All Hat

by Brad Smith

  “I’m sorry I’m late, Mabel,” Etta said when she arrived.

  “It’s all right.”

  “Where’s Dad?”

  “Went back to bed.”

  “Good, maybe he’ll let me have a nap.”

  “Not right now.… Feel a little chilly in here?”

  “Is the heat off?”

  “The furnace made a loud noise and then quit about an hour ago. I called my brother-in-law; he’s coming to have a look. Should be here by now, in fact.”

  “Great.”

  “I’ll wait. See if I can get you the family discount. The old man will be screaming for his breakfast, but let him if he can’t fry an egg.”

  Etta drank her take-out coffee, and she and Mabel watched Regis Philbin talk to Charles Grodin. Mabel was quiet until a commercial break.

  “Has Father Tim been to see you?” she asked.

  “As a matter of fact, he has,” Etta said. “More than once. I assume you sent him.”

  “I did not.”

  “Right. Why this mission to hook me up with your church?”

  “Because you have no direction. You are rudderless.”

  “I am rudderless? Yikes.”

  “Don’t make fun. You were sleeping with a married man. That’s a sin.”

  “I really wish you would let that drop.”

  “You’re the one who told me about it.”

  “That was before I knew you were a nut.”

  Mabel shot her a dark look. “You’d better decide where your life is going, Etta. You’ve been a failure at everything you’ve done.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Go ahead and mock. It’s the one thing you’re good at. But you listen to Father Tim. He’s a very wise man.”

  “I’m not sure how wise he is, but I find him kinda sexy, you know.”

  “Etta! Father Tim is a priest. Priests have no interest in sex.”

  Etta looked at her closely. “You’ve never actually read a newspaper, have you, Mabel?”

  When the repairman showed, fifteen minutes later, he seemed to be in a hurry. He went into the basement, had a look at the old furnace, administered its last rites, and then gave Etta an estimate of four thousand dollars to replace it.

  So much for the family discount.

  After he and Mabel had gone, Etta sat at the table a long while, resisting the urge to lay her head on the cool surface and go to sleep. When it seemed that she could no longer stay awake she got up and went upstairs to change her clothes. She threw her scrubs in the hamper and pulled on jeans and a wool sweater.

  She walked outside. The rain had stopped. The sky to the west was growing brighter, offering at least a promise of sunshine. The few remaining leaves on the maples and the ash in the yard dripped sporadically around her. She stood in the yard and took stock of that to which she and Homer could claim ownership. It occurred to her that there must be something on the old place they could sell. She walked to the barn, pulled open the large doors, and walked inside. There was an old milking machine, ancient harness, pitchforks, shovels, buckets, tools of various types and vintages. Nothing to make a buyer’s pulse quicken.

  As she walked back outside, her eyes fell on the Ford tractor in the orchard. After glancing around futilely for a better idea, she went over to have a look. Then she went into the machine shed and found a tire pump and a tool box. There was a pair of coveralls hanging on a peg inside the door, and she put them on.

  Before going back to the orchard she went into the house and saw that Homer was now in front of the TV, his head tilted to the side as if in great curiosity. She watched him for a moment, and then, carrying her tools, she went back to the tractor.

  Using the old hand pump, she worked for twenty minutes to pump air into the deflated back tire. Even then it was only half inflated, but she figured it would do for the moment. She found a spark-plug socket in the tool box and removed the plugs, cleaned them with a wire brush, looked to see that the gap was all right—pure speculation on her part—and then replaced them in the engine block. With an oil can she lubricated the carburetor and linkage. The gas tank was empty. She retrieved the can of lawn-mower gas from the shed and emptied it into the tractor. The battery was dead, of course; she doubted the tractor had moved in more than a year.

  She drove her Taurus through the long grass into the orchard, spinning the tires briefly as she bounced through the shallow ditch in the lane beside the barn. She pulled up beside the tractor and then connected the old booster cables from the shed from one battery to the other.

  Sitting on the tractor, she turned the key and bumped the starter switch. The engine turned over at once, whirring rapidly. But it did not start. She tried for maybe ten minutes, adjusting the throttle and the choke. Finally, she gave up.

