We pass Noemi and the Bluebells, who are shrieking wildly and jumping up and down. In the stands, the Suffragists are all up on their feet, yelling just as loud, and it strikes me that the collective roar is louder than the sum of its parts. Mrs. Bullis clutches her face, eyes levered as far as they can go.
Coming up on the first curve, Sweet Potato and I are far from the lead, but at least Thief is behind us. Ameer and 11 lead the pack, tailed by 4 at the rail, and Sunday Surprisebehind him. I move Sweet Potato into position behind Sunday Surprise, hoping Buxbaum’s champ will clear the road ahead, clinching our tenuous lead over Thief. Number 4 drifts right, leaving an opening that Sunday surges to thread. But then 4 veers back to the rail, forcing Sunday to dodge right. Number 6 closes in, boxing in Sunday, and we all bunch up behind them. So that’s what Ben Abner was talking about!
From my spot behind Sunday, it’s clear that 4 and 6 are working together, but to whose benefit? There can be only one winner.
Out of the corner of my eye, a flash of green circles wide around the curve, avoiding the traffic, and then dashes ahead. It’s the leprechaun on Thief! Somehow, Mr. Q has rigged Thief up for the win. But how was he able to buy off not just one, but two contestants? Surely, credit only goes so far.
I think back to that day at Buxbaum’s. Robby said Billy had offered to “influence” the race in favor of Mr. Buxbaum’s horse, Sunday Surprise. Billy has enough money to influence the race. He wasn’t successful with Mr. Buxbaum, but for every road that runs straight, a dozen go crooked, especially a road who would name his fine horse for a petty criminal. It occurs to me that Thief’s number 9 is the sum total of Billy’s lucky dice, 4 and 5, same as the number on his “office” door. I have been outfoxed. Billy would never have let his favorite bauble go so easily.
Predictably, jockeys 4 and 6 have expended their horses’ energies and begin to fall behind. But the damage is done, and though Sunday is doing his best to keep up, all the dodging about has cost him his legs, too. Ahead, 11 stalls on a stickyspot, long enough for Thief to shorten the gap between them, with the bulk of the contestants two lengths behind him.
Lightning puts cracks in the sky, and moments later, thunder shatters the clouds. A buckskin gelding in the front rears up at the noise, then takes off in the wrong direction. Rain pours down in sheets, drenching us in seconds. More horses fumble, but not Sweet Potato, bless her steady legs, legs that Old Gin kneaded and trained with his own hands. He didn’t give up on her, and I bet she will not so easily give up on me.
I claw at the rain blinding me, my heart lurching as I slip around in the saddle. Mud flies all around. The ground looms dangerously close, becoming slicker and stickier with every passing moment. Beside us, a horse stumbles, causing the one behind it to careen into the rail in a blur of hair and muscle. Sweet Potato jerks right, throwing me off balance again.
Somehow, I manage to keep my seat. It strikes me that the cloudbuster that just knocked out several of my opponents could spell the end of me, too. Thief has managed to stay ahead of our stampede, with Ameer and number 11 still going strong beyond him.
Taking advantage of the straightaway, I stick out my tailbone, leaning as much as I can into Sweet Potato’s neck to help power her forward. Every hit of her legs rattles into my bones, but I hang on, feeling more like a saddlebag than a passenger. Ameer clears the next turn just ahead with the drenched Johnny Fortune still easy as a blink upon him.
Somehow, Sweet Potato closes the distance behind Thief to one length. His tail whips about like a pirate’s flag as wecome upon the turn, and now it’s a two-horse battle for the rail. Here’s our chance to get ahead! The leprechaun clinches Thief to the inside path, with the wooden rail only four feet to his left. Four feet is the width of a stall—wide enough for a horse with nerve to pass, though at a gallop, few will dare. But my horse is smaller, and she will dare.
“Ready, girl? Giddap!” I tap Sweet Potato with my heels, and she surges ahead, slipping through the space between Thief and the rail as satiny smooth as a black ribbon around the neck. We come up alongside Thief, and the sour smell of the horse clears my nostrils.
“Whore!” spits the leprechaun as we pass him. He raises his arm and then brings down his crop against my leg, so sharply I think he’s sliced it right off. I would scream, but my lungs are empty of air and all that emerges is a wheezy cry. The pain is like no other I have felt and makes me bite down so hard, I swear I must break teeth. My posture crumples away, undoing all the advantage we have just gained.
Sweet Potato shudders, and I think it is over.
But as we come out of the turn, she shrieks out all the rage I feel inside. When the leprechaun draws up beside us, my big-hearted mare snaps her teeth, trying to take a bite of him, her brown eyes rolling and the froth off her mouth slinging like venom. It’s not his hat she wants to taste, but blood.
The leprechaun dodges her blow with a yell, and Thief stumbles, his eyes glassy with panic. I clamber back over Sweet Potato’s neck. As we correct our course, I do not look back.Attagirl!
At the head of the stretch, number 11 has fallen back,tripped by the mud, and within moments, we pass him. Ameer, four lengths ahead, slows as he always does when he no longer feels chased. “Lazy in the lead,” Johnny Fortune had called it.
Just cross the line, girl, and we will win back Old Gin’s bottle.
Or perhaps we can do more.
Bright blood soaks the scarlet of my pants, and my front is caked with mud. There is only oneG-word left to speak, one that left me shaken at thirteen but now directs my path.
Go.
The grandstand appears in view again, but the cries of the frenzied crowd dull in my ears. In the final stretch, it’s not the crowd I see, but the family who raised me, waving their flags. I raise a glass of appreciation to each.
To Noemi and Robby, for friendship.
To the Bells, for words.
To Lucky Yip, for skill.
To Hammer Foot, for protection.
And most of all to you, Old Gin, for hearing the faint cries of someone who needed you and not turning away.
Mrs. Payne lifts her teary eyes to me, and the splinter of her betrayal works itself free of my heart. A Chinese baby, out of wedlock, no less, there was no easy answer for her. But unlike my mother, I do not live in a gilded cage, and like Sweet Potato, whose mother also rejected her, somehow I will find a way to thrive.
We hang back as we did at Six Paces, waiting for Ameer to loosen his pace even more. And when he does, we charge up the straightaway, powered by love and maybe a pinch ofpepper, the secret ingredient. His jaunty tail teases us. Three lengths become two, and then one, and then a streak of white sand barely visible in the mud.
Sweet Potato throws her heart to the sky. With a sob, we sail past Ameer across the line.
