My Year of the Racehorse (19 page)

Randi is still horrified by the memory of inadvertently helping a friend prepare a bow-legged horse for a meat auction. “He was hard to control, but he always liked me,” she told me earlier that year. “I give the guy driving the truck the horse's papers. He goes, ‘He's not going to need papers where he's going.' When I saw his little nose in the trailer window, I started fucking crying. I'll never forget that. Now when people take horses from me, I always ask them for some money. There'll be people who'll say I want a horse, they'll bring their kids, and then they'll bring them to an auction and collect five hundred bucks. If you get some money from them up front, then you know they aren't doing that.”

Despite these oppressive surroundings, the crowd has the same optimistic tone as the yearling sale. The bidding for a fifteen-year-old white draught horse that spent years pulling a carriage around Stanley Park grows over $1,000. “Come on, folks,” says the announcer. “Here's a horse you can ride at night. A horse that's so big you can survive a collision with a car.” People chuckle nervously.

The woman who eventually claims the horse gives her friends that look of self-amazement you exude when you've talked yourself into a big-ticket purchase.

Standing out in my chunky, plastic-framed glasses and cashmere sweater, I am ill at ease. Why? Is it because I'm not yet desensitized to the horror I'm witnessing, or is it a sentimental reaction? I believe it's the latter, but when a skinny young yearling, almost deer-like in her build, is sold for $60, I pull aside Kulwant to leave.

“You see what I mean?” asks Kulwant, who has watched the auction in grave silence, as we step into my car.

I'm not yet sure what the point of our visit was, if it wasn't only to depress me. No one at the auction looked to me like a dead-eyed horsemeat merchant. Horse people are farm people, who love animals, just not any one animal. And while it's worth supporting rescue groups like New Stride, even the slaughter of horses makes sense when the alternative is to abandon the animals in a field to starve to death.

We get to Hastings in time for the B.C. Derby, the province's most lucrative competition of the year. This year, the Grade III stakes race belongs to Winning Machine, an out-of-town horse from Seattle who edges out Jersey Town, another “shipper” from New York. Local favourite Tommy Danzigger fades in the lane and finishes seventh.

I'm glad to be here, around horses that have travelled a long way from their first auction—with time to go before the next one.

AFTER A WEEK of rain, Blackie's next race occurs on a clear and crisp day. The late-afternoon sunlight, which was washed out like a lager through the summer, now has the depth and richness of a pale ale.

After my argument with Randi, I decide to avoid her today, lingering by the paddock fence as I watch her speaking with Fernando Perez.

The night before the race, Carole Serene sends me the transcript of her first communication with my horse. “She's an open book, she is,” she tells me in an accompanying email. “While I didn't set out to help you with your ‘wagering,' Blackie has divulged exactly how she will run based upon her position in the pack. Strategy can be worked out so that her rider gets her to the front early, a place she will endeavour to keep herself in for the full race.”

After the opening preamble with Seth, Carole speaks with Blackie. She asks her whether her hock was hurting, as Randi had suspected earlier in the year. Like Sylvester, Blackie speaks with a slightly formal voice reminiscent, perhaps, of an exchange student from Scandinavia or the computerized voice of Stephen Hawking:

BLACKIE: Oh yes, but that is not a sore hock anymore—it seems to be well now.

CAROLE SERENE: Do you like racing, Blackie?

BLACKIE: Oh, enough I guess.

CAROLE SERENE: Do you want to be the fastest horse in the race?

BLACKIE: Doesn't matter.

CAROLE SERENE: Oh, you don't care if you win or not?

BLACKIE: Well, for me to win is to finish and get back to my house and eat and not have pain. That is my winning.

CAROLE SERENE: Blackie, Kevin and Randi tell me that you fade at the end of the race sometimes, and they ask if you do this because you are tired, or maybe you are sore. Can you tell me about that?

BLACKIE: Fade?

CAROLE SERENE: Yes, to go slower.