  Both hands on the wheel, she watched the clouds overhead as they raced across the unsettled sky. Something caught her peripheral vision, and she looked toward the house to see Homer standing in the backyard, a pitching wedge in his hand. She was glad for a moment to see that he was out and about and wanting to hit golf balls, but as she watched she saw the look on his face and then realized that he was staring at the wedge because he had no idea what it was.

  She was suddenly weary to the bone. She sat motionless for a moment, and then she began to pound on the dash of the tractor with her fists.

  “Goddamn it! Why are you doing this to me?”

  She managed to cut her knuckle on the sharp edge of the dash. She sucked at the blood a moment, then on impulse hit the starter button again. The tractor roared to life, coughing and sputtering, then evening out. Etta listened to the engine and gave a quick look skyward. She offered no acknowledgment, though. She was still pissed off.

  Driving around to the front yard, she parked the tractor beneath the large ash trees there. In the shed she found a For Sale sign her father had painted on a square of plywood years earlier and had used numerous times to sell off a series of junk-heap vehicles he’d owned. She hosed the sign off and then carried it out and propped it against the front wheel of the tractor. Then she stepped back to have a look. She gave the half-inflated rear tire a kick.

  “That’s a good tractor,” she heard her father say.

  When she turned he was standing along the driveway, the pitching wedge still in his hand.

  “That’s what they say,” she said.

  “I got one just like it at home,” he told her.

  11

  Dean and Paulie were to be at Woodbine at nine, and they showed at half past. Jackson was on the track, walking out the horse that they were about to transport. The colt was a dark gray two-year-old, long and lanky like a standardbred.

  “Just once, you could be on time,” Jackson said as they got out of the car.

  “Hey, it’s only nine-thirty,” Dean said. “This is the earliest we’ve been late yet.”

  Paulie held his tongue. The reason they were late was that Dean had still been in bed when Paulie had shown up at his place at eight o’clock. Paulie had gotten him up, but Dean was irritable from lack of sleep. There were a number of stereo components, new in boxes, scattered about the apartment. Paulie looked them over while Dean was in the shower.

  “Where’d you get all the stereos?” he asked when Dean came out of the bathroom.

  “I’m a fucking Sears outlet, what do ya think?”

  Paulie had sat in the kitchen patiently and waited until Dean shaved and then decided what to wear. Apparently, Dean felt he needed just the right outfit to deliver a horse to Fort Erie.

  “Turn the colt over to Erskine,” Jackson said to them when the animal was loaded. “Barn nine. And don’t dawdle down there. Get back to the farm; there’s plenty to do with the old man sick.”

  “Yup,” Dean said.

  “And don’t be driving like a maniac. The horse is pretty green.”

  “We’ll be careful,” Paulie said.

  “Yeah,” Jackson said without conviction. “You guys better get your shit togethe
r. We gotta ship the Flash down to New York City next week. Sonny’s not big on you two to begin with.”

  “Not like you, eh?” Dean said.

  “Just do your job,” Jackson said. “That too much to ask?”

  Even with the traffic, they made it to the Fort in two hours. Erskine was waiting for them, and they got the colt settled in a stall without a problem. Erskine had other horses to see to, and he left them there. Dean and Paulie stood by the trailer and watched the activities around the barns for a moment. There was a card starting at one o’clock, and the place was busy.

  “What do you think, Paulie?” Dean asked. “We could stick around and bet some of these soupbones.”

  “Jackson said to get back.”

  “Jackson said, Jackson said,” Dean mocked. “One of these days Jackson’s gonna get something he doesn’t want.” And then he saw Ray Dokes, leaning against the hood of a pickup, the next barn over.

  “Look who it is,” Dean said. “Come on.”

  * * *

  Ray saw the pair approaching from between the barns, the dark-haired one wearing dress pants and a turtleneck and the other trailing in his porkpie hat.

  “Shit,” Ray said.

  Pete Culpepper came out of the stall, where he’d been checking the gelding Fast Market’s hoof. He watched the two approach.

