Forty-Three
Dear Miss Sweetie,
I have three small children, and my life is full from sunup to sundown with the care of them. But though I love them dearly, I am being driven to the nuthouse by their quarreling. How do I get them to stop?
Mrs. Nut
Dear Mrs. Nut,
Redirect their energy toward a common goal, like cultivating a garden, which can bear fruit in more than one way. Oxen untethered will trample the field, but yoked together, they can plow it.
Yours truly,
Miss Sweetie
—
Merritt leads us through the noisy morass of man, beast, sweat, and fear. And the race hasn’t even begun. “Thorne is an ass.”
“Thank you. I’m not sure what I would’ve done.”
He gives me a tight-lipped smile. “Carried on, as you always do, Jo.”
I try to read his face for signs that he knows about our true relationship, but there is only the sunset of his smile, a glassy look to the blue-gray eyes inherited from his mother, and a slight pull to his brow, as if snagged by too many thoughts. I mourn the brother that could’ve been, somehow feeling a loss that never happened.
I’m surprised to find little Joseph Porter standing in his military stance when Merritt and I walk up, his flat cap extra sharp.
“Joseph will lead your horse to the line when it’s time. Good luck, Jo. If races were won on gumption and not speed, you would have my wager.” He bows, and Merritt Payne carries himself away.
“Good morning, Joseph. At ease. I didn’t expect to see you.”
“You neither. Old Gin gave me ten cents to attend him.”
“He isn’t feeling well. I’m subbing in.”
Moving briskly, Joseph leads Sweet Potato to a watering trough. As she slakes her thirst, he unfastens her saddle. He shakes out a satin horse pad, which matches exactly the Suffragists’ marigold banner, stitched with the number 13. “Sorry about the number, but if it helps, Mama says thirteen isn’t unlucky if you spit on it, and I done that for you.” He shows me the wet spot right between the 1 and 3.
“Why, thank you.”
“But don’t hold your breath, because you’ll still have the most distance to cover on the outside lane.”
The odds rocket away, and my spine contracts like asqueezed concertina. I only hope that Thief is number 12. “Anything else I should know?”
“Stay away from Four and Six. Their riders don’t have a good look on them. They got hayseed eyes, like they’re common and ain’t above taking what’s not theirs.”
Number 4’s the anvil horse. Joseph jerks his head toward 6, a chestnut whose checker-sleeved jockey stands with his back partly turned toward me, staring up at a tree. Water begins trickling down the trunk, and I quickly avert my eyes.
I certainly hope he remembers to thank the tree when he’s done. Threading through the mass, I size up the competition, though I’m really just looking for the piebald with its distinctive white hull and black fringe and rudder. Men scowl when they see me, or laugh outright, and I’m not sure which is worse. One just turns up his nose, staring right through me. Clearly, I am no threat to them, but perhaps that is an advantage. The biggest threats are the ones we fail to acknowledge.
A familiar chiseled profile in a swashbuckler hat and charcoal cutaway emerges from a stable. I should be focusing on the horse he leads, but Mr. Q commands attention in a way Billy Riggs could never hope to replicate, not even with his showy wardrobe or manners. Mr. Q walks with a handsome gait that seems practiced, shoulders rolled back, head held high for viewing. His olive complexion seems carved from soap, with sideburns that must have been shaped with a ruler. The only flaw is a twist to his pillowy lips that, like a scratch in the mirror, isn’t visible from all angles. But once you know it’s there, it is hard to forget.
Something sour coats my tongue. We both got here through a personal connection, but mine didn’t cost a human heart—specifically, Caroline’s. He was just using her to get his horse in the race.
The number 9 is stitched to Thief’s saddle blanket. He is not number 12 as I’d hoped, but at least he is not number 1. Any relief I feel evaporates when a runt of a man in green silks takes the horse by the bridle. It’s the leprechaun who leered at me from the porch of Billy Riggs’s cathouse. His brazen gaze gropes mine, recognizing me, too. So, this is the man Billy ejected for being too rough on women. Mean comes in all sizes, and getting up on a horse doesn’t change that one bit.
I hurry back to Joseph and Sweet Potato, my collar feeling sticky. Any confidence I felt when I left Old Gin drains from my violin boots into the dry earth.
Someone calls, “Line!” and the chaos of beast and man begins to slowly organize. Jockeys mount up, and grooms take positions at the bridle. Companion ponies calm nerves on the way to the track. I step up on Sweet Potato, and her solid warmth calms my own bucking heart.
