The Mare (22 page)

I peeked out once between the curtains to see how she was enjoying the play. It was during the scene where Scrooge sings about the past love he had forgotten, and three girls mime the ideal figures in a music box; Mrs. Vargas's face was upturned and enchanted. The nurse couldn't really sing, but that only made it sweeter, and she felt it, I could tell.

When I'd asked Yandy how it was to talk to her, he'd shrugged and said, “She didn't seem all there. Like maybe not too bright.” But her face when I looked
was
bright, bright, soft, and alive.

When we got home, it was past ten and they wanted to go to bed. They all slept together, so we gave them our bedroom. The upstairs thermostat was in that room and when I went in to turn it down for the night they were already asleep: the woman holding the boy to her breasts, he embracing her fiercely; Velvet with her back to them, rolled as far away to the other side of the bed as she could go. I thought, That says it all.

I went to tell it to Ginger, but she was already in bed with the light out. When I lay down with her, I could feel her rigidity even before I touched her; she was inaccessible, locked. Like I did not exist. And not for the first time. “What is it?” I asked.

She said, “Human love is the vilest thing in the world.”

“What's wrong?”

“I just said it.”

“Why?”

“Because she loves them. I can tell she loves them. But when they were getting into their nightclothes, she made Velvet come stand out in the hall in her gown and she talked at me. And Velvet translated. She said, ‘My mom wants you to look and see how ugly I am.' ” Ginger breathed hard and slow, like she was pushing with all her might against something that would not give.

When I came down in the morning, Velvet's mother was there, already dressed. Her face was so clear and calm; her cruel words to Velvet evaporated in her clear gaze. Paul was in his pajamas, making coffee. He handed her a cup and she said to us, “Pretty. You house is pretty.” She said it earnestly, like she'd asked somebody the words and then rehearsed them. I thought, Velvet, and said, “Thank you.” Then we were all quiet, like we'd reached some place of strange and yet natural peace, where we could for a moment be more real than our real lives allowed. Paul made us scrambled eggs with herbs. She ate and looked out the window at grass wet from just-melted frost. I thought: Eye of the storm.

Later she took a shower with her son. They were in there a long time. Velvet looked at me and said, “That's not normal, is it?” I said, “Not for me, but…” The girl watched my face. She said, “Can I show them the horses?”

My mom came but like she didn't really want to, like looking at horses was stupid. Like I was stupid and Ginger too. On the way over, she basically looked at the sky and the trees like
they
were stupid. Dante too. He said in Spanish, “Horses are boring.” I said, “We haven't gotten to the horses yet.” He said, “And last night was boring too.” “Shut up,” I said. “It wasn't that bad.” I remembered the part where this little girl who had something wrong with her leg came out and sang by herself and then ran away when the old man yelled at her. It made me think about Strawberry. It made me picture being in a movie where I would sing that song in front of people and Strawberry would stop and remember me and how we used to talk. And everybody would see it. I don't know why, but it seemed like a song about something you forget and then the song makes you remember. Dante said, “I kept waiting for the commercial. I wanted to see that commercial where Santa gets stuck in the chimney and then he has diarrhea.”

I didn't say anything. We were close enough to see the horses were out, and they looked big and brawling. Dante stopped talking and looked. I could see my mom looking too, her head up like
she
was a horse. I thought, Now she will smile. Joker and Totally ran around each other; they kicked up dirt, they got hard and curved in their shoulders. “Ho, snap!” said Dante and
he
smiled. Joker and Totally faced each other and stood up on their back legs to fly at each other with their fronts.
Mami, smile. Please, Mami.
Like she heard me, Ginger turned to me and smiled. She smiled like a mother. My mom stood with her hands on the fence and her back to me.

Then Pat came out of the barn. When Ginger introduced my mom, she said, “Good to meet you. Your daughter's an excellent worker,” then said hello to Dante. I didn't translate, but my mom understood anyway like she does. In Spanish, she said, “Thank you. Your animals are beautiful.” She still did not look at me.

