Horse Heaven

by Jane Smiley

  Out in the open air, he saw that the horses for the second race were leaving the saddling enclosure to go to the paddock.

  Leo didn’t like watching the horses get saddled, or the paddock parade. He said it was too confusing, and that you ended up betting hunches when you should be betting form, numbers, past performances. Watching the horses in the saddling enclosure was like tempting yourself to fall in love at first sight, and if you couldn’t control yourself, then you had to control your circumstances, which Leo did by staying inside the track. Jesse liked the preliminaries the best, though. It allowed him to think that horse racing wasn’t really about betting, but about looking at the animals. The coolest thing about them was that they were all different. For example, in the second race, for maiden two-year-old fillies, there were six entries idling with their connections. Of all the fillies, only one was calm. She was a chestnut, number two. She stood quietly with her head up and her ears pricked while her trainer smoothed the number-cloth over her back.

  “That’s Buddy Crawford, that trainer,” said a woman standing next to Jesse. “He’s won a lot of races. They say he’s kind of a crook.”

  Jesse liked the horse, though. He looked at the program. Her name was “Residual.” Jesse leaned on the barrier to get a better look at the filly. The people around the filly put the saddle on her, then did the girths. They petted her a lot, and Jesse could see why. She was very shiny, but even apart from that, something about her made you want to pet her. He wanted to pet her himself. Around her, all of the other fillies were doing something—twisting their necks or jumping around. One stood there rigid with tension, lifting one foreleg and curling it under herself, then putting it down and lifting the other. The only thing Residual did was rub the side of her nose gently on the sleeve of her groom one time, as if, Jesse thought, she was reassuring him. Now the number-one filly headed out, and Residual followed her. Behind them, the last four fillies made a ruckus, but Residual only looked at the fans lining the rail of the walking ring, and when she came to the spot where she was supposed to receive her jockey, she stopped and stood. Jesse took one last look, and ran under the grandstand. Leo was sitting on the concrete steps, still studying his form. Jesse went up to him. As Residual walked onto the track, he exclaimed, “Look at number two, Dad! You’ve got to bet on her.”

  “I never bet maiden two-year-old fillies,” said Leo. “That’s like playing the lottery.”

  Jesse looked up at the tote. He said, “Her odds are six to one. That’s good odds.”

  “Those are good odds, yes. But I have standards, Jesse.”

  Jesse said, “It’s Pincay, Dad.”

  “Even so.” He put his hand on Jesse’s shoulder and looked him in the eye, then said in a very serious voice, “Jesse, son, these little girls don’t know a thing about racing. The gate is going to open, and they are going to be wondering what to do next. Anything can happen—”

  “But that’s good, Dad.”

  “Well, that is good in a larger sense, in a, let’s say, universal sense, in the sense that if you spend your life drawing a weekly paycheck, and that’s what you know you’re going to get every Friday for the rest of your life, unless the boss decides to give you a two-percent raise one of these years, and you know the wife is going to spend so much for food and so much for rent and everything, well, some people like to live like that, and some don’t. So, in that sense, the idea that anything can happen is a liberating idea. But in this sense, in this race, the things that can happen aren’t good in that way—”

  “I’ve got ten dollars at home. I would give it to you if you would bet that on her now.”

  “Jesse, the thing is, I want you to benefit from my experience. Now, my dad, he would bet on any race, but I’ve—” Then he stopped. Then he said, “Well, you’ve got to learn sooner or later. Okay. How do you want to bet your ten dollars?”

  The horses were jogging. Residual continued to ease along. Pincay, the strongest jockey, the oldest jockey, the most amazing jockey, sat calmly atop her. Three times, he reached down and stroked her neck, slowly, not as if reassuring her, but just as if he enjoyed it. Jesse said, “Two across the board. Two more to win, and two more to place. The odds are at eight to one, now, Dad. I think she’s way undervalued.”

  “Okay, son. If you can use the word ‘undervalued’ and know what it means, I suppose you’re ready to make up your own mind.”

  The lines at the betting windows were short, so they got back out to the rail in time to see the horses begin to jog and then canter past the stands on their way to the gate in the chute. The number-five filly was nearly climbing her pony, she was so ready to lose it at the noise and turmoil of the fans in the stands. None of the others liked it, either—even Residual looked—but soon enough they had all been led away from the noise, little suspecting that they would have to run back into it before long. Jesse held his tickets in his hand. He knew the fillies had to go through this—a time or two and they would be like the horses in the first race, ready, and even eager for this pandemonium—those in the first race that didn’t prance at least perked up. But these fillies skittered and jumped and the pony riders held them close. They disappeared after the turn, and only by putting his hand up and squinting could Jesse see the gate at the front of the chute. After a bit, the first horse and pony approached it. That filly shied and backed. The pony went with her for a step, then stood until the filly came back up to it. A man standing next to them said to his friend, “All them jocks is prayin’ right now.”

