Titans Page 2

  Her nose scrunches. “Gross. Don’t speak of such foul things around me. I’m a lady.”

  For the next few minutes, I trace my newest theories on what track lengths and jams this Titan season will hold for Magnolia in the grass. I wish I had chalk. And a clean sheet of paper. And the parts my dad used to bring home from work. When I realize Magnolia’s eyes have glazed over, I stand and shoot a pointed look at Old Man.

  “We’re going to leave now, unless you need us to stay longer.”

  “I didn’t need you to stay at all,” he growls.

  “Manners,” I joke.

  But then Magnolia and I raise our heads to Cyclone Track, holding our breath. Magnolia doesn’t speak. Nor do I. We’re both afraid if we make a noise, the possibility will dash away. We were hoping to glimpse an aspiring jockey inspecting the grounds, or maybe a Gambini brother.

  But this is better than we dared hope.

  There in the distance is a flash of steel against the sun, and the clatter of hooves as a horse is led toward the track. I clamber to my feet and Magnolia does the same, double aces forgotten, Old Man left to his own devices.

  The horse approaches the starting gate and tosses its head. I squint against the shadows thrown by the trees, and make out the rider. It’s a guy I don’t recognize, but of course that isn’t surprising since jockeys can only ever enter the races once. That goes for Titans too. Once a Titan’s serial number has been entered in a prelim race, it can’t ever be run again after that season. This limits the number, and kind, of people who invest in Titans. It also ensures there will always be new customers.

  The aspiring jockey is dressed in blue, no number or surname or slogan on his back. He’s a free agent then, as many are around this time. Without a sponsor, he may not be able to cover the $50,000 entrance fee. Heck, his Titan may be borrowed for all I know.

  Slowly, the Titan’s eyes change from black orbs to a red burning solar system—a sure sign that the horse’s racing engine is warmed up and ready to operate. The jockey guides his horse into a lane, not bothering to enter the starting gate. He works his fingers across the control panel, turning the two joystick-type devices on either side to straighten the creature out.

  “Think he’s working on start speed?” Magnolia whispers.

  I nod, though he should use the starting gate if that’s the case. Raising a hand to my forehead, I inspect the guy more closely. He’s built lean, taller than most jocks I’ve seen here, and is wearing dark shades and a handkerchief over his mouth.

  Where is his helmet?

  The jockey logs a few more commands and the Titan stiffens, neck rigid, legs bolted to the ground as if roots stretch from his hooves down into the earth.

  There’s a low churning noise that grows in volume, signaling that the horse is about to be let loose. It sounds like an airplane rumbling down a tarmac, gaining speed. But the horse hasn’t moved an inch. Magnolia looks at me, and I look at her. We smile. This is our place. Always has been. No matter how difficult life gets, and despite the money my father lost here—we share this love.

  The sound builds.

  And builds.

  The guy leans backward, but he should know better. You’re supposed to lean forward. His shoulders tighten and he breathes out. I can almost see the oxygen leaving his body. And then he slams his hand on that glittering black button, and his Titan roars to life.

  It’s off, running, momentum building until I feel as if I’ll burst from excitement. The jockey leans back even farther and straightens his legs in front of him in black leather stirrups. He holds on to the grip bar with his left hand, and moves his right over the control panel to kick his horse into the next highest gear. It’s wrong, though. He should have done it earlier. The first turn is rapidly approaching, and the tight radius means he’ll need to slow soon. Two seconds earlier would have been best. Two and a half, even. His dash has a stopwatch. Why isn’t he using it?

  Sure enough, the first turn arrives and he’s slowing his Titan, realizing he should have taken advantage of the straightaway when he could. But, hey, that’s what practice is for. As he turns his Titan back toward his original starting point, I run my eyes over the track. The Gambini brothers built it six years ago, and the first race began a year after that. My dad says the older brother had an obsession with NASCAR and horse races and all things speed related. But it was the younger brother, Arvin, who envisioned the Titans. That weasel’s the one who pulls the strings, Dad says.