Suddenly from around the side of the barn, there was this woman I never saw before. She was dressed in high boots and tight pants and she was leading Diamond Chip Jim. She was tall, with the sun hitting her eyes so they looked silver. Her nose was like something carved. In her helmet, she had a face like a square block with curly blond hair and perfect lips. She looked down at us. She looked especially at me. “Who's
this
?” she said.

I felt like a thing, poking up from the ground. My family felt like small, dumb things. I felt angry. Then numb.

“This is Velvet,” said Pat. “She's the talented young lady I've been telling you about. And this is her mother and little brother, who came all the way from the city.”

And the square face smiled and said, “Oh, the little Fresh Air girl!” She took off her helmet and shook out her hair; her eyes shined all over me. I did not want to like her, but her eyes raised me up; I felt myself shining in her eyes.

“Velvet, meet Estella Kadner. Estella, meet Velvet and Ginger and…”

My mom just stood there. I could've helped her. Every other time I would've helped her. But now I didn't. Ginger said, “Mrs. Vargas.” I said, “And Dante, my brother.”

Estella Kadner shook my hand and said, “It's so wonderful to meet you.” She shook Ginger's hand and thanked her for making a difference. She reached for my mom, who shrank behind her hard eyes. She reached for my brother, who stared at her, so she dropped her hand. She tried my mom again; she said, “You must be proud. I hear your daughter is a very talented rider.”

My mom looked at her like she wasn't there.

“She can't speak English,” I said.

“Oh! Well then—” And Estella Kadner looked straight at my mom and said, “Pat me dice que su hija tiene mas talento para montar que cualquier otra.”

My mom's face went dark with blood.

Her face filled with blood; her eyes went hot. Sweat came out my armpits. Estella just kept talking. Pat looked at Mrs. Vargas, then at Velvet, at Estella, and at me, stopping on me. Estella turned to Velvet and said in English how much she'd love to see her compete one day. And then I guess she said that to the mother too. Who smiled with her dark face, through her hot eyes; an enraged and cringing smile. I saw: She was helpless before this woman. I saw: Velvet grow ever more animated and glowing as her mother shrank.

“Do you have a favorite horse?” asked Estella.

“Yes,” said Velvet in her glowing voice. “I like Fugly Girl.”

“Really!” said Estella. “Shall we go see her?”

And we all walked into the barn, Estella and her big horse with Velvet by her side, Pat behind Velvet. Well behind the horse, I walked with Velvet's family. Velvet's shrunken mother looked at me and her eyes said “Judas.” “Forgive me,” I said in a low voice. “Por favor.”

She didn't answer or look at me. It was like she'd disappeared.

Velvet looked back and the triumph on her face was unmistakable.

I saw: Dante was afraid.

She cursed Ginger to her face, but she took the sandwiches Ginger made and laughed. Paul drove us to the station and she was laughing then too. He didn't even know, I could tell. His eyes kept going in the mirror, like, What the hell is this? At the station, Ginger got out the car, she kneeled down and hugged me. She said, “We'll work it out. Call me.” My mom took my arm and yanked me up on the train. She told me to sit. She took Ginger's sandwiches out of her purse and threw them at me. “Mami,” I said, “that lady was just being nice. I'm not riding horses.”

“Liar!” She dropped my ticket on the seat and walked away with Dante, her back hard and hating. I wanted to call for her, but I was ashamed. I sat forward in the seat and tried to act not ashamed. People looked at me, their eyes stretched and sorry. I turned my body back around and watched them walking down the aisle. Dante looked back at me with a scared face. I tried not to cry. They left the car. I thought, She'll have to come back. If she doesn't, the court will take Dante away. Then I thought, What if she says she lost me? I got up and followed them, not crying. A man in a uniform came out of the other car where they went. He looked at me like it was my fault and said, “Where is your ticket? Who are you with?” I said, “It's on my seat. I'm trying to find my mom.” He took me to her and made her be with me. She told him I was a worthless liar and didn't deserve to sit with them because I didn't even want to be part of the family anyway. Everybody could hear. He didn't care; he tore my ticket and went away.

She humiliated her mother. It wasn't her fault. It was mine. The look on her face when she looked back at us, walking with that obnoxious woman! I didn't blame her. Her mom was a bitch, and she was getting back. But I couldn't forget the way the woman shrank and then just
went away.
Like she was the child and her twelve-year-old daughter had all the power.

