to set up a race, your horse against one of mine. I’ll give you three-to-one odds. To be honest, I’d just like to see what she can do.”
Jim gave the man an uneasy stare. There was $112 in his checking account until the first of the month. He itched his nose and considered the bet. Evens offered another big-operator smile. “So what do you say?”
“I’ll take your bet,” Jim muttered. “I’ll put up two hundred. But I want five-to-one.”
They shook on it, deciding the race would be the following afternoon. “My wife goes to church all day,” Bill said.
Jim nodded softly and then they both turned back to stare at the animal, their eyes wincing in the sunlight.
* * *
As soon as it was dawn that Sunday morning, Jim went out alone to feed the horse and watch it run, not bothering to tack up, letting the animal hurl itself this way and that without a rider, loose, momentary, its eyes gleaming as it tore along the fence. The grandfather snuck a Fuji apple from his coat pocket and, pulling out his utility knife, split it into a pair of uneven halves. A bleary wetness filled the air, from the metallic tang of the blade and the sweetness of the fruit. The grandfather held one half of the apple in his hand while placing the other half along the irregular plane of the fence rail to be gobbled up as the animal fled past.
Sometime later the boy joined him at the fence line. The horse jetted before them. The grandfather again had a feeling that their lives were about to change.
* * *
That afternoon they looked in on the corn; the grandfather pulling a green ear free, checking to be sure it was clean of worms. Together he and the boy squatted in the rows, the wind whispering through the leaves, the silks brushing up against one another like some forgotten music. “Here,” he said, handing the ear to the boy. “What do you see?”
The boy looked at the green ear and shrugged. “Some corn.”
“Any bugs?”
The boy dug his fingernails into the kernels. “No.”
“You sure?”
The boy squinted again. “Pretty sure.”
The grandfather nodded, satisfied, and said, “Good.” The rows swayed over their heads like the echoes of a distant church. In all honesty, it was as close as the grandfather liked to get to any kind of service. He listened to the cornrows for a moment longer and then said: “Shhh. Do you hear that?”
“Hear what?” the boy asked.
“Just listen.”
The boy sniffled and tilted his ear toward the sky. “What am I listening for?”
“Shhh.”
The boy tilted his head again, eyes squinting in concentration. There again was the pleasant murmur. The grandfather smiled, then hearing it, the boy did too.
* * *
Rodrigo soon arrived from town, having hitchhiked the few miles over. They were not used to seeing him on a Sunday and noticed his black hair had been slicked back with soap, his vaquero shirt buttoned all the way up. Together the three of them led the horse into the trailer. The boy kept the animal calm by talking quietly to it. What he was whispering neither the grandfather nor Rodrigo was sure. But it was placid clomping inside the trailer, and even when the door was locked shut, it still didn’t utter a neigh. Then they drove over to Evens’s spread, on the back forty of which he had built a racetrack, complete with aluminum stands. Evens, in his straw hat, waved the blue pickup over, then helped lead the mare out himself.
“If you want a jockey, I’d be happy to loan you one of mine,” he grinned. “Free of charge, of course. Your fella, he looks a little long is all.”
Jim glanced over at Rodrigo, who quietly nodded.
* * *
The race took place on Evens’s racetrack with Evens’s horse and two of his jockeys. Jim thought that he had made a mistake somewhere. The other horse was a black, long-necked gelding, which took careful, high, prancing steps. It was ridden by a jockey in blue. Jim’s mare was being ridden by a stubby man in an orange helmet. Evens patted
Jim gave the man an uneasy stare. There was $112 in his checking account until the first of the month. He itched his nose and considered the bet. Evens offered another big-operator smile. “So what do you say?”
“I’ll take your bet,” Jim muttered. “I’ll put up two hundred. But I want five-to-one.”
They shook on it, deciding the race would be the following afternoon. “My wife goes to church all day,” Bill said.
Jim nodded softly and then they both turned back to stare at the animal, their eyes wincing in the sunlight.
* * *
As soon as it was dawn that Sunday morning, Jim went out alone to feed the horse and watch it run, not bothering to tack up, letting the animal hurl itself this way and that without a rider, loose, momentary, its eyes gleaming as it tore along the fence. The grandfather snuck a Fuji apple from his coat pocket and, pulling out his utility knife, split it into a pair of uneven halves. A bleary wetness filled the air, from the metallic tang of the blade and the sweetness of the fruit. The grandfather held one half of the apple in his hand while placing the other half along the irregular plane of the fence rail to be gobbled up as the animal fled past.
Sometime later the boy joined him at the fence line. The horse jetted before them. The grandfather again had a feeling that their lives were about to change.
* * *
That afternoon they looked in on the corn; the grandfather pulling a green ear free, checking to be sure it was clean of worms. Together he and the boy squatted in the rows, the wind whispering through the leaves, the silks brushing up against one another like some forgotten music. “Here,” he said, handing the ear to the boy. “What do you see?”
The boy looked at the green ear and shrugged. “Some corn.”
“Any bugs?”
The boy dug his fingernails into the kernels. “No.”
“You sure?”
The boy squinted again. “Pretty sure.”
The grandfather nodded, satisfied, and said, “Good.” The rows swayed over their heads like the echoes of a distant church. In all honesty, it was as close as the grandfather liked to get to any kind of service. He listened to the cornrows for a moment longer and then said: “Shhh. Do you hear that?”
“Hear what?” the boy asked.
“Just listen.”
The boy sniffled and tilted his ear toward the sky. “What am I listening for?”
“Shhh.”
The boy tilted his head again, eyes squinting in concentration. There again was the pleasant murmur. The grandfather smiled, then hearing it, the boy did too.
* * *
Rodrigo soon arrived from town, having hitchhiked the few miles over. They were not used to seeing him on a Sunday and noticed his black hair had been slicked back with soap, his vaquero shirt buttoned all the way up. Together the three of them led the horse into the trailer. The boy kept the animal calm by talking quietly to it. What he was whispering neither the grandfather nor Rodrigo was sure. But it was placid clomping inside the trailer, and even when the door was locked shut, it still didn’t utter a neigh. Then they drove over to Evens’s spread, on the back forty of which he had built a racetrack, complete with aluminum stands. Evens, in his straw hat, waved the blue pickup over, then helped lead the mare out himself.
“If you want a jockey, I’d be happy to loan you one of mine,” he grinned. “Free of charge, of course. Your fella, he looks a little long is all.”
Jim glanced over at Rodrigo, who quietly nodded.
* * *
The race took place on Evens’s racetrack with Evens’s horse and two of his jockeys. Jim thought that he had made a mistake somewhere. The other horse was a black, long-necked gelding, which took careful, high, prancing steps. It was ridden by a jockey in blue. Jim’s mare was being ridden by a stubby man in an orange helmet. Evens patted
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