The Bookwoman's Last Fling Read Free Page A

were in chronological order. The oldest was from April 1962, the most recent from March 1975, about twenty years ago. Geiger’s winner in that first shot had been a dark filly named Miss Ginny, who had gone to the post with all four legs wrapped. Willis was a slender young man in those days, he stood almost timidly; the jockey wore a look of authority as if he, not Willis, had been running things; and the groom was a serious black kid who looked straight into the camera. The picture had been taken at Hot Springs, Arkansas: a bright, sunny day from the look of it. The top half of the photo shows the finish line and I could see that Miss Ginny had won handily, beating the place horse by five lengths.
    I moved along the wall looking at each individual picture until, at some point, I felt uneasy. I didn’t know why then: If I had thought about it at all I might have attributed it to the almost unnatural sameness of the people in the circle. From year to year they never changed places: it was always Willis standing alone on the far left, then a broad gap, then the groom, the horse, and the rider. The jockey was the same skinny white kid for that first half-year; then a series of jocks had replaced him, each riding for the old man for a year, more or less. The ginney was mostly the same black kid; he had been in the first picture and was in the last, with three white kids taking turns with him, holding the horse in the sixties. What was so unusual about that? I finally decided it must be Willis. He wasn’t the owner or the trainer; he didn’t hold the horse; he had no real purpose in the picture as far as I could see, and yet there he was, standing far apart, staring into the camera with that same eerie way he had. Expressionless—that’s how I would describe him. He looked almost like a mannequin, a man with no soul.
    â€œHere’s your coffee,” he said suddenly from the doorway.
    I turned and looked into those vacant gray eyes. His expression never changed: maybe that was part of it. Only when I had irritated him back at the restaurant was it plain just from looking at him that I had. I said thanks and took the mug. Our hands touched briefly before he drew his away. His skin was cold. He wore his western shirt buttoned tight around his neck—not even the string tie to give him a more naturally uptight look. If uptight was what he was trying to project, Junior Willis was doing that. His long sleeves were also buttoned, and the whole picture was of a man who couldn’t relax even for a moment. He had not brought any coffee for himself, and as soon as he had delivered mine he left the room again. I drank it to be polite and waited some more. Fifteen minutes passed, marked by no sound other than the ticking of the clock in the corner. I heard footsteps: Someone walked down the porch just past the window. I heard a door close and I figured whoever it was had come inside. There was a momentary murmur, two voices talking in monotone: then an angry shout. “God damm it, doesn’t she realize these horses can lose the best part of their racing lives while they screw around with a snag in the will? We’ve got to get everybody on board and pulling in the same direction here.” I heard Junior’s voice, lower but still mostly distinct. “Let me warn you about something, Damon. I know she’s your sister,” and at that moment Damon said, “ Half sister, goddammit, half sister!” There was a pause, then Junior said, “Maybe she’s your sister but I know her a helluva lot better than you do, and I’m telling you, you’d better not try any of your loudmouth bully-boy tactics on her. In the first place, she doesn’t care whether these horses ever race. In the second place, she won’t be moved by money or threats, and in the third place, it’s just plain dumb to piss her off. Let me work on her.” There was more talk in lower muffled tones,