The Mare

Velvet

My mom said about Ginger once that she had a crazy eye and I always thought, No, she just looks sad a lot. But now her eyes shined like a animal in the dark and I didn’t know their expression.

I said to her, “You’re different.”

She was making me cucumbers with white vinegar, and when I said that she stopped and said, “How?”

“Your voice is different, everything is different. You say things like it’s in a book with quotes on it. Even to Paul.”

For a second she looked like herself, and I missed her. Then she went back to the salad. “Something happened,” she said. “But I can’t talk about it.”

“Why can’t you talk about it?”

“You’re too young. But don’t worry, it was nothing horrific. It’ll be okay.”

I went to see the horses and it was okay because it needed to be. I didn’t want to think about whatever was wrong with Ginger. I couldn’t stop thinking about Dominic, but for once I felt like, he says I’m from someplace else and he can’t be there — and he’s right. He can’t be here. Here is like coming back to my country, and not sneaking in like a illegal. Fiery Girl was back too; her stall had a sign on it, but instead of “Do Not Touch,” it had her name carved on it and inside it was cleaned. She was not wearing the cribbing strap even if she sometimes bit her stall, and when I came with the halter she put her head down like YES.

Pat took Graylie and we went out by the paddock. I saw Sugar and Nova running together, and all the others bucking, clowning, and talking loud at each other with their heads and backs and legs. Fiery Girl raised her head and called to them and somebody called back. She got turned out with the other horses because she learned how to be with Chloe and Nut; now she could go out with everybody but Totally Crushed and Diamond Chip — she still fought them. I could feel her shivering toward the other horses inside herself, but I pulled down on the lead and she lowered her head, sending softness and obedience to me. The air had new smells and sounds, and the horses said it with all the muscles of their backs and legs: Spring, spring, spring!

We mounted and went out down the path where I’d run with her bareback; my legs remembered and it felt like she did too, like under me she bunched and sighed. I remembered how the orchard was all rotting fruit flying past my face; now the trees were getting buds, and there was a feeling of something about to happen in the ground and even the air. The path was first big enough for the horses to walk side by side, but Fiery Girl walked faster than Graylie and when the path narrowed, we led the way. We had to stay on the path because of holes where the horses could break their ankles, or maybe snakes.

When the path got wide again Pat said, “We’ve missed you the last few weeks.”

I said, “Me too.”

“You know you have to keep up your practice if you want to compete.”

I said, “I know. I’m sorry.” I could feel her expecting me to say more. But I couldn’t tell her now. Now didn’t have anything to do with all that.

“You know, if you don’t want to compete, that’s your business. But if you don’t, I hope it’s not because you think you can’t.”

My heart went quiet in my chest. Still, I couldn’t speak.

“When I used to compete — I liked to win, I liked the applause, I liked the prizes and trophies. I especially liked to beat certain people, that’s the truth. But what felt best was the reason I won, when I did. It was because of my bond with my horse. Because under pressure, I could put my mind and my body together with his, and I could feel it, like he would go through the wall for me if I asked him to and he knew I meant it. And I would go through the wall with him. And everybody could see. You know what I mean?”

“Yes.”

“I think you do. I know you do. I know you can. But it’s one thing to do it out here. It’s another thing to do it in front of people, with other riders who’re all doing the same. It’s powerful, more real. Even if you don’t win. If you don’t try it, you’ll never know.”

I didn’t answer her and she didn’t try to make me. We just rode quiet, feeling her words. The only time I talked was when I asked her about this covered-box shape up in some trees; she told me it was a blind for hunters left over from hunting season. That they would hide in there and shoot.

We stopped when we came to the fence where I fell off before. Pat dismounted and walked Graylie to the fence and tied him. The fence was wood posts with torn-up rails stuck through holes in the posts. Pat took one end of the top rail and pushed it out the hole so it came down on the ground. Fiery Girl moved like a five-year-old that needs to pee, wanting to eat grass, talk to Graylie, run, something. I had to pull her back, turn her in a circle, sit her firm. Pat took the second rail down and said now we were gonna gallop to the jump. Gallop not like in the arena, but all the way. Fiery Girl’s back legs moved all over, like she knew something was different, then we cantered away from the fence. When we found a place to stop Pat asked me, “Have you seen racing on television?” “At your house once,” I said. “Okay, it’s not gonna be like that. You want to be more grounded in your stirrups, not forward like the jockeys on TV. You do want to lean forward in the gallop. You want to get off her back and kick her forward — but just before the jump? Sit deep in the saddle with your shoulders over your center, but I mean just before. Got it?”

She looked in my eyes and I said, “Yes.”

“And remember, look ahead of the jump, not at it.”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” she said. “Now. Through the wall.”