(1988) The Golden Room (20 page)

They took an elevator to the top floor, where a salesman proudly informed them there was a cold storage vault that held 25,000 fur coats. Then they went down to the floor that sold muffs and hats, and after that to the lace counter, where they saw ruffled parasols in white, black, and ecru. Finally, they toured the yard goods section, wandering through endless aisles of silk, cotton, woollens, and chiffon with hand-sewn beading.

When they reached the display of lavish wedding gowns, a tall, regal saleswoman with bunned, grey hair piled atop her head, introduced herself.

‘I am Mme Judith. May I help you?’

Karen nodded. ‘My name is Karen Grant, and this is Cathleen Lester. Cathleen’s the bride-to-be.’

‘Congratulations, Miss Lester,’ said Mme Judith. ‘May I bring you our newest styles?’

‘Oh, that won’t be necessary,’ Cathleen exclaimed. ‘I see the gown I want.’

She reached out her hand and touched the gown draped on a waxen store mannequin. The gown was made of heavy white satin and trimmed with rose point lace. A train of satin and lace flowed from a crown of orange blossoms set upon the mannequin’s head.

‘You have the best taste,’ Mme Judith stated. ‘This is our finest import from Paris.’

‘I only hope Alan likes it,’ said Cathleen.

‘He’ll adore it,’ Karen assured her.

Mme Judith was removing the wedding gown from the form. ‘I think this is your size, young lady,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you try it on?’

The saleswoman carried the gown into die fitting room, and Cathleen and Karen followed. As Cathleen removed her outer garments her eyes remained fastened on the gown. ‘It’s beautiful. I was just thinking how lovely it would look on you.’

‘On me?’ said Karen. ‘I haven’t got anyone to marry.’

As Karen assisted her in getting into the gown, Cathleen said, ‘I know someone who would like to marry you.’

‘Who?’

‘My brother Bruce.’

‘He hasn’t shown the slightest interest in me.’

‘Oh, he cares for you,’ said Cathleen. ‘He’s always speaking of you when we’re together.’

‘Why doesn’t he speak to me?’ said Karen.

Cathleen was adjusting the gown. ‘Maybe because he feels he can’t. Maybe because he realizes he’s in big financial trouble.’

‘You mean trying to raise money for your father?’

‘Yes, that first. And then he must figure out how he can provide for a wife and himself.’

‘You’re trying to tell me he may consider marrying Judith Armbruster to - to take care of everything.’

‘Well, unless something else works out.’

‘What else can work out?’

‘His long shot hope is the race,’ said Cathleen.

‘The what?’

‘The American Derby day after tomorrow.’

Karen shook her head. ‘Everyone thinks his horse can’t win.’

‘Bruce hopes he will, but I too believe it’s a long shot.’

‘I’d bet the winner is the odds-on favourite, Judith Armbruster.’

‘We’ll see,’ said Cathleen.

She primped in front of a mirror. ‘What do you think?’

‘Gorgeous,’ said Karen. ‘It makes me happy for you.’

But it made her more miserable than ever for herself.

The morning of the American Derby was warm, but the

sun stood high and clear and the temperature rose steadily. By afternoon it was hot. Just what Snapper Garrison had earlier hoped for and even predicted, Bruce Lester reminded himself as he walked into the stable area, accompanied by Karen and his veiled Aunt Minna.

Frontier was in front of his stall, placidly chewing some lumps of sugar as Snapper Garrison kept circling him, carefully supervising the trainer saddling the colt. Garrison watched while the saddle was placed on a cloth over the withers, then secured with a leather cinch belt. As the belt was threaded and tightened through the buckle, he turned to greet Bruce, Karen, and Minna.

‘Welcome,’ Garrison said. He mopped his brow. ‘Perfect day. Couldn’t ask for a better one.’

‘You wanted it hot,’ said Bruce. ‘Why?’

Garrison’s smile was enigmatic. ‘You’ll see, boss.’

‘How does he ride?’ asked Bruce. ‘You’ve been working with him.’

Garrison patted the horse’s flank. ‘He’s fast - too fast at the break,’ said Garrison. ‘By the time he reaches the mile he begins to wear down.’ He grinned. ‘I hope to change all that in the Derby.’

Bruce was not optimistic. ‘Apparently no one else thinks he has any chance. The odds on Frontier are fifteen to one. The odds on The Picket are three to five. The Picket’s an overwhelming favourite.’

