The Mare (25 page)

Jesus Christ. Even her, the tough black girl from the city—or Puerto Rican, or whatever she is—even she's been ruined by the Disneyfied horse-snot they sell in the multiplex. Love and self-esteem, love and self-esteem—love is good for babies and that's it. Yes, you make a horse good by raising it up with a little love and a lot of discipline. But you make a horse great by making it feel like shit. Because it knows it is
not
shit and it will turn itself inside out to prove it to you. Sure you give it love, just a touch. And then you make it crave the love, make it try to please you for another little taste—it will turn itself inside out to show you it's good; you make that horse prove it over and over, every time. If that horse is worth anything, it will pull up everything it's got for you and it
will
find what it's worth and be more and more proud. It will know it can take whatever you got and sometimes it will give it back. But it will know its worth. And it will do
anything
to make you know it. It will die to make you know it. Not that I'd go that far. That would be stupid. Because that horse is worth more than me. The dumb animal just doesn't know it. It's me that's shit. Not him.

When I saw Pat and Velvet come into the house I thought, She's won a prize. Because that's what their faces said, even when Pat said, “There's been an accident.” Velvet smiled and said, “I'm okay. I just fell off.”

I felt a lump forming under her warm hair; there was a little blood. I asked if she'd blacked out. She said yes and I told her to go get her Medicaid card. I thought of Mrs. Vargas and began to sweat. Velvet went up the stairs and I said, “What happened?” Pat said the girl had broken the rules of the barn and that she'd been expelled.

“What did she do?”

“Improperly handled a horse, rode
bareback
without permission or supervision, endangered herself and others. She fell off the horse and passed out. She's probably got a concussion, but she could've broken her neck.”

“My God!”

As Anglo as she was, she suddenly reminded me of Mrs. Vargas; powerfully in her body, peering out of it with the expression of someone looking at a world she didn't fully understand and didn't think much of. She said, “I'm pretty sure she's okay; she was only unconscious for seconds. But call me tomorrow and let me know.”

On the way to the hospital, I asked Velvet what she'd done and she said, “I rode my mare.” Her face was withdrawn, like into some powerful dream, but something exalted and private radiated from her. Consequences, I thought. Why doesn't she understand?

“They're not going to let you go back to the barn.”

“Miss Pat will. She told me I can even come to her house.”

I thought, Yeah, like I'm going to homeschool you; my heart went dark and sore. We pulled into the hospital parking lot. She said, “I stopped this other horse from being hurt,” and I gathered the crazy trainer had been distracted by Velvet's antics and gotten knocked down. Which was, I guess, the idea.

As we parked, I flashed on all the movies I'd taken her to or rented for her: movies where some stupid mean adult is basically knocked down by the heroine and everybody thinks it's great. I said, “This isn't a movie, you know.”

She looked at me and said, “
Wha
?”

At the desk they said they couldn't treat her without her mother's permission. I said, “Does anyone here speak Spanish?” and the receptionist said, “I'm sure there's someone.”

I thought, It's all over now. And Michael came into my mind with the force of despair. I looked at Velvet; I should not have brought her here. Clearly there was nothing wrong with her; she was alert and even looking rather pleased as the receptionist called for someone who could speak to her mom. I thought, I've lost her. I pictured my life with Paul before she came into it and it seemed intolerably bleak.

Velvet smiled as she picked up the phone and said, “Hola, Mami.”

I thought again of Michael, of the way he touched his finger to his lips:
Shhh.
We barely even spoke when I saw him, yet he seems closer now than Paul. How is that possible? How could something I barely remember, that happened in a small room so long ago, seem more real than my real life?

The translator arrived, a helpful girl with
PANIC AT THE DISCO
on her shirt.

Ginger looks like she's about to cry and I'm like,
But
I'm okay—
then I go, Right, she's scared of my mom. But I'm not stupid enough to call my mom. I call my cousin and say, “Hola, Mami.” Nobody who can speak Spanish is even there yet, so I tell Donna I can't bother my mom at work, but I bumped my head and Ginger wants to be sure I'm okay, could she be my mom and give permission? She asked questions, but then the translator came, this girl who hardly knew Spanish, and I knew it was okay, and they let me see the doctor. He tapped my knees with a little hammer and made me balance on one leg and count my fingers. He asked if I knew where I was and where I was from. He wanted to know the name of my horse; he smiled when I said, “Fiery Girl.”

