The Mare

by Mary Gaitskill

  Paul

  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.”

  Velvet

  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.

  Ginger

  The night she left I went out to the horse barn. It was dark and I could hear the animals react to me when I came in, their silence sudden and massed, like powerful thoughts crowded together, thinking on me. Then I guess one of them grabbed a bucket in its teeth and starting banging it on a wall. Another one snorted and I could feel their thought-shapes part to let me in. Their attention dispersed; they breathed and made quiet noises to each other.

  I thought, No wonder Velvet likes it here. It was safe and secret with them, the ground deep under me, under meadows and houses and human things; ant-swarm human thoughts and giant human feelings. Paul, his other woman, Michael, the chopped-up book of my past: wide, clean surges of hope and love forced into weird shapes, breaking free again. Velvet’s mother, her crushed little cursing face, her fighter’s calm, impassive face; that first time, the way she met my eyes like no one else ever did. Mi niña; Velvet; my Velvet. The horses.

  I went to Fiery Girl. I couldn’t see anything but the flash of her eye and the outline of her ears and curious nose. There was a sign on her door; I imagined it still said “Do Not Touch.” But Velvet had touched her, rode her, cared for her. I put my hand through the bars and touched her nose. She jerked her head and I pulled my hand back, scared. The horse’s teeth flashed and she grunted; I realized she was biting at her door like a cat scratching at wood. I was afraid to touch her again, but I stood there some moments, feeling the animals, calming.

  When I finally walked back, Paul was on the porch, waiting. I didn’t want to be glad, but I was. For the first time in days, we lay down together—rolled away from each other but together. Michael flitted through me, his artificial kisses I had mistaken for “delicate” stuck together with Velvet trying to call me about her murdered friend, stuck together with the hot-point past where my “self” was crushed into a ball like old aluminum, and I didn’t even know what was happening to Michael. My husband lay next to me, blinking loud enough for me to hear.

  Velvet

  In the school bathroom some girls walked in talking mean shit about somebody’s hair, that she bleached it so bad it fell out and she had to wear this crusty ol’ wig. I was in a stall. I pulled up my feet and they mobbed up the mirrors goin’, “And she like fifty at least and wearin’ fake Chanel glasses and that blond wig like she Lil’ Kim or somethin’.” A girl banged into the stall next to me. “An’ I heard she bringin’ in retarded AIDS victims to the house?” “Don’t be talkin’ that way about people with AIDS, and that girl ain’t that retarded, either.” “And she don’t even got AIDS, the dude only—” “Yeah, but her own niece pregnant! She should
—” “Yeah, but Dominic—” My ears popped open wide; next to me the toilet flushed and the door banged open. “—she say Dominic got somebody else on his mind for real, she can tell.” “While she pregnant? Word, some bitch gonna die, literally.”

  That was the last thing they said, but all I heard was Dominic got somebody else on his mind for real and I think something good’s coming your way, but don’t miss it!

  Except I kept thinking about Brianna pregnant and her crazy aunt and somehow the sick feeling of a retarded girl being raped got mixed in it and why did people think the aunt was bad to help even if she did wear a ugly wig? I didn’t want to be the bitch coming in from the side even if I did hate Brianna. So I made myself think about Fiery Girl and how I would see her again soon. But then I just wished I could tell Dominic about the way I jumped her. I wished I could at least text him. But I promised him I wouldn’t. So I called Ginger and we read a book called The Brief Wonderful Life of Somebody together. Except I couldn’t pay attention because of wanting to see him so much it pushed out everything.

  Silvia

  Dante woke me, but I didn’t know it was him at first, just felt something hitting my face—“Mami!” Softly he hit his hands on my face and pulled my cheeks. “Mami, I dreamed Velvet fell off her horse and died!”

  “Shh, stop.” I pushed away his hands and held his arms at his sides, strong but soft. “Velvet’s fine. She’s in the next room. Now ssshhh…”

  “But she said she’s going to ride in a contest, and I’m afraid something will happen.”

  “Don’t be stupid. Go back to sleep or I’ll hit you!” And I stroked his head and calmed him with my arms. He whimpered to keep me touching him, and I did until he slept.

  But of course then I could not. Asleep in the next room, and she deprived me of sleep! He was only dreaming; it couldn’t be true. I tried to calm myself and sleep, but anger beat my brain like a drum—that she could do this to me in the middle of the night, get into Dante’s dreams and disturb him so he woke me on a work night! I tore off the blanket and went down the hall, threw open her door. I meant to beat her right then, get the truth out of her before she was awake enough to lie, she would stupidly throw it right in my face just to spite me—

  But I didn’t. My body suddenly felt weak and I just stood and looked at her, her arms and legs wrapped around her pillow, holding it like Dante held me. If I beat her it would take me another hour to get to sleep. I would do it tomorrow. I would find out and then—“You need to do something different,” said Rasheeda. “You beat her ass every which way and she still not doing what you want. You need to get a different idea.”

  I went out into the living room and sat on the couch, making my body calm. Rasheeda. She said when her daughter was sick she prayed. She believed it was the only reason her grandchild didn’t get AIDS. She gave me the prayer she said; it was in my purse, crumpled up. She knew I couldn’t read it, but she gave it to me anyway. I got it out of my purse, opened it and held it in my hand. Streetlight flashed on it, and I tried to remember the prayer my mother loved.

  Remember, O most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who fled to your protection, implored your help, or sought your intercession was left unaided. Mary, don’t let my daughter die on a horse. Humble her, punish her, but don’t let her die. Surely she isn’t doing something so stupid. Inspired with this confidence, I fly unto you, Virgin of virgins, my Mother. Because she won’t listen to me, nothing I do works. Before you I stand sinful and sorrowful, punish me, punish her, but don’t let her die that way. She is foolish, but not bad except for pride, and it’s my fault that she was born wrong, not hers. Forgive, forgive, despise not my petitions, have mercy, hear and answer me.

