Two If by Sea (25 page)

Why was he here?

Frank turned around and wandered back to the stables. His head was pounding through a full Vicodin . . . without it, he'd probably have needed to be hospitalized. His head hurt as though somebody had kicked him while he was unconscious. He'd never had a headache like this.

Hiya
, said the phantom voice.
Hiya! Fireman!

And though he got injured, he never got sick . . . or sick enough. In twenty years on the job, he had never once called in sick. He had
been
sick, dog sick, with bronchitis, a sprained ankle, cuts, bruises, concussions, sinus infections, scratched corneas, broken ribs, pinched nerves, even food poisoning, and a cracked kneecap when Tarmac, sage horse that he was, prudently stopped at a dumpster but let Frank continue his trajectory through space. He'd probably transmitted upper respiratory distress to whole neighborhoods, not to mention tiers of the Cook County Jail and ranks of the court system. But he had never called in sick, and after fifteen years, he had decided that even if he went thirty, he never would; it had become a dare, a challenge, like never being divorced or married, like never having eaten a hotdog or gotten a parking ticket. But he would have called in sick to his very life, not only his job, today, if only to take four painkillers and stop the tennis in his head.

He should not have slept with Claudia.

He wanted to see Claudia.

Ian would hate him.

A boy needed a mother.

Double fault! A mother? On the basis of one night and two lush couplings? With someone who was a psychiatrist and suspect for that fact alone? A boy who needed a mother was a boy of your own who didn't already have a mother and not, instead, your own unknowing victim of a felony. Frank wanted to see Ian. Hope would approve of Claudia. Fault! Approve of Claudia for what? Eventually, Frank found the Steel Pier, where Patrick (and Claudia) had imbibed the previous night—a small, crisp, pubby little place nestled against the outside perimeter of the coliseum complex. He ordered a grilled Swiss and tomato to go and two cold Cokes in go-cups. He ate the sandwich on an ornate iron bench in the street, a bench surrounded by a nine-by-five rectangle of brutalized turf studded with a few plump rusty evergreens, one nearly obscuring a sign identifying the little space as Kerri Waldo Creativity Park.

A “toasted cheese” sandwich was his mother's remedy for anything, and so it proved. The headache still crouched in the shadows of his brain, but sheathed its claws. His phone pinged. It wasn't a call, but a picture of Ian, sent by Hope. Even before he saw the picture of Ian, wearing swim trunks, goggles, and Frank's muck boots, he saw that somehow, it was three in the afternoon. The final was at four.

Goddamn wally
.

What?

Hop-skipping in his parody of a run, he went to find Glory Bee.

Either Patrick was very unforthcoming with his skills or he'd met a woman in Linnet who hadn't minded sharing hers, for Glory Bee's mane was plaited in flat braids and her black coat shined glossy. With what was, for her, uncharacteristic calm, she was idly dragging Linnet around in a way that made the small girl look like a big doll. Frank took the halter rope from Linnet, so assaulted by heat she looked as though she'd been swimming, soaked through with Glory Bee's sweat and her own. Glory Bee stood relatively quietly for Frank, the sweat in thick suds on her own neck. Patrick appeared from wherever it was he appeared from. He looked to have stepped out of a magazine ad, his white trousers and polo shirt blindingly clean, his boots mirror-polished, and his black gloves fitted like his own skin. To Patrick's immense credit, he only nodded, sliding not a single glance at Frank that would have betrayed any hint of mirth or lewdness connected with his encounter with Claudia last night in the hotel. In fact, Patrick said fewer words even than his customary four or five. Clearly, he, too, for different reasons, was a fist of nerve endings all firing at will.

They walked to the arena in silence.

The order of jumps was posted. To Frank, it looked like the kind of chopstick drawings Ian made on table napkins and called his “algebra.” But he walked the course with Patrick, and noticed that everything that made him want to throw up his hands—a triple combination with a six-foot spread in the middle and what looked like a single canter stride for the horse between the three jumps, far short of the three given to test their mettle, and wildly short of the six strides a horse usually loped gathering up for a jump; and a simple single pole decorated with flowers that hid a three-foot-thick wall papered over with what was meant to look like cottage stone, sheer death on a cracker—seemed to calm Patrick. They then walked the jump-off course, which would determine the winner, four jumps in the fastest time. Frank left the arena with no idea where any of the jumps were at all. Patrick went back to claim Glory Bee from two stout stable hands who were holding her down with all their might; he gave Frank a nod and set about wiping down Glory Bee's flanks and neck before fitting her with the tiny close-contact saddle.