BLACKIE: Oh, well it just doesn't matter so much if I'm not at the front of the group; then I know I will be at the back or the middle, so it won't make me faster or able to get to the front, so it really doesn't matter then.

CAROLE SERENE: So you stop trying?

BLACKIE: Looks like it.

CAROLE SERENE: What has to happen for you to try harder to be at the front of the horses and maybe come first or second?

BLACKIE: I like to run in the front of the group—if I can get there early I will try to stay there, but if I don't, well it just doesn't matter anymore.

Blackie's lackadaisical response is disappointing and alarming.

CAROLE SERENE: Does your rider ask you to wait before you go really fast, instead of starting really fast?

BLACKIE: Seems like it. When there's a big crowd of horses at the beginning we seem to wait for them to thin out before heading for the front—too late.

CAROLE SERENE: So you don't mind pushing through the thick crowd of horses at the beginning of the race?

BLACKIE: Not at all—I can do that, you know—I'm a big girl!

In the races she's run, with the possible exception of her most recent start, Blackie isn't normally too far from the front, nor does it make sense for her to go all out in the beginning. I begin to feel there must be static on the spiritual line between the horse and medium.

CAROLE SERENE: Do you like to meet the people Kevin brings to see you?

BLACKIE: Oh yes and they bring treats too—this is good—Kevin treats me nice.

CAROLE SERENE: Is there anything you want to tell Randi or Kevin now?

BLACKIE: Hello.

This part does please me. I want to believe she knows and likes me. Faith in this transcript: restored!

I'M AT THE fence when the race begins. Blackie breaks well, taking the lead and hugging the rail, while a 15-to-1 long shot called Sheisrough also races up ahead. Midway up the backstretch, Beautiful Breeze, the horse that won Blackie's last race, makes her move and passes Blackie. At the top of the lane, Beautiful Breeze overtakes Sheisrough, though both are far ahead of my horse, who fades, but still hangs onto third. As with the previous race, she just doesn't have enough luck or talent today.

Lingering by the rail when Perez dismounts, I see how hard Blackie is breathing, the sweat that coats her shanks, the dirt splattered on her front quarters. This time when I watch her I see thoroughbreds as the brittle creatures they really are—running backs with ski poles for legs. For me to win is to finish and get back to my house and eat and not have pain. That is my winning. Watching Blackie now, I have no doubt that Carole Serene knows a horse's heart.

I also watch her with the image of the slaughter auction in mind. Who was I to think there was nothing at stake in a claiming race? If a big-time horse rides for glamour and prestige, then the claiming horse rides for her life. If she doesn't win enough races and earn enough money, she faces eviction from her stall.

Randi, who yells at and defends her animals with equal ferocity, had every reason to be angry with me. To believe that thoroughbreds live to race doesn't mean one should discount the effort and strain involved in their work. I took that for granted. A horse like Blackie, not the most gifted runner, could easily give up against stronger competition, and yet she keeps herself in every race. She races for her life, but she also races for Randi. And through Randi, she races for me. How could I think I deserved better?

I take my time before heading to the backside. When I get there, the horses who've raced that day have all been walked and fed and the shed row is empty. From her stall, Blackie has a sleepy expression on her face, but her ears prick up when she sees me.

“That was such a good race,” I tell her, placing a hand on her neck. My voice cracks and I'm glad there's no one around to see this. “You ran so well. I am so proud of you, and I'm so glad you didn't hurt yourself. You've never disappointed me. I'm so glad I've known you. You need to know that, okay?”

Blackie pops her head and nips my blazer, looking for a treat. “Hey, I just got that dry-cleaned.”

It's still not clear whether Blackie likes me, but the more I think about it, the more it becomes irrelevant. Maybe wanting a horse to love you is like wanting your favourite song to be written about you, wanting the narrator of your favourite book to be your best friend: a fanciful notion, a wholly unnecessary one. What's really important is how much you love that animal, and how loving an animal changes you.

