Dear Old Boy

On Friday afternoons, Isabelle’s dad took her to the Monmouth Race Track, where she sat at the bar picking ponies and her dad smoked pack after pack of Pall Mall Reds. It was August and they had rented a house on the beach in Point Pleasant, too far from Atlantic City to get there and back without being missed. Izzie was supposed to be at swimming lessons, which her mother was forcing her to take at the Community Pool. She preferred the smell of horses to chlorine, the way their shiny calves kicked up small explosions of dirt. The bar her dad drank at was VIP only, a bright but windowless room where they gave her free food and sodas. She liked being alone with her dad, who was spending more time down the shore that summer than he usually did. Before he worked at a big law firm in Secaucus, but now he had stopped going to court and instead wandered up to Trenton once or twice a week to look for cases.

“I need a horse for the fourth,” her dad said. He’d cashed his entire pay check. His face was red and his hair was white.

“Come on, we’ve only got ten minutes.” He threw back his gin martini and slurped on the olives, juice running down his lips. Race three and already he was counting his money and ordering two drinks at once. Izzie sat on the stool beside him, wearing a bathing suit, shorts, and flip flops that she let dangle off the tips of her feet.

“Don’t rush me, Daddy. I’m trying to pick.” He seemed more anxious than usual. She could tell that they needed a win. She tapped the racing form with a miniature pencil. Her system for choosing involved the number of letters in each horse’s name (twelve to fifteen), the odds against them (not too low or high), and whether or not the jockey shared a name with someone she knew (especially Chris or John, the smartest boys in her fourth grade class).

“I’m feeling lucky, baby,” he said. “But don’t tell anyone. That’s just between you and me.” Her dad had other kids, grown-up ones, but she was the only one he ever called “baby.” Everyone else he called “kid,” even her half brother who was forty and had two kids of his own.

The cigarette in his ash tray had burned itself out and her dad lit another one. Three heart attacks, he liked to brag. One for every wife. She knew he wasn’t feeling lucky. Her dad was bad at hiding things. She liked that about him, because you never had to wonder if he was lying or telling the truth. Izzie stared down at the racing form. If they were up at the end of the day, her dad would give her twenty dollars and bring a present home to her mom. If they lost, he’d drop her off at the beach house and disappear for a couple of days. On those nights, Izzie slept in her parents’ bedroom, applying frozen spoons to her mom’s eyes to help with the puffiness. Her mom cried and told her things: about money and her dad’s drinking, all the things she wanted to do when she was young but hadn’t.

“Only three minutes left to bet,” her dad said, pulling an ice cube out of his drink and running it across his cheeks.

The horse Izzie wanted was all wrong. Too few letters in his name, the odds too high. But he was the one.

“I’ve got it, Dear Old Boy,” Izzie said.

“Who you calling old?” Her dad laughed, sweating through his oversized sports coat. Sometimes she pretended to be cold so that she could borrow it. It smelled like Old Spice and always had bits of tobacco and loose Tic Tacs in the pockets. Other times there were index cards with numbers and percentages. Her dad was good at Math and English, pretty much all of the subjects she studied in school[jkm1] .

“No, that’s the horse that’s going to win. Dear Old Boy. He’s gonna make it.”

“Dear Old Boy,” her dad repeated. “A long shot. I like it.” He patted the top of her head, then gave the bartender twenty dollars to watch her while he went to place his bet. After buying his tickets at the window, her dad always stopped at a different bar and had a quick drink there, a good luck ritual. He rarely got drunk at the track though. You could always tell when her dad was drunk because he answered everything with “exactly.” It was a trick her mom had taught her.

She hoped her dad would win, but she knew it was something they couldn’t control, like earthquakes and tornadoes. Last year, the Challenger rocket had exploded while they watched at school, an orange fire that flashed and then disappeared into dust and white smoke. Her parents weren’t there when it happened. The embers trailed down the sky like fireworks set off in the daytime.

