Horse Heaven

by Jane Smiley

  And what was he doing the whole time? He was wondering why he didn’t want to answer the phone. Horses vanished from his barn without warning—if he had answered the phone, he would have reassured the owners and not lost the horses, or at least known that they were being moved. As it was, various grooms and assistant trainers would show up, or even van drivers, and ask for the horses, and he would let them go. Finally, there were nine cheap horses in his barn, and then other horses belonging to other trainers came into his stalls, or what had been his stalls. He didn’t question that, either.

  It was a strange episode that gave him a sense of kinship with drunks, suicides, plagiarists, anorexics, self-destroyers of all kinds. When he looked back on it, he seemed to himself to have been paralyzed, or even enchanted. There had been a stillness about the whole period. Outside, the tempest raged, in that everyone he knew was justifiably angry with him, and some still were, ten years later, but inside everything was quiet, and eventually the phone didn’t ring at all. After some period of silence, he couldn’t remember how long, he made the first call of his new life, to the manager of an apartment complex who he saw in the paper had an apartment for rent.

  Taken all in all, he had no regrets, but he didn’t want to do the whole thing over again. But by the time he was out at the track, he was even less inclined to make the calls. “Hey,” he said. “How’s it going? Hey. Hey, baby.” It was a pleasant day. No smog. The ridge of the mountains across the track seemed etched in light. His associates, three of them, stood together in comfortable fellowship. A couple of owners were there, too. You could always tell them by their ignorant alert self-consciousness.

  His horses appeared on the track, jogging around to the other side or heading to the back of the chute for gate-training. He thought, I need help here, and then the phone at his waist began to ring. It rang three times. All around him, feet started shuffling. It was noisy and uncomfortable. It rang a fourth time, and he knew that the messaging system would pick up. He could hear it perfectly: “Farley Jones is not available at this time. If you would like to leave a message, please do so at the beep.” Except that the phone rang again and again. Someone, Farley didn’t see who, said, “Shit.” Then Buddy Crawford turned around and said, “Farley, answer the God-damned phone, because if you don’t I’m going to throw it out onto the track.”

  Farley answered the phone. As he did so, he heard one of the other trainers say, “Hell, Buddy, nice to see you’re back to your old self.”

  “Tell me about it,” said Buddy.

  “Farley?” said a Brit from deep in the cellular universe.

  “Hey,” said Farley.

  “This is Sir Michael Ordway.”

  “Hey.”

  “May I make an inquiry?”

  “Of course.”

  “Have you room for another horse? Rather a mystery horse, if you ask me, but interesting owners.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t have a stall available, and it’s so crowded here, I don’t know when I can get one.”

  “You’re not keeping horses at Hollywood Park anymore, I understand.”

  “Haven’t for several years.”

  “Too bad, then.”

  “Sorry,” said Farley.

  “Indeed,” said Sir Michael.

  OLIVER KNEW THAT he should not pick up the ringing phone, but he did so anyway, because he couldn’t help it, because he always picked up the phone before he realized what he was doing and because he thought it might be someone with a nice horse to send to Farley, or perhaps Farley himself calling from the track, telling him he had changed his mind about sending him over to Hollywood with his own string, that wasn’t so unusual, was, in fact, quite usual. But it was his girlfriend. She started in right away. “Did you talk to him?”

  “There wasn’t really time. He was a little late—”

  “There’s always time if you make time.”

  “I’ll make time. I told you I would make time.”

  “I don’t want to go to Tokyo and Kyoto and Kuala Lumpur and Hong Kong and Bali and Fiji with thirty-seven Mitsubishi dealers and their wives for twelve fun-filled days and have to think about your situation out there the whole time. Honey.” She remembered to soften the last word.

  “He isn’t necessarily going to see things my way. He’s already said—”

  “What did we say last night, Oliver?”

  “I have certain needs. Career needs.”

