by Jaimy Gordon
Yes it was, wasn't it, she said, and you both smiled.
You were aware of standing over her in her ragged soft sweatshirt and little pink panties, Maggie on her back, with her bare feet up on a stool near the heater. The ugly brown grate hummed along in tiny hysteria, turned up full blast. As long as she had to live in a fish tin she considered it her right to set the thermostat for iguanas and flamingos, and of course for her naked pink self. (Against the flimsy pink membrane of her panties, her naked pink lips pressed, and the skin under the elastic so oddly damp and fatty yet easily creased, like gardenia petals.)
What do you think would be the proper punishment for such unruliness?
I'm sure you know that better than I, she murmured. Almost imperceptibly (but you saw it) her toes pointed a little, and her legs strained tremulously apart-just slightly-saying she was aware of you and more than aware of you-she was in your power.
It was all a kind of theater with her, but you could call her into it. You were aware-she made you aware-of your superior size, speed and cunning. You were aware of your somewhat gross-traif, uncut-but highly prized manhood, biding its confinement a little while longer. You looked down on her in her sweatshirt and little pink panties. It was theater where the two of you met, but, as Plato said of the theater, stronger and truer than life. Suddenly the squalid trailer, with its crooked Venetian blinds and grainy afternoon light, was a schoolroom in some mansion house, hung with purple velvet and gold-tasseled portieres.
Take them off and show me. You made a lazy sign-Omit-with the one forefinger, and she did as she was told. The panties fell to the floor like a bit of film. She glistened there without touching herself.
May I ask what you mean by such unruliness?
I don't know. Perhaps I'm simply hopelessly wicked.
You are headstrong.
Yes.
Are you ashamed of yourself?
Yes.
You're incorrigible.
Yes.
So that you know you require my attention?
Barely audible: Yes.
Then I suppose I have no choice but to correct you. Turn over. Rise up on your knees.
And then you did as you liked with her. It was theater but it bound you together. Afterwards she would be more than a little bad-tempered if you left her tied or held her pinned long enough for her to wake up and see herself like that. It was understandable, and usually you didn't wish to humiliate her further: You both knew she was your better, but she had sworn herself, yet again, into your power. You didn't need to hold her face in it.
Only, this time she had been so egregiously disrespectful, even perfidious: buying that horse. You could have claimed The Mahdi back now-he was still worth the price-if you had that money to spare. Or another way of looking at it: This was a small racetrack with only a couple dozen horses on the grounds worth more than a handful of peanuts. It was by no means inconceivable, or even unlikely, that her racehorse would have to run against your racehorse, and soon. You got up and left her there, tied. Her pink asshole glittered inside its sparse little wreath of whiskers like a putto's singing mouth.
Let me up, she said peevishly. You picked up the Telegraph and paced the room.
Try harder to explain to me, you said, what you mean by such unruliness.
What do you mean what do I mean? She sighed. All right, as long as you asked. Jesus, Tommy. You should have put Pelter in for fifteen hundred dollars. I have to find out from the Telegraph, yet, he's in for two grand.
Can't you see what love for you there was in that? I don't want to risk him.
But I want to risk him, for all our sakes.
Pelter can win for two thousand. Hell, he figures for twenty-five.
We came here to cash a bet. If we don't cash a bet we're just-here. Jesus Christ, will you untie me?
What's wrong with here?
You both looked around the trailer, at the yellow crinkly plastic curtains like chicken skin, at the aluminum stripping hanging down from the door of the sardine-can toilet, at the orange vinyl kitchen chairs with their crooked scars of duct tape, at the blank frame of a long-gone mirror glued to the wall, its cardboard backing smeared with black smoke-trails of glue.
You've got to be kidding. Both of you laughed.
Believe me, you can still cash a bet on Pelter at two grand.
It's not the same. You know what's going to happen, don't you? she said bitterly. He's going to run in the money and then everybody will know how good he is, whether he wins or not. Then we're stuck.
Maggie, everybody already knows how good he is.
All right. Well, I'm just trying to give myself enough to do so I won't think about it. So I won't have to leave, she said.
