2004 Winner: Arlen Gone

by Kevin Harrington

THERE, FRAMED IN THE center pane, a gibbous moon shone through the lighted window above the landing. Raymond Belanger stopped in the stairwell. He made this trip so often but never found the moon waiting for him; he wondered why. Thinking through the confluence of phases and seasons, allowing for overcast skies, only a few minutes each year would he find it so, waxing nearly full. Preoccupied, Ray got caught by surprise even after he had steeled himself for this time.

Arlen Cawley was dead. The same bold moonlight glinted off one open eye as he lay, the only way he could, on his side. Sinking slowly, back against the door, Ray tried hard to read his expression, seeking answers in his death mask. Nothing beatific, his mouth gaped, lips puckered without his dentures. Did he wake and know it was his time? Ray had pictured himself bedside for the last moments and feared they would be painful for Arlen. He saw no such sign. Arlen stared back, gaze clear; he looked resolute.

A feathery sax solo coasted from the boombox glow on the shelf. Ray resisted the urge to touch, check for temperature or blanching, gently close his eyes. This shouldn't be disturbed. He was gone, but it wasn't over. He should report the death. The other calls-Social Security and the like-could wait until morning. Hell, it could all wait. Ray recognized the sax player as Johnny Hodges; a piano run then bits of the melody flourished. Oh, God. It was "All of Me." With a stifled chuckle came the first tears. Whatever was still happening, Ray was part of it, in on the joke now. Because Lord knows there wasn't much of Arlen left to take.

The room didn't smell bad yet. There was still the faint sour old-man smell; Ray had battled with lemon cleaners, scented candles, and incense. Arlen favored cinnamon and vanilla over anything coniferous or herbal. "Like laying in a candy store all day," he said. Too, he enjoyed the flickering light up along the stucco and crown moldings.

The drummer kicked up the backbeat accent and Hodges, full-throated now, more robust, put a rouse in the chorus. The band wound out. Done with the shimmy, all shake now, the medley ended with a swank punch, rimshots and a cymbal crash like a lewd wink from a go-go dancer.

Ray rose, opened the kitchen window and scrunched his shoulders as the old sash crackled. The darkness between the street lamps cloaked the neighborhood, casting it vintage rather than shabby. Blue lunar light pooled on the rooftops and allowed the church steeple to throw a night shadow. As always, the distant towers atop the Sears building pulsed a steady red beat. Cardiac, life, man, it was a strange trip. If it hadn't been for horse racing, a sport Ray grew to hate as a boy, Arlen would have been another curious someone in a neighborhood full of curiosities. Now, Ray was the closest thing to next of kin.

HE HOPPED himself up on the counter. So many thoughts ricocheted; still in the back of his mind he kept count of the throbbing lights above the black- aluminum skyscraper, diastolic-systolic. On the boombox, Billie Holiday wondered what a little moonlight could do to her.

Arlen, the old Irishman, would've turned 86 next month. Stooped from birth, he never completely uncurled: a congenital kyphosis, hunchback. Upright, he resembled the knobby end of a gnarled stick; he had a shillelagh toughness to him almost to the end. Arlen embraced his fate, found his trade close to the ground. Reared in Montana, he apprenticed in the Butte copper mines. A full shift filing then shoeing the mules taxed the burliest farrier. Arlen had just the right posture. "It was the job the Lord suited me for," he said. But they slung the mules to the bottom of the lift cages and brought them up blindfolded against the sunlight. The electric engines went down the shafts for assembly. Arlen hoboed east during the Great Depression to find work at the tracks and breeding farms. He was skilled at the forge and under the animals, and the hardboot trainers liked his way with skittish and mean horses.

