Dogman
Leslie A. Wootten
_ If I had been the writing kind, which mind you I wasn’t, I would have written reams about that fall. The moments would have spilled from me with sure aim and clarity, instead of now when they drift, paper-thin shards, falling like snow. My writing would not have dawdled much on the season, which was like others I’d lived through in Phoenix, Arizona. It was November, the month of in-between, when dust deviled prickly pear and cholla, then spread like confectionary sugar over cotton fields that germinated across from our gas station—a motor court, really, if one is being correct with terminology of the time. Or, to tell the real truth, a mechanic’s shed and fuel pump out front, four cramped rooms to call home tacked on the back, our home.
At the unpaved corner of 16th Street and Camelback Road, our court was the only site for miles where motorists could buy gasoline and a sandwich. A full tank of gas cost $1.12 then and a dime bought one of my cheese sandwiches with a cup of coffee. The sandwich would have been fresh, made by me that morning with hard-slab cheese, thanks to Bess, the Holstein cow we kept tethered near the privy. The bread was my own, sliced off the heavy loaf that came out of the oven before the morning sun bounced off Camelback Mountain and headed in our direction a little to the West and South.
Way out of town we were, miles from the Adams Hotel where politicians met to play high dollar poker and decide what was best for the 40,000 of us who chose to live in the state’s capital or the others who populated puny towns that dotted the landscape like fleas. And not a lot of fleas, either. Even those pesky creatures knew to avoid a place where eggs could fry on pavement in the middle of summer and air-conditioning was sopping wet sheets hoping to catch a wind. Far we were from most folks who clustered near Central Avenue and Jefferson in downtown Phoenix, where pawn shops neighbored with clothiers, a handful of cafes, taverns, a bank and movie theatre. Come Saturdays, once a month, my boys would pull their overall pockets inside out checking for enough change to ride the street car downtown. Twenty-five cents earned them round-trip fare, a picture show matinee, and a Baby Ruth candy bar apiece. They didn’t much care for singing Gene Autry or Roy Rogers, but Hop-a-Long Cassidy and Don Red Barry were their heroes, rough and tumble men on horseback.
My boys, Heck and Will, were sixteen and twelve that fall of 1937. The Great Depression still gripped the country hard. They were good boys, washing windows and pumping gas while their daddy, my husband, Jess Armitage, sat with his feet up on the low counter. Never far from the coffee pot, his nose was inevitably in a newspaper when battered jalopies rattled up to the pump and honked. After school, during summer months and weekends, the boys rushed to take care of business. Their daddy preferred reading a newspaper over working. I suppose he earned that extravagance after serving in the War. World War I, it would have been, but we didn’t know to call it that then. Jess returned home missing two fingers and a leg, along with any desire to talk beyond yep, nope, mebee. Considering the casualties, his losses were minor. More of him came home than didn’t.
His folks operated Duster’s Tavern, which was a block from the pawn shop my parents owned. Both businesses hunkered in the tall shadow of the Adams Hotel, the landmark that everyone knew. My parents, Elm and Tilda Sack, their name shortened from Sackowitz to avoid any kind of trouble, frequented the tavern after closing the pawn shop. Almost daily, Elm and Tilda made a single shot of whiskey apiece last well into the night as they listened to local versions of the popular song, “Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?” They would have preferred “It Don’t Mean a Thing (If It Ain’t Got that Swing),” but nobody in Duster’s had pizzazz enough to hum the tune, let alone belt it out.
After my parents arranged proper introductions between Jess and me, we courted briefly and married in 1921. There was no push to it other than my being the advanced age of 25 with my folks worrying that I was going to miss out on having a husband. Jess was good enough, they thought. He had the dark handsome looks that the Basque tend towards, a stolid sort who didn’t often take to the bottle, a plus coming from tavern roots. My parents, bless them, didn’t worry much about his means because they knew I could take care of myself. They also knew that men didn’t much like independent women and the only way to hide this was to hurry things along.
Will, my second son, would many years later say I was strong like horseradish. Not everyone likes horseradish, of course, but some, including me, appreciated the way it could hurt good as it shot flames from the nose on down. I know for a fact, neither my husband nor my boys much liked the strong taste, always turning away when it was offered.
The way I remember it, that fall was the hottest on record. One thing is certain, I felt the constant need to fan myself, especially after the dogmen came to town. Dogmen, how I loved the sounds, the smells, the commotion they brought with them. A commotion that stirred me from the very first, that still stirs me all these years down the road even though we are all gone from each other, vanished from earth itself: me, Jess, Heck, even Will who lived to see 96 birthdays, beating my 89, the only one of my family that inched so far along. Graydon, too, the dogman that caused the loud racket in my body that I’d never felt before, and never felt again after he left.
One evening the boys tumbled home with news that there would be a season of greyhound racing coming soon. They had it from the man plowing an oval ring on a fallow piece of land a half mile from our place.
“They’ve got their own bleachers and a rail to run the electric rabbit on,” Heck shouted, too excited to speak in a regular tone of voice.
“It’s like the traveling carnival,” Will remarked, trying his best to be heard above his brother. “They bring everything they need to put on a show.”
“Except greyhounds,” Heck corrected. “Somebody else brings the greyhounds because nobody can take care of greyhounds and set up a track, too. Greyhounds are a job all by themselves.”
I stopped kneading bread dough and picked up a spoon to stir the soup pot of knuckle bones and broth. Jess didn’t hear a word of it. He stayed at the newspaper, preferring information that arrived via the written word, not the real stuff that came our way once in a while.
“First,” I said. “Slow down. Second, who is this ‘they’ you’re talking about and, third, what in the heck and will is greyhound racing anyway?”
After their tumbled description and my own observations that followed, I came to understand that greyhound racing was exactly what the words implied. Greyhounds racing each other to see who could catch a dummy rabbit that moved just ahead of them on a rail. The trick, of course, being that the dummy powered by an electric motor could always go faster than the dogs as long as the human operating the equipment could keep the thing out of their jaws. A caught dummy cancelled the run and wrecked havoc with betting pools. In such cases, refunds were offered, but that took fun out of the gamble. When the dummy didn’t stall, the first dog to cross the finish line was declared winner. People who bet a couple of dollars on the champ got their wages back and more. Parlaying two dollars into a week’s worth of groceries made sense to lots of folks during the Depression. As far as they were concerned, luck was free. Nothing much could be worse than what they had.
Neither Jess nor I had any inclination towards betting, maybe because we had our gas pump that brought us enough income to keep a roof over our heads and a milk cow that kept us plump enough on milk and cream. Heck and Will didn’t show any proclivity towards gambling, but they wanted to be around those dogmen and their greyhounds like nothing you ever saw. No picture show star, not Hop-a-Long Cassidy, Don Red Barry, or even a young John Wayne could attract them like those clattering dogmen when they rolled into town in their cut-down cars and flatbed trucks teetering with dog crates in the back and greyhounds sitting pretty, as if they were royalty riding atop a camel’s back. Each vehicle that rolled in stopped us where we stood to gape. One of the renegades drove a big black hearse that he’d converted to a dog truck. When you heard howls rising up out of the hollowed interior, you weren’t entirely convinced that it was live dogs instead of a keening corpse he had inside.
My Graydon, I can call him that now, arrived in an old Dodge truck with an eight-kennel crate on the back and space under the crates in the truck bed where he carried supplies. A feed tub hung on the back and all four corners of the wobbly exterior sprouted horseshoes, one-half nailed to the corner posts and the other half protruding as make-shift hooks. These, I would learn, were to hang leads on as the dogs were taken from the truck.