I lean up against the stall gate and wrap my hands around the horse's neck. A horse's neck is all muscle, a hidebound tree trunk. Hugging a horse reminds you of how it felt to cling onto a parent as a toddler.

“Don't die,” I whisper to her. “Don't ever die.”

“What's the matter with you?”

I turn to see Randi, looking tired, and sucking on another smoke.

“I'm drunk,” I lie. “I get this way when I'm drinking.”

“You're funny,” she says.

THE CITY IS easing into its damp, cold, and unremittingly grey back half. It rains all morning, and though it stops by the time we get to Blackie's next race, the racing oval resembles oatmeal streaked with brown sugar.

I catch Randi in the paddock watching Blackie—whose tail is braided in a series of knots, to keep it from sticking to her legs in the slop—as she's being walked around by Alex's son, Shawn. “Where's your entourage?” she asks me.

For the first time in months, I've come unaccompanied to watch my horse race. “Everyone's afraid of the rain,” I tell her on the paddock's grassy island. “They're all chickenshit.”

Fernando Perez, our rider, approaches us. “My only instruction to you,” Randi says, “is to win. Just win.”

After competing in open claiming races since her first win, Mocha Time—who's racing tenth out of the gate—has finally gotten into a conditional race against horses at her price that haven't triumphed more than once this season. That means she won't be facing many of the tougher horses that have beaten her this season, like Beautiful Breeze and Sultry Eyes. All the handicappers in the Form have her pegged to win, the punter's kiss of death, and when the horses are loaded in the gates she's paying the least at 2-to-1.

After parting with my cash at the betting window, I spot Randi at the stairwell landing that leads to the owners' boxes.

“THERE THEY GO,” says track announcer Dan Jukich. “THEY ALL COME AWAY WELL. GRAYROSS GAL, QUICKENS TO THE EARLY LEAD. HERE'S MOCHA TIME AND BAMBOO DIVA MOVING IN.”

Blackie draws in from the outside to get to the head of the race in the opening furlong, which takes up a lot of her energy. The race passes us, the thumping of the hooves is heavier in the rain—like a boxer's blows landing on a heavy bag in the gym.

Randi's upset that Blackie isn't closer to the rail at the turn. “And now you're like three wide,” she says, cursing the horse. “Don't be a retard.”

Still, Blackie is in second after a fast first quarter, three-quarters of a length behind a 70-to-1 shot named Grace's Star.

This time, luck is on our side. Midway through the backstretch, Grayross Gal, the classy nine-year-old, tries to make her move but is hemmed at the rail by the long shots that are racing up front. Grace's Star begins to fade and Blackie takes the lead by the far turn.

“Come on, Blackie!” Randi screams. “Get ahead by the lane. Keep fucking riding that fucking thing, she'll stop on you,” she yells at Perez. “Come on, keep moving.”

Blackie builds her lead to two turns by the lane, but by this point a lane opens up inside for Grayross Gal, who starts gaining on Blackie, as do Mozambique, McGill, and Kachina Dream. Blackie is moving at full power, her ears pinned back, nostrils flared to suck the damp air into her partially obstructed lungs; Perez urges her along, accentuating her strides with every morsel of his strength. And yet it might not be enough. It's going to be another narrowly avoided victory.

A few hardy railbirds rush into the empty apron to catch the stampede to the wire, like ants descending on a discarded sandwich. Randi is flipping out: “NOOOOOOO!”

“THEY'RE CLOSING IN ON MOCHA TIME,” Jukich says, before taking in a quick breath. “SHE'S LOOKING FOR WIRE...”

The photo sign lights up, which we take to mean that the winner is under review. Randi's pessimism clings to me like lint, and I know for certain the horse has lost again. Climbing down the stairs to the track, we see the number nine, Blackie's number, appear next to the first-place sign. The photo sign is up because second, third, and fourth places are the only positions that still need to be sorted out.

“She won!” I yelp.

