by Sasscer Hill
At first, I couldn’t figure out what was going on inside. Grooms sat or stood outside the thirty some stalls which stretched before of me. Restless horses paced inside each one, and outside, small trunks or cases lined the aisle. They held supplies like bandages and brushes.
The tangy smell of liniment was so strong that if my nose had been stuffy, it would have opened right up. The grooms were mostly male, with varying skin tones from freckled-white to dark-chocolate, with a few women were sprinkled among them. Everyone stared at me. No one said anything. This must be the crowd that had shipped in from Laurel Park. Now it made sense that Carlos would bring the horse here.
Punch’s dark silver tail was just receding into a stall ahead of me, and I hurried forward with no idea of what I’d do next. Carlos came out, scowled when he saw me, but remained silent. He opened his own small trunk, pulled out a set of rolled bandages, and carried them into the stall.
Eventually, Carlos brought Silver Punch out and headed for the barn entrance. I followed as close as I dared as they headed toward the eighteen wheeler. I couldn’t follow them, but if I–
A police cruiser nosed into the parking area. Following it was a horribly familiar truck with ladders strapped to the top. A wave of fear crashed through me. Stanley. I couldn’t move my feet.
The squad car slowed as it neared Carlos and Silver Punch, finally stopping between them and the ramp to the van. The driver’s window slid down, and I could see him showing a photo to Carlos.
Carlos shook his head. “No speak English.”
He waved one arm in the air and babbled in Spanish. By now, Silver Punch was getting upset and rose into the air in a half rear next to the cop car. The driver eased the car away from the horse. Stanley followed suit, and the two vehicles stopped beyond the horse van.
Carlos spoke softly to Punch, stroking his neck until the animal grew calm. He darted a quick glance at me. I was rooted to the pavement with fear. His eyes shifted to the cruiser and ladder-truck, and then back to me.
“Maria!” he called, looking right at me. He motioned with his hand for me to come. “Darse prisa!”
I didn’t understand him, but hand motions tend to be universal. I broke through my wall of fear and double timed it to where he stood.
“The policia, they look for you?”
“Yes.”
The truck’s door opened. Stanley climbed out. My knees were shaky and I must have turned white. Carlos stared at Stanley.
“This man, he also look for you?”
I managed to nod.
“You are afraid of him, no?”
“He is a terrible man.”
Stanley started walking toward us. Carlos put an arm around my shoulder, turning me away from Stanley. He began babbling in Spanish again. I nodded like I understood every word.
In my peripheral vision Stanley turned away from us and walked toward the barn. Searching for me.
“Hurry. Go in the van.” He pushed me toward the dirt bank leading to the side door of the big rig.
A last glance. The two cops walked behind Stanley, all three of their backs to me as they headed for the barn I’d just left. I scooted up the ramp and into the van. There were horses and grooms already inside. Carlos led Silver Punch in behind me, backed him into an empty slot, and snapped tie chains to Punch’s halter rings.
A few minutes later, a man with the name of the shipping company on both his jacket and ball cap came up the ramp. He stared at his clipboard, checking off the names of the horses on board.
Sick with fear, I glanced out the van’s window, certain I’d see Stanley and the police coming to search inside the van.
I almost sank to my knees with relief when the van man closed the trailer’s door. I held my breath until the big rig lurched forward as the cab shifted into first gear. Slowly, we inched our way out of the parking area. I stole another peek outside.
Stanley stood in the barn entrance, his hands on his hips, his eyes searching the parking lot. He looked angry.
Carlos stepped next to me and stared at Stanley. His teeth flashed white as he grinned.
“That man, he not hurt you again.”
I tried to return his smile. “Gracias, Carlos.”
I had no idea where I was going next or what would happen to me, but for the moment, I was safe.
8
About an hour later, the tractor trailer wheeled through the security gates of Laurel and labored through the backstretch, before finally stopping. When the van door opened, we were parked next to another dirt platform where the grooms unloaded their horses.
