Chris Lynch - Kill Switch

“I remember,” he says.

“So Mr. Largs is lying?”

He turns to face me again, his eyes close to mine.

“Mr. Largs is lying,” he says. No smile.

I get a chill.

“There’s your horse,” Da says, pointing to the beautiful beast wearing the green and white silks.

“You’re going to place a bet on him for me. I’d say you owe me. I’m right here now too, so I can see you.”

He laughs, pushes back from the rail. “I guess I’m caught. Come on, Young Man, let’s go see a man about a horse.”

There are a number of different betting booths lined up across the asphalt ground between the stands and the track. They continually flash new odds on each horse, mostly better odds than the ones at the big, official stands inside. It is fun to think of our little bets pushing the odds one way or the other, and while that may not be exactly what is happening, I do enjoy watching the small electronic boards above the booths change while Da places his bets. I lean back on the railing behind me, sip at beer, let the sun warm my smile.

“Daniel,” comes the voice from over my shoulder. “Danny boy, how are you doing?”

I don’t completely turn, because I never completely turn away from my Da lately. I do a sideways quarter turn to look behind me and ahead at the same time, like a reptile. You can learn to do this, if it is really important.

“Zeke?” I say. “Well, how are you? This is a real surprise and a coincidence.”

I am doing that awkward reach-up-and-back handshake with Zeke, wondering why certain types of older guys seem to have to shake a younger guy too hard and all over the place.

“Yes,” he says, “so great to see you. It’s been a dog’s age. And your granddad too… what a treat. I’m glad I played a little hooky today.”

Zeke is the one friend and workmate of Da’s I ever saw on anything like a regular basis. He’s probably a year or two older, even, and I thought he was retired by now as well. I always liked Zeke, and it was obvious Da thought a lot of him too. We haven’t seen him at all since the retirement.

“So, this what the old boy is doing with his days now? I’m jealous,” Zeke says.

“No,” I say, “we’re really not here much at-”

I stop myself when Da turns away from the betting and doesn’t see me. I see what comes all over his face when he recognizes no face. Absence, comes all over his face and he toddles cluelessly away.

“Excuse me, Zeke,” I say, and bolt.

When I catch up to him, he is staring at his betting slips, staring down at them and still walking forward, bumping and bouncing off people as if he does not know it is happening. I grab his arm. “Hey, you,” I say, making light, making fun where there is none.

He looks up at me with that brief horror that is his lost face and I swear I want to slap that face right off him. He stares back down at the slips and then back up at me as if somewhere in there is the correspondence of my face to that ticket. That somewhere in there is the answer and the explanation that will pull it together.

And what do you know, he does find an answer in there after all.

“If I were you,” he whispers after the last check of the ticket, “I’d kill me.”

First thing I do is, I shudder. The full xylophone thing right down my spine and back up again. Then I shout at him. It is not a shout full of reason. “Hey,” I yell at him with my scoldingest tone but little else. He stares. “Hey, Da,” I reiterate just in case he missed it the first time.

“Hey,” Zeke says, right over my shoulder to Da.

He startles me, and I turn on him now. “Do you mind?” I ask, feeling somehow like I am sheltering my grandfather from something. Much as I have always liked Zeke, I am also aware how he can be an unsettling sort of presence if you aren’t prepared for him. He’s tall and angular, always in a light gray suit and with skin and hair all the same gray color. He looks, regardless of the conditions, indoor and out, as if he’s standing right under harsh fluorescent lighting.

“Ezekiel!” Da says, and my authority and irritation blow away on the breeze. “Darius!” Zeke says, and they both brush me aside and embrace.

I am the kid here, and that is that.

We are sitting in the stands, up high enough to see well but also to bask in the sun. The first race is a couple of minutes off, and I stare at my ticket, Harry Horse to place. The old colleagues are catching up, chatting about people I know mostly by nickname-Mackie, Doctor J, the Moleskinner- and making very little sense to me. It all sounds boring enough that I think I’ll go down and have an encouraging talk with Harry Horse, until there is a slight turn to the conversation.

“Have you seen any of the guys, Darius? From the old team?”

“Not a one,” says Da with the conviction of somebody who has no idea.

“Nobody?” Zeke asks. He sounds simultaneously shocked and unsurprised. He throws me a look when I stare at his previous look.

“No, the rats,” Da continues. “Zekie, you are the first of the whole crowd. Not even a phone call.” There is a pause that one would call uncomfortable, if one liked to really understate things.

“Oh,” Zeke says, looking slicingly in my direction for some reason I cannot work out.

“Ah,” Da says, at the same time the trumpetty announcer calls out over the PA system that the horses are lining up. “Just that one guy. You know the guy, the putz. Never liked him. Came by, I don’t even know why… a week ago, maybe two weeks? The guy they sent with me on the Europe trip that time. Couldn’t hold his beer for beans.”

“Annnnd… they’re… off!” the announcer calls.

And Da is off, along with pretty much every other spectator in the place.

I do love the horses, just like Da does. To hear and feel the thump of their hooves in the turf, even halfway around the track and halfway up the stands, is to feel one of the special somethings of life. You cannot help but get it if you have working senses at all. It draws Da helplessly toward it, and when a lady stands up in front of him, he silently takes an empty seat on the bench in front of us. He’s too much of a gent to ever complain to a lady who’s enjoying the horses like that.

“Danny,” Zeke says right into my ear.

I turn away from the action to see him looking at me, hard and gray. He appears to have no great interest in horse racing.

“People don’t usually call me Danny anymore,” I say, to be firm with him. I feel like I need to be firm with him, and large.

“Daniel,” he says, “your granddad is not doing so well, huh?”

“He is doing fine, thanks.”

I turn back toward the race, where it is already apparent that Harry Horse has better things to do than try to run faster than the other horses. Still, it’s thrilling.

“Does he talk a lot of crazy?” Zeke asks me.

“As a matter of fact,” I say without looking at him, “my grandfather doesn’t talk any crazy at all. He gets tired. He forgets. Otherwise, he is sharper than me. Here, look,” I say, showing him my ticket and my selection of no-hurry Harry.

“Listen to me, son. I love this man. Probably more even than you do-”

“No,” I snap.

Da looks over his shoulder, grinning broadly at me. “I know, he’s terrible. Who bets on a horse named Harry anyway? Horse actually looks like he’s laughing.”

“He’s laughing at me, Da,” I say, patting his shoulder.

He slaps my knee. “You are a good kid anyway, Young Man.”

“Stop gloating, Old Boy, and watch the finish.”

He hoots as he does just that, and somehow we are managing to have fun even with Zeke here trying to bleed the sunshine right out of the day. I don’t know which horse is Da’s, but judging from his mad, hat-throwing celebration, I think he won.