Gargantuan (8 page)

I had a pretty tight hold on Jack’s mouth and he was paying attention to me, arching his neck, focusing. I pulled my first pair of goggles down over my eyes then asked him for a slow gallop. The track didn’t feel good. It was cold and still partly frozen, quickly turning to mud that was flying up into Jack’s eyes and plastering my goggles and vest. But Jack was going nicely. I liked the gelding and he liked me. We were galloping slowly but it still felt like flying.

When we finished, I brought Jack down to a walk along the rail and looked over and saw Henry beaming, the first smile I’d seen out of him since the day Ballistic won us a race.

Sal didn’t look nearly so pleased and, when I handed Jack off to Sophie, the big man cornered me.

“I don’t like it,” he scowled.

“What’s that, Sal?”

“You’re vulnerable out there.”

“I’m always vulnerable out there.”

“You know what I mean,” Sal frowned.

“Sal, it’s okay. I appreciate your looking out for me. But I gotta do my job.”

Sal scowled at me a few seconds longer, then shrugged.

And, a short while later, I was wondering if he was onto something.

It was the weirdest thing I’d ever seen happen on the track.

There were about fifteen or so of us out there. I was on a filly named Heroism, a two-year-old who wouldn’t start racing for another few months. She was a handful and I couldn’t get a good feel for her. Henry had me working her with two older horses. He was so short on help he had Pepe, the hotwalker—who’d only just been licensed—riding a battle-weary gelding named Fierce Fred. Larry, a talented Peruvian kid, was on Whippersnapper, an allowance
mare I’d ridden once or twice. The two older horses were going to teach my little filly what’s what.

We all three had red-and-blue covers on our crash helmets so it’s possible we were indistinguishable. We were hand galloping in tandem, the three horses nose to nose, getting close to full speed when we heard shouting coming from behind us.

Next thing I knew, a horse was trying to wedge in between Larry and me. It all happened very quickly—which was a blessing, I don’t think any of us had enough time to panic. As horse and rider shoved between us, bumping both our mounts, Larry tumbled off, over the rail. Somewhere in the blur of what happened next, I got one brief look at the interfering rider and saw he was wearing a
ski mask
.

Both Pepe and I managed to keep our horses calm, which was no small feat since my filly was sky-high to begin with. One of the outriders was galloping ahead, trying to catch up with the horse and rider that had caused the accident and then, to my amazement, the masked rider asked his horse to
jump the rail
and the pair jumped out of the track and over to the far parking lot.

PEPE AND I
both pulled our horses up and turned around, trotting back to where Larry had fallen. Another of the outriders had already caught Larry’s mare and the old gal seemed none the worse for the wear.

Sal had run onto the track along with a dozen or so others. The paramedics were already bent over Larry but I could see him sitting up, which was a very good sign.

I jumped down off Heroism’s back and handed her to an outrider to hold. Sal grabbed me by the shoulders. “Come on, Attila, you’re out of here.”

“Lay off, Sal,” I said, shrugging from his grip and going over to look at Larry. The kid was evidently indestructible. He stood up and seemed more annoyed at being covered in mud than anything
else. He looked ready to get back on a horse. Which I wouldn’t have minded either. This was serious business though. The clockers and track officials had all come onto the track and were talking with their hands. Soon men and women from the security force were searching all over the backstretch but, incredibly enough, the masked rider and his mount seemed to have vanished completely. And, racing being racing, things went back to business fairly soon. Larry and Pepe and I all had to talk to the head of security and a handful of officials. Pepe and I had both noticed that the perpetrator had been wearing a ski mask but neither of us had gotten too good a look at the horse other than to notice it was a bay and fairly thick, indicating it was an older horse, possibly a stallion.

As soon as he could, Sal took me aside and demanded that I tell Security and whoever else needed to know that I’d been threatened.

“The actual threat came weeks ago, Sal. I really don’t think this had to do with me. I didn’t feel anything in my gut. It seemed like they were after Larry.” This was a blatant lie. I had seen Tony Vallamara just a short time before the incident. I had a strong feeling the whole event had been his doing. But I also felt like, if I kept ignoring it, it would go away. I just couldn’t see Tony—or anyone—putting that much effort into destroying me just because I’d refused to hold a horse back. There was something more going on.

“There was no way to tell you and that Larry kid apart from a distance, what with you both having the same color riding hats.”

I smiled at his calling it a
riding hat
.

“This ain’t funny in my book, friend.”

“No, it isn’t,” I concurred.

“How come when that guy tried to drown you, you were sure it had to do with those threats, but now, now that someone’s come close to taking you out
twice
, suddenly you don’t think it’s got anything to do with you?”

I didn’t know how to answer him. I didn’t want to think about it. And furthermore, Sal was starting to annoy me.

“Look,” I said finally, “I’m done riding for the day anyway. Henry’s the only trainer that I ride for that’s working any horses this
morning. I’ll make the rounds and see if any of the others need me to hand walk a few for them. After that, I’m going to the gym, then on back to Ruby’s. I’m good. And I don’t want to keep you from what you need to be doing all day.”

By then, Sal had evidently had it with me. He didn’t say another word but I could read the anger and frustration on his face. He shrugged, turned, and walked away.

I breathed a sigh of relief. Sal meant well but I couldn’t focus with him around. Not that hand walking a half-dozen horses required much focus. Still, I just wanted to put the entire world out of my mind.

I
t’s not yet seven
A.M
. when I decide to give up on sleeping. Thinking about Attila out there at the track has made me jittery as hell. I should have gone with him. I might not be able to do much to protect him, but looking at and smelling horses probably would have soothed me. I don’t know what possessed me to stay home. Some vague notion of reclaiming my life, I guess.

