Gargantuan (26 page)

The onlookers start leaving, but the big bald guy keeps standing
there, looking at me. I look right back at him to the point where it’s getting weird. Just when I’m about to say something to the big guy, he turns and goes away.

I’ve got a lot of thoughts clouding my head but I need to get Soft Demon cooled off, so I keep the thoughts away and go back into the colt’s stall. I put his halter on and run a stud chain under his lip. I lead him outside and start walking him. He snorts a little at Crow, who’s tied up outside the tack room, but on the whole, the colt is back to his normal self. I match my pace to his and we walk, my right foot hitting the dirt at the same time as his right front hoof.

I
t can all turn on a dime. Two days ago I had hope. The blizzard had stopped, I was about to get on a horse, and I had a romance going with a very attractive woman. I knew some folks were ticked off that I was refusing to hold horses back, knew maybe there’d be consequences, but meeting Ruby had made me want to clean my slate. I never suspected how severe the consequences would be.

Right now, I’m sitting in a far corner of the grandstands where no one would think to look for me. I’ve got a watch cap pulled down over my telltale pale hair and I’m wearing a thick overcoat to disguise my smallness. And I feel pretty goddamned small. It’s forty-five minutes till the first race and I have to get to the jocks room soon, but I needed to be alone first, to stare at the track, to attempt to clear my head. All around me, Aqueduct is coming to life. Bettors are arriving
swollen with hopes and jocks are going into the jocks room and owners are wondering if this is their day and trainers are cautiously optimistic and horses are being led from their barns and I just don’t care about any of it, can’t feel any of the adrenaline and beauty coursing through me because Layla is dead and it should have been me. By now, I’m sure the unlucky sniper has learned of his mistake and is hunting me. And Layla is hopefully off somewhere, her soul transported to a calmer place. I’m not sure what I think about the potential for afterlives and souls but in all likelihood, I’ll be getting a tour of the layout of eternity very soon. I’m not planning to hold Jack Valentine back this afternoon. I’m going to give him my all.

Harsh wind is blowing over the track and up into the grandstands. I shiver and sink deeper into my overcoat. An old man in a down jacket has taken a seat a few rows in front of me. He has a hot dog which, by now, surely must be frozen. I don’t know what he’s doing out here when there’s ample room in the heated part of the grandstands. He probably just doesn’t like people. Is a loner among loners. He spreads the
Form
on his lap and bites into his hot dog. Out on the track infield the tote board starts flashing odds. The man in the down jacket crumples up his paper hot-dog plate and throws it to the ground. I’m incensed. I once heard a song lyric saying something to the effect of I
can be condemned to hell for every sin but littering
. I hate littering. I want to kill this man for littering.

With this thought, I get up from my seat. I walk past the litter-bug and shoot him a disparaging look. He looks right back at me. He has dead eyes in a face the color of pollution. If I do make it through this day alive and find some way to place myself in the world, I won’t have to look into the dead souls of the more degenerate gamblers anymore. There are plenty of respectable horseplayers and race fans but for every one of them there are two droolcases who barely even see the horses and certainly don’t think of them as the noble creatures they are. I’ve heard these types call horses pigs, blood clots, and of course, the ever popular
nag
. It’s these people who are the real nags and ought to be forced to gallop thirty-five mph on one leg with blood pouring out of their mouths.

As I walk toward the jocks room, I remember telling Jim, the racing secretary, that I’d stop in and say hello. His wife is friends with Ava and the four of us used to grab dinner sometimes. Now I never see the guy. I make a quick detour but Jim’s in the middle of a thousand things so I don’t stay very long. A few minutes later, I go into the jocks room. There is a smell of sweat and mud. The bright sound of men’s voices rising and falling.

The TVs are on, some showing regular TV, others showing the odds for the first race. I sit in a chair and pick up a copy of
The New York Times
. I stare at it as the riders for the first race get ready to go out to the paddock. Time passes. I feel curiously blank as I stare at the newspaper’s type. It blurs before my eyes and then turns to horses. The ink is galloping.

I look up at the TV. The riders are getting astride their horses and being led to the track. The horses are skittering, preening, spooking. I feel each horse’s heart beat inside my own. Tears come to my eyes.

B
y the time the driver drops me at the Aqueduct backside entrance it’s only an hour before the first race goes off. I pay the driver, thank him, and get out. By now, I’ve worked myself into a frenzy of worry and there’s a sheen of cold sweat on my forehead. I keep seeing the image of Attila in his towel, sprinting through the motel parking lot. It makes me sick with guilt, but guilt isn’t what the bad feeling is about. I don’t even know what the bad feeling is about. But it’s bad.

I walk into the tiny security office.

“You here for Kravitz?” a gentle-voiced matron asks.

“Yeah,” I nod. I don’t suppose there are many un-credentialed visitors to Aqueduct on a bleak weekday like this.

“Nice lady,” the matron says, and suddenly I’m not sure if she’s talking about Violet Kravitz or me. For a moment, I tangentially think of Pattahbi Jois, the ashtanga yoga guru, an eighty-something-year-old Indian man whose workshops I have taken on occasion. He is fond of calling his students “bad lady” or “bad man,” reserving the much coveted “nice lady” or “nice man” for some particularly excellent execution of a pose. I once earned a resounding “bad lady” for being alarmed when he came over and adjusted my balance in headstand. He kept nudging my legs forward and I felt like I was going to topple over and break my neck. I fought against his adjustment and was called “bad lady”—to the delight of my friend Jane who was practicing just to my right.

