by Jane Smiley
“If you didn’t take it, you didn’t take it.” His voice was very soothing, deep, and certain.
“My grandfather made it all look very easy.”
“Your grandfather never seemed to worry, I’ll say that for him. It was very reassuring to work for him when I was just starting out. Take a deep breath.”
She took a deep breath, thinking that it was nice to be instructed once in a while.
“You know, one time your grandfather had me out to help him with a maiden stallion. I don’t remember his breeding. Anyway, we were the only two around, and I was just starting out, and your grandfather was very breezy about the whole thing. You know, at the big studfarms, they’ve got six or seven hands helping with every breeding. But he always said that, if worse came to worst, you could just turn the two out together and they would do it by themselves, so why worry if there were only two of you? But he never stopped whistling, never got in a twist, never communicated any sense that there was anything wrong to the horses. That was the thing he knew. Whatever might seem to be going wrong, everything is a whole lot easier if the horses don’t know about it.”
“Yeah,” said Krista. She sighed. Then she said, “Well, he looked okay when he left, didn’t he?”
“He looked fine. How’s Maia?”
Sam’s beeper went off.
Krista said, “Perfect.” She sighed.
“That’s all you need, then, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
They came out of the tackroom, and Krista looked down the aisle of the barn, eleven clean and empty stalls on either side, awaiting the mares that would begin arriving in a few days. Sam said, “He’s the last one?”
“Himself is all I have here for a couple of days. Someday, maybe we’ll have our own mares.”
“I’m sure you will, honey,” he said. “Start slow.”
She followed him to his truck. Himself was standing in the doorway to his stall in the downpour, his ears pricked in their direction, and she could see Pete through the kitchen window, Maia in his arms. “What do I do now?” she said. “There’s nothing to do.”
“Take a nap,” he said.
BOOK TWO
1998
JANUARY
10/ WINNERS CURSE
OFTEN DEIRDRE could not decide what it was she liked least about training racehorses, there were so many candidates for the honor, but always when she was at the sales, she became freshly convinced that it was sales. The two-year-olds in training sales bothered her for obvious reasons—you had to wince at the sight of those babies flying around the track, their tender legs pounding the hard ground. And the yearling sales bothered her for other obvious reasons—all those even younger babies, fat and shiny, bearing too much weight on their tender joints, overfed, overgrown. You didn’t even have to look at the X-rays of their knees to know they were already compromised. But going to sales, and guiding her owners toward some simulacrum of responsible selection, was an inescapable part of her job, especially if (as Helen had pointed out to her only three days ago, when she was complaining about this trip with what she considered to be remarkable eloquence) she expected to prosper in 1998. Actually, the main thing she didn’t like about breeding sales, or at least this one, the first of the year, was that the weather was so damn cold. In September, at least it was warm and pleasant to visit all the barns and ask to see the horses. In November, at least inside the big golden amphitheater where the horses were led onto the stage and the bids were taken, there was some respite from the outer chill. In July, at least there was plenty of iced tea.
She had come to Keeneland with George and Skippy and Mary Lynn for the January Mixed Sale of breeding stock and horses in training. Skippy and Mary Lynn had about five hundred thousand dollars to spend, and they intended to buy more than five and fewer than ten mares in foal to particular stallions. Since Skippy was single-mindedly focused on the Kentucky Derby, the mares’ own sires, Deirdre advised, should be classic ones—Secretariat, Caro, Hoist the Flag, Vaguely Noble, Stage Door Johnny, Northfields, Key to the Mint—while the mares should be in foal to young, unproven stallions whose stud fees were not as high as Deirdre thought they could be, and would be. And though, on the way to Keeneland, Skippy had seemed to have a perfect understanding of the essential concept of buy low, sell high, as soon as they got here he seemed to have lost all conceptual reasoning whatsoever. He kept coming to Deirdre and showing her the catalogue copy of mares who were in foal to A.P. Indy, Storm Cat, Seattle Slew, and Nureyev, and in whose eyes Skippy saw grand destiny. Deirdre found herself scattering bad language around like sawdust, but she got no relief from it. She dutifully marched around the barns in the cold and stared at all these mares, but the only thing she could see in their eyes was a general desire to be away from this place and in a nice pasture somewhere with other mares they could boss around, or be bossed around by.