Izzie pulled out her ponytail, leaving a deep brown dent in her hair where the elastic used to be. The bar was ugly, but she liked it. It had a sticky floor, a big-screen T.V., and carpeted walls that she sometimes rubbed up against to scratch her peeling sunburn. The leather booths were red like vampire blood, but comfortable to nap on, and Mike put her in charge of replacing the coasters and menus that were stained. She’d never seen another kid in the bar, which in the afternoon was filled mostly with older men and a couple of women in bright blouses who laughed a lot and were always pinching her cheeks. There weren’t many kids on their street that summer either, and she spent most of her time twirling a baton on the loose gravel of their driveway. She wanted to be a twirler, even though her half sister Renee said they got picked on in high school. Every now and then when she threw the baton the metal rod got lost in the sunlight and smacked her right in the face.

“Hey little lady,” the bartender said. He poured her a Shirley Temple. “Light syrup, extra cherries, right?” She nodded. Mike looked older every time she came, so old it made her sad he was still working. “How about a sherbet?” he asked. Mike was always trying to feed her sherbet, rich orange cream that gave her a headache when she ate it too fast.

“O.k.” She forced a smile. The smell of moldy water was blowing out from behind the bar, and everyone was looking up at the T.V., waiting for the official results of the last race. Sometimes Izzie and her dad watched the races from the private boxes upstairs, but through the glass things were so small that you couldn’t make out what was happening, just plastic horses with army men on them racing around a pool of green. Track-level was her favorite, drinking iced tea under green and white striped umbrellas, the horses warming up by walking in circles on miniature tracks of sand.

Izzie blew bubbles into her drink, because her mom wasn’t there to stop her. The next time he tries to take you to that track, her mom said, Scream your bloody head off. That was a few weeks ago, the last time they lost big. Afterwards, her parents got into a fight at the Chinese Garden Restaurant, and they had to leave before she even got to crack open her fortune cookies.

“I didn’t mean it,” her mom told her later that night, “When I said I hated your father.” Her dad had gone and the two of them were in bed together, Izzie handing her mom tissues and picking the caramels out of a Russell Stover Box. “I don’t hate him,” she whispered, and handed Izzie a bitten piece of strawberry nougat, her favorite.

Izzie wanted to tell her dad this but hadn't gotten a chance to. She hoped he would come back soon. They’d be in big trouble if he lost and this time she might get in trouble too, for liking the track and the bar and the way that people yelled “go, baby go,” then moaned and tore their tickets before throwing them to the ground. Once she picked one up and it turned out to be a winner. Fifty dollars. Her dad let her keep it.

“You must be Isabelle,” a voice said behind her. She twirled slightly on her stool. Beside her was a short guy with thick muscles that bulged through the sleeves of his shirt. He was old, but his hair wasn’t gray yet. “It’s nice to meet you,” he said, “I’m Nick,” and reached out a sweaty hand. Izzie looked down at it.

“I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” she said, and swiveled back towards the bar.

“I’m not a stranger,” the man said. “I’m a friend of the family.”

“Then what’s the password?”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m only allowed to talk to strangers if they know the special password.” Her mom had gotten the idea from a pamphlet. Their password was banana-daiquiri.

The bartender came walking back with a melting bowl of sherbet. Mike handed it to her and turned towards the man.

“I don’t want any trouble,” Mike said.

“I’ll have a scotch and soda. Light on the ice.”

Mike stared at the man for a moment, then blinked. “Sure thing Nick,” he finally said. Mike placed the scotch down on the bar top, and then lingered, looking at Izzie.

“We’ll call you if we need anything,” Nick said, and handed him a hundred-dollar bill. Mike walked away slowly, crossing his arms at the end of the bar. He nodded towards Izzie, as if this guy was alright to talk to.

“So where’d your grand-dad go? To make a bet?”

“He’s dead.”

“What?”

“My grandfather’s dead. I never met him. I’m here with my dad.” People made that mistake all the time, especially her teachers, if they happened to meet him. He was bad at going to stuff like school shows and dance recitals, but Izzie didn’t mind so much. You couldn’t see the audience from the stage anyway. It was too dark[jkm2] .

“Dave’s your dad?” Nick smacked his palm on his leg. “I should’ve figured...that young wife of his. I saw the announcement in the paper a while back. Your mom’s a beautiful woman.”

Izzie shrugged. This guy talked fast. It made her nervous, the way he kept twitching and wiping his nose.

“You just don’t see women like that with guys who aren’t rich, you know? No, I suppose you wouldn’t. Anyway, I guess things were different back in...Say how old are you?”

“Ten.”

