James Burke - Half of Paradise

“What would you do with him?”

“I don’t know. But God he’s gorgeous. I’d love to own him.”

The horses were in the gate now. The black one tried to rear in the stall and the jockey had trouble keeping him calm until the start.

“What’s the matter with that man? Doesn’t he know how to handle horses?” Suzanne said. “Why are you laughing?”

“It’s nothing.”

“There they go. Oh, they’re pushing him into the rail.”

“It just looks that way from here.”

“It’s unfair. He’s getting behind,” she said.

“He’s no good on a wet track. Watch how his legs work.”

“What’s wrong with his legs?”

“He doesn’t have his stride.”

“That’s silly,” she said. “What does a wet track have to do with anything?”

“Some horses can’t run in the mud.”

“He’s dropped back to fourth.”

The horses crossed the finish line in front of them. Suzanne looked disappointed.

“He’d do all right on a good track,” Avery said.

“I’d still love to own him. How much would he cost?”

“Around a thousand dollars. Maybe more.”

“Will he run in another race?”

“Not today.”

“Let’s come out next Sunday and see him again. Will he be here?”

“Probably,” he said.

“Oh, good. The track will be dry and he’ll win next time.” She looked happy again.

“Are you glad you came?” he said.

“Of course, darling. I always like the places you take me.”

“In the winter we can go to the Fair Grounds. They have some of the best horses from over the country there.”

“What happened to the mare you used to own?”

“She died in foal,” he said.

After the races they drove to the beach and went swimming. The sun had set and the afterglow reflected off the water in bands of scarlet, and then it was dark with no moon and the white caps came in with the tide and roared over the sand. The water was too cold for them to stay in long, and they lay on the beach and looked out towards the black horizon and the black sky.

Later, the moon came out and the sand looked silver against the black of the water. The wind was getting cool and everyone else had left the beach. She was shivering a little from the cold. Avery put his shirt over her shoulders.

“Do you want to go?” he said.

“Only if you want to.”

“You’re cold.”

“I feel fine,” she said.

“Let’s go back to town.”

“Hasn’t it been fun today?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe Denise will be gone when we get back,” she said.

He had to check in with his parole board the next afternoon. The board was located in an old office building built of weathered gray brick, and the plaster in the hallways was cracked and the air smelled close and dusty. He sat on a bench in the outer office with three other men and waited his turn to see the parole officer. The man next to him had a fat coarse face with large red bumps on his nose. He wore a windbreaker that had a ring of sweat around the collar, and his slacks were worn thin at the knees and his brogans had been scuffed colorless. He held his hat in his hand between his legs. There was a dark area around the crown where the band had once been. He cleared his throat and looked around for a place to spit. He emptied his mouth into his handkerchief.

“They ain’t even got a fucking spittoon,” he said.

The secretary looked at him across the room.

“Where was you?” he said to Avery.

“In a camp.”

“I was at Angola.” He looked at Avery as though expecting an answer. “I was there twice.”

“Fine place, Angola.”

“Better than one of them fucking camps.” He blew his nose on the handkerchief and put it in his pocket.

“What was you up for?”

“Transporting whiskey.”

“Ain’t they a trash can over there?”

“No.”

“Ain’t even got a place to spit. The bastards,” he said.

Avery went in to see the parole officer, a sallow middle-aged state appointee in an outmoded business suit with big lapels and an off-colored bow tie. His coat hung damply from his shoulders. His eyes were yellow-green and his face was slick with perspiration. He had Avery’s file open on the desk before him. He unclipped a sheet of paper from the rest and read over it.

“You’ll have to get your employer to send us another letter,” he said.

“I already had him send one.”

“Yes. I have it right here, but it’s not notarized. It has to be notarized by a state notary.”

“It says I’m working steady. That’s what you wanted to know, wasn’t it?”

“It’s not a legal document without an official seal. Anyone could have written this letter.”

“Where can I get it notarized?” Avery asked.

“He has to sign it in front of a notary.”

“He might not want to write another letter.”

“We can’t accept this one.”

“Could you phone out to the main office? They’ll tell you that I’m working.”

“We have to have an employer’s letter for the file.”

“All right. I’ll ask him again.”

The official crumpled the sheet of paper and threw it in the wastebasket. He thumbed through the rest of the file and his yellow-green eyes went over each page.

“Are you still living in the same place?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Have you been going to any bars or keeping late hours?”

“No.”

“Are you associating with anyone who has a criminal record?”

“I told you these things the last time I was here.”

The official repeated his question without looking up from the file.

“I don’t know anyone with a criminal record,” Avery said.

“That’s all. Get your employer to write a notarized statement this week or you’ll be listed as unemployed.”

“What will that mean?”

“Your case will go before the board for review. You can’t stay out on parole without an honest means of support.”

Avery left the building and walked down the street to the drugstore on the corner. He could feel his temples pounding with anger. He looked up the number of his crew foreman in the telephone book. He didn’t know the foreman well and he didn’t want to ask a second favor of him. Also, the foreman had been hesitant in writing the first letter, because he hadn’t known that Avery was an ex-convict when he hired him on the job. Avery phoned him at his home. The foreman sounded irritated and he didn’t understand why another letter had to be written. At first he said he didn’t have time to see a notary, but he finally agreed and said that he would post the letter that week.

After he left the drugstore, he caught a streetcar to the Vieux Carré and walked along the streets in the summer evening to Suzanne’s apartment. Denise told him that she was out shopping in the stores and she wouldn’t be back for another hour. He went down to the sports parlor on the corner and bought a newspaper and read the ball scores. He sat in one of the chairs along the wall by the pool tables. Three men were playing a game of Kelly pool. He bought a beer at the bar and watched the game. There was a table free and he played a game of rotation by himself. He shot a second game with a merchant sailor from Portugal. The sailor spoke bad English and he used much obscenity when he talked, but he was good with a cue and he paid for the game even though he had won. Avery folded his newspaper and drank another beer at the bar and went back to the apartment. The cool dank smell of the sports parlor with its odor of draught beer and cue chalk had taken away the parole office, and he felt good walking down Rampart with the sun low over the buildings and the Negro children roller-skating on the sidewalk and the old women on the balconies calling to one another in French.