It was so amazingly brutal you had to sit down. You sank, and then perched rather primly on the edge of the couch, avoiding her tied hands. Out of nowhere like a wind it had come. You were so amazed to hear those words you weren't even angry at first.
Why would you want to leave? you asked. You've noticed I give you a great deal of freedom.
I have a great deal of freedom, she said. I wouldn't say you give it to me.
How can you even think of leaving me? you said, and you heard the torn off note between a whine and a sob, saw in a black flash your infant self, your naked helplessless. You had almost fallen into enemy hands. Just as you were starting to know your way about the place, you felt it shrink back together and cramp and disgorge you, cough you back up with terrible sick violence-the tomb of the lost twin. Did she know what she was doing to you, or had she herself been duped? You leaned to the latter view, but the effect was the same. You had thought her your consort and bride, and she was still that, of course. But now you saw in her, for one moment, the snarling dog at the sealed door, servant of the trolls, the keepers of the mystery.
Surely it's struck you that I never stayed very long with anyone in the past, she said sullenly.
What does that matter? you said, and now she turned her thousand-curled head and looked at you in surprise. You brought your hands to your face and breathed them. They were steeped, steeped was the right word, in the vaguely marine, amphibious smell of her. Now they circled her slender neck. Do you have any idea how easily I could kill you? you asked. She didn't answer but kept looking at you rather wakefully over her shoulder. You were scaring her. She didn't want to call it that but her nostrils flared with indignation.
You tightened your hands. Her neck was small as a cat's. One swift hard jerk is all it would take, you know, with you tied like that.
Undoubtedly, she agreed, the voice calm and cold.
She was looking at you, not like theater this time, not like rich dark nightmare lined with fur that you both inhabited. No, this time from outside. Using that fake objectivity that human beings use to seal each other out, so that, for example, they can sit next to each other without speaking on a bus. Like a cheap newspaper picture. You became aware of bad design, washed out grays and wooly whites, tedious dots per square inch. You were suddenly bored with the whole scene. Your hands fell to your sides.
But I don't really feel like killing you, you said.
Let me up now, she said in a low voice. Her face said You've spoiled everything and you quickly untied her, looking away. Of course not in a million years was she going to say to you what you had so many times bowed down in front of her and said:
Thank you, my twin, for granting me my life.
RIVER VAN AND TRANSPORT.
Happy Thanksgiving, Two-Tie.
Good morning, Vernon. What do you know?
You wanted I should call when Pelter was in. Well, he's in. Nightcap Sadday. Two thousand dollar claimer for horses which ain't win two since May.
How far's he going?
A mile.
Hmmm. So what do you hear? Do the layabouts in the Polky Dot think he can still get up to speed?
Against two thousand dollar horses? When he's been running for fifteen? To be honest wit ya, I been amazed. These clow
ns remember Pelter. Nothing about what little stakes he win, what distance he likes, how old he is. Nothing about how bad he broke down. None of that. The Darkesville Stalker, that's what they remember, the poor man's Stymie, bred in a field. They ain't forget that name. I think he's a sentimental favorite Sadday. He oughta run for governor. He might could beat Arch Moore.
I'd vote for him, Two-Tie said. If I still had a vote.
How come you can't vote? You never did no time for that bookstore, ain't it? I thought they let you off clean, no probation, nothing.
I live in Ohio now.
O yeah. Hey, look at this. Same Sadday, in the fourth. Here's that three-year-old Zeno claimed off your guy, Hansel, the one that's hooked up wit your niece-Jim Hamm's got the horse for Mrs. Zeno now. The Mahdi. Shipping up from Charles Town. Hey, they say that Hansel goes on yak yak yakking about claiming him back-could he be looney, that guy? He's got a funny look in his eye.
Umbeschrien-you're supposed to tell me if he's looney-you find out, you hear? And Vernon-speaking of claims-you hear anything else I should know?
Like what?
I realize that only some certified moron would even think about claiming a nine-year-old horse what pulled up in the stretch once last year. Still, Vernon…
I know what you mean. It's Pelter.
But the horse is nine years old, Vernon.