Walking down the sandy ramp behind Silver Punch, I could see the racetrack’s final turn curving before me. In the distance, the grandstand where I’d watched so many races with Mom, loomed against the sky. Barns, sheds, and outbuildings filled the rest of the grounds as far as I could see.
The euphoria of escaping Baltimore and Stanley faded as renewed apprehension raced through me. What would I do now?
Tucking in behind Silver Punch, I followed him onto a paved section. The road wound past a building set so it overlooked Laurel’s final turn. Exhaust fans blew the smell of fried food into the air, telling me the building must be the track kitchen. I may have had the burger and fries at Pimlico, but as the winter daylight faded and an icy breeze kicked up, I was hungry again.
The door to the kitchen opened and a figure emerged. Mostly hidden by a parka, the man’s face was hard to see. He turned my way briefly. Pale, colorless skin, white eyebrows, and black eyes. I forgot about food and hurried to catch up with Silver Punch. I thought I’d left the albino at Pimlico, but my knotted insides told me he was here.
Carlos ignored several barns we passed on our left, staying on the path that followed the curve of the track’s rail. The massive oval and infield spread into the distance to our right. As we reached what appeared to be the last two barns, a woman called out sharply and ran toward Carlos.
She had the short waist and sturdy body often seen in Mexican women. Her round face was torn by anxiety.
“No puedo en contrar a Pedro!” Her voice rose to a shriek on the name Pedro.
Carlos responded in a rapid stream of Spanish. I had no idea what they were saying, but it was obvious that something about this Pedro disturbed them greatly. I heard the word “policia” more than once and Carlos called the woman “Maria.”
Their anxious voices and Maria’s waving arms were making Silver Punch nervous. Carlos finally realized it, and urged the horse toward one of the last two barns, quickly getting the animal inside the shedrow railing and leading him into a stall.
The woman remained outside the rail, her palms pressed together before her mouth, tears running down her cheeks. Carlos left the stall in a rush, one hand clenched in a fist. When he saw me standing in his shedrow, he frowned.
Before he could tell me to get lost, I asked, “Is there anything I can do to help?”
He made an impatient noise and started to speak, but Silver Punch snorted, whirled, and slammed his chest into the stall gate. Instinctively, I spoke soft, reassuring nonsense. The horse paused, pricked his hears, and stared at me. His head came down and his wild eyes appeared to soften.
“Yes,” Carlos said, finally responding to my question. “Stay here. Keep the horse calm. I must go. Our son, he is missing.”
“Oh, I hope you . . .” But Carlos was already hurrying away from the barn with Maria at his side.
I sagged against Silver Punch’s stall gate as the trauma that had stalked me for three long days took its toll. Running away from Stanley that first night, escaping to Pimlico’s backside, sleeping in a stall, and then running from Stanley again the following day.
I closed my eyes against these unpleasant thoughts, but it was no use. I could hear the ugly laugh of the albino who’d taunted me at Pimlico, see the cops who’d looked for me on the track apron, and feel long trek across the deep racetrack, and the cold van ride from Laurel.
I shivered at the memory of t
he albino’s reappearance, and the terrible distress I’d seen in Carlos’ eyes, a man I’d started to trust and like.
Silver Punch pulled me back to the present when he snorted and started pacing anxiously. I slipped under the stall gate and put my hands on his neck. He leaned into me, sending his strength and energy into my fingertips. This is where I belonged.
Settling on the floor, I curled into a ball next to Silver Punch’s hay flakes, pulled my hood over my head, and closed my eyes tight. I had one talent–I could ride. Why couldn’t I ride racehorses? It was my last thought before I fell asleep.
“Did you come with the horse?”
The words awakened me. I sat up quickly, alarmed. A tall man with bushy gray brows framing his eyes was staring at me. His frame was bent by age, and gray wisps of hair poked from under a cap that said “Meyers Feed.”
I didn’t know what to say. Silent, I stared at his knotty fingers. They curled through the wire squares of the stall gate as he stood outside watching me.
“Speak up. Who are you?”
