Because It Is Bitter, and Because It Is My Heart Page 8

  Like Persia, Iris has cultivated a hardness of heart, a cuticle to protect her heart, against such places: the mysterious places to which Duke Courtney is drawn. Yet here, like Persia herself, she is suddenly weakened. Is there anywhere on earth more...

  unearthly?

  PRIVATE-MEMBERS AND THEIR GUESTS ONLY hangs in commanding slick-white letters outside the tinted glass doors of the clubhouse cocktail lounge. But Duke Courtney is a guest of course.

  Duke Courtney, guiding his wife and daughter, pushes on happily through.

  A good deal of money is going to change hands here today.

  Duke Courtney's host Mr. Yard, Duke Courtney's new friend, millionaire Standardbred breeder and owner from Pennsylvania, the gentleman with the clubhouse privileges and the wide wet porcelain-white smile, nearly bald, shiny-headed, in a striped lemon-and-gold blazer with brass buttons and a red carnation in his lapel, this nerved-up gregarious man paces about rubbing his hands briskly together as if in anticipation of the fact that it will be those hands... those very hands...

  into which some of the money will fall. With a happy sigh he says, "That's the one sure thing! The one absolutely incontestable and unavoidable sure thing! A good deal of money is going to change hands here today."

  Duke has explained to Persia and Iris that Mr. Yard is the owner of several horses, the most promising a two-year-old trotter named Lodestar, entered in the Eastern Sires race, for which the first-prize purse is $45,000. Naturally, Duke has bet on Lodestar, a combination bet-in which, should the horse win, place, or show Duke stands to win-"a reasonable bet, a friendly bet, not at all excessive," as he assures Persia. Though Lodestar isn't the favorite, though the odds are 4 to 1 against his beating out the favorite, he's clearly one of the most promising horses, since his track time has averaged 1.59 and has been steadily improving. In the car driving to Schoharie, Duke and Persia spoke together quietly, carefully, gently, of numerous things, things of the sort Iris might be allowed to hear, felt herself in fact meant to hear, and only when Duke parked their car in the massive parking lot behind Schoharie Downs did Persia ask how much he'd bet.

  Duke said, "Only one hundred dollars. Cross my heart."

  And he'd turned to wink at Iris.

  Mr. Yard, Mr. Calvin Yard, whom Duke has described as warm and unpretentious and "wholly democratic" despite his wealth, is with a party of some fifteen people, drinking and talking and laughing together in the cocktail lounge, when the Courtneys appear. It's flattering: he does seem to be genuinely happy to see Duke Courtney, to shake hands with him as if they were old friends, as if Duke were a younger brother perhaps, and to meet Duke's wife and daughter. "Here they are, Cal-my girls! My Persia, and my Iris!" Iris feels her father's hand at the small of her back, nudging.

  With Iris, Mr. Yard is warm and courteous; with Persia, Mr. Yard is warm and exuberant, grasping her hand, staring at her, murmuring, "Persia Courtney-at last! My dear, I've heard so much about you." Mr. Yard is in his mid-sixties, thick-necked, with small pinkrimmed eyes, a kindly mouth, no wife or immediate family in attendance; and Persia Courtney, though not entirely relaxed, far from her usual party self, manages to smile prettily, if a bit archly.

  'Ah-I'd better not ask what."

  Mr. Yard throws his head back and bawls with laughter. It's the kind of happy human sound others just naturally echo.

  October 6, 1955: a week to the day since Duke Courtney has moved back to the Holland Street flat. Not all his things are there yet-his things are scattered throughout Hammond, it seemsbut he's there..

  .

  in his rightful place, as he says. Where his heart has been all along.

  As he says.

  A black waiter neatly uniformed in white brings drinks to Mr. Yard's party; not long afterward, he returns with more drinks..

  that same waiter or another. There are several black waiters and it's easy to confuse them in their uniforms; a uniform has the effect of making individuals look alike but with these clubhouse waiters it's their manner too, their coolness inside their friendly smiles, Yes, sir, No, sir, Right, sir! Iris notes that all the clubhouse patrons are white, all the waiters black. If Schoharie Downs is like other tracks Duke has taken her to there will be few black faces in the stands, no black drivers.

  Iris once asked Duke why, and Duke's answer came quick and glib: They'd be out of place, sweetie.

  Iris notes too that, of the men in the cocktail lounge, her father is surely the most attractive... as Persia, even in her subdued mood, is surely the most attractive woman. Energy seems to shimmer from Duke like heat waves above a summer highway; an interior radiance glitters in his eyes, not icy now. Duke Courtney is the man in any group who shakes hands most vigorously and happily... a man who is most himself when shaking hands or causing hands to be shaken in his presence.

  And laughter: there's always laughter in Duke Courtney's presence.

  Now Duke sees Iris watching him, winks, and flashes her the high sign.

  .. thumb and forefinger forming a little 0.

  To Iris's surprise her father comes over to join her where she's standing alone, lonely seeming, by a plate glass window overlooking the track.

  "Been missing my little girl, all this time," Duke says, "those months.

