“Leroy Labelle,” he said.
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” I asked.
“He’s the guy I’m working for. I thought you might want to know more about the job. You know, since you’re coming.”
“Thanks. I don’t really.”
I sat in a plush leather seat, feeling wholly detached from reality. The funeral was going to be in Ocala, Florida, the racehorse capital of the world. And while my interest in going was about the same as my interest in a pelvic exam, my options had become limited ever since my icy plunge.
Dad handed me a cell phone and pressed play on a voicemail. And before I could give it back, a voice that couldn’t have sounded more Southern came through the speaker.
“Mr. Fowler, this is Leroy Labelle phoning you. Got your information by way of your website. I wonder if we might have ourselves a talk sometime today or tomorrow in regards to a great loss my family has suffered... wait... oh Goddamnit I seem to have pressed a... I don’t use this touch screen very often... I tried that...”
(Incoherent swearing)
“Okay... I’m back. I’ll be honest with you, Fowler. Not more than a nickel’s worth of preparations have been made for this thing. Usually we don’t go too gaga over a dead animal around here, but I guess we underestimated just how we’d feel about our boy Sarge.”
I thought I heard a sniffle.
“He was a hell of a Thoroughbred and the best damn stud we’ve ever had. He deserves a heck of a send-off. Now, I heard you specialize in this sort of thing, so I hope you can work quickly. I’ve got seventy-two hours to get this body in the ground before I’m in legal trouble. My only question to you is: How soon can you get down here?”
When the voice mail was over, my dad flipped through some pictures on his phone and handed it back to me. Then I found myself staring into the pained, obsidian eyes of a blueroan horse. A now extinct blue roan horse. Its eyes were so black it was unnerving. My dad must have caught me staring.
“They have cable,” he said. “You can stay in the house the whole time and watch those terrible reality shows you like. I don’t care.”
“You already told me about the cable,” I said.
“Well, I’m telling you again. It could be relaxing. Like a spa.”
I shot him a look that I hoped said:Do not make this horse funeral sound like a vacation because we both know that is a load. We sat quietly next to each other for the next few minutes. Finally, he leaned over again and said:
“I got my GED.”
“What?” I said.
“You said I dropped out of high school. That’s not really true. I got my GED. It was important to me. I’m proud of it.”
I stared at him.
“I remember,” I said finally. “Mom was so happy for you.”
He didn’t break eye contact.
“Eventually, you have to talk to me about what’s going on,” he said.
Maybe that’s true, I thought,but not right now. So, I put my earbud back in and picked up the newspaper from the seat back in front of me. It was fromOcala and all the articles inside were horse-related.
There was a roundup of recent victors in national races, profiles about historic farms, and, on the very front page, there was a long story about an outbreak of equine herpes. I read the whole thing, just to keep myself distracted.
My takeaway: Do not get equine herpes.
¦¦¦
When we landed, the ride to Leroy’s farm was long and slow. Our driver, Skip, whose head looked slightly too large for his body, took us down winding country roads bordered by wooden fences and historic horse barns. All around, there were brushed, shining horses galloping across sun-kissed meadows. They looked like they were auditioning for a nine-year-old girl’s wall calendar.
“You loved horses when you were little,” my dad said.
I watched a glassy-eyed Appaloosa follow the progress of our car.