“Ten! Time flies. I’ve known your dad a long time, Isabelle. Longer than he’s known himself.” Nick shook his empty glass in the air and Mike brought him another scotch. Izzie took a bite of her sherbet, wondering what Nick meant, if it was possible that her parents had known her longer than she had known herself, if they knew things about her she didn’t. She scratched at the tag inside the collar of her t-shirt. Her mom was supposed to cut them out, but even when she did there was always a section left, a sharp line that rubbed against her skin.

“So what grade are you in, Isabelle?” Nick was sitting down beside her now and she curled to the opposite side of her stool.

“I’m going into fifth.”

“You come here with your dad a lot?” He twirled the diamond ring on his thick finger.

“Yeah. I pick the horses.”

He laughed. “I suppose your dad could use a little luck. You good at picking ponies, Isabelle?”

“Win some, lose some,” she said. Nick laughed again.

“You’re a funny fucking kid, you know that?”

She scratched her neck again.

“Lean forward,” he said, and ripped the tag right out of her shirt, smoothly, in one clean tug, so that there was nothing but thread left. “I’m from Atlantic City,” he said. “You ever been there?”

“They don’t let me sit at the tables. I have to stand behind my dad and watch.”

“Where’s your mom during all of this?”

“On the beach. Or sleeping.” Why was he asking her all of these questions. He seemed interested. Adults were never that interested.

On[jkm3] T.V. the fourth race was still being delayed, because a horse had decided to lay down on the track. There was something wrong with its leg.

“That’s a shame,” Nick says. “They’re gonna have to put it down.”

“You mean kill it?”

“Yep. That’s what they do when a horse breaks its leg. They shoot it.”

“I knew that.” She took another sip of her Shirley Temple. “But what about the rest of it?” she asked. “The rest of the horse is still good.”

“It’s only the legs that count, dear.”

Izzie looked down at her feet.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “It won’t suffer. They do it because it’s best for the horse.” He inched his stool closer towards her. She kind of liked it, the way he stayed so close, leaning his forearm on the bar while they watched the horses on T.V. Her father never leaned that close. If he did, she might be able to tell him the things she knew.

“Can I tell you something?”

“Anything, dear.”

She wanted to tell Nick that the plants at the beach house were going unwatered. That she’d grown out of most of her clothes, and her father had switched from green glass bottles of Tanqueray to clear plastic ones with plain white labels. They were hidden everywhere: in closets, under beds, mixed in with her toys. Whenever Izzie found one she dumped half out and filled it back up with water. If her dad was at home her mom went out, and vice versa. Her mom cried. When her dad was gone for days Izzie worried he might not come back.

“I’m not a very good swimmer,” she said. “I always feel like I’m sinking.”

“Cement in your shoes,” Nick laughed. “A lot of people have that problem.”

She wasn’t sure what he meant but didn’t want to ask him. When he laughed his teeth looked chipped and yellow. Izzie’s t-shirt was hanging off her shoulder a bit, and he reached out, moving her bathing suit strap to the side so that you could see the white lines underneath. She shifted in her seat. Strangers weren’t supposed to touch you.

“That’s some tan you have there. I heard you guys were down the shore for the summer. Where abouts?

“Further down from here.”

“What town? Manasquon?”

“Pt. Pleasant.”

“Do you know what street?”

“Ocean Ave.”

“The whole town’s Ocean Avenue, kid. What number?” She didn’t know the address, and didn’t think she should tell him. The lights in the bar had gotten brighter and she could see dots of dark concealer covering brown spots on his face. Men weren’t supposed to wear makeup. Her dad didn’t.

“How do you know my dad again?”

“He used to be my lawyer. Years ago.” Nick rubbed his nose. “Then he got in a bit over his head. He almost went to jail, did you know that?”

“I don’t think that’s true.” Jail was for men who wore dirty clothes and hung outside the 7-11. Men who had no families and tried to lure you into their cars[jkm4] .

“There are a lot of things you don’t know about your dad.” He wiped his nose again like it was running, when it wasn’t. “He had a whole other life before you came along. Did you ever think about that?”

There was something wrong about this guy. You couldn’t tell when he was lying.

“Does my dad know you’re here?”

“He wouldn’t have left you alone if he did.”

