Puss 'N Cahoots

credit for it—politically, anyway. But among these people, the sentiment was one of both form and affection. It would have been a careless husband who didn’t, in some fashion, draw attention to how much he loved his wife.
    Fair zipped around the back of the western grandstand, the one open to the skies, now rich with twilight’s many-hued soft pinks and blues. He waited patiently as customers preceded him at the jewelry booth across from the grandstand’s back.
    Finally he smiled at the lady behind the counter and pointed to the desired ring. “Size seven.”
    “You’re a decisive man.” She unlocked the glass, her gray hair blueing with the light. “Would you like this wrapped?”
    “I would.”
    “Do you need a card?”
    “Yes, please.”
    This transaction lightened his wallet by three thousand dollars, but he wanted to do it. The parting with money caused no pain, because he knew how happy it would make Harry. He’d give it to her Monday, August 7. They’d be back home in Crozet.
    Harry, pretty tight with the buck, spent money reluctantly even on needed items. She wouldn’t buy herself jewelry. She might buy him something quite special for Christmas, his birthday, or their anniversary, but she wasn’t a consumer in the typical American sense.
    Fair, while not profligate, enjoyed treating himself and Harry. His philosophy was “You can’t take it with you.”
    He slipped the dark green box, the thin white ribbon tied in a bow, into the inside pocket of his blue-and-white seersucker jacket.
    Just as he rejoined his wife, Joan walked into the box. Harried, tired, she’d been dealing with more reporters, plus Charly, who was on the warpath, accusing her of stealing the horse for Kalarama’s publicity. That was an unanticipated twist.
    She sat down, smiled weakly, leaned forward to kiss her father then mother on the cheek.
    Frances beamed. She liked attention from anyone but especially from her children. She checked the program. “Amateur roadster pony, one of your favorites.” Frances swiveled around. “Where’s Mother’s pin? You always wear it for this class.”
    Harry and Fair swallowed, having the presence of mind not to look at each other, but the swallowing told the tale.
    Joan, utterly miserable, confessed, “Mother, it was stolen the first night of the show.”
    Frances burst into tears, rose, and left the box.
    Paul stood and put his hand on his daughter’s shoulder. He didn’t say anything but walked in a hurry after his wife.
    Tears welled up in Joan’s eyes. “What next?”

T he answer to Joan’s plaintive question wasn’t long in coming, but first she watched the roadster class, followed by a junior-exhibitor class. Then Joan and everyone at Shelbyville gripped the railing as a tremendous class unfurled before them, the three-year-old fine harness.
    All the great trainers drove the light four-wheeled buggies. The chromed wire wheels flashed as the open-topped vehicles passed by. The subdued but handsome turnout of the male drivers focused one’s attention on the elegant, refined harness horses. Even at the park trot, a mid-speed gait, the horses’ full manes and tails flowed. The lady drivers might wear a colorful dress that complemented the horse’s color. The visual impact of the fine-harness class was potent. The class, large at fifteen, filled the expansive show ring. The sky darkened, and the lights flooding the ring danced off the bits, the wire wheels. The heat finally abated with a slight drop in temperature. Men slipped arms through their jackets; women threw jackets or sweaters over their shoulders.
    The drivers sweated in their handsome attire. Rivulets poured down Charly’s face under his three-hundred-dollar navy Borsalino hat. Booty favored a two-tone straw porkpie. Ward wore an expensive dove-gray fedora pulled rakishly toward his left eye.
    After a long look at the class, the judges selected three horses for further inspection, Charly, Ward, and Larry. Charly cut off Larry, who was too smart to flash the anger he felt. Larry simply pulled back without breaking the trot and then moved to the edge of the rail, where he was silhouetted. Charly basically shot himself in the foot with that maneuver, because the mare he was driving, Panchetta, broke her gait, which the judges observed. Ward also observed it and made certain to glide right by the judges as he drove a compact but quite lovely seal-brown mare. Her trot wasn’t as high nor her reach terribly