The Mare

by Mary Gaitskill

  Inside it wasn’t rich either. It wasn’t even as clean as our house—there were papers and books on the floor, and clothes hanging on chairs. The floor was painted a big white and blue diamond pattern and there were pictures on the walls of cartoon animals and a devil smoking a cigarette. There was a deep-blue bowl on the table with apples and oranges in it. The dining room window had curtains that were blue on one side and bright purple on the other. The bowl was my favorite; I sat down and touched the shining side of it.

  “Are you hungry?” said the lady.

  I was, but I was too embarrassed to eat something like an apple or an orange that you tear apart, so I said no.

  “Do you want some cookies?”

  I did, but I didn’t want her to think I was the kind of pig who starting eating first thing, so I said, “Can I see my room?”

  They both came up to show it to me, the man carrying my suitcase. It was a little room, with a pink cover on the bed and a painting of a sleeping girl hanging on the wall over it. I decided I liked this house; it was so quiet, but all the pictures and bright things made it seem like something fun was happening invisibly. I thought about my mom; I wished she could be here. Then the lady said, “Do you want to call your mom?” And I started liking her.

  Ginger

  She was so beautiful, so solid in her body, but so shy in the way she took things. I felt excited and scared about how to act—I couldn’t even respond properly to my own family, so how could I take care of a needy child from another culture? It was a cliché to think that way, but I could feel her difference. At the same time, I could feel her child’s goodness, her willingness to help us, and that was more compelling. We gave her privacy to talk to her mother and when we got downstairs, I whispered to Paul, “What do you think?”

  “She’s a sweetheart,” he said. “It’s going to be fine.”

  She came downstairs almost immediately. Her face was sad, and the shift of emotion was profound—for a moment I thought something terrible had happened. But she just said her mom wasn’t home. I got her to eat some cookies, and asked her what she wanted to do. I said we could go to see the town or to the lake or the bowling alley or for a walk around the neighborhood. Or we could walk over and visit the horses in the stables across the road from us. “The horses,” she said, some cookie in her mouth. “We could see the horses?”

  Velvet

  I said we could go to the horses, but I didn’t really care. I just said that because I knew they were close—I did want to see horses, but I didn’t feel like it right then. Because my mom was gone when I called and I felt alone, like she was really gone, and I was stuck here with a devil on the wall and nice people who didn’t have anything to do with me.

  But I went with the lady, Ginger. She talked about something, I don’t know what. I was trying to count the hours in the days I had left and trying to subtract how much time I’d been there, starting from the bus. We passed through a gate with a sign that said “Wildwood”; suddenly there was too much space around us—green and green and green with some little fences and in the distance a big building with a giant hole for a door. I wanted to reach for Ginger’s hand, and that made me mad at myself because I was too old for that. Then she said, “They give riding lessons for kids here. That’s something we could do if you want to.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  And then we came to the building with the giant door.

  “Here’s the stable,” said Ginger.

  It looked scary from the distance, but inside it was not. It was dark and warm. It was all wooden. The smell of it was deep. You could feel it, like it was breathing all around you, but it wasn’t scary, it was the opposite. And there was a horse, looking at me from an opening in his cage. A sign over him said “Graylie,” and there were pictures and a dirty red teddy bear next to his face. And then there was another one and another one: “Diamond Chip Jim” (he had a purple fish toy and a bunch of fake flowers); “Blue Boy” (he had a bunch of plastic bottles); “Baby” (she had a doll); “Officer Murphy” (he had a bunch of stuff written on some papers and a blue ribbon); “Little Tina” (she didn’t have nothin’). There were some people too, walking around, but I didn’t notice them. The horses were all looking at me and Ginger, and some of them were saying things: Who are you? Come over here! Have you got something for me? I’m lonely. Don’t bother me!

  “Do you like them?” asked Ginger.

  I said, “Yes,” and then, “Can I touch them?”

  “Yes, but be careful. Some of them can bite.”

