Mary Gaitskill - The Mare

“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.”

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.

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.”

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.