Horse Heaven (70 page)

Mr. T. did nothing now that the filly had gone back to the ranch, and he did not have the prospect of doing anything. In ten starts, the filly had had one win, one second, and one third. She had earned twenty-one thousand dollars. She had been unsound off and on. The fact was, she wasn’t a racehorse and she wasn’t coming back. Mr. T didn’t quite have the temperament for a pony horse. He didn’t like male horses to be inside his personal space and he was well mannered but not in the least phlegmatic, the way a pony horse needed to be to be utterly reliable. And his experiences over the last six months, galloping, running, breaking from the gate from time to time, had accelerated his aging process. He was stiffer, crankier, harder to ride. He had no usefulness as a horse at the track, and the track wasn’t a good place for him to be now. No grass, no friends, no turnout, nothing to do. Time to go home; he still belonged to Mr. Tompkins, and Mr. Tompkins, of course, would make a place for him somewhere. Except, of course, how would Farley, how could Farley, possibly break this news to Joy? Right now, on day eleven of her thirty days of stall rest? His friend Barney the vet said he couldn’t. Her mother said he couldn’t. His own conscience said he couldn’t. A friend of his who had gotten through a serious depression said that he couldn’t even tell her he was moving the horse somewhere like the L.A. Equestrian Center, which wasn’t all that far away, because for Joy the thought of the horse in a new place, having to adjust, be lonely, be
away from familiar surroundings, be by himself, be among strangers—Did Farley get the picture? Farley did certainly get the picture.

So, in addition to “How long?,” there was “What will it take?”

Oliver said, “You should at least call him. He seemed a little annoyed.”

And then there was this, his own revisitation of old demons. “I will,” he said, “after this set.” And here they came, eight horses and eight grooms and eight riders converging, allowing him to put it off.

But this was his greatest temptation, the thing he had that matched Joy, the thing that had done him in before. Of course he could call Somerville; his cellular was hanging from his belt. And in some remote way, he wanted those horses in his barn, all six of them. There were two Salt Lakes, a Vice Regent, an A.P. Indy, a Strawberry Road, and, of all things, a Sadler’s Wells filly Somerville had bought in Ireland. He had cheap horses he could send to Hollywood Park, horses who would do fine in spite of the footing. And Oliver could handle it. If he called Somerville right now, and then after him the other guy, Maraniss, they would be setting things up for this by the time the fourth set was finished training. If he didn’t call, the horses would go to Frankel or Hofmans or Mandella—there was no shortage of good trainers in southern California, and Somerville and Maraniss had used most of them.

No one was around him. He could put his hand on his phone and make the calls.

He should at least say no. To fail to call at all was openly rude, and owners, all owners, even those not routinely accustomed to being fawned over, recognized rudeness.

He had done himself in like this before; toward the end of his marriage, he had simply stopped using the phone entirely for about two months. He did not answer, he did not call, and he allowed his message machines, at home, at the barn, to fill up until anyone calling him just got endless ringing. The foundation mare had been more than angry, more than frustrated. She had been confirmed in the knowledge she had had all along that he could not be understood, reached, appealed to rationally. Was he willing to destroy everything, she said, their family, his career, the last lingering shreds of feeling between the two of them, his own self-respect? Somehow yes was the answer. Actually, it was something of a miracle. You could explode your life into unrecognizable fragments just by not answering the phone and not returning calls. Two months in Bali, two months on the moon would have done a far less thorough job than he had done by not answering the phone.

And what was he doing the whole time? He was wondering why he didn’t want to answer the phone. Horses vanished from his barn without warning—if he had answered the phone, he would have reassured the owners and not lost
the horses, or at least known that they were being moved. As it was, various grooms and assistant trainers would show up, or even van drivers, and ask for the horses, and he would let them go. Finally, there were nine cheap horses in his barn, and then other horses belonging to other trainers came into his stalls, or what had been his stalls. He didn’t question that, either.

