Laughing in the Hills Read online

  ALSO BY BILL BARICH

  FICTION

  Carson Valley

  Hard to Be Good: Stories

  NONFICTION

  Long Way Home

  A Pint of Plain

  A Fine Place to Daydream

  Crazy for Rivers

  The Sporting Life

  Big Dreams: Into the Heart of California

  Traveling Light

  Copyright © 1980 by Bill Barich

  First Skyhorse Publishing edition 2015

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

  Skyhorse Publishing books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or [email protected].

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  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover design by Jane Sheppard

  Cover image: Racehorses Before the Grandstand, Edgar Degas

  Print ISBN: 978-1-63450-551-2

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-63450-948-0

  for Diana, pazienza,

  and for my father

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Afterword

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  For me it did not begin with the horses. They came later, after a phone call and a simple statement of fact: Your mother has cancer. I remember the flight from California to New York, mountains giving way to flatlands, the sense of slippage I had. On Long Island the lawns were brittle with frost. “You won’t recognize her,” my father said. He was right. Disease had made her an old woman with bright eyes. She looked shrunken and tired. She’d made herself up for my arrival, with rouge, powder, and lipstick, and wore a new blue pants suit, but she’d bought it months ago and it served only to accentuate her boniness. What I felt in her fingers as she took my hand was a powerful desire to hold on.

  In spite of her pain, she was a good patient, easy to be around. I never saw her openly sad. For the most part she sat very still in a lounge chair padded with pillows, reading or listening to the radio. She complained, joking, that her book, a thick hardback, was too heavy to support, that it kept slipping from her hands, and she worried about her family and her garden and rosebushes and all that she’d miss in the future if her chemotherapy treatments failed. On fine days she liked to sit outside bundled in sweaters and coats and take the sun on her face. She was like a passenger on a cruise ship just taking the sun. It was odd to see her becoming tanned and healthy-looking even as the cancer progressed.

  There was nothing we could do to help. She was isolated within the disease and it consumed most of her energies. So we lost ourselves in mindless tasks, sweeping, cleaning, raking over the dead grass in the yard, but these gestures of avoidance were only partially successful. The truth kept ambushing us time and again, striking at all the wrong moments, bringing tears to our eyes. To escape it, I went for walks or borrowed the car and drove around the old neighborhood, through a summation of my youth, schools, playgrounds, baseball fields, longing in a not-so-curious way for the imperial symmetry of diamonds, for innocence, for breath.

  Out of this desperation I started playing the horses. It happened quite suddenly. One afternoon I passed an Off-Track Betting office and stopped in and made a bet for fun, and the next thing I knew I was driving to the local newsstand every morning to buy the Daily Racing Form, an indispensable publication that gives a compact symbolic history of the horses entered in the day’s races at major racetracks nearby. Beginners often find the Form overwhelming, since it offers more information than anybody could possibly absorb, including a horse’s age, sex, color, parentage, birthplace, breeder, owner, trainer, racing record over the past two years, amount of money won, and so on, but most serious gamblers won’t make a wager with-out first studying its contents.

  At home I spread the Form on the kitchen table and began the perilous exercise known as handicapping, which involves weighing the merits and defects of all the entrants in a given race over and over again until the apparent winner emerges. The most telling facts were to be found in the past performance charts: blocks of statistics, one per horse, that showed in copious detail just how well that horse had done in its most recent outings, exactly where it had been positioned during four different phases (first quarter, half, stretch, and finish) of each race—called the running line—the caliber of competition it had been facing, its relative speed and preferred distance, along with several other factors essential to the handicapping process. I had studied the Form before but never with such intensity; now I bent to the charts like an adept parsing mystical texts. Sometimes they were runic, impossible to decipher, but other times winners stepped readily forward to speak their names.

  When I finished handicapping I went to the OTB office to fill out my betting slips. I liked to watch people come in and slowly erode the antisepsis of the place, jabbing wet cigar butts into polished ashtrays and dragging muddy boots over clean tile floors. They were intent, blind to their surroundings, and they all looked terrific, at least until the first race had gone off. Optimism put a bloom in every cheek. Anything might happen, could happen, probably would happen, that was the notion being entertained at OTB. If you hit the triple, you might walk out the door a millionaire, your pockets larded with greenbacks. Even the fat man, who was otherwise shrewd, believed this. I met him one afternoon when he squeezed in next to me at the counter. He was so big his trousers had been split at the seam, then stretched out by the addition of an unmatching panel of cloth. He had diabetes, he said, and a bum ticker about to burst, and he’d been holed up at his sister’s house in Hempstead since Thanksgiving. His own home was in Des Moines, but he couldn’t bring himself to go back there. “No OTB in Iowa,” he said, and I knew exactly what he meant.