Aaay, racetrackers are crazy. You start with that presumption.
What kind of greedy, disgusting asshole would trade around a class animal like that, from hand to hand, in its old age, like it was a poker chip. Here is a horse what has already made a substantial contribution to society-seventy-seven grand lifetime, if I remember right. He wakes up in a strange barn with a moron in charge who don't know nutting about his lingering medical problems, and outside of if he win or lose, could care less. The horse is looking at a miserable death.
Aaanh, this business will drive you nuts if you let it. What do you care? You going soft on me? What's going on?
What do I care? That is a interesting question, Vernon. Never mind what I care, just put the word out, will ya? Two-Tie will take it very, very bad if anybody claims that horse.
For two grand?
For any price. Two-Tie will take it deeply personal. Spread the word. You follow me? I realize you can't be responsible for mental cases, Vernon. Or strangers. Assholes and morons, yes.
I'll see what I can do.
Thank you, Vernon. How is it coming with that special race for spring? Lord of Misrule.
I don't know, Two-Tie. It don't look good. Standish don't want to shock the Chamber of Commerce types, sending the meatwagon after some cripple even a greenhorn could see the horse shouldna been running in the first place.
I want you should remind Mr. Standish politely how he got tight with the Rotary Club in the first place. And the glass factories.
Suitcase sighed hopelessly.
And ask him who roped in Glory Coal?
Suitcase said he would do so.
Thank you, Vernon. What are your plans for Thanksgiving? Eating turkey with the missus?
You know, Estelle was going to do the turkey for the kids and the five grandbabies. Monday she picks up a twenty-two-pound butterball out the freezer bin at the Giant Eagle and sumpm goes pop in her back. Behind the shoulder. Some Thanksgiving. She's gotta cook for eleven people with one of them collars around her neck looks like a toilet seat.
She don't gotta cook nutting. I'm gonna send over a licensed practical nurse who will also cook your turkey for you. Best turkey you ever eat. Stuffed with bay oysters and cornbread. Tell Estelle not to do nutting or buy nutting-the nurse'll bring everything with her. Ruth Pigeon. Kidstuff's old lady.
Ain't she spending the holiday with Kidstuff?
I'm sorry to say the kid has temporarily tied himself up in other business.
The Boston floozy.
Yeah. This gives Ruthie sumpm to do.
I'll tell Estelle. Hey, that's real good of you.
Think nutting of it.
You wouldn't maybe care to join us?
Two-Tie laughed softly at the bare idea-Elizabeth and him would of course eat in the Ritzy Lunch and spend a quiet evening at home-but then, the invite had been strictly for form's sake. Everyone knew that Two-Tie did not do family feasts-no weddings, no christenings, no graduations. Funerals, yes. Some people said he kept kosher, but this could not be right since sometimes he turned up at wakes, where he filled up a paper plate with ham and potato salad like everybody else. And on the other hand he would not show his face at a bar mitzvah either. People said that family scenes depressed him, unless it was shoving some stiff in the ground, on account of he had lost a very young wife himself years ago-the one in whose honor he wore the black bow tie. But no one in Carbonport or Indian Mound had actually known this individual, or had the nerve to ask, or could remember Two-Tie in any domestic arrangement other than bachelor with dog.
One other thing I gotta tell you.
What is it, Vernon.
Your niece-I don't know what it means yet-her name comes up the other day as co-owner for a horse Joe Dale Bigg let old Deucey have the animal on the cuff.
Bigg! What business has that sweet young girl got with Bigg?
Don't get excited, it's nothing like that. This is a six-year-old horse, got some class, Joe Dale used to keep him down the farm, run him twice a year for five, six grand. Win once and refused in the gate three times. Another Speculation grandson that ain't panned out.
Not the dental patient? Two-Tie asked. Little Spinoza?
That's the one. First I had a letter from Joe Dale about alien on the horse, three thousand dollars in nobody's name but Deucey Gifford's. This week I see the foaling papers: now it's the girl, that old colored groom they call Medicine Ed, and Deucey. I don't know what their game is, I don't hear yet if they're fronting for that fellow Hansel or what, but I don't think so. That wouldn't be like Deucey.
