The Mare

by Mary Gaitskill

  So I feel bad to make him talk on the phone with one of these machine people who they get to answer phones—except it turns out, it’s not even a machine-person, it’s really a machine. Which at least can’t think he’s stupid as he tries to give machine answers, whispering so the thing can’t hear him, finally shouting. “Mami, what do we want, a reservation or a service or something else? Coño, now it’s talking about a dining car, it won’t let you ask the price—something else, you stupid nonfiction puta, something else! Mami, I can’t!” He slammed the phone on the floor so the cap broke off the end of it, and I knocked it on his head, the insane voice talked on and he cried, “Just call the man, Paul. Tell him to call them.”

  “No,” I said. “No.”

  “Wait,” he said and grabbed the phone, listening. “An agent is a person, it says it thinks I want to talk to an agent.” He told the phone, “Yes, agent, you puta,” and it answered him with music.

  Ginger

  She was far away when she got ready for bed that night—she didn’t even smile when she asked if she could have her favorite towel with the pink flowers on it. Paul said, “She’s being amazing. Strong. Considering how disappointed she must be about her mother not coming.” “Yeah,” I said. You don’t know the half of it, I didn’t say. I called the translator, didn’t reach her. I hoped to God I hadn’t made a mistake in encouraging this.

  The next morning she was still calm, but with something else too, something I could not define. “Velvet,” I said. “I know you can win this. I want you to win. But even if you don’t? You’ve still done something incredible to get this far. I’m more proud of you than I’ve ever been of anyone in my life.”

  Normally when I would compliment her, she’d smile awkwardly and thank me with a full, tender voice. This time she thanked me with her voice and face so measured she looked like a much older person, almost middle-aged. Again I wondered if I had done the right thing. Was any of this right?

  But after I walked her to the barn, I didn’t doubt. A girl with purple hair greeted Velvet warmly. “Is she competing too?” I asked. “No,” said Velvet. “She’s just coming to help.” I stayed long enough to watch her lead her horse out. The animal seemed to look at me like it knew me and was thinking something very specific. Velvet did not look at me, just at the horse.

  It was on the walk home that I finally identified what it was: She looked like her mother. Like her mother the fighter. Except that, unlike her mother, she wasn’t in a tank. She was out in the open. I smiled. I knew: I had done the right thing.

  I knew it even more when Paul greeted me on the porch, phone in his hand. “They’re coming,” he said. “Dante just called me.”

  “When?” I asked. “It’s starting in like an hour!”

  “That’s why he called, they wanted to know what time it was. I get the sense it was a last-minute decision. I told them I’m pick them up at Poughkeepsie because it won’t cost them as much that way.”

  Paul

  I don’t know why I felt glad they were coming. This whole thing—Ginger’s “project,” as Becca called it—had ruined my marriage, or allowed me to ruin it, and the ruin had just begun. What would happen to Ginger if we divorced? I imagined her in the city, living in a grimy studio in Queens or Brooklyn, maybe Crown Heights, trying to find a job (as what?) and attempting to maintain a relationship with a family who’d most likely have no use for her—and I sped to Poughkeepsie as if to forestall that future, Polly hurling away from me like a rapidly cooling planet wrenched off its axis.

  I got there early but couldn’t find a spot in the near lot, had to spiral up the parking structure for a space, thinking weirdly of Ginger’s sister, whom I had once compared, after her death, to the Nabokovian character Hazel Shade, an ugly girl who kills herself on being rejected by a cloddish boy. I did not make a direct comparison between live Melinda and the fictional dead girl for Ginger; I just repeated one critic’s somewhat quixotically made case that poor scorned Hazel is transformed by death into a Vanessa butterfly, a kind angel who gently guides her father into the spirit world and even comforts the egotistical lunatic (and great rejecter of women) who inadvertently drew her dad to his death.