  “Now who’s that?” he asked.

  “The two I told you about. From the Slamdance,” Ray said.

  “Hey, Raymond—how’s it going?” the dark-haired one said, and he stuck his hand out. “Like, we got our signals crossed at the Slamdance the other day. I wasn’t trying to pull nothing on you. Sonny Stanton can kiss my ass, you want to know the truth. I’m Dean Caldwell; this is Paulie.”

  Dean turned to Pete then, introduced himself all over again. Pete reluctantly said his own name. Ray looked at the kid in the hat and nodded. The kid smiled and ducked his head. He was wearing jeans and work boots. The boots were scuffed, and the toes were worn through, revealing the steel plates beneath.

  “This your horse?” Dean said, barely glancing at the gelding. “Good-looking horse. What’s he—three-year-old?”

  “He’s nine,” Pete said.

  “Yeah?” Dean said. “Well, I’m with Stanton Stables; don’t know if you knew that. We just brought a colt down. Two-year-old I’ve been working with, he’s running the stakes race next weekend.”

  “Well, that’s good to hear,” Pete said, and he looked at Ray. “It’s real nice to know that you big-time operators are supporting the small tracks.”

  “How big’s your stable?” Dean wanted to know. Horseman to horseman.

  “I got this gelding and a couple broodmares,” Pete said. “That’s how big it is.”

  Ray smiled as Pete spit a wad of Redman in the dirt, narrowly missing Dean’s shiny black shoes. Paulie had moved over to the stall, was looking at the gelding. Dean turned back to Ray.

  “Well, we got to be going. I just wanted to straighten out that little misunderstanding. I know all about Sonny, and let’s just leave it at that. What’re you doing these days?”

  “I’m in the roofing business,” Ray told him.

  “Roofing business, huh?” Dean said, and he smiled pointlessly at Paulie. “Well, from time to time, I come across an opportunity that might interest you. You know, a chance to make a quick buck.”

  Pete went back inside to finish cleaning the gelding’s feet. Paulie moved closer to watch. He put his hand on the gelding’s neck, and the horse turned his head and nuzzled Paulie’s cheek. Then he lifted his nose suddenly, as if by purpose, and knocked Paulie’s hat off. Paulie laughed, and even the horse appeared to be grinning as he pushed his nose into Paulie’s shoulder.

  “What’s his name?” Paulie asked as he picked up his hat.

  “Fast Market,” Pete said, and he looked the kid over. “You in the thoroughbred business too?”

  “We just do odd jobs, really,” Paulie said. “Dean, he always likes to make a big deal of things. This here’s a nice horse. He’s sure got a soft nose.”

  “The roofing business keeps me pretty busy,” Ray was telling Dean outside the stall.

  “I’ll keep you in mind just the same,” Dean said. “I’ll stand you to a drink next time at the Slamdance.”

  Ray nodded and didn’t say anything.

  “Let’s go, Paulie,” Dean said then. “We gotta get back to the farm. We’re breaking some young horses.”

  Paulie looked at Pete and shook his head slightly. Pete looked out at Dean, and then he smiled at Paulie.

  “You gonna race your horse today?” Paulie asked.

  “Yes, sir, first race.”

  “Well, I hope he wins, Mr. Culpepper.”

  Dean came closer. “I’m gonna put some money on that horse. I like his configuration, you know that?”

  They left then, Dean leading the way and Paulie dragging along behind, turning back every so often to look at the gelding. After a moment Pete came out of the stall, the hoof pick in his hand.

  “That’s who you told me about?”

  “That’s them. You figure they’re the brains behind Stanton Stables?”

  Pete snorted. “The kid seemed all right. Polite, and you could tell he likes horses.”

  “What about the other one? The one who likes that gelding’s configuration?”

  “We got a saying back home,” Pete said, and he watched as the pair departed. “That boy’s all hat and no cattle.”

  * * *

  When they got back to the pickup Dean climbed in and fired it up. Paulie got in reluctantly.

  “I thought we were gonna bet on Mr. Culpepper’s horse,” he said.

