The Horsewoman(21)

By now they had walked through the archway of the International Arena, past the old-fashioned carousel, and were passing all the tents that sold saddlery and jewelry and clothing and leather goods and even paintings.

“Do you have a lawyer?” Becky said.

“I have spoken to an immigration lawyer in Fort Lauderdale, yes,” he said. “He told me what to do and what to say if the federales from ICE ever come looking for me at the barn or the show or even at my house with what they call their administrative warrants. You know ICE, right?”

“I know what they do, just forget what it stands for,” Becky said.

“Immigration and Customs Enforcement,” he said. “All undocumenteds live in constant fear of them. Now more than ever before.”

He felt as if he were giving her a different kind of training now, about a subject that did have him living in constant fear, especially as ICE raids became more and more aggressive, and so often violent. He had spoken to Becky tonight about losing the horse, when he feared losing everything.

“How can I help?” Becky said.

The only sound they could hear now, other than their own voices, was an occasional security golf cart patrolling the barn area.

“You can’t help,” he said. “Too much else has changed with the government and the courts since my parents brought me here. It is why they finally gave up and went back. My father said it would be his choice, not theirs.”

Daniel looked around at the halo of lights shining over the International, the horse show that reminded him of a theme park after hours.

“So what can you do?” Becky said.

“The same thing I have been doing,” he said. “Watch and wait. And pray that the blue vests do not come and try to arrest me one day.”

“Arrest you for what?” Becky said, her voice suddenly angry. “For being a good person?”

He smiled.

“For not being American enough,” he said. “Then they send me back to the other side of the wall.”

“Grandmother has lawyers, too,” Becky said.

“Mine told me that sometimes trying to stop the deportations feels to him like shouting at the ocean,” Daniel said.

“Let me at least ask Grandmother, or Mom, to help,” Becky said.

“No,” he said.

It came out much sharper than he intended.

“You have to promise me that you will keep this secret for me,” he said. “The fewer people talking about this and knowing about this the better.”

He turned to look at her.

“Promise,” he said.

“I promise,” she said.

They had made their way past some of the outdoor restaurants, over the bridge between the International Arena and its schooling ring, finally down a short stairway through some of the luxury boxes down to the in-gate. The jumps were stacked against the wall. The gazebo where the public address announcer sat was empty. Lit from overhead, the rings stood as quiet, Daniel thought, as a cathedral.

They stood and stared silently at the ring where in a couple of weeks Becky and Coronado would ride, with so much at stake, for all of them.

“I can’t do this without you,” Becky said. “I can’t lose you.”

He turned to her now, the expanse of the arena behind them. Wanting to comfort Becky, Daniel moved into a moment he had often imagined. He put his arms around her, neither one of them moving. Daniel did not know if anyone might be watching them, nor did he care.

Becky smiled and turned her face toward his as if to speak.

“Callate,” he said softly, knowing she knew what the word meant in his language.

Shut up.

And then before he had time to think, Daniel was pulling Becky close to him and she was letting him and then his arms were around her, and they were kissing.





TWENTY-ONE



DANIEL HAD NEGLECTED to yell “Incoming!” before he dropped two bombs tonight, one after the other.

Dinner at La Fogata hadn’t started out as a date. But it had sure ended up as one. Dinner with a friend—or the friend who was your trainer—didn’t end with a kiss.

It ended with two, actually.

We didn’t talk about the first one as we walked to meet my Uber on Pierson Road.

When the car showed up about ten minutes later, Daniel opened the back door for me. But before I got in, I was putting my arms back around him and initiating a good night kiss, one that lasted even longer than the first, neither of us caring that the driver was sitting right there. Certainly not me.

“We’ll get through this,” was all I could think of to say when we finally pulled back from each other.

“Who ever said any of this was going to be easy? For now, let’s hope for good news tomorrow about the horse.” Then he smiled at me and said, “Those were very pleasant kisses, by the way.”

“Pleasant?” I said. “That’s all you got?” I shook my head, then said, “Callate.”

The car dropped me home, and it took me a long time to get to sleep. I was way too jazzed, as I kept reviewing the whole day and night, start to finish, like I had them on a continuous loop: The injury to Coronado. The scene with Steve Gorton. The first bomb Daniel had dropped, the big one, about the possibility of deportation.

Then the kisses, especially the first one, the one that transported me back to teenage me and Joey Wolfe making out for the first time in the back seat of a car.