Each of the rigs stopped at our place before they went the little bit of distance to the racing oval. Fuel tanks were near empty, but the dogmen didn’t plan on going anywhere during the month of races. Their stop at our place was to line their stomachs with something that could stave off hunger pangs. A dime for coffee and a sandwich was about all they could afford, the dime being the last bit of money most had after traveling from Florida, Oregon, Massachusetts, and any number of other states where racetracks bloomed, some wilting as fast as a flower. By then, every one of those men were sick to death of the thrifty canned salmon they’d been feeding the dogs, and, anyway, the stash had dwindled to just enough to last the dogs until opening day.
These men didn’t usually shell out betting money, but they wagered on a daily basis that they could make it to the next town, the next track, the next big win that would shuffle them up to where they could afford a better grade of greyhound, a champ, maybe. When these men rolled into our place, hungry and beat, all they wanted was to make it to opening day of the races on Camelback Road. Beyond that, they hoped the greyhounds they had with them could run in enough money to line their pockets with greenbacks instead of soot and lint.
Graydon wasn’t the first to tip his hat and thank me for the sandwich and coffee I handed him. Neither he nor the other dogmen had bothered much with school, and I never saw a one study the newspaper like Jess did. But, of course, dogmen didn’t have time for reading. A kennel of greyhounds needed feeding, watering, walking, sprinting, bathing, grooming, all in a continuous loop, the kind of schedule that frittered the hours and days. Hardly a minute to catch a breath, and then only for a cup of coffee and maybe a smoke and a few stories if other dogmen were around. Most of the time, though, cigarettes hung from lips while work proceeded, and coffee grew cold in cups set on trailer bumpers. Despite the daily pressures, dogmen were long on manners, which I suppose they had to be since so often they were down to their last dime or nickel and had to rely on the kindness of strangers. Strangers like me, my boys, even Jess when he bothered to look up.
After Graydon leaned on the counter, no even before that, almost as soon as he stepped out of that crazy contraption truck of his, I had a hard time noticing, or caring, what other dogmen did or what they said. I didn’t hear much besides his voice, even if others were speaking louder. Looking back through the sooty gauze of time, I wonder just what it was about this particular man, this singular dogman, that stopped me from seeing or hearing anyone else. Why did he alone take my thoughts hostage?
Graydon didn’t have the looks that my husband had, the kind of handsome bearing that strikes you like a slap to the face. I can’t recall the color of Graydon’s eyes or his hair, the shape of his face, the length of his nose, whether his lips were thin slits above his jawline or pronounced, filled with crowding teeth. I do remember the way Graydon moved, resembling a greyhound as much as any man can. No revving, just boom-go, natural, athletic, a sinewy curve. I see his lean body that flared at the arms and thighs, muscular and graceful in every action, every reach, shift, and stretch. His touch, of course, the touch of a greyhound, smooth and swift, a gentle motion with the power to rouse and direct.
That fall, I was 41, old by some people’s standards, but young enough to have a twinge that twisted me into a girlish knot. I was robust, with the kind of sheen that comes from milking an ornery cow twice a day, planting, hoeing, and harvesting a garden, kneading bread and shaping it into hefty loaves, keeping house, cooking meals, raising boys, tending Jess in the diminutive ways that he could be tended, maintaining our motor court books. I had more curves than angles, but I didn’t worry too much about that. Nature was taking care of my proportions well enough if my husband’s searching hands in the bedroom darkness told any kind of truth.
Anticipating Graydon’s appearance each morning, I made it a habit to tidy my prematurely graying bob, then dab on a smite of rose-hued lipstick, my single indulgence. If during milking, Bess swiped her messy tail across my blouse, I changed into a fresh one before settling an apron around my hips.
It wasn’t his greyhound resemblance that snared me, but Graydon’s manner with the dogs themselves. I’d never seen anything like it. The only animal I’d ever been around was cantankerous Bess who’d just as soon fight than give up her milk. She was a sly thing who waited until the bucket was near full before stamping into a conniption that knocked the bucket across the yard, spraying white cake frosting over everything, except it wasn’t a delicious confection. It was the day’s cream for coffee and oatmeal, the makings of cheese and butter, the cold milk Heck and Will guzzled by the quart. Hobbles didn’t do a thing to improve her disposition, either. Hobbled, she’d dance a crazy low-hoofed jig that kept her udder jouncing so you couldn’t grab hold of a teat, let alone work it. Sweet-talking the old gal didn’t ease the way, either. She mistrusted a syrupy tone, tensing and holding her milk like she was dried and done. Without hobbles and with me talking to her plain, she and I managed most of the time, but it wasn’t because there was any particular understanding between us. Ours was a daily struggle, and I couldn’t imagine having time for any other four-legged creatures, especially if they had Bess’s disposition, tart as pickled beets.
Watching Graydon the first day he showed up made me wonder if I was being unfair in my harsh judgment of animals. He parked his top heavy rig under a Mesquite tree and walked to where I hoed weeds. Tipping his hat, he said, “Ma’am, do you mind if I water my greyhounds here and exercise them some?”
“Well, sir, I imagine you’ve got more than a couple to walk, and we don’t have a fenced yard.” For emphasis, I pointed to Bess tethered nearby. “How are you going to manage such a thing?”
Holding up a mess of leather straps and metal clips, he said, “I snap these leashes on, and off we go, eight at a time.”
“I hope they’re better behaved than that old cow of mine. Eight is a mighty number to lead, I would think.”
“Eight is a magic number. If there’s any less than eight, these dogs stand still as posts waiting for me to get the others.”
“It’ll be no bother to us, then,” I said. “And, if you need any water for them to drink, there’s a cistern spigot you can use.”
He tipped his hat again. “Thank you kindly.”
“You’ll be wanting a sandwich afterwards if you’re anything like the other dogmen that have stopped here, the difference being they ate and left.”
“Oh, they walked their dogs soon enough,” he said. “There’s no getting around it. And quite a crowd of them too, I imagine, just like at Hialeah, where most of us came from.”
“This is no Hialeah,” I said, though I didn’t know at the time how right I was since I only guessed that Hialeah was near the Atlantic Ocean. “Why would you come all the way out here?”
“These track operators promise the biggest prize money in all the country,” he said. “We’ll find out in the next couple of days if there’s any truth to what they say.”
“My boys have been hoping they could get over to that track,” I said, though I knew they’d been prowling around the grounds every day. “They’re hoping to get a job helping with the greyhounds. Is there any chance of that?”
“I’d say there’s a good chance. Most of us old boys are so hung over of a morning, we could use help getting the dogs squared away.”
He turned toward his truck, then back around. “I’m Graydon Pershing, by the way, pleased to meet you.”
“Nelda Armitage. I’ll have you a sandwich ready and some coffee when you’re done with your greyhounds.”
“Well, ma’am, I’m never done with them, but I will appreciate the food and drink after a four mile walk.”
“Four miles?”
“Four a day when they’re in training.”
“Lord God a mighty, you do have the work cut out for you.”
With that kind of routine, I understood why he was so lean. I resumed hoeing, but turned so I could watch.
Graydon’s scruffy Dodge pulling in like a carnival wonder had been the first surprise of that particular day. Watching him leash his dogs and walk them was the second. Clearly, he had a system worked to a careful “T.” With each of the dogs, he went through a mental check-list. Unlatch crate, snap leash in place, mumble softly, place one hand on dog’s chest, the other on rear, hold hands steady as dog leaps and lands, slip looped end of leash on horseshoe hook high on truck’s corner, scoot dog aside. Begin anew.