  The friend nodded.

  “You know,” the man went on, “there’s culling takes place in everything, but horse racin’s the only thing where they cull the ones that ain’t gonna cut it right in front of ya.”

  “Football.”

  “Now, there’s a difference right there. You let a kid come to practice month after month and then warm the bench all season, and pretty soon he gets the idea that he’s no good, and he goes off. But horses, they don’t get to warm no bench. They got to try it all equal with each other. They’re more equal in these maiden races than they’ll ever be again.”

  “Yup,” said the friend.

  “Culls ’em. Breaks ’em down.”

  “Yup,” said the friend. “Who ya got?”

  “Well, I got a pick three that’s still got a breath of life in it. I did a five-five-five this time.”

  “Hell, that’s a crazy bet. I know a guy who did this thing for a year. He played the horses that he liked best across the board, and also the longest shot in the race. He did it for a year, and even though he ended up with a lot of favorites, those eighty- or a-hundred-to-one shots came in just often enough to put him in the black for the year. I always thought it was a good system.”

  “Why don’t you use it, then?”

  “Ah, it was his system. I got one of my own.”

  “Don’t we all.”

  “Jesse,” said Leo. He had the binoculars to his eyes. Jesse said, “Are they in?” Leo, for the first time ever, handed him the glasses.

  The bell clanged and the gates opened. Residual, of course, was in the second hole. The thing was, when the gates opened in a normal race, a line of horses leapt forth. A good start was a nice thing to see, everyone doing the same thing for a moment, then, boom, everyone different. But this was a bad start. Residual leapt forth, but the filly in the number-one slot stood for a moment, and the filly in the number-four spot jumped out, then stopped dead in her tracks. The outside filly crossed to the rail, not as if her jockey was taking her there, but as if she was out of control. And the number-three filly reared up and dumped her jockey. Jesse took the glasses down from his eyes and looked up at Leo, who was shaking his head. But there was no time for that. Now the field organized itself tentatively. Residual and the number-six horse were in front, but right behind them was the riderless filly, her reins dangling. The number-one filly was out now, but fighting her jockey. She and the other two had at least four lengths of daylight between them an
d the first group. Jesse focused the glasses on Residual. As she disappeared behind the stuff in the infield that hid everything from the gaze of the fans, she looked awkwardly boxed in. The filly with the jockey seemed to be pressing against her where she was on the rail, and the riderless filly was right on her heels. But she floated, that’s what Jesse thought, she floated.

  He set the glasses on the beginning of the turn and waited. When they came into his view, things had changed. Now all six horses were strung out along the rail, nose to tail. The number-six filly, whose jockey had a white cap, was first, the riderless filly was second, Residual was third, the number-one filly was fourth, the number-four filly, the one that had stopped dead, was fifth, and galloping along behind was number five. They came around the turn in just this order, as if they were a merry-go-round. Jesse heard Leo say “Shit!” with a certain amount of surprise in his voice, more than he normally cared to allow. As they entered the stretch, Jesse could see some of the jockeys begin to do stuff. The leading jockey glanced back, and then went to his whip; the last two pulled to the outside. The horse behind Residual simply ran out of steam, and disappeared from Jesse’s view. Pincay did nothing for a moment, then he simply moved his hands up the filly’s neck and seemed to lift himself off her. How he could do this, Jesse could not say, but, then, Leo always said that Pincay could do anything. Residual continued to float. She floated around the riderless filly, who, as they came under the stands, threw her head in fear at the noise everyone was making. She floated away from the fillies behind her, and she floated right up to the lead filly, seemed to encompass her and then to overtake her. They crossed the finish line. “Photo” once again flashed on the tote. Jesse handed the glasses to Leo, and Leo said, “Well, maiden fillies is maiden fillies, is what my dad used to say. There’s never been a man in the world who could see into the heart of a maiden filly.”

  “Residual was perfect, Dad.”

  “She ran a pretty good race, son. She kept out of trouble, but I don’t think she won.”

  “Nothing bothered her, Dad. All that stuff was all right with her. She didn’t even notice it.”

