Jane Smiley - Golden Age

When Jessica returned, she said that the Smithsonian was closed and groups of Chinese tourists were standing disconsolately at the door. Richie had Jessica’s favorite old Steve Martin movie, Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid , which she had seen seven times before she turned eighteen, in the DVD player and ready to go. He grabbed her, pulled her down on the couch, and held her as tightly as he could. If he had still been in Congress, he hoped he would have been thinking about the Grand Concourse and Prospect Park. But he wasn’t.

And so Sandy ushered in Obama’s second term. Michael was on the phone to Richie even as Karl Rove was yammering on in disbelief that, according to Michael, the fix wasn’t in after all. “Look at him! Now that blonde is walking through the studio to talk to the numbers guys. What a surprise, except not to everyone outside the bubble. I always thought Rove was a prick!” He started laughing and hung up. Jerry Nadler, of course, had been re-elected, and a Democrat had replaced Richie’s replacement. Earnest graduate of NYU, master’s in social work, career in nonprofits, idealist, not the type of candidate Vito Lopez would have embraced, but, thanks to feeling up his office help, old Vito looked done for at this point. It was almost midnight. Jessica had fallen asleep on the couch with her feet in his lap. He took off one of her slippers and tickled her. When she opened her eyes, she said, “He won, didn’t he?”

“He did, sweetie. He did. The Super PACs don’t seem to have bought themselves a thing.”

Jessica yawned, and said, “Maybe it’s going to be all right, then.”

“I think that’s up to Ezra and Chance at this point.”

Jessica said, “Don’t leave out Leo. He’s got a lot on the ball.”

“That was complete do-it-yourself.”

“What isn’t?” said Jessica.

EMILY WAS STILL in the ring, teaching a six-year-old boy who could sit on his pony but couldn’t get him to turn left or right. Fiona stood leaning against the gate, watching Emily do her best imitation of Mrs. Herman — talk a lot, be encouraging, demonstrate a few things, let the child find his way, but keep your eye out for pony misbehavior. Champ, who was a small pony, only twelve hands, was not as agreeable as Pesky had been, but he was good enough if the instructor carried a whip. The first thing Fiona said when the boy was finished was “What is your cousin Chance doing these days?”

“Ranch work, I guess.”

“Get him to come down here. I want to learn something new.”

Fiona never said “please” or “thank you”—too many years of giving lessons.

So Emily texted the last number anyone had for Chance, and two days later, he e-mailed her. The first time he came down, he rode four of Fiona’s young horses each day for three days; he rode six the second time. Fiona paid him a hundred dollars a horse, offered more, and said the safety factor was worth it. It was interesting to Emily just to watch. One horse, Dulcet, was talented but spooky. She rarely ran, but she often flinched. When Emily exercised her, the flinching was startling and distracting. Emily would worry that something worse might happen. It never did, but Dulcet was not progressing quickly — she was seven now, had never been to a show. Fiona had decided that, at sixty-five, she was too old to fall off, but Dulcet was beautiful and talented. When Chance worked her, he did nothing wild or cowboylike — he just gently solicited her attention over and over, reminded her to trot a circle, or square a corner, or whatever the exercise was. Fiona got on and did the same, and within a day or two, Dulcet was much more relaxed. Just before Chance got into his truck to leave, Fiona hugged him and gave him a kiss on the cheek. She said, “I am going to pretend that you look like Tim”; then she hugged him again and said, “Charlie, too.”

The second time he came, Chance worked with one of Fiona’s very bad horses, one she’d gotten as payment for lots of missed board bills, who would buck hard and keep bucking. With Chance on his back, every buck led to the horse’s quietly spiraling, his back legs stepping over and over, until he sighed and gave it up. At dinner, where Emily talked about it to Chance, where he used words like “mindful” and “redirect,” Emily had to admit that she had sort of fallen in love with him, or maybe she was abandoning years of disdain. She could not help comparing him, just a little, with the lawyer she was idly dating, two years older than she was, who shopped only at Whole Foods, always took his shoes off when he entered his house, and chopped vegetables wearing latex gloves. His name was Corey, and Emily had really wanted to find him compelling for six or seven months, but when he rolled his socks together before they had sex, somehow the thrill was gone. She and Chance started idly e-mailing.

Fiona told her that, once upon a time, all the best riding horses came off the track — they were fit and mostly sound and ready to try something new. Those days were gone; Fiona’s stable was full of Holsteiners and Hanoverians, most of them bred in Europe, but all old horsemen had a lingering fondness for Thoroughbreds they had known, rangy with lots of bone, nice ones related to Hyperion, Prince John, and Eight Thirty, or tough ones related to Nearco. It was early April. Fiona sent them to the Santa Anita Derby, but she didn’t go with them.

Chance knew all about the racing drug scandals and the footing controversy. Both of them had been riding horses too long to be surprised by much, but Emily did say, “That’s why I’ve never been here.”

“Why do you expect people to be honest?”

She almost said, “Because Fiona is,” but she didn’t. Chance might have said, “How do you know?” There was a lot about every aspect of their lives that Emily knew it was wiser not to delve into. Instead, she said, “If you don’t expect them to be honest, does that make you honest?”

He said, “So far, never had to be otherwise.”

Emily believed him.

They found their seats before the fillies’ race, the Oaks, only six horses in the race, and not exciting, because the filly who broke first and went from the outside to the rail just kept running, and the others, no matter how hard they tried, could not get close to her. She had a steady, long stride and a determined attitude that Emily admired. She said, “That was a good race. No drama.”

“She’s not even three, really,” said Chance. “Nicely built.”

He acted restless, shifting in his chair as if the chair didn’t fit him. Emily said, “Let’s walk down by the rail. It looks more fun down there.”

When they went through the betting hall, Emily was most impressed by the guys at tables, pencils behind their ears, intently staring at screens, their Racing Form s and programs spread out around them. Chance asked if she wanted to place a bet. She looked at her program and said, “Why am I drawn to Dirty Swagg?”

“Who isn’t?” said Chance. “But let’s have a look at the animals, just to pretend that we know something.”

They walked out into the sunny paddock area, Emily behind Chance. She saw people look at him and smile — he did look graceful and horsey, but tall, not of the racetrack. He was not wearing his cowboy hat, just a baseball cap, but he was wearing his boots. A couple of girls scanned him up and down, then looked at Emily and turned away. Emily was amused.

At the rail of the walking ring, her eye went straight to the gray — pale head, beautiful dapples, tall and muscular — Flashback, said the program, the favorite, 6/5 odds. Dirty Swagg was 30/1, but he was handsome. Emily would happily take him when he was retired, and keep his name, which was a good name for a jumper.