Horse Heaven

by Jane Smiley

  “I wish you would help me again.”

  Horse and rider returned, not down the road but across another set of paddocks, jumping in, jumping out, jumping in, jumping out, and then they jumped right back into the arena and came to a halt in the center, in front of her. Over by the barn, Audrey was shouting, “Yeah! Yeah! Wow! Yay, Ellen!” Ellen was panting. The horse was blowing. She said, “I’m the rider. You’re the trainer. Tiffany’s the owner. What do you say? You can’t say he’s not good enough for you or that Tiffany can’t afford it or that it won’t be fun.”

  “Did you plan this?”

  “No. No, though we wanted you to see him. But it wasn’t until we were all sitting here, right in place, that I saw how it would work.”

  “It’ll work,” said Tiffany.

  “Me, too!” shouted Audrey. “I want to do something, too!”

  “You can be the cheering section!” called Tiffany.

  “It’ll work,” said Deirdre, and after saying that, she knew it would—jumping, steeplechasing, friendship, and all the rest of it.

  SO THIS GUY Angel Smith knew, named Horacio Delagarza, trailered five of the seven horses over to the auction yard and put them with the other auction horses in the corral. Then he went back for the last two, the two in the pen. They were the sorriest pair, one hardly able to walk and the other one just skin and bones. When he got back with them, it took a while to get the cripple off the trailer and into the corral, and he saw the guy watching, the guy with the double-bottomed livestock trailer parked in the back of the parking lot. The guy with the double-bottomed trailer was the slaughter guy. He came every week, and he always had enough money to go off with a full load, horses on the top shelf and horses on the bottom shelf, all bunched together, their heads down by their feet. It was a sight that Horacio hated to see, even though he wasn’t otherwise a pussy. After he unloaded the cripple, he untied the skinny one and let the bar down behind him. The skinny one backed right off the trailer and pricked up his ears and looked around.

  The other five of Angel’s horses each had something going for them, but these two, well, who was going to buy them? thought Horacio. He sighed.

  This skinny one was a friendly sort. He rubbed his head on Horacio’s shirt, and then, when Horacio turned around, he bumped his head into his back. Mostly horses ignored you if they didn’t know you. And then, when Horacio turned around, the guy looked right at him, right in the eye. “Yeah,” said Horacio, “ ‘Save me’ is about right. Except you should have gotten someone to do that before now. It’s too late now.” He put the horse into the corral, and the guy went over to the crippled horse and stood beside him. Lots of horses were milling around. The dust was unbearable, so Horacio got himself a Coke, found a seat, and wiped his face all over with his handkerchief. He had told Angel’s wife he would stay until the horses were sold and bring her back the money. She kind of hoped there would be several thousand dollars, even seven thousand dollars for seven horses, but Horacio couldn’t see it. Two or three maybe.

  From where he was sitting, he could see all of Angel’s horses. The skinny one wasn’t knocked out like the cripple, nor was he scared or agitated like most of the others. He was looking around. He was right there, looking for a good home, thought Horacio. Good luck, buddy.

  The buyers, even the ones who weren’t buying for slaughter, were a hardbitten, unpitying bunch, Horacio thought. They were looking for useful animals who could get down to work right now. No pets, no projects. Horacio looked away from the corral. It was a bad lot in the corral. The slaughter man would fill up his truck for sure.

  The auctioneer came out and started peeling off the horses like cards from a deck. The lots were random. Good ones came after bad ones. They were led in, walked around, trotted around a few steps, then stood up. The auctioneer said something about each of them that was obvious to anyone looking on—here’s a nice palomino, this one trots good, three white stockings on this one, pretty head here. It was just patter, didn’t mean anything. Every horse had a buyer, and half the time the buyer was the slaughter man, whose voice rose out of the silence at the end of any bout of unsuccessful bidding and offered a couple hundred dollars. Bang, down came the gavel, and the slaughter man’s boy walked in and led the horse out to the double-bottomed trailer.