“Nikki. I–”
“Where’s Carlos?”
“His son, Pedro, is missing.”
“Damn.” He shook his head, tapped one finger against his lip. “You a friend of Carlos?”
“Sort of. I was watching Silver Punch while he went to look for Pedro.”
“And here I thought you were asleep. Did Maria go with him?” When I nodded, he said, “Come on out of there.” Unlatching the gate, he held it ajar for me.
I slipped through and was about to scurry away when he gently grasped my shoulder.
“Since Carlos and Maria are missing, you want to help me feed?”
“Sure,” I said relieved he wasn’t throwing me out or waylaying me until track security arrived.
“Jim Ravinsky.” He stuck out a gnarled hand.
I shook it, and looked into his face. Though his demeanor was stiff and somewhat gruff, there was kindness in his eyes. “You’re the trainer, right?”
“Yes. What’s your last name, Nikki?”
I told him, and he said, “Come on, then.”
I followed him past three more stalls to the end of the long rectangular barn. Around the corner, at the short end, there were no stalls. Instead, there were doors, behind which I soon discovered, were a feed room, a tack room, and an office.
On the opposite wall, bales of timothy hay and straw piled high against the cinder block walls. There was a short stack of deep green alfalfa that smelled sweet and fragrant even from a distance.
Inside the feed room, were bags of oats, sweet feed, and bran. A number of jugs and containers labeled with words like flax seed oil, Source, Bigeloil, and Uptite lined one wall.
“I got eight horses on that shedrow. You can tell mine by the red and green webbing.” He gave me a piercing look, as if to make sure I was listening.
“Yes sir,” I said, remembering the metal chains coated with heavy red and green rubber that were fastened across every stall but Silver Punch’s. That must be the webbing.
“Use this,” he said, holding up a battered coffee tin. "Give each horse one and a half cans of whole oats.” He pointed at a large bag leaning against the wall. “And a can of sweet feed, that’s this bag, and a half can of bran." He pointed at a large burlap bag.
“Each time you measure, dump the can into a different one of those eight pails. When you’re done, you’re gonna add hot water to each bucket and stir it into a bran mash.”
“Yes sir.” I hesitated about asking, but curiosity won out. “How come you don’t just use bags of premixed feed? Don’t they sell that for racehorses?”
The old man reared back as if offended. “I’m not letting some company moron with a fancy degree set my feed. Probably some kid never stepped on a backstretch.” He shook his head in disgust before continuing.
“I know what to feed by how they look, how they act, the glow in their eyes and the shine on their coats. Now start scooping.”
“Yes, sir.” I wouldn’t be questioning his methods again any time soon. He’d almost bitten my head off. I was hoping he’d leave the feed room, but he walked to the single chair in the room and lowered himself to sit on it and watch me. With his stiff gray brows above each eye, and his hard stare, he reminded me of a hawk.
One and a half oats, one half sweet, one half bran. I silently repeated the recipe as I went to work, scared to death I’d mix it up.
When I got it done, he handed me a five-gallon bucket. “There’s a spigot outside. Fill this and bring it back here.”
I found the spigot, filled the bucket, but was dismayed by how much it weighed. As I hobbled along the dirt aisle with it, the bucket bumped against one leg and splashed water down one thigh, calf and into my rubber boot. Damn, it was cold.
“Set that down.”
I did. Ravinsky had come from the feed room to check my progress. “Surprised you could lift it at all,” he said, with the ghost of a smile on his mouth. “At least you got spunk. Little muscle, too, from the look of it.”
“I ride a lot,” I said, wanting him to know it.
“Where?”
“Potter’s School.”
Confusion clouded his eyes, and he tapped a finger against his lips. “You go to Potter’s School?”
He knew there was no way a stray kid in need of a bath, a comb, and a toothbrush was a Potter student.
“No sir. I work, I mean worked in the stables. They let me ride.”
“So what brings you here, Nikki?”
