A Gentle Rain

by Deborah Smith

  "Everybody remember to look up at the timers and the TV screens," I directed. The time showed on a big, three-sided digital board hanging over the arena. We could see every instant of the race, down to a hundredth of a second. "We can watch Karen and Estrela in close-up. Don't forget."

  Their eyes turned upward together. "I like to watch `em on TV," Bigfoot said. "They look more real that way."

  Shush. Shush. Shush. Joey's oxygen was so loud. We'd had to turn it up as high as it would go. Lately I'd got him a special regulator with a battery; it puffed oxygen into his nose only when he inhaled, not gushing oxygen constantly like an ordinary valve; so his tank lasted nearly twice as long.

  Joey looked around at the crowd. "This is even bigger than the Garth Brooks concert in Tallahassee!"

  No, not even close. But to him, this was way bigger than any other event in the history of the world.

  So I nodded. "This is the biggest of the big. No matter what kind of time Karen and Estrela run tonight-even if they don't run good enough to have any chance of making the finals on Sunday night we're gonna tell Karen how proud we are, right?"

  "Right!"

  I looked around at Roy, Dale, Cheech, Bigfoot and Possum. "Right?"

  They nodded.

  "I'll buy Karen some ice cream," Joey said.

  I patted his back. "Good idea."

  Kara

  My hands shook on the reins. Fifteen-five seconds or less. The goal chanted in my brain. Fifteen point-five. Fifteen-point-five. This timing in the competition was brutally close. Over eighty horses and riders had run so far. As Ben had estimated, the top scores were all under fifteen-and-ahalf seconds.

  I stared at a large digital tote board in the staging area. The lowest score of the night was fifteen-eight-three. The top third and the bottom were separated by no more than fractions of a second. Less than a heartbeat.

  Another rider and horse flashed out of the gate and slid to a stop in the chute. The crowd cheered. "Darla Waites and King Joe Bar, from California," the announcer boomed. "Fifteen-two-two!"

  Fractions. Heartbeats. My heart rate could be measured in nanoseconds at the moment.

  "Who's that man walking this way?" Lily asked. "The tall old man who looks important."

  I pivoted Estrela in the warm-up ring. "Which one?" The staging area at a big arena was hardly a private area. There were people and horses everywhere.

  Mac pointed. "The old one w-with the pretty 1-little man who h-has a p-pocketbook."

  "That's not a pocketbook. That's what Gucci calls a `man bag."'

  "I could use one of t-those," Mac said solemnly. "To keep my man stuff in."

  Sedge looked up at me with poignant appreciation. "Pardon our intrusion, Ms. Johnson. It's just that we're fans of yours, and we wanted to say hello and wish you the best of luck."

  "I love your pink outfit," Malcolm added. "Those boots? Perfection."

  "We simply want to let you know that we're cheering for you. No matter how it goes. We're impressed by your passion and your persistence." His implication was clear. He was referring to far more than this competition.

  "That means more to me than I can say." I nodded to Mac and Lily, who looked at the strangers shyly. "Mac? Lily? Isn't it nice that these two gentlemen made a special point to come wish us well?"

  They smiled. Sedge studied them gently. "Very nice to meet you," he said. He bowed slightly to Lily, who blushed at the gesture. She swiveled toward me. "Did you see that?" she whispered. I nodded. Sedge held out a hand to Mac. They shook. Mac looked so proud.

  "I love your daisy motif," Malcolm said to Lily.

  "Thank you!" Then she looked up at me uncertainly. "Do I have a daisy on my motif?"

  "Number Four Seven Two, on deck," the backstage manager called. He waved for me to bring Estrela to a holding pen closer to the entrance chute.

  "I have to go, now," I said to Sedge and Malcolm. My voice wavered with emotion. "It's so good to meet you. I appreciate you being here."

  "We're very sincere in our good wishes," Sedge said. "We want the best for you and also for Ben Thocco. We've heard good things about him."

  "All true."

  "Good. We'll be cheering for you and Estrela from the stands."

  They walked away. I watched them go with a tearful smile. Sedge wanted me to know that my choices, whatever they might be, had his blessing.

  "I like those sweet old men," Lily said.

