Mary Gaitskill - The Mare

“Hola! Bienvenidos!” Mrs. Vargas blinked and looked up. Bearing down on us through the crowd was Ginger wearing pajamas and a bonnet with a man in blue face-paint holding out his arms and gesturing at his heart like to long-lost friends.

Body and eyes, Mrs. Vargas rose to the welcome instinctively. And then she sagged back, bewildered. The blue-faced guy put his arm around her shoulders and began talking to her in Spanish. She talked back, but her body still sagged. Ginger was talking to somebody else in a bonnet. Dante was slowly wandering forward, looking with great interest at plastic knight’s armor, assorted masks and weaponry.

He said, I hear you might be moving up here, is that true? I said, It looks too expensive for me. That depends where you go, he said. You can live simply here. Me and my wife moved up here from the city and at first she cleaned houses. I painted houses, she cleaned. I’m not somebody who needs to live fancy. I can have a simple meal of beans with a little meat and be happy. I said, The place we just ate was simple for a lot of money. He said, Ah well, I don’t know where you went. I have to perform, but let’s talk later.

Everything he said was a boast and he wanted me to join him. But I couldn’t. I didn’t sleep the night before, and in the morning I accidentally dropped this old lady on the floor and she broke her ribs. I called 911. I told her, You know, I have children. I said, Please. But I don’t know what she’s going to say.

I went backstage and I said, “Listen! There’s some people here who came all the way from the city to see this. I want you to act your guts out for them!” And somebody said, “Okay.”

It was something I used to see on the old movie channel, except it was done ridiculous funny, people painted blue and wearing pajamas underneath dresses and hats. Ginger came out in a old-timey hat being a dumb nice woman who wants this mean old man to give money. Little kids ran out and sang Christmas songs; one of the little kids messed up and started crying, which made me on her side. I looked at my mom; her eyes were soft, her lips coming open like she’s dreaming. This guy who looked like the science teacher everybody bugs on came out wrapped in bike chains, groaning and yelling. My mom’s mouth was still open, her eyes closed. Dante whispered, “He’s going to say, ‘You’re nothing but a bit of undigested beef or a piece of cheese!’ ” That’s when I realized it was that story about the mean old man who hated poor people until ghosts came to him on Christmas Eve.

Painted people came out onstage; Ginger led little girls around making faces, singing, like weird prayer cards come to life. A little one forgot to sing, just looked at us, smiling — sweet. The old lady I dropped on the floor has whole walls covered with prayer cards, pictures of grandkids, crayon drawings, and presidents, yellowing away or bright as Easter. St. Clare with full ruby lips, St. Lucy with her eyes on a plate, a snowman drawn in orange, a boy, a dog. I close my eyes and disappear in the wall of pictures. “Mami!” Velvet jabs me, and I jab back. Boring; an old man is on the stage eating from a bowl. The pretend clock is striking. This lady keeps her dishes in the oven and her refrigerator full of disgusting dry cakes like they sell from the food truck at work. I scold Velvet and pinch her. The old man looks up; someone is moaning, rattling around. I pinch myself, wake up. The old man shouts, Who’s there? The old lady thinks the neighbor boys are coming to steal her panty hose, but she’s got her purse open on the table. She wants to know, What kind of person would take your panty hose? I hold my tongue, wash her scabby ass. Easy, easy, she whines. The old man clutches the other man in pretend-chains, begging. She says the same thing every time: came to New York, job at the candle factory, lost her husband, had a child, lost the child. The stage goes dark. Music starts. I feel my head drooping. There’s music on the subway, people singing and begging. Velvet jabs me. A girl stands in the spotlight, holding a doll and crying out, trying to sound unhappy, but she obviously has no idea what it is. People, singing and crying in rags, crawl from behind the black curtains. The subway beggars tell their stories, play guitars; one man has cats riding his shoulders. They do tricks, their faces smart like people…wait, that’s Ginger’s face, she’s on the floor, crawling, making a face that is — well, that is funny, worth coming to see. Now she’s holding up play money, they’re all giving play money to the girl with the doll, but she won’t take it, doesn’t see it. She screams, “Help, help!” but doesn’t take the money — what in hell is this thing about? In the subway I saw a man with no legs stuck in the door. Somebody took him here to beg and now he’s stuck in the door, how did he get there? I try to turn around and help him but it’s crowded; they push me in. I look again and he’s not there. The stage goes dark again. Velvet and Dante press near me. A lot of people do steal from the old ladies. But I don’t. Not unless they leave it right out on the table. That’s just stupid. The light goes out; the subway goes into the tunnel. I speed along on my belly. Above me, they carry crosses and dollar signs. Above me there are songs of love; the ugly woman is transformed by love. I speed on my belly down the side of the road. Leave it on the table, that’s not even stealing. That’s— Suddenly I am lifted up. My love is here, our hands are about to touch — that’s not even — but I don’t remember who he is.

“Mami, you snore!” Dante pokes and I sit up among strangers. The old man is singing alone in his pajamas. As he sings, he turns the crank on a little music box; his voice is beautiful and broken. Three young girls in white gowns turn with the music like they are inside the box; they face each other, turn away, face each other, step away.

I looked at Velvet, shining with her eyes, picking at her nose. My poor daughter. My poor worthless girl.

I peeked out once between the curtains to see how she was enjoying the play. It was during the scene where Scrooge sings about the past love he had forgotten, and three girls mime the ideal figures in a music box; Mrs. Vargas’s face was upturned and enchanted. The nurse couldn’t really sing, but that only made it sweeter, and she felt it, I could tell.

When I’d asked Yandy how it was to talk to her, he’d shrugged and said, “She didn’t seem all there. Like maybe not too bright.” But her face when I looked was bright, bright, soft, and alive.

When we got home, it was past ten and they wanted to go to bed. They all slept together, so we gave them our bedroom. The upstairs thermostat was in that room and when I went in to turn it down for the night they were already asleep: the woman holding the boy to her breasts, he embracing her fiercely; Velvet with her back to them, rolled as far away to the other side of the bed as she could go. I thought, That says it all.

I went to tell it to Ginger, but she was already in bed with the light out. When I lay down with her, I could feel her rigidity even before I touched her; she was inaccessible, locked. Like I did not exist. And not for the first time. “What is it?” I asked.

She said, “Human love is the vilest thing in the world.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I just said it.”

“Why?”

“Because she loves them. I can tell she loves them. But when they were getting into their nightclothes, she made Velvet come stand out in the hall in her gown and she talked at me. And Velvet translated. She said, ‘My mom wants you to look and see how ugly I am.’ ” Ginger breathed hard and slow, like she was pushing with all her might against something that would not give.