Secretariat Reborn (4 page)

At first he had adopted Kate’s lifestyle with enthusiasm. Little by little, though, the constant parties, Kate’s demands, and her stuck-up friends caused him more and more grief.

When he later learned Kate wasn’t interested in sailing, the outdoors,
or nature, the things he loved, he became even more disillusioned. Her request for sailing lessons had been a ploy to lure him in. Her creamy-white skin should have been a clue that she was an inside girl. Really, the only thing holding them together now was sex.

Christian sat up on his father’s bed and placed a second call. “How’s everything going?” he asked Jake, his eighteen-year-old employee.

“Good,” said Jake. “I rented the Hobie Cat this afternoon to some Yankees, but the fools got caught in New Pass on an outgoing tide—couldn’t tack against the current. They ended up in the gulf, freaking out. I had to take the Whaler and rescue them. Other than that, everything went okay, but it was a little slow.”

“Well, it’s May. Things will pick up next month when the schools let out and the tourists come down. Jot down this number in case you need to reach me. My cell’s not picking up. I should be back on Monday.”

“Okay, boss, I can handle things. How’s your dad?”

Christian sighed. “Not good.”

He hung up and glanced at the phone, realizing that Kate hadn’t had the courtesy to ask about his sick father. When I get back, he thought, things have to change. He walked into the living room and slumped on the worn couch. An old black-and-white movie played on the TV. His father was dozing, and a Marlboro burned in the nearby ashtray.

Early the next morning, Christian woke in his old bedroom to the smell of brewing coffee and the drone of men’s voices. In the dark, he stumbled out of bed and looked out the window. A dim glow showed on the horizon, and the pastures were shrouded with shadows and mist. “What time is it?” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. He glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand. “Five thirty!”

He slipped on his pants. In the kitchen, Juan and his father sat at the table.

Juan smiled. “Good morning, Mr. Roberts.”

Christian gave him a nod. “Call me Christian or Chris.”

“There’s coffee, Christian,” said Hank.

Christian scratched his back, yawned, and shuffled to the coffeepot.

“Juan breezed the colt this morning,” Hank said. “He did a thirty-five and change.”

Christian poured a cup and took a sip. “Is that good?”

“On my slow dirt track, that’s a damn good time,” Hank said. “A decent horse averages thirty-eight, thirty-nine seconds over three furlongs. He’s ready.”

Juan stood. “I have to go, Mr. Roberts, or I will be late.”

“Okay, Juan,” Hank said.

After Juan left, Christian eased into his vacant seat. “When it’s light, I’ll look at the trailer. Where is it?”

“Behind the barn. I haven’t used it in years. In the past, I’d have a big van company take my horses to the track, but that costs money. Besides, it’ll be good for you to take the colt down, talk with the trainer, get a feel for things.”

Christian felt his frustration rise in his throat. “Dad, I don’t plan on switching occupations and getting into this horse game, if that’s what you’re hoping. I already said that.”

Hank gave another of his ghoulish grins. “Yeah, this business is a curse, a contagious disease. You catch the fever, and nothing else matters. Don’t wish that on you, but I reckon if you get a little taste, you’ll understand where I’ve been coming from all these years.” He broke into another coughing fit, but went on. “You’re about to enter the sport of kings, boy, the most exciting two minutes of all sports. I want my son to feel that rush. After, you can go back to your boats.”

After coffee and a piece of toast, Christian walked to the barn. He examined the dry rot cracks in the tires on the two-horse trailer and frowned. “Sure, Dad,” he said to himself. “The colt won’t cost me a dime. What a fucking joke.” He would have to replace the tires if he hoped to make it to Miami. And that would be one dirty job. He returned to the house and changed to a pair of tattered cutoffs, a faded t-shirt, and his paint-spotted sneakers.
Figured I’d need them
, he thought.