  I heard a train pulling in as I hurried down the concrete steps, feeling that strange gladness in anticipation of the lumpen, frowning woman and her odd boy whom I could deliver to my even more odd wife. Who had liked the connection between her sister and Hazel Shade because she felt that Melinda had guided her to Velvet and Velvet to the horse. And because she believed in transformation, she did not accept that anything just “is what it is”; she always thought it could be something else, something secretly beautiful and glorious.

  I made myself visible at the foot of a main stairway, smiling expectantly as the last passengers left the train. My smile stiffened slightly; they did not seem to be there. I went to the other end of the platform, thinking they might be waiting for the elevator. But the conveyance was taking someone up, and I dropped the smile as I headed back up the stairs. “Pippa Passes”; Nabokov had used that poem wittily in connection with Hazel, Pippa being an insignificant girl who somehow transforms everyone around her into something better than they are. They weren’t upstairs either or in the lobby. Exasperated—this was so typical—I reached for my phone, calling as I walked outside, where insignificant people passed and passed.

  Dante

  He is a funny man, even if he doesn’t say anything funny, just the way his hairy uni-blond brows go together when he’s trying to think of what to say. Before my mom got her crazy idea of going upstate to open a can of whup-ass, this guy on South Park was saying, “Black is beautiful, tan is grand, but the white man is the big boss man!” And I thought of the eyebrows.

  But at least when a human came on the phone, she was nice and waited for my mom to find an envelope with the name of their town on it while I told her about going to see my sister race. But I remembered the name of the place anyway—it was like a name in that book about Unfortunate Events. And it was very unfortunate, forty dollars to get there, not even coming back, and we didn’t know where the race was or what time it was or even if it already happened. I expected my mom to say hell no, but she just sat like she was dreaming, and then said, Tell her to make the reservation with the credit card.

  But I called Paul before we left and he said to go someplace else, and I didn’t tell my mom because there wasn’t time to get on the phone again, and then the subway sat in the tunnel and we only had time to get the ticket out of the machine so we wouldn’t have saved money, and then my mom didn’t understand when we got to Poughkeepsie and I told her, “I think he said to get out here instead.” She said, “Why?” and I wasn’t going to say “because he wanted us to save money” because then my sister’s ass would not be whipped alone. Even if my mom looked like she forgot about that, she just stared out at Poughkeepsie like she was still in that same dream.

  So I thought when we get there and he’s not there she’ll ask me to call him and I will and he will come to where we are. And she won’t know I was stupid. Which is what happened. Except the phone was dead.

  Velvet

  When we got there the parking lot was busy, with trailers and cars and horses being groomed and more people coming. When she came out of the trailer, Fiery Girl tossed her head and stepped quick, one foot to the other; her veins were standing out of her silky skin and I was afraid she’d spook. But when I put my hands on her I felt right away that it was something else bubbling up in her, something I didn’t know yet.

  I wanted to groom her and tack her myself, but Pat said to let Gare do that, we were gonna walk the course. Which was also busy—there were like ten other girls walking it and also their trainers, and I could hear little bits of their talking and it seemed like their thinking too. A couple of them talked loud about somebody’s horse being too short-strided or said shit like “Good luck on that one,” like for me to hear—it was just annoying, and made it hard to count the steps and listen to
Pat, even if she was talking like drilling words into my head.

  “The first is the simplest, but it’s important because it sets the tone,” she said. “So you want to giddyup over that, then settle down and whoa a little bit at the second, pick it up again on three—four, look, piece of cake, collect yourself there, check your balance. Five, though—pay attention!” I could see what she meant; the outside fence near five was curved inward to avoid some big trees and there were a lot of trees right up against the fence sideways after the jump, which could make the horse feel like she was jumping into the trees. “Nothing she and you can’t do. I’m thinking put your left leg on so you’re almost jumping right because she’s probably gonna drag you left. And when you land, don’t forget the basics: use the corners for balance and take the cleanest lines between the jumps—the ground here is good and solid, so that’s a plus.”