  Dean snorted. “I wouldn’t risk a dime on that broken-down nag. Shit, I don’t think I’d cut him up and feed him to my dog.”

  “I never knew you had a dog, Dean. What kind is he?”

  “Shut the fuck up, Paulie.”

  By the time they reached the Falls, Dean had decided that they’d done enough work for the day. He thought he’d play some blackjack. They went down Clifton Hill and parked the truck and trailer illegally on a side street.

  The place was full, as it usually was, with high rollers and tourists and nickel-and-dimers. A large percentage of the bettors were Asian. The only spots open for blackjack were at the hundred-dollar tables. Dean had to wait to get a spot at a cheaper table. He played some roulette and complained while he waited: “Fucking Orientals. Why don’t they go back where they came from?”

  “Where did they come from, Dean?”

  “Where?” Dean repeated. “Well, from the Orient, where do you think?”

  Paulie spent ten dollars on the quarter slots and then quit. “I’m gonna go look at the Falls,” he told Dean.

  “Yeah, maybe they changed since the last time we were here.”

  “I doubt that. How long we gonna be here?”

  “I don’t know; couple hours. I’ll see you later.”

  Paulie walked out of the casino and wandered over to the big bridge just down the street. He liked to watch the rainbows above the escarpment, how they constantly appeared and then disappeared into the mist. Paulie leaned on the railing and watched the spectrum over the cascading water, and from time to time he would turn back toward the blinking neon behind him, and he wondered why anyone would think they needed all those lights next to something that was advertised as one of the world’s great wonders. Paulie often thought that the Falls must have been an amazing thing before human beings found out about them.

  After a while he walked to a Wendy’s and had a burger and fries. At three o’clock he was sitting on a bench in front of the casino, talking to one of the limo drivers there.

  “How come you’re not gambling?” the man asked. “Shoot your wad?”

  “I’m just waiting for my cousin.”

  “So he’s the gambler?”

  “He sure thinks he is.”

  Finally, Paulie went in to get Dean. On a whim, he bought five dollars’ wort
h of tokens, hit a jackpot on his first pull at a slot, and won four hundred dollars. He cashed in and then saw Dean coming through the crowd, looking glum.

  “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” he said.

  The truck had a fifty-dollar parking citation on the windshield. Dean tore it up and threw it in the street, and they drove away.

  On the drive home Dean was silent, and Paulie never mentioned his windfall at the slots. He knew better than that.

  * * *

  Pete Culpepper was waiting for Chrissie at the saddling barn, standing in front of the stall, his hat low on his head, his eyes narrow beneath the brim. Inside the stall, Fast Market was already bridled. Ray Dokes was leaning with his back to the paddock fence, the Culpepper silks under his arm.

  She arrived in the backseat of a cab. They watched as she got out at the gate, paid the driver, and made her way toward them.

  “It’s the first race,” Pete said.

  “I know. I had truck trouble,” Chrissie said.

  “Well, let’s get moving,” Pete said, and he spit tobacco in the dirt.

  Chrissie turned toward Ray, who was watching her as he lit a cigarette. “The fuck you lookin’ at?” she demanded.

  “What kind of truck trouble?” he asked.

  “Like, the kind where I can’t find it,” she said. “Gimme the fucking silks.”

  Ray offered them over. When she was near, he could see her eyes and smell the alcohol on her. “How you feeling?” he asked.

  “Fuck you.”

  He smiled. “I bet you’re a joy to wake up to when you’re like this.”

  She jerked the clothes from his hand and stomped off into the jockeys’ room to change and to weigh in.

  Fast Market was sound as a new dollar now, and he ran like it. She had him in second coming into the stretch, and he was hardly breathing. The leader was a bay mare, Juan Romano up, and the mare was tight to the rail, but she could be had, Chrissie knew. With a furlong to go, she moved the gelding outside and just touched him on the shoulder with the whip. He jumped under her hand, and Chrissie knew at once she had enough horse; she laid her hand on his neck and watched the mare drop back to her. Her head was feeling better with every stride.