  Like a piece of my heart was bitten out, y'know?"

  Though Duke doesn't sound sad: sounds very cheerful, in fact.

  It's the racetrack high. Iris has heard Duke speak of it, even philosophize about it: a definite sensation, in the chest, guts, groin.

  Oh, yes.

  In the car, as they'd left Hammond and approached Schoharie, Duke had begun to hum under his breath, hum and sing a bit as, around the house, in good moods and bad, Persia so often sings.

  my heart is aglow!"

  Duke repeats he's missed his little girl so much but Iris can't think of a single word to say in response, her brain seems to be struck blank: here's Daddy squeezing her against him with an arm slung around her shoulders so her heart quickens with pleasure sharp as dread, Daddy's big gold Masonic ring prominent amid the gold-glinting hairs of his knuckles, and she's tongue-tied; he's a little hurt but teasing.

  "It sure doesn't sound as if my best baby missed me."

  Iris mumbles yes of course she did, yes Daddy of course.

  Duke doesn't hear, so she has to repeat it. "Yes, Daddy. Of course.

  The past several months have been "knotty" times, Duke says.

  As Iris knows. Working his ass off, driving that canon commission, no salary-in the hick regions of the state. But he's determined to get that load of debt off his shoulders and begin again; he'll make it up to Iris, to Iris and Iris's mother, she knows that, doesn't she?

  Iris says yes she knows It.

  Duke says, lowering his voice as if imparting a secret, "Sometimes, honey, it's the hardest thing on earth, I'd say it was the most courageous thing, to keep your distance from the very people you love more than your own life. Because you can love too much and you can do injury with your love, lose sight of proportion, perspective. Someday when you're older you'll understand." They are standing at the window; Duke's attention is being drawn down to the track where, in their colorful silks, more drivers are warming up their horses. The grandstand is nearly filled, there's movement everywhere. A sky lightly feathered with clouds. Even through the plate glass the tension of the racetrack can be felt like the quickening before an electrical storm.

  Iris is startled by the sudden shift in her father's voice: "Can't you at least look at me? Here I am for Christ's sake baring my heart to you and... you can't even look at me?" Laughing, annoyed.

  "Bad as your mother."

  Iris says, "I am looking at you, Daddy."

  It's true, however, that Duke Courtney's daughter's eyes are narrowed and cold beneath those straight pale eyebrows: icy seagreen-gray so like his own.

  It's possible that both father and daughter are remembering the identical episode: one vague morning in Duke Courtney's life about a year
ago when he came to consciousness on the living room sofa aware of a presence in the room silent and watchful.

  watching him... and only after a confused period of time (minutes?

  an hour?) did he realize that this presence was his own daughter, his little girl Iris: standing some feet away staring at him, wordless and detached with an almost clinical absorption in the struggle of a badly hung-over man to come to his senses, and he'd mumbled, Iris? Honey?

  Can you give your old man just a... just a hand? because it seemed to him he needed only to be sitting up, his full strength and rationality would flood back if he were only sitting up, but Iris hadn't responded, she stood her ground just watching, wordless and terrible in her detachment, and when he finally managed to get his eyes open and sit up it was a long time afterward and the room was empty, the apartment empty, both Iris and Persia were gone... his little girl gone.

  Slipped away from him in his hour of need, without a sound.

  Duke Courtney stares at his thin-faced pretty daughter wondering if she has begun to menstruate yet. Has Persia informed him?

  Should he know? Or has he forgotten much that he should know?

  With his subtle seductive reproachful air Duke glances over at Persia, says, "Your mother at least seems to be enjoying herself," and then, when Iris merely nods, Iris can't think of any response so she merely nods, Duke says, "This might be a special day, honey. A day to remember. Might just be that Daddy has a nice little surprise up his sleeve." Now Iris's interest is quickened; he presses a forefinger against his lips and against hers. "But I don't want your mother to suspect. I want to watch her face... so don't breathe a word."

  Iris asks, "What is it? What surprise?"

  "Uh-uh, sweetie. Mum's the word."

  "Daddy, tell me."

  Duke hugs her and turns her away from the crowd, saying, as if this were the true subject of their conversation, "You know I love you, Iris, don't you? You and your mother both?"

  "Yes, Daddy."

  "No matter the knotty times we've gone through, the three of us? No matter the... bad things your mother might have told you, about me?"

  Iris's eyes are downcast, shy.

  "Guess she's told you some things about me, huh? No need to go into details."

  Iris says nothing.

  Duke is talking, talking with passion yet in a way vaguely, as if, even as he speaks, he is thinking of other things; his attention is on other things. Turning his nearly empty glass of Scotch so that the melting ice cubes shift and tinkle like dice. "Law of nature, Darwinian evolution... the family, genetic unit. And a law of human morality.

  Blood. Bloodlines. Connections between people...

  their actual physical selves... bodies Iris wants to ask what the surprise is, the surprise that's a secret, but she knows better than to interrupt.

  Down on the sunny track one of the horses suddenly breaks stride; he'd been pacing and now he's cantering, he's veering and plunging but his driver is strong-wristed and brings him back into control.

