The Mare

Ginger

It was rare to see her alone; I don’t think it had ever happened before. She was sitting at a table with a cup of coffee and writing in one of those decorative blank books they sell; without her usual prow-like outer focus, she appeared almost gentle. Until I said, “Becca, hello,” and she looked up, immediately going haughty and retracted, eyes not quite meeting mine.

“Can I join you?” I asked.

“Actually, I’m waiting for someone.”

“Oh. I just wanted to say thanks for the invitation to Spindletop. Very nice place.”

“Actually, it was Joan who—”

“Yeah, I know, but I’m just saying it was nice. Although it didn’t go all that well for her there.”

“Oh, here’s Laura!” Her expression went from discomfort to warm and welcoming as she tracked her friend’s pleased scarf-flapping, cute-little-bell-on-the-door-ringing entry.

“Oh, hi, Ginger,” said Laura. “Do you mind?”

Meaning, Get out of my way; you’re blocking my seat. And I did mind.

“How are you?” gushed Becca as Laura squeezed past me.

“I’m not sure why it didn’t go well,” I said. “But she seemed pretty upset when she came back.”

“What are we talking about?” Laura asked Becca.

“Velvet,” I said.

“Who?”

“You know, the girl from the culture I know nothing about, but who I’m messing with anyway.”

They stared at me. A middle-aged waitress with stalwart eyes came dragging a bad foot in an Ace bandage. “Are we two or three?” she asked.

They answered together: “Two!”

“Two it is,” said the waitress and left with the extra laminated menu she’d brought just in case.

“Ginger—” said Becca.

“I’m going,” I said. “And by the way, I wasn’t kidding. You did say that, Laura, that I was messing with somebody else’s kid.”

“I don’t remember.”

“I’m sure you don’t. And I’m sure, Becca, that you don’t remember saying to me that I’m playing—”

“This is inappropriate,” said Laura.

I flushed. “Inappropriate? Well, I don’t think it was appropriate to tell me I’m messing with a child I love when you don’t know anything about it. Or to tell me I’m ‘playing at being a parent.’ ”

From the look on Becca’s face, she did remember.

“I understand why you don’t like me, and I’m sorry. But you had no right to talk that way to me. You don’t know me.”

“If you don’t like the way we talk, then don’t force your company on us and needlessly make a scene,” said Laura.

“A scene? This is your idea of a scene?” My laugh was empty, and I reddened at the sound of it. “You really are an awful woman — both of you.” And I left red-faced and trembling, but also glad, glad that I finally said something, even if it was weak. That at least I didn’t just let them treat me like shit again.

But I guess I didn’t look glad because when I got home and Paul saw me he said, “Ginger, what’s wrong?” and he even sounded like he cared.

“Nothing’s wrong,” I said. “I just told Becca and Laura they’ve been total bitches to me and that it’s ‘inappropriate,’ to use their repulsive language.”

For a second he looked scared — that was good — but then he put his head in his hand and shook it, like this was just too idiotic to comment on. And I slapped him. I slapped the shit out of him. One, for politely looking the other way while Becca insulted me for years; two, for undermining my relationship with Velvet; three, for being an asshole generally; and four — ooh, let’s not forget — for cheating. When I stopped, I expected him to start with AA crap, and that made me start looking around for something besides my hand — but he didn’t. He stood there holding his face and looking at me like he’d just woken up.

I looked back thinking: Finally the glass is broken. Thank you, Michael. Thank you and fuck you.