The Significant Seven

by John McEvoy

  “Hey, Mom,” Cindy said, entering the small kitchen area of the modest-sized trailer. Seated at the table, Wilma Morton smiled up at her only child, then continued preparing the vegetable soup they would have for dinner.

  “Hi, honey,” Wilma said. “How’d it go today?”

  “Worked four head for Ralph Tenuta, two for Larry Lambert, couple of two-year-olds for Carlos Yanez. Both of the two-year-olds were half crazy.”

  Cindy took a container of orange juice out of the small fridge and poured herself a glass. “I don’t know what kind of idiots they’ve got prepping some of these young horses to get to the track, but they are doing lousy work. It’s like climbing on wild horses, some of them. Mama,” she said with a tired smile, “I am muscle sore and leg sore and worn out. I got to lie down for awhile after I shower and before I go to work.”

  Wilma reached out to her daughter. “Aw, honey,” she said, “I wish to God you didn’t have to work so horrible hard. After you lost Lane, I thought you and Tyler could come and live with me and your Dad. Then the black lung took him.” She poured herself a small glass of orange juice. “Wish I had me some vodka to go with this,” Wilma grinned. Then she turned somber. “I never in my wildest fears saw myself wind up in a trailer park with my daughter, a widow along with me, miles from West Virginia.”

  “Mama,” Cindy said, “this isn’t exactly what I had in mind for a life, either.”

  The two women sat in silence for minutes. On the wall behind them were two photos, one black and white, the other in color. The first was of a tall, husky, dark-haired man, shy grin crossing his long face, Cindy’s father. Next to that was a winner’s circle photo from Charles Town racetrack. Poised proudly on a dark bay filly was a handsome young man who sat erect in the saddle, grinning at the camera. It was Cindy’s late husband, Lane Chesney. The picture had been taken two weeks before Lane tumbled under a horse’s hooves during a race at the same track, incurring fatal head injuries. Lane Chesney had been called Little Dynamite for the way he could blow through on the inside rail with his mounts, taking chances by the hundreds. It only took one wrong one to kill him.

  Cindy said, “Is Tyler watching Barney?”

  “Yep. Guess he doesn’t know you’re home.” Wilma stuck a couple of fingers into her mouth and produced a whistle that overrode any nearby audio. Seconds later a chubby, bespectacled boy of eight bounced through the connecting doorway. “Hey, Mama. Hey, Mama,” he said, reaching for Cindy. She hugged him long and hard. “Good day, Tyler? Did you have a good day?”

  “Good day, Mama? Did you have a good day?”

  Cindy looked lovingly at her boy, whose brown eyes slanted upward behind the thick lenses of the glasses that rested somewhat precariously on his flat nasal bridge. His little mouth could hardly contain his tongue as he smiled at his mother. She clutched Tyler to her breast, her fatigue eradicated by the strength of his love.

  “Mama’s going to take a shower, Tyler. Then, when Barney is over, we’ll have dinner with Grammy. Okay, Tyler?”

  “Okay, Mama, okay?”

  After Tyler waved at her and trotted into the television room, Cindy’s thoughts went back to the day her son was born, when the obstetrician took her hand and said gently, “Your son weighs almost six pounds. He’s twenty inches long.” He paused. “But he is a Down syndrome child, from what I can see. I’ve delivered a few in the past. I’ve also known mothers whose pediatrians advised them to abort.”

  The shock of what he’d said rippled through her. Down syndrome? Of course, Cindy had heard of it. Of course, she never thought a child of hers would emerge so burdened. She was to learn that her son’s physical growth and mental development would be impaired by this chromosome disorder.

  In the early months of Cindy’s pregnancy with Tyler, Wilma said one night, “Are you going to take that test they give pregnant women? Called an amniotesis or something. They didn’t have them during my child-bearing time,” she added, “and you turned out perfect anyway.”

  Cindy had responded, “I know what test you’re talking about. It’s called amniocentesis. My pediatrican, Dr. Atkinson, mentioned it to me. I told her, ‘I’m not interested in that. I’m having this baby no matter what. Period.’”