What about the horse?
Like I said, never went nowhere. Two, three wins in twenty-five starts lifetime. Nothing at all but one show in the past two years. And common-half crazy-you know. Speculation grandson. The dental patient. Everybody knows that story. And Biggy Bigg just got out of Pruntytown. So Joe Dale unloaded the horse cheap, maybe that's all it is. Anyhow check out the seventh race Friday, he's in for 45 hundred.
Joe Dale Bigg, Two-Tie said in disgust. It ain't enough for him to take doctors and lawyers to the cleaners-he's gotta skunk negroes and orphans too.
Suitcase said nothing, for as Two-Tie knew, Joe Dale and him was close as wax, almost as close as Suitcase and Two-Tie.
Well, let us not speak of cheap tricks at a track where the leading trainer don't have to know a horse from a hole in the ground-I'll tell the scumbag myself what I think of him if he touches my niece.
Be reasonable, how in hell he's going to know she's your niece? You told me not to say nuttin to nobody. Anyhow, like I told you, Joe Dale's out of it. The horse went from him to Deucey to the girl, not from him to Deucey and the girl. If you got a beef it's with Deucey.
You honestly think Bigg ain't holding some cards? Wait till he sees that fresh young woman, he'll think up some angle even if he didn't have one in front.
To tell you the truth, if I'm you, I don't worry about it.
What does that mean, Vernon? I don't like the sound of that.
When did you ever see Joe Dale Bigg with any type of broad but a diamond dolly? Balloons out to here and bleach blond hair by the cubic foot. Joe Dale likes to pay top dollar for his girls and let's face it, the niece is a hippy, they give it away. They have ideals, but still. For free! And no more tits than a Boy Scout. And how about that afro on top?
She's a very charming girl, a great deal like her mother Dorothy, except for the hair, said Two-Tie in an injured tone.
Forget it. She's safe. She ain't his type, Suitcase said.
AN HOUR BEFORE Little Spinoza's first race they sat around in a funeral mood-all except Lit
tle Spinoza who stood in his bucket of ice as cool as a Tiffany cocktail stirrer, dreaming in black jewelry eyes of emerald alfalfa and clover of Burmese jade. He had miraculously regained his innocence as they had all lost theirs. He had forgotten what it was to go to the dirty races, but they were owners now-maybe they should have stayed drudges, toadies and slaves. They should have known they weren't the lucky type.
Deucey turned up the collar of her gray raincoat and plopped a soggy woolen golfing cap on her head as if it had been an ice bag. She reached in her pocket and went to work on a pint of Early Times. Medicine Ed sat in a metal folding chair with his stick leg propped straight out in front of him on a bale of hay. His liver brown hands were floury from the cold. He was oiling a petrified curl of leather from a halter, the little blackened end piece that went through the buckle. It ain't a decent piece of tack in the outfit, he had complained and set to work gravely, so he could sit there looking down in his lap and wouldn't have to talk to the women. Maggie lay on her back in the straw next to Little Spinoza, staring at him and trying to understand, but without her fingers spidering over his legs and back, his horse brain was closed to her, dark as an Ocean City frozen custard stand in December.
They were all expecting the worst. Maybe he had turned into a chucklehead girl on them. Or like these boys round here anymore he did not want to work. Or maybe he was woolgathered about his manhood, not knowing what he was. Even though he wasn't supposed to win, they had thought he'd be pawing up sparks by now, thinking about his race. They had thought that Earlie or whoever it was would have a hard time pulling him, but at forty minutes to post he didn't seem to have noticed yet that he would have to run.
Around 6:30, the pony-girl Alice Nuzum ambled along. How y'all doing tonight? she said. At first no one bothered to answer her, for they weren't cheered by her visit. I'm taking this one lying down, Maggie finally said, from the straw at Spinoza's feet. Who wants to know? Deucey said, passing the pony-girl the open pint of Early Times without looking at her. Alice, I'm going to share my likker with you even though you ain't said nothing good about my horse in a month. Tell you the truth, Alice began. Don't, Deucey said.