Ray grew up in Chicago, the youngest by a stretch, his mother, a nurse; his father was a Cook County prosecutor. At the courthouse there was a longstanding Friday tradition; some assistant prosecutors finagled the calendar, curtailed appointments, and caught an Arlington Park race card. In fourth grade, his mother was diagnosed: cancer. Mildred died surrounded by her family, emaciated, drowning in her favorite robe; their tears soaked the terrycloth. The best death she could have, mercifully fast after the treatments failed. His dad, Leo, found diversion and a focus for his concentration in the Daily Racing Form, calculating time and distance over varied tracks. With Ray's older brother and sister either in college or working to help pay tuition, Ray was too young to be left home. A boy can grow weary even with endless ice cream and hot dogs. Ray came to dread the long Saturdays that started on opening day, Mother's Day. The bitter irony was not lost despite his youth.

Recently, Ray had dropped out of life in a sense. His older brother and sister considered him a fallen man. Oh, he still worked, but as a bartender, honest toil. The slow breakup and weary legal wrangling of divorce had taken an inevitable toll. He'd been the first one to speak up at the hospital so supervisors were waiting to pounce. He had the sense to resign before they nicked him to death. He could still be working in the field. God knows they needed nurses. He wasn't ready to be one of them again, not yet, no matter the pay.

He still parented. Loved his daughter but didn't see her much. He couldn't bring her back to this apartment building.

THE BUCKINGHAM was a pretender. Built in 1927, name wrought in block letters on the glass front door, gray swirls in the carpet, and ornamented architecture, it suggested style back then. Seven floors cased in a basic dark brick. Heavy cooking smells from the old, poor, and foreign-born hung in the hallways. The exterminator visited but never enough. The place really said tenement now. Too far from the light and open grass Ray worked so hard to stake out. His daughter now ran across a lawn that was no longer his.

Ray had seen Arlen before, but they met a couple years ago on the Fourth of July. A few guys, widowed, divorced, or otherwise disenfranchised, felt a patriotic duty to sit on the Buckingham front steps. Just to let the drug dealers and gangbangers know it was their America, too.

There was John, the stubby Aussie manager of the building. Gray hair and whiskered proper, as it was also a holiday from shaving, too, he hawked and spat his way through his own ribald tales of a thousand nights. Brothels and booze, brawling and whoring, his green eyes just emerald crescents when he smiled. Powerful, tattooed forearms reminded Ray of "Popeye" cartoons. Fresh from betrayal and separation, John's bawdy blasts from exotic ports comforted Ray. Maybe he needed a commercial liaison? Ray was lonely but still hurt too raw for anything more sophisticated.

Cab driver and assistant manager of the corner grocery store, Ayman took the day off from both jobs to honor America's birthday. They teased him, called him "The Sheikh." Dark curly hair, long eyelashes, olive skin, and a big white smile, he had a little desert dash. Women noticed. John's stories intrigued him, but Ayman never betrayed shock. From a strict Muslim family where courting was supervised and marriage arranged, he lived in Spartan celibacy. He worked long hours to earn enough money to bring his fianc?e to the States. "They build a fortress of paper, but I will defeat them." Ray helped Ayman deal with the confusing procession of government forms.

Calvin pronounced himself a player. Until the factory closed, he shot craps and pool, hustled card games and women all between swing shifts on the assembly line. But for some years he had been afoot. He claimed to have a job, vaguely suggesting he worked undercover for a government agency. No acronym ever revealed. Ray sometimes saw him clandestinely peeking into trash bins. Lean and lanky, Calvin had a dark vine-toughness to him, but the younger corner boys deemed him a nappy, ashy, old dude. His real gift was playacting. He could mimic almost anyone, play multiple parts. Finished, he would sit back down and mop his face with a hand towel he kept over his shoulder like a pelt.

UNDER THE elm tree, Arlen wasn't with the stoop group. He checked both ways down the street as he rapped a rolled newspaper against his thigh. Ray recognized the distinctive red banner: Daily Racing Form. A stocky guy, Mexican or Indian, strode through traffic. Certainly the guy Arlen sought, his agitation increased on approach until it looked like polka steps. Arlen, maybe 5' 6" if he could straighten, reached up to threaten the guy with the rolled-up Form as his billy club. The guy claimed car trouble kept him from putting the bet down. Yesterday's trifecta would have paid $762 and change. Ray knew this cat was lying. Otherwise, he would have snatched the waving paper away from his face. He was taking his lumps too easy.

