The Mare

Silvia

Painted people came out onstage; Ginger led little girls around making faces, singing, like weird prayer cards come to life. A little one forgot to sing, just looked at us, smiling — sweet. The old lady I dropped on the floor has whole walls covered with prayer cards, pictures of grandkids, crayon drawings, and presidents, yellowing away or bright as Easter. St. Clare with full ruby lips, St. Lucy with her eyes on a plate, a snowman drawn in orange, a boy, a dog. I close my eyes and disappear in the wall of pictures. “Mami!” Velvet jabs me, and I jab back. Boring; an old man is on the stage eating from a bowl. The pretend clock is striking. This lady keeps her dishes in the oven and her refrigerator full of disgusting dry cakes like they sell from the food truck at work. I scold Velvet and pinch her. The old man looks up; someone is moaning, rattling around. I pinch myself, wake up. The old man shouts, Who’s there? The old lady thinks the neighbor boys are coming to steal her panty hose, but she’s got her purse open on the table. She wants to know, What kind of person would take your panty hose? I hold my tongue, wash her scabby ass. Easy, easy, she whines. The old man clutches the other man in pretend-chains, begging. She says the same thing every time: came to New York, job at the candle factory, lost her husband, had a child, lost the child. The stage goes dark. Music starts. I feel my head drooping. There’s music on the subway, people singing and begging. Velvet jabs me. A girl stands in the spotlight, holding a doll and crying out, trying to sound unhappy, but she obviously has no idea what it is. People, singing and crying in rags, crawl from behind the black curtains. The subway beggars tell their stories, play guitars; one man has cats riding his shoulders. They do tricks, their faces smart like people…wait, that’s Ginger’s face, she’s on the floor, crawling, making a face that is — well, that is funny, worth coming to see. Now she’s holding up play money, they’re all giving play money to the girl with the doll, but she won’t take it, doesn’t see it. She screams, “Help, help!” but doesn’t take the money — what in hell is this thing about? In the subway I saw a man with no legs stuck in the door. Somebody took him here to beg and now he’s stuck in the door, how did he get there? I try to turn around and help him but it’s crowded; they push me in. I look again and he’s not there. The stage goes dark again. Velvet and Dante press near me. A lot of people do steal from the old ladies. But I don’t. Not unless they leave it right out on the table. That’s just stupid. The light goes out; the subway goes into the tunnel. I speed along on my belly. Above me, they carry crosses and dollar signs. Above me there are songs of love; the ugly woman is transformed by love. I speed on my belly down the side of the road. Leave it on the table, that’s not even stealing. That’s— Suddenly I am lifted up. My love is here, our hands are about to touch — that’s not even — but I don’t remember who he is.

“Mami, you snore!” Dante pokes and I sit up among strangers. The old man is singing alone in his pajamas. As he sings, he turns the crank on a little music box; his voice is beautiful and broken. Three young girls in white gowns turn with the music like they are inside the box; they face each other, turn away, face each other, step away.

I looked at Velvet, shining with her eyes, picking at her nose. My poor daughter. My poor worthless girl.