With all the dogs out, he took up the leashes. I saw how the greyhounds fanned around him in a feast of colors: black, red, fawn, brindle, blue. It was a sight to behold, one that never left me. I didn’t notice the color of Graydon’s eyes or his hair, but I noticed and remembered that image, rich as a peacock’s iridescence, an image as complete as a daily prayer. What stayed with me, too, were the blended colors moving along the road, the image shifting into a rugged, tugging canine team heading West, as far West as I could imagine. I watched until Graydon and the dogs were a blur, then I went in to fix myself a glass of sweet iced tea to cool the heat pushing against my skin.
“Mom,” Heck bellowed as he slammed into the kitchen two days after that first introduction. “Mr. Pershing is going to let me cool out his dogs for him at the track.”
“I’m going to cool down Mr. Smith’s dogs,” Will said, trailing in the house behind his brother.
“Yeah, and we’ll get a penny for every dog we cool down and a nickel extra if the dog wins his race,” Heck added, triumph in his voice.
“The best part is walking the greyhounds,” Will said. “I like them a lot.”
“No, the best part is getting paid to walk the greyhound,” Heck corrected. “That’s the part I like.”
That first week of races, I was busier than I’d ever been. We were the only place for miles that served any kind of food, and the dogmen were hungry all the time. Most fed their greyhounds better than they bothered, or could afford, to feed themselves. A sandwich and coffee would have suited the men fine, but I figured there’d be no complaining about variety, either, so variety is what I offered.
I was up by 4:00 a.m., kneading, punching, and rolling dough. By 10 o’clock each morning, three dozen of my cinnamon rolls were gone along with a pitcher of cold milk and all the coffee I could brew. A dime bought a cinnamon roll with milk and coffee. At noon and during supper, it bought some kind of soup, a thick slice of buttered bread, and coffee with cream for dessert. Always coffee. I kept two pots boiling on the stove day and night. That muddy black drink was the one constant in the dogman’s life as far as I could tell. That and the greyhounds. If their conversation was any indication, few of them had any kind of family.
Heck and Will were earning up to 20 cents a night and getting to be quite the little men when it came to handling greyhounds. Of course, the animals eased the boys’ way because they were trained to walk on a lead as easy as you please. It helped, too, that after a race the dogs were too tired to want to chase every fluttering speck, which is what their natural inclination would be. Besides walking and watering, the boys checked paws and ran their hands up and down legs to see if there were any nicks or sore spots. If they detected something, they reported it to their bosses who knew exactly what healing remedy was called for.
By the seventh night, the pay tally looked good and promised to look even better as the month wore on. Neither boy had a problem waiting until the end of the meet to get paid.
“It’s like money in a savings account,” Heck said. “Mr. Pershing promised 10% over my earnings if I’d wait.”
“Mr. Smith promised 20% over mine,” Will pronounced, glad to trump his older brother. “I’d even do it for free.”
“You can work for free pumping gas right here,” Heck said. “Why would you want to work the dogs for free?”
“You can’t talk to a gas pump like you can talk to a greyhound,” Will said. “It’s just not the same.”
Heck rolled his eyes. “And I suppose the greyhounds answer.”
Will looked at me, then back at Heck. “Yes, they do, ‘cept they talk differently than we do. I understand them, though, which is more than you can say.”
“How do you know? I understand them just fine. How many winner nickels do you have on your list, smartie? I’ll bet I’ve got double your number.”
Will shook his head and went to get his computations. Heck followed him, heckling him all the way.
I want to believe the dogmen intended to do exactly as they claimed, which included paying the boys and giving them a bonus for waiting. Not a one of them—especially Graydon Pershing—gave me any reason to doubt their good intentions. And truth be known, they asked the boys to do exactly what the general manager asked them to do. Wait. The purse money would be paid, they were assured, with bonuses based on numbers: attendance figures, wagered dollars, all of which promised to be tremendous.
In hindsight, it’s easy to see that something was wrong from the beginning. It traced to the general manager who didn’t show up on the eighth night. Orval Neimeyer insisted on total control, which wasn’t out of the ordinary for men in his position. He carried his power further than most, though, making it a point to personally hand-pick staff with certain criteria in mind. The common thread for everyone—starter, announcer, chart-writer, veterinarian, dogman—was that they had to agree to deferred payments. The sweetener, of course, was the promised bonus that would be tacked on to regular pay. Timing couldn’t have been better since the meet was scheduled to end two weeks before Christmas, the neediest time in a needy decade. The few who balked about the arrangement didn’t get hired. Dogmen certainly didn’t think it an irregular request because they were used to operators establishing rules they didn’t particularly like. It was the price to pay if they wanted to race their greyhounds anywhere at all for purse earnings.
When Niemeyer disappeared, the first thought was that he’d been kidnapped for ransom. Some believed he’d fallen into a canal when drunk. Others thought he’d been murdered by an irate dogman who finally had enough of track operators calling the shots. Mrs. Niemeyer insisted he’d eloped with a girlfriend, but that appeared to be wishful thinking on her part. He was definitely not the life of the party, hardly a man to attract a woman to run off with. Chatter rumbled all around, and it became a roar when people tallied just how much was at stake. Neimeyer had such a tight grip on the money that all anyone knew was that it had disappeared without a trace and so had he. Not a nickel of the thousands owed could be found.
The dogmen grumbled and cursed, but they were not ones to mope. This wasn’t the first time they’d been stiffed. Usually, politicians were the culprits, sending in armed officers to close down greyhound tracks and make willy-nilly arrests while horse tracks operated freely. Whether it was politicians or racing officials, the result was the same. Dogmen were left in the lurch, and the only thing, the best thing, was move to the next track, wherever it was, and hope that promises would be kept and gold found.
I’m sorry my sons had a hard lesson in trust, and I’m sorry the dogmen were left hanging. Graydon was one of the few who didn’t hightail out of town as soon as it was obvious that Niemeyer was not returning. Most teetered away in over-loaded vehicles by dawn. They were headed to California where rumor had it a new track was opening and purse earnings were guaranteed to be the highest ever seen in the country. The way the departing dogmen saw it, their chances of getting lucky were as good as their chances of getting rooked.
Will’s Mr. Smith was one of those that took the early road out. Since he couldn’t pay in cash, he gave Will one of his racers. The Gaffer was a brindle female born July 1936. Her sire was Mike Murray, her dam, Alice Beauty, facts we knew from a racing form. The Gaffer hadn’t gotten off to a great beginning. The program remark about the only race she’d run was “Quit,” which meant she broke out of the box, ran with the dogs awhile, then just quit paying attention. Where she went when she “quit,” was anybody’s guess, but Will had a good idea the next day when he took her to the track to test her ability. He joined a few of the slackers who were still amusing themselves with the equipment before the bank rounded it up. Niemeyer, it seems, had conned more than just the folks he hired. The bank had issued a loan based on some kind of falsified scheme.
When the dummy rabbit came around, Will let The Gaffer loose. Other dogs charged straight ahead. The Gaffer took an immediate right and dashed toward Camelback Road. The men roared when Will took off after the dog, “Let the dog go, kid, let her go,” but Will wasn’t about to let his greyhound escape. Hours later, the pair straggled home together, reunited after an exhausting chase.
