The Mare (43 page)

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!”

“Mami, I'm sorry. I wanted you to be proud!”

“Ay, mi niña. Pride is for fools and rich people.” She stopped crying when she said that; she wiped her eyes and spoke calmly. “Because of your pride, you will never come here again.”

“All right, Mami,” I whispered. “Yes.”

Then there were no words, just our arms and our chests, beating and breathing into each other. The trees blew in the wind above us. My mami rocked me and said deep and rough: “Your ribbon. Your horse.” And I knew: She was proud.

Dante came and wrapped his arms around us.

Pat went to walk the horse around. I stood alone as the other riders led their horses—and their parents and trainers—back toward the barn and the parking lot beyond it. I saw Paul coming toward me, and I went to meet him. He said he'd gotten into a conversation with another trainer, that she was going on about how she'd never seen a horse pick up its performance so radically before, that the animal rode like it “was possessed” on that final course. He asked where Velvet and her family were, he said that Becca and Edie wanted to take a picture of us all together, with Velvet and her family too. I felt numb. In the years I had been married, there was no “family photo” with me in it.

“Paul,” I said. “I don't think they'll want to.”

“Why not?” His face darkened. “She didn't give permission, did she?”

“I honestly don't know.”

He didn't say anything; he just put his hand on my shoulder.

And that's when they came back. Mrs. Vargas with her arm around Velvet, and Dante looking quiet and emotional even at a distance. Silvia's eyes fell on me and in them I saw peace with a triumph that sharpened as she came closer. All right, I thought; it's all right. And it was. She embraced me and said something that Velvet did not have to translate: “Gracias.”

Then we went to have our picture taken with Becca and Edie—the first time I had ever been in a picture with them. Silvia initially said no, that she was too tired and looked terrible. But she was finally part of it too, and she smiled
big.
It was incredible.

She told me that Ginger didn't know and I believed her—I could see it in the way the woman greeted me when she first saw me, happy and ignorant, even when she should've been able to see my face and hear my voice. My daughter was safe and I had her back and they would find out soon enough. My body was tired, but my mind and heart were floating up in the sky. It was fine with me to eat and have my picture taken with Ginger's family. To walk through the barn and see the horses. To have my picture taken with Velvet's horse. It was even a little fun.

The pictures they took that day showed a lot. Me and Ginger and Paul and my mom and Dante, then me and Ginger and Edie and Edie's mom, who's got Ginger's head, basically, in a
lock.
Me and Pat and Gare and Fiery Girl. Me and my mom and Fiery Girl. Everybody with my horse, looking at the camera with her head up and sideways, showing her kind but watching eye. Everybody smiling, even Ginger smiling all the way, Dante smiling like Chester Cheetah, and my mom smiling with her eyes closed in like three pictures, the sky very blue behind her, and random people turning to look—even they're smiling, except for the old woman carrying the empty ribbon-bucket someplace out of the picture.

The pictures also
don't
show a lot. They don't show Jeanne from Spindletop telling me I could come train there as a “work-study” and me smiling even though I knew I would never do it. They don't show the sea horse in my shirt pocket, broken into dust except for its nose bone. They don't show Dante looking out the back window laughing at Beverly and Pat in the parking lot, yelling at each other while we drove away…or me walking on the block where I met Dominic forever ago, my ribbon with me so if I saw him I could show it to him. How I saw him but he was with Brianna and she was getting a bump. Gaby told me I was young, and I would meet somebody better for me. But my heart hurt, hurt for real, so much it woke me up at night.

When Ginger sent us the competition pictures, my mom framed one and put it on her dresser. The others she gave to me. But after I saw Dominic and Brianna like that, those pictures seemed far away, like something that's only real for kids. Like butterflies bursting out from a shampoo bottle or a cereal box in a commercial. The time I spent with Pat and the things we talked about—it was real. Same with Ginger. Except it can't exist anywhere but, like, in the car when we drove at night, listening to music, Ginger singing in her pinchy voice.

But sometimes when I wake up hurting I think: Fiery Girl. The feel of her body, her neck and the butterfly place between her leg and hoof. That was real. How I took her out at night and she reared up on me and I stayed on her until I
found
her. How she came back to me when I felt worthless and she nosed on my hair. How she wouldn't let me hug her in the field but I loved her anyway. And mostly how I finally had the leg thing with her, in the last part of the competition,
in front of people.
Where my legs touched her sides and it was the best place in the world and we were in it together. Like with Chloe only more strong and deep, too deep to show in pictures or to talk about with Ginger or even Pat. Or anybody except maybe Dominic, and I can't talk to him, maybe ever. Instead I hold on to the leg feeling, and I rub it on my heart like medicine. And it's real then, real in my room, real everywhere. I sit up and look across the street at Cookie's wall with the horseshoe hidden inside it. I don't know when my mom will let me go see Fiery Girl again. But I know I will. Even if I don't, she'll always be with me. But I don't think about that. Because I know I will, even if I have to wait and take the train to see her when I'm eighteen and everything is different. Maybe I'll have my own baby then, or maybe I'll be in college, that would make Ginger glad. But whatever is happening, I know I will see my mare again.

I would like to acknowledge and thank the following people and organizations for their moral and practical help in the writing of this book:

Sarah Fink, Celina Martinez, Karen Murphy, Rashena Wilson, Joanne Beard, Michael Zilkha, Emma Sweeney, Jean Strouse, Jennifer Sears, T. Kira Madden, Marguerite and Andres San Millan, Peter Trachtenburg, Rima Liscum, Angie Cruz, Ralph Sassone, Peter Franklin, Rene Falcon, Nancy and Catherine Locke of Hyde-Locke Stables, Renee Petruzzelli of Horse Heaven, The Southlands Foundation, The Jentel Foundation, and Ragdale.

Most especially I would like to thank Denisse De La Cruz and equestrienne Sarah Willeman: Your patient, generous help was invaluable.

I would also particularly like to thank David Weiss and Melanie Conroy-Goldman of Hobart and William-Smith Colleges for giving me more time than allotted at the Trias House, essentially providing me with a writing retreat for four months.

Finally, I am grateful to the wonderful children I met through the Fresh Air Fund. This book is not about those children, but it would never have been written if they had not been in my life.