The broken circle
The story so far: The starting gate opened: the horses burst out, pouring in a tight huddle around the backstretch. Ben can’t believe his eyes when Gogo begins to pull ahead. It’s neck and neck down to the wire.
n CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The broken circle
Ben’s throat was raw from yelling. Go By Wind and Starshine were like one horse, galloping step for step. Then, at the last possible second, Go By Wind nosed ahead – and passed under the wire.
“And it’s Go By Wind, by a neck!” the announcer called as wild cheering erupted all around them. The horses thundered on by, dirt flying from their hooves.
The Brennans threw their arms around each other, laughing tearfully and bouncing up and down. Rachel jumped into the hug, and they all whooped and laughed.
Ben stood aside, grinning from ear to ear while congratulations poured in from every side. For the first time in his life, he felt like a winner. He caught some of the smiles all around their box, and felt that he was included in them. He was with the winners.
“Come on, we have an appointment in the winner’s circle,” Mr. Brennan said, beaming and herding Mrs. Brennan and Rachel ahead of him. He didn’t seem to notice Ben on the fringe of their family circle.
Ben tagged along, because he didn’t know what else to do, and he was too excited and happy to hang back.
Faces passed in a blur, hands reached out to slap Brennan on the shoulder, and within moments they were all down the stairs and in the steward’s office. Formalities dispensed with, the track officials led the way out onto the sand of the track itself and into a blaze of sunshine.
Gogo was being led toward them, his sides and neck stained with sweat, and the jockey perched on his back like a bird. Ben stood marveling at the ceremonial extravagance of it all, and the conversation babbled on around him. A photographer laden with cameras made his way into the enclosure.
In that instant, Ben saw himself as part of the Brennans’ front-hall picture display, smiling at the future next to the famous racehorse, Go By Wind, part of the Brennan family on the historic day when …
“Hey, kid, can you step aside?” the photographer muttered, focusing his camera on the Brennans, the jockey and Gogo.
“Oh, sorry,” Ben muttered, the dream vanishing in a heartbeat.
While the picture-taking and congratulating went on, Ben backed away and slipped in through the door again. He blundered out of the steward’s office and into the vast, echoing space that was the first floor of the grandstand.
Guys in T-shirts and shorts were standing around with beers and studying their programs. A lady with a sunburn dragged a whining kid by the hand, saying, “Not now, you’re being a pain.”
Below the fancy box seats, the common folk who would never own a racehorse jostled for space and waited in long lines to place their bets. Ben knew this was where he belonged. Not with the high-society people. Who was he kidding? He’d never fit in with them, he’d never be considered part of them, never be included in their photos.
Scowling, he shouldered his way through the crowd and looked for a place where he could have some elbow room.
But it was Saturday in August, and it seemed like everybody who knew that a horse has four legs was at the Saratoga track.
Finally he found a spot by the paddock; the horses for the next race hadn’t been brought out yet, so there were few people leaning on the paddock fence. A few steps away to Ben’s right, a man stood prepping a cigar.
“So the old nag did it after all,” came a familiar voice.
Ben glanced to his left, and there was Joe. Ben turned away without speaking and kept his gaze stubbornly on the cigar man, who was holding a match to the end and puffing away to get a good light.
“I love this part, don’t you?” Joe said.
Ben tried to ignore him, but it was true, he did find it strangely interesting to watch the man light the cigar, and the way the flame shrank and grew each time the man dragged air.
“It’s a beautiful thing, a match flame,” Joe went on. “So small, so vulnerable. But what potential, huh?”
The man had the cigar well lit now, and the end glowed red as a coal, pulsing as if it had a heartbeat.
“Fire’s like a wild animal – just let it out of the cage and it’ll run you down,” Joe continued, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial tone. “Did you ever notice the way it sounds, like it’s got a voice?”
Ben would not rise to the bait. He wouldn’t answer Joe, wouldn’t let himself get drawn into a discussion about fire. He squeezed his eyes shut, tried to shut out Joe’s voice, blot out the picture Joe was painting for him to admire.
“How’s your dad these days, huh? Talk to the old man much?”
Sweat broke out on Ben’s upper lip. He knew he wasn’t like his father. He wasn’t a firebug. But when he saw a uniformed trooper begin to walk toward him, all he could think of was – run!
n NEXT WEEK: Fire!