Something for Nothing (33 page)

Jenny nodded, and Martin could tell that she was pleased to be on the receiving end of these details. But he really wasn't talking to Jenny at all. It was the old trick of pretending to talk to one person while in fact directing your words to someone else—the person you actually cared about and were interested in. He wanted Miriam to see how comfortable he was with women, and to be impressed by his ability to plan the race down to the last detail (though of course he hadn't planned anything—it was all Val's doing).

Ludwig came up to Martin on his left and patted him on the back. “So what do you think?” he asked.

“We'll see in a minute,” Martin said.

They watched the horses being guided into the starting gates. Champagne Taste reared up, and the handlers had to walk him around in a quick circle to try to calm him down. Martin took this as a good sign. Let him get rattled, burn up some energy. He could see Alex Cordero—a good jockey—patting his neck, trying to calm him down.

Then the bell sounded and the horses exploded out of the gates in a flash of colors and dust. Right away a group of five horses surged to the lead, with several others, including Temperature's Rising and Champagne Taste, sliding off of the main group and locking in behind them. They looked relaxed, as if they were just out for a morning gallop. They moved through the first turn, the clubhouse turn, at cruising speed, letting the lead pack do the work.

Overhead the announcer narrated the progress of the race, and the crowd began to come alive.

“Go, you fucking horse,” he heard someone yell. “Run! Run!”

“Come on, now!” Ludwig shouted. “Time to kick it in gear! Make your move!”

He heard Miriam and Jenny yelling as well—yelling and screaming and jumping up and down.

Martin knew that Ludwig was wrong, that it wasn't time yet to make a move. Not quite. And as he followed the horses around the track through his binoculars, he could tell that both Sanchez and Cordero knew this as well. Temperature's Rising and Champagne Taste were basically side by side, each running three or maybe even four lengths behind the lead pack of five horses, and each gliding along, still looking relaxed. But that front group was starting to stretch out, with two horses falling off the pace just a bit.

Temperature's Rising was maintaining a nice long stride, which was exactly what Val had wanted. He looked like he could do that all day long. Champagne Taste looked good, too. Comfortable. It was going to be close.

As they came around the final turn, both Temperature's Rising and Champagne Taste started to move up on the horses in front of them. They picked off the two fading horses right away, moving around them on the outside. Temperature's Rising was on the inside of Champagne Taste. They were still side by side, and it was as if the other two horses were standing still, all of a sudden. Five seconds later they were past another horse that had begun to fade. The two lead horses put up a fight for another hundred yards or so, but with about three hundred yards to go it was only Temperature's Rising and Champagne Taste. They were neck and neck. Both jockeys were working their whips on the horses' flanks, and both horses were running flat-out now. No more gliding. You could tell that each horse really wanted to win.

The din of the crowd was really something—much louder than during the earlier races. Martin himself wasn't yelling. He might shout at the horses in a race he'd bet on, especially if it wasn't anything very serious. But it was different when it was his own horse. Then, he tended
to keep it all in, holding his body tight and clenching his fists and grinding his teeth. And that's what he was doing now as he watched Temperature's Rising lean into the final stretch.

“Come on, baby. Come on,” he muttered through his clenched teeth. It was almost like he was whispering to himself. “Push, push,” he said. Pleaded. He really wanted this.

Their seats were right in front of the big black-and-white checkered pole that marked the finish line, and so he had a near-perfect view of Temperature's Rising as he surged forward at the last second, stretching his long neck and bobbing his head—it was just enough, Martin thought. I think it was just enough. I think he did it.

And that's how the announcer called it. “Temperature's Rising, by a nose,” he said.

And then everyone was pounding him on the back, and Ludwig barreled into him for a big hug. Jenny and Miriam hugged him in turn (Miriam's hug an awkward, over-the-seat hug), and Hal shook his hand (another steel-guy handshake) and slapped him on the shoulder with his other hand. They were all shouting and whooping and laughing.

A minute later they were hustling down the steps toward the winner's circle. It was all bodies and noise, and as Martin looked around he saw people looking at them—at
him
—as they moved along. He felt for a precious minute or two like a celebrity. Or not like a celebrity so much as someone you envied, and who made you wonder what it would be like to be that person. He'd always been on the other side of that feeling, the one looking on as someone managed the big win, dated the best-looking woman, made the most money. But now—today—it was him, Martin Anderson, and he allowed himself to give over to the moment, to feel the intense pleasure of winning.

He met Val at the gate just outside the winner's circle. He was all smiles, flashing his bad teeth. He crushed Martin's hand in his big trainer's paw. “I told you so!” he yelled, over and over again.

Martin's plan had been to have his whole group join him in the winner's circle for the photo. It would be fun. Plus, this way, Miriam would
be in the photo. But when he saw Val he knew he needed to stick to the basic etiquette of owners, trainers, and jockeys only (and maybe the owner's family). It was obnoxious to bring a big group into the little area where they took the picture. People did it, but it was considered crass, and he knew it would piss off Val (though maybe if he got a look at Miriam he'd understand).

Standing there waiting for the photographer to arrange them in front of the horse and jockey, Martin felt a little dazed. He was giddy, but the drinking and the excitement and the heat had worn him out. He was holding a silver championship cup someone had handed to him. Later, he'd get a check for the purse in the race, probably about two thousand dollars.

He scanned the crowd outside the gated area, looking for his little group, and as he did he made eye contact with Miriam. She must have been thirty or forty feet away, but her eyes were so intense that it was like she was standing right in front of him. She was standing between Ludwig and Jenny, and she was looking right at Martin, smiling. Her expression was hard to read.

Then the flash went off, and he realized that he hadn't been looking at the camera. At first he was irritated—why was the guy in such a rush? But then he realized that later, when he looked at the developed and then framed photo up on his living room wall, he would know that he'd been looking at Miriam when the camera clicked, and that she'd been looking back at him. And that, he knew, would make the picture special in a secret sort of way.

H
e sensed that something was wrong the minute he walked through the door. It was about 9:00 p.m., maybe a little later. He'd gone out for drinks and dinner (in that order) after the race with Val, Ludwig, Jenny, and a couple of others from Val's stable. Some Italian place out in Pleasanton that Val went to pretty regularly. It wasn't bad, but it was no Vanessi's. Hal and Miriam had begged off, but Martin was so excited he didn't even mind. In fact, he was glad to have a break. Being around her for so long had worn him out.

So it was pretty early when he got home, all things considered. And he was eager to show the big silver cup to Linda and the kids, have them ooh and aah.

He pushed the door open and announced “I'm home!”

“Hello?” he yelled. “Is anyone here?”

He walked into the kitchen and saw a note on the counter top. He saw right away that it was written by Sarah, rather than Linda. What the hell? Standing there reading it, he realized that he hadn't seen the car in the carport. Were they out buying champagne for him?

“We went to spend the night with Aunt Sharon,” it said. Below that, it said, “We took Arrow with us.” Below that, it said, “Hope you won!”

And then, further down, scrawled in purple felt-tip pen, Peter had written, “Go Temperature's Risin'!”

Martin smiled to himself. He pictured Peter standing there writing the note: insisting on a quick addition to what Sarah had written, and knowing (probably) that it was “Rising” and not “Risin',” and that his dad would get the little joke.

But he was confused. Why hadn't Linda written anything? And
then he was a little pissed off. Or a lot pissed off. What the hell? A guy gets home from a big day—a really big day, actually—and no one's home? And there's no note from his wife?

He knew something was up, that Linda was angry at him. Yes, she sometimes took the kids to see her friend Sharon and her kids out in Oakland. Sharon's kids were about the same age as Sarah and Peter, and they got along pretty well (though Peter made it difficult sometimes). Sharon wasn't a real aunt, they just called her that. “Hi, Aunt Sharon,” Martin would say, enjoying the irony.

So okay, an overnight at Sharon's wasn't so unusual. But this was too sudden. Something had happened. Maybe Linda had gotten a bill that scared her (though there was no mail on the Fourth). Or a phone call from someone about money. Or maybe Slater had come by and scared her somehow. No, he thought, she wouldn't bolt out of the house and not write a note because of that. And that was the term—she'd bolted. Write the note, Sarah, we're in a hurry. Make it fast, Peter, just say good-bye.

Martin muttered his way down the hallway. He suddenly felt a little drunker than he'd realized.

When he walked into his bedroom he saw it almost right away. A quick scan of the room—something wasn't right, he felt more than thought—and then it caught his eye. It was perched right there on his bureau, where he always put his wallet and change and whatever else he might have in his pockets. It was Miriam's jewelry box. In his confusion, Martin thought for a second that he saw it blink, as if it had fallen asleep while waiting for him, but was awake now and eager to see what he was going to do, or say.

“You had me in the closet,” it seemed to say, “but now I'm out here.”

Martin reached out to pick it up, but then he stopped short. He sat on the bed—looked at it, looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, which he could just see from his sitting position on the bed, and then looked at it again.

Fuck, he thought. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He lay back and looked at the ceiling. He felt a little like he had while lying on Miriam's bedroom floor. Like he was trapped, and like he wanted to disappear, and not be there. Or be invisible, anyway. Here, of course, there was no one to hide from (except himself). But that's how he felt.

What he really wanted, and what he was really concentrating on, was how to make this moment go away. He wanted to rewind the film—that's what it was. He wanted someone (the one who was in charge) to reach down and grab the two big reels that were playing out the film of his life and wind them backward. Not super far—he wasn't greedy. Not back to a point at which he wasn't yet in debt and desperate (though that would be nice). Just back to the moment after the parade when he'd said okay to Linda about skipping the horse race. Why hadn't he made her come with him, told her he really wanted her there with him to see the race, be a part of it all? He watched the moment play out on the ceiling, and tried to get it to adjust to this different version of events. Because then, of course, she wouldn't have been snooping. And if she hadn't been snooping, she wouldn't have found the jewelry box. And if that hadn't happened, then she wouldn't have driven out to Sharon's and left him here to shit his pants and try to figure out how to get himself out of this jam. He'd even trade in Temperature's Rising's win—anything to make her discovery of the jewelry box go away.

But the film kept playing out in the same exact way. He watched four or five times as he gave Linda a quick peck on the cheek, said so long to the kids, and then scurried off toward the track. He watched himself pay his money at the little booth and then disappear into the crowd. He didn't watch long enough to see himself run into Ted Reasoner, or walk up to his little crew in the owner's box, or run into Hal and Miriam, but he didn't need to—didn't want to, at this point.

He sat up, finally, took a big breath, and stood up. The jewelry box was still there, waiting patiently for him to acknowledge it. “I'm still here,” it was saying. “Aren't you going to open me up?”

Martin stepped toward it and opened it. Everything was still there. The rings, the locket. The earrings. The coins. He reached in and touched the locket. Jesus, he thought. He was glad he hadn't followed through on his impulse—one he'd thought of as a kind of joke with himself—to place a picture of himself in the locket.
That
, he knew, would have been utter disaster.

He closed the box (though he sensed that it wanted to stay open, maybe to show itself off to him) and sat down again.

He thought for a second that he could maybe blame it on Peter.

“He stole it while he was over there playing with the Weaver kids one day,” he'd tell Linda. “And then I found it. I didn't know what to do, so I just hid it. It's horrible, I know. The kid is a little screwed up. First with the notes, and now this. Let me handle it, though, okay?”

He thought this over, but knew it wouldn't fly. Peter might be willing to lie for him, but it was too complex, too intense. Plus, Linda would be relentless: she'd circle around Peter, probing his story, looking for contradictions, weaknesses. Not a chance. She was too smart and too skeptical—he'd cave in immediately.