Deirdre was not sure where he was getting this attitude. Usually, between the three of them, she, Mary Lynn, and George could manipulate, cajole, or contain him. Now Deirdre showed him a trim little brown mare by Hoist the Flag out of the dam of the great Canadian sire Vice Regent. She was correct and healthy, but she was eighteen years old. She was in foal to Manila. Deirdre liked everything about her, including the fact that Manila was something of a bargain, given his steadiness and lack of fashionability. She and Skippy were discussing this mare (Mary Lynn was trying to keep warm somewhere else), and she almost had Skippy paying attention, when a large fellow whose picture Deirdre had seen in The Blood-Horse sauntered over for a look. Skippy, who had been turned toward Deirdre in a posture attentive enough not to require a smack on the knuckles from the nuns, had they been present, went suspiciously rigid. The man said, “You looking at this mare?”
Skippy, the Judas, said, “Deirdre here likes her.”
“Huh,” said the man, Snell, his name was, Max Snell, and that was all it took. A minute later, Skippy followed the guy as if on a string to the circle gathered around another mare, a six-year-old winner of one and a half million dollars, by Seattle Slew, in foal to Seeking the Gold. As if herself on a string, Deirdre followed Skippy. No doubt about it, this was a nice mare, gold-plated. She had a great look about her—full of self-confidence, with an intelligent eye and a pleasant demeanor. But there was no way Skippy could afford this mare. The trouble was that, after looking at this mare and the few others like her, Skippy would be dissatisfied with what he could afford, and no matter what they managed to buy, he would think he hadn’t bought up to his potential.
“Now,” said the wee fella, “this is a mare! Look at that shoulder! Look at those pasterns! Look at that engine! This is your foundation mare right here, Hollister. And she’s in foal to a great stallion. That’s what you’ve got to look at. Seeking the Gold is a great stallion.”
Deirdre said, “You aren’t needing a fucking foundation mare, sir. You’re planning to breed a few racehorses, that’s all. Remember?”
“Is this your trainer?” And then, “Huh,” as if perfect respect were the most essential quality in a trainer, far outshining horse sense or intelligence or even masculinity. “You know, I tried to buy a mare once, and my trainer talked me out of it. She didn’t have the record this mare has, either. I went along with him, because he said she was overpriced, though, frankly, nothing is really overpriced for a guy like me, you know what I mean?” He eyed them both, and, yes, they knew exactly what he meant. “Anyway, you know what that mare’s name was?”
How could they, Deirdre thought, fucking possibly know what that mare’s name was?
“Gana Facil. She was in foal with Cahill Road. My trainer thought she was overpriced, and I didn’t have the sense to go with my own instincts. I saw something in that mare. In her eyes. Frankly, I see the same thing in this mare’s eyes, clear as day.”
Deirdre said, “She has a nice eye, for sure, sir. A lovely eye.” Then, “Are you going to be bidding on this mare, sir?”
“Well—” Snell chuckled a mighty c
huckle. Skippy stiffened again. Then the other man spotted someone else he knew, hailed him, and walked away, leaving Deirdre and Skippy with their common sense of displeasure. After a moment, Skippy said, “I’m tired of looking at horses. They’re starting to all look the same to me. I want to go back to the hotel and take a nap. Where’s George?”
George was doing the driving.
The trouble with even this small sale was that the strata were so clearly defined. Skippy, who was used to being plenty rich and plenty important, didn’t quite know who he was here. He didn’t have a tenth the money that Snell had, or I percent of the experience that some of these lifelong racing people had. Nor was he the best-dressed in the crowd, which was always a help to an owner in a difficult social situation. And he was a lawyer. That meant that he worked for a living. Many here did not. But, then again, he did have George, and George was so charming, so Irish, so handsome, and so glowing with vitality that people stood around when George and Skippy walked by, and said to themselves, as they would say if Skippy dumped Mary Lynn and took up with a movie star, who’s that with that guy? And then, when Skippy got into the back seat of the car and George got into the driver’s seat, they were impressed. Oh my, how George loved the social power of Irishmen in America. All you had to do was open your mouth and say something anyone back home could say, and they fell at your feet. Deirdre thought George was getting a little overconfident. But here he came. Skippy brightened significantly, Deirdre passed the lawyer off to her cousin, and they left her in peace to pursue her plan for Skippy’s benefit. The saving grace was that there were plenty of horses to look at, and she loved looking at horses.
AT THE DINNER TABLE, Deirdre noticed that Skippy was unusually quiet, as if he had been taken into custody for his own good. Beside her, George said, “Mary Lynn, darlin’, are you feeling a touch ill, then?”
“Oh my God,” said Mary Lynn, and staggered from the table to the bathroom. Deirdre forgot to follow her until George kicked her under the table, and then she said “Ouch! What?” before she realized what she was required to do.
Just the other night, George had said to her, “Cousin, it is beyond my understanding why the Lard above has given you so few instincts. A nice magnetic-resonance image of your brain would make an interesting article, I’m sure.”
So she followed her, okay? And there Mary Lynn was, throwing up into the toilet, and so Deirdre put her hand on the woman’s hot forehead, okay? And when she was done, she helped her out of the bathroom, and said, “What can I do for you?” Okay?
“Take me back to the hotel. No, have George take me back to the hotel. And don’t let Skippy buy either of those mares.”
“Which mares?”
“The Seattle Slew mare’s right knee turns out, and the Storm Cat mare is a Storm Cat mare.”
“Oh, those mares are too rich for us, Mary Lynn. Don’t worry.”
Mary Lynn gave her a look.
“We’ve got a plan, right?”
“Dear,” said Mary Lynn, “I will tell you the most annoying thing about Skippy. You know, neither of us came from anybody. We met in college, and we never had any money, but that didn’t matter. However little money we never had, Skippy would fill our place with bargains. In the early days it was yard sales, and the bargains all cost a quarter or a half a dollar. Later, it was Kmart, then Target, then Macy’s. He’s gotten bargains at Tiffany’s, Barney’s, Giorgio of Beverly Hills. Ever heard of Maxfield Bleu? That’s a store on Melrose in L.A., where they mark up the clothes a thousand percent and sneer at you, to boot. Skippy can come out of Maxfield Bleu thinking he got a bargain.”
“You’re saying he thinks anything he buys is a bargain.”
“No matter what the cost. Oh, God.”
They returned to the bathroom.
AFTER GEORGE RETURNED to the sales pavilion from the hotel, Deirdre tried to concoct a strategy with him. The first element was to sit as far away as possible from Snell. The second was to position Skippy between the two of them. The third was to handcuff his hands to his seat. The fourth was to tape his mouth shut. And the fifth was to enclose his head in a bag. Having concocted this strategy, they were laughing, which put Deirdre in a pleasanter mood, but didn’t give her any confidence in her influence over Skippy.
Deirdre herself had chosen ten good mares, and thought she would be lucky to get five of them. Only two were being sold this evening. When Skippy came to sit between them (they managed to put into effect the first two elements of their strategy), he was clearly at large again. The first thing he said was “So I suppose Mary Lynn is down for the night. I just talked to her on my cellular, and she doesn’t feel at all well.” He spoke triumphantly, sat forward on the edge of his seat, and plumped his hands on his knees. “When do they begin?”
They began.
“Ah,” said Skippy.
Into the ring walked a lovely chestnut mare, as matriarchal-looking as any mare Deirdre had ever seen. She looked in her catalogue. It was Red Shift, a famous mare, daughter of a famous mare, Red Beans, sister of three other famous mares, Red Scare, Red Square, and Infrared. These red mares were so famous that, no matter whom they were bred to, their offspring got names that alluded to them. Red Shift had begotten Night Shift, Shiftless, Moveitorloseit, and Day Shift, a two-year-old filly of the previous year who had run second at Saratoga in the Hopeful Stakes, against colts.
Deirdre and George exchanged a glance, just as, quite unexpectedly, Skippy’s hand went up. Deirdre snatched it down again, but not before the auctioneer noticed his bid. Fortunately, the next bid was immediate. Deirdre and Skippy had a little struggle, and Skippy said, in a tight voice, “Two hundred thousand is a bargain for this mare! I know that much!”
“It’s three hundred thousand now,” said George.
“That’s a bargain, too. Let go of me!”
“Keep your fucking hand down,” said Deirdre, too loudly. People nearby looked at her.
“She’s a great mare! She’s the best mare here!”
Deirdre now did something that later she wondered at. She swung her right leg around and mounted Skippy’s lap from her own seat, so that she was facing him and he could no longer see the ring. In his moment of nonplussed stillness, she put her face right against his and said, “Skippy, my darlin’, you do not deserve to own this great mare! I do not deserve to train her offspring! Leave her alone!”
She dismounted.
Skippy said, “What the hell are you doing? What the hell does that mean?”
“I have principles!”
“What principles? The mare goes to the highest bidder, no matter who he is!”
“I’ll not discuss it!”
And then the bidding was over, and the mare had gone for $936,000.
George offered Skippy a drink of water, which he took. Droplets of sweat pearled his hairline. He muttered to Deirdre, “I didn’t realize how strong you are. You look so little.”
“Darlin’,” said Deirdre, “when you have jumped thirteen-hundred-pound Holsteiners over five-foot and six-foot triple combinations and then turned back to a five-foot narrow and then galloped as hard as you could to a twelvefoot water jump, a lawyer isn’t much.”
“Well, don’t do that again.”
“Bid on what we agreed upon!” insisted Deirdre.
“Please,” suggested George.
“Please,” said Deirdre.
“Okay,” said Skippy. And he gave her a look.
Not long after, the Storm Cat mare, in foal to Theatrical (Ire.), bumped and jerked into the ring. She was grinding her teeth, switching her tail, and kicking out. “There’s a Storm Cat for you,” said George.
“They win,” said Skippy. He named the name of Snell and said that he owned four Storm Cats, two at the track and two at the farm. But he didn’t bid. The Storm Cat mare went for $564,000.
Now the Seattle Slew mare entered the ring, Belle Starr her name was. The catalogue said that she was due in February, and she looked it. In fact, Deirdr
e had seen this mare race. Her present calm look was in interesting contrast to her performance on the track—Deirdre remembered her in the Kentucky Oaks several years back, as tough and aggressive as a filly could be, going wide and fighting the jockey to run. Deirdre had thought at the time that she might have been on steroids, but now she was big in foal, a bit of evidence that her grit was more or less natural. That would be a mare to have, wouldn’t it. Deirdre glanced over at Skippy. He was sitting on his hands like a good boy. She looked at the mare again. The bidding began, but it was slow. At the third bid, they were only up to seventy-eight thousand. Another imponderable, why some were hot and others weren’t. Deirdre looked at her catalogue. She had written down her estimated reserve—$350,000. There was silence. She said, “Bid.”
“What?”
“Bid ninety.”
He bid ninety.
Someone else bid a hundred and ten.
“Bid one twenty-five.”
He bid one twenty-five.
Someone else bid one fifty, and a third person bid one seventy-five.
Deirdre sat back, saved. She sighed with relief, and then the mare turned her head and looked across all the people in the first three rows, directly at Deirdre. How was it, Deirdre thought, that all horses’ eyes were brown and large and set in the same spot on the horses’ heads, and yet all looked different? How was it that some looked inward and some looked at the horizon, and some looked right at you? She said, “Bid.”
“It’s up to two twenty-five.”
“Bid.”
“Two fifty!” called out Skippy.
“Good Lard,” said George.
It got to three hundred.
“I am in love,” said Deirdre.
“Whose money are we bidding?” said Skippy.
“Yours,” said Deirdre. “Bid three twenty-five.”