  When Cindy was sixteen, unwed, she had given birth to a girl. Shortly thereafter, she put the child up for adoption. She had regretted that decision ever since. Cindy had never regretted her decision to give birth to the damaged boy she named Tyler, the love of her life.

  Cindy slumped back in her chair and sighed. She looked around the small kitchen. “A couple of widows in a dumpy old trailer, Ma, that’s what we are. I’m sure there’s a country song in there somewhere.”

  Chapter Twelve

  April 23, 2006

  Arnie Rison sent an e-mail to the other members of The Significant Seven. It read, “Men, we can all ride down to Kentucky together. I’ll pull one of the eight-seat Chevy vans off the lot. Joey Z can put his large self on the rear seat next to the cooler with the beer and sandwiches. The drive to Lexington takes about seven and a half hours. We’re all set for accommodations at Scottwood Bed and Breakfast. Come to my Western Springs dealership by ten o’clock Tuesday morning. I’ll have the coffee and Krispy Kremes ready. The folks at Fairborne Farm will be ready for us on Wednesday morning.”

  Theirs was a convivial trip to the Blue Grass State. Signs of hunger were evidenced as the van neared Indianapolis, so Rison pulled off Highway. 65 and parked in the Shapiro’s Delicatessen lot. Zabrauskis ordered for them all at the takeout counter. Minutes later, Joey Z toting a shopping bag full of corned beef and pastrami sandwiches, they resumed their journey.

  Of the seven, only Arnie Rison had previously been to the Lexington area, a part of the country perhaps at its most striking in the spring when the redbud trees were in bloom and the new foals followed their dams around the bright green pastures. Chris Carson, noting the extensive and expensive fencing surrounding the horse farms, most of them hundreds if not thousands of acres each, was awed. “It must cost these people thousands a month just to cut the grass,” he calculated. “Upkeep on all those fences is probably another small fortune.”

  Similarly impressive to Judge Toomey was their B&B, a Federal brick house built in the nineteenth century and nestled on a six-acre property overlooking Elkhorn Creek. The owners, a young couple named Grahl, warmly greeted the travelers. “We’ve read about you fellows,” Annette Grahl said. “I guess you’re down here to visit your famous horse.”

  “That we are,” Steve Charous said. “It’s a new experience for us. We’re all old horse players. But none of us has ever seen a mare being bred, especially not to a horse we own.” He nodded appreciatively at the beautiful dining room in which they stood, with its antique furniture, restored fireplace, and checkerboard floor.

  “I wish,” Rison said, “I had known about this place before, when I came down with our trainer to buy The Badger on my first Kentucky visit. This is wonderful.”

  Annette’s husband Tim said, “Thank you very much. I hope you’ll enjoy all of your stay.”

  “We’ll need an early breakfast, Tim,” Rison said, “so we can get over to Fairborne.”

  “No problem,” Tim said. “Seven early enough for you?”

  “That would be fine,” Rison answered. The others agreed.

  Annette said, “Cheese omelets, French toast, ham biscuits, fruit plates, three kinds of juice. Sound all right?” She was smiling.

  Joey Z smiled back. “I’ll be down before seven,” he said. “I’m the partner with the appetite.”

  ***

  The Chevy van was buzzed through Fairborne Farm’s imposing front gate a little after eight the next morning. Rison drove slowly up the long, tree-lined drive toward a cluster of barns positioned behind a huge main residence. Pastures on both sides were dotted by thoroughbreds of various ages, most of them grazing on the lush grass. This was the home of several of the nation’s most prominent th
oroughbred stallions, the “capital of equine copulation,” as Chris Carson termed it.

  “The mansion looks like Scarlett O’Hara could pop out the front door,” Carson said. “Look at it.”

  Rison parked carefully in an area marked for visitors between a blue BMW and a red Maserati. “Hope we don’t get towed away for being nondescript.”