While Arlen blustered, Ray faded into the building, scaled down the fire escape, and dropped to the alley in a crouch like he grew up in the neighborhood. He shadowed the clumsy grifter to a rusting Oldsmobile. Later, Ray knocked. Arlen led him down a narrow pathway between cartons stacked nearly to the ceiling. They talked in the kitchen. Arlen had set up his cot in a niche saved from the boxes. Arlen sounded sad, beyond anger, when he received confirmation of the deception. "How can I trust him? To lie about a bet?" Arlen rubbed his bristle-cut hair behind his ear. Ray leaned against that same Philco fridge as he listened. It seemed wrong now that an old fridge that buzzes and gurgles outlives a friend.

Ricky DeShayes, former Hawthorne hot walker, didn't just place bets for the old smith; the two planned to be business partners. Ricky claimed to have an "in" with a minority business association. "He was suppose to get us into the incubation program."

Arlen pictured a corner store called "The Clubhouse Turn." A place to buy Forms and tip sheets, a place to talk horses and be tempted into purchasing a piece of history. "I don't have to make much," Arlen said. "'Cause I don't need much." Arlen meant to stock the yet to be discovered storefront with racing memorabilia. Until then, he lived in a simple maze, kitchen to the bathroom to the door.

RAY OFFERED to put down his bets at an off-track stand near work, then call back to confirm. He didn't want to get too involved. But he cringed at the sight of the old guy walking to the El stop with a pocketful of betting money. He became a soft touch for the occasional ride to the track. "Out in the open air, under the sky God give us. Will do you good." Arlen could spin doctor. Ray hadn't been to Arlington since they rebuilt the grandstand following the spectacular fire. Clipped grass and blooming flowers still perfumed the summer heat. Ray rediscovered how impressive a Thoroughbred can look springing from the gate. Bright silks blurred past. In full stride they actually flew, his dad told him. All four hooves off the ground for "an almost imperceptible instant. Some people wouldn't believe that, photography settled the argument." Ray enjoyed these trips to the track. While his dad had kept his face in the Form, Arlen rarely had time to sit down. He scrutinized the horses from paddock through the post parade, then rushed to the window last minute. Ray kept up, interested to hear his judgments on horseflesh. Arlen had a code with one teller so that even if he was deep in line, he could signal a bet before the race went off. Between the track and Ray's stops at the OTB, Arlen made a few hundred a month. Good thing, too, as all he had was his government check.

Arlen shunned Ricky. An unrelenting silence coupled with denial of existence in the Gaelic tradition. Once, Ray nodded acknowledgement. A fierce, blue, accusatory glare from under bushy brow, Arlen put the evil eye on Ray. There would be no store. Ray vowed to avoid getting tangled in that mess but got sucked in anyway.

Just after St. Patrick's Day, Arlen nailed a race for a big payoff. He bet the longshot winner across the board. His place and show horse rallied to get second at the wire. He had those two horses in the exacta and keyed the trifecta. Ray stuffed the money in his sock and made sure no one followed him out.

Arlen was matter-of-fact about it all. "A quick favor before you go, Ray," he asked, his brogue in bloom. "Slip that top box down for me, please. The traitor put it up there. Tis light, nothing really." Like a fish hooked at the jaw hinge, Ray never felt the barb sink in.

Arlen let himself down slow. On his knees, Ray thought he took on the shape of the number two. The box open, Ray stared into a jumble of jockey silks. Arlen looked up at him. "Looks like Walt Disney himself threw up in there." He pulled them out one after another to a litany accompaniment. Ray recognized some names. Sacred farms and families, canonized jockeys: Sagamore, Shoemaker, Claiborne, Johnny "Pumper" Longden, Conn McCreary, Darby Dan, Ogden Phipps, "Iceman" Woolf, Ted "The Slasher" Atkinson. Last, Arlen held up red silks with dark blue hoops on the sleeves, the great Arcaro. Ray recognized the devil red silks, Calumet Farm. His dad taught him.