It was a strange episode that gave him a sense of kinship with drunks, suicides, plagiarists, anorexics, self-destroyers of all kinds. When he looked back on it, he seemed to himself to have been paralyzed, or even enchanted. There had been a stillness about the whole period. Outside, the tempest raged, in that everyone he knew was justifiably angry with him, and some still were, ten years later, but inside everything was quiet, and eventually the phone didn’t ring at all. After some period of silence, he couldn’t remember how long, he made the first call of his new life, to the manager of an apartment complex who he saw in the paper had an apartment for rent.

Taken all in all, he had no regrets, but he didn’t want to do the whole thing over again. But by the time he was out at the track, he was even less inclined to make the calls. “Hey,” he said. “How’s it going? Hey. Hey, baby.” It was a pleasant day. No smog. The ridge of the mountains across the track seemed etched in light. His associates, three of them, stood together in comfortable fellowship. A couple of owners were there, too. You could always tell them by their ignorant alert self-consciousness.

His horses appeared on the track, jogging around to the other side or heading to the back of the chute for gate-training. He thought, I need help here, and then the phone at his waist began to ring. It rang three times. All around him, feet started shuffling. It was noisy and uncomfortable. It rang a fourth time, and he knew that the messaging system would pick up. He could hear it perfectly: “Farley Jones is not available at this time. If you would like to leave a message, please do so at the beep.” Except that the phone rang again and again. Someone, Farley didn’t see who, said, “Shit.” Then Buddy Crawford turned around and said, “Farley, answer the God-damned phone, because if you don’t I’m going to throw it out onto the track.”

Farley answered the phone. As he did so, he heard one of the other trainers say, “Hell, Buddy, nice to see you’re back to your old self.”

“Tell me about it,” said Buddy.

“Farley?” said a Brit from deep in the cellular universe.

“Hey,” said Farley.

“This is Sir Michael Ordway.”

“Hey.”

“May I make an inquiry?”

“Of course.”

“Have you room for another horse? Rather a mystery horse, if you ask me, but interesting owners.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t have a stall available, and it’s so crowded here, I don’t know when I can get one.”

“You’re not keeping horses at Hollywood Park anymore, I understand.”

“Haven’t for several years.”

“Too bad, then.”

“Sorry,” said Farley.

“Indeed,” said Sir Michael.

O
LIVER KNEW THAT
he should not pick up the ringing phone, but he did so anyway, because he couldn’t help it, because he always picked up the phone before he realized what he was doing and because he thought it might be someone with a nice horse to send to Farley, or perhaps Farley himself calling from the track, telling him he had changed his mind about sending him over to Hollywood with his own string, that wasn’t so unusual, was, in fact, quite usual. But it was his girlfriend. She started in right away. “Did you talk to him?”

“There wasn’t really time. He was a little late—”

“There’s always time if you make time.”

“I’ll make time. I told you I would make time.”

“I don’t want to go to Tokyo and Kyoto and Kuala Lumpur and Hong Kong and Bali and Fiji with thirty-seven Mitsubishi dealers and their wives for twelve fun-filled days and have to think about your situation out there the whole time. Honey.” She remembered to soften the last word.

“He isn’t necessarily going to see things my way. He’s already said—”

“What did we say last night, Oliver?”

“I have certain needs. Career needs.”

And here came Farley, opening the door and walking right into his own office with a smile and a look of inquiry. Oliver lifted his finger, but didn’t actually look at his boss.

“Yes, you do, sweetie, and you need to attend to them. I can’t do that for you, you know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Now, tell me again what you’re going to ask for.”

“I can’t really do that.”

“We went over it last night, honey.”

“I know, but—”

“This is an avoidance problem on your part, darling. You have a real thing
about giving bad news. But that just means things slide and slide. I think it would be really good for you to just run down the list right now, the five action points that we went over, and get them clear in your mind.”

Farley was getting himself a cup of coffee from the coffeemaker.

“I know what you mean, but that’s not what I’m—”

“Oliver, sweetheart, you know, back home, when the team is, say, forty points down arid none of the boys are trying any shots or getting any rebounds?”

“Yes.” Her dad was a high-school basketball coach.

