CHAPTER SIXTEEN

AGNES ANN

I know Tony is embroiled in another of his secretive, and complicated, operations for that government woman Giselle. I know also that she is no competition for his affections, but I still can’t avoid a little twinge of jealousy when I think about her. She’s such a sophisticate compared to me, so worldly and knowledgeable, and compels so much of my man’s attention. Still, he goes for months at a time without any contact with her. Now, however, he is on some sort of assignment and is incommunicado with me. I understand that he must concentrate on it—it would be unfair for me to either want to discuss it with him, as most wives discuss their husbands’ work with them, or to demand his attention when he surely must concentrate it all on the task he’s been assigned—but I hate the long days of no texts or phone calls from him.

I want to tell Tony about Francine’s progress. And about Jesse’s, for that matter. They seem a perfectly suited pair, working together on the training track as they both learn more about racing and mature into two elegant and powerful animals. Jesse is turning into a man already with the responsibilities Jacob Collier is placing on him, so much more mature than the boys I remember from high school, or college for that matter. He’s probably more responsible than Jack was in college.

We’re going easy with the filly. She seems eager to run but is a fragile two-year-old. Burdened with memories of other youngsters who injured themselves by coming up too fast, Mr. Collier—funny I call him that and my son calls him Jake, almost as if our roles have been reversed at the racetrack—is being deliberate with her schedule. I am the final arbiter about entry decisions, since I actually am the owner, but really all I do is listen to Jake and Jesse and affirm their opinions.

The latest of those is to run her in a Grade 3 Handicap race at Belmont in September, but we are weighing the possibility of entering her in one of the lesser races on the Travers Stakes card on the last Sunday before Saratoga closes for the year. There are a lot of races for two-year-olds at Saratoga, in fact the place is famous for that. The track features four good races before the big Travers Stakes, and one of them is the Prima Donna, for fillies. If we run Francine in that race, she won’t race again until October, so I’m kind of hoping the boys decide on that one. That way, I could go back to Westfarrow after the race and let Jake and Jesse board and train, and rest, my horse.

After our big win in her maiden race, we’re not going to be sneaking up on the competition anymore. So the odds won’t be much good but the purse, for the Prima Donna is big enough to cover Francine’s expenses until the three-year-old season begins, even if we only come in third or fourth.

If the horse herself had a say in the decision, she would opt for the race at Saratoga. She is eating well and literally feeling her oats. Jesse says she can be a handful on the Oklahoma Training Track.

“She wants to run hard, all the time,” he says. “She’s learning to rate but it’s against her nature. She’s a powerhouse.”

The three of us are scheduled to have a discussion after Thursday morning’s training session. I think we’ll have to make a decision then. The Prima Donna is but two weeks away and entries will close Friday at noon. We could get in later, but it costs extra.

We meet in the tack room of Francine’s stable thirty minutes after the filly had worked a fast three furlongs, thirty-five seconds, under a hand ride. Mr. Collier seems to be making an effort to contain an emotion: his face is calm but he isn’t lounging in his chair as he usually does. He’s a man who has suffered heartbreak and many disappointments on the track in his decades of training thoroughbred racehorses, so he has learned to temper enthusiasm and to accept discouragement. I think he has lost some of the gambler’s drive that the top-line trainers possess because of the bad times he has experienced over the years, the willingness to take a chance on intuition. He has built a protective cage around his emotions, afraid to allow himself to be infected with enthusiasm.

Collier makes a good living as a trainer, mostly for the reason I have retained his service: he is a safe and cautious trainer, putting the animal’s welfare first. He also has a secure and secluded barn on Heal Eddy, where young horses and older ones who had suffered in their racing careers can grow in strength and expertise. I think, but cannot confirm, that he dislikes running two-year-olds in races at all because of their vulnerabilities. Their leg and ankle bones, in particular, are not always ready to accept the stress of hard running with a person on board.

Before we get to talk about the results of her one hard work since her maiden race, Francine’s exercise rider, and Jacob Collier’s emotional opposite, comes through the door like a gale through a harbor. Jesse’s face is alight, his hair in disarray and his smile splitting the bottom of his face. My son comes in fast, practically jumping into the third chair at the old, scarred table. His feelings bubble from his mouth as if they can’t wait to get out.

“Man, did you see her blast by Tommy’s colt? I wasn’t even urging her, just sitting there in awe and letting her run. After three, I had to practically sing a lullaby to her to get her to slow down. Damn, that was fun!”

