Horse Heaven (58 page)

But what was done was done, a principle Eileen lived by.

“I’m bringing the horse back from the training farm next week,” said Dick Dick Dick. “They say he’s matured a lot. Did Al tell you? Look at this one, though.” But, of course, Eileen had no interest in craning her tiny little neck and straining her bright little button eyes in order to catch a glimpse of a galloping horse hundreds of yards away whose purpose in life was a mystery to her to begin with. She understood about them that they did not kill vermin, did not even aspire to kill vermin, but would rather have vermin killed on their behalf, so that was that about horses. The booted feet of the men on this platform were another story, though. As an idle, leash-bound activity, she deciphered where all of them had been recently. Dick Dick Dick said, “Here, take the glasses and have a look at him.”

There was a pause. Eileen noted that one of the men had dropped bacon grease on the toe of his boot and she licked it off for him.

Babble babble babble.

They turned to leave the platform and there was more dragging, since Eileen hadn’t quite made up her mind to follow them. But Rosalind didn’t seem to notice. This was the maddening thing about Dick Dick Dick, always had been. He rendered Rosalind blind and deaf to Eileen’s pressing concerns.

Then they went back to Dick Dick Dick’s office. Dick went in first. Rosalind went in second. Eileen scuttled in right on Rosalind’s heels, just as Rosalind firmly closed the door. Here in this office, Eileen felt dimmer than ever, so dim she could barely stand up, so she jumped into Rosalind’s lap and curled up with her eyes half closed. She could still see him, though, across the room, staring. And then Rosalind said, “I feel lost. It’s been six months. I still feel lost. I feel more lost.”

“Rosalind, I am lost. I live in a place I don’t recognize when I get up in the morning.”

“I’m sorry I hurt you.”

“Did you? How did you hurt me? Starting things? Continuing things? Breaking it off?”

It was so dark in here, Eileen thought, that the only thing that would save her would be a cat walking arrogantly through the room. She whimpered. Rosalind’s hand fell heavily on her head, but it wasn’t soothing. In fact, it rather hurt.

“I thought if I came here I might find something that would, I don’t know, remind me of something good.”

“But—”

“But it reminded me that even then it wasn’t good. I had forgotten that. I had to do it and I loved you to distraction, but it was so painful for me.”

“Why do you think you had to do it?”

This, Eileen thought, cannot go on. She sat up, jumped down, and began to spin right in front of Dick Dick Dick, but spinning did nothing, so she barked at him, yap yap yap, yap yap yap. She went over to the desk, where she stiffened her legs and her tail and barked herself into a frenzy. Dick Dick Dick was looking down at her in shock, and both the humans were so surprised that they gave her a certain amount of leeway before Rosalind jerked on her leash and said, “Eileen!”

Ha! It was clear that the woman didn’t mean it. Eileen swelled. The next phase of barking lifted her right off her feet; she hopped around with it. “Eileen! Eileen!” Jerk. Jerk. Yapyapyapyapyapyapyap. And then he smacked her with his giant hand. She felt herself rise into the air, sail across the room, and hit something. She and it fell with a crash to the top of the bookcase, and then over the edge of that and to the floor. “Oh my God,” said Rosalind. “What are you doing?”

Eileen lay stunned on her back. The barking had stopped. The crashing had stopped. There was complete silence in the room. Dick Dick Dick jumped out of his chair and came across to her, knelt down where she lay, and put his hands underneath her. Eileen looked over at Rosalind, who seemed to have turned to stone. Dick Dick Dick was all different now, something Eileen did not approve of, but of course, since Rosalind was out of commission, any port in a storm. She licked his hand. He carried her over to his desk and laid her upon it, with one hand nestled against her, then he dialed a number on his phone, and said, “Hey, Larry. This is Dick Winterson. Where are you? Can you come over and do a bit of small-animal doctoring? It’s an emergency, yeah. Thanks. We’re in my office.”

Now the pain began to come. Back, head, leg, but, actually, nothing special. She had known worse a couple of times. Still, she lay there quietly, staring at Rosalind, who only came to life when there was a knock on the door. Dick yelled “Yeah!” and another man came in. He had the smell. Eileen rolled over and stood up. Rosalind stood up, too, and came over, and stroked Eileen’s ears
while the examination went on. The vet said to Rosalind, “It hasn’t been as long as it looks. I have Jack Russells myself, and I do all my own vet care. Was she kicked by a horse? I had one launched one time. As soon as she landed, she came back at the horse, ready to kill him. She’s okay. Just keep her quiet for a day. She might be a little stiff tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” said Dick.