One jersey, torn down the back, came with a story. An older jock, in the irons past his prime, rode down the backstretch flanked by a promising apprentice rider "aboard a gray with red blinkers. A hole opened up before the turn. The kid had a lot of horse under a hard hold. This big gelding gets into the bit." As the bug boy went by the older jock grabbed him. The gelding won. The veteran finished clutching a handful of polka dots. Out of the money.

ARLEN STARTED collecting when he came east: saddle blankets, tack, goggles, whips and jockey silks; betting stubs, shot glasses, commemorative pins, postcards, win photos, and programs. All things Thoroughbred. For a time he traded from the back of a battered '67 Ford Country Squire station wagon. "I became like a magnet," Arlen remembered. "Some of them gave me stuff just 'cause they knew I was collecting."

Ray knew it would take considerable effort to reverse polarity and empty the apartment. Arlen inventoried each item in a ledger book, fountain pen notations in neat Palmer script. Ray pulled boxes down and held up each item. Arlen operated the Instamatic. It wasn't too bad. Not Ray's thing but clearly special. His dad would have gotten a big kick out of it all. Ray's dad, Leo, had passed away suddenly: heart attack. Ideally, he wanted to "keel over in line with my two last dollars in my fist. And I hope the guy behind me snatches the money as he steps over and gets to the window before he's shut out." Leo died in his own kitchen.

Arlen liked to indulge his taste for fancy coffee and old jazz. He would go down to the new cafe in the morning. Bleary-eyed, with bed-head hair, Ray would come down to latte and swing music from a car radio hooked to a DieHard battery. Thoroughbred museums in Kentucky and New York bought small lots. Track gift shops didn't take anything, content to sell the new, cheap, and mass-produced. Together, they worked flea markets like the 7-Mile Fair. Arlen splurged big time. First the boombox and then that cappuccino maker. He gloried in his cleaning ritual. He fed the machine vinegary concoctions and disassembled parts to bottlebrush.

No one wanted the horseshoes, though the race dates and the horses' names had been carefully painted on. Arlen had shod some famous horses. But even the museums feared a hoax. "Like I was selling a splinter from the cross, disgraceful," he said, letting his brogue flare. Disgusted at the price old newspapers fetched, he wished he had saved more. Empty boxes broken down, they ripped up the old carpet and found terrazzo flooring. Arlen bought the used daybed and a new mattress.

Kitchen open. Arlen preferred his main meal, a big breakfast, in the afternoon. Ray, gaunt through the face and hollow about the eyes, filled out on fried potatoes with chopped bacon and melted cheese. An expert at eggs over easy, Arlen claimed a onetime string of 194 unbroken yokes. "Close to 200, I got too tense," he said. Both found a bit of home around the gray Formica square. Somebody had to cook and somebody else set the table. The meals relieved Ray from frozen dinners alone in the schizo-blue television glow.

Ray liked that he could tell emergency room stories at the table. Never could have done that with his wife. Ray needed to talk loud; not that Arlen was going deaf but to be heard over the flatware clatter and grunts of satisfaction. Arlen consumed his meals with noisy relish while sharing veterinary treatments. "Leave a pail of buttermilk out," he said waving his knife, barely looking up from his plate. "Feed it to a horse with a twisted stomach."

One afternoon Ray had been lost in thoughts of his ex-wife during the meal. How could he still be so angry and miss her at the same time? None of it made sense.

"Calf brains, boy," Arlen's accent clear even while chewing a yoke-drenched toast crust.

"What?" Ray struggled to recall their conversation prior to his painful reverie.