‘As he should be,’ Garrison agreed. ‘He’s a big, powerful horse.’

A bugle sounded from the dirt track inside the wooden stands of Washington Park.

Snapper Garrison listened, and then put his foot in the stirrup.

‘You still think we have a chance?’ Bruce grumbled. ‘Even though we’re fifteen to one?’

Garrison swung his small frame on to the saddle. ‘I never heard of an oddsmaker winning a silver cup.’

Minna stepped forward, closer to her nephew. Digging into her purse, she pulled out a wad of tickets. ‘I think Frontier is worth a bet. Aida and I took $1,000 out of the bank. I’ve bet it all on Frontier to win. Here, take these tickets, Bruce. A present from your aunts.’

Reluctantly, Bruce accepted the tickets. ‘I wish you hadn’t, Aunt Minna. But I certainly appreciate your confidence.’

‘I’m betting against Judith Armbruster,’ Minna said tartly. Shading her veiled eyes from the sun, she squinted up at Garrison. ‘Did I do something foolish, Snapper?’

The jockey grinned down at her. ‘Maybe we both did,’ he called down. ‘I didn’t have $1,000, but I did have five hundred. I laid it all on Frontier to win. If I lose, I won’t have a roof over my head. You’ll have to put me up, Minna.’

As Garrison urged Frontier forward for the parade to the post, Bruce called out, ‘Good luck!’

‘You three find yourself a place near the finish line,’ Garrison called back. ‘Just watch for the green and white colours.’

An enormous crowd, 49,500 persons, had jammed into the grandstand of Washington Park and crowded into the infield. The more affluent had come in tallyhos, carriages, buggies, and in their new-fangled automobiles. The less affluent had come too, by foot and by streetcar, and all waited expectantly in the heat for the start of the $25,000 American Derby.

Bruce, at the forefront, had pushed his way through the sea of humanity, closely followed by Karen and Minna.

At last, they’d eased their way to the finish line, pressed against the railing, and turned their gazes a quarter of a mile down to the starting line.

Bruce produced two pairs of cheap binoculars, one pair for Karen and the other for himself. Minna polished the lenses of her opera glasses.

The dozen horses in the race had paraded past the start,

turned to trot towards the webbing to be lined up by the official starter.

Bruce trained his binoculars on the starting line. As usual, the thoroughbreds were all milling about, bumping each other relentlessly, bursting in and out of the webbing as they were patiently brought back to their places. Bruce focused on Frontier, who was standing calmly at the pole position, alongside the inner rail. The competing horses, colts and fillies, continued to mill about in the blazing sun.

Gradually, the horses were lined up perfectly, and the starter could be seen about to spring the webbing, when Bruce saw that Snapper Garrison was raising both hands in protest. Bruce could see him pointing down to one of his boots. Apparently the laces of one of his boots had broken. New laces must be sent for. The assistant starter ran off.

Bruce watched a distressed - or seemingly distressed -Snapper Garrison dismount and casually walk behind the restless horses as the jockeys tried to quiet their nervous mounts. Five minutes passed, then ten, then fifteen minutes, when at last the assistant starter returned with fresh laces for Garrison. Accepting the laces, Garrison took his time threading the new laces into his left boot.

At last Garrison was set. He put a foot on Frontier’s stirrup and swung himself into the saddle. Now the other thoroughbreds were out of line again, twisting, turning, bumping into one another under the relentless mid-afternoon sun.

Through his binoculars, Bruce was able to make out a movement on Snapper Garrison’s part. In his Number One post position, Garrison had slipped his left foot out of the stirrup, and was resting it on the rail of the infield fence keeping nearly his entire weight off Frontier, while the fractious other mounts perspired under the weight of their riders.

As thousands of spectators strained with expectation, awaiting the send-off of the American Derby, the starter still could not get the field off. Bruce glanced down at his watch. Over

an hour and a half had elapsed since the horses had been led to the webbing. Standing there, watching, Bruce realized that his own legs felt leaden, and he tried to imagine how the legs of the horses must feel by now.

Once more, the starter managed to bring the thoroughbreds into line, when Bruce saw Garrison rise on Frontier and desperately wave to the starter, screaming at him.

Garrison dismounted again, and by his gesture Bruce could see that he was pointing to his saddle girth. His saddle girth had broken and he was obviously demanding a new one. Again, he was off his horse’s back, on the ground, while the other jockeys remained on their exhausted horses.

