The Mare

Ginger

When I came down in the morning, Velvet’s mother was there, already dressed. Her face was so clear and calm; her cruel words to Velvet evaporated in her clear gaze. Paul was in his pajamas, making coffee. He handed her a cup and she said to us, “Pretty. You house is pretty.” She said it earnestly, like she’d asked somebody the words and then rehearsed them. I thought, Velvet, and said, “Thank you.” Then we were all quiet, like we’d reached some place of strange and yet natural peace, where we could for a moment be more real than our real lives allowed. Paul made us scrambled eggs with herbs. She ate and looked out the window at grass wet from just-melted frost. I thought: Eye of the storm.

Later she took a shower with her son. They were in there a long time. Velvet looked at me and said, “That’s not normal, is it?” I said, “Not for me, but…” The girl watched my face. She said, “Can I show them the horses?”