Majestic Beauty (rough draft)

His hands clenched the paper stub, eyes stuck on the television screen watching the progress of number 13 - Majestic Beauty was her name. And by God, was she a beauty. Dark, long slender legs galloping upon the sodden earth and a tail catching the sun, golden filigree weaved into the black tangle. She’d been last out of the stalls, but she’d caught up as he’d known she would. She passed the ones lagging at the back easily and her jockey gripped his knees against her side tighter to ascertain his sturdy position.

The commentator rehearsed in excited tones the progress of Majestic Beauty and the crowd seemed to surge forwards as one, as if to gain a better perspective. She was the least favorite of the twelve running today, but Greg had had his eye on her for some time. He’d watched her fall in her last race. Not a bad trip, but enough to get her to the bottom of the list today obviously. It wasn’t common for horses, who fell to race again, but she had and Greg was only too thankful for that. His heart fluttered and then it happened. She passed the favorite who was at the head of the pack, and she stampeded the rest of the way, cutting through the finish line.

Cries of rage and disbelief erupted in the smoke-filled betting shop as the men loosened their grip on yet another ticket and let it fall to the floor. Failed again by the racetrack they left hurriedly as if by rushing out, the lost money (and faith) would be less of an insult to their names. Greg stayed though, paralyzed. Beauty had come in at 25-1. He’d bet $50. His earnings weren’t hard to work out. Sixty-three years old and $2,500 richer. Now that’s a profit.

He’d splurged all his savings on this one bet, hadn’t even been to the betting shop for the last few months because he didn’t want to waste the money. He needed it for Majestic Beauty, and she’d come through for him. Spurred into movement by this thought, he ambled up to the counter, a sly smile complimenting his sagging cheeks and lost eyes.

Once he got home Greg put his winnings in his wife’s old treasure chest amongst the broken clasps of earrings, the many crumpled papers carrying short attempts at poetry, and her death certificate. He propped the picture of her up atop the money though he knew it’d only fall down once he closed the lid over. But that wasn’t the point.

He’d dreamt of her six months ago and it was a dream of pleasant memories encumbered by rising voices that would later be retracted and solved by tender kisses. Anyway, in the dream, she’d been yelling at him once more, telling him that if he dared go to the betting shop today, he shouldn’t expect her to be waiting when he got back. He almost laughed at her - the same threat had been made a hundred times before and though she had packed sometimes and left her suitcases in front of the door, she’d never actually made it out herself. Instead, he’d come home to find her washing some dishes a little more roughly than reasonable. He’d walk up behind her, wrap his arms around her waist and whisper in her ear, “won enough to get that necklace you wanted.” And he’d spot the smile creeping up the side of her face and spin her around to hug her. “Pain in the ass,” he’d chuckle.

Anyway, so in this dream, he stood there trying his best to hold the laugh in at her threat and narrowed eyes. In the dream though, she didn’t turn away and run upstairs to begin packing like she had in reality, but she came to him, wrapped her dainty arms around his neck and whispered, “Majestic Beauty, that’s the one.”

When he woke, he recalled every detail of the dream and he held them close to him, trying to preserve them. That day, he’d turned the TV on to see a horse named Majestic Beauty in black and white galloping hard and fast down the track and she was sure to win … until she fell, slamming into the mud and sending fireworks of dirt into the air. That was when he knew what his wife was asking in the dream. She was asking him to have patience and faith and bet on this horse who was sure to have the worse odds in whichever race she showed up in next. He wasn’t worried that’s she’d be put down, somehow he knew her leg would mend and she’d race again just as his wife had known in the dream.

In the here and now, he closed the lid of the chest, heard the tell-tale sound of the photograph falling back to the bottom and he chuckled, “Pain in the ass.