3rd Place - Fair and Square, David James Delaney, Rochester, NY

Fair and Square

“Just supposing she does win,” Milston speculated about the gray horse Anna was combing.

“I do suppose that and more,” Anna replied. She was angered with the young man’s persistent negative innuendoes. Oh, he was handsome enough, educated, his breeding was of the finest in all the Finger Lakes. Anna was not of this ilk. She was farm hardened one might say, as tall as Milston and probably stronger. And razor tempered.

“I’ll make you a personal wager,” Milston stated.

Anna turned to square off at that remark.

“Tell me Milston, is there really any other kind?”

 Milston smiled and dug at her a bit.

“Would you consider your corner-stand where you sell your eggs personal?”

“Have you ever been in a hen house? And how do you know about that?”

Milston snorted and looked down. His black boots were polished as only a servant could.  Anna’s were earth-worn as only one close to the earth could know.

“Does one have to lay an egg to appreciate an omelet?” Milston fenced back with a bit of a wry smile.

“Do you know what tastes the best?” Anna replied, while still brushing her horse.

Milston came up a bit closer and stroked the mare.

“Tell me.”

“That which you grow yourself.”

“Anna! Anna!” shouted Anna’s little brother, John. He ran across the paddock, up the hill and under the tree where Anna, Milston and the horse stood.

“They want to know who’s riding Mrs. Muir?” said John.

“I am, John,” Anna said.

“You got to say that on the paper, who the jockey is.”

“Thanks, I’ll take care of it.” Anna had never raced before. She had plenty of time in the saddle with Mrs. Muir, but racing, even an elder retired race horse like this one, was not part of Anna’s comfort zone. It was the purse that brought Anna to the old oval track before the wooden grandstand starting to fill. The winner’s purse was just enough for Anna to pay for her first year of college.

“So you’re going to race this old gal yourself?” Milston stepped back.

“I’d ask you, but the reins can be rough on soft hands.”

“There are nine horses in this race. Have you looked at the track? Hemlock is not, repeat, not Saratoga. It’s uneven; it looks like a farmer’s field.”

“And what do you think that means to me?”

“I don’t know what it means to you, but I see trouble,” Milston retorted, his eyebrows raised to full concern.

“And I see advantage,” she said without a blink.

By most standards her youth was no picnic. Her parents could offer little in comforts as they had little themselves. Their farm made do, but new equipment, a new tractor, or a telephone seemed beyond any amount ever gathered in the piggy bank coffee can on the kitchen shelf.  And there was this “unexpected child,” Kerry, her toddler sister.                                                                                

Eggs? Anna sold so many eggs and chickens that she had been able to save enough to buy Mrs. Muir from their bankrupted neighbor. Milston stepped back as Anna’s family made their way up the hill.

“What’s he want?” said Anna’s father, looking over at the young man.

“Not sure, Pop.”

“I got a pretty good idea.”

“Well, that’s a firs…” Anna caught her tongue, and instead cinched her saddle with inspired strength.

“Who you got to ride Muir?”

“She is, Dad!” John said.

“The hell you are.”

Anna had had this conversation time after time weeks before this scheduled race. Each time she said she’d find someone. And each time her father said you better.

“I’m serious. Who’s riding this?”

“Dad!  I told you I’d try to find someone and I couldn’t. You’ve seen me run her. I can do it, you know I can. What did you think I was doing all these weeks racing around the field?”

“You get on that horse and I’ll shoot it the minute she comes back to the farm.”

“Emon, don’t you talk like that!” said Ruthie, his new wife. “You know what she was doin’ with that horse, I know you do.”

“I’m warnin’ you, you race that horse and you’ll hear a gunshot before you get two steps home.”

“I’m goin’ to college Dad. I’m goin’.”

“Not by ridin’ that horse you ain’t.”

Her father turned and walked down the hill toward the grandstands. Ruthie looked at her stepdaughter, shook her head and followed with the baby.

“I’ll ride her, Anna!” said her little brother.

“Go on, Johnny; you go with Pa and the family.”

Mrs. Muir’s eyes were on Anna. Horses can read people better than some people read books. The horse grumbled in a low compassionate way, readjusted her feet studying Anna’s eyes.

“He’s right you know,” said Milston.

“I thought you left.”

“Just far enough to not get shot myself.”

“And just what do you want.”

“Your father’s right. Even that little bit about me.”

