The Sport of Kings (68 page)

To nod is to die. Allmon nodded.

Reuben hopped forward one step with utter delight. “The bitch! The lascivious cotton candy cunt!”

Allmon mumbled, “I signed papers … with Forge…” He wanted to stopper his mouth, stop talking, but was wholly unable.

Reuben inched closer, his voice careful, but his blinks rapid as a hummingbird's wings. “You made a deal with the White Father? Of what nature, pray tell? Blackmail? Revenge?”

Allmon felt too sick to respond; he stared down at the ground, which could be a bed if he would only let his knees buckle.

Reuben winks at you: “Revenge it oughta be.”

When Allmon spoke, the world whirled. “Stay away—from the … Henrietta. Something wasn't right between…”

Reuben leaned close. “Henrietta. This was the nubile Aryan?”

Allmon's hands were a horror when they gripped his head. His hands nodded his head.

Reuben reared back, his eyes all astonishment and his breath blooming white in the gelid air. He made a sputtering noise of pure delight. “By God, Almond Joy's got nuts! You're a meddler and an entrepreneur—more enterprising than a soul might have guessed! See, my brother, you had a dream. First you rifled for it in the silver drawer, then you swallowed it down with a dry little cracker! Impressive, I'm sure.” He cocked his head. “Twilight striving notwithstanding…”

Anger suddenly doused grief and drunkenness. Allmon lurched around toward Reuben. “How come you can't talk like a normal fucking human being? Who the fuck do you think you are?”

Reuben waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, I ain't what I am—unlike you, so faithful and true, even in your conniving! But never mind, the hygiene of your heart is questionable, and I wholeheartedly approve! Did you study the art in prison, or did you come by it naturally like an atavic tic? From the dam or the sire, pray tell?”

Jesus. Jesus Christ, he was drunk. He—

“Use your words, soldier!”

“My momma died when—”

“Died! Of what? Tell Reuben! Was she murdered? How marvelous!”

“Lupus. Kind of like lupus … We ain't had health insurance.”

“Murder, indeed! Give me every gruesome detail! And tell me all about prison while you're at it! I'll have no more of your wily reticence. I just love a good comedy.”

But even four sheets to the wind, Allmon wouldn't go there. That's where they tear out your heart and stuff you with newspaper and wood chips. No. He tried to stand tall against the aluminum siding, and when he inevitably began to tilt, Reuben was suddenly there like a post beam to prop him up with both hands. Allmon was sloppy and spitting as he spoke. He tried to dredge up something old, something sure, something that would tether him to life. “Ten years from now, look for me. I'm gonna make something of myself. You know what I'm saying? I'm making … me, there … this world, all these racist motherfuckers—”

“Their very lives do learn us hate,” Reuben chided, “but you're behind the times, my friend. It's no longer the man but his very house.”

“I'm gonna be standing in the front of the house—grandstand. You see the suits they wear? When's the last time you saw a black dude with money—”

“Why, last time I gazed upon myself in a limpid pool.”

“I'm serious—”

“Yesterday, I'm sure.” There was flint about Reuben's amusement.

“Well, not me!” Allmon cried suddenly, anguished. “Not you!”

Reuben reared back. “Not me? NOT ME?” Now he leaped away from Allmon's side, so he nearly collapsed to the ground before he could catch himself, stumbling and clutching at the corrugated siding. Reuben pointed a finger in his startled face. “Mind now, young whippersnapper, I'm richer than Mansa Musa! I'm stronger than Shaka! Wise like the magi! The only irons near me are under my boots!”

“You ain't nothing but a jock,” Allmon snarled.

Reuben's wily face was distorted by mortal offense. “Nothing but a jock? I'm nothing you can even imagine, you fucking river rat! Not with your borrowed dreams! I am the Defender of Myself, wizard of the saddle, untutored genius, the first with the most!” He thumped his pony keg chest, strutting before Allmon. “You've never seen mischief like me! I subvert and invent! I never relent! I resist and supersede! Confabulate and fabricate! No one knows my name—or my history! Hallelujah and fuck you! I piss on family and order, I lie and I counterfeit! No mother made me, I bore my own damn self. I got a contraband brain and Napoleonic balls. Twenty-nine horses shot out from under me, and still I ride on. Can I get a goddamn Amen!”