She felt sweaty. The lights in the bar flickered off, then right back on, the way they did at school when the teacher wanted them to be quiet.

“Little Isabelle. I bet your Dad just dotes on you.”

She could smell his breath now, hot dogs and onions from the concession stand. She caught eyes with Mike at the end of the bar, and he moved closer to them, started wiping a shelf that already looked clean. On T.V., the horses were finally lining up for the fourth race. She felt like she might cry.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” she said. Nick pressed his leg against her stool so that she couldn’t turn it.

“After the race is over.” One of her flip flops fell onto the ground.

“My dad will be back soon.” She looked up and saw Dear Old Boy on the screen. Number Seven. The jockey was in red and the horse was in yellow.

“Good. I want to tell him something.” Nick’s face was different now. There was a vein in his forehead that made him look blue. He gripped her leg.

“Go away!” she screamed. “I don’t know you.”

Mike bolted over. “What’s going on over here?”

“I’ll tell you when this gets to be your business, Mike.” Nick pointed his finger at him and he took a step back.

“That means get the hell out of here.” Mike glances down the bar like he’s forgotten something important, then walks away[jkm5] .

The gates were closed. The horses were waiting for the bell. Izzie started to cry.

“Nick?” Her dad came up behind them, his face flushed with blood. He looked at Izzie. “What the hell is going on here?”

“You won’t come to me, I come to you,” said Nick.

The bell rang and the race was off. The jockeys whipped, raising their butts and arching their backs like cats about to swoop. Her dad and Nick moved closer to each other.

Dear Old Boy, she chanted to herself. Breathless and dripping with water, he looked tired, just keeping up with the back of the pack.

“Go, baby go!” Izzie screamed. “Go Dear Old Boy!”

Nick was yelling at her father. He was shorter but he was pointing and yelling at her father.

“We can work something out,” her dad said. A piece of his hair was stuck up with sweat and his jacket was missing.

“That[jkm6] ring is all you’ve got left.”

“I’m not getting divorced.”

“That’s the least of your problems.” He poked her dad in the chest. It looked like it hurt.

“Do you think I’m some kind of schmuck?” Nick asked.

“Exactly,” her dad said, and took a breath of his Pall Mall. He caught eyes with Izzie and she smiled.

“What did you say?” Nick pushed him. Gin splashed onto the ground and her dad stared down at his empty glass. Then he did something strange. He gripped the glass and smashed it against the bar, then holding the bloody stem he pressed himself against Nick and whispered something in his ear, his lips so close she thought he might kiss him. Nick glanced over at her. There was blood on his shirt.

Then, in the corner of the screen, she saw Dear Old Boy coming up the outside. Whip, whip, gallop. The jockey’s cap flew off and bounced away in the bright sun. He was almost ahead now, and everyone in the bar was yelling. They rounded the last curve[jkm7] .

“Go! Go! Go!” she screamed. “Go number seven!” and everything went dark. The T.V., the lights, the bar--they all went black with a whimper. Bottles and glasses crashed to the ground.

“Stay calm,” Mike said. “It’s just a blackout.”

For a moment, everyone was quiet. Izzie had never been alone in the dark before. Just in her own room or her mom’s, where she could remember the order of things, feel around until she knew exactly where she was. She got up on her stool and tried to stare through it, but it was nothing but shadows and voices. Her dad was lost. She climbed over the bar top, knocking over a few glasses before jumping down onto the moist mat. The bar was their secret password. He should know to go back where they started.

But what about the horses? It was daytime, but all she could see was a family of horses piling up in the darkness, the clatter of hooves against heads, the tiny child-like jockeys ripped open, their insides everywhere. The horses were tangled together like one giant animal, twisting until their legs snapped like fortune cookies cracking open, and Izzie was stuck in the pack now too, wrangling with [jkm8] Dear Old Boy. Then the two of them limped away, his skin shining as the moon came out from behind the clouds. [jkm9]

Izzie crawled down under the counter beside a dirty keg of beer. The rubber mat dug shapes into her knees and she touched everything around her: bottles coated with sticky dust, the sharp metal edges that held them, even the air above her thick with mold and murmuring voices. She lifted up her hands and waved them through it. A shadow moved.

“Banana daiquiri,” she whispered. A bloody hand reached over and gripped her in the dark.