Blue Collar Blues by Rosalyn McMillan Read Free Book Online Page B

and its finger-warming breath caressed Tomiko’s cheek.
    Wicked Widow blinked twice, groaning a sigh of relief. The struggle was over.
    Tomiko looked at her husband and saw not a hint of compassion in his eyes. It made her sad to think how cold he could be toward something he treasured—at least financially. When their eyes met, he looked away.
    R.C. checked his watch. “Time to go, baby. I’ve got to be out of the house by eight. I’m hoping to make a million today at the Blue Grass Stakes at Keeneland.”
    At that moment, the mare collapsed, her eyes glazed over in a dead stare.
    “Have her body taken away as soon as the rest of the men are in, Caleb. We might get a hundred dollars for her. And tell that vet when he shows up I’d better not see this visit on my bill.”
    Tomiko’s eyes filled with tears as she looked from the dead mother to her newborn child.
    Gripping the teat between her index finger and thumb, Tomiko offered the foal a milk-soaked finger, moistening its lips to give it a taste of the milk. She felt the foal give a tentative suck against her fingers. The eager foal stretched out its tongue and bent the edges upward, forming a channel.
    Tomiko grabbed the bottle left at the top of the stall, which Caleb must have seen to in case of just such an emergency. Gripping the makeshift teat between her index finger and thumb, she squeezed and produced a dribble of milk, persuading the foal to get accustomed to bottle-feeding.
    When she returned to the house, R.C. was showering.
    Tomiko retired to their bedroom, exhausted from the morning’s events. She knew that R.C. expected her to accompany him to the seventy-fourth running of the Mishimoto Blue Grass Stakes in Lexington, an event that was sponsored annually at Keeneland Race Track. One million dollars was guaranteed to three-year-olds on a 11/8-mile course.
    “Tomiko,” R.C. said, shaking his wife’s narrow shoulder. She had fallen asleep. “It’s time to go.”
    Tomiko looked at the clock and saw that it was nearly eight o’clock.
    “No, no. I can’t,” Tomiko mumbled.
    R.C. urged, running his hand over the expanse of her hips, “Come on, baby. We can’t miss the first race. I can feel it—my luck is high.”
    “You go,” Tomiko said in a thick voice, “I want to check on the foal. What if she stops feeding from the bottle? Her mother’s gone. One of us needs to be there.”
    Angrily, R.C. said, “Caleb can take care of the foal. Come on, Tomiko. Get dressed. We could win enough money today to buy ten more Wicked Widows.”
    Tomiko remembered what she had been taught: It is the duty of the wife to obey her husband. She got up, showered and dressed quickly and quietly, and left with R.C. for the racetrack.
    On the way, she tried to feed off of his energy, but wasn’t successful. She kept thinking of the mare’s dead eyes.
    * * *
    The moment they entered the lower level of the racetrack, Tomiko could tell that her husband felt at home. At ten A.M., the grandstand was over half full. Anxious, middle-aged, blue collar men and women stood in lines at betting windows fifteen to twenty deep, waiting to hand over most of their paychecks for tickets that wouldn’t be worth a copper penny in five minutes. “We’ll get our seats first, then come back down to place our bets,” R.C. told Tomiko as they climbed the stairs to the second level, clearly the more exclusive area, reserved for heavy bettors.
    Inside the stadium, where bets were placed, Tomiko watched as men stood in front of eight television screens screaming, entranced by the action. Their faces changed from hopeful to hesitant to desperate to despairing. Tomiko had seen it all at home in Japan.
    Tomiko could hear their voices debating the odds. The serious bettors hunched over papers, track records, lineage, jockey history, reports on the track conditions, owners, trainers, and so on.
    How could R.C. enjoy this? These people were empty.
    Fans were filling the stadium faster than