  As Duke Courtney has said about races and horses and breeding, that's all it's about: control.

  "You understand, don't you? My love for my family has always come first. I'd kill any man who tried to interfere with my family, any man that ever... it's just that life sometimes fights life."

  This peculiar remark hovers in the air; Iris Courtney will remember it forever life sometimes fights life-even as Duke Courtney's voice lifts, evaporates. In the midst of his urgency he's staring out the window-who can blame him?-those beautiful trotters and pacers, the drivers in their bright silks, the impending races.

  And the crowd in the grandstand: thousands of excited men and women, strangers, shimmering and winking particles of light, a hive of featureless faces, souls, It's just the world, Duke Courtney seems to be telling his daughter, the world's infinite richness, and you a single heartbeat among so many.

  Iris says smartly, on the edge of insolence but not quite, "Of course I understand, I'm not a total fool."

  * * * Their seats for the afternoon of racing are in a specially reserved area of the clubhouse section, courtesy of Mr. Calvin Yard.

  Directly above the finish line, the blinding autumn sun comfortably at their backs. The best seats at Schoharie Downs.

  "Great, huh? These seats? So aren't you glad you came, lion, instead of... moping around at home?"

  Privilege gives a harsh tawny flare to Duke Courtney's eyes.

  He's a gentleman who takes no favors for granted and never forgets a friend... or an enemy.

  Persia says, "Yes. I suppose.

  Persia has always feared the racetrack atmosphere, it goes so swiftly to her head. Like a Bloody Mary before noon: that innocent tarty tomato taste, the terrible thrumming kick beneath. Before you know it every old vexation in your blood has turned to mere bubbles that pop." pop." pop."

  But Persia laughs; Persia is beginning to enjoy herself.

  Iris sits beside her gnawing at a thumbnail as the preliminary races pass loosed and uncontrolled as dreams. The speed of horses' bodies is always a sobering sight: the thudding hooves, the straining heads and necks. In the second race, at the half-mile point, a horse in the midst of the thunderous pack wobbles sideways and in an instant there's a tangle of horses, bikes, drivers..

  . the stands ripple with little screams... Iris hides her eyes.

  The spill involves three horses; there are Injuries, a medical team in attendance.

  In a gesture both grandiloquent and resigned, Duke Courtney tears up his ticket for that race, lets the green pieces flutter away in the wind.

  Persia casually inquires, "How much did you lose?"

  In a navy blue sheath with a wide-shouldered little jacket, in a hat with a graceful scalloped brim and a single cloth gardenia, warm skin, red mouth, something stark and scared about the eyes, Persia Courtney is going to be tactful with her husband, and she is going to be careful with her husband... knowing now that she loves him, loves him more than life itself.

  Plunging his life into her, tearing open her body between the legs.

  We're fated.

  These are small pari-mutuel bets, Duke assures her. Token bets of $35, $50. His only true interest of the afternoon is the Eastern States Sires race... that is, his interest conjoining with Mr. Yard's: Lodestar. Lodestar and what he might, he just might, do this afternoon on the 'track. A colt wl"o broke two rnin'rte5 at his first qualifying heat, Mho5e sire is a Hambletonian winner and whose dam is... how many thousands of dollars, hundreds of thousands, perhaps even millions, might a horse of such quality earn for his owners? Duke stabs at his upper lip with a forefinger. "If only I had the money to invest, if only I'd acted in time..

  "How long have you known Cal Yard?" Persia asks.

  "Oh, not long," Duke says. Then, shifting his shoulders inside his linen blazer, "Long enough."

  Persia's thoughts, loosened by alcohol, are adrift: there's the October rent to be paid... there's last month's utility bill.

  payment on the new car (1953 Mercury bought secondhand from a man Persia knows at work)... payments on the old debt...

  life insurance, hospital insurance, dental work for all three of them.

  a new winter coat for Iris since the old is shabby and humiliating and the water heater is always breaking down and if their landlord won't pay to have it repaired... Persia sighs. "Oh, shit."

  A silver flask, initials C.T.Y is in her hand; a lipsticksmudged paper cup, her own, is in her other hand.

  Before the races began Mr. Yard had taken them off to the paddock to see his colt. So many handsome horses in so many stalls, so many grooms, drivers, owners, guests of owners, so much excitement, expectation, hope-at such moments, though happy social celebratory moments, you feel the true chill of human futility: we are too many, too many, too many. At Lodestar's stall, Mr. Yard made a point of drawing Persia forward, Persia who is shy of horses, saying, "Come meet my beauty," saying gaily, "Beauty-meet beauty!"

  Persia found
herself staring eye to eye with the young trotter, surprised to see him still so coltish in his bones, so subdued, with a look almost of animal melancholy... secured in his stall, a light cotton horse blanket draping his neck, back, hindquarters like a shroud. Lodestar is a bay with a lovely white blaze on his forehead and four uneven white "socks," not inordinately tall, rather slender, with a moderately broad chest. "He is beautiful," Persia said.