  When they brought in the chestnut who could barely walk, it was so obvious that he would go to the slaughterhouse that there was only a moment of silence while the auctioneer looked at the slaughter man and the slaughter man said, “Ten dollars,” and the auctioneer said, “Anyone got fifteen?,” and no one said anything, and the horse went for ten dollars, and as they led him away, the skinny one, Horacio saw and heard him, let out a loud whinny, and so, on the principle of the squeaky wheel, he was next.

  Justa Bob came into the center of the ring and looked after Doc’s Big Juan, whose tail was disappearing into the crowd. This whole situation did not look good to Justa Bob, and Doc’s departure looked the worst of all, so he whinnied again. Some horse out somewhere whinnied back, but it wasn’t Doc, and Justa Bob pulled against the leadrope attached to his halter, then turned in a circle around the man holding him. “Quit!” said the man, and Justa Bob quit. Although things had not always gone well for Justa Bob, this was the first time he had ever been treated purely as an agricultural commodity, which he read in this way—there were people around him, and they were looking at him, but they had nothing to do with him. Were he to attend to their body language and attempt to connect with them, he would become confused and fail. And so he didn’t know what to do, and so he lowered his head and stopped paying attention.

  Someone bid twenty bucks for him. Fifty-four starts, twenty wins, seventeen seconds or thirds, lifetime winnings $172,000. There were horses at stud who had won less. The auctioneer asked if anyone had thirty, and there was a long silence. Finally, the slaughter guy said, “Well, there ain’t much meat on those bones, but I’ll take him off your hands for thirty.” The auctioneer looked at the first guy, who shook his head. Horacio put his hand in his pocket. But what in the world would he do with a horse? He didn’t need a horse. The slaughter boy led him out of the ring. Ever himself, Justa Bob nuzzled his back pocket as they walked away.

  Some of Angel’s horses brought a fair amount, and when all of them were sold, Horacio had $3,766 to take home to the Smiths. He walked out of the auction yard to the parking lot, and did up the back of the trailer, got into the truck, and turned on the ignition. Right there in front of him, right in his windshield like a big second thought, was that double-bottomed cattle truck, now crammed with horses. The boy was bringing another one out. He opened the bottom door and shooed him in with the others. Then he turned to walk past Horacio, who rolled down his window and said, “Hey.”

  “Yeah?”

  “What if I wanted one of those horses?”

  “You had a chance to buy it back there.”

  “I didn’t take my chance. I want to take my chance now.”

  “Too late.”

  “Too late for me, maybe. Too late for the horse. But not too late for you.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” Horacio got out of the truck. He said, “Look. Your guy paid thirty bucks for the horse. I’ll give you thirty to give him, plus another hundred and fifty to unload the horse and give him to me.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  The kid’s lethargic manner vanished. He said, “Yeah. Which one do you want?”

  Just a brown horse, Horacio thought as he walked across the lot. How would he remember or distinguish? Skinny, that was how. But in the end, he didn’t have to sort or distinguish. Justa Bob was standing at the door with his ears pricked, knowing there had been some mistake. A double-bottomed cattle trailer was just not his type of conveyance at all, not at all. When the kid opened the door, Justa Bob came down the ramp and gave Horacio justa bump in the chest.

  72 / OR NOT

  WHAT BUDDY realized was, all you had to do was make up you
r mind, and he had made up his mind. Making up your mind did not involve wishing for something. It involved having it, but recognizing that there were two forms of having it—after a while there would be the general knowledge that you had it. But before that, and necessary to it, was the private knowledge that it was already yours. First the inspiration, then the incarnation. Thus the knowledge that Residual was going to win the Breeders’ Cup Distaff made way for every step on the road that would get her first to the finish line. Generally, this sort of certainty was considered bad luck at the racetrack, asking for trouble, but, then, that must be why, Buddy thought, everything was so up in the air at the track. There was general agreement that anything could happen, and so anything could happen. If more trainers simply claimed what was theirs, and bettors, and owners, and jockeys, you name it, well, then, things would organize themselves a little more clearly.