  The Seven were immediately hailed by a fortyish, very fit-looking man wearing a Fairborne Farm windbreaker, jeans, and a ball cap with “The Badger Express” emblazoned on it. “Morning men,” he said, “welcome to Fairborne. I’m Arthur Logan. Great to see y’all here this morning.”

  Rison said, “Our pleasure, Arthur. These are my partners.” He introduced them all to the Fairborne Farm owner, who shook each man’s hand enthusiastically. Mike Barnhill said, “How’s The Badger doing? We haven’t seen him since he left the racetrack.”

  “Mr. Barnhill,” Logan said, “your horse is a real pleasure. Very well mannered, even gets along with the older studs in the stallion barn. Looks good and is feeling good. We’re mighty happy to have him here at Fairborne.” He turned and motioned them forward. “Gentlemen, please follow me.”

  Logan led them up a red brick walkway to what he said was “the breeding shed.” It was a large, two-story brick building with rubberized flooring, a couple of walnut-paneled stalls, and several walnut-trimmed windows. “Some ‘shed,’” Barnhill said.

  “You should see the stallion barn,” Rison answered. “Mr. Logan sent me a color video about Fairborne. You could move your family in there and invite people over.”

  Inside the wide doorway, they were met by a large, red-haired man wearing clothes and cap identical to Logan’s. “This is our stud manager, Harley Livingston,” Logan said. “Morning, men,” Livingston said. “We’re about all set for your horse. The teaser has done his job.”

  To a puzzled looking Marty Higgins, Livingston explained, “The teaser is a stud horse, not real well bred, that is used to get the mare revved up and ready. He has equipment on him so he can’t ejaculate in her.”

  “What a rotten damn job,” said Joey Z.

  The Fairborne owner directed them to a stairway leading to a balcony overlooking the breeding area. An elderly couple was already there. Logan said, “Mr. and Mrs. Berns, I’d like to introduce you to The Significant Seven. The men who raced and own The Badger Express.”

  Logan went on to say that Peter and Barbara Berns owned the mare that would be bred that morning to The Badger Express. “We try to be here whenever our girl is bred,” Mrs. Berns said. She was wearing a stylish tweed jacket and pants, which made for an incongruous contrast to her black ball cap that read “Go Dee Dee.” After shaking hands with each of the Seven, her gray-headed husband turned to concentrate on the scene below. “Mr. Berns acts like a worried father in the maternity waiting room,” Judge Toomey whispered to Rison.

  “That’s the Berns’ mare,” Logan said, “Dainty Dee Dee. She’ll be Badger Express’ first mating. She’s fifteen now, knows what she’s doing. And likes what she’s doing. She’s never been barren or slipped a foal. One of the best producers we’ve ever had here.”

  “That’s our girl,” said Mrs. Berns proudly.

  Suddenly, from outside the barn, came the resonant, trumpeting call of a horse in a hurry. The Badger Express was not being led but was almost dragging his stud groom to the breeding shed. He was tossing his head, nostrils flaring in the exciting air he was experiencing for the first time, swinging his already extended penis, which looked like a yard and half of slightly slimmed down fireman’s black hose. His attention was lasered on Dainty Dee Dee. “That’s Baily Williams with your horse. He’s our best stud groom. Been here almost thirty years. But he’s got his hands full today,” Logan said.

  Mrs. Berns observed The Badger’s entrance with a mixture of repugnance and awe. Her husband glanced at his watch. Nodding toward the scene below, he said, “This shouldn’t take long.”

  “Our boy is ready to go,” Carson said.

  “They won’t have to put any Viagra in his oats,” Rison answered.

  “Maybe you should get some of his oats for your breakfast cereal,” Joey Z said, bumping Barnhill’s arm with his elbow.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Barnhill barked back.

  The Badger Express shuffled about anxiously while Dainty Dee Dee was being positioned for him. Once the mare was in place, The Badger needed no urging. He mounted her eagerly, his front hooves resting on Dainty Dee Dee’s shoulders that were covered with protective pads. Livingston adeptly guided The Badger’s penis into her vagina, the mare standing firmly, her flanks trembling. The Badger ejaculated almost immediately, the process taking less than a minute. Dainty Dee Dee’s handlers tucked a small bag under her rump to catch any expelled semen, which would be discarded.