“Anytime, baby,” said the vet. He went out.

“We’d better go,” said Rosalind. “I see I shouldn’t have come. I’m tireder from my trip than I thought.”

“Rosalind, I’m so sorry.”

“I think we’ve found the bottom of each other, somehow. I thought we would avoid that, but—”

Rosalind took Eileen in her arms, and Eileen snuggled up to her soft chest and closed her eyes. She heard Rosalind open the door, and they went out. Usually when people went away from one another, there was more babbling, but not this time.

Ha, thought Eileen. She whimpered once as they walked down the shedrow, and again as they got into the car. Really, she felt fine. When Rosalind put her down on the seat, Eileen jumped into the footwell to investigate what at first looked like an old French fry. But it was just a bit of mud. She jumped back up on the seat and looked out the window. A human walked by, wearing a hat, smelling bad, and barkable by any standard, but Eileen had learned her lesson. She kept her mouth shut. So did Rosalind.

T
HEY HAD BEEN LAUGHING.
Their faces were still open and happy from it, and, Farley thought, that’s why, even though he should be heading for the walking ring, he had come up to the stands, anyway. Bernard Baruch’s owners were serious men, brothers. They named all their horses after financiers. One of their big winners had been a horse named Lorenzo de Medici. They said they did it as a joke, but they were unfunny men, unplayful, unjolly, unfull of delight. He needed a dose of Joy just to get through the race with these two. And they were big bettors, too. Big bettors who had no sense of carelessness were a bit dangerous. But they had good horses, of which Barnard Baruch and his stablemate, Ivan Boesky, were the first Farley had been asked to train. Ivan Boesky was a filly. The brothers thought that was a good joke, too.

He sat down next to Joy and she turned to him and his arm went around her shoulders as if there were a groove there, and her arm went around his waist, and in the months they had known one another they had not had a single argument, which made him sigh with delight. He said, “I’ve got about two minutes. I thought you might be having too much fun up here.”

She turned her face to him for a kiss, and he kissed it, then greeted the others. Plato was already going.

“The model I like to use,” he was saying, “is a model of the weather. One of the things physicists have discovered over the last few years is that there are some systems they have analyzed, some systems they can expect to analyze, and some systems they will never analyze. The weather is one of those. Horse racing is another. The future is a third.” He preened himself, Farley thought, thinking that analysis of the future was his department.

“The key,” said Plato, “is what I call the cascade effect. Systems that can be analyzed are ones that are basically stable. They keep going along as they began, and they continue that way until some outside force destabilizes them
for a moment. A bad marriage is just like that. The force it takes to destabilize it gets greater and greater. He drinks more, she takes more lovers, they fight more, he threatens her, but the marriage only gets worse and worse anyway. They get a divorce, and the marriage achieves new levels of badness as the partners hold even their separation against one another. That’s stability for you. Northern Ireland, the Balkans. Those are stable systems.” Farley laughed, thinking of his marriage. There hadn’t been drinking and adultery, but there had been conflict, misunderstanding, and thinking that you knew just what was going on with the other person when you didn’t know at all.

Elizabeth ran her hand up Plato’s hairy arm. Farley tightened his arm around Joy’s shoulders. Elizabeth said, “I shouldn’t have bet the number-four horse.”

“Why not?” said Joy.

“Mr. T. doesn’t like him.”

“How come?” said Plato and Joy simultaneously.

“He saw him work earlier in the week. He thinks they worked him too fast and he’s got nothing left for this race.”

“Are you communicating right now?” said Joy.

“I consulted him as I was leaving the betting window.”

“How did you identify him to Mr. T.?” asked Plato.

“Color, age, white markings, sex.”

“This still seems imprecise to me,” said Plato.

“No betting system is perfect,” said Elizabeth.

Farley could not say he was convinced that the old horse was communicating anything. He could only say that Elizabeth had a remarkable record at the windows. He could also say that, more often than not, he agreed with the animal’s general analysis.

“Why did you bet the horse in the first place, then?” said Plato.