  And here came Farley, opening the door and walking right into his own office with a smile and a look of inquiry. Oliver lifted his finger, but didn’t actually look at his boss.

  “Yes, you do, sweetie, and you need to attend to them. I can’t do that for you, you know that.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Now, tell me again what you’re going to ask for.”

  “I can’t really do that.”

  “We went over it last night, honey.”

  “I know, but—”

  “This is an avoidance problem on your part, darling. You have a real thing about giving bad news. But that just means things slide and slide. I think it would be really good for you to just run down the list right now, the five action points that we went over, and get them clear in your mind.”

  Farley was getting himself a cup of coffee from the coffeemaker.

  “I know what you mean, but that’s not what I’m—”

  “Oliver, sweetheart, you know, back home, when the team is, say, forty points down arid none of the boys are trying any shots or getting any rebounds?”

  “Yes.” Her dad was a high-school basketball coach.

  “And at half-time, they all go into the locker room, and they huddle together, and they have a come-to-Jesus meeting right there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that’s where we are right now. Come to Jesus. Up or out. Bottom line. You and him. You and me.”

  “I know what you’re getting at, but—”

  “Hand him the phone. I know he’s standing right there. I’ll talk to him myself.”

  Ah, well. And just because anything could happen, Oliver held out the phone to Farley, and said, “It’s for you.”

  Farley sat down in his desk chair and put the receiver to his ear. Oliver turned away from the desk and looked at the bulletin board of win pictures from the last year or so—Garden Variety winning the Santa Luisa Handicap; Garden Variety again, this time in the Willard Scott Stakes, Parson Jack winning the MGM Handicap, Duly Noted winning the Judy Garland Futurity. Oliver glanced at Farley, who was stroking his beard thoughtfully. Oliver figured that she was being rather forceful. He turned back to the win pictures. Sterling Silver winning the Calistoga, Panettone winning the Hitchcock at Del Mar, Duly Noted winning the Cardiff. Farley put the receiver back in its cradle. He said, “You’re fired.”

  “I am?”

  “She said that being fired would be exactly the opportunity you need to get out of your career rut and rethink your life plan. She said that, between us, you and I encourage one another’s natural passivity, and though that’s fine for me, at my age, approaching retirement and with all of my children grown and no real financial commitments, assuming that my condo is paid for—”

  “She said that?”

  “Yes. You, on the other hand, are just starting out, and it’s clear to her that a kick in the pants could change your life, she was intensely grateful for every kick in the pants she herself had ever received, had I ever heard the expression ‘Every knock’s a boost?,’ and so, all things considered, you’re fired.”

  “I’m sorry she talked to you like that. She doesn’t realize that she’s being rude—”

  “She wasn’t rude, she was logical and forceful, and she made some very good points. So there you go.”

  “But I don’t want to be fired.”

  “Best thing for you.”

  “I think you’re joking.”

  “No, I’m not joking.”

  “You mean, I’m really fired?”

  “For yo
ur own good, yes.”

  “Who’s going to be your assistant?”

  “Joy, I guess. She’s the obvious candidate.”

  “She’s going away for twelve days with some car dealers.”

  “Well, my advice is to have a new job, or at least a career plan, by the time she comes back.”

  “I still think you’re joking. You’re smiling.”

  “I’m smiling because all my problems have been solved.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I got rid of Sir Michael Ordway, so Mr. T. doesn’t have to go. Joy will have something to do to keep her up and about. And I don’t have to worry about you, because you are going to take care of yourself.”

  “I don’t want to take care of myself.” But that sounded weird, so Oliver said, “I mean, I do want to take care of myself in the normal way, but—”

  “Here’s something to remember. If you wait for the feeling in order to act, you’ll never act, but if you act, the feeling will follow.”

  “It will?”

  “The third set is ready. I would say, be out of here by tomorrow. How does that sound?”

  “I thought you liked me! I thought we got along!”

  “I do and we do, but if you’re fired, you’re fired. There’s a structure to the whole situation.”