Heck blurted, “You’re a sucker,” when Will sat down at the table to catch his breath.
I put a meat and cheese sandwich with a glass of milk in front of my bedraggled son.
“Don’t you pay him any mind,” I said.
“The Gaffer is okay,” Will said, slipping a piece of meat out of the sandwich and under the table. “I didn’t want to race her anyhow.”
Heck snickered and called him a fool.
The next morning when Graydon came by, I laid out a square of coffee cake. “On the house,” I said. “Coffee, too.”
He set out a dime. “Paying for food is the least I can do. You’ve been kind to me—to all of us.”
I shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. “I’ve got a bag of dog biscuits set aside for you. Figured you could use them on the road.”
From listening to dog men chatter, I’d learned that an affordable biscuit was stale bread, sun-dried and broken into crusty chunks. Mixed with meat, the bread biscuits soaked up enough juice to soften into a palatable mixture that suited the greyhounds well.
“My dogs thank you, too, then,” Graydon said, taking up his coffee cup.
That’s how our conversations went. The few words we exchanged resembled thin foam floating on a glass of cold tea. He didn’t mention then that he would be leaving the next morning, though I expected he would be going soon. A dogman could never idle long. He had to get to the next track, even if he had to beg, borrow, and steal to afford the trip. Graydon wasn’t about to ask for a loan or a hand-out. He hired on as a farm hand for a couple of days, loading and stacking hay as it shot out of a whale-sized baler in the field across the street. Heck tended the greyhounds, walking and watering them during the dozen hours Graydon was gone. My oldest boy didn’t moon over the dogs like Will did, but he clearly had a knack for handling the athletes. He was beginning to read their bodies in the way that seasoned trainers could.
“The Gaffer’s had too much of that rich food you’re handing him under the table,” he warned Will. “Better get her back on a dog’s diet.”
While Will fidgeted and drifted, Heck listened to everything the dogmen said. He watched them handle dogs on and off the track. He concluded that those who made the sport their life’s work were long on smarts when it came to the racing greyhound. He also concluded that Graydon was one of the smartest men he knew.
“That’s why I want to go with him when he leaves,” Heck said two days later. Although it wasn’t dawn yet, my teenager was dressed, hair-combed, and alert. He stood a few feet from where I milked Bess, smart not to get too close.
“I’m going to be a dogman just like him.”
My face went white as Bess’s belly, but I didn’t stop working my hands. The milk pinged into the pail. This wasn’t news I wanted to hear.
“Heck, you’ve got two more years of high school. What about that?”
“I don’t need a high school diploma for training dogs. There’s no school for it. The only way to learn is to work with somebody who knows what he’s doing.”
“Your mind is made up?”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell your father?”
“No.”
“You should.”
“I’ll write him a letter when I’m settled to the work and can tell him everything is peachy great.”
My fingers cramped, but I didn’t stop working the teats. There was no point in riling Bess up by stopping before the bucket was full. Neither was there any point in Heck seeing my eyes dripping like they were. He’d be fine, I was sure of it. The boy had all the confidence in the world. His brother would be wobbly without him for a bit, but he’d learn to get along. Jess had his newspapers. The world could burst into flame and melt around him before he’d look up. It was the way things were.
“We’re leaving as soon as the dogs are walked,” Heck said. “I’m going over there now to take care of it.”
I’d just set the milk bucket on the kitchen counter when Graydon knocked and called out, “Hello.”
It was a mild November morning and I’d left the back door open to let fresh air circulate.
“Come on in,” I said. “I’ve got buttermilk biscuits and mulberry jam if you’re hungry.”
“Sounds fine,” he said. “But, really, I’m just here to say goodbye.”
I pretended that he’d remarked on the weather. “Well, let me wrap these biscuits up for you to take. Heck will be starving in an hour or so. In fact, I’ve got some sandwiches made up, too, and a rump roast that will travel well. I …”
“Nelda, your son insisted that he come along. I told him he needs to finish school and pick a trade, any trade, except this one. It’s not an easy way of going, sometimes I think it’s not any kind of life at all.”
I laid out a clean dish towel and brought over the pan of biscuits. “But it’s got you, and it’s getting him.”
Graydon nodded. “Twenty years of it and I’m not looking for a way out. Everything I own is in my truck. It’s not a family kind of living.”
“I guess Heck will see if the rolling stone life suits him, won’t he?”
“I guess he will.”
I knotted the dish-towel that contained a dozen biscuits. “That bunch of dough ought to fill Heck’s stomach for a bit. I’m telling you, he eats plenty.”
“He might slow down if he has to eat grade salmon out of a can with the dogs every day. When you’re hungry, most anything tastes good.”
I set the jar of mulberry jam beside the biscuits and got out the rump roast.
“Don’t you feed this meat to those greyhounds,” I said. “It’s for you boys only. You dole it out in proper doses, and you might just have good eating for a couple of days, at least until you get to that track you’re aiming for.”
“Nelda.”
The way he said my name, like a secret to be whispered, made me look directly at him.
He paused and said my name again, louder, as if he had just then decided to go ahead. “I have something for you.”
My skin prickled at his words. I felt light-headed, like I was going to pass out, wobbly with anticipation. Later, I understood that I wanted Graydon to ask me to go with him instead of Heck. I understood, too, that there would have been no hesitation in my response.
He continued, unaware of the jolt spiking its way through me. “I want you to take a greyhound bitch that’s due to whelp soon. She’s bred to Traffic Officer, the best stud there is.”
A different kind of hopefulness leaped to catch my throat. “I can take care of her for you and see that the pups get born and started right. When will you be back to get her?” The thought of seeing him again drove my answers.
“I don’t want her back. The bitch is yours, the pups, too. With their top breeding, the pups will have every chance of being dynamos on the track.”
I wanted to bite my hand in grief, but I was not one to let emotions get the best of me, then or ever. “I’m no dogman, Mr. Pershing. Far, far from it.”
Just then Heck clambered into the kitchen with a tall fawn greyhound by his side. I could see she was all muscle and glide, a regal visitor in my paltry kitchen. The only indication of her pregnancy was a stomach that didn’t arch.
“She had guts on the track,” Graydon remarked. “She wasn’t afraid to dive into a hole between males and chase the lure with all she had. She’d beat ‘em, too. Has an honorable bloodline to match the performance. Believe me, her pups are going to be fine. You’ll be fine.”
Heck handed the leash to me. The dog lifted her long nose to be petted, and I complied. “Don’t look at me with those eyes of yours,” I said to her. “We’ll not be getting attached to each other.”
“Her racing name is Morning Star,” Graydon said. “In the kennel, we call her Star. You can call her what you like. She’s a quick study.”
Yes, I wanted to say, so am I. Instead, I told him that the name the dog knew would be sufficient.
Heck noticed the wrapped biscuits. “I hope those are for us. I’m starved.”
“They are, with more food in a box for you to take.” I pushed the container towards him. “The sun will be coming up soon. Better get on the road.”
Before the sun cast any kind of light on our faces, Graydon and Heck had climbed in the truck. I said a small prayer for their safe journey, the miles and years of it. After they left, I sat at the kitchen table, Star by my side. In that position, her eyes were almost level with mine.
“Girl, I hope Nature is kind to you on this go-round.”
Star’s tail circled, signaling she was fine at the moment and would worry about Nature when Nature called.
“I can see your disposition is better than Bess’s. That’s a plus.”
