A Southern Girl (49 page)

The crowd is growing restive as always happens in early afternoon. We are treated to our first glimpse of the sloppy drunks, often obnoxious, always sad, but occasionally amusing as well. Today we get all three. A college crowd from Wofford started the day with a Purple Jesus party, judging by the color of rings around their mouths as they stumble past. These drinks are lethal blends of straight alcohol and grape juice tasting like Cool-Aide but delivering a punch I can liken only to laying your head on the bell-ring at the state fair when the mall hammer falls. One minute the imbiber is frolicking freely among his chums and the next he is a corpse, less toe tag, paralyzed from the hairline down in pickled petrification.

Abuse at this event is not limited to young people. As the fifth race is announced, I see two men older than myself approach each other some ten yards apart. Both are clutching cups of something strong and staggering in pronounced imbalance. On spotting each other, they stop cold. The first squints at the second and screams, “Well, I’ll be Goddddd damn!” The second, his head jerking unstably, his eyes bloodshot, flashes a sickly grin and responds, “Well, shittttt fire!” They stand there, faced off and wobbling, for what seems minutes, studying each other. At last, perceiving through the haze that whatever similarity they thought they recognized is
misplaced and that neither knows the other from Adam’s Aunt Millie, they plod on their way without another word.

Natalie returns. I am unsure why I assumed she would but I am mildly surprised to find I have been scanning the crowd for her. She has shed her coat in deference to mounting temperatures, carrying it under one arm. The Lamberts, true to their intent, join us as our group marshals for the walk to the rail, arriving just as the fifth race ends. They will be off and running for the Cup in half an hour. Butterflies swarm in my stomach and no amount of beer poured into it will drown them. We line the rail in no particular order. I anchor one end of our contingent, Steven the other. My binoculars are powerful and I raise them to focus. Natalie, on my immediate right, is pressed against me by the throng beginning to gather for the premiere race of the day. To Natalie’s right stands Adelle, serene and removed from the conversations on either side.

As I bring the binoculars into precise focus I am rudely jostled on my left by one of the two drunks who squared off during the fifth race against the man he thought he recognized. He has found a real friend, as impaired as he, and together they have barged to the front, loudly announcing heavy wagers on the Cup. I would move but there is nowhere to go this close to the start. I will endure.

“Born Lucky!” he yells. “C’mon Born Lucky!”

Born Lucky is, in fact, the favorite, a splendid horse as I note through my field glasses. Allie has come into view, the gold trim of her navy blue silks glinting in the sunlight. She sits swan-like astride Carbon Copy, her seat perfect and the curve of her neck graceful as she canters him beyond the starting gate. I may burst with pride.

Ed, the drunk beside me whose name I have involuntarily learned through repetitions by Sam, the other drunk, reaches over and snatches the glasses from me, simultaneously asking, in his own fashion, if he can borrow them. He is in no shape to notice that they are held by a strap draped around my neck. As we clumsily execute this push-pull, he sloshes his drink, narrowly missing me but hitting Natalie squarely in the chest. As I turn to her, the liquid bleeds through her blouse, matting it to her breast, encased in one of those half-cups the French prefer. As I sputter apologies for Ed, oblivious to his crime, I am jolted by the sap rising within me, pulling the ground with it. Natalie’s breast, translucently
exposed, sends a current of desire through me, intensely sensual. I gaze, too long, then recover. The starter’s bell cuts off explanations.

“C’mon Born Lucky!” whelps Ed, pounding the fence with his open palm as the horses break from the gate. Allie is on the outside rail; terrible placement for competition but best for our view as she comes around for the first of two passes she will make in front of us. She gets a fast start and takes the first hurdle, a hedge four feet high, cleanly. Our angle is poor for the second jump, but Carbon Copy leaps first so he must be leading. He tucks his forefeet tightly as he sails over. I hold my breath each time she launches him. This sport, particularly this race, is dangerous to both horse and rider.

Eleven horses fly past us; forty-four hooves pounding the turf toward the next hazard. The ground beneath rumbles as they come abreast, Allie and Carbon Copy leading by a head. Born Lucky appears boxed near the inside rail. “Pass ’em, pass ’em!” screams Ed. At the next jump a horse in green and white silks near the middle of the pack refuses, sending its rider tumbling over its head. Horses to either side are thrown off stride but clear the hurdle, losing only precious time. Two race officials rush to the aid of the fallen jockey as a young groom tries to approach the frightened animal. The field has cleared two more jumps on the far side by the time the stunned rider is able to walk off under his own power.

At the last jump on the first lap disaster strikes. One of the horses set back by the refusal we just witnessed has tried to make up time too quickly. He misses his spot badly and jumps early, his hind legs crashing into the crossbars, bringing them down on horse and rider. The horse gets up quickly but is limping badly. The rider does not move as the medics approach.

The nine riders still in the race are coming our way for their final pass before the stretch. Allie’s head is laid near Carbon Copy’s neck, her seat off the saddle and her legs like pistons in the stirrups as they draw near. Born Lucky has regained his position and is moving up on the inside rail, his rider flailing his crop unsparingly. Allie is keeping Carbon Copy wide to avoid the havoc plaguing the middle of the pack, and as they near I have a full view of her grimly determined features.

“Son of a bitch,” yells Ed as they gallop by. “Look at that gook ride.” Ed, drunk or sober, could not know she is my daughter and I suppose I
should deck him but at this instant I can only echo his praise. “Yeah,” I mutter through clenched teeth, “look at that girl ride.”

She takes the last jump as she has taken the others, strong and tight and all-out. I raise the field glasses to watch the finish. Born Lucky has pulled even and shows no fatigue. It is between them now, Carbon Copy on the outside and Born Lucky at the inside rail. Down the stretch, neck and neck, they thunder toward the finish. Ed is screaming and we are screaming and all eyes are on the last ten yards. With a final surge Born Lucky takes the flag with Carbon Copy a fraction behind.

“Su-wee!” Ed yells in jubilation. He must reserve his pig call for truly special events. He and Sam go into some kind of jig as we stifle our disappointment. “I’m buyin’ licker, licker for the whole goddamn crowd!” Ed crows.

I tap him on the shoulder. “Congratulations, Ed, but that’s not a gook, that’s a girl and she nearly won.”

He eyes me wildly in his sotted euphoria. “Whatcha mean? I’s there … Nam. Semper Fi, mac. I guess I’d know a gook when I saw one.” He turns from me. Then, over his shoulder, he says, “Besides, close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.” With a sweeping arm thrown around Sam’s neck, they set out to find more licker.

In the paddock, Allie discounts her loss, rubbing Carbon Copy’s withers as she praises him. “He gave me all I asked until the end. All he had.” Streaks of dust and dirt line her face, outlining the border of her goggles. “Steve Shaw may have a broken leg,” she reports. Shaw took the tragic spill over his limping horse, which the vets are trying to determine whether to put down.

Jamison, Carbon Copy’s owner, a big cigar planted firmly in the corner of his mouth, recounts the race to anyone who will listen. Having never fielded an entry finishing higher than sixth, he is ebullient. Kenny, Allie’s trainer, is likewise basking in her light. “Twelve to one we went out and we gave ’em all they could handle. Another inch and they’d have been talking about this upset for years.”

Natalie approaches Allie and whispers. Allie smiles and says, “Thank you.” Christopher hugs her as does Steven, after which Adelle and Sarah offer their praises. We leave while Allie stows her gear.

“I’ve had fun,” says Natalie, indicating her car. She extends her hand. “Thanks for sharing your day, and your food.” We hold our clasp a second
longer than necessary, a gesture seemingly unnoticed, although from the corner of my eye I see Adelle turn away, perhaps weary from the excitement of the race.

29

The Swilling jury is about to make him the richest ninth grade dropout in the state. His attorney simultaneously harbors the hope of becoming the richest lawyer, and his contingent fee on the demanded five million dollars in compensatory damages and another fifty million in punitive would do it. Expert witnesses for Swilling have agreed that he will require “extensive vocational rehabilitation;” words chosen by Dr. Peter Spain, MD, one of his experts paid $4000 for his impartial report and testimony.

Scott Edwards reports that summations will begin this afternoon with the case expected to go to the jury by the end of today. I marvel at the nature of Swilling’s rehab. Has his beating at the hands of the police deprived him of his memory so that now, absent this gilded treatment, he will have to look up the pager numbers of his runners before dialing his car phone? Has his brutalization left him so befuddled that he might actually declare on a tax return a portion of his income, estimated by police to have been in excess of three million dollars last year, most of it diverted or extorted lunch money from the schools? Is he sexually impaired, raising the tragic specter of abandonment by his bevy of cocaine-breathing beauties who nightly, in twos and threes, trick him into exhaustion? It’s enough to make a man, and a jury, weep.

Allie moves with brittle deliberateness this morning, the fluid flex of her arms and legs poured out onto the track in Camden. Her spirits show more resilience. She hums softly as she prepares breakfast and gathers her books for school.

I lower the newspaper. “You’re moving slowly this morning.”

“I’d kill for a Jacuzzi,” she says.

I clear my throat. “I saw you and Natalie spending some time together.”

“Yeah, she’s pretty neat. She used to ride so we talked horses.”

“Just horses?”

“Just horses. You spent some time with her yourself. What did you guys talk about?”

“Stuff,” I say, raising the paper.

“Right.”

“Well, I felt badly that she was wandering around without any friends.”

“You took care of that, not that I’m complaining. She told me I rode with courage.”

“That was very thoughtful, and very justified.”

“Thanks. It was scary but fun. Next time I’ll win. Gotta go or I’ll be late.” She disappears, stiff-legged.

The outing in Camden seems to have softened her. Possibly, my chance encounter with Natalie, our chumminess at the Cup, eased her back toward my corner, if only psychologically. Her restraint is still detectable in the way she shortens dialogue, cuts her thoughts in half when she might otherwise expound on some experience or feeling. For instance, when we returned home after the Cup, a postmortem on the race was dictated by familial pattern. This would have been the time for her to reveal her butterflies while waiting in the starting gate, Carbon Copy’s demeanor during warm-ups, incidents concerning her rival jockeys or horses, nearfouls or worse out on the course. She relishes these details, as she relishes describing them to me. But it did not happen. She stowed her gear, ate some yogurt and went to bed, showing no sulk or pique, only fatigue, as though lack of energy was the sole cause of her withholding. But I know better.

Approaching the courthouse after lunch I notice an abnormal number of lawyers flocking inside. Swilling’s summation is bringing them out like Aztecs to a sacrifice. The courtroom is SRO, or so it seems as I enter. Scanning, I see Natalie wedged among blue suits in the second row. The bailiff barks, Judge Tyler swoops in from a door behind the bench and gavels the room to order.

Swilling, as plaintiff, has the first and last word with the three men and three women who have patiently listened to three weeks of testimony during which their private lives have been put on pause. His principal lawyer, a dapperly dressed black man named Morrison who has been commuting on weekends to Charleston from Washington, D.C. by chartered plane, begins the laborious but crucial task of recapitulating the evidence
in his client’s favor. He is dignified, his voice modulated, his approach clinical and precise.