“When can she go to sleep?” asked Ginger. “I heard you can't sleep after a concussion.”

“She can sleep at bedtime,” said the doctor. He thought a second. “Maybe wake her after a few hours. I think she's fine, though.”

But I couldn't sleep. I stayed awake feeling Fiery Girl run under me, and seeing the branches and rotten fruit fly past me like time and outer space. At first it was a good feeling, but it turned sick and bad, like black coming in on the edges of the sky. What if they would never let me see her again? My brain had a bruise on it, that's what the doctor said, because it hit against my skull. “Crap for brains, but she can ride, you gotta give her that.” That's what Beverly said. I pictured my brain pressing on my skull and I felt like there was something invisible pressing in the dark, trying to get visible. Was this what happened to my brother when the babysitter gave him the aspirin? I was afraid if I slept I would dream of hell and I would not wake up. Why did my grandfather tell me to go to hell that time? Was he in hell? Alicia said almost everybody went to hell, it didn't even matter if you were a good person or not. Gare said, “You rode the hell out of that bitch.” I said, “Don't call her a bitch.” But maybe I sent her to hell. Because if I couldn't see her, who would take care of her? Who would love her? The way she looked at me when Pat put her away in her stall—even though she did not turn her head, I know she looked and loved me with her dark eye. I thought of Dominic, turning to look at me while he was with Brianna. My heart hurt. I held my chest, and it hurt.

Ginger came in her nightgown and shook my shoulder. I said, “You don't got to do that. I'm awake.” She kissed me. I said, “Ginger, when can I see my horse again?” She said, “I don't know. Don't think about that now.” “But I want to see her!” “You will,” she said. “I promise you will. But right now try to rest, get better.” She kissed me again. “That's more important right now.”

She left, but still I could feel her. I felt my mare, her body standing quiet for me in the field, her muscles and skin, holding me. Still, I felt alone. And there was still the invisible thing, pushing through, and I was scared.

I woke in the middle of a dream I forgot as soon as I knew it was a dream. Voices outside argued and laughed. It was one of those dreams that make you think you've realized something, that all the stupid shit in life finally makes sense. Police lights flashed on the ceiling; there was cursing. The stupid shit, same as usual. I rolled over and closed my eyes and remembered: cartoon pictures of wrapped-up gifts, toys, sweet voices, and happy faces.
The Velveteen Rabbit.

I opened my eyes and saw Dante's little sleeping face. I watched that cartoon when I first came here, in Providence, Rhode Island, with a little boy named Raul, a poor child with a narrow back and a twisted foot he couldn't walk right on. I couldn't understand the movie except that it was about toys; Raul said it was about a toy made real by love. He watched it over and over.

I was pregnant, and I had come to the country alone to wait for my lover, Jesus, to leave his wife. I was staying with Jesus's brother, Miguel, and his little boy. Raul was only six, but Miguel was almost fifty. His fiancée had disappeared, and so far he had no other woman. He was strange; he didn't talk much, he just worked and took care of Raul. He had two televisions on mute all the time, one in his bedroom, one in the main room, both of them on crime shows. Most of the time he didn't even watch, but when he really did watch, it was video movies of women being murdered. At night, in his room, painful light flickered from under his door and women screamed their asses off. In the main room on the couch, I fell asleep to TV screaming and dreamed of being with my husband and child, and watching things like
The Velveteen Rabbit
together.

But it was funny about all the murder movies, because—Miguel was gentle! I cleaned the house and cooked for him and we ate together like a family. He read to Raul from
The Hulk
comics, and, on Saturdays, let him watch cartoons instead of crime. He took us to the ocean. We walked to the edge of the cold water, Miguel carrying Raul so he wouldn't stumble on his bad foot. The water was dark and the sky was dark too. A slit of cold light separated water and sky. I picked up shells, blue and brown ones that I mostly lost.

