Dust

You sure this is legal?” Jody wants to know. “How come we have to do it in the dark?”

“It’s legal if you’ve got the paperwork,” I say. “You need a permit, that’s the thing.”

“You got a permit?”

“No.”

“Jeez, Carla. Why’d I let you talk me into this?”

“Come on. He hated rules. He would be proud of us right now.”

“Well, I suppose.” She’s trying not to smile. “He was kind of an outlaw, wasn’t he?”

Somewhere an owl is calling. How I wish the track was always like this, at 3 a.m.: No hard-luck gamblers and no race announcers in fake turquoise bolo ties. No hot dog vendors with pierced eyebrows at this hour, no shy drug dealers and no exercise boys anywhere, no tattooed grooms. Look, not a single sweaty, squinting bookie offering condolences. No stars above us, this close to the city. Nearby, the 18-wheelers shake the overpass; they never stop. The air is rancid with the smell of burning trash, but there are frogs and crickets and that owl. The stamps and snorts of horses, dozing in their stalls. If I close my eyes, I’m a small child again back in Kentucky, back before we lost the farm.

I check the harness straps on Sunday, tighten up her girth. “Poor girl,” I stroke her dappled flank. “We’ve both been losing weight since Harlan died.”

“Huh. Wish I had that problem.” Jody bites her lip. And truth be told, she is a little heavier than when But a newcomer might not have known it from the looks of Jody, our young waitress, snakeskin skirt and sequined cowboy boots. The way she tossed her yellow hair when Harlan teased her. “Say, miss. Let me ask you something. You ever been to Sunova Beach?”