How would God respond to making a mistake? Would planets collide or mountains slide into the sea? Or would the ledger of all life simply remain out kilter until a series of small events forced that ledger back into balance again? It's probably the l...
While the first race was still underway, Phillip Staffe stuck his head into Stall 28. He knocked on the door frame and softly called out, "Hey, New Boy. You there?"
Phillip always knocked and announced himself before entering any room because he worried that he would scare people if they weren't expecting to see him. Since birth, much of Phillip's face was bleached white. It was gaudy pattern of colorlessness that looked like a map of the streams crisscrossing Baltimore City. In all other ways, Phillip was a handsome man, but that never mattered much. Phillip knew he was hideous. He had known it since the day he was born.
Hearing Phillip's voice, The Dog Boy immediately hopped to his feet. He yipped and yapped and ran toward Phillip's open hand. In it were a couple of candy bars and a well-worn nickel. The Dog Boy took the candy and then slipped his hand into Phillip's. He made sure the nickel was pressed between their palms. Then he led Phillip to the corner where a large potato chip tin was almost entirely hidden under a mountain of fresh straw. The boy brushed away the straw and began purring. The sound was more catlike than almost any cat that had ever been born.
Phillip bent over, took the nickel from New Boy, and then with a snap of his thumb and middle finger he spun the nickel on end. The grayish disk spun so fast that it looked as if it had become a tiny gray moon that had fallen from the sky and landed in Stall 28 just for the entertainment of The Dog Boy. The boy purred and smiled and brought his face within inches of the spinning coin.
Phillip smiled. "You are a funny one, New Boy. You really are."
When the nickel stopped spinning, Phillip lifted the lid off the can and dropped the nickel onto a small treasure of other well-worn nickels. The coin made that distinctive, dull, clinking sound that all nickels make when they bounce off each other. The Dog Boy purred again when he heard the sound.
Charon's Crossing stood nearby. At least for another day, she'd be the occupant of Stall 28. Phillip walked closer to her and said, "How's my old girl doing today?" He patted her on the back and whispered "Good girl" into her big brown ear. As the words came out of his mouth, he heard his voice choke with emotion. Phillip loved horses. On most days, he loved them more than people. No matter how slow they were, he still loved them. He also loved the excitement of a race: the line of horses bursting from the gate, the frantic hustle to each turn, the stretch run, the finish line, and even the slow walk back to the stable for all the winners and losers. In that last walk, all horses are equal to each other. It is as if every race was a multi-horse tie.
But there was one part of horse racing that Phillip hated. He hated the end of the meet because that meant the end of racing for some horses. And that led to the inevitable question. What do you do with a racehorse that can't race anymore?
Phillip knew that Charon's Crossing had gotten a reprieve of sorts, but only if she could run two and three-sixteenths miles faster than six other horses. Given her history, that seemed unlikely. In 64 races, Charon's Crossing had never raced further than a mile and a sixteenth.
Phillip let his hand glide slowly from the top of Charon's Crossing's head and down to her nose. Then he scratched under her chin. If The Dog Boy hadn't been beside him, Phillip never would have walked this close to a horse's mouth because Charon's Crossing wasn't the friendliest girl. She liked to bite.
"What do you think, New Boy? Is she gonna win today?" Phillip's voice quivered slightly.
In response, the Dog Boy made a rumbling noise like a stomach praying for another meal. When the boy was three, he heard a raccoon make that same noise while digging through a neighbor's trash can. It was a sound that felt content and urgent at the same time. And why not? For a raccoon, there's so much bounty in a trash can but too little time to take all that you need.
As The Dog Boy leaned against the horse's shoulder, he began to moo again and he pulled Phillip's face close to his. With a touch as light as a bee hovering at the tip of a flower, The Dog Boy ran his finger across Phillip's cheeks and traced the roadmap of bleached white streams crisscrossing the man's skin. For the next few moments, the two of them listened to Charon's Crossing's big thumping heart as it beat its monotonous story of endurance through a lifetime of failure. The Dog Boy mooed again and thought of all those moments when neighborhood kids threw rocks at him for no other reason than that he had barked too loud or roared when the sun peeked through the trees or mooed when he heard the children laughing. He was happy he wasn't young anymore.
Phillip knew enough never to expect a real answer from The Dog Boy, but (still) he paused briefly giving his friend time to make whatever noise he wanted. The raccoon sound was one that Phillip hadn't heard before and he wondered (for the thousandth time) if there was some unbreakable code that could explain it all. Not that it mattered much. In some moments, it probably just felt right to the boy to purr and in others barking was better.
"Well, I hope my good girl wins today," said Phillip. "I hope she wins big. For old time's sake, I'm even gonna bet a few dollars on her." Then Phillip slapped Charon's Crossing lightly on her back. "You always give a good effort, don't you girl? You just ain't much of a runner."
Phillip brushed The Dog Boy's hair from his eyes. "When I get back..." He paused and took the boy's hand. "When...this last race is all done and I bring our good girl back here, we'll talk about where we can keep you over the winter. I have a plan and I think you'll like it."
As plans go, this one wasn't very complicated. The Dog Boy would stay where he was. He would sleep in the same barns and same stalls with any horse that was stabled at Pimlico over the winter. Phillip would visit him daily to bring him food and nickels. But to Phillip, it felt like so much more and he even caught himself smiling when he thought about telling The Dog Boy about the details of the plan. Not because The Dog Boy would understand it. Or at least he didn't think he would. Phillip just liked how The Dog Boy looked directly into his eyes whenever he spoke to him.
As Phillip had done before, The Dog Boy let his hand glide slowly from the top of Charon's Crossing's head and down to her nose. Then he scratched under her chin. All the while, he yipped like a puppy knowing it soon would be freed from its leash.
A few minutes before, the Stall 28 mouse had come out from her dung tunnel to nudge a few stalks of straw back into position. Staying ahead of the damage done by the rain would occupy her entire afternoon. She was working furiously to make repairs when she heard The Dog Boy yipping. It wasn't much of a noise, but it frightened the mouse and she retreated back into her tunnel.
Charon's Crossing inhaled quickly and then blew the air from her lungs to make a ruffling, purring sound. Like many horses, Charon's Crossing hated mice. As big as she was, she was actually afraid of them. When The Dog Boy came near, she tilted her head toward him so he'd scratch behind her ears. Maybe it was her way of saying thank you. Maybe it wasn't. But as long as the boy yipped like a dog, the mouse stayed out of sight.
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