The Mare (42 page)

When we got there the parking lot
was
busy, with trailers and cars and horses being groomed and more people coming. When she came out of the trailer, Fiery Girl tossed her head and stepped quick, one foot to the other; her veins were standing out of her silky skin and I was afraid she'd spook. But when I put my hands on her I felt right away that it was something else bubbling up in her, something I didn't know yet.

I wanted to groom her and tack her myself, but Pat said to let Gare do that, we were gonna walk the course. Which was also busy—there were like ten other girls walking it and also their trainers, and I could hear little bits of their talking and it seemed like their thinking too. A couple of them talked loud about somebody's horse being too short-strided or said shit like “Good luck on
that
one,” like for me to hear—it was just annoying, and made it hard to count the steps and listen to Pat, even if she was talking like drilling words into my head.

“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.

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.