  The Gambini brothers have only one living relative, their grandmother. And that grandmother has pockets that run deeper than the depths of hell. It isn’t money that the brothers wanted when they started the Titan Circuit, it was attention. When the cameras started rolling, and interviews started appearing, Arvin morphed into a man people envied. After all, plenty of people are wealthy. But not everyone has fame.

  Arvin and his older brother may not need extra cash, but they certainly reap it on race days. Men travel from miles around and stomp heavy work boots through the forest to place bets on their favorite Titans. And the majority who lose their rears in a matter of minutes? Well, that dough goes into the Gambini account. Then there are the entrance fees too.

  That fifty thousand dollars to enter your horse?

  Straight to the Gambinis.

  And the two hundred and fifty thousand dollars it takes to purchase a Titan?

  A portion of that goes to the Gambinis as well, who hold shares in Hanover Steel Incorporated, the company and plant that produces them.

  Of course, it’s not as if the brothers don’t have expenses. There are track designers to pay, and bet makers and bet takers. There are the engineers who build the temporary tracks as the summer weeks progress and the races become more challenging. And more dangerous. I’ve also seen billboard ads and heard radio announcements for the Titan Circuit. The brothers must pay for those too.

  And then there is their entourage: a dozen employees who follow behind the brothers with bags of freshly pressed suits and makeup and hair styling creams in case of interviews. These people laugh at their bosses’ jokes and smile only when Arvin and his brother are in good spirits.

  Sometimes I wonder about the real horse track in Detroit, the one that’s rumored to be three steps away from bankruptcy. Their undoing started before the Gambini brothers stepped in. After the recession hit, even the wealthy watched their wallets more closely, no longer visiting the tracks as they once did. Of course that left them bored. Bored enough to consider what the Gambini brothers pitched as a safe, new investment in technology, with all the fun that racing promised.

  Horses that operated like race cars.

  It would diversify their portfolios, the brothers said. And who knows engines and transmissions better than the people of Detroit?

  They agreed. They shook hands. And soon after, the middle and lower classes were offered a new opportunity. Leave behind those champagne specials and cold stadium seats where you’ll never truly belong, and join the party in the woods. A place where a man can hold a beer to his lips that he brought from home. A place where he can smoke and curse and impress his friends with a ten-dollar bet, paid in cash.

  A place where he can be comfortable.

  Where he can be king.

  The police flocked to the Gambini brothers’ track that first night, handcuffs at the ready. But then, their collars were the deepest shade of blue. After Arvin shook their hands and asked the Warren County police chief to fire the first shot for that opening race, and then pledged a hefty donation to the force, the authorities became more of an occasional sighting. More often than not, when you did see them, they were out of uniform, bet cards in tow. Arvin called them each by name, and made sure they got a good spot next to the fence before the races began.

  As the jockey in blue brings his Titan around for a third attempt at hitting the corner in record time, I find myself slipping closer to the gate, just like those off-duty police officers. Magnolia hisses my name, but what does it matte
r?

  The jockey takes off, and it’s his worst run yet. I’m not sure whether to feel sorry for him, or to internally gloat. There’s nothing to gloat about. It’s not like I’ll ever get the chance to race, or even touch a Titan.

  Steel grinds against steel as the horse turns sharply and barrels toward the gate, running full speed toward me. I jump backward, and almost don’t make it out of the way in time. The Titan slams into the space where my fingers were, and the jockey tears off his handkerchief and sunglasses.

  “Practices are closed to the public,” he snaps. He has blond hair that’s tied back in a short ponytail, and dark brown eyes. He’s not unattractive, but he’s not particularly handsome, either. Not when he’s scowling like that.

  I casually turn my head from side to side. “Don’t see anything that says that.”

  His hands grip the joysticks tighter and the Titan between his legs prances. “Go on, get out of here. I don’t like being watched.”

  “It wasn’t you I was watching,” I retort, my gaze coming to rest on his horse.