"Calf brains and Doan's pills mashed with warm oats before a race prevents bleeding, don't you know." They had been discussing heart and lung treatments. Ray had blathered on about adrenaline, epinephrine and atropine, administered intravenously. So "calf brains, boy" was not a non sequitur.

"Are you all right over there, Raymond?" Arlen asked. "You look like a man thrown from his mount."

"Do you think it would work for a broken heart?"

"Calf brains and Doan's. Sure you're daft." Arlen pushed his chair back from the table and crossed one leg over. "You're missing the missus and the little one now, aren't you?"

Ray gulped and nodded. "I'd eat calf brains. Hell, I'd swallow ground glass to stop missing them."

"Well, the Mother, God rest her ..." Arlen sipped his coffee then set the mug down on the table. The soft click sounded loud in the small kitchen. "... She said time is the only cure for conditions of the heart."

"Really. Do you think she coined that phrase?" Ray said, surprised at his bitter sarcasm.

"She was right."

"How would you know?" Ray immediately wished he kept his mouth shut and began to apologize. Arlen rose and left. The tenor of Ray's regrets intensified the further Arlen went from the table.

But Arlen returned with an old black-and-white photo. Seated on a top fence rail, the posture disguised his physical anomaly. Much younger, maybe in his thirties, his dark sweptback hair gave him a rakish look. Oblivious Thoroughbreds grazed in the pasture behind him. Alongside stood a beautiful woman; her curly hair pulled back, her face resting against his hip. "Your wife?"

"Not mine," Arlen said, voice low. "She was married to an adulterer, a wealthy man. He beat her."

"What happened?"

"She wouldn't leave him. And I couldn't bear to stay. Years later, I learned of her death. She drove off from one of those fancy parties to get away from his mean tongue. The roads were icy. The car crashed."

"I'm sorry." Ray hoped his words encompassed both the loss and his own behavior. "Do you wish you would've stayed?"

"No. I probably would have killed her husband. Sometimes the curse is a blessing in disguise."

"Did your mother say that as well?"

"She did. But you can call the wisdom your own when you pass it along."

SINCE THE Fourth of July, the disenfranchised continued to meet on the steps, weather and work permitting. Ray had to coax Arlen down, but only once. The old smith soon held forth from his lawn chair in turn. Ayman's discourse on unrest in the Middle East inspired John. "We're starting a new PLO: The Power Loungers Organization." They'd hassle Ray as he walked off to "short-pour honest Americans."

At the bar, the dot.commers encroached on more empty stools. Ray served more imported beer and fewer boilermakers. He preferred the crusty blue-collar dwellers, a better tipping lot. But he listened. They met people and even shopped for mates on the computer. Maybe he could help ease himself back into dating? He still hadn't successfully negotiated with a hooker. Ray plunged into the 21st century. With free expert advice he mastered the rudiments. He went to chat rooms and posted on message boards. He sent e-mail to women he would never see. Ray also discovered he could hear races live.

On April Fools' Day, John snuck around to unscrew hall bulbs and wipe doorknobs with a greasy sack. Power Loungers coming home cursed their defiled hands in the dark. John's obnoxious laugh, the machine gun from Down Under, echoed up the stairwell. Arlen was understandably wary when Ray invited him up the next day for a surprise.

Ray clicked the link. The track announcer fired his lingo-laden bulletin. "They're coming down the stretch in the West Lawn Stakes. C'mon In is full out. Regretful Blues is at his throatlatch and Pat Day goes to work on him. But C'mon In is game today. Playground Billy moves along the rail in the final furlong. C'mon In. Regretful Blues. It's a ding-dong finish. C'mon In looked to get his nose down at the wire from Regretful Blues by a bob and a length further back to Playground Billy. Hooold all tickets. Photo finish."

Arlen later said he felt like Alexander Graham Bell and called it "the cat's ass." Together, they figured out the computer could deliver Forms, results, programs, and pictures. A good day at a flea market followed another decent payoff at the track. The sleek, black tower and 20-inch monitor moved in; Arlen went about "breaking it in properly." Better with horses, he sputtered frustration over his screen before rising from his chair.

About the same time, Ricky started to shine around again. At the edge of the PLO, tentative, his weight shifted from leg to leg. Maybe because enough memorabilia sold, or because Easter loomed in the waning days of Lent, Arlen softened. He started to greet Ricky, invited him to sit; they even talked horses. Ray tried to ask Arlen about his change of heart.

"You know, Ray. I've never been able to look back very easy. I gotta turn all the way around to see clear behind me. The Almighty wants me to keep looking ahead. What DeShayes did is forgiven, not forgotten."

Ray remained suspicious. Ricky hovered. Gut instinct told Ray he wanted something. Arlen didn't need to trust Ricky or depend on Ray to get his bets down. He just clicked and listened. Turned out, Ricky had a knack for computers, too. He taught Arlen about eBay. The old smith could slurp latte and auction memorabilia from his own apartment. After a lifetime waking early, he loved this night owl revelry.

A CONTAGION swept through the PLO first week of May: Derby fever. Ricky, sure this year would yield a Triple Crown winner touted the powerful chestnut Point Given, nicknamed "The Big Red Train." Ayman agreed. He liked that the owner was a fellow Arab. Arlen acknowledged Point Given's prowess but picked a long-striding gray, Monarchos, based on the Florida Derby. "Did ya see him uncork on the far turn and gobble up the ground? That's what ya need at Churchill Downs with that long homestretch."

For the Triple Crown races, John ran a hundred-foot extension cord down the hall and out the doors, foiled the rabbit ears, and under elm shade caught a fair picture. Monarchos, six wide in the turn, passed The Big Red Train and others down the stretch to win the Derby. Point Given took the Preakness to set up a grudge match in New York.

On Belmont day, during a commercial, a corner homeboy and his guys approached. Spread-legged, the leader pulled up his T-shirt to reveal his gun handle, an automatic. From under his bib overalls, Arlen had already eased out this old hogleg revolver and leveled it steady over the set. The leader's jaw slacked. Everyone else froze. Ray clattered out of his lawn chair. Arlen cocked the hammer. Ray winced until he shuddered.

"Your funeral will be the surprise, young man," Arlen explained. "I'm gonna die soon anyway. We can live and let live. Or you can join me? There's no glory getting shot by an old man, though."

The leader flailed and swore but stomped off. Arlen waved off the backslaps and killed the chatter so they didn't miss the race. Point Given won the Belmont, easy. Monarchos got up for third.

The race and attempted robbery sparked everyone else. Calvin quelled the worry over gang reprisal. He made good on his cop connections. The operation could only be called slick. He worked the street with a walkie-talkie. Ayman trolled in his cab with a government agent. John fixed up the spotter and his equipment in a vacant unit. Before Ray left for work, the undercover cops swooped down on a curbside street deal. In the wee hours, uniforms served search warrants on all the right cribs.

AYMAN SUBLET his cab to start police classes at the technical college. Wet curl to his hair and new black slacks, Calvin was a player again. A cab driver who could find hookers for conventioneers, reefer for the tourists, and tip cops to the real bad guys. On stage for open mike at the comedy club, he softly ridiculed his fares, finding fun in their desperation.

The realty company admired John's work, relative peace, and units mostly full. They asked him to manage a second building. Ricky found work at the casino dealing in a blackjack pit and hoped to bankroll enough to claim his own horse. Arlen helped him study for his trainer's test.

The old smith was right. He didn't have long. Didn't even see the Travers. Started with a cold, always dangerous due to his age and misshapen chest; pneumonia developed. Arlen treated himself with sharp-smelling poultices and painted liniments, literally horse doctoring. He steamed himself in the shower until near fainting. Ray brought the pressure of the entire PLO to bear. Arlen consented. He visited the doctor. Ray, still licensed, administered the prescribed shots at home.