“There are still people she doesn't like,” Patrick said. “She doesn't like a rough hand. She likes that little girl, though.”

“The student jockey.”

“Yeah. She's a solid girl.”

“Good,” said Frank. He gave Patrick a thumbs-up and left him to it.

There was, Frank noticed, an owners' box. But he'd left his credentials in the truck. He doubted if he could make it to the parking lot and back in time, and was scanning the bleachers for something he could climb to without murdering his leg, when someone said, “Frank Mercy?” Frank nearly jumped the five-foot height of one of the jumps obstacles himself, without benefit of a run-up.

The old man approaching him with his hand extended seemed familiar, in the way high school photos of movie stars suggest the current edition of the person.

Frank said, “Hello. I'm Frank, yes.”

“I'm Stuart McCartney,” the man said. He might as well have been Paul McCartney. “You're exactly like your dad. You don't remember, but your father trained my horse and coached me. Fiorello and I were on the United States team in 1980.”

“You competed in the Olympics?”

“There weren't any. The United States boycotted the Olympics in 1980. Russians invaded Afghanistan . . .” And on the old man went, finally asking, “Did you come to just look on?”

“I have a horse in this.”

“Which?”

“Her name is Glory Bee.”

“Ah!” said Stuart McCartney. “That would be the tall black. The mare. She was going for a clear round until some half-wit kid in the stands popped a balloon. She kicked a pole down on the last jump.”

No wonder Patrick got hammered, having tasted one bright bite of a miracle. Frank's phone pinged, twice, and then twice again. Finally, although he hated it when other people did this, he took the phone out, and, with an apologetic gesture, glanced at the screen. It read,
Pro doing well. Me, too. GB? XO C
. The next message said,
Dad, Dad, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Ian. He wanted to type this, love, Mom.

Frank's throat tightened.

“Does your mother still own Tenacity?”

“Yes, she does.” Surprising himself, he said, “With me.”

“Are you going to sit here with the owners?”

Frank stood. Someone handed him a pale ale and a bottle of water. He drank both in three swallows. He wouldn't need his credential cards, at least. He could go through this torture without portfolio.

At her draw, Glory Bee entered the ring grapevining sideways like a dressage horse. Patrick patiently walked her once around in a tiny circle. She stood, twitching in every muscle. Patrick sat her with a magnificent stillness. Frank thought of people who considered jumping, even stadium events, a cruel torture, when horses would act much the same way if they were wild, fighting to outrun and best each other, in the nature of all herd animals. Frank put on his sunglasses and pulled his hat down low. If it wouldn't have drawn attention, he would have pulled his shirt over his head, too.

In two minutes and fourteen seconds, it was over. A pure round, clean as the sole of a bride's shoe. Glory Bee's hoof never came within six inches of a pole. He watched as Patrick thoughtfully stroked her neck. Most of the others who did a clear round slapped their horses in companionable exultation. Horses hated being slapped. They wanted the feeling along their necks they had as colts, when their mothers licked their necks.

His holy admiration for Patrick soothed Frank's own nerves finally and brought him straight down from all the places he'd been—with Claudia, and with Ian—to the feel of the rounded metal chair back under his hands, still hot enough to sear a scallop even though the owners' box was now in shadow.

Discreet lights came up.

The crew arranged the jumps, adding height to the critical few for the jump-off.

Five horses formed up.

