Mary Gaitskill - The Mare

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.

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.”

Joan said something about her daughter hoping to win first place this year. There was nervous quiet.

“Where’s Paul?” I said.

“He took a call,” said Kayla. “He went over there.”

She pointed toward the barn. I said, “Excuse me,” and walked off without smiling, almost running into him coming around a corner.

“Ginger,” he said. “They’re on their way. They took a taxi from Rhinecliff.”

Joy spread over my face; Paul mirrored it. “How?” I said. “Why?”

“I don’t know, they got off at Rhinecliff for some reason and then their phone went dead. They took a taxi to Pat’s barn—”

“Oh!”

“But the driver got our house phone from information and got my cell from that, and I told him how to get here.”

He put his hands on my shoulders, and I would’ve embraced him if I hadn’t caught sight of Becca looking at us as she and the others found seats on the bleachers. We joined them right as the woman in the pavilion spoke a daisy-chain of girl-names finishing with “and Velveteen Vargas from Brooklyn, New York, riding Fugly Girl!”

Pat said to collect myself and not to worry, this was just the practice time, just sit up straight and aim the mare like a bullet. I tried. I rode into the ring, aiming myself, except I didn’t know at what. And I could still feel that something was bothering the horse; her ears were back in that bother way. Pat was at the fence, giving me instructions I could only half hear: “Right heel down, eyes up, keep breathing, find your space!” But all of a sudden I didn’t care about winning. I rode around the arena while the other girls took the jumps, Lexy and these others I didn’t know. I looked at the bleachers, trying to find Ginger or Paul. They weren’t there. Only strangers were there. You are all alone with those people. Trust me. Fiery Girl bucked up under me so small it was more like bumping, I pulled her head up and scrunched the reins, turning her head good. If you ride in that race don’t bother to come home, because there won’t be a home here for you anymore. “Get her out in front!” yelled Pat. “Don’t worry about where her head is!” Fiery Girl went like a question mark under me, and I answered her with my legs. I shut out my mom’s voice, put my legs on the mare, and went for the jumps. She hit the first one with her hoof, and she knocked a rail off the second one. That’s when I heard them say our names, I heard “Velveteen Vargas and Fugly Girl on deck!” And I knew it was time to go for real.

I went to meet them in the lot so I could pay the driver; there was something indescribably moving and dignified in the taxi’s slow approach up the winding dirt road. “I’m so glad you made it!” I said. “She’s just about to do her first event, but she’ll go again!”

Dante said hi and looked down. I put out my hand to Mrs. Vargas, but she did not take it. I could not read her face. She was looking off to the side of me with an expression that would’ve been bewildered except that it was also stiff with purpose, almost robotic. She nodded curtly at me and instead of following me, practically led me back to the bleachers.

But the green meadow, the sky, the small-town banners flying on the wind — even from behind I could feel the softness and novelty of it interrupt her purpose. She looked at some resting horses as we passed the stable, then turned her head to look at the children riding in the arena, parents applauding for them. Dante cried, “There she is!” And Velvet, in the arena, rode right past the bleachers as we approached, her face transformed as it had been on the day I saw her ride. Mrs. Vargas’s face lit up in amazement, as before a religious icon come to life. Ginger turned to her and smiled with near-crazy radiance as she made room for us to sit.

“Who is that little black girl?” said a woman seated in front of us.

“They said she’s from Brooklyn.”

“Where’d she learn to ride like that in Brooklyn?”

The horse went into a spirited, near-chaotic trot.

And Silvia’s face went dark with anger. It made no sense. She went from joy to rage in seconds. Ginger said to her, “I can’t tell what’s happening, but I think she just did really well!” Then she registered that Mrs. Vargas looked like she was about to explode. The explosion was diffused, though, when one of the two women in front turned around, beamed, and asked, “Is that your daughter?” She apparently repeated herself in Spanish, because Mrs. Vargas rather sheepishly replied, “Sí.” The woman said something else, probably “You must be so proud,” then turned around. Whereupon Mrs. Vargas looked Ginger in the eye and said something that sounded like a curse. Even the women in front of us stiffly cringed; Ginger flinched, then subtly held her ground. It occurred to me that we were looking at a lawsuit.

“Dante,” I said, “could you translate what your mother just said?”

He seemed not to hear me.

“Dante,” I said, “could you—”

And, with a weirdly sly face, he averted his eyes and replied: “She says, ‘Black is beautiful, tan is grand, but the white man is the big boss man!’ ”

A couple of people turned to look at us reprovingly. I felt myself blush.

“Dante,” I said, “I don’t think your mother said that. It’s disgusting.”

He said it again, louder.