The next Friday, Harold arrived at the casino with five thousand dollars in cash, the track limit, bundled with a rubber band and tucked away in his breast pocket. The bank teller, a woman he’d known for years, had eyed him suspiciously when he handed her his withdrawal slip. Harold was early. There was still an hour till post time and his hands were already moist with sweat. He was wearing gray slacks, his navy sport coat, and a red tweed tie the shape of a rectangle. It was his standard outfit for formal occasions. He hadn’t worn it since Edna’s funeral. He walked down the main aisle of the casino, the tan carpet sliding away beneath his worn loafers. Beside him, a Bally quarter slot rang as though to announce his arrival, the frenetic flashing of its spinning strobe light piercing the stale casino air and igniting his nerves. Near the video poker pit, he spotted Tommy talking to a pair of middle-aged women in tight jeans and glittery halter tops, who leaned in closely and laughed whenever he spoke. Harold avoided eye contact and kept on walking, splitting the double doors that led to the track and pausing momentarily to let his eyes adjust to the bright afternoon light. The track was already buzzing with anticipation. A group of older men stood in a semicircle near the ticket window, holding their racing forms and smoking thin cigars. Their slacks were mismatched with their sport coats which were worn thin through the elbows. Men and women sat on the bleachers drinking draft beer from plastic cups. A female vendor traversed the assembling crowd selling candy and programs, cigarettes and gum. Some of the jockeys stood near the stalls watching a harness race that had just begun. Harold spotted Nettie standing alone, wearing a bright purple jersey and white breeches. She was leaning forward, dangling her arms over the railing. She looked calm and elegant, like a woman waiting idly for a train. Even from a distance, Harold could tell she was not paying attention to the race. He walked over.
“Are you nervous?” he asked.
“Why? Do I look nervous?”
“You look ready,” Harold said. “Do you still have that good feeling?” Nettie looked off to where the harness racers were coming down the home stretch. The sky was cloudless. Harold felt the vibrations of the approaching horses echoing through the earth.
“I do,” Nettie said, “stronger now than before.” She turned to him and smiled. “You look ready too,” she said. Harold slipped his hands into his pockets. A strong breeze played with the flap of his sport coat and lifted his tie. The track announcer read the results of the harness race over the crackly PA system. The other jockeys began to trickle toward the stalls. Nettie lifted her helmet from where it rested.
“Good luck,” Harold said.
“Same to you,” she said. Almost as an afterthought, she added, “I’m the six horse.” Then she joined the others.
Nettie’s race was the final one of the night and when it was over Iowa Alice was the winner by half a length. Harold watched as Nettie pumped her fist in the air after crossing the finish line. A blanket of roses was draped over Iowa Alice’s flank, and Nettie patted the horse’s neck as the other jockeys walked over to congratulate her. Harold sat watching the scraps of discarded tickets blow through the bleachers like confetti, the five thousand dollars still bundled tightly in his breast pocket.
One by one, the jockeys disappeared into the stable, while the spectators slowly trickled into the casino to try their luck there, or out toward the parking lot, eager to call it a night. Harold sat watching all of this, the air cooling around him, his butt growing numb on the steel bleacher. Iowa Alice had been a long shot. The odds had been nine to one. If Harold had bet, he would have won forty-five thousand dollars. Harold sat thinking about this. He thought about it for a long time and it bothered him, but it was not what bothered him most. It was how easy it had been not to bet. When he sat down, he had only to remind himself that he knew next to nothing about horse racing, that he’d never even seen a race live. He watched as the other spectators walked to the ticket window and placed their bets, and silently he wished them luck. Then he’d leaned back and laid his hand over the lump of money in his breast pocket. To anyone else, it might have looked like he was clutching his heart.
Harold cut through the casino toward the main exit where he could catch a bus back to Saddlewood. The Friday night crowd bustled around him, searching for open seats at the blackjack tables, waving down cocktail waitresses, moving from one slot machine to the next. Harold felt the silent reproach of all of them, as though each and every one of the casino’s occupants knew that he had not bet, that he’d been too scared. A group of college-aged guys in jeans, dress shirts, and ties were walking side by side down the main aisle and Harold stepped aside to get around them. He looked toward the bar near the far wall and saw Nettie sitting alone. The race had ended nearly an hour before and she had changed. She wore a light blue sundress and a white sweater was draped over the back of her barstool. She looked beautiful and anxious. A tall draft beer sat in front of her. She checked her watch and then scanned the casino. Harold slipped behind a faux marble column and stood there watching as Tommy emerged from a cluster of slot machines and walked over to where she sat. Nettie stood up and extended her hand in a business-like fashion. Tommy shook it, then reached inside his jacket and pulled out one of the cellophane-wrapped roses the cocktail waitresses sold on their vending trays. He directed her toward a corner table and motioned for the bartender.
Harold watched for the next hour as the two of them talked and drank. He was seated at a slot machine where he could monitor the whole scene undetected. He felt like a father spying on his daughter, a hidden chaperone. There were all the formalities and signs of a first date. Tommy pulled out her chair for her, leaned in close to talk, twice reached for her hand, only to have her pull it away. Every time Nettie declined one of his advances, Harold smiled. He swiveled slowly on the vinyl stool in front of the slot, stealing glances at the bar when he could. The third time Tommy reached for her hand, Nettie did not resist, and Harold suddenly became aware of his own breathing, shallow and uneven. Tommy tapped the top of Nettie’s hand continuously with his index finger as though driving home a point. After a while, he leaned in and whispered something, and then he turned toward the bartender and signaled for the check.