Later, Carl drove over to his bank, then the simulcast parlor at Summit Park. The live races were going on, though he wasn’t interested in any of that now. He knew the hostess at the simulcast parlor—Lottie or Tottie—and when she pointed to his injured arm, he turned his hand in the sling, gave her a thumbs-up. He paid a buck twenty-five for a Balboa program and stood beyond the last row of cubicles that faced the wall of TV sets. He found the Henry Forrest–trained horse in the seventh race, a three-year-old filly owned by Tom Westfeld, Golden Beebee. Odds of 5–2 on the morning line. Carl walked over to a betting window and put a thousand dollars on it to win.
He drove back to the apartment and checked the race results on his computer. Golden Bebee won her race easily and paid off at final odds of 7–5. The stretch runs of all the Balboa races were available on the track’s website and Carl watched the seventh after he found out about the results. It was sunny out there and Westfeld’s green-and-gold colors were far ahead of the others. The filly had been bet heavily. It was no secret. His shoulder ached and Carl was out of pills and he understood that he wasn’t going to take any more.
The morning after this—each morning after this—he awakened before five a.m., made coffee, then drove to L.A. Fitness over on Superior Avenue. He put on his headphones, listened to the local college rock station. He didn’t know any of the songs at all and while he listened, he worked out on a treadmill or a Stairmaster or an elliptical machine. His body was tired and he was no longer surprised by how much everything hurt. He was recovering. He put away the sling. He kept to himself. One day, just to make things a little more interesting, he tried to go an entire day without speaking. He made it until around four in the afternoon and then his cell rang and when it did, the number was not from his area code. He decided to answer. He said, “Hello.” The person on the other end was looking for Mario. “Sorry,” Carl said. After he hung up, he said, “Son of a bitch.”
He felt blue, but he understood that he had reason to. One day, Gary Shales called. They greeted each other and then Gary waited. He said, “I’m gonna go up and see Lori.”
“She’s where again?” Carl said.
“Heading for Canterbury right now.”
“Minnesota.”
“Right.”
“What are you going to do, Gary?”
“I want to check up on her. She needs representation.”
“She a better rider than me?”
Gary laughed. “Right now, yeah.”
Carl said, “Hell, I think we would have done all right together, you and me.”
Gary spoke slowly. “I know it.”
“Minnesota is probably a nice place,” Carl said. “I’ve heard good things.”
“Summer’s best time to be there.”
Carl said, “Okay, man.”
“Bye.”
Carl worked out at L.A. Fitness every day and he showered there, then returned to the apartment for a quick snack and an hour of checking on horse-racing news from all across the country. He’d click open a string of websites, then look over future entries for the tracks in his region: Charles Town, Penn National, Mountaineer, Great Lakes, Steel Meadows. He looked for the names of the horses he had ridden and who was named to ride them now. He still felt a connection to Balboa Park and was interested in the entries there. He’d check the entries for Turf Paradise in Phoenix, then would head for the bedroom and take a nap.
In the evenings he sat at the kitchen table and periodically looked over to Mrs. Lovain’s apartment. Her life seemed steady. She didn’t have any men over there with her. She would look over from time to time, see that Carl was watching. Once she gave him an odd look and when she did he felt humiliated. This was always the downside to voyeurism. The way people worked on their lives was a private thing. They should be able to do this with their blinds opened or closed. Carl simply wanted to know how his life stacked up. He didn’t need nor did he desire to see people in the nude. If they were that way, he would watch. He would watch otherwise, when there was a chance to. At the racetrack, he had plenty of numbers and statistics to go by. Otherwise, he did not. When he watched others through their windows, he was thrilled with the imperfection there, all that could not be tabulated. It always told him just enough. When Mrs. Lovain spotted him, something in Carl fell. He lifted his window and stuck himself partway through the opening. He waved to her and continued to wave until she opened her kitchen window. He held one hand to the side of his mouth. “I’m Carl,” he said.
“I know,” she said.
“Oh.” He set both hands at the bottom of the window sill and looked up and down the alley. A dumpster was at one end, the street the other. He looked in her direction again. “Christine left. I guess you know that.”