After putting on a baseball cap, he glanced in the mirror. “Well, I fit in now—look like a true cracker.” He took the jack from his SUV and plodded to the horse trailer. After two hours of cursing, sweating, and scraping his knuckles with the tire iron, he had the trailer on concrete blocks and had removed the tires. Annoyed and tired, he walked back to the house, soaked with perspiration, filthy, and smudged with grease.

His father met him at the door. “You should have waited for Juan.”

“The tires were dry rotted and had to be pulled. No sense in waiting for him.” Christian wiped his damp face on his sleeve and slipped past his father. “Where’s the best place to buy tires? I want to get this shit over with.”

“There’s a store a few miles south on 441.”

In his bedroom, Christian retrieved his wallet and returned to the living room. “I’ll need an old blanket so those tires don’t mess up the inside of my SUV. I should be back in an hour or so.”

“There are blankets in the tack room.” Hank said. He looked so
pleased that Christian felt less aggravated. He gave his father a nod on his way out the door. As he loaded the old tires, he reflected on his father’s smile; his way of expressing appreciation. Although he had long been convinced that he didn’t need his father, he was starting to realize that, in truth, he longed to knock down the barriers that had separated them and have this bond.

His eyes watered. “I wish we had more time.”

Juan arrived later in the afternoon as Christian tightened the last lug on the new tires.

“You have been busy, Mr. Christian,” Juan said with a grin.

“Yeah, I greased everything and checked the lights. It’s good to roll.” Christian removed his cap and wiped his sweaty brow with the tail of his shirt.

“Have you checked the inside, the floorboards?” Juan opened the back door of the trailer and stepped inside. He stomped the wooden floor panels. “I think we should replace this one,” he said, looking down. “I have heard of horses that fell through the floor and arrived at a barn missing half their leg. Very bad.”

“Jesus,” Christian said, flinching.

Juan hopped out of the trailer, saying, “There are some two by sixes in the back shed.”

As evening approached, Juan and Christian had finished replacing several floorboards in the old trailer. Christian tried to pay Juan for his help, but he refused, saying he was doing it for Mr. Roberts. Christian walked to the house hungry and longing for a shower. To his surprise, he smelled food cooking.

“Bet you’re whipped,” Hank said, standing by the stove. “I cooked up some burgers.”

“I could’ve cooked.”

“I ain’t totally useless.”

That must have taken a lot for the old man, Christian thought. But Hank didn’t appear tired. He seemed invigorated. After cleaning up, Christian joined his father at the table.

“When you get to Miami,” Hank said, “tell the trainer that Glade Hunter breezed a thirty-five and change and should be entered in a maiden special weight, not a claimer.”

“Dad, you’ll have to explain some of these racing terms to me.”

Hank put down his fork and leaned back into the chair. “Okay, your colt is a maiden. That’s any horse that hasn’t won a race. A maiden special weight race is for top horses that are expected to win quickly. Once your colt breaks his maiden, wins a race, he should be entered in an allowance race that has special conditions and weights plus bigger purses. Next is the stake race. Only the cream of the crop can run in those and the races are graded one, two, and three. The Kentucky Derby is a grade-one stake race.”

Christian noticed his father’s voice was stronger, clearer, and he breathed easier. The importance of teaching his son about racing seemed to improve his health. “What about the claiming race?”

“In a claimer,” said Hank, “every horse has a price tag and can be bought or claimed for that price. A buyer puts in a request for the horse prior to the race. After the race, he’s the new owner regardless if the horse wins or loses, is injured, or drops dead on the track. The old owner gets any purse, and the new owner gets the horse. But like I said, Glade Hunter has great times and doesn’t belong in a claimer.”

“I like the colt’s name, Glade Hunter. When will he run?”

“It’s up to the trainer, but if Hunter adjusts well to the track, probably roughly a month. He’ll also need to come out of the gate and get his gate card and the lip tattoo.”

“A month, huh?” Christian said and massaged his chin. He wondered if his father would be around to see this race.