Then one night Jesus called me and told me his wife was pregnant and he wasn't coming. Just like that. I went to Miguel's room. He turned down the sound on the TV and he told me that his brother cared for me, it was just too hard for him to get away. He held me and talked to me and watched the show on the silent TV. He said not to worry, that he would marry me at city hall and I would be legal. When the show was over, he asked me if I wanted to see a movie of his fiancée. I said okay, and he put it in the machine and it was a video of her taking her clothes off and rubbing herself. He held me and ran his hands up under my T-shirt. He wasn't in the movie, but his cock was, and she was kissing it. It sounds disgusting, but I understood; he missed her. He turned me around and pulled up my T-shirt; I watched his fiancée suck him off. He moved behind me; he was lubricating himself. I resisted but not very much; I wanted something too. He put it up my ass, like his brother did at the beginning. So I wouldn't lose my virginity to a married man, though of course I eventually did. Miguel was gentler, though, very slow and careful. He kissed my shoulders and tried to make me enjoy it and I almost did. When it was time to sleep, he turned the TV off for me.

But in the morning, I felt numb. Miguel said we would get married, but then I had to go. I had no money and no man and I spoke no English and the child was due. There was my aunt in New York City, but I hadn't been able to reach her yet. I looked at myself in the mirror and I thought, Who would want a child who came from this?

Then the child came and she was dark. It made no sense. I'm light, Jesus was light, and here she is, nearly negrita. Aunt Maria said, “Black Velveteen!” and shook her head. Because the child would have hard luck all her life.

The police were gone and it was quiet out. I took the pillow that used to be hers and put it close behind me, like it was her. I held Dante and closed my eyes. I thought of Raul with his little foot and I slept.

It was true: Velvet was invited to ride at Pat's house. She was barred from the barn indefinitely, but she could visit Pat's home after four o'clock. She could ride Pat's mare Chloe.

“Do you think that's a good idea?” I asked Pat. “Given how reckless she's been?”

“She's not going to be reckless at my house. Listen, there's an element of danger any time anybody gets on a horse, just like there's danger any time anybody gets in a car. Velvet plus that horse she fell off of are a particularly volatile thing. Velvet plus a certain trainer are even more volatile. But one, there's only two horses at my house and both of them are angels—”

I felt myself smiling into the phone; my heart rose with the cadence of her voice. Because in spite of the danger, my question had been pro forma.

“—and two, I'm the only other person she's gotta deal with at my house. Three, that girl is a genius horsewoman. That kind of talent should not be ignored; in my opinion, ignoring her talent will be putting her more at risk than letting her ride. Because that girl
needs
to ride for her sanity.”

“That's what I think too.”

“Impose some discipline on your end; she needs that as well. Make her do chores for a week, hold something back, whatever you want. Make her realize that what she did wasn't okay with you. If she's good for the week, I'll drop by and take her to my place.”

So I laid it out for her: dishes, math workbooks, and the three-extra credit essays for school. I said, “And don't ever endanger yourself like that again. If you do, you can't come back here anymore. That would break my heart, but—”

“I stopped Beverly from hurting Joker.”

“If Beverly was abusing Joker, you should've told somebody! Instead of getting on another horse bareback and riding it out with your ass halfway on it!”

“I told Pat, and she didn't listen!”

“Then you need to say it differently or say it to someone else or accept that you can't do anything about it!”

“I did do something about it! She stopped hitting him!”

“And you know what? The next time she looks at Joker, she's going to remember that you got her knocked down and guess who she's going to take it out on?”

“I don't care. I'm not afraid of her.”

“Not you. She's not going to take it out on you. You won't even be there. She's going to take it out on the horse.”

Her face went into a wounded full stop, mouth and eyes open.

“Maybe that won't happen,” I said. “I'm just saying it could. But I don't care that much about the horse. I care about you. You could've broken your neck and that would've broken my heart. And by the way, it would've destroyed your mother.”

“Trust me,” she said, “it would not destroy my mother.”

I said, “Just don't do it again.”

But I was thinking: It would be a relief to have a mom who could not be destroyed. My mom used to say that Melinda was going to destroy her and that if I ever “went like Melinda” it would destroy her. It was a very annoying thing to hear.