Dante of the Maury River (11 page)

She lowered her head and nuzzled me. Sometimes, I could swear that girl was part horse herself. Now, I had no way to tell her that’s exactly how I felt every day. Just thinking about the three tests and worrying whether I’d be good enough got me feeling hemmed up and anxious. I instinctively pulled away from her hold.

“Sorry,” she said, and gave me some space. “You’re so easy to talk to. Everyone here at the track has a job to do, and they all fit in together. Except for me. I don’t belong.”

Just then, two jockeys returning from an all-nighter came roaring past us, carrying on about who owed whom what.

The sounds of the backside were by no means harmonic or peaceful.

“See what I mean? Ernesto and Melvin rode against each other yesterday, got drunk together, and couldn’t leave each other’s sides last night. This morning, they’re enemies again but will be friends, again, by sunset. They belong here. I don’t.”

With his usual awful timing, Gary came stomping around the corner, robbing me of time to reassure Filipia that I would always be her friend and that she did belong. With me.

Gone was the lighthearted Gary who had at least started to cool his bare feet in the river with us. Gone was the Gary whooping and hollering and cheering Filipia and me on during our daily workouts. Vanished, the guy who went all topsy-turvy when he clicked the stopwatch to record my time splits.

Old Sourface was back.

“Chop-chop, Fil. Let’s get a move on. Lots to do this morning,” he said. “Oh, and here’s a temporary license, pending your birth certificate. We’ve got to get that taken care of. The steward owes me big-time, so you’re good to go today. But chop-chop on that, too.”

Filipia took a deep breath. Her heartbeat quickened. She stiffened up first in her hands, then her back, and then her jaw. Whatever else was on her mind would have to wait. And I couldn’t wait.

Despite all of those fans who had been writing to me, I wasn’t winning any popularity contests in Charleston.

“Morning line has us going off at fifty-to-one,” Gary told us. But he didn’t seem bothered at all. “We like those odds, right? More money. More splash. More to celebrate when you win. That cousin of yours, Covert Agent, is the favorite. You got that?”

Post time came, and we started toward the gate at a medium walk. Filipia’s hands gripped my reins tight. Her focus was someplace else, I could tell.

When she asked me to move on to the gate, I picked up a trot, and then, at last, I felt a big smile break across her face. My partner was back! Whatever had gotten her all worked up earlier had eased along once we were in the dirt.

Just before we reached the start, though, she pulled me up.

“Whoa, Monkey.”

I listened to her like always, because we were a team committed to serving and respecting each other. If Filipia needed to stop, well, by goodness, I refused to take another step.

She sighed, then leaned forward to tell me something.

“Look, Dante. Out beyond the track. What do you see?”

I whinnied. Stands of people, the starting gate filling up with horses and jockeys, and an undisturbed oblong track that was making my frogs itchy and my shoes tingly.

“I see the ocean. I see Melon and Mama back home on my island. Melon is waving at me and blowing me kisses. She is telling me to hold my head up and to win. I’m racing for her. Who are you racing for, Monkey?”

I scanned the horizon. Now, I can’t say I saw the ocean, but right then as Filipia was using her knowing eye to connect with her family back home on her island, something shifted in my wisdom eye, too. In a dizzy instant, that familiar dense and layered fog came skirting across the field, and the track took on the hue and grade of the rolling green pastures of my Kentucky home. I heard a soft whicker. The fog burned away and a stallion, dark as pitch, like me, stood atop a lush Kentucky hillside. Behind him, all of my grandmothers and grandfathers lifted their heads. I sensed them sending me everything I would need to run. Grandfather Dante stepped forward. A spark passed between us — a charge that must have stretched out across all of time in every direction. That was all I needed.

“Come on,” said Filipia, after what felt like an hour but could hardly have been but a few seconds. “The sleeping shrimp gets taken by the current. Let’s go!”

Believe me, as hard a time as I gave folks over needles and thermometers and every prick and prod, I pranced right into that starting gate with nary a care.

I looked around for my cousin, Covert Agent, but he wasn’t on either side of me. I thought I caught a glimpse of him in a middle gate, but no time to whinny and no time for a family reunion. I had a race to run. The gates were filled up with chestnuts, one or two bays, and me, all black all over.

We posted to the outside. I angled both ears on Filipia. She crouched into position on a saddle weighted to be even with the other horses. She adjusted and readjusted her goggles over her eyes, patted my neck softly, and flashed the whip in her left hand to rev me up.

“Get ready, now, to follow my lead.” She cued again with the stick. “All the rain last night has given us a mess. A sloppy river of a track ordered up just for you, Monkey.”

I let her situate herself and settle. She picked up the reins, and I welcomed the contact with the bit and her hands.

I relaxed my back. We waited for the gun.

“See the finish, Monkey? Use the knowing eye. Can you see us in the winner’s circle?”

And we were off.

We broke the outside. I stumbled, almost to my knees. Filipia lifted my head. I righted myself up and lurched forward.

The crowd cheered.

The field pulled away from us in unison. When the stampede of their hooves started to fade, my face was as clean as a new bucket. We fell well off the pace, not even close enough to eat their dirt.

Filipia drove to the inside, and we quickly closed to ten or so lengths behind the tight pack with no clear leader.

No problem. Hardly a drop of sweat or a labored breath moved between Filipia and me. I handled the pace with ease.

We held the gap steady. I had hardly exerted to get back in the race, but we had a long way to go yet. Both of us had something to prove. We had come to dominate, not play catch-up.