  The Significant Seven looked around at each other. “Holy shit,” said Marty Higgins, “that’s how they fucking do it? I mean, do it, horses fucking? I’ll be damned.”

  Livingston led their horse to the doorway. The Badger Express pranced down the walkway toward the stallion barn, tossing his head, a picture of physical pride. “He’ll be back at work this afternoon,” Arthur Logan said. “He’s going to be a real pro at this.”

  The Significant Seven whooped as if they’d just witnessed a Chicago Bears touchdown.

  On their way back to the parking lot, Steve Charous said to Rison, “Straighten me out on this. When will his first sons and daughters be born?”

  “Offspring, they call them,” Rison laughed. “A mare’s gestation period is eleven months. The Badger’s babies will hit the ground, running we hope, starting next March. They’ll go to the races two years later. I can’t wait.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  May 2, 2009

  Judge Henry Toomey slipped out of his bed, careful not to disturb his sleeping wife, Janie, at this early hour. Whenever the Toomeys were vacationing at their Lake Geneva second home, the judge, a former swim team captain at the University of Wisconsin, began his day with an hour’s exercise in the very cool, spring-fed blue waters, usually spending at least half of that time on what had been his collegiate specialty, the back stroke. Other early risers on this beautiful southeastern Wisconsin lake were used to seeing the lanky Toomey’s long arms churning paddle wheel style across this body of deep water from his pier on the northern shore.

  Toomey put on his black trunks, flip-flops, a sweat shirt, and picked up a towel. Before walking out the back door, he started coffee brewing. On the pier he spent several minutes stretching and breathing deeply.

  Toomey started out a strong, level pace. Looking up at the cloud-cleared sky, he anticipated another beautiful spring day in this pleasant town. Probably nine holes of golf with Janie after breakfast, then some fishing with his neighbor, Chuck Siebert. At the mid-point of his lake crossing, back of his head in the water, face turned to the morning sky, he did not spot the figure directly in his path, awaiting him, a figure in a black wet suit, diving gear, diver’s mask just above the water as Toomey churned closer.

  Seconds later the judge felt powerful hands grasp his ankles from below the water. He did not have a moment to speculate as to what was happening before he felt himself being pulled downward, his body held two feet below the lake’s surface.

  Mouth closed, attempting to conserve breath, Toomey frantically tried to kick free. He reached forward and managed to briefly touch the shoulders of his attacker. He felt himself running out of air, out of strength, but not out of astonishment. “What the hell?” was the last thought that crossed his mind as the water rushed into his now open mouth. His struggle to escape the iron grip of the diver dwindled, diminished further, then ceased.

  Judge Toomey’s floating corpse was discovered an hour later by one of the first sailboats to come out onto the lake. Resultant shock and horror registered in Lake Geneva, in Madison, throughout Wisconsin’s legal fraternity, when it was announced that the popular Toomey,
a powerful swimmer, had died of an apparent heart attack at age fifty-three.

  That evening, back in northern Wisconsin, Orth unpacked his diving gear and set it out on the bench in front of his cabin’s front door. He went inside and grabbed a Leinenkugel before getting into his Jeep Cherokee for the drive to the outdoor phone he always used.

  In Dallas, Sanderson picked up on the first ring of his cell phone. Orth could hear childrens’ voices in the background, the blare of a television cartoon show. “It’s me,” Orth said. Sanderson said, “I can hardly hear you. I’ll go out on the patio.”

  Seconds later, Sanderson said, “Yeah?”

  “All done, amigo. Let me know when the money transfer is headed to my account.”

  “Will do. Hey, great work, bro. We’re on our way.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  May 7, 2009

  “A damned shame, Jack. That’s what it is,” said Ralph Tenuta.

  The two men were standing outside Tenuta’s office on the Heartland Downs backstretch. The subject was Judge Henry Toomey’s death, which had been widely reported the previous day.