Leonard Michaels - The Collected Stories

In today’s last race, a horse named Frenchy was listed at twenty to one. Such pessimistic odds were embarrassing. Why had Frenchy been entered at all?

As usual, Nachman looked at the Racing Form and tip sheets, and then looked at the magnificent horses, particularly Frenchy. His color was mahogany with a strong reddish tint. He was big, with a deep chest and long legs. There was exceptional snap and vibrancy in the muscles of his flanks and shoulders. If you laid your ear against him, thought Nachman, you’d hear a humming. What a pity that such a grand horse was a loser. Even as he thought this, Nachman’s system pressed into mind with strange information. Frenchy would win. Nachman hadn’t wanted to know, but willy-nilly, his system said Frenchy would win, though it was statistically impossible. Nachman knew about the horse. Frenchy was clocked at record-breaking speed during workouts, but after a few early wins he’d come in fourth and fifth, out of the money. He’d lost heart for winning. This happens to a horse, Nachman believed, just as it happens to a person. There were gifted mathematicians who never achieved what was expected of them. High expectations, not mathematical problems, led to mental impotence. Frenchy was like them. He knew he was expected to win, so he couldn’t win. Frenchy was worse than a loser.

But maybe something had changed. Maybe it was the new jockey, a Mexican named Carlos Aroyo whom the owners had brought up to the States to ride Frenchy. Aroyo was reputed to understand problem horses. Knew how to talk to them. Won a lot of races. A great jockey. You could bet on him, if not the horse, but not at twenty to one. Nachman’s system couldn’t handle psychological mysteries. Problems, yes. Mysteries, not likely.

Nachman must have made a mistake in the calculations, or there were subtle factors, implicit in his system, that he’d failed to notice. An honest mistake. But maybe there was something else at work. Nachman wanted Frenchy to win because the horse was beautiful. Frenchy’s beauty and Nachman’s yearning had entered the calculations, and come up with a sentimental assertion. Dishonest but not deplorable. Merely human.

Some of the greatest mathematicians had thought, because their proofs were beautiful, they revealed the secrets of God. Nachman was moved by their visionary enthusiasm, but he wasn’t mystical. Frenchy’s numbers were simply wrong. His beauty was irrelevant. Nachman’s yearning was irrelevant. His system had exceeded itself. He wanted to figure out why, but he couldn’t do it now. The race was minutes away.

Nachman joined the line to the betting window, a twenty-dollar bill in his hand, prepared to bet on a horse named Night Flower, not Frenchy of course. In front of Nachman stood Horace and a little girl, about nine years old. She had the same skin tone as Horace, the same eyes and mouth. Obviously Horace’s daughter. She noticed Nachman smiling at her and said, “My mom is in the hospital. That’s why I’m not in school.”

Horace turned and said, “How are you doing, Nachman?”

“All right. I’m sorry about your wife, Horace.”

“Everything is fine. Don’t listen to her.”

The girl said, “He won’t let me go to school because he’s scared to be alone.”

Horace said, “Be quiet, Camille. And tie your shoelaces.” Then he looked Nachman in the eye and said, “If I stay home I’ll go crazy.”

“You don’t have to explain. It’s none of my business.”

“We went to the hospital this morning.”

The line moved. Horace turned away to the betting window and said, “Fifty bucks on Ladies’ Man to win.”

Impulsively, Nachman said, “No. Fifty bucks on Frenchy.”

Horace pulled his money back, as if he’d burned his hand.

The betting agent said, “Which is it?”

Horace said, “Give me a second, please,” and then to Nachman, “Frenchy is twenty to one. You know something I don’t?”

Nachman said, “Frenchy.”

Nachman’s voice was strong with authority, as if he knew what he was talking about. In fact, he’d never been less certain of himself, but he wanted to give something to Horace. Frenchy was all he had.

Horace turned back and slid the money across the counter. Nachman placed his own bet, then joined Horace and his daughter. They walked down the steps and worked their way through the crowd to the rail. Horace didn’t look at Nachman.

“You don’t win, I’ll give you fifty dollars,” said Nachman, regretful and anxious. It became worse when Horace said, “I made the bet. I lose, I lose. Any other day but today, Nachman. Any other day.”

“What?”

“I wouldn’t have done it.”

“You did the right thing,” said Nachman, bluffing, unable to shut up. “When Frenchy wins, you’ll make a thousand dollars.”

“I don’t need a thousand dollars.”

“What do you need?”

Horace didn’t answer, which made things still worse. Apparently, the race now meant a great deal to him. The race was on. Nachman had to force himself to look.

The pack bunched up coming out of the gate and stayed tight until Night Flower took the lead. Nachman couldn’t see Frenchy, but he heard the announcer say Frenchy was running fifth. Nachman stared strictly at the horses. He thought he could feel Horace glance at him. Then the announcer said Frenchy was coming up through the pack, running fourth, running third. Camille began screaming, “Frenchy, Frenchy,” as the horses came into the stretch. Horace placed his fists on the rail and hammered it slowly, methodically. Nachman looked at him, hoping for a connection, anticipating Horace’s disappointment and maybe anger. Frenchy couldn’t win. At least he looked better than usual, thought Nachman. Horace’s face showed nothing, but Nachman saw terrible intensity in his fists. In the stretch, Frenchy pulled ahead fast and won by three lengths.

Nachman said, “Thank God.”

Horace was grinning and shaking his head. “I don’t believe it.”

“Believe it. Frenchy could have won by more,” said Nachman with a knowing tone.

“He won good enough.”

Horace took Camille’s hand, then headed off to collect his winnings. He glanced back and nodded, and his eyes said thanks to Nachman.

Nachman went toward the exit. He’d bet intuitively on Night Flower. The horse came in last. As he entered the vast parking lot, he stopped to light a cigarette and collect himself. People streamed by on either side. Then Nachman heard his name called and saw Horace coming toward him through the crowd with Camille.

Horace said, “I don’t believe I said thanks.”

“Please don’t mention it. I’m glad I could help.”

“How’d you know he’d win?”

“A feeling.”

“Don’t give me that jive, Nachman. You knew something, didn’t you?”

“I had a strong feeling.”

“You had a strong feeling.”

“Yes.”

“Maybe you had a strong feeling, but I think it wasn’t about a horse. It was about me. I needed a sign and you gave it to me. Maybe the Lord sent you and you don’t even know that, but I appreciate what you did, and I thank you.”

“Everything is going to be all right,” said Nachman, overwhelmed by affection and sympathy. He wanted to hug Horace, but he hardly knew the man. Besides, the affection he felt was mainly for himself. Nachman said again, “Everything is going to be all right.”

“I know it is.”

They shook hands, said goodbye. Nachman walked away purposively, like a soldier. You could even say he marched, exhilarated, down a long aisle of cars, feeling too much to think clearly. He’d mistrusted his system, but it had been right, which was wonderful, if somewhat unnerving. Maybe he was a better mathematician than he knew. When he got home he would take pencil and paper to the numbers, try to figure out what happened. No. Best to leave well enough alone. Nachman suddenly realized he was marching aimlessly, not purposively. He didn’t remember at all where he’d parked. There were thousands of cars. He was confused, helpless as a lost child, and yet no less happy. Sooner or later his car would turn up. The feeling wasn’t so bad, the feeling of being lost.