Puss 'N Cahoots

opposite direction of the in-gate, carried a small hamper for Frances, who was dressed to the nines, the heat be damned. Frances always looked good, but on the final night she appeared in a light pink organdy dress, quite cooling, and a pretty pink straw hat, which she would remove when she sat down. Her jewelry bespoke her status in life without shouting it. Frances knew better than that. She smiled, chatted along the way, and gloried in being on the arm of a six-foot-four-inch blond man, all muscle. Marriage is one thing, male attention is quite another, and Fair paid all the courtesies.
    Harry beamed when she saw them, and thought to herself, “He truly is the most handsome man.”
    Paul Hamilton was standing outside the entrance to the main grandstand, with Mr. Thompson glued to his side. A platoon of cronies hovered there, men who’d fought in World War II and Korea, men who’d known one another all their lives. Paul possessed magnetism undimmed by years. If he stood in the middle of an empty pasture, soon enough people would be there talking to him. He exuded confidence, control, and good humor, and he exuded it in spades this evening because people needed to believe all would be well. The men laughed, cigars filling most mouths but Paul’s. He checked to see just where Frances was and then copped a big puff from one of his friends. A look of sublime contentment filled his face. He handed it back, said something, and all the men laughed.
    Mr. Thompson ventured to query, “Any prediction for the five-gaited?”
    Paul slapped him on the back. “If Point Guard doesn’t win this time, he’ll win every year after.”
    As the first class wrapped up, Ward’s client snagged third, the huge yellow ribbon in his hand, a giant smile on his face. Third at Shelbyville meant something.
    Ward ran down to the gate as the gentleman rode out, and he said, “Well done, Mr. Carter, well done. You keep riding like that and you’ll be in the blues in no time.”
    Mr. Carter, widowed two years ago, was too happy to speak. Without being fully aware, the last of his grief leached away in that moment. Life does go on.
    They passed Booty leading a client out of his barn. Ward waved. Booty waved back, although clearly he was distracted.
    Miss Nasty sat in her cage, but not for long. The instant she saw Booty’s back, she undid the little lock with a client’s hairpin she’d fashioned for the task.
    Humans, in their arrogance, believe they are the only higher vertebrate to make and use tools. Obviously they spent little time with their monkey cousins, nor did they observe ravens and blackbirds, who displayed similar abilities.
    Miss Nasty swung open her cage door and lifted her little ecru-and-black-striped skirt to step out. She leapt over to the tack room, swung up on a saddle rack, perched on the saddle, and fiddled with a broken board. She slid it open, revealing a cubbyhole behind, no doubt originally made by enterprising mice. The Spikes of Shelbyville’s fairgrounds slaughtered them mercilessly if they could catch them. Miss Nasty reached in, feeling around. Out came Joan’s pin. She hopped down, rubbed it on a grooming rag, then neatly pinned it on her bodice, which was ecru without black stripes. She walked into the changing room, grabbed her straw boater, ribbons trailing down the back, and clapped it on her head. Miss Nasty was ready for life.
    Charly also walked alongside a client for this second class. He had farther to go coming from down below the in-gate, which was one reason he reserved that barn each year. He thought the long walk helped the rider and horse focus. The young lady up top wore a cerise coat and a dashing black derby, her hands poised in the correct position, showing off beautiful kid gloves.
    Charly’s hand, still wrapped in Vetrap with the sky-blue ice pack, hung by his side. He walked on the right of the horse so he could use his left hand. More than anything he had to keep the swelling down or he wouldn’t be able to pull on his gloves for the last class.
    Boxes overflowed with people and color. Pinks, yellows from lemon to cadmium, all manner of reds, purples, lilacs, sky blues, greens from electric lime to soft shades—every color of the rainbow appeared on the human form.
    The crowd had settled into deep enjoyment. Perhaps all would be well.
    Frances told those in her box that bad things happen in threes so they’d be fine.

    Renata, not riding, as she promised, had changed in the