I finished drinking my coffee, then got up to fry eggs. Jess, Will, and The Gaffer would be looking for something to fill their stomachs when they woke. Eggs and hash browns, sliced tomatoes and fried bread with syrup would do for the boys and my husband. The greyhounds would need something more substantial, especially Star with her gestating pups. It would take time, but I would figure something out for them—and for me. With new life on the way, possibilities hovered, vague shadows waiting to take shape in the light.
At the unpaved corner of 16th Street and Camelback Road, our court was the only site for miles where motorists could buy gasoline and a sandwich. A full tank of gas cost $1.12 then and a dime bought one of my cheese sandwiches with a cup of coffee. The sandwich would have been fresh, made by me that morning with hard-slab cheese, thanks to Bess, the Holstein cow we kept tethered near the privy. The bread was my own, sliced off the heavy loaf that came out of the oven before the morning sun bounced off Camelback Mountain and headed in our direction a little to the West and South.
Way out of town we were, miles from the Adams Hotel where politicians met to play high dollar poker and decide what was best for the 40,000 of us who chose to live in the state’s capital or the others who populated puny towns that dotted the landscape like fleas. And not a lot of fleas, either. Even those pesky creatures knew to avoid a place where eggs could fry on pavement in the middle of summer and air-conditioning was sopping wet sheets hoping to catch a wind. Far we were from most folks who clustered near Central Avenue and Jefferson in downtown Phoenix, where pawn shops neighbored with clothiers, a handful of cafes, taverns, a bank and movie theatre. Come Saturdays, once a month, my boys would pull their overall pockets inside out checking for enough change to ride the street car downtown. Twenty-five cents earned them round-trip fare, a picture show matinee, and a Baby Ruth candy bar apiece. They didn’t much care for singing Gene Autry or Roy Rogers, but Hop-a-Long Cassidy and Don Red Barry were their heroes, rough and tumble men on horseback.
My boys, Heck and Will, were sixteen and twelve that fall of 1937. The Great Depression still gripped the country hard. They were good boys, washing windows and pumping gas while their daddy, my husband, Jess Armitage, sat with his feet up on the low counter. Never far from the coffee pot, his nose was inevitably in a newspaper when battered jalopies rattled up to the pump and honked. After school, during summer months and weekends, the boys rushed to take care of business. Their daddy preferred reading a newspaper over working. I suppose he earned that extravagance after serving in the War. World War I, it would have been, but we didn’t know to call it that then. Jess returned home missing two fingers and a leg, along with any desire to talk beyond yep, nope, mebee. Considering the casualties, his losses were minor. More of him came home than didn’t.
His folks operated Duster’s Tavern, which was a block from the pawn shop my parents owned. Both businesses hunkered in the tall shadow of the Adams Hotel, the landmark that everyone knew. My parents, Elm and Tilda Sack, their name shortened from Sackowitz to avoid any kind of trouble, frequented the tavern after closing the pawn shop. Almost daily, Elm and Tilda made a single shot of whiskey apiece last well into the night as they listened to local versions of the popular song, “Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?” They would have preferred “It Don’t Mean a Thing (If It Ain’t Got that Swing),” but nobody in Duster’s had pizzazz enough to hum the tune, let alone belt it out.
After my parents arranged proper introductions between Jess and me, we courted briefly and married in 1921. There was no push to it other than my being the advanced age of 25 with my folks worrying that I was going to miss out on having a husband. Jess was good enough, they thought. He had the dark handsome looks that the Basque tend towards, a stolid sort who didn’t often take to the bottle, a plus coming from tavern roots. My parents, bless them, didn’t worry much about his means because they knew I could take care of myself. They also knew that men didn’t much like independent women and the only way to hide this was to hurry things along.
Will, my second son, would many years later say I was strong like horseradish. Not everyone likes horseradish, of course, but some, including me, appreciated the way it could hurt good as it shot flames from the nose on down. I know for a fact, neither my husband nor my boys much liked the strong taste, always turning away when it was offered.
The way I remember it, that fall was the hottest on record. One thing is certain, I felt the constant need to fan myself, especially after the dogmen came to town. Dogmen, how I loved the sounds, the smells, the commotion they brought with them. A commotion that stirred me from the very first, that still stirs me all these years down the road even though we are all gone from each other, vanished from earth itself: me, Jess, Heck, even Will who lived to see 96 birthdays, beating my 89, the only one of my family that inched so far along. Graydon, too, the dogman that caused the loud racket in my body that I’d never felt before, and never felt again after he left.
One evening the boys tumbled home with news that there would be a season of greyhound racing coming soon. They had it from the man plowing an oval ring on a fallow piece of land a half mile from our place.
“They’ve got their own bleachers and a rail to run the electric rabbit on,” Heck shouted, too excited to speak in a regular tone of voice.
“It’s like the traveling carnival,” Will remarked, trying his best to be heard above his brother. “They bring everything they need to put on a show.”
“Except greyhounds,” Heck corrected. “Somebody else brings the greyhounds because nobody can take care of greyhounds and set up a track, too. Greyhounds are a job all by themselves.”
I stopped kneading bread dough and picked up a spoon to stir the soup pot of knuckle bones and broth. Jess didn’t hear a word of it. He stayed at the newspaper, preferring information that arrived via the written word, not the real stuff that came our way once in a while.
“First,” I said. “Slow down. Second, who is this ‘they’ you’re talking about and, third, what in the heck and will is greyhound racing anyway?”
After their tumbled description and my own observations that followed, I came to understand that greyhound racing was exactly what the words implied. Greyhounds racing each other to see who could catch a dummy rabbit that moved just ahead of them on a rail. The trick, of course, being that the dummy powered by an electric motor could always go faster than the dogs as long as the human operating the equipment could keep the thing out of their jaws. A caught dummy cancelled the run and wrecked havoc with betting pools. In such cases, refunds were offered, but that took fun out of the gamble. When the dummy didn’t stall, the first dog to cross the finish line was declared winner. People who bet a couple of dollars on the champ got their wages back and more. Parlaying two dollars into a week’s worth of groceries made sense to lots of folks during the Depression. As far as they were concerned, luck was free. Nothing much could be worse than what they had.
Neither Jess nor I had any inclination towards betting, maybe because we had our gas pump that brought us enough income to keep a roof over our heads and a milk cow that kept us plump enough on milk and cream. Heck and Will didn’t show any proclivity towards gambling, but they wanted to be around those dogmen and their greyhounds like nothing you ever saw. No picture show star, not Hop-a-Long Cassidy, Don Red Barry, or even a young John Wayne could attract them like those clattering dogmen when they rolled into town in their cut-down cars and flatbed trucks teetering with dog crates in the back and greyhounds sitting pretty, as if they were royalty riding atop a camel’s back. Each vehicle that rolled in stopped us where we stood to gape. One of the renegades drove a big black hearse that he’d converted to a dog truck. When you heard howls rising up out of the hollowed interior, you weren’t entirely convinced that it was live dogs instead of a keening corpse he had inside.
My Graydon, I can call him that now, arrived in an old Dodge truck with an eight-kennel crate on the back and space under the crates in the truck bed where he carried supplies. A feed tub hung on the back and all four corners of the wobbly exterior sprouted horseshoes, one-half nailed to the corner posts and the other half protruding as make-shift hooks. These, I would learn, were to hang leads on as the dogs were taken from the truck.
