Mary Gaitskill - The Mare

She talked about the horses. She didn’t say much in words — she liked them because they were nice — but her voice said so much else. I told her my sister had loved horses, but that I was afraid of them. She asked why I was afraid. I said I didn’t know. She asked if she could meet my sister. I told her my sister was dead. She said, “Oh,” and we walked quietly for a while. Then she told me her grandfather was dead. I felt my mother sigh through me.

We were almost home when she asked me why I didn’t have kids. I told her it was because I was an artist. I told her that if I’d had kids I didn’t think I could do art. I thought art was what I did best, and I should try to do it even if I never made any money.

She was quiet a long time after I said this. I felt her puzzlement and then her acceptance.

That night I read to her again— we read to her. Paul sat on the bed with me, and we passed the book, reading different characters: Paul the troll, me the witch. Her eyes were golden and shining, like she was in a scene from something on TV, which is how I felt too, like this was the good thing I had always wanted and never quite got.

Which is strange because I did get that. Our mother read to us when we were little.

I couldn’t have another lesson right away because Pat didn’t have room in her book. But I came to visit the horses the next day. I saw those other girls in the barn, but I didn’t talk to them and at first they didn’t talk to me. I watched the quiet one, the one with the long brown hair; I saw she didn’t talk to the purple-hair boy-face or the one with the glasses either. She knew I was watching her though. I could tell by the way she moved. It seemed like she liked it that I watched, and that made me think she was a jackass, like she thought she was somebody to watch.

Still, I did watch: the way she led the horses in and out, how she brushed them, the way they moved with her and stood still for her. When she cleaned the stalls, she used the pitchfork like she was important, like she was saying, If you want to be around horses, you’ve got to clean a lot of horse shit. And when she went to this paper bag where the horse cookies were kept, it was like she was showing me, Here’s where the cookies are. Finally I said, “My name is Velvet.” And she put out her hand and said, “I’m Beth.” She nodded down the barn at the purple-haired girl. “That’s Gare Ann. She’s kind of dumb, in case you didn’t notice.”

Pat came in and out, pushing her wheelbarrow, talking and joking. Cats walked around. There was this boy too. I don’t know what he was doing; I think he was a little bit retarded. Even though it was Gare that Pat did the “brain monster” to: She put her hand on Gare’s head and said, “I’m starvin’ to death!” Gare ducked and turned red, and Pat wiggled her hand and went, “I’m the brain monster! I’m hungry. Where’s some brains?”

I didn’t care; I just paid attention to the horses. Graylie was like a old gangster with a nice personality. Diamond Chip Jim was the handsome one. Officer Murphy was like a little kid who likes dumb jokes. Little Tina knew she was beautiful. Rocki was sad, like he was when I first saw him. I asked Pat why he was sad. And she said, “Because his owner doesn’t like him. Because she wants him to be perfect and nobody’s perfect.”

“I like him,” I said.

“And he knows it,” said Pat.

I smiled and I thought, So does she. Fugly Girl — so-called. I didn’t go up to her when the other people were around. But I could hear her making that biting-grunt sound and sometimes kicking, and when I walked past, she got quiet. I could feel her watching me, and sometimes I would watch her back, quickly.

Late in the afternoon, when the girls were gone and Pat was out giving a lesson, I gave her a cookie. She ran up for it — she grabbed it so hard she broke it — so I gave her another one and she grabbed it again, then snapped her teeth at me and banged her hoof on the door like she was mad at me. The kind-of retarded boy put his head around the corner and stared at me. I moved away. I thought, Fuck that horse, no wonder they call her Fugly.

But later, after dinner, I walked over again, when nobody was there. I came to her stall with some cut-up apple and a carrot. All the horses made their talking noises when I walked in. I stopped to say hello to Reesa, and I gave her a piece of apple first. Then I went to Fugly Girl. She came up really fast with her ears laid back, like she was going to snap her teeth again. But she didn’t. She stopped and looked at me, kind of bobbing her head. Then she came up to the bars and worked her nose. She turned her head to one side and then the other. Her brown eye thought; her white eye got soft. I gave her a piece of apple and she ate it. I didn’t try to pet her, I just fed her. Then I stood there with her for a while, leaning against the stall. She bit the wood, but peacefully, and for some reason it reminded me of Cookie talking, saying I was fine.

I was alone in the house when the agency returned our message. They had a Spanish-speaker to do a conference call with us and Velvet’s mother. It was pure luck that Paul wasn’t there; he would never have understood what happened.

The translator was a Latina with a young, charming voice. I said, “Tell her I’m happy she called, that she has a wonderful daughter. I love having her here.” But the mother started talking — nearly yelling — before the girl could get the nice words out. I thought, She sounds like she wants to kill me. “She says Velvet can’t ride horses,” said the young woman finally. “It’s too dangerous.”

My heart pounded. I made my voice as nice as I could. I said, “Tell her it’s not horses she’s riding. They’re ponies, little ponies, very safe.” I flushed as I heard the lie translated. The silence that followed was probing and shrewd. Then came the furious reply and I thought, She knows.

But she didn’t. When we got off the phone, everything was okay. I thought, How could anything be okay if she sounds that mad? The translator said, “I told her that we make sure our host families are very good people, that we know who you are and that life there is very safe. That you wouldn’t let Velvet do something that wasn’t safe.”

I thought, She lied to the mother too. They don’t know who we are. Somebody only came out here and talked to us for five minutes before they signed us up. Still, I felt justified. I felt it especially when Velvet wanted to go to the barn again that night and give the horses cut-up apples. I felt it when she came back from her second lesson, face glowing. I thought, I will tell her mother eventually. Next week, maybe. I will tell her that Velvet has gotten so good so fast, they want to put her on a bigger horse and she will say yes. And then there will be time for a few more lessons before she goes back. And the agency will be on my side.

The third day I went to the barn, somebody new came. She was old and red-skinned like Pat, but her hair was shiny brown and cut neat. She was short and she would’ve been fat except her body was square and hard instead of soft and round. She wore her pants tucked into tall black boots, and when she walked she swung her arms. She looked like she could hit — like she liked to hit — but at the same time like she would only do it if there was a reason. She had a shirt on that said “Beware the Mare.” She was cool.

While I was watching her, Beth came over and whispered, “That’s Beverly. She’s the trainer.” She stood next to me and talked without looking at me. “She used to work at this fancy barn called Steeplechase where she trained horses so the rich girls there could jump ’em and look good at shows even if they don’t really know anything.”