I wanted to go wild. I begged to cut loose. The track was a muddy mess and it felt good on my feet. We floated; we were in the river, and I wanted to run.

“Not yet, Monkey.” Filipia rode high up in the saddle.

I overtook three who were fading. We closed to six lengths behind the leaders. We stalked the field like that for a furlong or two. One by one, horses fell off the pace as Filipia and I started to pick up ours.

Around the last bend, I saw a silky flash to my right, so close I could smell how hard the jockey was working. My jockey still smelled of soap. The petite filly behind me found something more and made a move toward the inside. The sweaty jockey went to the whip. Up front, the leaders pulled half a length ahead. I couldn’t wait a whole lot longer. I dug into the bit, begging for the cue to open up.

Finally, Filipia crouched in my ear. “Now, Monkey, go! Go and don’t look back.”

I took control of the dirt.

We bore down on the five horses in front of us like a tropical storm swinging across the mountains and refusing to dissipate. Filipia brought the sea, and I brought the wind. We found every ready opening, cut in new holes, and raced through each one.

With the finish in sight, Filipia didn’t need to ask with the whip. She ducked to the inside, let me run, and we powered down on the leader.

I could see now who was out front! Covert Agent and I were running neck and neck. No matter what, we would finish one and two. Today would be a great day at the track for us, our dams, and Edensway Farm. No matter what, we had done the pedigree proud. The two of us.

But who would it be for the win?

Filipia turned to her right and looked at Covert’s jockey, hungover Melvin from the morning.

“Adios, my friend.” She tucked low behind me and yelled, “Whatever you have left, Monkey, now is the time. Run like crazy!”

I had at least one gear left. Had the race been any longer, we might have discovered that I had two.

We proved best. A few good people in the stands were very happy, Gary was ecstatic, and that triumph marked the beginning. Although one race does not proof of the bloodlines make, my first race went a long way toward establishing the good name of Dante’s Beatrice, Marey, as a broodmare.

Best of all, I loved running with Filipia.

Now that I knew what everything was building toward, I couldn’t wait to do it all again.

C
overt Agent and I dominated the two-year-old field for the rest of the season. Owned it. Back and forth, we traded the one and two spots, chasing each other around the country. Shoot, I wanted to win every meet, but if I had to lose, then losing to Covert eased the choke. Us winning so much proved a good thing for our dams, for Edensway, and for the pedigree. We showed up, and that’s a fact.

What I really needed, though, was one more big win. To seal Marey’s future. To set myself up for a life of leisure — grazing bluegrass, perpetuating the bloodlines, and greeting adoring fans. To have a shot at the three tests.

“Give me one more race,” Gary said. “Another good win and you’ll be a dandy of a three-year-old next spring. You can hold on till then, can’t you?”

He selected a good one, all right — Arkansas!

I’d gotten used to and accepting of my routine. Walking onto the trailer meant payday for everybody. Gary and Filipia loaded me up for the big race with plenty of fresh hay on the trailer. I couldn’t see the road ahead and couldn’t hear Gary and Filipia, who rode up front in the cab. The wind was the only map for me to follow. I liked for the window to stay cracked so I could catch the scents of dew and trees and mountains.

The three of us arrived at the Arkansas track two days ahead of the race in time to get right. By that, I mean get right with the race officials and with the new environment.

Now, as we had seen, some tracks operate more lackadaisically than others. As attached as he was to his clipboard, paperwork was not Gary’s strength. There’d be no forgotten paperwork or lost birth certificate in Arkansas. This being our biggest race to date had everybody on edge. Gary’s gloomy outlook showed no signs of sunny days ahead. Filipia, all of a sudden, stayed pretty much out of sight. She and Gary were outright arguing, but, for once, not about me.

I was as cool as a mule. Fired up and ready to go. My stall — more like a box, if you ask me — was a bit on the cramped side, but I had a good view of the track and the stands. Horses showed up from all over. Every one of us pretty certain that we’d win this race and get a bid to THE derby in my home state of Kentucky when we turned three. The first of the three great tests.

Of course, my dear cousin, Covert Agent, surfaced in Arkansas, too.

Turns out that with both Covert and me running, the Arkansas race was a big enough deal to draw the entire Eden family into the grandstands. Live and in person on the big day, there came Mrs. Eden, Doctor Tom, and Melody. And Red, right in there with them. They even got themselves a highfalutin viewing box. A real family reunion.

Little Melody didn’t seem so small anymore; honestly, I would have recognized her anywhere, because what I most remembered was the way she waved whenever she first spotted me. And her shaggy red mane.

“L.D., look at you, all grown up,” Melody said when she came to visit me before post time.

I nickered the same back to her. Oh, sure, Melody stood a might taller. Because the Edens took racing seriously, Melody most certainly did not show up in her barn pants and dirty boots. Behind the flowery hat and lacy gloves, that girl was still Melody.

I reached out toward Melody to search for the scent of Marey or anything familiar. The girl smelled brand spanking new. Not a trace of hay or grain or wet grass on her. No peppermint, either.

Just then Gary came around the corner and tried to shoo her away. “Save the smooching on your colt till after he wins.”

“Dante, I have to go back now. You’re even odds today, but I’ll be cheering for you. Here’s a secret. If you win this race, you’ll come back to Kentucky. You’ll train near home to run for the roses! We’re all counting on you.”

About the time Melody disappeared from my sight, I heard quite a commotion starting up in the aisle, coming right toward me. One that would sweep me up, whirl me around, and drop me down a hole so far I might never get out.