The Mare

Silvia

The clothes that woman bought my daughter! They were nice, but too nice, like the woman was saying to me, What’s wrong with you, you can’t even dress your child right? I know that’s not what it was supposed to be, but that was my first feeling and my first feeling is always right; whenever I’ve gotten into trouble, it’s been because I didn’t follow my first feeling. Besides, when Velvet put them on, she just looked conceited, a bitch royale, and she looks like that anyway. Maybe where Ginger lives girls can go around looking like that, but here you’re gonna get hurt and I knew it. But everybody keeps telling me I’m too hard, I yell, I don’t understand it here — okay, fine. I can see she hates the clothes I can get for her, she always wants better and more — okay, fine. Let her have it. Let her see. And she did see; she never wore those things again. But how stupid was this Ginger that she didn’t even talk to me? How disrespectful, did she think she was dressing a doll? I knew she was silly, but I believed her to be good, or good enough. Was she? There was something strange in her eye, es rara — but it never stayed long enough for me to know what it was. Mostly she looked immature, more girl than woman — a sad girl trying to be happy. Una sufrida — what else could she be, married but not one child? I could see the sadness and emptiness in her eyes and I’d feel her, that surely she’s been through some real hell. Then she’d stare at me, and I’d know she was also something else. But what? She acted so big, walking up to me like she knew my daughter better than I did. But then the next second she’d seem so lost. Who was she? Why was she being so nice?

Then she sent me fifty dollars, and whatever she was, I had to take it. Mr. Diaz was moving out and I didn’t know what I was going to do.