Each of the rigs stopped at our place before they went the little bit of distance to the racing oval. Fuel tanks were near empty, but the dogmen didn’t plan on going anywhere during the month of races. Their stop at our place was to line their stomachs with something that could stave off hunger pangs. A dime for coffee and a sandwich was about all they could afford, the dime being the last bit of money most had after traveling from Florida, Oregon, Massachusetts, and any number of other states where racetracks bloomed, some wilting as fast as a flower. By then, every one of those men were sick to death of the thrifty canned salmon they’d been feeding the dogs, and, anyway, the stash had dwindled to just enough to last the dogs until opening day.
These men didn’t usually shell out betting money, but they wagered on a daily basis that they could make it to the next town, the next track, the next big win that would shuffle them up to where they could afford a better grade of greyhound, a champ, maybe. When these men rolled into our place, hungry and beat, all they wanted was to make it to opening day of the races on Camelback Road. Beyond that, they hoped the greyhounds they had with them could run in enough money to line their pockets with greenbacks instead of soot and lint.
Graydon wasn’t the first to tip his hat and thank me for the sandwich and coffee I handed him. Neither he nor the other dogmen had bothered much with school, and I never saw a one study the newspaper like Jess did. But, of course, dogmen didn’t have time for reading. A kennel of greyhounds needed feeding, watering, walking, sprinting, bathing, grooming, all in a continuous loop, the kind of schedule that frittered the hours and days. Hardly a minute to catch a breath, and then only for a cup of coffee and maybe a smoke and a few stories if other dogmen were around. Most of the time, though, cigarettes hung from lips while work proceeded, and coffee grew cold in cups set on trailer bumpers. Despite the daily pressures, dogmen were long on manners, which I suppose they had to be since so often they were down to their last dime or nickel and had to rely on the kindness of strangers. Strangers like me, my boys, even Jess when he bothered to look up.
After Graydon leaned on the counter, no even before that, almost as soon as he stepped out of that crazy contraption truck of his, I had a hard time noticing, or caring, what other dogmen did or what they said. I didn’t hear much besides his voice, even if others were speaking louder. Looking back through the sooty gauze of time, I wonder just what it was about this particular man, this singular dogman, that stopped me from seeing or hearing anyone else. Why did he alone take my thoughts hostage?
Graydon didn’t have the looks that my husband had, the kind of handsome bearing that strikes you like a slap to the face. I can’t recall the color of Graydon’s eyes or his hair, the shape of his face, the length of his nose, whether his lips were thin slits above his jawline or pronounced, filled with crowding teeth. I do remember the way Graydon moved, resembling a greyhound as much as any man can. No revving, just boom-go, natural, athletic, a sinewy curve. I see his lean body that flared at the arms and thighs, muscular and graceful in every action, every reach, shift, and stretch. His touch, of course, the touch of a greyhound, smooth and swift, a gentle motion with the power to rouse and direct.
That fall, I was 41, old by some people’s standards, but young enough to have a twinge that twisted me into a girlish knot. I was robust, with the kind of sheen that comes from milking an ornery cow twice a day, planting, hoeing, and harvesting a garden, kneading bread and shaping it into hefty loaves, keeping house, cooking meals, raising boys, tending Jess in the diminutive ways that he could be tended, maintaining our motor court books. I had more curves than angles, but I didn’t worry too much about that. Nature was taking care of my proportions well enough if my husband’s searching hands in the bedroom darkness told any kind of truth.
Anticipating Graydon’s appearance each morning, I made it a habit to tidy my prematurely graying bob, then dab on a smite of rose-hued lipstick, my single indulgence. If during milking, Bess swiped her messy tail across my blouse, I changed into a fresh one before settling an apron around my hips.
It wasn’t his greyhound resemblance that snared me, but Graydon’s manner with the dogs themselves. I’d never seen anything like it. The only animal I’d ever been around was cantankerous Bess who’d just as soon fight than give up her milk. She was a sly thing who waited until the bucket was near full before stamping into a conniption that knocked the bucket across the yard, spraying white cake frosting over everything, except it wasn’t a delicious confection. It was the day’s cream for coffee and oatmeal, the makings of cheese and butter, the cold milk Heck and Will guzzled by the quart. Hobbles didn’t do a thing to improve her disposition, either. Hobbled, she’d dance a crazy low-hoofed jig that kept her udder jouncing so you couldn’t grab hold of a teat, let alone work it. Sweet-talking the old gal didn’t ease the way, either. She mistrusted a syrupy tone, tensing and holding her milk like she was dried and done. Without hobbles and with me talking to her plain, she and I managed most of the time, but it wasn’t because there was any particular understanding between us. Ours was a daily struggle, and I couldn’t imagine having time for any other four-legged creatures, especially if they had Bess’s disposition, tart as pickled beets.
Watching Graydon the first day he showed up made me wonder if I was being unfair in my harsh judgment of animals. He parked his top heavy rig under a Mesquite tree and walked to where I hoed weeds. Tipping his hat, he said, “Ma’am, do you mind if I water my greyhounds here and exercise them some?”
“Well, sir, I imagine you’ve got more than a couple to walk, and we don’t have a fenced yard.” For emphasis, I pointed to Bess tethered nearby. “How are you going to manage such a thing?”
Holding up a mess of leather straps and metal clips, he said, “I snap these leashes on, and off we go, eight at a time.”
“I hope they’re better behaved than that old cow of mine. Eight is a mighty number to lead, I would think.”
“Eight is a magic number. If there’s any less than eight, these dogs stand still as posts waiting for me to get the others.”
“It’ll be no bother to us, then,” I said. “And, if you need any water for them to drink, there’s a cistern spigot you can use.”
He tipped his hat again. “Thank you kindly.”
“You’ll be wanting a sandwich afterwards if you’re anything like the other dogmen that have stopped here, the difference being they ate and left.”
“Oh, they walked their dogs soon enough,” he said. “There’s no getting around it. And quite a crowd of them too, I imagine, just like at Hialeah, where most of us came from.”
“This is no Hialeah,” I said, though I didn’t know at the time how right I was since I only guessed that Hialeah was near the Atlantic Ocean. “Why would you come all the way out here?”
“These track operators promise the biggest prize money in all the country,” he said. “We’ll find out in the next couple of days if there’s any truth to what they say.”
“My boys have been hoping they could get over to that track,” I said, though I knew they’d been prowling around the grounds every day. “They’re hoping to get a job helping with the greyhounds. Is there any chance of that?”
“I’d say there’s a good chance. Most of us old boys are so hung over of a morning, we could use help getting the dogs squared away.”
He turned toward his truck, then back around. “I’m Graydon Pershing, by the way, pleased to meet you.”
“Nelda Armitage. I’ll have you a sandwich ready and some coffee when you’re done with your greyhounds.”
“Well, ma’am, I’m never done with them, but I will appreciate the food and drink after a four mile walk.”
“Four miles?”
“Four a day when they’re in training.”
“Lord God a mighty, you do have the work cut out for you.”
With that kind of routine, I understood why he was so lean. I resumed hoeing, but turned so I could watch.
Graydon’s scruffy Dodge pulling in like a carnival wonder had been the first surprise of that particular day. Watching him leash his dogs and walk them was the second. Clearly, he had a system worked to a careful “T.” With each of the dogs, he went through a mental check-list. Unlatch crate, snap leash in place, mumble softly, place one hand on dog’s chest, the other on rear, hold hands steady as dog leaps and lands, slip looped end of leash on horseshoe hook high on truck’s corner, scoot dog aside. Begin anew.