  The best thing about knowing something was yours was that from that knowledge followed every other thing that you needed to know. For example, when, after about two weeks in training, the filly’s knee puffed up a little bit, Buddy knew he didn’t have to report this to the Kingstons, because the Kingstons had gone to Bermuda for a couple of weeks on vacation and didn’t want to be disturbed. And then Curtis, who was checking all the horses every day now, gave her a little Adequan and a little bute, and the swelling went down. Then they backed off on her training for a few days, which was fine, because she was pressing them hard, and maybe the knee was a sign that she didn’t know what she was doing as well as she might.

  They had her training with another mare, a four-year-old, the kind of mare who never forgot who the boss was. She won about every three times, and purely on determination, since she didn’t have all that much speed. When she trained with Residual, the filly and the mare goaded each other. The mare found some speed and the filly found some grit, and who was the boss was an issue they never settled. Buddy stalled them far apart from one another. He didn’t want them settling things to their own satisfaction during their time off. Perhaps for this reason, Deedee complained to Buddy that the filly was harder to handle now, a little irritable, putting in a few bucks and a spin from time to time. Buddy knew what was his, and so he just looked at her and said, “Can you handle it if you have to?”

  “I hate to take a firm hand with her, because she’s never liked that before—”

  “She’s toughening up. She’s not a baby anymore that you have to coax along. Fillies turn into mares.”

  “I know, but—”

  “You have to have what it takes, too, Deedee.”

  Couldn’t be clearer than that, thought Deedee. You could muddle around outside the big time, or you could pay for your ticket and enter the tent. After that, she managed the filly as well as she could, the way you would manage a horse whom you didn’t like very much and whose point of view you did not pay much attention to. And once she got used to that, it turned out that she didn’t like the filly or think about her as much as she used to. And anyway, there was Alana Marie, always Alana Marie.

  Leon was standing there one morning when Deedee was about to enter the track and the filly reared right up. The mare was behind her, and at the sudden delay, she put in a buck or two herself, and then went around Deedee and Residual and walked out onto the track. Residual followed her. But Leon had a moment, he sure did. He remembered right there why up until Deedee he had dated only waitresses, college students, receptionists, and one elementary-school teacher. Right then, what had looked like a dynasty in the making looked like a potential tragedy. Deedee was such a good rider, so supple and strong and athletic, that Leon had forgotten that anything could happen at the racetrack. So he thought of Alana Marie himself, took a little dip in the lake of fire, and watched the filly start down the track, shaking her head and pinning her ears. By the end of the work he had not quite forgotten about it, but he had tagged it for future reference and put it away. Just had to get to the Breeders’ Cup. That was all.

  The next day, Buddy was there at five and Curtis Doheny was there, too, not as he was always there, just to be there, but with intent. Buddy went up to him, to save himself the sight of Curtis huffing and puffing and rolling and flapping across the parking lot to him. Curtis said, “Time for a little insurance. Say, that guy called me last night. Thanks. I bought into Fuzzy Minister. We got to run him now. It’s been six weeks since his last race, and I saw his last timed work was pretty good. I thought maybe the Sorry Charlie Handicap would set him up for the Oak Tree Invitational.”

  “I haven’t been thinking much about that, but—”

  “You concentrate on this filly, and the other stuff will get done, right, Buddy? That’s the way, baby. My suggestion, just for the prophylactic effect, we inject that filly’s knee. Regular weekly injection, a little acid and a bit of cortical steroids, and it’ll just bathe that baby in something very soothing.”

  “She’s probably ready for that.”

  “Ready or not, here we come,” exclaimed Curtis, laughing. He had the stuff with him, and so they did it right that morning. No one was around. Another example of, when the problem comes up, the solution is right there for you, Buddy thought. You’ve just got to know what you want. And the next thing that happened was that the Kingstons came back from Bermuda, and drove out to the track to watch the filly work, and the filly was as good as gold—sound and cooperative and affectionate. As they walked back to the barn, Jason Clark Kingston said, “You know, with the Internet gaming possibilities, a place like this might be a good investment.”

