Kill Switch Read online

  “I understand,” I say.

  He lets go, takes the beer, and relaxes back in his seat.

  “Harry Horse,” I say after a few more quiet minutes. Da has had his eyes closed, so I know he is appreciating the surroundings like he should. I expect things to slip into place now for our grand day.

  “What?” he asks.

  “I have a horse here, in the first race. His name is Harry Horse. He’s thirty-three to one, but he’s placed in his last three races and he loves the dry conditions. This sounds really promising.”

  He tips his cap back on his head. “Harry Horse?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That sounds like a horse you would have picked when you were six. Do you remember, when you were little, I’d let you pick one for me out of the paper and I’d bet on him?” He smiles broadly at the memory. “Remember that?”

  “Remember it? I loved it. I lived for it. Never won a nickel, though.”

  “That’s because I never went for your foolish picks then, either. Come, let’s go down to the paddock.”

  He hops to his feet, springy and frisky as a colt, and starts bopping his way down the grandstand toward the little parading ground where everyone gets a pre-race glimpse of the big, beautiful athletes.

  “Hey,” I call, running after him, “are you saying… you never bet on those horses for me?”

  “Don’t be silly,” he says, not even glancing back at me. “Nobody in his right mind lets a child bet on a horse.” I can tell by the sudden hunch of his shoulders, he is having a nice little chuckle for himself over this.

  “Hey. Hello, hey, Da, this is my childhood, my cherished memory you are toying with here…”

  He stops and waits for me to catch up. As soon as I do, he starts jabbing me in the chest with his index finger. “You are not a child now, though, are you? It is time for you to get grown up. It really is.”

  He is not poking me hard and in fact is not speaking harshly or meanly. Despite the words, the overall effect somehow manages to be warm.

  Doesn’t keep me from feeling sorry for myself, or for my younger self, just the same.

  “Oh, come on, now,” he says, grabbing me in a semiheadlock and walking me along. He would want no part of the moping. As his arm drapes around my neck, over my chest, his MedicAlert bracelet slips down his wrist. I see him look at it for several seconds as we walk.

  I want no part of that.

  “I still can’t believe you tricked me over the bets all those times, Da.”

  That pulls him away from the bracelet. “What, you were just a kid. You didn’t need the money. What you needed was to know that your beloved grandfather was thinking of you and doing something nice for you, even when he was out having fun with his pals. Now that’s devotion.”

  “But you never even did the nice thing!”

  “But you didn’t know that! That’s what was so nice about it. And it shouldn’t offend you if a poor little old man saved a couple of bucks at the same time, right?”

  “At no time were you a poor little old man. Ever.”

  He laughs, pushes me sideways. “No harm, no foul. I looked good, you felt special…”

  “A total win-win, huh?”

  “Exactly. Cause if I betted on all those stupid glue-pots you chose, it would have been lose-lose. Mrs. Musby… Cotton Candy… Fuster Buster… what kind of numpty bets on horses with names like that?”

  He does this trick too-making a fool of his memory-loss bracelet.

  “You still remember the names I picked,” I say admiringly.

  “Course I do,” he says. “You’re my boy.”

  “But you never bet on them!” I shout, mock furious.

  “Exactly!” he shouts, unmock delighted.

  We are approaching the paddock, where the early runners are already doing their beauty parade.

  “You are a mean old boy, Old Boy,” I say.

  He walks a little quicker toward the horses. “You have no idea, Young Man.”

  I am always shocked all over again when I see horses-especially racehorses-up close. Their polished muscles put on a show all their own as the horses just walk along, unaware of how gorgeous they are. From the way Da stares, ogles, smiles as he leans a bit too far over the rail, I don’t think he has ever lost that sensation either.

  “You know, in the Middle East, Saudi Arabia, Dubai, they treat horse racing as something almost sacred. When I was there, the conditions I saw, the quality of the facilities, the level of attention to the welfare of the horses… you should be so fortunate as to live under those conditions.”

  I lightly slap his shoulder with the back of my hand. “I never knew you were in the Middle East. When was that? What brought you there?”

  “Oh, I was there several times. Glorious places. The corporation sent me. Business, but pleasure. Pleasurable business.”

  I look at him looking at the horses. Still wearing that happy grin that makes him look younger than me. I lean out as far as him, to catch his eye and have him look at me. He looks.

  “Da, didn’t Mr. Largs say you guys only worked domestic?”

  “I don’t know,” he says, looking back at the horses again, smiling again. “Did he?”

  I reach across and with thumb and middle finger, pull gently on his MEMORY LOSS bracelet. He stares at it. “Maybe you are remembering it all exactly right.”

  “I remember,” he says.

  “So Mr. Largs is lying?”

  He turns to face me again, his eyes close to mine.

  “Mr. Largs is lying,” he says. No smile.

  I get a chill.

  “There’s your horse,” Da says, pointing to the beautiful beast wearing the green and white silks.

  “You’re going to place a bet on him for me. I’d say you owe me. I’m right here now too, so I can see you.”