  I went up to one named Rocki. He was cream-colored with a short mane and a black stripe down the center of it. He was beautiful but with sad, hurt eyes. He didn’t have any pictures or toys. I put my hand out to him. He let me touch his nose and his strong neck.

  Ginger said, “Hi, Pat.” I turned and saw a round woman with a red face and blond-gray hair sticking out everywhere. She was wearing old beat-up clothes and she was pushing a big wooden wheelbarrow like I’d seen in books about farm life; it was full of wet dirt and bits of straw. “I just brought the young lady over to see the horses.”

  “Hello, young lady,” said the woman. It was funny, the way she looked at me; she looked past me, but still it felt like she was looking right at me. It was like her eyes were on the sides of her head. Like the horses. “What’s your name?”

  Her face was nice but her voice was strong, like she might beat your ass, so my answer came out like a whisper.

  “Nice to meet you,” said Pat. “I see you met Rocki. He’s a good guy.”

  I wanted to ask her why he was so sad, but I just looked down instead.

  “Look around all you want, just pay attention to the signs.” She picked up the handles of the wheelbarrow again and began walking the other way.

  “Is she the one that gives the lessons?” I whispered to Ginger.

  “Yeah.” Ginger smiled down at me, and that crying thing moved through her face really fast. “Interested?”

  I was confused by Ginger’s face, by everything that was happening. But Pat was moving away and I suddenly felt like I had to talk or my chance would be gone. “Yes,” I whispered.

  And so we went down to the other end of the stable so that Pat could check her appointment book. I walked slowly after them so I could look at the horses. I looked at the stable too; there was cool stuff in it: leather straps hanging everywhere, metal boxes, chains, helmets, saddles—everything was old and beat-up, but somehow that was what made it cool. It all looked like it had a reason, even the dirt and balls of hair and straw on the floor of the stable—even that somehow was right, and didn’t seem like dirt.

  Ginger and Pat were in an office somewhere off to the side when I saw a girl in one of the horse-cages by herself. It was open and the horse was gone and it looked like she was cleaning the cage with a fork. She was a white girl, thin but strong-looking, with long shiny brown hair and a chin that reminded me of a pit bull. When she looked up and saw me, she didn’t say anything and neither did I. She just looked, then went back to what she was doing.

  And then two other white girls came in from a hallway I didn’t notice. One of them had a boy-face and hair that was half blue, half purple; the other was regular. They were leading a huge horse and talking loud, like they thought they were hot. When they saw me they stopped and stared. Suddenly there was this loud, mad-pissed-off banging, and I heard a horse making angry wanting noises. The other horses answered like, We hear! The boy-girl yelled, “Shut up, Fugly Girl!” And the other said to me, “We don’t mean you.” And the boy-girl laughed.

  I walked away from them toward the office. One of the girls muttered, “Sorry.” The banging got louder. And then I saw where it was coming from. There was a gold-brown horse kicking and biting the hell out of her cage. Her eyes were rolling in her head and you could see the white around them. But she was the best one so far, not the most beautiful, the best. There were no ribbons or toys or even a name on her cage, just a sign that read �
��Do Not Touch.” I came close to her and she looked at me. That’s when I saw the scars on her face, straight, deep scars around her nose and eyes. She turned her head all the way to one side and then the other. I thought, Your scars are like the thorns on Jesus’s heart. She stopped biting and kicking. I could see her think in the dark part of her eye. The white part got softer. The girls behind me went quiet. The wonderful horse came up to me. I put my hand out to her. She touched it with her mouth. I whispered, “You are not fugly.”

  “Hey, can’t you read?” the boy-face girl yelled at me. “That horse is dangerous, get away from it!”

  “She’s only dangerous if she doesn’t like you,” said Pat. I turned and saw her and Ginger coming out of the office. Pat came up to the horse and rubbed her on the nose. “The trouble is, she doesn’t like anybody except me—and sometimes she doesn’t like me.” Pat looked at me, straight on this time. “So I’ve got a slot open tomorrow. Does that work for you?”