  He got up and walked out of the office. Oliver immediately picked up the phone and dialed his girlfriend’s office number and cell number, but she could not be reached.

  JOY COULD BE REACHED. Even after what had happened to her, she still didn’t mind answering the phone. In fact, it felt functional and virtuous to answer the phone, and so on the first ring she stopped crying, on the second ring she swallowed and wiped her eyes, on the third ring she sat up, threw off the covers, and noticed that the sun was shining, on the fourth ring she found the phone under the pillow, and on the fifth ring she said, “Hello?”

  “Hi,” said Farley. He didn’t have to make an effort to soften his voice. Talking to Joy softened his voice for him.

  “Hi,” she whispered.

  “Are you available for employment?”

  “In what sense?”

  “Can you show up here and be my assistant trainer, starting tomorrow?”

  “Assistant racehorse trainer? Is Oliver moving to Hollywood Park?”

  “Oliver’s girlfriend and I agreed that I would fire him.”

  “You did?”

  “It was me or her, she said. She sounded like she meant it. And she made a rather good case for it being me and not her.”

  “That’s so weird.”

  “So I need you.”

  “I can’t, I—”

  “For right now. There’s lots to do.”

  “Hire him back.”

  “No.”

  “It doesn’t interest me. I have no faith in it. It’ll make me crazy. It’ll be like it was back at the university. I’m afraid.”

  “But you know how to do it and I need someone to do it. The barn is full. Put one foot in front of the other. That’s all.”

  “Do you have infinite patience?”

  “Will you return all my calls for me?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Done deal?”

  “Done deal,” said Joy. And she hung up. And she burst into tears.

  IN HIS OFFICE, Farley put down the phone, closed his eyes, and blew out a noisy sigh. What it felt like was nothing so much as reaching out and grabbing her at the last minute, just as she went over the edge. It was not so clear whether he could hold her, convinced as he was, now more than ever, that she would slip away in the end. He had his methods and his resources, didn’t he? Patience. Stoicism. Keeping at it. The same old same old, virtues tried and true. Hiding out, the foundation mare would have readily, and even triumphantly, called it. Ah, yes, hiding out was always a temptation for a man of dignity and reserve such as himself. And so he had made a little contract with Joy. Barney had told him about that. A guy he’d read about in a book made a contract with his wife, every year, that she wouldn’t commit suicide that year. One year she could handle. And they had lived together thirty years, one year at a time. He got up and went around the desk. Outside, it was high noon and quiet. The horses who had worked that morning were eating or dozing. Only Mr. T. popped his head over the door and looked at him. Farley hadn’t thought a lot about their earlier association. It had lasted less than a year. In the fifteen years since, hundreds of horses had passed through his barn. But of course it was odd that the animal should turn up again, and bring Joy along with him, a Fairy Godgelding, no matter what this mumbo-jumbo of Elizabeth’s was all about.

  “Hey,” he said.

  The horse pricked his ears.

  “You tell me what to do next. You tell me and I’ll listen. Done deal?”

  Mr. T looked at him intelligently.

