The Mare (36 page)

My mom said about Ginger once that she had a crazy eye and I always thought, No, she just looks sad a lot. But now her eyes shined like a animal in the dark and I didn't know their expression.

I said to her, “You're different.”

She was making me cucumbers with white vinegar, and when I said that she stopped and said, “How?”

“Your voice is different, everything is different. You say things like it's in a book with quotes on it. Even to Paul.”

For a second she looked like herself, and I missed her. Then she went back to the salad. “Something happened,” she said. “But I can't talk about it.”

“Why can't you talk about it?”

“You're too young. But don't worry, it was nothing horrific. It'll be okay.”

I went to see the horses and it
was
okay because it needed to be. I didn't want to think about whatever was wrong with Ginger. I couldn't stop thinking about Dominic, but for once I felt like, he says I'm from
someplace else
and he can't be there—and he's right. He can't be here. Here is like coming back to my country, and not sneaking in like a illegal. Fiery Girl was back too; her stall had a sign on it, but instead of “Do Not Touch,” it had her name carved on it and inside it was
cleaned.
She was not wearing the cribbing strap even if she sometimes bit her stall, and when I came with the halter she put her head down like
YES.

Pat took Graylie and we went out by the paddock. I saw Sugar and Nova running together, and all the others bucking, clowning, and talking loud at each other with their heads and backs and legs. Fiery Girl raised her head and called to them and somebody called back. She got turned out with the other horses because she learned how to be with Chloe and Nut; now she could go out with everybody but Totally Crushed and Diamond Chip—she still fought them. I could feel her shivering toward the other horses inside herself, but I pulled down on the lead and she lowered her head, sending softness and obedience to me. The air had new smells and sounds, and the horses said it with all the muscles of their backs and legs:
Spring, spring, spring!

We mounted and went out down the path where I'd run with her bareback; my legs remembered and it felt like she did too, like under me she bunched and sighed. I remembered how the orchard was all rotting fruit flying past my face; now the trees were getting buds, and there was a feeling of something about to happen in the ground and even the air. The path was first big enough for the horses to walk side by side, but Fiery Girl walked faster than Graylie and when the path narrowed, we led the way. We had to stay on the path because of holes where the horses could break their ankles, or maybe snakes.

When the path got wide again Pat said, “We've missed you the last few weeks.”

I said, “Me too.”

“You know you have to keep up your practice if you want to compete.”

I said, “I know. I'm sorry.” I could feel her expecting me to say more. But I couldn't tell her now.
Now
didn't have anything to do with all that.

“You know, if you don't want to compete, that's your business. But if you don't, I hope it's not because you think you can't.”

My heart went quiet in my chest. Still, I couldn't speak.

“When I used to compete—I liked to win, I liked the applause, I liked the prizes and trophies. I especially liked to beat certain people, that's the truth. But what felt best was the reason I won, when I did. It was because of my bond with my horse. Because under pressure, I could put my mind and my body together with his, and I could feel it, like he would go through the wall for me if I asked him to and he knew I meant it. And I would go through the wall with him. And everybody could see. You know what I mean?”

“Yes.”

“I think you do. I
know
you do. I know you
can.
But it's one thing to do it out here. It's another thing to do it in front of people, with other riders who're all doing the same. It's powerful, more real. Even if you don't win. If you don't try it, you'll never know.”

I didn't answer her and she didn't try to make me. We just rode quiet, feeling her words. The only time I talked was when I asked her about this covered-box shape up in some trees; she told me it was a blind for hunters left over from hunting season. That they would hide in there and shoot.

We stopped when we came to the fence where I fell off before. Pat dismounted and walked Graylie to the fence and tied him. The fence was wood posts with torn-up rails stuck through holes in the posts. Pat took one end of the top rail and pushed it out the hole so it came down on the ground. Fiery Girl moved like a five-year-old that needs to pee, wanting to eat grass, talk to Graylie, run,
something.
I had to pull her back, turn her in a circle, sit her firm. Pat took the second rail down and said now we were gonna gallop to the jump. Gallop not like in the arena, but all the way. Fiery Girl's back legs moved all over, like she knew something was different, then we cantered away from the fence. When we found a place to stop Pat asked me, “Have you seen racing on television?” “At your house once,” I said. “Okay, it's not gonna be like that. You want to be more grounded in your stirrups, not forward like the jockeys on TV. You
do
want to lean forward in the gallop. You want to get off her back and kick her forward—but just before the jump? Sit deep in the saddle with your shoulders over your center, but I mean
just
before. Got it?”