  Ginger

  When we got back to the house she wanted to eat a sandwich, so I fixed her a ham and cheese with tomatoes for health. She asked if there were any pickles and I said, No, I’m sorry. She looked at me quizzically while she ate. Tomatoes dripped out. She asked if those girls would be at the barn when she went for her lesson. I said I didn’t know. I wondered if they said something racial to her, but I didn’t want to embarrass her by asking. I didn’t think there would be direct racism in this town. But it might come in a subtler form.

  “What did you think of them?” I asked.

  “I dunno,” she said.

  “Would you want to see them again?”

  “No.”

  I asked if she’d brought a swimsuit. She said yes. I told her we’d gotten a life jacket for her, for when we went to the lake. She asked to see it, and when I brought it, she put it on and frowned; it was too small. My heart sank a little. We both went out to the garden, where Paul was pulling weeds, and told him we were going to the store to get a new life jacket. He said he would go with us. She wore the life jacket into the car, and I was aware of her fiddling with it as we drove. When we went over the Kingston Bridge, I sensed her stop fiddling for a moment; I turned and saw her hands still in her lap, her soft, responsive profile as she looked out the window, reacting to the huge bright sky and sparkling water. I felt pulled by big feelings, but I didn’t know what they were.

  When we got to the parking lot of the store and found a place, she said, “I made it fit.” And she had! She had worked out the adjustable straps and fasteners that we hadn’t even thought to look for. Paul said, “You’re smarter than we are!” and her eyes sparkled shyly.

  We decided that since we were at the mall, we would buy her a bike. It took a long time because she was so uncomfortable about choosing one. We kept asking, What about this one? Do you like this one? Do you like the color? And she would say, “I dunno” and look down, as if confused. I asked her, Do you want a bike? She said yes, but almost in the same way she might say no. A salesman came over and that only made it worse. I was beginning to feel we were doing some strange violence to her when she said, “That one” and pointed to a violet bike with flowers on it.

  When we got back home, Paul and I got our bikes and we all went for a ride in the neighborhood across the county road behind our house. It was a short ride, but it seemed like an adventure, and it linked the three of us. We sweated up some hills, and then coasted down fast. We came to some broken asphalt—I yelled “Lumpety bumpety!”—and Velvet grinned triumphantly as we bounced over it. When we came to a little park with a duck pond, she wanted to stop and see the ducks. There was a swing set and even though it was preschool size, Velvet wanted to swing on it. We were too big to swing with her, so we took turns pushing her. Then we played on the teeter-totter and the rickety wooden go-round—then she wanted to go back to the swings. She did everything with enchanted hunger, like she was maybe too old for this but wanted it anyway, because she knew it was something she should’ve had. Besides, it was fun—we thought it was fun.

  When we got home, Paul asked Velvet if she liked Celia Cruz—she said, “Yes!” So he put on a Cruz CD and turned it up loud enough so that you could hear it in the backyard. Velvet kept me company while I made the salad and got the chicken ready for Paul to cook outside. It felt good to make food for her. I remembered my mom fixing food in the kitchen, her hips solid against the counter as she moved her hands; I remembered the feeling of love and trust in it. I wanted to be that, even if it was only for a little while. When Paul came in with the chicken on a big plate, I knew he was enjoying it too; I could see the pleasure coming off his chest.

  At dinner we asked about her family. She told us about her brother, who was visiting another family. She told us her mother worked as an old person’s aide and also rented out a room to a Mr. Diaz, who didn’t live in the room but kept his private business in there. “What business is he in?” asked Paul with too much nonchalance. She said she didn’t know, that he kept the door padlocked when he was gone, and they weren’t allowed to bother him when he was there. She asked if we had any kids. Paul told her about his daughter; Velvet was disappointed when Paul told her that Edie was in Italy. Velvet didn’t ask me about kids, but she looked at me expectantly. When I didn’t say anything, she said she wanted to try her mother again.