With all the dogs out, he took up the leashes. I saw how the greyhounds fanned around him in a feast of colors: black, red, fawn, brindle, blue. It was a sight to behold, one that never left me. I didn’t notice the color of Graydon’s eyes or his hair, but I noticed and remembered that image, rich as a peacock’s iridescence, an image as complete as a daily prayer. What stayed with me, too, were the blended colors moving along the road, the image shifting into a rugged, tugging canine team heading West, as far West as I could imagine. I watched until Graydon and the dogs were a blur, then I went in to fix myself a glass of sweet iced tea to cool the heat pushing against my skin.
“Mom,” Heck bellowed as he slammed into the kitchen two days after that first introduction. “Mr. Pershing is going to let me cool out his dogs for him at the track.”
“I’m going to cool down Mr. Smith’s dogs,” Will said, trailing in the house behind his brother.
“Yeah, and we’ll get a penny for every dog we cool down and a nickel extra if the dog wins his race,” Heck added, triumph in his voice.
“The best part is walking the greyhounds,” Will said. “I like them a lot.”
“No, the best part is getting paid to walk the greyhound,” Heck corrected. “That’s the part I like.”
That first week of races, I was busier than I’d ever been. We were the only place for miles that served any kind of food, and the dogmen were hungry all the time. Most fed their greyhounds better than they bothered, or could afford, to feed themselves. A sandwich and coffee would have suited the men fine, but I figured there’d be no complaining about variety, either, so variety is what I offered.
I was up by 4:00 a.m., kneading, punching, and rolling dough. By 10 o’clock each morning, three dozen of my cinnamon rolls were gone along with a pitcher of cold milk and all the coffee I could brew. A dime bought a cinnamon roll with milk and coffee. At noon and during supper, it bought some kind of soup, a thick slice of buttered bread, and coffee with cream for dessert. Always coffee. I kept two pots boiling on the stove day and night. That muddy black drink was the one constant in the dogman’s life as far as I could tell. That and the greyhounds. If their conversation was any indication, few of them had any kind of family.
Heck and Will were earning up to 20 cents a night and getting to be quite the little men when it came to handling greyhounds. Of course, the animals eased the boys’ way because they were trained to walk on a lead as easy as you please. It helped, too, that after a race the dogs were too tired to want to chase every fluttering speck, which is what their natural inclination would be. Besides walking and watering, the boys checked paws and ran their hands up and down legs to see if there were any nicks or sore spots. If they detected something, they reported it to their bosses who knew exactly what healing remedy was called for.
By the seventh night, the pay tally looked good and promised to look even better as the month wore on. Neither boy had a problem waiting until the end of the meet to get paid.
“It’s like money in a savings account,” Heck said. “Mr. Pershing promised 10% over my earnings if I’d wait.”
“Mr. Smith promised 20% over mine,” Will pronounced, glad to trump his older brother. “I’d even do it for free.”
“You can work for free pumping gas right here,” Heck said. “Why would you want to work the dogs for free?”
“You can’t talk to a gas pump like you can talk to a greyhound,” Will said. “It’s just not the same.”
Heck rolled his eyes. “And I suppose the greyhounds answer.”
Will looked at me, then back at Heck. “Yes, they do, ‘cept they talk differently than we do. I understand them, though, which is more than you can say.”
“How do you know? I understand them just fine. How many winner nickels do you have on your list, smartie? I’ll bet I’ve got double your number.”
Will shook his head and went to get his computations. Heck followed him, heckling him all the way.
I want to believe the dogmen intended to do exactly as they claimed, which included paying the boys and giving them a bonus for waiting. Not a one of them—especially Graydon Pershing—gave me any reason to doubt their good intentions. And truth be known, they asked the boys to do exactly what the general manager asked them to do. Wait. The purse money would be paid, they were assured, with bonuses based on numbers: attendance figures, wagered dollars, all of which promised to be tremendous.
In hindsight, it’s easy to see that something was wrong from the beginning. It traced to the general manager who didn’t show up on the eighth night. Orval Neimeyer insisted on total control, which wasn’t out of the ordinary for men in his position. He carried his power further than most, though, making it a point to personally hand-pick staff with certain criteria in mind. The common thread for everyone—starter, announcer, chart-writer, veterinarian, dogman—was that they had to agree to deferred payments. The sweetener, of course, was the promised bonus that would be tacked on to regular pay. Timing couldn’t have been better since the meet was scheduled to end two weeks before Christmas, the neediest time in a needy decade. The few who balked about the arrangement didn’t get hired. Dogmen certainly didn’t think it an irregular request because they were used to operators establishing rules they didn’t particularly like. It was the price to pay if they wanted to race their greyhounds anywhere at all for purse earnings.
When Niemeyer disappeared, the first thought was that he’d been kidnapped for ransom. Some believed he’d fallen into a canal when drunk. Others thought he’d been murdered by an irate dogman who finally had enough of track operators calling the shots. Mrs. Niemeyer insisted he’d eloped with a girlfriend, but that appeared to be wishful thinking on her part. He was definitely not the life of the party, hardly a man to attract a woman to run off with. Chatter rumbled all around, and it became a roar when people tallied just how much was at stake. Neimeyer had such a tight grip on the money that all anyone knew was that it had disappeared without a trace and so had he. Not a nickel of the thousands owed could be found.
The dogmen grumbled and cursed, but they were not ones to mope. This wasn’t the first time they’d been stiffed. Usually, politicians were the culprits, sending in armed officers to close down greyhound tracks and make willy-nilly arrests while horse tracks operated freely. Whether it was politicians or racing officials, the result was the same. Dogmen were left in the lurch, and the only thing, the best thing, was move to the next track, wherever it was, and hope that promises would be kept and gold found.
I’m sorry my sons had a hard lesson in trust, and I’m sorry the dogmen were left hanging. Graydon was one of the few who didn’t hightail out of town as soon as it was obvious that Niemeyer was not returning. Most teetered away in over-loaded vehicles by dawn. They were headed to California where rumor had it a new track was opening and purse earnings were guaranteed to be the highest ever seen in the country. The way the departing dogmen saw it, their chances of getting lucky were as good as their chances of getting rooked.
Will’s Mr. Smith was one of those that took the early road out. Since he couldn’t pay in cash, he gave Will one of his racers. The Gaffer was a brindle female born July 1936. Her sire was Mike Murray, her dam, Alice Beauty, facts we knew from a racing form. The Gaffer hadn’t gotten off to a great beginning. The program remark about the only race she’d run was “Quit,” which meant she broke out of the box, ran with the dogs awhile, then just quit paying attention. Where she went when she “quit,” was anybody’s guess, but Will had a good idea the next day when he took her to the track to test her ability. He joined a few of the slackers who were still amusing themselves with the equipment before the bank rounded it up. Niemeyer, it seems, had conned more than just the folks he hired. The bank had issued a loan based on some kind of falsified scheme.
When the dummy rabbit came around, Will let The Gaffer loose. Other dogs charged straight ahead. The Gaffer took an immediate right and dashed toward Camelback Road. The men roared when Will took off after the dog, “Let the dog go, kid, let her go,” but Will wasn’t about to let his greyhound escape. Hours later, the pair straggled home together, reunited after an exhausting chase.
Heck blurted, “You’re a sucker,” when Will sat down at the table to catch his breath.
I put a meat and cheese sandwich with a glass of milk in front of my bedraggled son.
“Don’t you pay him any mind,” I said.
“The Gaffer is okay,” Will said, slipping a piece of meat out of the sandwich and under the table. “I didn’t want to race her anyhow.”
