The Mare

Velvet

On the day after the party, Ginger and Paul took me to the county fair. It was so hot the air was fat and you could smell everything, not just the people and the food but the greasy machines that made the rides go. Paul’s forehead looked like one thick wrinkle melting into the other and Ginger was sweating herself practically invisible. People were still eating warm food and ice cream that dripped down them, and throwing balls or shooting plastic guns to win toys. There was this one guy shooting at worn-out green balloons; I even remember his hot eyes and purple pimples and his shirt wet under his arms, the way he glared through his sweat and shot like he was in hell and had to do it forever. We were there to see girls racing horses around barrels and boys on bulls, but I just kept thinking about Paul standing with that red-haired woman and then they went down a hall and I didn’t see them no more.

People were waiting for the barrel race on bleachers, eating and talking while music played like teeth biting at the air. Paul and Ginger sat like they were drawn in pencil; the other people on the bleachers ate and yelled and moved like they were drawn with big pens and colored in. The night before, when we got home, I expected to hear fighting — I even listened for it. But there was nothin’. I didn’t get it; Ginger had to see him with her. Then a fat-assed silky voice came on the loudspeaker to make us stand up and say the Pledge of Allegiance and sing that song nobody knows and then shit happened: The bulls in deep pens banged around and this boy I’m sure was Mexican straddled the wall and looked up at the crowd like he wanted somebody to look back at him. Music came on, that song with stamping feet: “We Will Rock You.” People shouted and a bull ran out with a boy on it, one arm holding, the other waving, the bull’s head down, its legs mad-dancing its back up into a fist that right away punched the boy on the ground, running for the fence as soon as he hit, the bull chasing, but not really, it was like they were friends, clowns came out and pretended to bother the bull, and the bull pretended to care. The fat-ass speaker voice said these brave riders could take a cash prize back to their families in Mexico or Texas, but when the Mexican boy came playing sharp-dressed man, and he stayed on longer than anybody, they said he couldn’t win the prize even though he didn’t even get punched off, he jumped off and grabbed the fence.

“That’s why,” said Paul. “I think that’s why. He took advantage of the fence.”

If I could see it happening between him and Redhead, probably everybody saw it. Maybe that’s why those women didn’t respect Ginger. The ones that talked to us first.

Girls came out in flowered blouses and cowboy hats, on horses with huge muscles. I saw that one of them was Beth. I remembered how when I first saw her, I thought she had a chin like a pit bull’s — her chin had basically taken over, and on her horse she was like the biggest bitch in the world. Woman-music came on and she paraded in a circle with the others while Ass-Voice said how pretty they were. That body awareness translates into every aspect—

And Ginger had to know — she had to — but instead of being mad at Paul, she was mad at the women that talked to us, the nice ones. On the way home from the party, she was telling Paul what a bitch the dancer lady was, and then he was annoyed at her.

Beth and her horse ran around barrels nearly sideways and sprayed dirt, the horse’s eyes cold-hard and its legs crazy, and I was glad when her leg flew out and smacked the barrel and then her hat fell off.

Ginger said, “Do you think you’d like to do that?” I said, “No,” and she said, “Why not?” I said, “I just don’t.” And then I said, “Remember that lady that said I could come to the other barn? Could I do that?”

Ginger didn’t answer, but Paul did. He said, “I think that’s a good idea. It would be interesting to see what another barn is like.”

I looked at Ginger to see if she heard that like I did — but then everybody went “Wahhhh!” and I saw this bull was going to kill a boy for real. He was running for his life while his goofy music played Bored! Born! Bored! and he barely got over the fence—Born to be alive! — before the bull slammed its horns into the wall just under the boy’s butt, then went after the clowns. I said, “Damn!” and Ginger and Paul both smiled at me. The bull got tired and decided to go back into the pit.

Then out of nowhere, I heard Shawn’s voice, like really heard it, like in my ear, saying, Lil’ Orphan Annie. Which did make some sense because I felt alone.