“Amen!” came a shout.

Allmon tried to formulate a vicious reply, something to put the arrogant jock in his place, but he was suddenly riding wild waves of resentment and nausea. “Oh shit,” he gagged, and began to stumble forward, away from the building.

“Heavens to Betsy,” said Reuben mildly, stopping short as Allmon dropped to his knees, coughing at first, then retching the contents of his stomach into the dry winter grass.

Reuben blinked a few times, then edged over and leaned down. “Oh,” he sighed, patting Allmon absently on the back, his speech gone suddenly cool, “what am I going to do with you, my little wingnut? What am I going to do with you?” He looked out into the surrounding woods, which were pitch-black, laced with frost and punctuated with the yellow eyes of animals. “I'm sure I'll think of something.”

*   *   *

Finally, Samuel in his arms. It was true that at first he had seen only his color—a dark shock, an intrusion. But day after day, the more he stared at this child, the more he found the old revulsion shifting. Dark, unformed flesh transformed to something more complex, more significant than a mere body, transformed into a structure yielded by human effort but sui generis in its construction, a product of ingenious architects. Look at the smooth stone of the forehead, the nave widest at the fat cheeks, the flying buttress nose, stained glass eyes. Admit it, Henry, you stand before a mystery, an immensity, and inside this building you will find something previously unnamed, something that until now you never wanted to know. Something other than yourself.

“Oh, just look how happy he is to see you, Henry! He certainly recognizes his grandpa.”

Henry blinked unsteadily in the warmth and glow of the Miller kitchen. Ginnie was preparing him a cup of peppermint tea as he cradled Samuel after his two days of travel, what had seemed like a two-year separation. How his life had changed in such little time. He was nearly stupefied by it, but it was there nonetheless, as plain as any other fact.

As she dropped a tea bag into a mug, Ginnie said, “Henry, you can leave Samuel with us anytime. It was wonderful having a baby in the house again—wasn't it wonderful, Roger?” She turned to her husband.

“It was.” Roger nodded.

Uncomfortable color rose into Henry's cheeks. “I … I can't impose upon you more than I already have.” He turned to survey the room, possibly seek out Samuel's overnight bag, but Ginnie just batted at his hand. “Oh, I'm not letting you run off just yet. You need to eat after traveling. Plus, I need someone to play checkers with. Roger has a three-game limit, and that just won't suit.”

Henry noted the red and black game board on the kitchen table, its checkers scattered and glinting under the porcelain table lamp. “Checkers…,” he said blankly, as he shifted Samuel from his right to his left arm.

Ginnie cocked her head to one side. “Checkers,” she said slowly, then she and Roger exchanged a swift glance. She cleared her throat. “Do you … not know how to play?”

Henry stared very gravely at the board. “I don't believe I do. My father started me off with chess.”

“Oh!” said Ginnie with a decisive nod of her head. “Well … it's never too late to learn. Just sit yourself down right here.” She gestured him into one of the well-worn tavern chairs and went to swoop Samuel from his arms and into her own, but restrained herself; their reunion was something to see. Samuel's face had turned bright at the sight of his grandfather, and now he cooed under his chin, busy pressing into Henry's hollow cheeks with his soft, chubby hand. He was making a new sound that was very much like a laugh, his delight filling the room.

“Well,” Roger said, moving toward the hall, which led to the back recesses of the house, “I shall leave you to it. I'll just be taking this tea with me to bed.”

“Why don't you leave it out here,” Ginnie said with a wave of her hand, “and save me the trip of bringing it back. It's not like you ever drink it.”

“I often drink it,” Roger corrected her.

Ginnie looked up. “Never once have you drunk your evening tea. Not once.”

Arc of a gray brow. “Woman, you do not know me.”

Ginnie snorted, but before she could utter a retort well honed from decades of use, Roger leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. “Good night,” he said, and, “Good night, Henry. We enjoyed having Samuel. The Corgis especially. They love children.”

As he disappeared around the doorjamb, Ginnie called out, “Don't forget to leave the hall light on. You always forget, and you know the night-light's been burned out since forever.”

“I will not forget, woman.”

