there in the kitchen with his hand on the phone for a long while.
* * *
In the dark later that same night, the grandfather crept out alone to the stable and put a hand on the mare’s neck. What if? he began to think, looking into its blue-black eyes, measuring the gentle slope of its shoulder, feeling its breath on the palm of his other hand. What if? What if it really is ours? What if we were to race it? What if this might be the thing, the one thing that saved us?
_________________
But soon August was more than halfway over; summer was already coming to an end. The grandfather felt an ambivalence about this, as he did with most things; though the heat would be gone and with it the reek of the henhouse—the odor altogether unignorable, unpleasant, the chalky smell of dry feed, sawdust, and molted feathers forever hanging about their clothes, their hair, their fingernails—soon Rodrigo would be heading back to Mexico and the boy to school, which meant that the grandfather would have to once again work the farm on his own. On the other hand, there was the mare and a host of other prospects, a life that had, before the horse’s appearance, seemed impossible.
On a Saturday morning in the middle of August, just around ten a.m., a big shot named Bill Evens came around to appraise the animal. Bill Evens was an operator, a former state congressman, and construction contractor who owned nine or ten racehorses, which he kept on an immense spread of land about forty minutes south of town.
He drove up to the farmhouse in a brand-new Ford pickup without an introduction or invitation, his wide, bald head covered with a dented straw cowboy hat, dark prescription glasses obscuring his face. He walked right over to the small pasture they had set up and leaned against the snake-rail fence, then let out a piercing whistle.
“Look at them hinds,” he said, squatting down, grinning through the fence.
Jim came out of the coop, a Delaware rooster in hand. “Howdy.”
Evens turned and smiled. “She looks like a racer,” he announced, grinning wider. He stood and extended a wide hand for Jim to shake. “Don’t believe we’ve met. Name’s Evens. I own the Triple A, near Bellwood.”
Jim nodded and shook the stranger’s hand. It was the practiced grip of a politician or businessman. Jim set the rooster down near his feet.
“You looking to sell?” Evens asked.
Jim shook his head, turning to look at the mare.
“You race her?”
“We let her run.”
“Against other horses?”
Jim shook his head. “I’m not familiar with the ins and outs of your profession.”
“Profession? Hell, you talk about it like it’s a legitimate business. All it is is a disease. My wife got me to enroll in Gamblers Anonymous. I go to the meetings then right off to the track.”
Jim frowned.
“Jim Northfield told me you got her as an inheritance. Is that right?”
Jim nodded again.
“Some inheritance. Well, I’d like to see her run. I’d like to see if she’s as game as she looks.”
Jim called for Rodrigo, who set down the peeps’ medicine and walked over, tipping his hat.
“Mister Jim?”
“Rodrigo, Mr. Evens here wants to see the horse run. Do you mind taking her for a ride?”
Rodrigo glanced from Evens back to Jim and winked. “Sure, sure, no problem.” He dashed off and then grabbed the saddle from inside the dog-hanged stable.
Ten minutes later they were off, Rodrigo riding close like a jockey, the mare tearing across the field with a headlong ferocity, coming up to the turn at the end of the oblong meadow, hooves colliding against the dirt with their daring rhythm. Then they bolted back around, Evens turning to watch the gray-white blur; he let out another wet-sounding whistle and pushed back his hat.
“You need to get her on a track. See what time she draws.”
Jim nodded, unsure how to respond. Evens took note of the other man’s suspicion and grinned. “Here’s what I tell you I’m going to do. I’d like
* * *
In the dark later that same night, the grandfather crept out alone to the stable and put a hand on the mare’s neck. What if? he began to think, looking into its blue-black eyes, measuring the gentle slope of its shoulder, feeling its breath on the palm of his other hand. What if? What if it really is ours? What if we were to race it? What if this might be the thing, the one thing that saved us?
_________________
But soon August was more than halfway over; summer was already coming to an end. The grandfather felt an ambivalence about this, as he did with most things; though the heat would be gone and with it the reek of the henhouse—the odor altogether unignorable, unpleasant, the chalky smell of dry feed, sawdust, and molted feathers forever hanging about their clothes, their hair, their fingernails—soon Rodrigo would be heading back to Mexico and the boy to school, which meant that the grandfather would have to once again work the farm on his own. On the other hand, there was the mare and a host of other prospects, a life that had, before the horse’s appearance, seemed impossible.
On a Saturday morning in the middle of August, just around ten a.m., a big shot named Bill Evens came around to appraise the animal. Bill Evens was an operator, a former state congressman, and construction contractor who owned nine or ten racehorses, which he kept on an immense spread of land about forty minutes south of town.
He drove up to the farmhouse in a brand-new Ford pickup without an introduction or invitation, his wide, bald head covered with a dented straw cowboy hat, dark prescription glasses obscuring his face. He walked right over to the small pasture they had set up and leaned against the snake-rail fence, then let out a piercing whistle.
“Look at them hinds,” he said, squatting down, grinning through the fence.
Jim came out of the coop, a Delaware rooster in hand. “Howdy.”
Evens turned and smiled. “She looks like a racer,” he announced, grinning wider. He stood and extended a wide hand for Jim to shake. “Don’t believe we’ve met. Name’s Evens. I own the Triple A, near Bellwood.”
Jim nodded and shook the stranger’s hand. It was the practiced grip of a politician or businessman. Jim set the rooster down near his feet.
“You looking to sell?” Evens asked.
Jim shook his head, turning to look at the mare.
“You race her?”
“We let her run.”
“Against other horses?”
Jim shook his head. “I’m not familiar with the ins and outs of your profession.”
“Profession? Hell, you talk about it like it’s a legitimate business. All it is is a disease. My wife got me to enroll in Gamblers Anonymous. I go to the meetings then right off to the track.”
Jim frowned.
“Jim Northfield told me you got her as an inheritance. Is that right?”
Jim nodded again.
“Some inheritance. Well, I’d like to see her run. I’d like to see if she’s as game as she looks.”
Jim called for Rodrigo, who set down the peeps’ medicine and walked over, tipping his hat.
“Mister Jim?”
“Rodrigo, Mr. Evens here wants to see the horse run. Do you mind taking her for a ride?”
Rodrigo glanced from Evens back to Jim and winked. “Sure, sure, no problem.” He dashed off and then grabbed the saddle from inside the dog-hanged stable.
Ten minutes later they were off, Rodrigo riding close like a jockey, the mare tearing across the field with a headlong ferocity, coming up to the turn at the end of the oblong meadow, hooves colliding against the dirt with their daring rhythm. Then they bolted back around, Evens turning to watch the gray-white blur; he let out another wet-sounding whistle and pushed back his hat.
“You need to get her on a track. See what time she draws.”
Jim nodded, unsure how to respond. Evens took note of the other man’s suspicion and grinned. “Here’s what I tell you I’m going to do. I’d like
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