Gargantuan (36 page)

I figured I’d do one more thing my mother had always wanted to do. She had loved classical music and she’d always told herself she would go to New York one day and go to Carnegie Hall. Once I came along though, she didn’t go much of anywhere. So I thought I should go for her. I didn’t look that good and I only had sixty dollars. I left Crow in the car and went to the Turkish baths and got myself cleaned up some then I went up to Carnegie Hall. I wasn’t even sure if it would be open or what would be happening but I got there at seven and there were people milling around everywhere. I couldn’t figure out where I was supposed to buy tickets, so I was standing in the lobby, packed between all sorts of people and not knowing what to do, when an opportunity presented itself. There was a lady in a disgusting fur coat who had her purse dangling near me and the purse was open and I could see her wallet. So I just reached in and took it. I slowly made my way to the other side of the lobby. I was still packed in between many people and all of a sudden it was like the gods were making offerings to me. I found myself behind a man who obviously had a wallet in his back pocket. Someone else happened to bump into him and while they were all apologizing to each other, I took that man’s wallet too. I made my way through that lobby collecting wallets like nothing at all. Totally effortless.

I’d never in my life been a thief, but I figured it was okay. It had started with the lady in the fur coat and people shouldn’t wear dead animals.

Eventually, I found the place to buy tickets, only apparently the show was sold out. It didn’t matter though, at least I’d set foot in Carnegie Hall.

I left.

I went back downtown to where the car was parked. Crow was particularly glad to see me, like maybe he’d sensed I was up to something that might have gotten me in trouble. He did some extreme
licking of my face and hands, making glad sounds as he did it. I just closed my eyes and let him. When he’d settled down a little, I took the four wallets out of my coat and opened them. The first one only had forty-something dollars in it and a lot of credit cards but I didn’t want to get caught by using credit cards. The second wallet had a hundred and something and more credit cards. In the third wallet, I hit the jackpot. It was a red alligator wallet I’d taken from the lady with the fur coat. The thing was filled with hundred-dollar bills. Over two thousand dollars’ worth. The fourth wallet only had a couple hundred but that was fine. I had plenty now.

A few days later, Crow and I flew to Paris. All I had was a big backpack with two changes of clothes and my toothbrush. My seat turned out to be in the middle of a row of seats, packed in between two Frenchmen. They didn’t say a word to me though and I spent the first few hours worrying about Crow being transported like luggage in the plane’s belly. I had to drink a lot to calm down about it and then, thankfully, I slept.

When we landed in Paris, I raced to the special baggage area to retrieve Crow and he actually seemed okay. A little put out, but okay. I started trying to figure out how to get to Versailles, which is when I learned that dogs are royalty in France and can go anywhere. I just left Crow’s crate by the trash at the airport and Crow and I eventually found the right train.

OUTSIDE THE TRAIN
windows, the suburbs are becoming quainter. Old houses with beautiful slate roofs. Majestic ancient trees popping early spring buds.

The train pulls into the station at Versailles and for a minute I’m panicked, not really knowing where I’m going to go. Then I see signs everywhere steering the way to the château. I follow the signs, passing pretty old buildings lined with cafés and souvenir shops. A wide elegant boulevard leads directly to the back of the palace. It is imposing, an enormous stone structure that appears to go on for miles. I feel my mother with me as I approach. I know she’s glad for
my getting to see something like this. Crow and I walk to the side of the palace, over an old cobblestoned courtyard and to the back, where the formal gardens stand. It’s a cold day but there are thousands of tourists in spite of this and at first I’m disappointed. It’s all so well kept and grand. A long series of vast terraces lead to a fountain and beyond it to a long canal. It’s certainly big, but it’s too manicured for my tastes. I walk though. Crow trots at my side. We head down past the fountain, threading through packs of tourists and happy couples. We walk along the broad canal for a bit and then, to my right, I see a very long road lined with enormous old trees. We turn down this road and the throng of tourists thins out, giving way to people walking with kids and dogs. Then, to my astonishment, we come to a field full of horses. Very well-groomed, lush-looking horses. I don’t know what the hell they’re doing there and I want to ask someone but I don’t speak French. There’s a sign up at the end of the pasture, but that too is in French. I start reading it anyway and I get the idea that there is some sort of equestrian school here on the grounds.

I stare at the horses for a long while and, for the first time in days, I let myself think of Darwin. I feel tears come into my eyes. I know the little guy is probably fine, but I don’t have any way to keep tabs on him now and that breaks my heart.

I’m standing like this, staring into the field, trying to keep the tears inside, when a woman starts talking to me. She’s speaking French and at first it doesn’t occur to me that she’s speaking to me. Finally, she lightly touches my shoulder and I turn my head toward her. She’s a middle-aged woman with long brown hair tied back in a ponytail. She’s wearing a bottle green wool cape and she has a very fancy-looking camera strapped to her neck.

She says something in French and I shake my head at her.

She tries some other language which, I suspect, is Italian.

I say, “No, I’m sorry, I only speak English.”

“Ah,” she says in unaccented English, “you are American? I would not have guessed.”

I am strangely flattered by this.

“Do you live here?” the woman asks.

“I’m thinking about it.”

The woman smiles. She has the strangest eyes, brown flecked with bright gold. They’re friendly eyes though, they hold no traces of contempt.

“Where are you staying in Versailles?” she asks.

“Nowhere. I just got here. I don’t know. I was just walking and I saw these horses and had to stop and look at them,” I say. “I love horses.”

“Horses should be loved,” the woman says. “I come here at least once a week to photograph them,” she adds.

“I’d like to get a job taking care of these,” I say.

“But you should,” the woman says enthusiastically.