“And at half-time, they all go into the locker room, and they huddle together, and they have a come-to-Jesus meeting right there?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s where we are right now. Come to Jesus. Up or out. Bottom line. You and him. You and me.”

“I know what you’re getting at, but—”

“Hand him the phone. I know he’s standing right there. I’ll talk to him myself.”

Ah, well. And just because anything could happen, Oliver held out the phone to Farley, and said, “It’s for you.”

Farley sat down in his desk chair and put the receiver to his ear. Oliver turned away from the desk and looked at the bulletin board of win pictures from the last year or so—Garden Variety winning the Santa Luisa Handicap; Garden Variety again, this time in the Willard Scott Stakes, Parson Jack winning the MGM Handicap, Duly Noted winning the Judy Garland Futurity. Oliver glanced at Farley, who was stroking his beard thoughtfully. Oliver figured that she was being rather forceful. He turned back to the win pictures. Sterling Silver winning the Calistoga, Panettone winning the Hitchcock at Del Mar, Duly Noted winning the Cardiff. Farley put the receiver back in its cradle. He said, “You’re fired.”

“I am?”

“She said that being fired would be exactly the opportunity you need to get out of your career rut and rethink your life plan. She said that, between us, you and I encourage one another’s natural passivity, and though that’s fine for me, at my age, approaching retirement and with all of my children grown and no real financial commitments, assuming that my condo is paid for—”

“She said that?”

“Yes. You, on the other hand, are just starting out, and it’s clear to her that a kick in the pants could change your life, she was intensely grateful for every kick in the pants she herself had ever received, had I ever heard the expression ‘Every knock’s a boost?,’ and so, all things considered, you’re fired.”

“I’m sorry she talked to you like that. She doesn’t realize that she’s being rude—”

“She wasn’t rude, she was logical and forceful, and she made some very good points. So there you go.”

“But I don’t want to be fired.”

“Best thing for you.”

“I think you’re joking.”

“No, I’m not joking.”

“You mean, I’m really fired?”

“For your own good, yes.”

“Who’s going to be your assistant?”

“Joy, I guess. She’s the obvious candidate.”

“She’s going away for twelve days with some car dealers.”

“Well, my advice is to have a new job, or at least a career plan, by the time she comes back.”

“I still think you’re joking. You’re smiling.”

“I’m smiling because all my problems have been solved.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I got rid of Sir Michael Ordway, so Mr. T. doesn’t have to go. Joy will have something to do to keep her up and about. And I don’t have to worry about you, because you are going to take care of yourself.”

“I don’t want to take care of myself.” But that sounded weird, so Oliver said, “I mean, I do want to take care of myself in the normal way, but—”

“Here’s something to remember. If you wait for the feeling in order to act, you’ll never act, but if you act, the feeling will follow.”

“It will?”

“The third set is ready. I would say, be out of here by tomorrow. How does that sound?”

“I thought you liked me! I thought we got along!”

“I do and we do, but if you’re fired, you’re fired. There’s a structure to the whole situation.”

He got up and walked out of the office. Oliver immediately picked up the phone and dialed his girlfriend’s office number and cell number, but she could not be reached.

J
OY COULD BE REACHED
. Even after what had happened to her, she still didn’t mind answering the phone. In fact, it felt functional and virtuous to answer the phone, and so on the first ring she stopped crying, on the second ring she swallowed and wiped her eyes, on the third ring she sat up, threw off
the covers, and noticed that the sun was shining, on the fourth ring she found the phone under the pillow, and on the fifth ring she said, “Hello?”

“Hi,” said Farley. He didn’t have to make an effort to soften his voice. Talking to Joy softened his voice for him.

“Hi,” she whispered.

“Are you available for employment?”

“In what sense?”

“Can you show up here and be my assistant trainer, starting tomorrow?”

“Assistant racehorse trainer? Is Oliver moving to Hollywood Park?”

“Oliver’s girlfriend and I agreed that I would fire him.”

“You did?”

“It was me or her, she said. She sounded like she meant it. And she made a rather good case for it being me and not her.”