Glory Bee went first. She went angelically, as though she were insubstantial instead of a creature that could kick down a garage with thirty minutes of concentrated hysteria. With each loft, Patrick lay on her neck, unmoving, as though he were painted on her. Other riders of ordinary size plumped into their seats as the horse plunged on landing. Patrick's muscles were apparently much like split oak, because you could see sunlight between his ass and the saddle even when Glory Bee cantered. With a start, Frank realized Glory Bee wore no martingale on her bridle, no strap to hold her head loosely, but down. If she threw her head up, she would break Patrick's nose or worse. The sweltering crowd roused itself, waving programs and straw hats to cheer her. Patrick touched the brim of his cap, so quickly it was almost unnoticeable. Frank thought, Classy, Patrick. The other riders, all men, favored each other with stoic, military nods.

The second horse knocked a pole off its sockets. The third did a beautiful clear round, but so slowly it looked as though the big gray Warmblood was running in surf, finishing an unimaginable six seconds behind Glory Bee's time.

The fourth horse was willful and fast, completing a clean round.

Glory Bee won by only half a second.

In tradition, Patrick would have ridden Glory Bee twice around, pumping the air. But he was off, on the ground, quietly, with his arms around her neck.

Frank wanted to cry. He wanted to clamber over the stadium wall and run to both of them. If she could repeat what she had done here, she was a century horse. Maybe even an Olympian. He cursed himself for a coward for not using his phone to video the jump-off. His mother would be amazed. Cedric would . . . Cedric.

“Did anyone catch that on video?” he asked. One man waved at Frank. “That's my horse. Do you think you could send it to 608-555-5568?” Frank wrote the number down on a trampled program and passed it to the man. He then smoothed the remainder of the dusty program over his knee.

Glory Bee. Tenacity Farms. Spring Green, Wisconsin.

If Frank had a regret, it was only for Patrick. Like the old man, his Olympics might end here. Patrick beamed up at Frank, a broad parade wave. It was too unfair. And yet Patrick had only begun. He would have his own mount in the future, if he chose to go that way. Frank thought of what Cedric would say: horse and rider had scope, the brew of natural talent, physical capability, a horse's conformation and spirit in one. A small word that encompassed so much.

Not unlike the word
love
.

Claudia had her horse.

H
OLDING A COUPLE
of green glow sticks, Ian was dancing around in the driveway, with Sally the dog leaping beside him, when Frank pulled in. It was after nine o'clock. What was Ian doing up? And yet, when he saw Ian, the surface tension Frank had not realized was right across his chest burst and he relaxed back into his own, his safe world. Swinging himself out of the truck, swinging Ian high in the air, Frank said, “Guess what, you little kid?”

“Guess what you brought me?”

Frank had brought him a full formal equestrian outfit in his size—or what Frank hoped was his size—and a big sitting pillow in the shape of a black horse with a blue ribbon sewn around its neck, something Ian could loll upon while watching his fish, at least forty of whom had names—from “Grace Amazing” to “Feller” to “Pimple.”

On their way out to meet friends for a midnight film-fest movie, Eden and Marty came down the steps, Marty delicately escorting his bride.

Frank tried again. “Guess what happened.”

Eden said, “What? Something bad? Where's Claudia?”

Frank explained about Prospero's foot. Marty said, “She's out of it, then. This whole dream Dr. Campo had is kaput.”

“Maybe not,” Frank said, and watched with a pang as Patrick unloaded Glory Bee and stalked away to the barn. “You won't believe this, but Glory Bee won it. She won it all!”

“Frank!” Eden breathed. “You trained a champion.”

“
Patrick
trained a champion. It could be only the one time, too, of course. She might never equal this ride. But Glory Bee looked great.”

Marty said suddenly, “But . . . you want Claudia to ride Glory Bee. Why?”

Where had this come from? Marty stared at Frank. He was good at subtext.

Frank said, “That's her dream. You said so yourself. It's her last chance, and Pat's what, twenty-two? He's got a whole career ahead of him, here or in Australia.”

Eden said, “Pat's the man without a country.”

“It's hard, though,” Marty said. “Pat did the work. He should ride the horse.”

“Pat is good,” said Ian. “And don't forget, I should have my present?”

Eden gave Frank a congratulatory smooch, and they got into their car. As they left, Eden called to him. “Beware, Frank. There be dragons in there. I don't know if Mr. Peabody”—she nodded at Ian—“gave her a hard time this weekend. But she hasn't said two words since yesterday.”