Mary Gaitskill - The Mare

I held back and didn’t even look mad at her because she might say I couldn’t go, even though she said she was glad I was going because at least I wouldn’t be fighting or running down the street to flirt with gangbangers, except why was I wearing that top? Was I looking for boys up there too? And finally it came out of me: “You are crazy, why do you hate me so much? Why did you even birth me? Why don’t you call Ginger and ask if I ever even talk to a boy there?” I went into the bathroom with a sweatshirt and came back with it on and threw my good shirt on the couch, which made her yell at me to pick it up.

“Do you even know me?” I said. “I don’t care about boys. I go to ride. I’m the best one there, and if I would ride in the competition, I would win!”

My mom’s eyes went like prey bird eyes; no feeling, all sight. The TV noise went way up. “Why talk about that, stupid? You told me you didn’t want to do that.”

“You didn’t want me to so I didn’t because—” Because I felt broken.

“Because I don’t want to see you crippled doing something you can’t do! Now pick up that—”

“I could do it if you let me. Everybody else says I could win!” And then I realized I am not.

She did not go for her belt; she was in too big a hurry. She just took off her shoe and turned her arm into a belt.

Right before she came, I saw Becca with Edie at the store. That never happened before, not both of them together. It was pretty awkward; usually when we saw each other, we’d nod only if she couldn’t avoid it. If Edie hadn’t been there this time I don’t even think it would’ve been that polite. But she was there, in the checkout line, meaning Becca was trapped, her body automatically doing its big and important thing while her head looked away, like it was for some reason dawning on her what a gross bitch she’d been all her life. Part of me wanted to make nice; part of me wanted to insult her for real. Since I could do neither, I was prepared to stroll on by, but Edie popped out and said, “Hi! Is Velvet here?”

Was she furious at her mom? Or did she just not know what had happened? “Yeah,” I said. “She’s riding in a competition at Grace Meadow tomorrow.” I saw Becca’s head come up slightly at the mention of the place.

“Awesome! I was so sorry I missed the other one, this time I’ll come; when is it?”

“Tomorrow, starting noon. It would mean so much for her to see you.”

“Awww!”

The skinny old cashier (gentle faded eyes, big moles) looked up mid-bag, smiling at the affectionate sound. Becca loaded the belt.

“I even think her mom is coming.”

Edie did the awww again. Finally her mother turned to look at me, her expression unreadable. Her daughter said, “You should come too, Mom. It’ll be fun.”

She hit me with her shoe, panting so hard spit flew. I hit too, I cried and hit wild, just to keep her off, to keep her words out of me with knife words of my own.

“Why are you so proud? Why do you think you’re so special?”

“Because I don’t think I’m shit? Because I don’t want to think I’m shit? Ginger doesn’t think I’m shit, Pat doesn’t think it, only you, my own mother!”

“Ginger?” She laughed and instead of hitting me, she hit herself, both hands on her face, then me, and then herself again. “Maldita, malcriada! What did I do to make you like this? God help me, what do I need to do to stop you?”

“You’ve already stopped me, you don’t do anything but stop me!”

“Maybe when you’re crippled by that horse you’ll learn!”

Like a machine that cried tears, I closed my bag up. Crying machine tears, I dragged it down the hall. My mom shouted after me, “At least when you’re in a wheelchair, you’ll—”

But I was gone.

Awww! How do people make this simple noise into such a repulsive mix of real and false, the false mocking the real for the two seconds they rub together, throwing it into high relief that way?

Still, it affected me, the way Becca looked at me; she had never looked at me that way. And then the cashier, smiling to hear that someone’s mom was coming, that she was “even” coming, meaning that she usually wouldn’t, but that now, now —

“I don’t think she’s coming,” said Velvet.

“You don’t think ?” I asked.

“She said she might, but I don’t think so.”

“Why not?” asked Paul, glancing in the rearview.

“She has to work,” said Velvet.

I said, “On Sunday ?”

“That’s what she told me to tell you.” There was no smile/lie in her voice; she spoke as if a little stunned. “She said she’s sorry. She said she’ll call me if she can come.”

We got home and she went upstairs to settle in.

Paul said, “You know her mother could sue us if we do this without her say-so. Are you sure she gave permission?”

“She signed the form. She knew what it was for.”

He didn’t say anything.

We had sandwiches for lunch and then Velvet went to practice. I went upstairs and went into her room the way I usually do when she first comes. There was her open bag, her toiletries. There, on the dresser, was a torn, taped-up, wrinkled picture of a beautiful young boy in a costume, holding his arms out and smiling like a lover; there was a real almost completely dried-out sea horse and something I couldn’t identify until I picked it up and felt it: a piece of blue seashell. I held it and thought: Her mom has to come. She has to.

I went to call the translator.

Pat said we’d walk the course the day of the show, but she wanted me to see it the day before so I’d “have a basic visual.” So I was expecting something scary or at least a little big. But it was just a place like Spindletop called Grace Meadow. I wanted to say, This is it? It’s so small! But I didn’t want Pat to know I’d been someplace else. Especially when I saw how she was with the Grace Meadow people. Or even how she was walking from the car to the Grace Meadow office: nervous, in her eyes and hands. I never saw her nervous before. Outside the building, a Mexican guy pushed a wheelbarrow of shavings — he saw Pat and they said hi, they knew each other’s names, and I could tell he didn’t know what she was even doing there, especially with me. Then she went into the office and introduced me to this lady Grace, who had a face like a muscle and spooky eyes, like if I was a dog and she looked at me, I’d whine or I’d growl. She talked polite to Pat, and to me she said, “What a romantic name”—but she looked like she did know what we were doing there and that it was something little and funny.

When we walked out to the main arena, I couldn’t help it, I said, “I thought it would be bigger,” and Pat said, “Compared to what? This is a schooling show.” I didn’t say anything. Mexican guys were turning out beautiful horses with thick shiny coats; the horses were moving like they knew they were perfect and the men were their servants. I looked at them and felt like I did at EQUAL, that they were part of some giant thing that I didn’t know or want to know. I was thinking, It’s so small. Why bother?

Until we walked back to Pat’s truck and I saw Lexy getting out of her car with I guess her mom. She looked right at me and at Pat too, running her eyes up and down on us. “Hi,” she said, meaning, You’re here?

“Where you know that girl from?” asked Pat.

“Just around,” I answered.

Pat didn’t say anything. Neither did I. But I was thinking: Yeah. I’m here.