Anna blushed and turned away. She remembered when she first met Milston. She was a 10-year- old showing off her prized chickens at the Hemlock Country Fair. She noticed this skinny dart of a boy watching her fuss with her birds. He seemed mesmerized. She didn’t realize then how he timed it so he would meet up with her as she wandered the fair’s midway looking at all the stalls and games.

“Hey pretty little lady!  Break a plate and win a prize,” the barker shouted. Anna looked around and realized the red-faced man in the straw hat with the big toothy grin tapping his whippy bamboo cane was talking to her.

“Yes you! Come on up here!  Won’t cost ya a nickel!”  The barker rapped his whip-thin cane on the counter.

So she did step up. She stood before the long, painted plank. Every few feet there were sets of  three balls all the way down.  And behind the man a few feet back were rows and rows of dinner plates, well, they looked like dinner plates, probably made out of plaster of Paris.

“Break a plate -- win a prize!” the barker stood up on his box behind the plank so he could lean way over the counter and shout at the passers-by.

The thin boy, who had been watching Anna, stepped up. From his pocket of nickels he selected one. The barker had already counted the boy’s handful of change before the boy’s nickel hit the wood plank counter.  He sized up the boy -- fine shirt, shorts, knee socks and shiny shoes.

“Hold up kid,” the barker said under his breath, then he shouted; “That’s it kid! Win one for the little lady! See it all right before your very eyes –- Little Lord Fauntleroy fights for the farmer’s daughter!”

People stopped and soon a small crowd was growing.

Milston didn’t look at Anna as he set his nickel down.

“Three balls for a nickel! See Prince Valiant win a prize for his princess right here!”

The country folk listened to the barker as he heated up his rhetoric.

“Young love on the firing line! See it unfold right now. Rich boy gets farm girl!”

That brought snickers. More people moved up. The barker was standing right up on the plank now, drawing a good crowd.

 “Ain’t that the Milston boy?” someone shouted. The Milstons owned the largest horse farm in the county. Old man Milston was, as they say, “rich.”

The boy took one of the black-brown, worn baseballs and aimed at the plates. The crowd watched.

“Thud.”

 He hit the canvas behind the plates. He looked at Anna. She smiled back.

“Hey boy!  Take the silver spoon out your keester and maybe you got a shot at it!” someone yelled.

 The crowd sparked up a laugh. The barker climbed right up on the plank and bent in full-mime laughter with the cat calls.

Milston picked up the second ball, blacker than the first. He held the ball to his eye and wound up.

“Thud.”

This “thud” was even lighter than the first one.

“They make skirts for kids like you!” someone said.  The crowd let loose a roar.

Milston again looked over at Anna and noticed her looking away. The barker now strutting the plank came to a stop at the middle, looked down on the boy and said loudly, “You sure got a lot of friends here.”

Again the crowd roared.

Then Anna moved down until she was standing next to Milston. The barker gazed down at her, too.

“Why lookie here, the princess is rescuing the prince!”

“Give him your skirt while you’re at it!” another shout from the crowd.

Anna could see the barker’s upper teeth wobble a bit when he talked.

“What’s your name?” Anna asked the boy.

“She asked the prince his name!” shouted the barker.

“It’ll be mud if he don’t break one!” shouted someone from the growing crowd. People pushed in now. The barker was turning it up another notch. Milston held out the ball to Anna.

“He just offered her the last ball!” the barker shouted.

“That’s the only one she’ll ever get invited to!” a man shouted. “They don’t let your kind up on their hill.”

“Go on take it,” said young Milston.

Anna picked up the ball and thought on how her dad had taught her to throw. He was not easy on her, no sir, and when she cried, he would pick up the ball they used and say, “There’s the circle, you can do it.”  And when she hit the circle he painted a smaller one until she could nip the corner off any home plate. She could still hear that barn echo with each and every pitch that hit the mark. Well, most every time.

“Comeon little lady, this boy he ain’t got a chance, maybe you do,” the barker said to the crowd.

 Milston gave off a lost-dog feeling. She knew that feeling, like what she went through with her mom dying four years back.

“The boy’s got two strikes on him! Take the ball!” the barker rousted as he waved in a few more bystanders to make it a scene.

“Tell you what. You break a plate and I’ll even give you house choice!” He said it so loud it drew even more. People gathered so close cotton candy brushed into Anna’s hair; so close she could smell cigars and popcorn their breath. The barker’s bamboo cane was swinging; he was pointing like a true three-ringer, poking out at the little girl, back at the stuffed animals that hung on the side canvas, and whipping up the excited faces of the country and city folk that came out to this annual event.

“Ain’t that the Conlin child?” said one of the women about Anna.