  58 / JUSTA CLAIMER

  OVER VALENTINE’S DAY, William Vance let his girlfriend persuade him to take her to Florida on some of Justa Bob’s winnings, and then he talked her into going out to Gulfstream. And then he saw this horse by Skip Trial, the sire of Skip Away, out of a Secretariat mare, who’d been dropped into a seventy-five-thousand-dollar claiming race, and so he put up the cash, and the horse won, only his third start, but he came out of the race off behind, and then, when William got him X-rayed, it turned out he had a coffin-bone fracture—just a fragment floating there in the hazy picture—and with a special shoe, he might be ready to go again in the late summer. Right then, William had this feeling that he was due for a bad turnaround, but he didn’t pay attention to it, and when he went back to New Orleans to finish up and head back to Chicago, he was still in a pretty good mood. Two days later, though, his four-year-old colt tied up after a work, knotted up so hard you thought if you smacked him he would ring like a gong, right out there on the track. They didn’t dare move him, and had to trailer him fifty yards back to his stall. His urine was nearly black. The other four-year-old, a good solid allowance mare, just hadn’t liked the footing in Louisiana and hadn’t run a lick since the beginning—“too good,” said William to Romero when he called to tell him all about it. “She can’t get a hold of it. She looks dazed out there.” Even then, William kept having that feeling that everything was going to be all right in spite of the coffin-bone fracture and all, until a few days after the tie-up. At first they thought that, even though the colt’s urine was coffee-colored—a very bad sign—there was some chance that he would—well, what?—come back to his old form? William gave up that hope pretty quickly. Come back to the track at all? Two days, three days, four days passed. The horse stood in his stall, unmoving, his eyes half closed, unable or unwilling to eat, the fitness and even the flesh passing off him like a dream. Then William thought, well, he was a colt, good-looking and not that badly bred, someone could stand him somewhere like Wisconsin or Minnesota, but then, about a week after the incident, a big lump appeared over his croup, maybe a foot long and four to six inches wide. The vet came out and poked it. He shook his head. You hardly had to twitch the horse, he was so listless, but they sedated him and incised the lump. Black-brown fluid with some strands of something oozed and dripped out. William had never seen such a thing, but he knew what it was before the vet told him. “William,” said the vet. “That’s necrotized muscle tissue.”

  “He’s done for,” said William.

  “I’m thinking he is,” said the vet.

  They euthanized the horse ten minutes later. William went out to his truck and cried.

  BUT, OF COURSE, he still had Justa Bob. Justa Bob had finally lost, and done it twice, last place and second-to-last place in a twenty-five-thousand-dollar allowance and a twenty-two-thousand-dollar allowance. He was tired. William’s plan was to take him back to Chicago and let him slack off for several months. He called Romero. “The thing is,” he said, “I shouldn’t have claimed that Skip Trial colt. He’s standing here in the barn.”

  “They come back from
coffin-bone—”

  “I don’t have the money to pay some of my bills or get back home. The vet bills—”

  “Run him.” William knew he was talking about Justa Bob.

  “He’s too tired for the company. There’s a bunch of fresh horses coming in.”

  “Run him. Someone will claim him for sure.”

  “I know they will, that’s what I’m afraid of.”

  “Are you attached to that horse?”

  “Well, of course I am. I—”

  “You’re the one who always says you get attached and you’re dead.”

  “I know, but Justa Bob is different.”

  “None of them are different if you can’t get home.”

  WILLIAM GOT Justa Bob ready for the race himself. He went into the stall, and cleaned him up and put a couple of braids in there, just for fun. He curried him and brushed him and rubbed him all over until the animal’s brown coat looked like walnut veneer. He separated the hairs of his tail and smoothed them out one by one, sprayed on a little silicone spray. He wrapped and taped his back legs, put yellow polos on the front. His silks, just a yellow shirt with white sleeves, looked good on this horse, too.

  Justa Bob stood there, calm and alert. By now he had started fifty-four times, and he knew everything about it. When the time came for the fourth race, William walked him to the receiving barn and out to the saddling enclosure himself. He was wearing clean khaki trousers and a white shirt. He looked good. They both looked good. Of course horses were everywhere, and trainers, and jocks and grooms and owners. Some in every category were very high-class, especially among the three-year-olds who were taking this route to the Derby rather than the New York route, the Florida route, or the West Coast route, but William thought Justa Bob stood out, anyway. No, he wasn’t all that fast, and he wasn’t all that pretty, but he had hung on and for a long time and never failed to cooperate, and never failed to give it, whatever it was, everything he had. William wished that guy from the Times-Picayune were around right now, because he wouldn’t be tongue-tied. He’d know exactly what to say. William looked at his watch. Time to go out there.