“I’ve worked with horses before,” I tell her, as if she’s interviewing me for the job.

“I thought so, yes,” she says. “Your hands.” She motions at my weather-beaten hands. Although they could just as easily look ravaged from almost any sort of outdoor work, this woman has apparently taken them for horse-work hands. Again, I’m flattered.

I smile, finding that I like this woman better than I’ve liked any human in quite a while.

“Of course there are stables just over there,” she says, motioning vaguely ahead.

“Oh?”

“Yes. There’s a school for the horse circus.”

“Horse circus?”

“Yes, the dancing horses.” The woman smiles.

“Maybe I’ll go over and ask them for a job taking care of the horses.”

“You should,” the woman says. “It was nice to meet you.” She adds then, “Good luck to you.” She smiles, tightens her cape around her shoulders, and walks off.

I stand there, my dog at my side, staring at the horses.

I
t’s late morning and the Long Island Railroad train is mostly empty. I don’t suppose there’s much call for going to Floral Park at eleven
A.M
. on a Thursday in late March. Admittedly, I’m not particularly thrilled at the prospect myself. It’s been difficult to be interested in much of anything these last weeks. The moment I start feeling a little bit better, I picture Attila again. When I’m not picturing his dead body, I’m remembering him full of life, running half naked through the parking lot of the Woodland Motel. And it breaks my heart again and again.

They’ve all been trying to rescue me. Violet all but forced me to go see Dr. Ray, an acquaintance of hers who’s a shrink. I actually like going to sit in Jody Ray’s well-appointed office over in Chelsea but I can’t say that it’s helped much. I’ve had three sessions with her but the images of Attila’s and Ava’s bodies are burned into my head and don’t seem to be going anywhere anytime soon. Jane and her husband, Harry, have made it their business to try helping me too. The day after it all happened, they came by my place to try forcing some life into me. I hadn’t found a reason to eat or get dressed yet when they called to say they were downstairs. I put my robe on and went to let them in.

They stood at the door wearing matching grave expressions. None of us said anything as we climbed up the stairs to my place. Ramirez’s door was open and as we walked by he called out to me. I think he’d been keeping a round-the-clock vigil, expecting trouble.

“It’s okay, Pietro,” I told him, “it’s my friends, Jane and Harry.”

“All right,” Ramirez said, coming to the door to make sure it was in fact Jane and Harry. I offered him a pale smile. He just frowned.

Jane and Harry and I went inside my place. The cats emerged from the bedroom to inspect the visitors. I immediately went back to the couch, where I’d been lying all morning.

“I brought muffins,” Jane said, holding forth a paper bag.

“Oh good,” I said.

“You look like you need one,” Jane said, coming to sit at one end of the couch as Harry crouched down to pet the cats.

“I need more than a muffin,” I said, making a vague stab at humor.

None of us did much laughing though. After about an hour, Jane persuaded me to get dressed and come with her and Harry to take a walk. Coney Island just looked flat and gray though.

After three days I started wondering why Ed hadn’t called since the morning after he’d come to get me in Saugerties. A lot of feelings coursed through me—mostly anger at his apparent abandonment. It got to the point where I was angry enough to call him.

“
What the fuck are you doing,
” were the first words out of my mouth when he answered the phone.

“Ruby,” he sounded like I’d punched him. Which, I suppose, I had. “Are you okay?”

“No. I’m not okay. Why haven’t you gotten in touch with me?”

“I was trying to be respectful.”

“That’s what you call it?”

Ed was quiet. After a moment, it dawned on me that the man had no idea that I wanted him to call.

“I wanted you to call me,” I said.

“Had I known, I would have. Can I come over?”

“Please. Yes.”

He was at my place within twenty minutes. For a while, we sat quietly. He asked if I wanted to talk about Attila. I didn’t.

Eventually, we went to bed and stayed there for a long time. Ed
then stunned me by saying he was quitting the FBI and coming to New York to train claimers.

THE TRAIN APPROACHES
Floral Park and my mood improves slightly. I’m about to see Ed for the first time since he left for Florida to pack up his little stable and return to New York.

I get off the train and start walking. The sky is blotched and gray. The air is cold, even though spring should be coming any minute now.

By the time I reach the backstretch entrance, it’s raining lightly and my hair is moist. I don’t have a hat or umbrella and I get soaked.

I reach barn fifty-four but there’s no sign of Ed. There are horses but it’s impossible to know if any of them are his. I walk closer and peer into the first stall, finding a big bay mare. She’s friendly enough and licks my extended palm. I scratch her face a little and then move on to the next stall. Here, a small chestnut gelding shows me his hind end. I cluck at him a little but he’s not in a sociable mood. I move on to the next stall where I find a big dark bay gelding, also with his butt to me. I try a tentative cluck and he pricks his ears forward and turns around. He has intelligent eyes and he bears a striking resemblance to Violet Kravitz’s Jack Valentine. The horse comes over, sniffs at my hands then truffles at my head, rubbing his nose against my wet hair.

“So you found him,” a voice says behind me.

I turn around to face Ed.

“Hey you,” I say.

“Hey yourself.” He pulls me into his arms. I close my eyes and sink into the hug.

“You found your friend,” Ed says eventually, pulling back from me and motioning at the bay horse.

“What do you mean?”

“Jack Valentine. Or do all horses look alike to you?”

“Oh, I
thought
that was him. What’s he doing here?” I ask,
surprised. After winning his and Attila’s last race, Jack came up with a chipped sesamoid bone in his left front leg. He won’t race again, but he will eventually heal. I figured Violet would have already sent him somewhere for a layup.

“He’s using my extra stall until you find somewhere to keep him,” Ed says.

“What?”