  "They s-smelled real nice," Mac agreed

  "Last team of the night, here they come! Estrela, ridden by Karen Johnson, from the Thocco Ranch, Fountain Springs, Florida!"

  The chute manager signaled me with a dramatic flash of her hand. Go.

  Leap forward. Lean over Estrela's neck. One hand on the saddle horn. The momentum shoved me backwards. Lean forward, forward! More! Right heel touches Estrela's right side. Keep her straight. Not a fraction of a heartbeat to spare.

  First barrel. Shift my weight back, just a bit, get Estrela's high legs under her for the pivot, lean right. Nose in. Hers and mine. Whoosh, slide, swivel, GO.

  Straight to the second barrel. Shift back, hind legs, lean left. Nose in. Whoosh, slide, swivel, lean forward, yell. GO.

  To the third barrel. Shift, hind, lean, nose. I looked down. The toe of my left boot was so close to the barrel I couldn't see space. Leg back. There, space. Safe! Fractions. Heartbeats. DONE. GO, GO, GO.

  I hunched over Estrela's neck. Some riders yip, some yell, some are silent.

  I hummed.

  We flew.

  The gate. A blur. I sat up, sat back, pushed my feet forward, pulled back on the reins. Estrela slid neatly to a stop, spraying sawdust. I exhaled, patted her neck, swung her around. Everything was chaos.

  Cheering, people shouting, Estrela prancing. I couldn't focus on the tote board. Everyone in the staging area seemed excited. I looked down as Mac came running to the chute rail. Carrying Lily. Both of them waving their arms.

  "You did it!" Mac yelled. He didn't stutter.

  "The clock says so!" Lily yelled.

  I finally quieted Estrela enough to read the tote board.

  Fifteen-four-nine.

  Within a few minutes, Ben, Joey and the others found us among the throng of photographers in the stables.

  Hugs. Laughter. Amazement. Mr. Darcy, sitting atop Joey's head, made a trilling sound.

  "I believe I'll go back to the hotel and have a double margarita," I told Ben. "I'm hyperventilating."

  "I believe I'll join you, baby."

  Baby. He looked down at me tenderly. I looked up at him the same way.

  Ben

  The first night's excitement carried over to Saturday.

  I didn't eat nothun' all day. Just black coffee. Nerves. Karen and Estrela had bested two-thirds of the country's top contenders in barrel racing. Maybe it was just good luck, a single great run, and it wouldn't happen again.

  But it had happened. No matter what happened next, the first night alone made a helluva memory.

  All day Saturday, that second day of the competition, Joey and the others had their pictures made by photographers. They even posed with Estrela for a magazine article on "the new mentally abled," in Newsweek. They didn't know what Newsweek was, but they knew it was important that they represent all the folks like themselves. The writer asked them if they were proud.

  Oh, yes. They were.

  They were somebody.

  Because of Karen and Estrela, the whole world finally knew it.

  Kara

  That afternoon I took a taxi past the enormous hotels and entertainment complexes of Orlando to the safety of our budget motel, intending to lock myself in the room for a couple of hours. I needed to pace, throw-up, nibble aspirin, then binge on cookies and crackers from the enormous VIP goodie basket World Sports Network had sent.

  "Message for you, Ms. Johnson," a clerk said as I hurried through the lobby. I was a celebrity barrel-racer. They knew my name. "You have a visitor. He's waiting in the small conference r
oom down the hall to the left."

  A visitor? I frowned, thanked the clerk, took the slip of paper, and read the note there. Slowly I made my way down a hall and knocked on a door.

  An aide opened the door and held it for me. A bodyguard stepped aside.

  I stepped inside.

  A jowly, well-kept billionaire, still dressed from his morning golf round, looked up from a double Scotch and a Reuben sandwich. "All summer," he said, "Sedge has convinced the entire family that you were secluded and grieving, in Brazil. But early this morning, as the former governor and I watched television at his private club down in Coral Gables, I saw you on World Sports Network in pink cowgirl gear, riding a peculiarlooking gray horse. And I said, `Dear God, Jeb, I think that's my niece. Barrel racing."

  I took a deep breath. "Let me explain, Uncle William."

