summer in
England. I was thinking what a perfect arrangement it would be to have an older—not old, mind you, just older—man around to keep the younger wolves at bay. They would assume you were my lover and I’d be guaranteed peace and quiet.”
“What do you want with peace and quiet at your age? And are you really so besieged with offers?”
“No I’m just joking. But I do like to choose my own company—it’s the excruciating part of being a girl. It gives anyone the right to bother you.”
“You can tell them no, of course.”
“It’s not that I don’t. I would never go out with a boy I didn’t already like. But it’s not exactly fun to do either—saying no to people, I mean. Boys are people, aren’t they?”
“That’s up to the official scorer. And I don’t want to bother you, but where are we in all this noise about our cup of coffee. Having or not having?”
“Having.”
“Good. And you can tell me how it was you decided to chase steeples instead of eligible young men.”
“And you can tell me about freedom. Remember?”
“A good listener.”
I was working my way up to it, measuring out the days remaining, and now it’s out in the open air. Not interested, she says, yet she brings it up.
Don’t rush things, my father would always tell me, let it take care of itself naturally. He preached the value of patience: doesn’t look good tonight? Wait and see about tomorrow morning. He had nothing special he was waiting for, just his children growing up and he didn’t mind if it took plenty of time.
He wasn’t getting the Nobel Prize for setting nice type fast. When I won a contest in grade school—most chin-ups and they handed me a real blue ribbon—I asked him if he won things ever. “Dirtiest fingernails,” he smiled. “I win every day.”
He could never get them clean, although my mother made him put in fifteen minutes on it before she let him eat. But patience I got from him. If you take your time, he would say, then you will have the time, like anything else you take. Otherwise it’s gone out the window before you used it.
So panic can urge you on, and fear can hold you back, and the result is you are patient by default, with a girl. And things must take care of themselves naturally, like he said.
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