  Magnolia touches my arm, but her stance is rigid. She’s ready to stand our ground if that’s what I want.

  The guy leans forward and shakes his head. “Titan fans. Such a pity that you’ll never know what it’s like to ride. You’ll always be there …” He nods to me. “And we’ll always be up here. So go ahead and watch every move I make from down there in the dirt.”

  Someone approaches from behind. I spin to see the old man staring past me at the jockey. If looks could kill, Handkerchief Boy would be eight feet underground. He doesn’t speak, just glares at the jockey with a silent message I interpret as: I may be old, but that means I don’t have much to lose by burying you with my old man hands.

  The boy redirects his Titan and gallops toward the stalls.

  “Well, that was rude,” Magnolia says. Then, craning her neck, she yells, “Rude!” She glances at me. “That shade of blue on him is atrocious. All wrong.”

  I press my lips together and watch him ride away, fury burning through my veins. I’m upset because he’s right. Compared to me, that guy will always have more. Even if the Titan is borrowed, it means his family has friends with influence. Friends who can pull strings and make things happen.

  I’ll never have the chance to compete in the Titan Circuit, yet I need that prize money more than anyone who rides this year will. That’s how life works, though, right? The rich get richer, and the poor grow more resentful.

  “Thanks for that,” I tell the old man, but he only grumbles. “Seriously, you should go home. Drink some water and lie down. I’ve nearly fainted in this park too. It’s the trees. The shade makes you think you’re cooler than you are.”

  When the old man grinds his teeth, I hold my hands up in surrender and Magnolia and I take off toward home for egg salad sandwiches.

  “Why’d you even help that guy?” Magnolia asks after he’s out of earshot. “And why was he lurking around the track?”

  “Same reason we were? And because I’m not heartless?”

  “Why not?” she asks. “Being heartless is where it’s at.”

  I laugh because I know she’s not serious. But it’s difficult, the laughing. Because even though the jockey and his Titan should hold my attention, I can’t stop thinking about that obstinate man and his liver-spotted hands. He reminds me of someone that I don’t need any help remembering. Because this person is always lingering near the front of my mind, and my heart aches something awful each time I think of him. It asks if I could have saved him, if I could have done something so that he’d still be here.

  As Magnolia leads us through trees that grow denser, and foliage that scrapes against my bare calves, all I can think is—

  I miss Grandpa.

  That night, my family sits at the table. We haven’t eaten this way in months, and my hands sweat anticipating an announcement. This is how it happened when I was eleven. My mom offered a glass bubble of comfort in the form of chiles rellenos and ranchero beans, and six chairs positioned around a circular table.

  Then they shattered that glass bubble with one swift hammer blow.

  My younger sister, Zara, glances at me nervously. She’s only ten, too young to remember the details of losing our place in my grandfather’s home, but she recalls the emotions. The tears my mother cried, the silent shell my father built around himself. She knows there was a time of badness, and maybe she even remembers that it started with dinner as a family.

  Dad stands near the stove, spooning Mexican rice onto plates while Mom rolls green chile carnitas tacos. This meal has been in our household rotation for as long as I can remember, one my mom learned from her mother, and one my dad tolerates. I take comfort in this meal. Nothing worrisome can happen when it’s the usual on the menu.

  Dani, my older sister, sits to my right, her legs spread wide, fingers frantic over her cell phone. The phone is from her most recent boyfriend, someone she’s been with for over five months. An eternity, really. He doesn’t like it when she’s not available. I may be only seventeen, but that’s old enough to realize that makes Dani’s boyfriend a controlling jerk. Dani loves him, though, or so she says. And Mom and Dad aren’t paying attention anymore.

  I watch my dad now, working on our plates like his life depends on it. Everyone must have a perfectly fair portion. Exact measurements, that’s his talent. At the electrical plant, he and Magnolia’s father oversaw the production machines. If anything went awry, Dad could repair it according to code. And if that didn’t work, he could envision an alternative solution in his mind and rig it so that it functioned again. Dad always said, Machines work wonders, but you still need the human brain to oversee the machines. I guess the plant disagreed, because now there are machines overlooking machines. I want to ask him about his interview today, but I’m smart enough to know that would be a mistake. If it had gone well, he’d have a glass of brandy in his hand, served over ice in a Green Bay Packers mug.