  He laid down his sandwich and looked at me kindly. "Tell, me, are they a disappointment or a revelation?"

  "Who?" I asked warily.

  His manner, as I mentioned, was kind. "Your birth parents," he said.

  Dad had confessed my adoption to Uncle William years ago. I should have known. Though Dad and Uncle William had very different personalities, with Uncle William being the traditional Whittenbrook conservative and Dad the rebellious hippie, they were, after all, brothers.

  "Do you still consider me a Whittenbrook?" I asked, my chin steepled on a fist atop the conference table.

  "Kara, of course. Once a Whittenbrook, always a Whittenbrook. My God, you went to Yale. You grew up being forced to eat the historic Whittenbrook fig pudding every Christmas in Connecticut."

  "I did my best with it. But I do believe, as Dad once said, that it was designed to spackle wall board."

  He laughed. "I despise that Old English Whirteribrook pudding. The old English Whittenbrooks can have the damned stuff, for all I care. But it is potent. It's the kind of thing that changes a person's DNA. There's a genetic marker for it, I understand. Its effect can be seen under a highpowered microscope-fig pudding genes bearing a Yale emblem."

  I managed a slight smile. "I must be a Whittenbrook, then. And I'm proud to be one, despite my ornery attitude."

  "Ornery?"

  "I'm reverting to my birth language. I'm a cowgirl."

  "That's perfectly acceptable."

  "I dearly want to represent Mother and Dad's best interests, yet I have Mac and Lily to represent, too. They need me. Believe it or not, they think I'm grand. I just don't know if I should tell them who I am. Whether they want to know what happened to their baby. I'm still working on that. Regardless, I plan to remain a part of their life."

  "I understand. I agree. You can take care of both legacies. Discreetly or openly, whichever you decide."

  "Do you think Dad and Mother wanted me to know the truth about my birth? Sedge thinks not."

  "They debated it intensely after your grandfather died, because they no longer had to fear his petty judgment. They believed you should know, but they didn't want to hurt you. Your sense of self was fragile; they could see that. Should you be told that you were adopted and that your birth parents are mentally handicapped? Would you feel better or worse, knowing that your birth mother was shy, like you, and your birth father shared your stutter?"

  "I've learned that Lily was born healthy but was injured as a baby. Shaken. And it's likely that Mac was damaged because his mother drank heavily while she was pregnant with him. But that can't be the only factor. I inherited his tendency to stutter."

  "Maybe. These things are random, sometimes."

  "It no longer matters to me how they came to be the way they are, because now that I know them I don't define them-or myself-by their disabilities."

  "Good for you!" He smiled. "You can't be less than perfect! You're a Whittenbrook! Do you realize that several of your Whittenbrook cousins spent their college years feeling miffed because you always made better grades than they?"

  "No!"

  "Indeed. We held you up as the gleaming standard bearer for youthful intelligence and achievement."

  I sat back in my chair, stunned. "Can I belong to both worlds? Can I be a Whittenbrook as well as ... Uncle William, I despise my birth father's brother. Glen Tolbert."

  "Glen Tolbert. Quite well-connected here in Florida. Jeb knows him. He's an ass."

  "See?"

  "Kara, it doesn't matter. You are whoever you want to be. I'll leave it to you to decide how to handle this situation with your birth parents. But rest assured, Charles and Elizabeth wanted one thing: For you to be happy. And that's what I want, too. I'll support your decisions."

  I got up and hugged him. He walked me to the door with an arm around my shoulders. As an aide began to usher me out, Uncle William's eyebrows shot up. "I almost forgot to tell you. Your aunt and I got lastminute tickets for the barrel race! We'll be in the stands. We're certain you're going to win. Another champion in the Whittenbrook lute!"

  He pumped the air with a fist. "Rah, rah, Whittenbrooks!"

  Ben

  It's not good when the sound you hear through the motel room door reminds you of a cat throwing up a hairball made of barbed wire.

  "Lemme in, please," I told Karen. "No need to be embarrassed."

  "You haven't seen the bathroom floor."

  "Come on, we been naked in bed together. We've seen each other from all angles."

  "Not this one."