  It surprised me when everybody else in my family wanted to escape, too, including my mother. She always qualified her participation by saying that gambling was wrong, and played a few horses only, usually favorites, and my visiting aunt did the same, although she could be swayed by a name that recalled a pleasant memory or proposed a condition she sought, Happy Birthday or Long Vacation. My father, a lavish spender, bet every race, double, triple, and exactas as well, over-extended and incautious, while my brother played hunches, dark horses from his dreams, Obliterator, twenty on the nose. My sister never bet at all, but sometimes she joined us when we gathered on the porch every thirty minutes or so to listen to the delayed broadcast of the races. My mother would lean forward in her chair, her big reading glasses dwarfing her eyes, making them look childlike, and act excited if her horse was in contention. She had a funny way of exaggerating her response, pressing a fist to her sternum. My father said the races were good for her, they gave her something to look forward to. I thought she heard in the track announcer’s call a little pulse of life at the heart of the cancer.

  II<
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  Back home in California I fell into a lingering sadness. There were miscarriages and more cancers among relatives, and then my wife was operated on for a brain tumor, which proved not to exist except as a dark spot on an X-ray plate. I tried to relax, reminding myself that worse things could have happened, but this was only intermittently useful. Tolerance was not the issue. In the autumn I quit my job and we moved to the country, to a battered trailer overlooking a river. For a while the isolation with its perishable sounds, herons, flowing water, the soft flutter of bugs born into the evening light, worked wonders, but then I began to falter. Winter came and the money we’d saved was running out, and the things I wanted to write about remained just out of reach. I argued with my wife and she argued with me; we were older and childless and knee-deep in ruin.

  Most afternoons I took long drives through the countryside, playing the radio loud and drinking cans of Brown Derby beer. I stopped in small towns with flags and libraries and looked for history in their thrift shops. In Cloverdale I found ashtrays shaped like oranges and lemons, souvenirs of the Citrus Fair; in Hopland part of a grape press; in Geyserville three handtowels from a razed hotel. These items were precious to me, shards of a human past that was being scraped from the edges of consciousness. All over the county, town houses and condominiums were devouring orchards and vineyards just as they’d devoured the potato farms on Long Island, and whenever I saw a sign for a new subdivision, Eternal Now Villas, Cypress Estates where no cypresses had ever grown, or read about the Corps of Engineers’ plan to dam the river, or saw bulldozers or sewer pipes or even surveyors, I flew into a rage. The assault was relentless, without purpose, another aspect of disease.

  Sometimes instead of driving I forded the river and hiked through the oaks and madrones of a sheep ranch nearby. I found the skull there, hidden in Spanish moss. It was small and dry, worn away in spots, and I could peel away its tissuelike layers with my fingers. I thought it might have belonged to a coyote, but a friend checked the dentition and said it was more likely a sheep’s skull. Maybe a coyote had killed the sheep, he said, but if so the coyote was long gone and ghostly, laughing in the hills.

  III

  In the spring I felt no better. I wanted to forget about what had happened, what was happening, but I’d wake at night to my mother’s face or the memory of my wife lying in her hospital bed, crying and outraged, while across the room an old lady who looked just like Auden in drag smoked Chesterfields and spoke favorably of the removal of her pituitary gland many years ago. The mix was weird and frightening and it came always at night, out of the deepest places. I began once again to long for an escape into orderliness and decided, with the same hapless illogic that governed all my actions then, to leave home and spend the rest of the spring at Golden Gate Fields, a thoroughbred track in Albany, near Oakland and San Francisco. There were other things I might have done, friends who would have taken me in, but I was convinced there was something special about racing and I wanted to get to the heart of the matter. The track seemed circumscribed and manageable, especially when compared to the complex filigree of nature, hydrogen intertwined with embryos and tumors. I kept thinking about the fat man and the pulse I’d first heard beating on Long Island. I thought if I could touch it, I might come away renewed.

  IV

  Once before I’d done something similar, when I was much younger but equally distraught. I’d escaped to Italy as a member of a college study group, but soon after arriving in Florence I started wandering instead of studying. The Renaissance became more immanent than historical to me and for six months I lived within its compass. I felt like a prince of existence; there were days when nothing at all went wrong. The city was mine and I explored it with a vengeance, leaving the Marchesa’s apartment at dawn, a hard roll stuffed in my pocket and light just breaking over the Piazza della Signoria. I came to know the galleries of the Uffizi by heart, and the statuary along the Loggia dei Lanzi, and I could count to twenty in Italian and liked nothing better than to sit at a café table and drink wine and read poetry or the queer striving philosophy of the Humanists, that loose-knit group of scholars who’d formed around the Medici. Pico della Mirandola was my favorite, Pico with his lumpy nose and straw-colored hair. It was said he’d been born with an aura around his head, bright as a candle flame, which meant he’d do great things but die early, in the time of lilies. He believed our position in the universal scheme was not fixed but fluid. “Thou, constrained by no limits, in accordance wtih thy own free will … shalt ordain for thyself the limits of thy nature.” Such statements, however naive, had currency for me again, and when I came across a book of Pico’s on my shelf I tossed it into the suitcase, then added Ficino, the Platonist, and Burckhardt, the historian, and some more general books about the Renaissance. Florentines, I thought, had always liked to gamble.