  “Son, from the perspective of the bettor, perfect is a win. The other stuff is just nice.”

  The results came up. Residual had not won. But she had come in second. Jesse pulled his tickets from his pocket. He still had two place bets and one show bet. He looked at the tote and added them up. Then he said, “I still get thirty-five dollars, Dad, plus my original ten. That’s forty-five dollars. That’s good investing.”

  Leo ruffled his hair and said, “Yes, it is, son.”

  Jesse noticed that, when the grooms went out to retrieve their horses, Residual came up to her groom and nosed him on the arm. After Pincay took off his saddle but before he turned to walk away, he gave the filly a long stroke and she gave him a look. Pincay laughed. Jesse heard him say to the groom, “Nice girl, this one.” Then Buddy Crawford was there, and he and Pincay talked. Pincay was nodding and smiling. Buddy Crawford was shaking his head. Then Pincay laughed, one of those laughs you saw sometimes, where you realized that the person laughing just knew everything was fine, and he was right. Your dad could say this, and your mom could say that, and the trainer could be mad about some little thing, and maybe not everything went your way, but if you saw how there could be floating in spite of all that, then everything was fine anyway.

  Leo, who had gone to cash the tickets, came back with the money and put it in Jesse’s hand. Jesse looked at it. Leo was smiling, but it seemed strange to him. He wondered if he would ever know the same things that other people knew, ever look at something as simple as money and know anything simple about it. Even the numbers in the corners seemed mysterious. His dad was always telling him things, always pointing out what it was that going to the track taught you about, like life and the president and how you should be and stuff. What the track taught you was very detailed, and there was a lot to remember, and his dad knew all about it. But his dad hadn’t seen how the filly floated. Maybe no one else had seen that, either, maybe only he and Pincay had noticed that. Pincay had noticed it, Jesse knew from the pat he gave her when he got off. She was a nice girl, that filly.

  His dad was bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet with his hands in his pockets. It was the third race. He and his dad always got to this point at about the third race, where Leo had to go off by himself and do his thinking alone. Without being told, Jesse went to one of the benches by the walking ring and sat down. He pulled out the comic book that he had in his back pocket.

  Then the fourth race.

  Then the fifth race. Even if you won one, Jesse thought, a day at the races was a long day.

  Then the sixth race. When they came out for the sixth race, Jesse realized that he must have dropped off to sleep, because a black lady with a big sunhat on was poking him. He sat up and said, “Oh, I’m sorry,” thinking that he had maybe fallen over on her, but she was saying, “Honey, look at this. I got these two in this race. Here’s Easy Pieces, he’s that big chestnut, he’s by Sea Hero, you know who that was, and here’s Boraboola. He’s a Pleasant Colony.” Jesse gazed at the giant animal, nearly black, with one white sock. “Now, which one do you like? Here’s my thinking. This race is a mile and a sixteenth on the turf. This Boraboola horse is a distance horse, maybe. He’s got the breeding and the bone, and he’s been pretty lightly raced, like they’re saving him. Those Pleasant Colony horses tend to develop late. Now, Sea Hero was a great racehorse, but he hasn’t proved himself as a sire, so you don’t really know how to judge his get, you know. But this chestnut, now, to my mind, he’s built.”

  Jesse said, “What’s his form?”

  “Honey, I don’t look at the form, I look at the horse.”

  “Me, too,” said Jesse.

  “I don’t know,” said the lady. “I just don’t know.”

  “I like the black horse.”

  “Well, he’s not black, but almost. They say no Thoroughbreds are black, but I’ve seen one or two, you ask me.”

  “He’s the one I like. He’s very proud of himself today.”

  “Okay, then.”

  The lady got up and walked off toward the betting windows, and Jesse thought about going to watch the race, but he really didn’t want to, because he might run into his father, and that might be too much. If his father wanted him, he would find him. He felt the money in his pocket, and remembered he was hungry.

  They ran the race while he was eating his burger and onion rings. He saw it on the monitor. Boraboola won by a length. The chestnut was third. Jesse felt a very private sense of pleasure descend upon him, from wherever it came from. He hadn’t bet, of course, no nine-year-old could bet alone, but he had picked a winner. He knew he would think about that tonight in bed, then tomorrow, when he got up and went to school. It would be a good thing to think about over and over.