“I, well, my mother . . .” Oh hell, I was going to cry. Ravinsky didn’t want some tearful teenager in his barn. Wasn’t interested in my troubles. I took a breath. “Um, I–”
“Spit it out, girl. Do your parents know where you are?”
“I don’t have any.” Too late. The tears were running down my face, and my nose had turned into a wet faucet. A sob wracked me.
“Oh for God’s sake,” Ravinsky said. He grabbed a small towel from the wood railing and handed it to me.”
“Thank you,” I said, turning away from him to blow my nose and mop my face.
“You might as well tell me your story,” he said. “You can’t work here if I don’t know what’s going on with you.”
So I told him. Told him everything, finishing with, “I won’t go back to Stanley!”
“And how do I know you didn’t make all this up?”
Anger hit me. “Mom’s obituary is in the Baltimore Sun. Look it up online. I’m not lying!”
He raised a placating hand. “Okay, okay. So the immediate problem is where you’re going to stay tonight, right?”
The indignation drained out of me. “Yes sir.”
We got an extra room next to my office. It’s got a cot and blankets in it. Little heater, too. You can stay there tonight until we figure out what to do with you.”
“Yes sir,” I said, biting my lip to keep from weeping over this unexpected kindness.
He lifted the bucket effortlessly, and carried it into the feed room.
“Well, come on then. I haven’t got all day.”
I hurried after him, wondering if my luck had finally changed.
9
When I got inside the feed room, Ravinsky was sliding a metal heating rod into the five gallon bucket of water. He plugged it into a wall socket, and before long, steam rose into the cold air.
“Hand me a pail,” he said.
I did, and watched his bent frame lean over the steaming water. His knotty hands ladled liquid into the pail and then stirred the feed into a mash with a stick. He reminded me of an ancient wizard at a cauldron, his magical potion filling the air with the sweet smell of molasses, oats, and bran.
A footstep sounded in the doorway. Carlos was back, his face tight with anxiety. He looked defeated and very tired.
“I’m sorry, Papa,” he said to Ravinsky. “But my son, he is missing.”
“When did you see him last?”
“This morning. He left to work th
e lunch at Burrito Burro, but he no come home. And the people there, they say he leave at two. We check his friends. No one knows where he is.” He held his hands out, palms up, his expression grim. “Pedro, he is not that kind of boy. We always know where he is. He always come home!
I was afraid Carlos might break down in tears. I hated the pain in his eyes and wished I could help. If the son had a job working at the well-known chain restaurant that served Mexican food, wouldn’t somebody there know something?
Ravinsky ladled water into another feed pail and kept stirring. “You said the boy was worried about something. Ever find out what?”
“No. He not tell us. Maria, she is very upset!”
“You call the police?”
“Yes, but they say he must be missing twenty-four hours. Is stupid rule. They should look for him now!”
Ravinsky grabbed another pail and kept mixing. “Nikki, you good to keep helping?”
“Of course.”
“Okay. Carlos, you go on and look for your boy. We’ll take care of things here.”
“Carlos,” I said as he started to leave. “Do you have a picture of Pedro?”
“Sí.” He pulled a wallet from his winter jacket and extracted a small photo. “Is from school. Last year
I gazed at the picture. A good looking, dark-haired kid with cherub lips and warm eyes smiled back at me. He wore a silver chain with a patron saint medal around his neck.
“He’s really cute,” I said, feeling my cheeks flush with embarrassment. “He doesn’t look any older than me.”
“He’s thirteen.”
“Oh. I’ll keep an eye out for him,” I said, feeling a rush of empathy for Pedro. I knew a lot about being thirteen, in trouble, and alone.
“Gracias.” Carlos took the photo back before turning from me and hurrying away to search for his son.
Ravinsky had finished mixing hot water into the eight pails. Now he grabbed some of the jugs and cartons and began sprinkling and pouring small amounts of stuff into each pail.
“Take these first two,” he said, gesturing at the line of pails, and dump the grain into the feed tub in the first two stalls. Mind you’re quick about it, or they’ll shove their heads into your pail and knock it on the floor. They suffer over eagerness at feeding time.”