“One ball left! What’s it gonna be?”  

The crowd was hooked. So Anna decided to have a little fun herself. She picked up the ball and the crowd grew silent. Then she set it down, and the crowd let out an enormous sigh. She paused and looked around and picked up the ball again, held it high and the crowd quieted so much you could hear the calliope off in the distance. She looked at the boy next to her and winked. And then she set the ball back down on the painted plank again. The crowd sighed again.

The boy hid his smile at the game just enough to let Anna know.                                             

Then he picked up the ball.

“The boy’s picking up the ball!” the barker yelled. “Three strikes you’re out!” The crowd roared.

And then he set the ball down. He was trying on that game.

“The only china he can break is his rich mamma’s!” a lady heckled.

“Toss it, rich boy!” More laughter.

“You little spoiled son of a b…!”    

 The crowd got quiet. There was the sound of a tussle.

The boy’s ears went red as a rooster’s sunburn, and his eyes began to well up. He couldn’t see any plates, not an edge, not a circle, not any one of them. The blur of tears welling was like he was seeing underwater. To Milston it was just one big water-wave of a plaster plates.

But he picked up the ball, quivered and cocked his wisp of an arm.

The crowd fell tightrope silent. The barker went silent.

He leaned back and….

The third ball’s “thud” was lighter, but heavier than anything this boy had experienced in his entire short life.

The crowd laughed so hard you couldn’t hear the insults flying out like birds from shot. The people turned to walk away. 

“I’ll put up a nickel to see this young lady break a plate.”

‘Anna knew her dad’s voice right off. 

The barker went wild. He stamped and slapped his knees, yelling and walking up and down the plank, bending and rising, pumping his cane.

“Hold your horses ladies and gentlemen! Now hear this!  There’s a mighty brave man right here, and by the looks of him he’s gonna wager his last nickel, his whole paycheck on this here little girl! Come on back! You got to see this! Don’t give up now!”

The gathering turned, and came back to watch the new action.

“How much?”

“Nickel gets ya three shots.”

“What you get?”

“This fine gentleman wants to know what you get if you break a plate!”

“A crack in the head!” shouted a woman and cuffed the man next to her. The laughter drew such a crowd that even the other pitchmen stopped their side-show games.

“I’ll tell you what Mr. Scarecrow, that little girl breaks a plate she gets house choice.”

“She’ll do it in one shot.”

“Hear that!  One shot!”  The barker’s cane was rapping and tapping and circling the air as never  before. The gathering was now so thick it was like the torch-lit crowd watching one of the teaser girls outside the hoochie coochie show at the end of the midway.

“Tell you what,” the barker shouted, “one shot, she breaks a plate, do it in one shot and I give that rich boy a prize too!”

Milston turned to walk away, but the little girl grabbed him by the arm.

“Riders up!” shouted the starter at trackside.  The riders made their final adjustments before mounting and heading toward the starting line of the old track. Anna put her hand on the saddle’s horn and her foot in the stirrup.

“Hold up, I’ll ride your horse,” said Milston. “As you so aptly stated, I can’t do much. But if there’s one thing I can do, is ride. And I can race. We have horses at our boarding school.”

Anna heard her dad’s threat echo in her head, and it rang clear as the cock of the hammer on his rifle.  But she wasn’t a child anymore, and besides, her dad did something unexpected, he married Ruth, his new wife.  He took his chance.

“We play polo,” said Milston.

“What?”

“At school. It’s pretty intense. I’m used to a lot of jostling and horses knocking into each other.”

“Milston, this is my horse and that purse is gonna be mine. It has to be,” Anna said. “If you think life is grand cleaning a chicken coop…, you’re right, you don’t know anything.”

Milston smiled. “I said I couldn’t do much, I didn’t say I didn’t know much.”

Anna laughed and looked at this man she had known as a child. Now she was in a pickle. This handsome young man offers to ride her horse in the race; there’s her father and his iron will and a loaded rifle; and on top of it all that there is this long look she took at this man-boy like never before. This wasn’t like sneaking behind the barn trying a smoke with the Darling neighbors, or tasting a sip of whiskey with her high school friends during a gym dance.  She was almost 18 and about to graduate, and by most standards she was ready to flap her own wings.

“Milston, my family is dirt poor. There isn’t any way I’m going to college without that purse. I’m good at school; my grades are right up there an all, but we, my father needs whatever he makes to keep us going, a better tractor, a better life if you want the truth.”

“Is he crazy enough to shoot that horse?”

“He’s crazy enough to shoot you.”