  Velvet

  I didn’t go find him to take him from Brianna, only to talk to him. It was my birthday and that made it seem okay. I didn’t text or call because he said not to. I went to the block where we first met and then met again. When I walked there this time boys looked but didn’t talk to me so much, I guess because it was still cold and my body was covered and my face was closed to them because I was all the time calling him, calling him with my mind. I know I was doing that because he heard me; I know he heard me because he came.

  He wasn’t alone, he was with another boy—really he was a man, and he had a hard face. My heart opened too fast, and I said his name in a voice you shouldn’t speak on the street with a hard man there. And Dominic, he looked at me with his face hard too. His look froze my heart, but I could not close it. “What you want, girl?” He said it like he didn’t know me.

  “Just to say hello. Just to tell you about my horse.”

  His eyes went soft and then hard again, except not all the way. The man looked away, bored. “You got business with shawty here?” he said. “Ima catch you up tha way.”

  The man left, and we started walking. I hoped he would go to the restaurant with the lights, but he just said, “So what about your horse?”

  “Ima be in a competition with her.”

  “Awesome.” His voice was sarcastic. I didn’t say anything. There was pounding in my ears and everything seemed like it was moving very fast. I wanted to say, Why are you being this way? I wanted to tell him about seeing the distance, but I couldn’t do that either—his hard voice made even that stupid. So I just asked, “Who’s that man?”

  “That ain’t your business.”

  “Why can’t I ask that? You said we were friends.”

  “Not like that we ain’t.”

  “Like what, then? I can’t even just ask you who somebody is?”

  He stopped on a corner. His eyes went hard/soft/hard/sad. There were boys like a foot away. “Listen,” he said. “I know you come here and walk around looking for me.” His voice was mean, but his eyes looked sad and scared and cut me to the heart so I could not talk. The boys pretended not to see.

  “You can’t be doin’ this,” he said. “If I wanna see you, I let you know. You get it?”

  “But you told me, you showed me—”

  “I told you not to bother me!”

  Brianna’s girls came round the corner. Very quiet, I finished my sentence: “Dominic, you showed me that picture you didn’t show nobody else.” For about two seconds everything stopped. His eyes said, I’m sorry, I’m sorry sorry. But his back was to Brianna’s friends, and all they heard was him going, “Picture? That wasn’t nothin’, that wasn’t even me, I was just playin’ with you! It ain’t my fault if you don’t know game when you see it!”

  One of Brianna’s bitches laughed low.

  “A’ight? Now you need to go home and not bother people no more.”

  And he turned his back and talked to Brianna’s friends.

  Me just standing there. The corner boys watching me. This one bitch grillin’ me hatefully. And me ready to fly on her—but like he could feel it, he stuck his arm out between us and pulled the bitch by her shoulders, pulled her around, saying to her, Don’t get into that shit, come with us, we gonna—whatever, I didn’t hear. She looked at him sharp, like, Why do you care, but still she went. And quick, over his shoulder, he looked back at me.

  Me doing nothing. Worse than a beat-down. You showed me that picture. Stupid and lame. I hated myself for saying it, more than I hated him for what he said back. If one of them looked at me then and laughed, I coulda run and punched the bitch, but nobody did; they were too busy trying to get attention from him.

  The corner boys still stood there. I yelled, “What you lookin’ at!” and at least they looked down. But when I walked away I could still feel their eyes on me, like they could see my private body. I felt like I did that time after Manuel, when I wanted to hide in my own house, and now I was on the street and it felt like everybody was looking at my body. All the eyes, and the streets and buildings and cars as far from me as the trees and houses of upstate. But here was no horse to come and touch her face on mine. Fiery Girl, her face on mine—I tried to grab the memory of it. Instead I felt the eyes a
nd remembered the substitute, and Alicia snapping her fingers at his face and Ginger saying, “I’m weak.” And my mom saying, “It’s not your fault. You have bad blood.”

  For the first time I understood: She said that to make me feel better. From love.

  I went to get Dante from day care. He leaned on me all the way home. I fixed my mind on his forehead and eyelashes until that’s all I saw.

  Ginger

  There is a graveyard in the next town over that I like a lot. It’s small and very old, full of thin, crumbling stones so decrepit the names and dates are worn away, slanting sideways or lurching back, some with pieces broken off. There are few big display plots, just these plain, mostly anonymous stones from the 1880s. The living have worn a path through the grass on their way to the drugstore or the parking lot or the diner on the main street—where I’m going to meet Kayla for coffee.

  I walk slowly, reading the few legible stones and feeling the gentle humor of the ground beneath me. As you are now, so once was I / As I am now, so you will be / Prepare for death and follow me—somebody who died in 1803 wanted his stone to say that. Numbly I smile and wonder how it will be on my deathbed to remember that when I was forty-eight years old I acted in a performance of A Christmas Carol with children wearing pajamas and bonnets, and that a Dominican family came from Crown Heights to see it. Where will Velvet be then? What will she remember of our time together? I remember when I talked to her about our periods, and I said, “You’re coming up and I’m going down.” How she smiled.

  Prepare for death and follow me. Church bells ring.

  Yes, I am going down. Like every human will, like every woman in particular, as her body splutters and gives out. Nothing wrong with Velvet’s satisfaction in the contrast. Maybe my whiteness gives it double meaning, double triumph for her. Whatever. I’m going down anyway, my husband going after somebody younger even as he protests his love. No wonder Becca hates me, Paul left her when she was about my age. He didn’t leave her for me, but I am almost ten years younger and must’ve seemed like a replacement.