Big John came in at three to one. Twenty-eight thousand, eight hundred dollars. I was getting a little goggle-eyed. The track manager personally took my next bet; with that much money at stake, I couldn’t blame him. I made a little show of hesitating thoughtfully as if I couldn’t make up my mind, partly to keep him from getting curious about my “system” and partly because I was getting nervous about all the people who were watching me to see which way I would bet. Apparently they were betting the same way. Word of my “luck” seemed to have spread. (I didn’t like that — I’d heard somewhere that too much money on one horse could change the odds. Well, no matter. As long as I still won… )
As I climbed back to our seats, I thought I saw Don leaving, but I must have been mistaken because he was still sitting there in our box. When he saw me, he folded the newspaper he’d been looking at and shoved it under his seat. I started to ask him about the odds, but he said. “Don’t worry about it. We’re leaving right after this race. We’re through for the day.”
“Huh—? Why?”
He waited until the horses broke from the gate; the crowd roared around us. “Because in a few minutes we’re going to be worth fifty-seven thousand, six hundred dollars. Don’t you think that’s enough?”
“But if we keep going,” I protested, “we can win almost a milllion dollars on an eight-horse parlay.”
He flinched at that. “There are better ways to make a million dollars,” he said. “Quieter ways. More discreet. ”
I didn’t answer. Evidently he knew something I didn’t. I watched as Michelangelo crossed the finish line and paid off at two to one. Don scooped up his two newspapers and stood. “Come on,” he said. “You go get the money. I’ll wait for you at the ear.
I was a little disappointed that he didn’t want to come with me to collect our winnings; after all, they were as much his as they were mine. (I’m getting my tenses confused — they were all mine, but it seemed like ours.) Didn’t he care about the money?”
No matter. I found my way down to the windows to turn my tickets in — that is, I tried to turn my tickets in. There were some forms to be filled out first, and a notification for the Bureau of Internal Revenue. And I had to show my drivers license for identification and my credit cards too. The track manager was beaming at me and kept shaking my hand and wanting to know if I would please wait for the photographers and reporters.
At first I was pleased with the idea, but something inside me went twang — just a warning sensation, that’s all, but it was enough. “I don’t want any publicity,” I said; now I knew why Don had beaten such a hasty retreat.
I shook off the track manager and collected my check for $57,600 as quickly as possible. It felt like a mighty powerful piece of paper; I was almost afraid to put it in my pocket. I must have walked out to the parking lot like my pants were on fire. I was that nervous and excited.
Don was sitting on the passenger side, looking thoughtful, I was too giddy to notice. “You want to see the check?” I asked, waving it at him.
He shook his head. “I’ve already seen it.” Then he pulled it out of his pocket to show me — his check for $57,600. He’d had it with him all the time!
I blinked from one to the other. They were identical, even down to the last curlicue on the signature.
“Hey!” I said. “Two checks!” Why don’t we cash them both?”
Don looked at me. “We can’t. Think about it. If you cash yours, how do I get it back so I can cash it?”
He was right, of course. I wanted to hit myself for being so stupid. It was the same check. He — I — we just hadn’t cashed it yet. He slipped it back into his pocket; I did the same with mine. Well, at least it was nice to know I wasn’t going to lose it.
I drove home. Don was strangely quiet; I noticed it almost immediately because I had gotten used to letting him do all the talking. (There wasn’t much point in my saying anything; he already knew it, and anything I needed to know, he would tell me.) But now he had lost his former exuberance. He seemed almost — brooding.
I was still too excited by the whole experience. I couldn’t stop talking. But after a bit I began to realize it was a one-sided conversation. I trailed off, feeling foolish. (He’d heard it all before, I had to remind myself After all, he’d said it too.)
“Well,” I said. “What happens now? Do you go back to your time?”
He looked at me, forced himself to smile. “Not yet. First we go out to celebrate. Like rich people.”
Of course. Its not every day you make $57,600.
We stopped at home to change clothes. (There was a bit of hassling over who was going to use the bathroom first and who was going to wear whose favorite sport jacket, but eventually we compromised. Even so, this was something I might have trouble getting used to — sharing my life. I like to live alone, and this business of another person — even when it’s only yourself — sharing your apartment, your clothes, your bathroom, your razor, your toothbrush, and even your clean underwear, can be unnerving. To say the least.)
The restaurant was called simply The Restaurant. It was supposed to be one of the best places in the city, but I’d never been there before, so I didn’t know. Don, of course, was quite familiar with the layout. He presented himself to the maitre d’ and announced, “You have a reservation for Mr. Daniel Eakins…?”
Yes, he did — when had Don arranged that? — and led us to a table on a balcony overlooking a splashing fountain. Fancy.
We started off with cocktails, of course, and an hors d’oeuvre tray that was meal in itself, and then had another drink while we studied the menu and wine list. I went goggle-eyed at the prices, mostly out of habit, but Don merely announced, “Last night I had the steak. Today I’m going to try the lobster.”
His “last night” was my tonight. I had steak.
It was still early in the evening. We were in a quiet and empty corner. Somewhere a violinist was teasing a Bach concerto until it giggled with delight. I sipped my drink and studied Don; I was beginning to find his selfassurance attractive. (I knew what that meant. I wanted to be the same way and I’d begun to imitate him.)
He was studying me too, but there was a detached smile on his lips. I could tell his thoughts were not running the same course as mine and I wondered what he was thinking about. I kept looking at him and he kept looking back at me.
Finally I had to break away. “I can’t get used to this,” I said. “I mean, I thought I’d be doing all this alone. I didn’t realize that you’d be here—”
“But why should you have to be alone?” He’d started to answer my question before I’d finished asking it. “You’ll never have to be alone again. You’ll always have me. I’ll always have you. It makes more sense this way. I don’t like being alone either. This way I can share the things I like with somebody I know likes them too. I don’t have to try to impress you, you don’t have to try to impress me. There’s perfect understanding between us. There’ll never be any of those destructive little head games that people play on each other, because there can’t be. I like me, Danny; that’s why I like you. You’ll feel the same way, you’ll see. And I guarantee, there are no two people in this world who understand each other as well as we do.”
“Um—” I said. I studied the pattern of bread crumbs on the tablecloth. Don’s intensity scared me. All my life I’d been a loner; I wasn’t very good at talking to people, and when they tried to get too close to me, I backed away in a hurry.