  V

  In Albany I had difficulty finding a place to stay. There were a few motels near the track, but their managers seemed to live in perpetual fear of guests. One lady spoke to me through a round metal speaker set into a shield of Plexiglas. Her voice had the absolute timbre of creaking hinges. “We’re all full,” she said, but her VACANCY sign was still blinking when I drove off. I wondered if the strangeness I felt at entering an alien environment, the suburbs, could already show so clearly in my face. At the next motel I rang the bell five times but nobody answered. When I looked through the office window, I saw an old man reclining in a lounger, his paper open to the racing page. At last I found a dilapidated corner house over the border in Richmond and rented a one-room apartment by the week. The landlady, an Okie named Mabel, made me sign a lease that effectively deprived me of all my rights. The room had no shower, only a tub, but if I crouched low under the eaves near a front window I could watch the accidents along San Pablo Avenue. I spread my books, charts, and Forms over a small table and staked a psychic claim to the space, which was worn and lonely, a distillate of frailties.

  That night my neighbor across the hall threatened to kill his wife. “Bitch!” he yelled. “You always making me feel so bad. Sit around all day smoking stuff while I got to work. How you think I like it, bitch?” Something broke, a glass or maybe a mirror. I kept waiting for bullets, but the argument had played before, many times; the actors were perfectly rehearsed and fell by degrees into a call-and-response routine that ended in tears and screams and the wife’s frantic exit down the stairs. When I checked out in the morning, breaking my “lease,” I could still smell her perfume, deeply floral, all along the hallway.

  Finally I settled in at the Terrace Motel, a decent place with friendly owners, clean rooms, three-legged chairs propped against the walls, and a swimming pool. I never saw anybody in that pool, not once. The Terrace’s population was constantly shifting, except for an Indian who wore his hair in braids and lived in one unit, and a few track employees and old people who rented minimally functional apartments in a building adjacent to the main motel. On warm evenings, just at twilight, somebody there played songs like “To Dream the Impossible Dream” on a very percussive piano. The boss maid had worked as a maid for eighteen years, and she told me she was ready for a vacation. “I’m not kidding you,” she said. “I’d go just about anywhere.” One morning I thought I saw Jimmy Cuzick, an apprentice jockey, walking barefooted across the parking lot, a patch over one eye. Cuzick had suffered a mild concussion days before when his mount, Spiced Falcon, a rogue shipper from Santa Anita, had thrown him in the starting gate, and I wanted to ask him about it, but when I came back from the races he was gone. This happened often around the track, people vanishing, positioning themselves at the proper angle to achieve invisibility. Horses sometimes vanished, too, but more often they just broke loose into new realms of the unexpected.

  I hated nights at the Terrace. All the television sets came on, seemingly in unison, and the sound of them was unavoidable and rose around me like granite. I felt imprisoned in an aspect of the Middle Ages, some dark and barbarous time. The TVs spoke of cultura
l decay, of flattened perceptions and a cathodal substratum too insubstantial to support human life. Throughout the state, the spirit was being stripped of its tools for enrichment. Schools, libraries, and museums were closing, and citizens everywhere were retreating into the feudal dimensions of artificial light.

  VI

  In those blue waking hours I read about horses and racing and the Renaissance. I thought about aspirations, green shoots fibrillating in the concentricities of civilization. I thought about change.

  Niccolò Machiavelli, in exile at his small farm above Florence, dressed in robes of office after nightfall, then went to his study and talked to the ancients. “I am not ashamed to speak with them,” he wrote, “and ask them the reasons of their actions, and they, because of their humanity, answer me. Four hours can pass, and I feel no weariness; my troubles forgotten, I neither fear poverty nor dread death.”

  This too was what I wanted, to get past the sadness, but I remembered the first days of our family betting and how my aunt had played Little Miracle to win. The horse came in, surprising us all, and my mother died in the spring.

  Chapter Two

  Point Fleming, the site of Golden Gate Fields, is a rocky outcropping of land that extends into the eastern portion of San Francisco Bay. It was once occupied by a tribe of Indians known as Costonoans, from the Spanish for coast peoples, members of the Penutian language family. Costonoans lived in tule huts along the littoral and made an unfavorable impression on the padres who served as diarists for the early explorers. By all accounts they were an apathetic humorless tattooed band who did their best to avoid eye contact of any kind. They scalped their enemies, severing heads, then displaying them on poles, and ran around naked except in winter, when they put on odoriferous rabbit-skin blankets against the cold. They weren’t very good at any of the traditional Indian skills, not basketry, hunting, or fishing. Sometimes they managed to knock a passing duck out of the sky or kill a deer with an obsidian-tipped arrow, but more often they subsisted on acorns scavenged from inland slopes and canyons, clams, mussels, and the few salmon they caught in their long unwieldy nets. These salmon were dispatched with vehemence. “Once I counted fifteen-odd blows and in another case twenty-odd,” one diarist noted. The Costonoans also liked to gamble. They played tussi, a variety of guessing game, and may have learned a primitive version of craps from neighboring Yokuts women. Maybe the rattling of black walnut dice inhibited their ritual life, for the anthropologist Kroeber listed only one Costonoan dance song in his tribal compendium. It consists of a single lyric line repeated over and over again until an arbitrary ending is reached: