A Stone's Throw, James Ziskin [best books to read for students .TXT] 📗

can tell you I’ll be here next August. That was the greatest duel I’ve ever seen.”

“I’ll grant you that,” said Todd. “But at a certain point, you have to weigh the excellence of the horseflesh against the general decay that’s starting to creep in. If they’re not careful, this place will end up like one of those backwater tracks in Maryland. Remember Timonium, Fred? And Hagerstown?”

“Barely,” said Freddie.

Todd laughed. “You used to haunt those places. Till you learned your lesson.”

“Next year is the centennial of the Saratoga racecourse,” said Helen. “My mother’s on the planning committee. She’s been in touch with the governor and lots of muckety-mucks, including Senator Javits. Everyone is working hard to make the anniversary special and restore some of the former grandeur to the town.”

“Who cares about all that?” said Ned. “I’ve got another joke for you.”

“Not right now, Ned,” interrupted Freddie. Helen seconded his motion.

“Why not? It’s a good one. And I promise it’s clean.”

Helen, who was standing beside the oaf, leaned over, turned her head to hide her mouth, and whispered something in his ear. He gulped and turned a shade whiter than he already was. Then his eyes darted to me and back to Helen.

“Really? She’s Jewish?”

Helen shook her head in dismay and rubbed the bridge of her nose. How had she known I was Jewish? I actually found myself wondering if I looked particularly Semitic. Or had Freddie said something?

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Ned offered by way of an inadequate apology to me. “I heard it the other day and thought it was funny. You know. A joke. Not to be taken seriously.”

“Bad taste,” said Freddie. “Why would you say that?”

“Because I didn’t know she was Jewish.”

I appreciated Freddie’s indignation, but wondered where it had been a few moments earlier when Ned told his joke. Was his pique sincere or a tardy reaction to discovering that I was actually a Jew? I couldn’t be sure. Had Freddie even known I was Jewish? And if he hadn’t, did he care now?

“Let’s find our table,” he said, taking my elbow.

My cheeks burned, surely bright crimson, as he led me away. Why was I letting him drag me off in defeat? I knew his friends’ tongues would be wagging as soon as I was out of earshot, and I wished I’d stood my ground instead of turning tail at Freddie’s urging.

“Don’t worry, Ellie. I’ll change our table,” he said as we crossed the ballroom. “You won’t have to sit near Ned.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” I said. “I want to sit with your friends. And right next to good old Ned.”

Freddie stopped mid-stride and faced me. “You’re not going to make a scene, are you?”

“I’m not the one who told the Jewish joke back there. And I have no intention of making a scene in front of you, your friends, or your mother.”

Dinner was awkward, at least at first. I certainly didn’t enjoy breaking bread with Ned Eckleston, as I found out his full name was, but I was determined to take the high road. I wanted to give a good accounting of myself. And I’d be damned if I was going to run from a man who’d made a stale joke at the expense of my tribe. Ned, it turned out, spent much of the dinner finding excuses to flit from table to table, visit the restroom, or fetch himself a drink from the bar back in the gaming room. And I felt triumphant.

With dessert, the speeches began. Georgina Whitcomb delivered another inspiring address on the importance of literacy and education for all races and creeds. A couple of library board members and the mayor of Saratoga also spoke about the noble mission of lending a hand to the less fortunate in our community—particularly the disadvantaged races—to better their social condition through education.

When the live auction came around, I confess that I felt like a pauper. Dinners, books, gift certificates, and passes to the winner’s circle were sold to the highest bidders, who forked over outrageously generous amounts for relatively pedestrian offerings. The exercise was humbling for me but heartening, as well. Some extremely rich people were doing good with their unneeded cash.

The evening ended with a plea for all those in attendance to dig as deeply as they could and donate something to the cause. I ponied up twenty-five dollars and still felt like a cheapskate.

We repaired to the bar in the gaming room and enjoyed a couple of drinks while the crowd thinned. Freddie said he didn’t want to compete with the traffic, and I was happy to soak up a little more of the atmosphere of the old casino along with some champagne. I didn’t even mind being left alone with Helen and Todd—Ned had decamped—while Freddie disappeared to hobnob as was his fashion.

I asked Helen what Freddie had told her about me. She said not to worry; he’d only given my name, rank, and serial number.

“He said you were a newspaper reporter. How glamorous.”

“Not really. The news is months or years of PTA meetings, punctuated by the occasional murder. My biggest scoop last year was the ten-year-old spelling bee champion.”

Todd wanted to know about the murders, and I tried to dissuade him. Proud though I was of my accomplishments, I was uncomfortable holding forth. He and Helen seemed genuinely interested, though, so I obliged them. I left out the fact that one of my biggest triumphs at the paper had been the investigation of the murder of Judge Harrison Shaw’s daughter, Jordan. I focused instead on my recent success in Los Angeles, where I’d been dispatched to profile a local boy who was set to star in one of those beach pictures. His Hollywood ending never materialized, alas, but I managed to bring home a bigger story. With Todd and Helen keeping me busy with their salacious questions about the seedy underbelly of Tinseltown, I didn’t even notice that Freddie had been AWOL for twenty minutes.