  I glimpse an orange envelope in his back pocket and wonder what it is. Zara follows my gaze.

  “What’s in your pocket, Dad?” she asks.

  Instead of looking at Zara, he glances at my mom. Her entire body clenches, and then I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that bad news is brewing. My dad tries to push the envelope farther into his pocket, but it only jackhammers in there, half hanging out as he distributes our plates and takes his seat.

  My parents stand a mere five feet apart in our humble kitchen. But the Grand Canyon could settle itself nicely between them. There was a time when my father and mother were one entity, a united front against our sisterly quarrels and pleas for a backyard trampoline. They shared coffee in the morning, and lingering hugs after my dad returned from work. My mother would whisper in Spanish in my father’s ear, and my dad would practically purr though he didn’t understand a word of it. They were disgusting, really.

  I’d kill to have that back.

  My mom sits down, and we say grace. There may not be much to be thankful for, but Mom is from San Antonio, and her Catholic upbringing will never fade. Dad pretends to pray alongside us. And Dani never looks up from her phone.

  Only Zara bows her head over clasped hands in earnest. My mother’s daughter, through and through. As for me? I like the concept of my mother’s God. But I’d rather rely on myself. Her God wasn’t there the day Grandpa died.

  But I prayed to him then, didn’t I? I prayed awful hard.

  “Dani, put the phone down,” Dad says.

  My older sister purses her lips, but continues texting.

  “Dani,” my mother adds softly.

  When Dani still doesn’t react, my pulse accelerates. I can feel the air change—a thick mustiness rolling in before a clap of thunder. My dad lifts his closed fist and bangs it once, twice against the dining table.

  Dani slams the phone down. “What’s your problem?”

  “My problem is your mother and I made a meal you won’t bother looking at,” he booms.

&
nbsp; “Tony, it’s okay,” Mom says, laying a hand on his arm.

  My dad jerks away from her. “It’s not okay. She and that boy are obsessed.”

  “His name is Jason,” Dani sneers. “And I’m not obsessed with him. I’m in love with him.” She flicks her eyes between my father and mother. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

  My dad grips his fork in one hand, and I’m afraid he might actually stab her with it. “You don’t know what love is. And you don’t get to judge your mother and me. Not until you’ve been through what we have and survived.”

  Dani averts her gaze and mutters, “Jason would never let us go through what you and Mom have.”

  Zara grabs my hand beneath the table, and the air in my lungs grows still. My mother doesn’t move as my dad glowers at Dani. There are maybe three beats of silence. Then my dad’s chair flies backward and clatters to the floor. The orange envelope from his back pocket flutters to the ground. When my mom sees it lying there, she clenches her eyes shut. But not before I notice the tears in them.

  Dad grabs the envelope and crumbles it in his fist. He brings that same fist close to Dani’s face and shakes it a couple of times, but words fail him. And as Dani ignores his outburst, my father storms from the kitchen and slams his bedroom door.

  “Couldn’t you have just gotten off your phone?” I bark, irritated with my sister.

  She kicks back and gets to her feet. “Screw you.”

  Then she’s gone too.

  My mom rubs her hands together, and I study the dirt beneath her nails. I wonder how long until she abandons the table too. She’ll tend to her gardens, and lose her worries to the feel of the soil between her fingers.

  The answer: seven minutes.

  She eats quietly with Zara and me for seven minutes, and then disappears. The front door clicks shut, and I tickle Zara, relieved that my family has mostly dispersed, though that can’t be good.

  “Come on,” I tell a giggling Zara. “Help me with the dishes.”

  She rises, and I pop her gently with a towel to show my appreciation. In the end, Zara only watches as I scrub, rinse, and dry. Because I don’t really need her help. Not with this, and not with anything else.