Read Online A Cat Tells Two Tales by Lydia Adamson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lydia Adamson
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remember. “Did you ask her for references?”
“No, I didn’t have to. Ginger was an exercise rider in Maryland before she came to New York. And the horse she rode was Cup of Tea. She showed me clippings.”
“Cup of Tea!” Jo repeated in a startled voice. “She never told me about that.”
“Who is Cup of Tea?” I asked, bewildered by Jo’s response.
Charlie Coombs walked back behind the desk and sat down. He grinned wickedly at me in a good-natured way, as if I should be ashamed of myself. “Once upon a time,” he began in a self-mocking, pedagogic tone, “there was an ugly little foal born on a farm in upper Michigan. He was a thoroughbred, but from a very undistinguished family. Nobody ever heard of his momma or papa. They called him Cup of Tea because his color was so murky—not bay, not chestnut. He actually looked like a cow pony, which is why he was auctioned off as a yearling for only nine hundred dollars.
“The new owner took Cup of Tea around the Midwest circuit—racing him in the cheapest races at the cheapest dirt tracks. He always lost. So he was sold to a trainer in Maryland, who wanted to make him into a track pony. Well, Cup of Tea goes to Maryland and starts accompanying real racehorses out onto the track to keep them calm.
“One day the little horse accompanies a hotshot allowance horse out onto the track for a grass workout. Cup of Tea, who probably never saw a grass track in his life, spooked, threw his rider, and ran around the grass track about two seconds faster than the world record for that distance.
“To make a long story short, the next year Cup of Tea wins the three biggest grass stakes in America, including the Budweiser Million. And right now the old boy is the most expensive and sought-after stud in the world, standing in France. It’s the ultimate rags-to-riches story. It’s Hollywood.”
It was a wonderful story. I could see it as a movie. But who would play Ginger?
A young Hispanic man burst into the office and yelled something in Spanish to Coombs. The trainer nodded, stood up, and said, “I hope I was of some help.”
He shook Jo’s hand and kissed her lightly on top of her head. Then he said to me, “I like telling you horse stories. I have plenty of them. I even have some other kinds of stories.”
I leaned over the desk and wrote my number on his pad.
“His father was even nicer,” Jo said after he left.
I mulled over this new information on Ginger as we drove back to Manhattan and double-parked until it was time for the alternate-side-of-the-street parking clock to change. From what I could tell, we were no closer to learning her present whereabouts than we had been before.
“What do we do now?” Jo asked.
“Wait until we can park legally and then eat. There’s a Chinese restaurant right up the block, with good lunch specials.”
“I mean about Ginger.”
“We keep looking.”
“But who else can we contact? Who else knows her?”
“That horse.”
Jo laughed. “Isn’t it a wonderful story? Cup of Tea is a lovable horse.”
A car drove by too fast, flinging slush against our windows. Finally we were able to park. When we entered the restaurant, I realized the old woman was tired. She stared at the menu as if in a daze and then ordered exactly what I ordered.
She ate the sizzling rice soup but left the rest of her meal. I ate everything. I was hungry and cold. And I was still excited by the racetrack, by the proximity of the horses . . . and by Charlie Coombs.
“I’m just not hungry,” Jo said by way of apology, appalled by the realization that she was wasting food.
When we paid the bill and stepped outside, we found that a brilliant winter sun had broken through the clouds. Everything was brighter, warmer, cleaner.
“I’m tired,” Jo said. “I could use a nap.”
“It’s only two minutes to my apartment,” I assured her.
As I looked down the street, mentally rechecking where we had parked the car, I noticed a small
“No, I didn’t have to. Ginger was an exercise rider in Maryland before she came to New York. And the horse she rode was Cup of Tea. She showed me clippings.”
“Cup of Tea!” Jo repeated in a startled voice. “She never told me about that.”
“Who is Cup of Tea?” I asked, bewildered by Jo’s response.
Charlie Coombs walked back behind the desk and sat down. He grinned wickedly at me in a good-natured way, as if I should be ashamed of myself. “Once upon a time,” he began in a self-mocking, pedagogic tone, “there was an ugly little foal born on a farm in upper Michigan. He was a thoroughbred, but from a very undistinguished family. Nobody ever heard of his momma or papa. They called him Cup of Tea because his color was so murky—not bay, not chestnut. He actually looked like a cow pony, which is why he was auctioned off as a yearling for only nine hundred dollars.
“The new owner took Cup of Tea around the Midwest circuit—racing him in the cheapest races at the cheapest dirt tracks. He always lost. So he was sold to a trainer in Maryland, who wanted to make him into a track pony. Well, Cup of Tea goes to Maryland and starts accompanying real racehorses out onto the track to keep them calm.
“One day the little horse accompanies a hotshot allowance horse out onto the track for a grass workout. Cup of Tea, who probably never saw a grass track in his life, spooked, threw his rider, and ran around the grass track about two seconds faster than the world record for that distance.
“To make a long story short, the next year Cup of Tea wins the three biggest grass stakes in America, including the Budweiser Million. And right now the old boy is the most expensive and sought-after stud in the world, standing in France. It’s the ultimate rags-to-riches story. It’s Hollywood.”
It was a wonderful story. I could see it as a movie. But who would play Ginger?
A young Hispanic man burst into the office and yelled something in Spanish to Coombs. The trainer nodded, stood up, and said, “I hope I was of some help.”
He shook Jo’s hand and kissed her lightly on top of her head. Then he said to me, “I like telling you horse stories. I have plenty of them. I even have some other kinds of stories.”
I leaned over the desk and wrote my number on his pad.
“His father was even nicer,” Jo said after he left.
I mulled over this new information on Ginger as we drove back to Manhattan and double-parked until it was time for the alternate-side-of-the-street parking clock to change. From what I could tell, we were no closer to learning her present whereabouts than we had been before.
“What do we do now?” Jo asked.
“Wait until we can park legally and then eat. There’s a Chinese restaurant right up the block, with good lunch specials.”
“I mean about Ginger.”
“We keep looking.”
“But who else can we contact? Who else knows her?”
“That horse.”
Jo laughed. “Isn’t it a wonderful story? Cup of Tea is a lovable horse.”
A car drove by too fast, flinging slush against our windows. Finally we were able to park. When we entered the restaurant, I realized the old woman was tired. She stared at the menu as if in a daze and then ordered exactly what I ordered.
She ate the sizzling rice soup but left the rest of her meal. I ate everything. I was hungry and cold. And I was still excited by the racetrack, by the proximity of the horses . . . and by Charlie Coombs.
“I’m just not hungry,” Jo said by way of apology, appalled by the realization that she was wasting food.
When we paid the bill and stepped outside, we found that a brilliant winter sun had broken through the clouds. Everything was brighter, warmer, cleaner.
“I’m tired,” Jo said. “I could use a nap.”
“It’s only two minutes to my apartment,” I assured her.
As I looked down the street, mentally rechecking where we had parked the car, I noticed a small
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