“Oh good,” Randi says flatly. “She's a cocksucker. Fucking thing stops like nobody's business.”

We step into the winner's platform. Maybe I deserve being here without my entourage, given my earlier arrogance. I shake hands with Shawn, who is grinning as though he rode the horse himself to score. “I was like, this thing's gonna come off the rail and get her as usual,” he says, referring to Grayross Gal.

“Did you have money on this race?” I ask him.

Shawn lowers his eyes, and his expression suddenly hazes over with guilt. “I quit betting,” he admits. “Don't tell my dad. It'll break his heart.”

I promise not to say a word.

AFTER THE RACE, I go home and put together my notes for Harris's novel, which I've spent the past week reading as meticulously as possible. We haven't spoken in over a month, and I'm not sure this gesture will be enough; I might be required to buy him lunch as well.

It takes two days to hear back from him, and that's only because he needs a ride from the doctor's office. The clinic where his vasectomy is performed turns out to be only a block from my house. I find Harris standing outside the medical building, his face red and bloated like a water balloon, almost as though he's been crying. I open the door for him as he waddles to the car.

“I've been waiting half an hour,” he says impatiently, when he's inside. “Why didn't you answer your phone?”

“I forgot to turn the ringer back on,” I say, pulling into traffic. “You said it would take an hour.”

“Well, I was wrong,” he says, biting his lip.

Harris, who sits in my car turned on one hip, doesn't want to go home right away. On his recommendation, we stop at the favourite eatery of his childhood: the Tomahawk Restaurant, a throwback burger joint stuffed with kitschy Aboriginal knick-knacks that serves insanely overstuffed burgers. As it's a weekday, we have little trouble getting a table and each order a Skookum Chief: a hamburger topped with cheddar, round-cut bacon, sliced hot dog, tomato, and fried egg.

Our burgers arrive during an extended trip that Harris makes to the restroom. I wait a couple minutes before I take on my Skookum Chief, which is surprisingly ergonomic for a burger with so many works—the fried egg, which I had thought was over-the-top, in fact makes for a good binding agent.

“What took so long?” I ask, adjusting the cardboard Native headdress on my head.

“My balls.”

“Sorry, of course.”

“They're delicate,” he says, picking at his yam fries. “They're in a bandage and secured in a jock, and well, I wanted to see how it was all held together and put some lavender oil on them.”

“Lavender oil?” I ask.

“It's supposed to reduce the swelling.”

I drop my burger on my plate and start snickering. “I'm sorry,” I say.

“It's not funny.”

“I know.”

Harris, in fact, starts crying. At first he tries to fight it off. Soon, the tears tumble down his face and his shoulders begin to heave. “You don't know how painful this is,” he says, after he's calmed down enough to mop his eyes with a napkin. “All that tugging down there—it was like I was getting a root canal in my scrotum. Complications often arise from these procedures. What if I am in genital discomfort for the rest of my life?”

“Calm down.”

He glares at me through his moistened eyes. “You won't know how it feels until it happens to you.”

“It will never happen to me.”

“See, you're smug.”

“Look, I didn't mean to make fun of you. And I'm sorry again that I let you down. I look at your life all the time and I feel like a failure.”

“Did you really like my novel?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Especially the first half.”

I let him quiz me about his manuscript, and I clarify the thoughts I offered earlier by email. And then we order coffee and chatter on about other things in our lives, the books we're reading, the whereabouts of mutual friends. While I have other errands that day, I sense that Harris doesn't want to be alone, parsing his bits, so we make conversation the way we used to, when the majority of our twenties still spooled ahead of us.

We talk about how fluorescent light bulbs are depressing; how if we were women, both of us would choose “sexy cat” as our Halloween outfit; how baby urine comes to mind whenever we drink apple juice.

After our second refill, a server places a bill on the table between us. Harris stares at it like a cat standing over a mouse he's pawed to death. I drag the receipt towards me.

“You're forgiven,” he says.