She closed the door and knocked me down in the hall. She said, “Get up.”

Dante went away down the hall.

She said, “Get up, bitch!”

Dante turned the TV on and up loud.

My mother kicked me and yelled, “Get up!” I tried to stand; she kicked me in the stomach and I sat back down. I heard Dante talking to the TV, cursing and calling it “bitch.” I held back crying.

“Understand,” she said. “I will knock you down until you don't get up. Every time you get up, I will knock you down again. Maybe you're the boss with that fool woman, but here
I
am the boss.”

“Mami,” I said. “Mami—”

Dante talked faster, louder.

“You want to ride those horses, fine, ride them. You want to die, die. I don't care.”

There was more, her cursing and kicking and then Dante ran at her yelling. “I don't want Velvet to die!”

Then me running out the door, down the stairs. My mother was yelling at Dante and he was yelling back. I ran out into the street. It was snowing, and I ran in front of a car with music blasting out of it. People laughing at the crazy girl, but stopping, caring if I died. Laughing on their way somewhere else. I was never out this late before and the street was full of people I didn't know. Lydia; I knew Lydia. I ran to her; I rang all the doorbells on her door. A man said, “Hey, lil' mama,” but he saw I was crying and went away. I rang and rang but Lydia didn't come. I sat on her steps and stopped crying. I looked at all the people going by. Some looked back, some kept going. I thought about the play where people were singing and dancing and pretending to be poor. I thought of Fiery Girl. I wanted to go into the stall with her and feel her body, see the snow falling outside the barn while I was beside her warm body.

A woman passed by carrying plastic bags full of bottles. She wore a winter coat, but instead of shoes she wore furry house slippers with socks that were soaking wet in the mushy snow. I realized she was the lady my mom called “the Haitian.” But I liked her; her hair was gray under her scarf and her eyes were deep and kind. “Young woman,” she said. “What's going on with you? You look sad.”

“My mom hit me and said she doesn't care if I die,” I said. “I don't want to go home.”

She came close to me, but her eyes didn't look at me. She looked past me, but like she was seeing me. Like Pat and the horses. “Don't be afraid,” she said. “You are blessed. Don't forget, you are blessed.” Then she brought her eyes to mine. “But you need to go home. Your eyes are older than your years, but I can feel your heart is very young, too young to be out now. Go home. Your mother won't hurt you any more tonight.”

Her thirteenth birthday fell on a weekend, so she came. Paul was away at a conference and it was just the two of us. Waiting at Penn, she looked like she did the first time I saw her: tender, pure-eyed, with that gorgeous hair free and unstraightened. I knelt to hold her and I thought with my body,
I love you.

I said, “Your mom says it's okay for you to ride.”

The light left her eyes. She said, “I know. She doesn't care if I die.”

I said, “She doesn't mean that. She was angry because she felt disrespected.”

“She hit me, Ginger. She knocked me down.”

My mind went blank. I saw Mrs. Vargas's face when she heard the love song in the play. I saw her telling Velvet she was ugly. I said, “I'm sorry. You did not deserve that.”

That evening she was sullen and snappish; she went to the barn, came back, and looked at me like she had nothing to do with me. On the second day, we fought because I asked her to help me with the dishes and she refused. I told her we would not go out to celebrate her birthday in that case and she stormed upstairs, I thought to her room, but when I went to use the bathroom, I found she was lying sprawled out in the hallway, face turned sideways so I could see its aggrieved expression. I stepped over her, to and from the bathroom. Eventually she got up and went out to the horses. I went for a walk. When I came back, she was sitting on the porch. I sat next to her and put my arm around her. She sat there staring straight ahead like she didn't know me. I kept my arm there anyway. I asked her if she wanted to have a good time or a bad time. She looked at me like I was an asshole. I was about to say, “Maybe you should just go home,” when she said, “A good time.” I said, “Okay. Help me with the dishes and we can go out for your birthday.” She looked at me blankly. I put my hand on her shoulder and said, “I'm sorry about your mom and the horses. It was my fault. I should've told her.” We went in and she started running the water.