  Finally, she opened the door. She held a wet washcloth to her mouth. She was wearing a Kissme Woomee Mermaid t-shirt and her khaki hiking shorts. Her hair was wild and she looked like she'd been crying in between throwing up. "I don't deal well with pressure," she said. "There's even more pressure here than I expected. You have no idea."

  "You're doing fine. Ssssh." I picked her up. She looked like somebody had drained all the color from under her freckles. I carried her to one of the room's double beds. She shared the room with Lily, with Lily's crocheted daisy comforter spread neatly on the other bed. I stretched her out and covered her with the crocheted daisies. I wrung cold water through a clean washcloth, then sat beside her, wiping her face.

  "Can you get me something for anxiety?" she asked. "Phil's a drug dealer, isn't he? Call him."

  "Phil ain't a drug dealer. He don't do drugs. Accordin' to his women, he is a drug."

  "I like him. He's a trustworthy friend, in a perverted way."

  "He'll take that as a compliment."

  "You've got veterinary supplies. I know you do. Locked in the truck."

  "I ain't givin' you a tranquilizer for cows. You might moo."

  "I promise not to."

  "Shut your eyes. Breathe."

  She tried. I stroked the washcloth over her face. "You got plenty of time to rest before tonight. Take a nap."

  "Don't leave me."

  "I won't." I never will. just say the word. "What's upset you so much?"

  "No one's ever counted on me, before. Me. Just me. No one's ever believed in me, before. Not the way you and Mac and Lily, and Joey, and the others believe in me."

  I smiled at her. "You can't handle bein' believed in?"

  "It's like Estrela's early attitude toward barrel racing. I used to simply focus on getting from one barrel to the next, so I could knock them over. I didn't understand the bigger picture. The passion of the race, itself When a person dreams of doing great things, and then gets a real opportunity to accomplish those great things ... we don't just represent ourselves, Ben."

  "Just gettin' Estrela this far is payment for all their dreams."

  "I never felt needed before I came to your ranch. I was an educated dabbler. I kept the world at a distance and just observed it. But, thanks to you, I can't do that, anymore. I'm involved, now. Sometimes it's painful to care so much, but I wouldn't trade it for the way I used to be. I'm glad to be here. Thank. you."

  I cupped her hand in both of mine. "This is for me to say, and you to hear. All right? Promise? You just listen. Don't give me any answer right now."

  "All right."


  "Wherever you come from, whatever you left behind, whatever you plan to tell me, it won't change how I feel about you."

  "Ben, you don't understand. I-"

  "You promised."

  She went quiet, and nodded.

  "I love you. I want you to marry me."

  Her eyes welled up. She tried to say something, but I was too scared to let her. I put my fingertips over her lips. "Save it for after we're done with this crazy event. Good, bad or indifferent, we can talk then. Awright?"

  Finally, she nodded. I stretched out beside her and took her in my arms. She burrowed her head into my shoulder.

  We slept.

  Chapter 25

  Kara

  Estrela and I paced behind the trailers outside the arena, under metropolitan Orlando's murky night sky. A kaleidoscope of fireworks burst on the horizon. The evening show at Disney World. Estrela snorted as a starburst of whistling, red-and-blue sparkles flowered from the skyline of the Magic Kingdom.

  I stroked Estrela's neck. "I'll tell Ben all about myself next week. Slowly, carefully, from start to finish. So he'll have plenty of time to absorb what I'm saying, and he won't forget that he's promised me it doesn't matter. Everything. Including the fact that I'm Mac and Lily's daughter. And most of all, I'll tell him that I love him and I'm accepting his marriage proposal."

  I led her back inside. The crowd roared as another barrel racer charged up the entrance chute and into the arena. Estrela lifted her gray muzzle and sniffed the hot, competitive air. Her ears flickered madly; she pranced. I held her reins tighter.

  "Ready to ride?" Ben asked. He touched my face with the back of his knuckles. A coarse yet tender affirmation.

  I pulled the brim of my pink hat lower over my forehead. "You bet, pardner."

  Ben

  "Karen and Estrela have got to run no slower than fourteen-five," I told everybody after we were all seated in the stands. "They've got to get their average way up for the two nights."

  "Is that the race time I should pray for?" Dale asked.