  He laughs, pushes back from the rail. “I guess I’m caught. Come on, Young Man, let’s go see a man about a horse.”

  There are a number of different betting booths lined up across the asphalt ground between the stands and the track. They continually flash new odds on each horse, mostly better odds than the ones at the big, official stands inside. It is fun to think of our little bets pushing the odds one way or the other, and while that may not be exactly what is happening, I do enjoy watching the small electronic boards above the booths change while Da places his bets. I lean back on the railing behind me, sip at beer, let the sun warm my smile.

  “Daniel,” comes the voice from over my shoulder. “Danny boy, how are you doing?”

  I don’t completely turn, because I never completely turn away from my Da lately. I do a sideways quarter turn to look behind me and ahead at the same time, like a reptile. You can learn to do this, if it is really important.

  “Zeke?” I say. “Well, how are you? This is a real surprise and a coincidence.”

  I am doing that awkward reach-up-and-back handshake with Zeke, wondering why certain types of older guys seem to have to shake a younger guy too hard and all over the place.

  “Yes,” he says, “so great to see you. It’s been a dog’s age. And your granddad too… what a treat. I’m glad I played a little hooky today.”

  Zeke is the one friend and workmate of Da’s I ever saw on anything like a regular basis. He’s probably a year or two older, even, and I thought he was retired by now as well. I always liked Zeke, and it was obvious Da thought a lot of him too. We haven’t seen him at all since the retirement.

  “So, this what the old boy is doing with his days now? I’m jealous,” Zeke says.

  “No,” I say, “we’re really not here much at-”

  I stop myself when Da turns away from the betting and doesn’t see me. I see what comes all over his face when he recognizes no face. Absence, comes all over his face and he toddles cluelessly away.

  “Excuse me, Zeke,” I say, and bolt.

  When I catch up to him, he is staring at his betting slips, staring down at them and still walking forward, bump
ing and bouncing off people as if he does not know it is happening. I grab his arm. “Hey, you,” I say, making light, making fun where there is none.

  He looks up at me with that brief horror that is his lost face and I swear I want to slap that face right off him. He stares back down at the slips and then back up at me as if somewhere in there is the correspondence of my face to that ticket. That somewhere in there is the answer and the explanation that will pull it together.

  And what do you know, he does find an answer in there after all.

  “If I were you,” he whispers after the last check of the ticket, “I’d kill me.”

  First thing I do is, I shudder. The full xylophone thing right down my spine and back up again. Then I shout at him. It is not a shout full of reason. “Hey,” I yell at him with my scoldingest tone but little else. He stares. “Hey, Da,” I reiterate just in case he missed it the first time.

  “Hey,” Zeke says, right over my shoulder to Da.

  He startles me, and I turn on him now. “Do you mind?” I ask, feeling somehow like I am sheltering my grandfather from something. Much as I have always liked Zeke, I am also aware how he can be an unsettling sort of presence if you aren’t prepared for him. He’s tall and angular, always in a light gray suit and with skin and hair all the same gray color. He looks, regardless of the conditions, indoor and out, as if he’s standing right under harsh fluorescent lighting.

  “Ezekiel!” Da says, and my authority and irritation blow away on the breeze. “Darius!” Zeke says, and they both brush me aside and embrace.

  I am the kid here, and that is that.

  We are sitting in the stands, up high enough to see well but also to bask in the sun. The first race is a couple of minutes off, and I stare at my ticket, Harry Horse to place. The old colleagues are catching up, chatting about people I know mostly by nickname-Mackie, Doctor J, the Moleskinner-and making very little sense to me. It all sounds boring enough that I think I’ll go down and have an encouraging talk with Harry Horse, until there is a slight turn to the conversation.

  “Have you seen any of the guys, Darius? From the old team?”

  “Not a one,” says Da with the conviction of somebody who has no idea.

  “Nobody?” Zeke asks. He sounds simultaneously shocked and unsurprised. He throws me a look when I stare at his previous look.

  “No, the rats,” Da continues. “Zekie, you are the first of the whole crowd. Not even a phone call.” There is a pause that one would call uncomfortable, if one liked to really understate things.

  “Oh,” Zeke says, looking slicingly in my direction for some reason I cannot work out.

  “Ah,” Da says, at the same time the trumpetty announcer calls out over the PA system that the horses are lining up. “Just that one guy. You know the guy, the putz. Never liked him. Came by, I don’t even know why… a week ago, maybe two weeks? The guy they sent with me on the Europe trip that time. Couldn’t hold his beer for beans.”

  “Annnnd… they’re… off!” the announcer calls.

  And Da is off, along with pretty much every other spectator in the place.

  I do love the horses, just like Da does. To hear and feel the thump of their hooves in the turf, even halfway around the track and halfway up the stands, is to feel one of the special somethings of life. You cannot help but get it if you have working senses at all. It draws Da helplessly toward it, and when a lady stands up in front of him, he silently takes an empty seat on the bench in front of us. He’s too much of a gent to ever complain to a lady who’s enjoying the horses like that.

  “Danny,” Zeke says right into my ear.