Hank reached over and patted Christian’s shoulder. “Son, I’m excited for you. When you see
your
horse racing toward the finish line, see pure determination and courage on four hooves—” He shook his head. “There’s nothing like it. It gives you goose bumps and can bring tears to a grown man.”

The rest of the evening’s conversation was lively. Christian felt
for the first time that he and his father had the same goal, getting Hunter to the races. He was enjoying his father’s company and sensed the feeling was mutual. When he crawled into bed, he went over possible reasons why their relationship had changed. Maybe dying, his father was more tolerant, more eager to have a final father-son bond. Perhaps he, Christian, had also changed, no longer a negative, smart-mouthed teen, but a twenty-five-year-old man, time tempered with the knowledge that everyone—himself and his father included—was flawed. Then there was the colt that gave them common ground. He didn’t care if Hunter could win a race, just grateful that the creature had brought them together at last.

At five in the morning, he woke to watch Juan ride Hunter. He dressed in the dark and pussyfooted outside. Juan’s old pickup was already parked under the barn lights. Christian hustled down the drive to the distant barking of dogs, an owl hooting its final goodbye to the night, and the whinny of the old stallion. When he reached the barn, Juan emerged riding the chestnut colt.

“Good morning, Mr. Christian,” he said. “Come to watch him work?”

“Yeah, I wanna see all this speed you and Dad are talking about.”

“Oh, not today,” said Juan. “He ran hard yesterday. Today we slowly gallop.”

Christian stared at the lean-muscled colt with the white star that tossed his head in anticipation of the ride. Under saddle, Glade Hunter seemed totally different from the horse Christian had petted in the stall. His red coat shimmered in the floodlights as he pranced, his hoofs barely grazing the ground. He had the dazzling look of a champion.

“He’s awesome,” Christian said, a word he never thought he’d apply to a horse.

“Come,” said Juan. “Watch your boy move.”

Juan took the colt to the track and loped him under the lights. Christian stood by the rail, a cool predawn breeze bearing the scent of orange blossoms blowing against his face. The powerful animal
seemed to glide over the dirt and only the rhythm of pounding hooves conveyed that the creature was still earthbound.

The colt was no normal horse; it was
his
horse, and he felt the excitement of possibilities. It didn’t matter if Hunter came from a rundown farm, a dying trainer, and an old stallion with an mediocre pedigree. Hadn’t he heard his father say that every Thoroughbred enters a race as an equal, ready to prove he has the most speed, stamina, and heart? Plenty of long shots had won the Derby.

Christian pondered that his father had stood at this very spot by the rail, probably having the same thoughts. Was he following in his father’s footsteps? “No, I’m not,” he said firmly. “I’m just dealing with this one horse, and only to make Dad happy. I won’t get caught up in horses and racing.” As the gorgeous colt galloped past, Christian’s determination weakened, and he felt the thrill pulling him in.

After Juan brought the colt back to the barn, he removed the tack and hosed the colt down. “Mr. Christian, would you like to walk him until he is cool?”

Christian shrugged. “I haven’t handled a horse since I was ten.”

“It is something you do not forget.” With a grin, Juan handed Christian the lead, a stud chain laced through the halter over the colt’s nose. “Take him around the barn under the shed row ten times while I clean and feed.”

“Come on, boy.” Christian tugged slightly on the lead and briskly walked the horse beneath a roof that extended from the barn, recalling a lecture his father had given him when a boy. “Patience is a must when handling horses that are bigger and stronger than you,” his father had said. “If you’re not patient, you’ll end up as a hospital patient.”

When they had finished ten rounds, he stopped the colt at his stall, and the horse nuzzled his arm. “Good boy.” He chuckled and led Hunter into his clean stall and unsnapped the lead. Hunter nibbled some hay while Christian stroked his neck.

His father strolled toward them, a lighter gait in his step.

“Dad, what are you doing down here?”

“The pain isn’t too bad today, and this will probably be the last time I see this colt.” He stood in the stall doorway and gazed at Christian and Hunter.