that. Out the door went Big Warry, and off to Palm Beach he slithered, living la dolce vita without so much as a post-card home to his namesake or anybody else at the Tally Ho Farms that Warrington called a home.
Seeing his father out of the blue was like a shot to the chin.
Here was a guy his mother referred to as “the bon vivant playboy-about-town who never worked a legitimate day in his life.” The closest his father came to actual work was at one point becoming president of the Game Conservancy USA, a nonprofit effort to support wildlife conservation and raise money for anti-poaching efforts in Tanzania. Otherwise he spent his days hanging around other people’s houses and trolling for a wealthy woman who might want to marry him. It was difficult to explain why Warrington would even give the man a second thought, but he did. His explanation would have been that he’d always wanted a father, even one who forgot about him for nearly his entire childhood.
His stepfather, John Schapiro, didn’t really count. Granted the man wasn’t abusive. In the two years after he moved into Tally Ho, he hadn’t beaten Warrington or sent him to bed without supper even. He just wasn’t what Warrington imagined a father was supposed to be. He owned racetracks and spent nearly all his time there. When he was home, he could speak passionately about only one subject—information contained in the Racing Form . He got Warrington—who’d begun riding at an early age—reading it by the sixth grade. There was some connection. They could talk horses, which to Warrington were about sport and to Schapiro were about money. Sometimes his stepfather would pick him up at Gilman and take him to the Pimlico Racetrack for the day. He’d let him use his allowance to place bets. He put Warrington in touch with one of his bookies to bet on the football spread. Twice he flew Warrington and his siblings out to Las Vegas and let Warry roll the dice at the craps table. Warry, his stepfather explained, was lucky.
“The last thing a real father would do—the last thing I would do with my child—is let him call a bookie on the telephone. But if I was married to some babe with renegade kids, you wouldn’t care about them. They’re not your kids.”
For Warry, the equestrian kinship with his stepfather ended there. In all the years from middle school into high school that Warrington competed in steeplechase, he could not remember his stepfather (or his mother for that matter) showing up to cheer him on. They were elsewhere, along with his real father and any sense that he would be allowed to have a family life that involved actual family.
Yet when his real father showed up, Warrington could not simply turn away. He wanted to. It would have been justified. He could not. On this morning, he should have tried to forget the entire weekend. He was late for algebra II. Thinking about algebra II was somehow more inviting than thinking about his father’s visit. He knew he had to focus and couldn’t be distracted by familial sideshows. Every year about 10 percent of the class would not make it to the next year, and each year Warrington wondered if he would make the cut. He’d gotten almost all the way through junior year, and figured he could stick it out to the end. But as he dressed himself for class, he couldn’t help remembering one particularly strange moment during Dad’s sudden weekend visit to Tally Ho.
The two were alone, and Warrington suddenly realized that this guy in front of him was trying to give him advice. That was strange, given that the guy had forgotten he had a son through three presidential administrations and Wa tergate. But there it was, his father—his real father—giving Warrington advice. Was it about how to become a man of character? Did it involve a “life of honor and service”? Not quite.
“Son,” he said, “never marry for beauty. Always marry for money. With money, you can always get beauty on the
Seeing his father out of the blue was like a shot to the chin.
Here was a guy his mother referred to as “the bon vivant playboy-about-town who never worked a legitimate day in his life.” The closest his father came to actual work was at one point becoming president of the Game Conservancy USA, a nonprofit effort to support wildlife conservation and raise money for anti-poaching efforts in Tanzania. Otherwise he spent his days hanging around other people’s houses and trolling for a wealthy woman who might want to marry him. It was difficult to explain why Warrington would even give the man a second thought, but he did. His explanation would have been that he’d always wanted a father, even one who forgot about him for nearly his entire childhood.
His stepfather, John Schapiro, didn’t really count. Granted the man wasn’t abusive. In the two years after he moved into Tally Ho, he hadn’t beaten Warrington or sent him to bed without supper even. He just wasn’t what Warrington imagined a father was supposed to be. He owned racetracks and spent nearly all his time there. When he was home, he could speak passionately about only one subject—information contained in the Racing Form . He got Warrington—who’d begun riding at an early age—reading it by the sixth grade. There was some connection. They could talk horses, which to Warrington were about sport and to Schapiro were about money. Sometimes his stepfather would pick him up at Gilman and take him to the Pimlico Racetrack for the day. He’d let him use his allowance to place bets. He put Warrington in touch with one of his bookies to bet on the football spread. Twice he flew Warrington and his siblings out to Las Vegas and let Warry roll the dice at the craps table. Warry, his stepfather explained, was lucky.
“The last thing a real father would do—the last thing I would do with my child—is let him call a bookie on the telephone. But if I was married to some babe with renegade kids, you wouldn’t care about them. They’re not your kids.”
For Warry, the equestrian kinship with his stepfather ended there. In all the years from middle school into high school that Warrington competed in steeplechase, he could not remember his stepfather (or his mother for that matter) showing up to cheer him on. They were elsewhere, along with his real father and any sense that he would be allowed to have a family life that involved actual family.
Yet when his real father showed up, Warrington could not simply turn away. He wanted to. It would have been justified. He could not. On this morning, he should have tried to forget the entire weekend. He was late for algebra II. Thinking about algebra II was somehow more inviting than thinking about his father’s visit. He knew he had to focus and couldn’t be distracted by familial sideshows. Every year about 10 percent of the class would not make it to the next year, and each year Warrington wondered if he would make the cut. He’d gotten almost all the way through junior year, and figured he could stick it out to the end. But as he dressed himself for class, he couldn’t help remembering one particularly strange moment during Dad’s sudden weekend visit to Tally Ho.
The two were alone, and Warrington suddenly realized that this guy in front of him was trying to give him advice. That was strange, given that the guy had forgotten he had a son through three presidential administrations and Wa tergate. But there it was, his father—his real father—giving Warrington advice. Was it about how to become a man of character? Did it involve a “life of honor and service”? Not quite.
“Son,” he said, “never marry for beauty. Always marry for money. With money, you can always get beauty on the
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