  We walked the course twice and then she made me repeat it all back to her and finally we went back to my horse, and I was glad to kiss her scars and her crumpled ear, and also the beautiful braid Gare did. The show did not seem small anymore, and I realized I was a little bit scared. “Remember,” said Pat, “lively on the first jump, a little whoa on the second…” Fiery Girl breathed in and out of her open nose and laid back her good ear; she stretched out her lip like she wanted to nibble on me. I thought confidence and comfort. “…left lead canter to red toward home,” said Pat, “hay bales away…” Other girls were grooming their horses or leading them to the schooling area—I saw Joanne across the way; I saw Lorrie and Jeanne. I saw Lexy. “…outside line away from home, finish with a long ride to white diagonal.” Blood filled up my heart and suddenly I knew what my horse felt. I wanted to move, to kick and bite. I wanted to win so much I trembled, and I could not stop. Pat put her hand on my shoulder. “Calm down,” she said. “And tell me what you’re gonna do.”

  Ginger

  I got to the show at nine o’clock; Velvet wasn’t riding until about ten thirty, but she would be there, and anyway, I wanted to see it all. I wanted to see what Mrs. Vargas was going to see when Paul brought her and Velvet’s brother. What I saw made me feel satisfaction and vindicated joy: a sunny meadow, horses in spacious pastures, an enormous well-tended barn, tiny girls with bright faces confidently shepherding horses toward two good-sized arenas where families were gathered on a small set of bleachers watching girls warm up. Someone who must’ve been the judge was sitting in a chair placed on a flatbed truck parked between the two arenas; a middle-aged woman carrying a plastic bucket filled with ribbons walked past me, headed in his direction. Two other women in a dollhouse pavilion talked enthusiastically and half audibly through microphones; I noticed one of them had the discordant profile of a drunk, deranged elf, but never mind—there was a sweet little concession stand selling homemade cookies, and banners with the names of local businesses snapping in the wind. The scene was lovely, proud and modest both.

  The stable was open and I walked through it, hoping to find Velvet and tell her that her mother would come after all. But I didn’t see her. I asked a couple of girls if they knew her. They said, “Who?” and looked at each other like I must be joking. This bothered me more than it should’ve. I went to the pavilion and waited to get the attention of the women. The one with the strange face sat back and fixed me with a speculative, quietly malign look that I didn’t understand and pretended not to see; did she know me? “Excuse me,” I said to the other. “I’m looking for Velveteen Vargas. Do you know who she is?”

  “The name certainly stands out,” she said. “I don’t know her personally, but—” She scanned a list with the help of a swollen finger. “Here she is. She’s here with a horse called Fugly Girl.”

  “Oh,” I said, relieved but bothered again. “That’s a mistake; that’s not the horse’s name.”

  “Well, that’s what it says here, that’s—”

  “Ginger!” I turned and there was Paul saying, “They weren’t there. They weren’t at Poughkeepsie or Rhinecliff. I checked. I tried to call them several times, but I got no answer.”

  “There she is!” said the swollen-fingered woman. “There’s your girl right there!”

  We looked up just in time to see her fighting to stay on her bucking horse, which as I watched, changed tactics, and spun around so hard Velvet lost her seat and fell.

  I cried out, and Paul went, “Oh no!”

  “Not a big deal,” said the pavilion lady mildly. “It’s spring, and the animals are—”

  I looked at her and saw instead the face of the other, quietly gloating as Velvet got to her feet. That’s when I remembered her; the trainer who taught Velvet to ride bareback with a bullwhip.

  Silvia

  He wasn’t there. We walked out of the station with satisfied, idle people who walked well-dressed even if they dressed sloppy. We stood there as they were hugged and kissed by more satisfied, idle people, then driven away in big cars. Or taxis. There were so many people, the taxis took them and came back and took more. Still he didn’t come. Soon we were the only ones standing there. Dante was very quiet beside me and I could smell him sweating like he does when he’s afraid. Why? And why didn’t Paul come? They were always on time. Ginger. Did she tell her husband not to bring me? My face went hot to think she could do that. Dante sweated. One last taxi came slowly back into the station. The driver stared at me through the glass; I saw he was Mexican. Dante said, “I don’t think he is coming.” The driver rolled down his window and said something to Dante in English; Dante answered him. Then he spoke to me. “You’ve been here a long time. Do you need a ride?”