The woman nodded.
He thought about saying, Got back with her ex. One of the things he knew about Mrs. Lovain was that she had an ex. He said, “She understood everything.”
Mrs. Lovain didn’t react. She wore reading glasses. Carl waved to her. Mrs. Lovain waved back, closed her window. They returned to their kitchen tables.
Near the end of May, he saw Big Zip’s name in the entries at Turf Paradise and when this happened, a feeling came over him that he had not been expecting. He saw the words and it was as if he had seen his own name. It was a strange feeling. Part of him was out there, part of him still hadn’t found its place. He booked a flight for Phoenix, for the day of the race. He checked on the price of first class and decided to fly coach.
On the day of the race, Carl flew out to Phoenix on an American Airlines 737 jet. He sat between an older black man and a middle-aged white man. Carl paid three dollars for headphones and watched the movie, something with Jennifer Aniston. The men on either side of him slept. At the Phoenix airport, Carl hailed a taxi and when he arrived at Turf Paradise, there were still three hours before post time of Big Zip’s race. He sat in the open-air grandstand, stuck on his reading glasses and looked over a West Coast edition of the Racing Form. He held the Form with both hands and studied the horses in Big Zip’s race. He spotted his name there, Arvo, C., on the running line for Big Zip’s San Diego Handicap. It seemed strange, out of place, in the same column as the other great jockeys who had been given rides on the horse. When he looked up from the Form, his eyes went out to the racetrack and he felt lightheaded. He thought, Good lord, what am I doing out here? Where am I? He thought, What have I done with my life? He knew, of course. Inside, deep down, he knew exactly. It was a Friday afternoon, early in the day, and the stands were nearly vacant. Carl steadied himself. People had thoughts like this every day. Carl murmured to himself. He said, “I know where I am.” His eyes went to the Form again. Big Zip was the class of this bunch. Carl expected him to win handily.
When it was time for Big Zip’s race, Carl thought about walking down to the paddock area, seeing the horse up close. He decided to stay where he was. On the track for the post parade, Big Zip seemed a trifle heavy. The horse had been raced steadily by Henry Forrest and perhaps the new trainer decided to take it easy. This time it probably wouldn’t matter. The runners assembled to race against Big Zip—on paper anyway—couldn’t seem to get out of their own way. Someone named Roger Powell had the riding assignment on Big Zip.
After the break, Big Zip darted smartly to the front and Powell let the horse roll for the first furlong. They opened up a three-length lead and then the jock reined him in a bit, tried to save something for the stretch. It was a competent technique, though if you knew Big Zip, you knew the best way was to just cut it loose, let it go as fast as it could for as long as it could. The horse turned in to the homestretch with a big lead but began to tire with a furlong left and one runner came bursting free from the back of the pack and almost caught them at the finish. Carl hadn’t bet the race, he hadn’t wanted to jinx anything, and he was glad to see Big Zip hang on for victory. Carl thought about sneaking down and getting in the winner’s circle photo, but a moment later thought better of that, too. He didn’t need a memento. He didn’t need proof that he had been here. He wouldn’t forget it. He let his eyes find the infield toteboard. Carl needed to leave soon, catch his flight back to Cleveland.
Big Zip should have won the race by daylight, and the trainer, if he was any kind of trainer at all, would understand the horse would need to be cranked up tighter for its next start. The race was done and the horses that had run in it were being walked up the homestretch. Beyond the oval, palm trees dotted the stable area. It’s very quiet here, he thought. This trip had not been a flight of fancy. He’d wanted to see that Big Zip had some good racing left in him. Carl wanted to see him racing in the western sunshine, and he wanted to see Big Zip win. He belongs here, Carl thought. It seemed to be an important thing to acknowledge, even if Carl could have just watched the race from the simulcast parlor at Summit and wound up understanding the same thing. Carl didn’t know how he would have felt if he had done that, however. This had been the way to go. Fly out here, watch the race, see things exactly. He wanted to see the horse race on the lead early, that had been the best part. That was all he wanted to think about now. He sat in the stands and let his eyes fall on all that was before him. He had that long. He would not miss his flight back.