The Mare

Ginger

I got my translator to do a conference call to tell Mrs. Vargas how much I’d enjoyed Velvet’s time with us. At the end of the conversation, I asked if she’d ever consider moving the family here. If she could get work. There was a long silence and then she asked me, “How much does a carton of milk cost there?” I said I was sure things were more here, but that it could be worth it if she got a job that paid more. If she cleaned houses, she could make at least ten dollars an hour, maybe more. There was another long silence. I thought of the lawn party down the block, the lights, the smiling woman who glanced at us as we passed. I asked if she might want to come up for Christmas with Velvet and her little boy. She laughed. But she said, “Maybe.”

I hung up feeling good. Even though it was embarrassing that I didn’t know how much a carton of milk was.