  I smiled to hear Spanish and said no, we were waiting. Dante said something to him and he asked me what kind of phone I had because maybe he could charge it in his car. When he got out and I could see him fully, I trusted him to let him take the phone. But his charger didn’t work on our phone, so he gave it back and asked me where we wanted to go. I told him it was to see my daughter ride in a horse show and, by his face, he didn’t believe me. He said, “Where is it?” I took out my envelope with their address on it and showed it to him.

  “It’s right next to this place,” I said, pointing.

  “I could take you there,” he said. “I could take you for half price.”

  “Thank you, but our friend said he would take us there. We’ll wait.”

  He shrugged. I expected him to go away, but instead he asked, “Where you come from?” I told him, and he said he was from Bushwick. We talked bullshit about that, and more time went by.

  “Look,” he said, “why don’t you come with me? It’s twenty dollars, but for you ten.”

  “It’s still too much.”

  “Okay, Mami,” he said. “Five. For you.”

  Velvet

  When I rode her to the practice arena she moved like on springs, rocking me on her back. It was strange to ride her with her mane braided—her body looked too wide and just not the same. We had to stop by the stable to let some other horses pass and Pat saw the Mexican groom from the day before. “Beautiful horse,” he said. A girl nearby turned to look and her lips curved sarcastically to see Fiery Girl’s scarred face and crumpled ear.

  Pat smiled and thanked him. “Put together by committee, this one,” she said. “But she’s got good heart.”

  “And good blood,” said the groom. “You can see in how she moves.”

  “Say ‘thank you’!” Pat snapped and I did say it. But he already saw the thanks in my smile. Because he said it like it was me who had good blood too, and I wished my mom was there.

  But something changed when we walked her past that little house thing where they were going to announce us. I could feel her tense and she kicked up a back leg like to canter. I tightened the reins and she went into a hard trot that bounced me. I felt something behind it, and it bothered me so when I tried to give her confidence she felt bother, and that’s when I started to feel the buck coming. I took the reins to the side, pulled her head into my leg. I heard Pat say, �
�Good, other side!” and I scrunched with the reins to keep her head up. I used my legs, but it didn’t work, she half bucked, so I turned her head again and she went into a spin so fast my foot came out of the stirrup. When I grabbed for the mane I couldn’t get hold of the flat braid, and then I was on the ground. Pat was right there to take hold of her and she was telling me it was okay, and when I got enough breath back to get up I believed it—until Ginger came running like it was the worst thing ever, which annoyed me and Pat too, and probably the mare.

  Ginger

  I shouldn’t have run up to her like that, but I just wanted to be sure she was safe, to let her know somebody cared about her. But fear was on me, and my feeling was too intense; I just irritated her and the trainer, who looked at me like I was a total fool. But that in a way seemed to strengthen her; I could feel her and the trainer link together against my fluttering presence, and she got up on the horse with a resolve that seemed to calm the animal. Feeling small and worthless, and still afraid because we didn’t know what had happened to her mom, I walked back to the bleachers looking for Paul.

  But I didn’t see Paul. I saw Edie and Kayla with her friend Robin and dour little Jewel. And Becca’s friend Joan and—oh my fucking God—Becca. Of course Joan would be there; her daughter rode. But Becca? They were standing there next to the bleachers, talking with casual ease that made me stumble over my feet. They saw me; Edie smiled, Joan said hi, and Kayla hugged me. With an expression I couldn’t read, Becca very quietly said, “Hello.” I blushed and mumbled. “Where is she?” asked smiling Edie. “Is her mom here?”

  “She’s practicing,” I said, gesturing toward the arena. “Her mom’s not here yet.”