“Then it’s settled. I’m riding this horse.”

Anna had only seen such absolute conviction a few times before: when her dad put her up on a horse, when he taught her to throw, and when her mother was dying and said, “you will make somethin’ of yourself….” Milston did not bend. He kept his eyes on Anna and took the horse’s lead. She noticed the once skinny arms were now solid, his movements sure.

“The purse…,” Anna started to say.

“The purse is yours.”

 Anna watched the young man lead her gray horse down the hill and into the crowded paddock.  She  put her grooming gear away and made her way to the field of horses.

Down by the track it was festive chaos; banners and flags shifted in the early June warmth. The high school band was playing lively “oompa” melodies under the nearby gazebo; the sky was as blue as a first-place ribbon. Anna made her way to the officials’ tent.

“Miltson is riding Mrs. Muir,” Anna reported.

“I see that,” said one of the men helping out in the tent. ”He was just here. “I wonder who’s ridin’ his horse.

“What horse?”

“That black one over there, Jezebel.”

Anna had no idea Milston had brought a horse to race today. Then she remembered his shiny riding boots and his riding pants.

“I’m riding Jezebel.”

“I’m not sure…”

“Is his entry paid for Jezebel?”

“Sure is.”

“You want to lose that? Look, right over there, see him on my horse? The gray one? Anna made the ok signal with her fingers and Milston did the same back.

“See! He just told you it’s alright.”

“Yes, but….”

She signed as Jezebel’s jockey and made it out of the tent faster than farmers from the bank manager waving a mortgage.

“We all set?” Milston asked seeing her approach.

“We sure are,” Anna said to him with a smile. “And I just might have a proposition for you.”

“No ma’am, if I win, you win,” said Milston.

“Fair enough,” said Anna rubbing Mrs. Muir and whispering in her ear. The horse snorted.

 “May the best horse win! Good luck!” Anna shouted as she walked way.

“I’ll need it,” Milston said to himself patting Mrs. Muir.

It was race time and the crowd had filled the grandstand. Children finished their games of tag and settled in beyond the white fencing that wrapped the oval track. A bugler from the high school band slipped down to the finish line platform and played the starting theme. All the riders climbed aboard. Anna moved quick as a rabbit. She took the reins from Milston’s trainer and in one sentence said she was to ride this horse for the owner. She was up and off before the trainer could say “Lincoln slept here.” 

The midway barker moved down the plank and stood right over Anna. Anna held the old ball in her hand and felt the familiarity of its worn leather. The barker started a chant: “Princess, princess….” The chanting crowd faded into a blur.

The barker, up on the plank, raised his arms as if he were about to be nailed to the cross, and dug deep again:

 “Just one Buffalo- head nickel – looks like Mr. Scarecrow here is betting the whole farm!” The crowd was deep into it. They knew losing –the- farm bets. They chuckled, but not like before.

“Forget house choice I’ll buy him a new pair of shoes!.” Except for a few snickers the crowd went silent. Most caught themselves sneaking a look at their own shoes. The barker was edging up to that “line” and knew it.

“Come on Cinderella; win this man somethin’ just once in his life.” Someone shouted, “Got that wrong Mister, he’s a good, square man.”                                                               

Anna was as red as the little boy next to her. She tossed the ball up and caught it, got the feel and the weight, measured the distance, and then she started to back up into the crowd. People bent to say, “You bust them kid. Show that loud mouth…”

As Anna moved back to find her range the crowd parted like the red sea. The barker was standing up there on the platform rapping his cane, pointing to the stuffed bears and yelling like he never had before.

“Holy cow Cinderella, come back with that ball! It ain’t signed by Babe Ruth ya know!” The barker warmed the crowd back from the fine “line.”

By now Anna had backed up a good 10 paces.

 “Riders to the starting gate!” shouted the man with the yellow megaphone.

Anna held Jezebel back and watched Milston move Mrs. Muir against the rope they used to line up the horses. Milston and Mrs. Muir were third horse in. She eased Jezebel to the outside position so Milston couldn’t see them. The field of horses nervously strained and pressed against each other.

The starter waits: the horses bump and strain, he waits, points the gun to the sky and -- “Bang!”               

“They’re off!” shouts the man in the megaphone. You can’t hear anything when you’re in the game. Nothing; not the crowd cheering, the call of the race, not your father’s threat -- nothing, except the slap and squeak of leather as the horses heave and shove gaining speed. All the rest is mute silent; there is only one aim, one head-strong drive.

