Harold threw away his coffee and walked outside thinking of things he should have said if only he’d thought of them in time. Behind the casino, the racetrack that had been under construction all spring was nearly complete. Harold took a seat on the empty bleachers and stared out over the huge oval track. It was midday and the sun was still burning brightly. Across the lush green infield, on the far side of the track, a pair of thoroughbreds kept pace with one another. From the distance he was at, they seemed to be barely moving, the jockeys riding them nothing more than specks of color. The horses made the turn at the northern end of the track. They weren’t at full speed, but their hooves still tore into the soft turf, spraying it into the air. The jockeys, in their brightly-colored jerseys and helmets, slowed the horses when they reached the final straightaway. One continued on toward the stable, while the other rode over to a young boy who was waiting near the railing. The horse’s body was dark with sweat. The jockey dismounted, handed the reins and whip to the boy without looking at him, and walked away. The boy was slightly taller than the jockey but just as skinny, and wore dirty jeans and sneakers. Harold walked to the edge of the railing. The boy held the reins and whip in one hand and was brushing the horse’s mane with the other, talking softly into the animal’s ear in what sounded like Spanish. He did not notice Harold standing there watching him.
“What do you say to him?” Harold asked, folding his hands over the railing. The boy stopped speaking and turned around. Harold saw that he’d been wrong; the face staring back at him was a girl’s. Dark eyes above high cheekbones, the thin bridge of a nose, hair the color of coffee, cut short and standing up in places. Smudges of dirt covered her face. She had a serious look to her, as though she was waiting to be insulted, but she was beautiful as well, a secret you could tell she wanted to keep hidden. She looked to be in her twenties. She eyed Harold suspiciously before speaking.
“That’s no him, mister,” she said, “and whatever I tell her, is between me and Iowa Alice.” Her voice was low and carried a heavy accent. Every few moments she ran her fingers through the horse’s long black mane.
“That’s her name?” Harold asked.
“I should know,” the girl said. “I named her.”
“It’s sort of plain,” Harold said.
The girl’s lips formed a knowing smile as though she’d just discovered something amusing. “I guess you’d prefer something like Millionaire Maker.”
“No,” Harold said. “It’s just that I thought the names were supposed to be more…exciting.”
The girl shook her head. “Oh yeah, what’s your name?” Harold hesitated then told her. The girl laughed. “Wow,” she said, “exciting.” She lifted her hand to her mouth and forced a cough. “Sorry.”
“It’s alright,” Harold said. He extended his hand in the girl’s direction. “How about you?”
The girl, still holding the reins, took a step forward. “Nettie,” she said, shaking his hand, “from Houston.” She smiled as a rush of wind flattened the tall grass of the infield and swept across the track.
“Are you a jockey?”
“First year,” she said, “still considered a rookie.” Her voice was steady as was her gaze and Harold did his best to return it. “It’s sort of an apprenticeship. They call us bug boys.” A bucket loader carrying turf rumbled across the infield. Nettie looked absently in the direction of the stable and Harold was glad for the momentary break in eye contact. It felt like catching his breath. “The older guys think they know everything about racing.”
“Do they know everything?” Harold asked. The girl laughed, a sly smile covering her face. Harold liked the way she smiled, blunt and unapologetic.
“Most of them only know how to make weight, crack a whip, and hover their asses,” she said. “Prima donnas if you ask me.”
“Do they let you race?”
“Depends on the event, how big the field is. Stuff like that. But I’m racing next Friday. That jockey who was riding her is on retainer for some hotshot owner, which means Iowa Alice is in need of a rider.” She patted the horse on its neck. “We’re gonna win, too.” In the distance, a ring of seagulls twirled above the landfill, their screeches barely audible.
“What makes you so sure?”
“I trained her,” the girl said without hesitation. “I’ve been with her since she was a foal. She’s a good horse without me, but no one knows her like I do. Besides, sometimes you just have a feeling. You know what I mean?”