I have to laugh at his youthful enthusiasm, and even Mr. Collier smiles. The boy can see the stars from where he’s sitting, and he doesn’t want to look down into the darkness below.

“You get her cooled down all the way?” Collier asks.

“Yessir. She was so fired up it took longer than usual. That’s why I’m late to this meeting. I think she wanted to go back out and run some more.”

Jesse shakes his head and fans himself with some training records.

“Well,” I say, “at least we know where Jesse stands about entering the Prima Donna.”

“In truth, Mom! Old Francie is ready for another race. I felt her legs, Jake. No heat anywhere. She’s steady on her feet and eating well. Her eyes are clear.”

“Assuming your diagnosis is correct, young fella,” drawls Collier, “and she shows no problems later today, I agree that she is ready for another race. The question is, do we want to run her here, and miss most of the Belmont meet, or run her twice in New York before Christmas?”

“You feel three races is sufficient for her as a two-year-old?”

“Two or three. Yes, I do, ma’am. If she rests and trains at Heal Eddy over the winter, she should be strong and fast for her three-year-old season. That’s where the money is, and that’s when we find out if she’s really any good.”

“Oh, she’s good. Real good.”

The old trainer looks with a squint at Jesse. I ask if her work this morning was good.

“Three furlongs under a hand ride, without asking her to run, in thirty-five seconds?” he asks rhetorically. “That’s a good time, but it’s only a workout, no stress, no other horses to beat, no crowd noise. I mean, it’s a good indicator but only that.”

“She’s a gamer, Jake. Look how she ran last time out.”

“That was an $80,000 race against maidens, horses who had never won before—and still haven’t, by the way. The Prima Donna is a stakes race. Much better competition.”

That opinion slows Jesse a bit, but only a bit. “We got to find out how good she is, Jake.”

“How do you feel about this Miss Agnes? She is your horse, after all.”

“If you think she’s sound and can run this soon without hurting herself, then I think we should try the Prima Donna. I know it’s a graded race, but we’re still playing with track money after her maiden win last month. Her winnings will cover her entry fee and even winter boarding, I think, so financially we’re okay.”

Jacob Collier grunts.

I continue. “If you think she’s strong enough, Mr. Collier, I’m in.”

Jesse pats me on the back, smiling and nodding. Collier nods also, slowly.

“Okay. If she wakes up in good shape tomorrow, I’ll submit her entry to the Prima Donna.”

Jesse and I high-five while Jacob Collier busies himself with paperwork on the desk. I think he is secretly pleased to be running Francine again. He is one of those people who is afraid to think about too much success, afraid because the opportunity for the disappointment of failure is too great. He has suffered so much disappointment in his career that he lives in fear of optimism. Still he has a horse in Francine who has potential. Who knows how many more chances he was going to get? Not that he’s ready to keel over or anything. It’s just that he’s getting the reputation as a middling trainer and is already attracting owners of middling racehorses. This way, if something goes wrong with my filly, he could always say, to himself at least, that Francine’s owner wanted to run her in the Prima Donna.

I’m thrilled to have a horse in a big race and itching to tell Tony about it. He’s busy with his secret agent business, however, so I didn’t text him. When he can, he will initiate communications again. I already know from Auntie Maybelle that he has been on the island, his crusty workboat tied up at the city marina among the sloops and trawler yachts of the summer season.

“He’s not shy about taking his place in society, is he Agnes?” she texted.

I laughed at that. Maybelle has a hard time placing Tony. He is always courteous to her and the couple of times we went to fancy restaurants or to a summer ball on Westfarrow with her, he always dressed appropriately and knew what wine to order. He’s an enigma to her, but not to me. He learns as he lives, and he lives in many guises and in many locales. When he’s boat captain, he acts like a sailor; when he’s with the yachting crowd, he acts like a yachtsman.

I wish he were near so we could live the excitement of another race with our own horse contending, but I’m determined to live it myself so I can tell him what it was like running on Travers Day.

The hard work seems not to affect the filly in the least, but one could not say the same about the horse people on the backstretch. As she frolics about in a distance gallop the next day, grooms and hot walkers are abuzz about her time in the three-furlong work. I hang about the stable listening to their excited jabber in the many accents of the people employed by the different barns and trainers. Most seem to think that my horse had qualified herself for better company, maybe even a try at the Kentucky Oaks next spring. We would all soon see about that.