She looked in my eyes and I said, “Yes.”

“And remember, look ahead of the jump, not at it.”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” she said. “Now. Through the
wall.
”

When I was in kindergarten there was a series of books meant to teach kids how everything in the world was put together. At least I guess that was the point of them. In the one I remember, each cardboard page showed a picture of a farm animal—I think there was a farmer too—and each of the pages had three sections: instead of turning a whole page, you could turn them section by section and make a rooster with a pig's body and farmer's legs. That's what it felt like trying to act normal around Paul with Velvet there. It felt that way even in the days before she came, like a hand was grabbing my midsection and turning me into a cow with cat legs, and something hairy and disgusting in the middle, and it kept happening, pictures flipping randomly. How could I even bring her into this shit-storm—but if I didn't, when would she ride? “Listen,” said Kayla, “I've had to smile and put food on the table when I was so depressed I didn't want to move. Ginger, that girl isn't made of china and neither are you. You can handle it.” Paul said the same. “We can do this,” he said. “Even if we break up right after she leaves.” I said, “We can't break up until after the event.” “Okay,” he said, “we won't.”

Because I had not told him the event was off. Because as far as I was concerned, it wasn't.

So we got up together and made eggs and bacon and orange juice; the picture split and got joined with the first time I made us bacon and eggs in that house. He had looked at the food and said, “Breakfast!” so softly, like it was the dearest thing, and that's what it was to me too. But now that feeling had been divided into pieces and stuck together with the impossible present and something else down below it, something hard, misshapen and too big. I laid the dishes out, and through the chaos came the special feeling I had whenever Velvet was there and I made food for her. Well now here was the other side of that privilege, a tiny, tiny taste of what people mean when they say parenting is hard. I remembered my mother,
our
mother; the day after Dad left she made us pancakes, exhaustion and will mixed up in the sweet taste. It was maybe a year later that she sent Melinda to a mental hospital for running off with a married man when she was basically still a kid. When we were grown I confronted my mother about it and she said, “I didn't know what else to do!” and I despised her. Well, now I didn't know what to do either. So we ate and smiled and asked Velvet about the horses, and then she went to the barn, and I went upstairs to my laptop to look at sites about cheating spouses with lists like “5 Reasons You Should Take a Cheater Back” and “10 Reasons You Shouldn't Take a Cheater Back.”

When we galloped, there was nothing but me and her. I felt the sky above me but I didn't see anything but her ears and her neck and the ground flying toward me and Graylie's butt and Pat's butt on top. Graylie's legs flew and he rose up over the fence, switched his tail, and came down. The fence flashed up at me and I remembered, sit back. Fiery Girl came up under me like nothing was even there. The fence disappeared. It was so beautiful-easy and at first I didn't know why.

How do you respect yourself staying with a man who can't or won't value you?

Yes, it's hard if you run a business together, but the cheater is the one who must change and prove love.

Don't even touch him till he begs and pleads; make him vacuum and clean the toilet, make him call and text you constantly.

You won't forgive yourself if you don't at least try to move past it.

We're all human.

You'll save on therapy bills.

You didn't make him do it.

You have a strong foundation together; don't throw it away. You might never find anyone else.

“Ginger!” The door banged and she came up the stairs. Guiltily, I closed the cheaters window. She came into the room, rosy and exultant, lifting me up.

“What is it?” I said. “What?”

She said, “I saw the distance! I knew where it was, and I don't even know how! I saw it for the first time and I jumped perfect and we were going fast! Ginger, I am going to be in the competition!”

I saw her ride for the first time. She'd spent the weekend practicing and she wanted us to come. She and Ginger were getting ready to go when she looked at me and said, “Could you come too?” The walk over was heartbreaking, me talking too much about how beautiful everything was and them not saying anything.