Through his glasses Bruce saw the starter heading for Garrison, confronting him, angrily waving his fist at him. Bruce brought down his binoculars and observed that Minna had lowered her glasses and was smiling broadly.

‘Aunt Minna, you seem to know something I don’t know,’ said Bruce. ‘What’s going on? I’ve never known a race to take so long to get going.’

Minna was still smiling broadly. ‘Let me explain. When Aida and I bet on Frontier, we didn’t really bet on your horse - we don’t really know him. We bet on Snapper Garrison. Because we do know him. Do you remember when you took him on, he wished for a hot day? You didn’t know why. But I did. Snapper’s problem was to overcome the strength of the rival horses, to weaken them, which would make Frontier their equal or better. And this he has been doing. First his boot lace. Then resting on the rail. Now his broken saddle girth. All of that arranged in advance, I’m sure. Snapper has contrived to keep those other horses and their riders at the post for just about two hours. Yes, it’s two hours and all the horses are still at the post. I’m certain that by now Snapper is ready to go. Let’s see.’

Minna had brought the opera glasses to her eyes, and now Bruce lifted his binoculars once more, focusing on the starting post.

A new saddle girth had been brought for Garrison and had been speedily exchanged for the broken one.

Satisfied at last, Snapper Garrison sprung up, mounted Frontier, and was firmly astride. Bruce followed Garrison’s gaze as the jockey studied his rivals. The other horses appeared wilted, even tired. Bruce focused on his own colt. He could see that Frontier remained cool, quiet, rested - and yes, ready.

Bruce’s binoculars arced towards the starter, who had the field lined up in place.

And then the webbing flashed upwards - and they were off.

Bruce leaned over the rail trying to make out how they’d started. Some unknown had gone to the front. The favourite, The Picket, was second by a half-length. Bruce scanned the rushing field driving for the first turn, but he couldn’t find the green and white colours. Then he did — Frontier was in twelfth place, dead last and galloping lazily. Garrison’s whip was still in his boot as they drove around towards the halfway mark.

The horses were pounding into the backstretch. The unknown leader had fallen back into the pack. Two hours at the post with a jockey on his back had begun to take their toll. The Picket had gone to the front by a length, then two lengths. Frontier was no longer in last place. The green and white colours were moving up. Bruce counted. Frontier must be eighth, no, seventh, no - sixth.

The horses galloped through the backstretch, rounding into the homestretch.

Bruce groaned. The Picket was opening up a three-length lead. Frontier moved into fourth place, but time was running out. Bruce shut his eyes. His baby would never make it.

When Bruce opened his eyes, the horses were pounding into the homestretch. At first, Bruce was unable to find Frontier because he wasn’t in fourth place, nor was he in third place. He was in second, and Garrison had his whip out at last and was steadily fanning Frontier with his crop.

Heading towards the wire, Frontier was full of heart, full of compact, conserved strength, hardly working up a froth. He was making his bid. Moving like a whirlwind, Frontier was fast closing the gap between The Picket and himself. Snapper Garrison, riding low and hard, was driving for one more Garrison finish.

The crowd noises were thunder behind Bruce. The approaching horses were clouds of swirling dust and beating hoofs as the field approached.

Bruce did not need his glasses now.

What was happening was clear to the naked eye. Frontier had closed the distance between himself and the leader. It was neck and neck, stride for stride with The Picket as they streaked for the wire.

Suddenly, other spectators jammed in front of Bruce, pushing him backwards.

Momentarily, he lost sight of the finish.

Jumping on a free chair, Bruce had a glimpse of one horse flashing across the finish line, leading by a length. The dust blurred his vision, and for an instant he couldn’t tell the colours of the winner.

Then he could make out the winning colours.

Green and white!

Frontier, Snapper Garrison up, had won the American Derby of 1903. It was Frontier at fifteen to one. It was the $25,000 first-place purse.

Bruce found a breathless Karen Grant coming towards him, hugging him, kissing him.

Then she stared up at him. Bruce was unable to read her mind, but Bruce guessed what was on it.

Karen was telling herself that maybe she had not actually won - but she was damned certain that Judith Armbruster had lost.

The telephone on Minna Everleigh’s desk was ringing. She hurried across the room to answer it. ‘Hello.’