  I turn away from the action to see him looking at me, hard and gray. He appears to have no great interest in horse racing.

  “People don’t usually call me Danny anymore,” I say, to be firm with him. I feel like I need to be firm with him, and large.

  “Daniel,” he says, “your granddad is not doing so well, huh?”

  “He is doing fine, thanks.”

  I turn back toward the race, where it is already apparent that Harry Horse has better things to do than try to run faster than the other horses. Still, it’s thrilling.

  “Does he talk a lot of crazy?” Zeke asks me.

  “As a matter of fact,” I say without looking at him, “my grandfather doesn’t talk any crazy at all. He gets tired. He forgets. Otherwise, he is sharper than me. Here, look,” I say, showing him my ticket and my selection of no-hurry Harry.

  “Listen to me, son. I love this man. Probably more even than you do-”

  “No,” I snap.

  Da looks over his shoulder, grinning broadly at me. “I know, he’s terrible. Who bets on a horse named Harry anyway? Horse actually looks like he’s laughing.”

  “He’s laughing at me, Da,” I say, patting his shoulder.

  He slaps my knee. “You are a good kid anyway, Young Man.”

  “Stop gloating, Old Boy, and watch the finish.”

  He hoots as he does just that, and somehow we are managing to have fun even with Zeke here trying to bleed the sunshine right out of the day. I don’t know which horse is Da’s, but judging from his mad, hat-throwing celebration, I think he won.

  As that happens, something very different happens between Zeke and me.

  “Let me tell you just this one thing, Danny-and I am going to call you Danny because I want to talk to that beautiful kid who always showed respect and decency to this fine man right in front of us. He does talk some crazy. And when he does, you need to encourage him to talk about something else. I love this guy here and that means by extension I love you, too. So with whatever time you have left with your Da, talk about family, talk about sports, talk about girls and food and flying pigs and music and whatever else passes the time. But if he talks about his work, steer him away.”

  Zeke gives my neck a small squeeze, both friendly and frightening.

  “I am not even supposed to be here,” he says. “I won’t do this again. Understand? I shouldn’t even have come. This is a personal, friend visit. If you see me again, it’s going to be business. I am here out of courtesy, and I shouldn’t even be.”

  And the impulse returns, protective, defensive, angry, whatever, but it doesn’t feel exactly smart.

  “So, then, go,” I say.

  And you know what? He does. He does what I say, and he goes, slipping away in the post-race mayhem, while the Old Boy fusses around the floor for his hat.

  Da pops up, hat on head, ticket in hand. He looks around like he knows something is not right, something is missing, but he cannot quite figure out what.

  Winners and losers-and there is no mistaking which is which here-begin making their way down the sunny concrete steps, toward the collection windows, the betting windows, the bars, and the bathrooms, all loading up to shoot the same shots again on the next race and then the next one.

  “Whatcha win, Da?” I ask, hand on his shoulder as we bump along down.

  He hands me over his ticket and I look at it and we both look up at the results board.

  My horse beat his horse. And everybody else’s horse beat my horse. My grandfather may realize this, and he may not.

  “Will we go for it again, Old Boy?”

  “Let us go for it again, Young Man.”

  He straightens his flat cap, and we go for it again.

  2

  Shut up, Da said.

  He never liked to say that, or to hear it. It meant he was furious.

  Shut up.

  I didn’t even say anything, I said.

  It was my fault. I was not supposed to leave him. Alone. I was never supposed to leave him alone.

  It gets really hard, though. Sometimes. He was sleeping. He slept pretty regular, and so I knew. Approximately. I could go around the corner, breathe some air, think some thoughts. Get a chicken burger. Just around the corner. Just.

  Shut up, he said again.

  Why, Da?

  Shut up, Darius, is what he said. To me.


  Who, Da? Who said shut up to you?

  Little puke. That little, little puke.

  Who’s the puke, Da?

  Largs. Little puke Largs. And Zeke. Me, shut up?

  When did they tell you to shut up?

  Where were you, Young Man?

  I am sorry, Da. Really.

  Do I smell chicken?

  Da? When did they tell you to shut up?

  Right there. Up there. On the landing.

  The landing. Halfway up the stairs? That landing? Our landing? In our house?

  I got a little lost.

  What were you doing on the landing, Da? I left you on the couch.

  His face. The crumpled face. The don’t-know face, but knowing that not knowing is really bad. Knowing enough to be humiliated about not knowing. That face.

  Were you going up or coming down when they came to you?

  That face. That diabolical sad face.

  Lots of people did that, though. My own dad did it. Pause on the landing, trying to remember what he is after. Common.

  But not knowing whether you were halfway up or halfway down. That is different. That is way-bad different.

  I was lost, Young Man.

  And they came and found you. Zeke. And Largs the puke. They came and found you.

  Where were you, Daniel?

  So sorry, Da, so sorry. Will not happen again. I will not leave you again.

  And I never did. Until I was told. I never did again. I could say that at least.

  So they found you, on the landing, when you were lost.

  Just shut up, for crying out loud, Darius. Just keep your mouth shut.

  How did they know you were lost?