The horse surprised me at first—the way Velvet talked about it I expected it to be big and beautiful and it was not. It was built somehow a bit strangely, with a narrow chest that from the side was deep in breadth. But its muscles were fine and distinct under its glossy, moving skin and its steps were springy, like it had elastic ankles. Its head was overlarge, but there was something noble,
senatorial,
in its boniness and size. As Velvet rode it quietly around the arena, I guess warming it up, I began to see its personality and to understand; the horse was rippling with nerves, like its basic forward movement contained fierce motion in all directions, which Velvet controlled seemingly without effort. Ginger and I stood against the fence to watch and every time the horse passed us, it looked at me sideways like,
Check it out—see what I can do!
and I smiled to remember Velvet describing how it looked exactly that way. Once, the horse broke into a nervous jog, which Velvet smoothly corrected without so much as a glance at us.

A fat, tough-looking woman was in the ring too, giving a low running commentary that I couldn't hear. She finally came over to us and said, “How do you like our star rider?” I realized I'd seen her a couple of times early in the morning driving horses in the road. I answered her, “Wonderful!” and Ginger looked at me coldly.

The woman registered the look and walked away without comment, back out to the middle of the ring. She gave Velvet an instruction I couldn't hear and Velvet began to ride the horse harder; it picked up speed and ran with a loose, elegant gait, throwing its legs around, ambling with speed. Velvet sat up in the saddle and leaned forward; the horse put on more speed. The hair on my neck stood up. Ginger's lips parted and her face glowed; her parted lips stayed quiet, her smile touching her eyes and cheeks only. I realized with a sharp sensation that she looked like she did when she first loved me.

Velvet flew over the first jump and the second, flowing like silk. I made an involuntary noise; Ginger laughed, tiny and delighted.

When she first loved me: her softness emerging as if from hiding, overjoyed to be out in the open, coming to me open-armed. Velvet took the third jump and the horse thundered past us, throwing off heat and breathing with fierce ease. I reached for my wife's hand; she let me. Velvet rode past again, calm and delighted too, her face in an expression I'd never seen on her before, oblivious to everything but the animal beneath her.

Ginger let go of my hand. “She's going to win,” she said. “She's going to win.”

“You were right to do this,” I said. “It's incredible.”

“I just want her to win,” said Ginger.

And I answered, “So do I.”

It was not only Spindletop that scared me from competing. Before I even went there I was having bad dreams where I fell in front of people and Fiery Girl fell too, and broke her leg. And there was something else; I don't know what it was, but it made me turn away from competition thoughts fast like a horse turns from a sound or sight. And it was not only Pat's words that changed my mind. When I was riding my horse in the field, there was no nightmare or daymare, nothing but her huge heart with thorns holding me up. Ginger and her strange eyes fell away. Dominic and Brianna's girls were there but floating off the left side of me like a made-up island. When we went for the jump, all of them disappeared.

Then I jumped for Ginger and Paul, and Ginger went back to being her old self, and we went to eat at the pizza place and it was like I was eleven again, and I wished for just a minute that I could stay that way forever before I even knew who Dominic was.

All the way home on the train, I pictured myself at EQUAL on Fiery Girl, running in the practice ring with those beautiful horses. I thought about it so much it was like it already happened. When I got off the train I felt so good I was happy to see my mom, and she saw it because she rubbed my hair and said, “Mi niña” for Ginger to hear. I knew better than to talk about Fiery Girl and the way I rode her. I just leaned against my mom and wrote it on my heart over and over while we went home on the subway.

When we got home I went out because I was in the mood to see people, but I didn't piss my mom off, I just sat on the stoop so as not to miss dinner. I was only there a minute when the Haitian lady passed by with a pink comb in her hair and real shoes, high-tops, on her feet this time. It had been so long, and I didn't know if she'd recognize me, but she right away smiled and said, “Hello, my baby!” I stood up and hugged her and she said how funny to see me because she was thinking about me, she had a dream about me that she didn't remember, but it was something good. She said, “I think something good's coming your way, but don't miss it!”

I was shy to ask her name, but she told me, “I'm Gaby, Gaby Alabre, and I live in the project on the Albany Street side. My name's on the buzzer outside if you want to come see me sometime.”

I told her my name too. I wanted to ask her more about why she thought something good was coming, but my mom shouted down and I didn't want her to see me speaking with Gaby so I said I would come sometime and went in.