The apartment is cold and I pull a sweater on over my nightgown. The floor is cold too. I can’t find my slippers so I slip my sneakers on instead. As I walk by, I catch my reflection in the closet mirror. My hair has gotten too long and is hanging in nests halfway down my back. My green sweater is dirty and my white nightgown has a coffee stain on it. The sneakers aren’t adding much to the look either. Theoretically, it’s fine to look like shit in the privacy of my
own home, but one day I might forget myself and go out looking like this and it’ll be the beginning of the end. After that, I’ll talk to myself in public and stop bathing and be two steps shy of the hat factory.

I walk into the kitchen where I brew coffee, feed the cats, and then stare into the refrigerator’s innards, trying to will edible foodstuffs to appear there. It’s torturous to eat in front of Attila: I always feel like I’m taunting the guy by eating things he has to avoid. And I’m always afraid that the mere suggestion of food will make him feel obliged to vomit up the contents of his stomach. I don’t think Attila technically has an eating disorder. Most jockeys have to
flip
, as they call it, in order to maintain their riding weights. At five-foot-five, Attila’s on the tall side for a rider and a hundred and five is just not his natural weight. He struggles. Probably a lot more than he lets me know.

There isn’t much to look at in my fridge and my keeping the door open has convinced Stinky he’s in for a second feeding. I close the fridge door and reach for my box of Honey Nut Cheerios in its hiding place in the cupboard.

I pour myself a bowl and walk into the living room. As I sit spooning Cheerios into my mouth, I notice that the phone machine is blinking. I haven’t even glanced at the thing in the last five days. Apparently I missed a call though. I press the Play button and am surprised to hear a message from my mother. This is unusual. My mother likes me but it just doesn’t frequently occur to her to call me. It’s modest consolation that she calls my sister, Chloe, even less. In Chloe’s case though, my mother has a better excuse, since my sister is a nomad and hard to keep track of. My sister is ridiculously intelligent and earned a Ph.D. in applied physics at an absurdly young age. She dabbles in teaching but, after a few months, invariably grows restless, quits the job, and moves to a new state. If there’s no teaching work to be found, she’ll do virtually anything for a short while. Though we’ve been close at times, after a few weeks of frequent contact with me, Chloe suddenly has enough and doesn’t call again for months. Last I heard, she was in northern California
working in a zoo, which is perfectly fitting since the strongest thing we Murphy women have in common is a bordering-on-fanatical love of animals. My mother has close to thirty black standard poodles that she breeds and shows for a living. She and her second husband, Richard, live and breathe poodles. They rarely eat or sleep and have not been to the movies in five years.

My mother has left a message simply asking me to call. Something must be the matter. It’s still a bit early for most people but not for my mother, who usually rises at five. I dial her number.

“Mom,” I say when she answers, breathlessly, on the eighth ring, “it’s your older daughter.”

“Ruby?” She seems unsure.

“Yes. How are you?”

“Oh fine, I’m grooming right now,” she says. I can hear a blow-dryer going in the background.

“You called?” I ask.

“Oh, so I did,” she says. I hear a different sound in the background, something like a small airplane engine, revving. Several dogs start barking. My mother hollers at them to shush.

“I was just calling to say hello,” my mother says.

I hear myself gasp.

“Everything all right?” she asks in a tone that instructs me to answer affirmatively.

“Oh. Yes. I think so.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. Things are fine.”

“Job?”

“Good.”

“Stinky and Lulu?”

“Very good. Fat. Stinky anyway.”

“Still?” My mother sounds incredulous. She only met the cat once about three years ago when she visited me en route to a dog show on Long Island, but she likes to remind me that he’s obese. She urged me to try him on a raw diet and I did; however, the pounds did not come flying off.

“I really do think he has a metabolic problem,” I tell her.

My mother humpfs in my ear.

“Well then,” she says.

“Well,” I say. “Everything’s okay?” I venture, before losing her for another three months to her strange world of furry black dogs.

“Oh yes. Lilian had six puppies. Two boys and four girls. And we put in a new bathroom,” she adds.

“Oh. Wow. That’s great,” I say. “I painted my bedroom ceiling leafy green.”

“Oh,” my mother says.

It occurs to me to tell her about Attila, but of course I don’t. What would I say? I’m dating an apprentice jockey who may have a hit out on him? My mother might not be surprised but she does love me and she does worry and there’s just no need to agitate her. Besides, she has heard of many of my men through the years and no sooner would she memorize their names than they were gone.

“Well, don’t let me keep you,” I say after a pause.

“Yes, I should get back to it,” my mother says, turning the blow-dryer to a louder velocity.

“Bye, Mom, love you,” I say.

“You too,” she says, hanging up.

I EAT A FEW
more bites of Cheerios and then lose interest. I warily eye the piano. I haven’t had a lesson in two weeks and I don’t have one scheduled. Since Mark Baxter, my gifted but difficult young teacher, does not treat me well unless I show marked progress, I figure I’ll let it all slide until the Attila situation is cleared up. Not that I feel particularly confident that things will ever calm down with him. Attila Johnson is a chaotic man. It’s part of his appeal.

I get up, put my cereal bowl in the sink, and am about to go take a shower when the phone rings.

“Yes?” I say, half expecting to find that it’s my mother, having suddenly remembered that she did in fact call me for a reason. It’s
just Jane though. My closest girlfriend, whom I’ve ignored these past weeks.

“You’re up?” she says by way of greeting.

“Evidently yes, how are you?”

“Are you going to work? Where’s the jockey?” she says, pronouncing
jockey
like an insult.

“The man has a name. And the Coney Island Museum is only open late in the day in the off-season. Surely you know that by now.”