The Mare

Paul

I thought Ginger would know, would sense it when I got back. I flew into Manhattan and took the train in a daze of Polly, hip-deep in the feeling of her, the way she never stopped looking me in the eyes.

But then there was Ginger at the station and the meadow just outside; the cows as we drove by, tearing hay from the broken feed cart, working their jaws. And there too was Polly; my wanting to turn her over to see her that way, but thinking it might be just the one time, and not being able to give up the look in her eyes. The feeling was so intense, I thought Ginger would read my mind, thought she would say something.

And she did. She said, “Velvet told me her mother beat her. She said she knocked her down and kicked her.”

“I’m not surprised.” I was ashamed at the lack of feeling in my voice. But I had no room for more feeling. “Did you call social services?”

“No. She doesn’t want me to.”

“Then why is she telling you?”

“I don’t know.”

I said, “Ginger” and thought, Polly.

“I think it’s because she wants me to invite her to come stay with us.”

“That’s out of the question and you know it. She knows it.”

“If it wasn’t for you, I’m not sure it would be out of the question. We don’t know what her mother thinks.”

“Did you say that to her?”

“No,” she said. “I didn’t.”

“You know, we did this because we were thinking about adopting a child. We can do it. We can adopt a child who can really be ours.”

“I don’t want a child. I want her.”

“You can’t have her.”

“If I can’t have her completely, I’ll have what I can.”

It was what Polly said to me. I know I can’t have you completely, but—

“Is this a Democrat county or Republican?”

“Republican. Dutchess County’s voted Republican for the last thirty years. Why?”

She smiled and told me.

I wanted to say, Please. You know what you’re like. You gravitate toward pain. If you want to get hurt, use a grown-up, not a little girl. But it wasn’t fair, and anyway, how could I talk that way now?