Heck snickered and called him a fool.
The next morning when Graydon came by, I laid out a square of coffee cake. “On the house,” I said. “Coffee, too.”
He set out a dime. “Paying for food is the least I can do. You’ve been kind to me—to all of us.”
I shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. “I’ve got a bag of dog biscuits set aside for you. Figured you could use them on the road.”
From listening to dog men chatter, I’d learned that an affordable biscuit was stale bread, sun-dried and broken into crusty chunks. Mixed with meat, the bread biscuits soaked up enough juice to soften into a palatable mixture that suited the greyhounds well.
“My dogs thank you, too, then,” Graydon said, taking up his coffee cup.
That’s how our conversations went. The few words we exchanged resembled thin foam floating on a glass of cold tea. He didn’t mention then that he would be leaving the next morning, though I expected he would be going soon. A dogman could never idle long. He had to get to the next track, even if he had to beg, borrow, and steal to afford the trip. Graydon wasn’t about to ask for a loan or a hand-out. He hired on as a farm hand for a couple of days, loading and stacking hay as it shot out of a whale-sized baler in the field across the street. Heck tended the greyhounds, walking and watering them during the dozen hours Graydon was gone. My oldest boy didn’t moon over the dogs like Will did, but he clearly had a knack for handling the athletes. He was beginning to read their bodies in the way that seasoned trainers could.
“The Gaffer’s had too much of that rich food you’re handing him under the table,” he warned Will. “Better get her back on a dog’s diet.”
While Will fidgeted and drifted, Heck listened to everything the dogmen said. He watched them handle dogs on and off the track. He concluded that those who made the sport their life’s work were long on smarts when it came to the racing greyhound. He also concluded that Graydon was one of the smartest men he knew.
“That’s why I want to go with him when he leaves,” Heck said two days later. Although it wasn’t dawn yet, my teenager was dressed, hair-combed, and alert. He stood a few feet from where I milked Bess, smart not to get too close.
“I’m going to be a dogman just like him.”
My face went white as Bess’s belly, but I didn’t stop working my hands. The milk pinged into the pail. This wasn’t news I wanted to hear.
“Heck, you’ve got two more years of high school. What about that?”
“I don’t need a high school diploma for training dogs. There’s no school for it. The only way to learn is to work with somebody who knows what he’s doing.”
“Your mind is made up?”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell your father?”
“No.”
“You should.”
“I’ll write him a letter when I’m settled to the work and can tell him everything is peachy great.”
My fingers cramped, but I didn’t stop working the teats. There was no point in riling Bess up by stopping before the bucket was full. Neither was there any point in Heck seeing my eyes dripping like they were. He’d be fine, I was sure of it. The boy had all the confidence in the world. His brother would be wobbly without him for a bit, but he’d learn to get along. Jess had his newspapers. The world could burst into flame and melt around him before he’d look up. It was the way things were.
“We’re leaving as soon as the dogs are walked,” Heck said. “I’m going over there now to take care of it.”
I’d just set the milk bucket on the kitchen counter when Graydon knocked and called out, “Hello.”
It was a mild November morning and I’d left the back door open to let fresh air circulate.
“Come on in,” I said. “I’ve got buttermilk biscuits and mulberry jam if you’re hungry.”
“Sounds fine,” he said. “But, really, I’m just here to say goodbye.”
I pretended that he’d remarked on the weather. “Well, let me wrap these biscuits up for you to take. Heck will be starving in an hour or so. In fact, I’ve got some sandwiches made up, too, and a rump roast that will travel well. I …”
“Nelda, your son insisted that he come along. I told him he needs to finish school and pick a trade, any trade, except this one. It’s not an easy way of going, sometimes I think it’s not any kind of life at all.”
I laid out a clean dish towel and brought over the pan of biscuits. “But it’s got you, and it’s getting him.”
Graydon nodded. “Twenty years of it and I’m not looking for a way out. Everything I own is in my truck. It’s not a family kind of living.”
“I guess Heck will see if the rolling stone life suits him, won’t he?”
“I guess he will.”
I knotted the dish-towel that contained a dozen biscuits. “That bunch of dough ought to fill Heck’s stomach for a bit. I’m telling you, he eats plenty.”
“He might slow down if he has to eat grade salmon out of a can with the dogs every day. When you’re hungry, most anything tastes good.”
I set the jar of mulberry jam beside the biscuits and got out the rump roast.
“Don’t you feed this meat to those greyhounds,” I said. “It’s for you boys only. You dole it out in proper doses, and you might just have good eating for a couple of days, at least until you get to that track you’re aiming for.”
“Nelda.”
The way he said my name, like a secret to be whispered, made me look directly at him.
He paused and said my name again, louder, as if he had just then decided to go ahead. “I have something for you.”
My skin prickled at his words. I felt light-headed, like I was going to pass out, wobbly with anticipation. Later, I understood that I wanted Graydon to ask me to go with him instead of Heck. I understood, too, that there would have been no hesitation in my response.
He continued, unaware of the jolt spiking its way through me. “I want you to take a greyhound bitch that’s due to whelp soon. She’s bred to Traffic Officer, the best stud there is.”
A different kind of hopefulness leaped to catch my throat. “I can take care of her for you and see that the pups get born and started right. When will you be back to get her?” The thought of seeing him again drove my answers.
“I don’t want her back. The bitch is yours, the pups, too. With their top breeding, the pups will have every chance of being dynamos on the track.”
I wanted to bite my hand in grief, but I was not one to let emotions get the best of me, then or ever. “I’m no dogman, Mr. Pershing. Far, far from it.”
Just then Heck clambered into the kitchen with a tall fawn greyhound by his side. I could see she was all muscle and glide, a regal visitor in my paltry kitchen. The only indication of her pregnancy was a stomach that didn’t arch.
“She had guts on the track,” Graydon remarked. “She wasn’t afraid to dive into a hole between males and chase the lure with all she had. She’d beat ‘em, too. Has an honorable bloodline to match the performance. Believe me, her pups are going to be fine. You’ll be fine.”
Heck handed the leash to me. The dog lifted her long nose to be petted, and I complied. “Don’t look at me with those eyes of yours,” I said to her. “We’ll not be getting attached to each other.”
“Her racing name is Morning Star,” Graydon said. “In the kennel, we call her Star. You can call her what you like. She’s a quick study.”
Yes, I wanted to say, so am I. Instead, I told him that the name the dog knew would be sufficient.
Heck noticed the wrapped biscuits. “I hope those are for us. I’m starved.”
“They are, with more food in a box for you to take.” I pushed the container towards him. “The sun will be coming up soon. Better get on the road.”
Before the sun cast any kind of light on our faces, Graydon and Heck had climbed in the truck. I said a small prayer for their safe journey, the miles and years of it. After they left, I sat at the kitchen table, Star by my side. In that position, her eyes were almost level with mine.
“Girl, I hope Nature is kind to you on this go-round.”
Star’s tail circled, signaling she was fine at the moment and would worry about Nature when Nature called.
“I can see your disposition is better than Bess’s. That’s a plus.”
I finished drinking my coffee, then got up to fry eggs. Jess, Will, and The Gaffer would be looking for something to fill their stomachs when they woke. Eggs and hash browns, sliced tomatoes and fried bread with syrup would do for the boys and my husband. The greyhounds would need something more substantial, especially Star with her gestating pups. It would take time, but I would figure something out for them—and for me. With new life on the way, possibilities hovered, vague shadows waiting to take shape in the light.