Bad lady has a bad feeling
, I think to myself as I pin my credentials to my down jacket and walk toward the receiving barns. Not even the smells and sounds of the backside can do much to improve my bleak state of mind. I’ll probably feel better once I lay eyes on Attila and assure myself he’s in one piece. Maybe I’ll even relax and enjoy some races.

I reach the receiving barn and begin walking down the aisle, looking for Jack Valentine. It’s slightly embarrassing because there are so many bay horses that I stop in front of a few different stalls mistaking their inhabitants for Jack. I go all the way down the aisle before finally seeing a long bay face that looks intensely familiar. My recognizing the big gelding is aided by the fact that Violet Kravitz is standing at Jack’s side.

“Ruby!” Violet smiles but it’s a sad smile, still clouded by the day’s events. She comes out of Jack’s stall.

“Hi, Violet.” I find myself hugging her which is surprising because I’m not a big hugger. I try but I grew up in a family where demonstrativeness was reserved for animals. As a result, my sister and I are slightly hug-shy.

“I’m sorry about what happened this morning,” I tell Violet.

“Yes. It’s tragic.” Her lovely pale eyes are a world of sadness. “I’m very thankful that you’ve come though, Ruby. It helps.”

I have no idea how my being here could help anything but I’m pleased that she feels this way.

“Attila is quite glum. I’ll understand if you need to keep your distance from him, but I’d bet it would cheer him considerably to lay eyes on you.”

I doubt that. I shrug.

“Where is he?” I ask casually.

“I think he’s in the grandstands,” Violet motions in the direction of the track. “He likes to do that sometimes before going into the jockeys’ room. I think it centers him to sit gazing out at the track.”

“Oh,” I say, feeling slightly miffed. This is yet another thing Attila never told me about.

“Well, maybe I’ll go look for him,” I tell Violet.

“I think you have someone to say hello to first,” the lady says, indicating Jack Valentine who has his head hanging over his stall guard and is staring at me intently.

The horse looks like an eager puppy. I walk over and extend my palm for him to lick. He does this slowly and thoroughly. With my free hand I scratch between his ears. Violet stands to the side, beaming, as if she’d made him herself.

For a few lovely moments time stands still and I am utterly transfixed by the horse. Reality intrudes eventually. I tell Violet I’ll see her after Jack’s race. For a moment she looks forlorn. Then she nods, and turns to forage for something in a trunk she has sitting in front of Jack’s stall.

THE WIND IS ANGRY
as I head into the grandstands to try finding Attila. Or maybe it’s just me. The grandstands are almost entirely empty. I see just one old man in a down jacket, staring at the tote board.

I go back inside and over into the clubhouse. It’s not exactly
packed but the heat has been cranked and it’s toasty, almost homey in here. I wave at Johnny my favorite teller. Johnny’s a sad soul. We talk sometimes and he always asks me about myself but rarely reveals anything about himself. I nearly fell over when he told me he was once a jockey. I don’t know why. I guess I expect retired jockeys to do something more glamorous than being a teller. But for most of them, once their riding career is over, there aren’t that many options. A few go on to work for trainers or become trainers themselves. Some become jockey agents. Others end up selling real estate or drinking the rest of their days away. I guess being a teller makes sense. I’ve even met a few down-on-their-luck trainers who hold teller jobs for a while till things pick up. I wonder momentarily if I should become a teller, but then I remember that I don’t like handling money.

I walk by Nathan’s where the first batches of fries are just getting cooked. The clubhouse feels cheerful as the fans start filing in and the place comes to life. It’s forty minutes to post time for the first race. Attila has to go to the jockeys’ room soon and presumably once he’s in there, he’ll be safe. But I’d really like to get a look at him now to calm myself down.

I detour into the enormous women’s bathroom. Sadie is sitting at her post in a stuffed chair near the mirrors. A white apron covers the front of her blue smock. Her jet black hair is pulled into a severe bun on top of her head. She nods at me but doesn’t offer a smile. Those are reserved for the women who hit it big and come in to tip her lavishly. Since there aren’t many women at Aqueduct, there aren’t many women hitting it big. Sadie doesn’t get to smile much.

As I emerge from the bathroom, Attila walks right by me. He’s got a watch cap on and has his coat pulled up close to his chin. This is his idea of incognito. I’m about to accost him when I notice a strange stringy-haired guy walking just a few steps behind Attila. Normally, a strange stringy-haired guy at a racetrack wouldn’t be cause for alarm but I’ve seen this guy before. It seems like I’ve seen him close to Attila before.

I follow them both. Attila seems to be heading to the racing secretary’s
office. The stringy-haired fellow follows until Attila goes inside the office, at which point the guy turns the corner and lurks there looking hesitant. I’m just a few feet away from him but he doesn’t seem to have noticed. I pretend to be absorbed in the tote board as I try figuring out what the hell to do. My thinking process isn’t working very well and I find myself walking up to the guy without any idea of what to say.

“Aren’t you Fred?” I accost the man.

He looks like he’s seen a ghost.

“What are you talking about?” he asks. His eyes are watery and worried. His mouth is pulled into a straight line, even when speaking.