Milston was fading back, falling behind the seventh horse on the backstretch. The horse under him, Mrs. Muir, was in full stride, a gray streak, her mane flowing at full mast. The ninth horse was Jezebel, and Anna could see Mrs. Muir striding smoothly, but losing ground. Anna gave Jezebel a push and the black horse responded like it was made of electricity.

“Holy Sheep!” Anna said as she leaned down into this beauty moving up. She caught up to Milston and Mrs. Muir.

Milston’s eyes popped when he glanced to his right and saw them.

“Are you crazy!” he shouted.

“Come on!” Anna shouted back and pulled to the outside as they approached the backside turn.

Mrs. Muir heard Anna and took off behind Jezebel. The two eased past the pack of horse as they rounded the clubhouse turn heading for the final stretch.  Now it was the just the two of them.  Never had Anna ridden anything like this, this black beauty as powerful as a locomotive thundering down the straight-away. And to the surprise of Milston so was Mrs. Muir. The gray horse hung in step for step. Anna looked at her horse as it pulled alongside. Anna muttered another of her father’s mantras over and over; “just keep going, just keep going….” She shoved the neck of Jezebel. The living, flying machine responded like a light switch. Milston leaned in as Mrs. Muir gained ground.

The barker had never seen anything like this in his years of hawking. Why, there were more people gathering around his stall than the best tent evangelist! Some of the people were going at it themselves.

‘Two dollars says she does it!” says one man to the gathering.

“Two dollars says she don’t!” says another.

“I’ll take that bet!” shouts the barker, his face aflame, his straw hat tilted back like a ring of Saturn on his crimson head.

“Scarecrow! You know somethin’ we don’t know?” the barker shouts to the crowd.

Anna’s father looks down and chuckles, “I’ll take your two-dollar bet.”

The crowd erupts!

“Like I said, he’s bettin’ it all! Want to make it somethin’ you can cover, say a nickel?”

“Make it three dollars.”

Holy jeez! The crowd roared so loud the girls up the midway stopped in the middle of their wiggling. People were walk-running to get to the new epicenter of the midway.

“Make it five!” said the barker looking around. Another cheer.

“Make it 20,” said Anna’s father. The crowd let loose.

“Done!  One shot from there! Got to break a plate…” the barker restated the proposition.

Anna’s father nodded. Anna was a good 15 feet from the barker and nearly 30 feet from the first row of plates.

“Give her room,” shouted a fella and the crowd short-stepped backwards, packing tight.

The barker started to move down the plank.

“Stay right there!” said Anna’s father.

“Bad karma me movin?” The barker yelled and he spread out his arms, cane in hand to welcome the entire gathering before his new temple.

Anna’s father looked down at his little girl and over at the boy who stood rail stiff.

Anna massaged the ball once more, pulled back her left foot getting ready to plant it, just like her father taught her. One of the midway roust-a-bouts had scrounged up a snare drum and started the” roll” one hears before a high wire jump or execution.

Anna looked at her dad and once more at the ball.

“Throw the God darn thing!” the barker shouted and held his arms out to silence the crowd. Not a sound and yet no one could her Anna’s father’s whisper into Anna’s ear. She looked up at father.

He nodded and said: “Bean him.”

She let loose a slingshot of a ball, so fast the barker couldn’t even blink.

“Wham!”

The barker’s hat flew off. Dead smack in the forehead. His teeth flew up and the heavy man flew straight back!

“KEErash!” The first row of plates rose so fast one thought the barker kept pigeons! Up the plates went, out his upper plate went, the full weight of the barker tumbling head-over-tea kettle  crashed down on the stands of plates.

The crowd screamed with delight!

“Foul!” shouted the men who wagered against the girl.

“Strike!” shouted the men and women about to collect.

One plate soared so high it wobbled 20 feet in the air like one of those Flash Gordon sci-fi saucers. The dentures did too. Pieces of plaster spit everywhere.

The barker rose from the clatter and darkness behind the plank and seeing the crowd move in, picked up his teeth and two big stuffed bears from the canvas wall. And he also opened his wallet.  

The two horses left the pack behind as they approached the straight-a-way. The grandstand jumped to its feet. Milston hung on to Mrs. Muir for his all manhood. Anna nudged Jezebel into overdrive. Neck and neck! The grandstand was in an uproar: angry faces, yelling faces, men and women hopping up and down like school kids; arms punching the sky, hands clutching, shaking  paper wager tickets over heads.

 But it was all silent for the two horses and their riders as they reached the ribbon stretched across the track.

And it was silent again when the professor handed out the reading list for the new semester.  

End