“I would have to say of Mr. T. that, although we are in communication, we are not always in agreement.” Everyone laughed. Elizabeth said, “Go on, honey.”

“You can analyze an unstable system, too, if you know the source of the instability. Let’s take the settlement of Europeans on the North American continent, something most people call American history. Everything about the system is unstable—migration, affluence, the three branches of government, the market economy, voting behavior, the relationship of the government to the media, the ethnic mix of the population, patterns of sexual behavior, family life. Micro and macro, it’s cosmically unstable. Peace follows turmoil, turmoil follows peace, now I’ve got a job, now I don’t.”

“What are the sources of the instability?” said Joy.

“There’s only one,” said Plato. “That’s why it’s analyzable.”

“What is it, then?” said Joy.

“The conviction that there is something unknown that is different from all the things that are known. Sometimes that gives rise to curosity, sometimes it gives rise to fear, but its all the same conviction. In a stable system, everyone agrees that everything is known. In a stably peaceful system like France, they all agree that what is known is good, and a lot of the national energy goes toward self-congratulation. In a stably conflicted system, like Northern Ireland, they all agree that what is known is tragic and bitter, and a lot of national energy goes toward self-destruction, but when there is widespread belief that many things are unknown, then there is no agreement, only waves of hope and fear, and both are destabilizing.”

“Hope,” said Joy, “is the American dream.”

“Dreams,” said Plato, “are illogical delusions resulting from the random discharges of electricity in the sleeping brain. They cannot be made sense of nor truly shared.”

“What I love about you,” said Elizabeth, “is your perfect lack of sentimentality.”

The horses entered the starting gate. The gate opened, and they were off.

Plato said, “It’s not true that anything can happen at the racetrack, only that many things can happen at the racetrack. But every one thing that happens has a small chance of having a measurable outcome. Every measurable outcome enters into a geometric rather than an arithmetic relationship to everything else that is happening. How many horses are in this race, ten? And ten jockeys? And right now they are all bunched into the first turn. If we think of the ten horses and the ten jockeys as twenty universes, or twenty galaxies, or twenty stars, we can see why racing is so dangerous. Universes, galaxies, and stars are separated by vast distances. Any little process that takes place in one is isolated and insulated from the others by space. As those horses close up on each other while moving at speed, any little process that takes place in any of the twenty universes—”

“Like a stress fracture,” said Joy.

“—has a greater and greater chance of affecting one other universe, or several. It might only take a single fiber, or a single electrical impulse, or a single chemical miscommunication.”

“They’re spreading out now,” said Elizabeth. “Mr. T. was right. He said that gray horse could come from off the pace.”

“How did he know that?” said Joy.

“He said that horses that like to come from off the pace hate to work and love to race. He’s never seen this guy put in an honest work.” Nor had Farley.

Farley said, “I didn’t realize he was paying so much attention to the other horses in the morning.”

“What else is there for him to do?” said Elizabeth. “Besides, if there was ever a horse with a theory, he’s the one.”

The horses crossed the finish line. The number-three horse had left his race on the training track. The number-six horse had come from off the pace and run second by a nose

“We got any tickets to cash?” asked Plato.

“No,” said Elizabeth.

“Nothing bad happened,” said Joy. “You really had my heart pounding there for a minute. All I could think of was that one of those horses would stumble. Thank God.”

“That’s what I think,” said Elizabeth. “That’s what I think every day. Worlds are in collision. Thank God that most of the time they just pass through one another.”

It was six weeks since Joy had moved into his condo, almost five months since the day she arrived with Mr. T. She gave every evidence of loving him as simply and truly as he loved her, and he liked to think of this thing they had as an example by contrast to his marriage—where there had been obligations, now there were gifts. Where there had been disagreements, now there was coincidence of outlook and desire. Where there had been ongoing negotiation, here there was peaceful silence. It was powerfully satisfying to him. The thing that wouldn’t die, though, was his goading feeling that he had not secured her, that she was temporary, losable, fleeting. Most of the time he put this down to the years he had spent at the track, watching horses come and go, watching talent come and go, watching soundness come and go. He had thought, in the spring, that he was resigned to that at last, wise at last, philosophical at last, but here was Joy, and his hard-won equanimity about his career had spawned his old anxiety with a new face.