“Okay,” said Ginnie, then quietly so only Henry could hear: “He always forgets.” She settled back into her chair, scooping all the discs to the center of the board before she began to sort them with two fingers. “Henry, you'll be black, and I'll be red, the goal being to advance across the board, capture the other's discs, and make it to the opposite side first.”

But Henry was barely listening. With Samuel cradled against his chest, he had turned to watch Roger's retreat down the frame-lined hall to the back of the house. When he came slowly right, he said, “You seem to … suit each other very well.”

“Who? Me and Roger?” Ginnie looked at him in surprise, as though he had said the most absurdly obvious thing. Then she shrugged. “The annoyance of my days and the love of my life.”

Henry smiled sadly and clutched Samuel.

Ginnie noted that smile as she arranged the checkers and said, “Did you have a great love in your life, Henry? Someone who gave you a reason to live when the going got rough?”

The question startled him visibly. He blinked and then a chaos of feeling washed over his features, so that he didn't know where to look—at the game board, around the room, or at the boy in his arms. Suddenly, Samuel yawned with all his might, and his entire body shook, including the fists he drew to his wobbling chin. Then he smiled.

“I just can't wait,” Ginnie said softly, freeing Henry from the burden of answering, “to see who Samuel will grow up to be. I have a feeling he's going to be extraordinary.” She glanced at Henry, lamplight in her eyes. “But then we all are, aren't we, each in our own way?”

*   *   *

In the morning, Hellsmouth seemed healthy as—God, sorry—a horse, so they wrapped her limbs in white cotton traveling bandages, loaded her into the custom Turnbow, and headed for home. While she swayed, dreaming her bluegrass cockcrow crooktree dreams, Allmon's companion smoked and chattered on for twelve hours straight. Trying not to puke, Allmon just leaned his tender head against the window and slept a liquor-thrummed sleep, his sleep the thinnest veil over the horror of the new reality. Not his? How was it possible? The way she had clung to him in their lovemaking—and it had been that, he knew it had. Or he had known. He drifted on waves of sleepy fright. He saw a baby's chubby hands reaching out to grasp hills like tits that rose across a shimmering river, water waving like the flag of conquerors. The baby looked just like him.

Wake up! the Reverend whispered. Human love ain't nothing but a halfway house, where we prepare our criminal nature for the love of God.

AMEN!

NO! His eyes snapped open. She had cheated, cuckolded him, lied through her thin, white-girl lips. Never forget.

The road had led them back to Kentucky and Mack's training center, where Hellsmouth would overwinter in her own paddock, undapple her mottled black, and rest easy. The driver shifted down on the sunny side of the broodmare barn to unload their half-ton cargo, but Allmon never made it to the back of the trailer. He had only the briefest moment to note the dull ache in his hips and knees—surely the result of too much alcohol and lack of sleep or his fresh horror—before his legs collapsed and he slumped to the ground, appearing like a man who'd slipped out the door into a deep pool of water. The man came sputtering out of the driver's side, hand tracing the nose of the truck as he doubled over with laughter, trying to wipe his eyes even as he was hauling Allmon to his feet. “Oh shit!” he cried, not even trying to rein in his amusement. “Oh shit, man! You all right?” But Allmon wasn't laughing. Pain was poking mean fun in the joints of his legs and hands. There was the briefest moment when panic came bobbing up, but he tamped it down. You could not think of your life in time—or your mother's. He took Hell's lead and moved forward, his eye trained resolutely on the horizon beyond the barn, a vain trick to foreclose on the near.

But in the stall, he sensed it, a subtle but sure shift in the space, like a ghost in the room. He looked at Hell, at her mouth and into her vitreous globe eye, and pressed his aching, hungover hands to the flat plains of her jaw. Her pupils mere millimeters wider than placid; a whisper of too-warm heat drifted from her flanks. Suddenly, undeniably, she was idling high.

Allmon didn't have to be told what to do; he limped, then ran, beelining past the farm manager, and barreled straight into Mack's office. Mack was only a half hour home from Newark, leaning over his desk, peering at his winter colt list, when Allmon skidded across the threshold. Two words: “She's off,” and Mack was barking like a Doberman into his cell, so not fifteen minutes later his eighteen-year home vet, Don Patrick, was striding down the shed row, chin tucked into his neck, gear bag in one hand, silver La Boit case in the other.