Mary Gaitskill - The Mare

Lexy was in the arena riding and I was last in a line of girls, right after this girl Amber, and my mare was moving her ass around like a volcano was under it, except not like bucking, more like she’d caught some kind of feeling going over those jumps and she wanted to go. The girls lined up in front of me were too close for me to turn her; I had to sit her and quiet her. Then that voice called her “fugly” and bad feeling took my heart, like when the branches flew past and I fell off her all alone, up into the sky and then slam on the ground, darkness closing in. Her running away from me. Dominic walking away from me. Everything far away. You are all alone.

I saw her and I didn’t know her. My daughter isn’t beautiful. She isn’t strong. Dante said, “There she is!” but instead of my daughter — who lies and disobeys, who sneaks out to see boys, who gets beat by girls — I saw a beautiful girl riding like a saint with a sword. Flags were flying. Strangers told me to be proud. They were coming to sit with paper plates of food in their hands. I looked again; yes, it was her, riding like a saint. My face burned; my heart swelled. I turned to Ginger and said, “If anything happens to her, I am going to kill you.”

Lexy came riding out of the arena smiling because she knew she was great and people clapped for her. She looked past me like I wasn’t there. Amber rode in, people cheering for her. I knew — I was alone. I was alone with my horse in a place no one but us could ever be. Like it was when she came back to me and lipped my hair and let me lead her to the fence. When I mounted her bare back and the sky touched me. Yes, I was alone with her in the hurricane, and it was beautiful. It didn’t even matter when they called her “fugly” again; Pat said, “Go,” and I rode her into the storm.

Velvet entered the arena at a quick walk that almost immediately turned into a focused, almost delirious trot. Her mother stood and cried out, her voice high and wrenching: “Velvet! Velveteen!” Her voice transfixed us, all of us; as if commanded, Ginger, Dante, and I rose to our feet. “Velvet!” Ginger shouted. “Velvet!” I answered. “Go, Velvet!” As if she could hear us, the girl put on speed, circling the arena with streamlined, almost scary speed. Her mother covered her mouth and grabbed Dante’s shoulder. Then the horse went for the jumps like it was on fire, and the bleachers exploded. I heard Edie, then Kayla and Robin and Jewel’s squeaky voice and even Becca shouting for her, with Silvia shouting in Spanish, first terrified and supplicating, then in fierce exhortation — Vamos, Velveteen, vamos, tu puedes! — her eyes blazing, moving her knees and fists almost like she was running, shouting with growing confidence and finally victory. Because her child was winning; she knew even before they called it from the pavilion: Velvet had won the most points in Jumping. I wanted to hug Silvia, but this small woman suddenly glowed with something you should not touch with familiarity. So I did not, and then she and Dante were up and going toward their child/sister, who had dismounted and was being congratulated by somebody with purple hair. With Ginger of course right behind them.

We walked through the milling horses and riders to her, our throats still vibrant with shouting. Horses blocked us from her view, then parted; Velvet stood at the back entrance to the arena with Pat, holding her horse and smiling triumphantly at the girl with purple hair. People blocked us, then parted; she saw Dante, and her smiling lips fell open, then stiffened. She saw her mother and her stiff lips quivered, then her chin. The quivering rose into her eyes, but it did not look weak; her emotion was triumph with its wings open, showing its heart. I felt a second of bitterness that Silvia must be the one to hold this heart, but then — she didn’t. She snapped at her daughter, two short lines, fast and cutting. Velvet’s soft eyes went shocked and hard; her triumph sank away. I said, “Velvet!” She didn’t react. She handed her reins to Pat and, with a stabbing look at her mother, turned and ran down a dirt path that curved behind a broken barn.

“Oh boy,” said Pat.

Silvia’s shoulders rose and fell with her heavy breath. I came beside her meaning to touch her, but I saw her rigid face and could not.

“Anybody speak Spanish?” said Pat.

“Yes,” whispered Dante.

But his mother grabbed his hand and quick-marched him after Velvet. I started to follow, but Pat stopped me. “Let them work it out,” she said. She looked down the path at their walking figures, then away. I followed her gaze; a blond girl was stamping her foot and yelling at a dark-haired woman who was trying to calm her.

“Well, at least she won,” I said.

“She did. Third place, then first. Blue ribbon.”

The blond girl threw her helmet on the ground and walked away. I looked down the path where Velvet had disappeared. I couldn’t see Silvia or Dante.

“I just hope it really was her mom that signed that permission form,” said Pat. “They’ll take away her ribbon if she didn’t.”

“So you won. That’s great, Miss Big Shot!”

Those were her words to me. I came off Fiery Girl with my body hammering, Pat and Gare hugging me, my legs trembling and people smiling — except Lexy, who was having a fit, ha-ha — and there was my mother with her face like a wall I could throw myself against forever.

“Miss Big Shot!”

I wanted smart words, English words that she wouldn’t understand: Yes, I am a big shot and yes, I won, even with your ugly voice in my head. Then in Spanish: Oh, gracias por venir. But I had no words, and I ran knowing nothing, wanting nothing but air between me and her. I wished I was on Fiery Girl and could ride away like we did that time when everything was terrible and strange and no one was there but my mare. Now no one was there but my mom and she was THERE. I came to thick trees and thorny bushes; I tried to find a way in. I heard them coming, then Dante said, “There she is!”

“Get away from me!” I said, not turning around. “Go away!”

“You lied.” Her voice was crooked and breaking, like a witch, like the time she turned into a witch. “You disobeyed me, you—”

“I don’t care!” I shouted at the trees and thorns. “I don’t want you. I don’t want to hear you! I want my horse! I want my ribbon!” I waited for her to curse me, but instead I heard Dante going, “We came all this way for you and you—”

“Came all the way to tell me I’m stupid and ugly in front of people!”

“I came to stop you from being hurt, you stupid girl, I wanted— I came— I came—”

She didn’t finish. I heard her hard breath. I wanted to turn around, but I didn’t.

“We spent money!” yelled Dante. “We paid for the train!”

“Turn around!” yelled my mom. “Turn around!”

And Dante said in English: “She cheered for you to win.”

I turned around. I saw her with her high-heeled sandal to hit me. I saw her face like something crushed but still alive in its eyes. I reached out my hand to her — then she was on me, hitting me wild, shouting, “How dare you treat me this way?” Her blows were so weak, I didn’t even lift my arms. She went again, “How dare you?” but crying, not yelling, and the shoe flew from her hand and she raised her fist and I wished she would hit. But she just stood there, fist up, face twisted and crying.

“Mami?” I said. “Mami?” And then her arms were around me and she felt like her, strong and angry, and I didn’t try to stop my tears. “Little mama,” she said. “Sweetheart. You are so stupid and cruel,” and she stroked my hair. “You could’ve died, you can never do this again!”