The westerly moon lingered. To Ray, it seemed stubborn, stalled in the blue-black sky over the city; he wanted to get outside under its cool light. The bureaucracy of death proved too slow. An hour until a Division Street sector car arrived. Two uniform cops with no reason to hurry. The guy is already dead. They had questions. A single detective responded to briefly worry if the former nurse had gone Kevorkian, and more questions. A photo tech followed an investigator from the Cook County medical examiner; she had questions, too. Arlen's eyes clouded. The transport attendants, in their charcoal jumpsuits and baseball caps, appeared in the hall. The moon set.

After some discussion, they used a larger body bag. Ray wished he had waited until dawn to call. Just zipped shut and strapped up sideways onto the gurney. Ricky huffed up the stairs, a leather satchel with embroidered beadwork over his shoulder.

HE DIDN'T ASK. He demanded they open the body bag, on religious grounds. After a solid half-hour wrangling about rights, they consented, unbuckled one strap and unzipped him to the shoulder. Arlen stared fog-eyed from the double-layer vinyl cocoon. Ricky knelt. With slow reverence he unwrapped a deer hide. That brought a sigh from a uniform cop. A smudge of tobacco, cedar, and sage in the shallow of a rock, Ricky fanned the smoke over Arlen with an eagle feather. Ray saw all hats had been removed. This was not going down unmarked. Even though they would attend hundreds of deaths, Arlen's would be recalled. Ray liked that. Ricky rose. They again secured Arlen. Hiccup-quick, they snapped the gurney upright and wheeled him to the elevator. Ricky drew back the gated door. Ray grit his teeth as the gurney bounced to the stoop. Under the elm, John, unsteady from drink, pushed himself up. The empties under his lawn chair indicated he might have been there since the cops arrived.

"We--Power Loungers--we're pleasantly miserable." John swayed on his sea legs and raised his bottle to the brassy light. "Miserable at your departure. Pleased by the assurance of your imminent arrival. Put in a good word Up There for all of us." It kept Ray smiling until the gurney folded into the van and the investigator padlocked the doors. They guided John to his couch and cleaned up his bottles.

Back in Arlen's flat, a heavy morose scent outlasted the smoke. Nervous that Ricky might vulture, Ray felt guilty for being nervous. Over his shoulder, he could see him in front of the computer looking up at the horseshoe collection. Ray reached over the bed to yank open the reluctant window. He drew the shade down just to the sash. The low morning light scooted in on the breeze with traffic racket. Ricky reached to take down a squat cinnamon candle.

"Until he's buried, you should keep a candle burning to light the way as his spirit journeys across. Keep a glass of water out, too, for thirst," Ricky said.

A VIGIL, good idea. Ray slowly pulled the bedsheet tight, erasing Arlen's last crumple. Tucked and hospital-cornered at the foot, he tugged the spread. Paper rustled. Amused, Ray picked up the pillow and found the Form. Ray recognized the marks and notations. In the kitchenette, the water tap coughed on; glassware clinked in the cupboard.

"Ricky, I got Arlen's picks for today at Arlington." Ray, up all night, didn't want to drive. So he asked Ricky, "Your car running?" He suffered quick regret. He saw the question cut Ricky.

"No, Ray. That's why it took me so long to get here. My heap is down. Needs parts."

"Well, not to worry," Ray said, hoping to smooth it over. "We can take mine, if you'll drive."

"You know I never stole the old man's money. I just figured there was no way those horses were gonna fill out that ticket. So I laid it down on a horse to win. I was flat broke before they even came to the gate. I couldn't put any bet down. And I did run out of gas on the way home."

"You were his friend before I knew him," Ray said. "You sent him off the right way. He would have liked that."

They decided to offer the others a chance to come along. What if Arlen had received divine inspiration as he contemplated his last Form? Everyone deserved a chance to cash in. The PLO started the wake at the track. The candle stayed lit. Some water must have evaporated while they were gone.