Harold didn’t answer, but reached across the railing and ran his fingers down the soft hair of the horse’s nose.
“Have you ever ridden?”
Harold shook his head. “My daughter did. She was in the movie business, a stuntwoman.” Harold remembered the made-for-TV movie where his daughter had been the stunt double for an actress portraying Calamity Jane. It was one of Carol’s first big breaks and he and Edna threw a party for some of their friends when the movie aired. He remembered watching the chase scenes, staring at the woman on horseback in chaps and deerskin gloves, riding along at breakneck speed, unable to believe it was his own daughter. He kept trying to catch a glimpse of her face, as though to prove it to himself. His breath caught in his chest during those action sequences, even though filming had long since ended, his daughter safe somewhere in California. For a long time he felt only pride while watching her chase down a bandit or jump from the roof of a building, but there was jealousy there too.
“Must be an exciting life,” Nettie said.
“Was,” Harold said. “She doesn’t do it anymore. She wanted to quit before she got injured.”
“Can’t push your luck,” Nettie said.
“I wouldn’t know,” Harold said. The girl studied him and then nodded. Harold looked down and worked his hands against the smooth metal of the railing.
Across the infield the loader raised its bucket, angled it toward the earth, and dumped its load into a waiting truck. The turf made a loud hollow sound when it landed. The horse skittered back, its ears shooting straight up as though on springs. It continued to move backwards, lashing its head from side to side. In one motion, it lowered its head until its nose was almost touching the turf and reared back onto its hind legs. Harold jumped away from the railing. Nettie stood at the horse’s side, still holding the reins. For a moment the animal remained like that, stranded somewhere above them, its legs kicking at the air. Nettie yelled something at the animal in Spanish and pulled the reins to one side. The horse came back down, its flank landing parallel to the railing. Nettie snapped the reins toward the ground, lowering the animal’s head. “Calmate,” she said forcefully. She released the pressure on the reins, but the horse kept its head low, as though shamed by her reproach. Harold noticed that through it all, the girl remained completely calm.
“I should get her to her stall,” she said. “Too many distractions.”
Harold, still shaken, eyed the animal suspiciously. “She’s pretty high strung,” he said.
“It’s in their blood,” Nettie said. “A good sign. You wouldn’t want to bet on a laid-back racehorse.” She pulled the reins softly in the direction of the stable, and began to walk away. “Besides,” she called behind her, “I’ve got enough cool for the both of us.”
That night Harold could not sleep. He lay in bed watching the shadows of tree branches play across the wall. He ran his fingers over the slight depressions on the other side of the mattress. The light that came through the open window, dim and watery, reminded him of nights spent walking top-side on the Juneau during the war, staring out at the vast sea that surrounded him, moonlight reflecting the crests of waves, the sky, a blanket of stars draped overhead. Harold would light a cigarette and watch the smoke vanish in the cool night air. Beneath him, the hidden machinery of the great ship groaned. It was a noise that was as much a part of his days as the sea, and only when consciously trying could he separate it from the sound of his own breathing. The deck hummed, and beneath that men slept, and all around them was the Sea of Japan, vast and unknowable, darker than any night Harold had ever experienced. It descended into darkness and harbored dangers Harold could only guess at. He scanned the horizon, waiting for a torpedo boat to emerge, a tiny black point in the distance. He searched the endless sky for MiGs, listening for the steady drone of an engine. All the while he was filled with a great uncertainty, a feeling of lightness that surrounded his heart and raised the flesh on his arms. He would walk to the edge of the ship and lean against its railing until his torso extended over the opaque water. Then he would flick his cigarette out into the dark night, tracing its glowing arc until it disappeared. At those times, his body suspended somewhere between ship and sea, he rarely thought of Edna, or their home, or the life he would return to. Instead, he leaned further over the railing, felt the cool spray of mist cover his face, stretched his arms into the nothingness that surrounded him and thought only of the fact that everything, his days and nights, his life, the lives of the men around him, all of it, was out of his control.