  “It was just bought,” said Buddy. Jason gave him a look that told him, in the software universe, saying that something might not be available was like saying you planned to retire those dollar bills in your pocket. Buddy commented, “You know, Mr. Kingston, since you enjoy racing so much, maybe you would enjoy bringing some of your computer-oriented friends into the game—” Ahead of them, as they entered the barn area, Curtis Doheny stepped right up to Andrea Melanie and introduced himself. Andrea Melanie held out her hand, and Buddy saw Curtis nearly melt over it—he took it and bent down and was laughing foolishly and all that. Buddy had to turn away from Jason Clark Kingston just as he was suggesting that he and Sir Michael Ordway might be able to find the time to accompany a group from San Jose to Keeneland in November for the sales, and go around to another aisle and do something. Watching Curtis Doheny was like watching someone get something on someone else, spill coffee or something slick. It just made you uncomfortable, even though it wasn’t your business.

  Fifteen minutes later, after he accompanied the Kingstons to their Lexus 470, Curtis came to find him, all excited. “You know, I didn’t think I had the guts to ask her, but I did, I asked her if she would let me buy into this filly, even though I made it a point not to buy into fillies when I started this, but this is such a good filly, and the turnaround if she were to get sold in January could be very quick. She said no, but at least I asked. That was the thing for me. I’m always afraid to ask, you know. Ask and ye shall sometimes receive, do not ask and ye shall never receive. So I have to practice asking. The great thing is, I didn’t take it personally.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said, ‘My husband is kind of a lone gunman and I don’t like to share anything.’ ”

  Buddy cleared his throat at this, then said, “I wish that you wouldn’t approach my owners without talking to me about it first.”

  “Yeah?” replied Curtis. “But that’s just the thing. I’ve spent my whole life thinking I had to get permission. I’m not going to do that anymore—pardon me for asking, but, hey … I made up my mind and I know what I deserve.”

  “What do I deserve?”

  Curtis swept his arm around in a big gesture. He laughed. “Hey, Buddy, you’ve got it all. You’ve got what you deserve. I’m not trying to take anything away from you, Buddy. I’m trying to give you more! This is a win-win situation, Buddy. But at the same time, I have to do what’s right for me, don’t I?”
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  “Yeah,” said Buddy. He always agreed with Curtis, because talking to Curtis always finally reminded him of what was true—if you knew it was yours, then it was yours.

  The weeks went by rather quickly. There was a big to-do when that horse of Farley Jones’s won the Arc over in France. Winning the Arc had a certain novelty appeal, and there was a lot of talk about it. Every trainer on the track had seen that horse train and run, and those who had predicted something like this always seemed to be talking to those who had known all along that something like this was impossible—must have been a fluke, he was a good horse, but … That sort of conversation. But look at the Breeders’ Cup. The European horses had come in force last year, and had come to the track they liked best, Churchill, and they hadn’t even taken home the Mile or the Turf, their very own races. That just went to show you where European breeding was these days. Buddy opined that all those big European races weren’t even the equivalent of American Grade One stakes anymore—ten years, even five, and it would all be the Breeders’ Cup, the Dubai World Cup. Europe was fine while it lasted, but things were different now. Even so, when Farley got back, everyone was all over him, and two of Buddy’s owners switched their horses, that was six horses in all, and there was a lot of speculation about when Farley would run the animal next. He was set up perfectly for the Breeders’ Cup, both the Classic and the Turf. Buddy would have thought it was a straight shot, done deal, no-brainer, but Farley was deep, and didn’t say anything about it, not even to Curtis Doheny, as Curtis himself told him when he came to give the filly another interarticular shot.

  “He’s not my type, really,” said Curtis. “Kind of cold, and keeps to himself, though his staff and his owners seem to like him. I called a couple of them, just kind of on a dare to myself, to see if any of them wanted a partner, but they weren’t very friendly, so I said to myself, Curtis, you don’t need this, you deserve better. I even called that guy Maybrick, who owns the Arc horse, but he was kind of gruff with me. Hell, my money’s as good as anyone else’s.”