Travers Day, the final race card of the meeting at Saratoga Race Course and the unofficial end to the summer season in Saratoga Springs, does not have a good beginning. Rain and mist drift in from the Hudson River and spread down the sides of the Adirondack Mountains into The Spa, blurring the dawn. I walk along the shedrow early, the drops of rain splattering off the plastic rain gear I’m wearing, sounding like minnows jumping in a pond. The other horses in their stalls, looking at me in the hopes I might be their grooms bringing breakfast, seem to be perky and alert despite the rain, or maybe because of it. It’s a cool morning after a long hot season.

Francine is already chomping at her sweet feed when I get to Barn Sixteen and she ignores me completely. I feel happy to be in her presence nonetheless. She’s a beautiful critter, full of life and joy. All she wants is to enjoy her health and be allowed the opportunity to run. Her stall has already been mucked, so it’s filled with the fragrance of straw and horse. The experience of standing there is sublime: the only noise the grinding of oats in the animal’s mouth and the thunk of her hooves as she shifts; the sweet air and the sensation of being protected from the weather combine to bring a smile to my face.

By eleven when fans start pouring through the turnstiles to the track the precip ceases pouring from the sky. Most of the clouds whisk off and a breeze blows through The Spa. The air dries in minutes, the track surface nearly as quickly. By seventeen minutes before the first race at one, forty thousand people mass all over the famous old racecourse. When the bell sounds for jockeys to enter the paddock, almost none of them can hear it. The excitement is palpable. I look at the tote board and see that the track is labeled Fast. We will have no weather excuses for the Prima Donna.

Runforfun and Mary’s Grant are listed as morning line favorites at three to one; a group of three fillies, including Francine, are down at five to one. There are eleven racers entered, but one is a mudder who will probably be scratched in the drying conditions. Bettors are wary of my filly’s lack of experience, so the odds go up slightly from the morning line. I get my bets down as soon as the first race is saddled. Ours is next.

Barn Sixteen is a hive of activity by then, and Francine is reacting to it. She keeps her ears pricked as she blows and stamps her feet. A horse is sensitive to its surroundings, being a prey animal in its natural state, so the filly knows it’s race day for her. How could she not know? The grooms had her coat shining and her tail braided; Jesse wrapped her legs. He didn’t ride her out to the training track for exercise. People came and went, their voices and demeanor telegraphing to the horse that something about today is different than every other day at the barn. She doesn’t look frightened, just energetic. As Jesse maintains, she loves to run.

And run she does, too fast at first, but Manny Ramirez gets her settled quickly. She lay third down the backstretch, tucked in behind the leader, a rabbit named Social Girl. Clods of wet dirt fly up from the substrata and pepper the herd following Social Girl. Mr. Collier had anticipated that, however, with the track drying so quickly, and he had fitted Francine with blinkers in the Westfarrow colors and full eyecups. She doesn’t seem to be distracted by the pellets or the crowd noise. She is focused on the animal ahead of her.

When Ramirez senses that Social Girl is but a few strides away from tiring, he goes wide around her. His timing is perfect. After drifting out evenly, Francine seems to slingshot by the leader, as an F-35 being catapulted off a carrier deck. She stretches out to a two-length lead. Ramirez hand-rides her, waiting for challenges from behind, calming her with his hands and voice. She seems to be straining even so. I can see that he’s holding her tightly, teaching her to rate, to pace herself. No two-year-old is especially good at rating so early in its career on the track but my filly is less experienced than most others in the race.

They come past the six-furlong pole with Francine still holding a short lead. Plunging horses bunch up behind her. With a quarter mile to go, Mary’s Grant makes a run at Francine. Runforfun is passing horses on the outside from a long way back. Mary’s Grant draws almost even before Francine seems to become aware of her. Ramirez taps his ride with his stick and Francine surges back into a clear lead. Mary’s Grant races gamely but cannot keep up with Francine.

At the sixteenth pole, with a furlong to the finish, Manny Ramirez lets Francine go. Mary’s Grant is done but Runforfun comes on furiously. Running wide, she passes two more horses and looms at Francine’s hip. By now, however, my filly is in full stride—and it is a thing of beauty, long, ground-eating leaps that no other horse in the race can match. She sweeps under the wire ahead by two lengths.

I celebrate the win with Jacob Collier and my son, Jesse, but I really want to enjoy the moment with Tony. He’s on assignment, too involved with whatever he is doing, whatever danger he faces, and I know not to contact him. Our pleasure in Francine’s big win will have to wait. I suspect I will have to wait for many pleasures with Tony Tagliabue.