  Velvet sounded happy when her mom answered; she said, “Ma-mi!” But right away the woman started yelling. She was yelling so loud I could hear her from a foot away. Velvet spoke quickly, sometimes arguing, sometimes almost pleading. I heard “Celia Cruz,” said hopefully; the mother just kept yelling. Finally Velvet looked at me and said, “My mom says thank you for buying me the bike.” Then she put the phone down, looking mad and happy both.

  We watched some videos; I had one I’d picked out in advance, a movie about a tough Hispanic girl who learns how to box and triumphs over her crappy life. I hadn’t seen it, but I’d seen trailers for it; they showed one person after another yelling at the girl about how she was no good while the words “Prove them wrong!” flashed on the screen. Then they showed the girl punching the crap out of a bag while music played. I thought it was inspiring—Prove them wrong!—and I looked forward to sitting there with Velvet, being inspired together. We put it on, and there was the first scene of the girl’s father yelling at her that she was no good. Velvet looked depressed. “It’s going to get better,” I said encouragingly. The yelling at home went on for a long time. Then the girl got to school and a teacher yelled at her. Other girls insulted her, and pretty soon, she was in the bathroom, beating on somebody. “Can we watch something else?” asked Velvet.

  Embarrassed, I showed her the other ones: something about a Pakistani girl overcoming prejudice to become a soccer star in England and something about a girl discovering that she is a princess. Velvet picked the second one. We watched it together on the couch. Yearningly, Velvet drank in its scenes of senseless abundance and approval. An actress who was famous for playing a beautiful, fun-loving nun when I was a kid took the princess into a room and gave her tons of jewelry. In a trance of pleasure, this little girl who did not know me leaned against me and put her head on my shoulder. Shyly, I touched her hair. Paul came into the room, and I felt his warmth even though the lights were down and I couldn’t see his face.

  Velvet

  When I finally talked to my mom, she just yelled at me. I tried to tell her about the horses and she told me that I could get kicked and killed, that a horse in DR had almost killed her. I told her that these horses were nice, and that I was going to ride one tomorrow. She said, You tell those people that I forbid it. Tell them if anything happens to you, they are going to be in big trouble. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll tell them.”

  Then I hung up and we watched movies. We watched another movie about the princess. After that, we went upstairs and they showed me my towel and washcloth in the bathroom; they were white with pink flowers. Ginger waited for me to get ready for bed, and when I got in bed she asked if I
wanted her to read to me. It was embarrassing, but I said yes and she sat on the bed.

  And then I felt strange. I had waked up pressed against my mother and little brother, and now I was alone in a bed with a pink cover and this blond lady sitting there, her face full of niceness with pain around the edges. Why was this even happening? I missed my mom next to me. Instead Ginger was next to me, reading with her eyes down, her voice like white dream horses running across the sky: A little girl playing hide-and-seek goes into the closet to hide and comes out in a snowy country. She meets a man with hairy goat legs. (Like Paul!) The hairy-leg says a beautiful witch has come to the land and made it winter all the time. Ginger looked at me with her blue, blue eyes and then away. Hairy-leg says the little girl has been sent to help, that only she can help. Ginger closed the book. She sat quiet like she didn’t know what to do. Then she said, “That’s all for now, Princess Velveteen.” And she touched my head.

  When she turned off the light and closed the door, there was still light from the outside on the wall with tree branches in it. I thought of my mother at home in the bed, with car lights moving on the wall and people talking and playing music in the street. I thought of Dante crying at the bus station—where was he? I thought of my grandfather. Was he there like he said he would be?

  Ginger

  That night Paul and I went to bed feeling close, our arms wrapped around each other. When I woke up in the middle of the night, scared and sad from a dream I couldn’t remember, I reached for him, pressing myself against his back. But instead of his name I heard myself say, “M’lindie!” Which is what I called Melinda when I was five. Then I was awake enough to know it was Paul’s big male back I was holding—but still I whispered, “Melinda.” And then I fell back to sleep.