  Lots of people, of course, left during the ninth race, just to miss the rush hour, or to get away, or because they were tired, but for Leo, leaving before the end of the day was not a possibility. Leo always promoted hard work and doing a good job. But the ninth race could be a killer, Jesse knew. The eighth race was the feature—it always had a name, good money was attached, and the best horses and trainers competed. The ninth race was what Leo called the dogfood run, lots of old geldings or mares who’d seen better days, nothing that could go to the breeding shed, and probably too unsound to be sold off, so their trainers and owners were extracting the last drops of their investment before sending the animals away.

  “Where?” Jesse asked once.

  “Where do you think, son?”

  Jesse knew. And Jesse knew cattle went there, hogs went there, sheep went there, chickens and turkeys went there. Why not horses? But if he tried to imagine, let’s say, Residual or Boraboola or Easy Pieces going there, it made him anxious again.

  The reason the ninth race might be a killer was that, if his dad had had a winning day, and had parlayed all his bets, then he cou
ld lose it all in a matter of moments. If he’d had a losing day, then he might keep betting to get the money back. Theoretically, he could win it all in a matter of moments, too, but that was less likely. And the horses, being unsound, old, unpredictable, were harder to bet, and his dad would be tired, too. Jesse decided to find Leo, though. The fact was, he missed him, and his desire to know how he was doing suddenly outweighed his fear of knowing the same thing. He came out in front of the stands and saw Leo right away, stock-still, binoculars to his face, staring at the line of horses approaching the starting gate, which was out at the chute. This was a six-furlong race, quick, at least. It was impossible to tell from a distance whether Leo was winning or losing, he was so still. When Jesse went up to him, just as the horses left the gate, Leo dropped his hand on his head to keep him quiet. The race had a small field, only five. A man standing nearby said, “Look at these plugs. This is gonna take till midnight. That number-four horse looks like she has to remember how to move her feet.”

  The five mares and fillies came around the turn. Leo’s hand pressed Jesse a little harder. When the horses crossed the finish line, the number-two horse first, the hand lifted, and after a moment, Leo said the magic words, “All right!” Jesse looked up at him. He was smiling. Leo had had a winning day. He said, “Just had a little bet on that sweetie-mare, but let’s cash it anyway. Goosey Lucy. What a name! I love how they name these Thoroughbreds. That’s a poem in itself. You know, sometimes you read down the program, and it’s a song, or a poem, or something like that. Goosey Lucy. Well, sweetie, you made me a winner today.”

  Goosey Lucy had gone off at four-to-one, so Leo walked away from the window with twenty-two dollars, which he arranged carefully in his wallet with the rest of the money. Dollars weren’t falling out of his pockets the way they did once in a while, when Leo hit a big exotic bet, but there was a thick wad in the wallet that would make for a nice evening.

  On the way home, with the sun setting over the 210 and all of Los Angeles displayed before them, Leo sang his usual hymn. Jesse liked to hear it. “There’s no place like the racetrack, son. Everyone of every sort is there. No one is excluded at the racetrack. Blacks, Jews, Hispanics, Chinese. Koreans love the racetrack. Kids play there. People picnic there. Families break bread together at the racetrack. Rich, poor, and everything in between. It doesn’t matter what you do in your life, son, the richest man you will ever see will be someone you saw at the track, walking along, holding his tickets just like you. And probably the poorest man you ever see will be at the track, too, because there’s always somebody, every day, who managed to wipe out all his assets at the betting windows. A beggar on the street with a sawbuck in his hat is richer than that man. Now, that’s just the socio-economic aspect, which I appreciate, but which is just an aspect. These jocks are great athletes. Now, some say they’re crooked, but I don’t say that, I just say they’re great athletes. If you blew up a jock’s body to the size of a basketball player’s, the jock would be stronger, more muscled, more coordinated, more you name it. Jock just is. They’ve done studies. So you get to see that. But the other thing is, and the thing I love the most is, every single horse race is something that can’t be understood. Eight or nine times a day, day after day, men and horses go out and line up and start running, and the next thing you know, you are in mystery-land. Which horse has a hairline fracture, which horse sees something funny, which horse is feeling especially good, which jock pushes which other jock. It’s a mystery that can’t be plumbed by the form, by the theories, by any known science, and it happens every day, for me to look at. And, then, it’s a story, too. Every horse, every jock, every owner, every trainer, every bettor, every race. A football game is one story, one day a week. That’s boring. A day at the races is thousands of stories, with grass around, trees around, a breeze, some mountains in the background. You know, in the summer, we’ll go to a real horse heaven. We’ll get out to Del Mar.”