The Mare

Ginger

It took over an hour for the translator to get back to me and then another hour before she had time to make the call — and then Silvia wasn’t home. We tried off and on for almost the whole afternoon; if she really was working all weekend, how obnoxious of me to make this call. But still, we made it once more — and she picked up. “Tell her thank you,” I said to the translator, “for letting her daughter come.” Silvia responded as if she were being nice to an idiot, and then asked, “Is she behaving?” “Yes,” I said. “She’s sad you can’t be here, but I think she’s going to make you proud. I am confident she’ll win.” The translator inflated her voice with “awww” crap; Silvia’s silence went dark and hard. I said, “She’s practiced so much and gotten so good and it would mean the world to her if you could be here.” The translator coughed and tried and — Silvia exploded. She did that thing where she talked so fast it was more sound than words, sound and jagged laughter. “What is she saying?” I asked. “What is she saying?” “I don’t know,” said the translator. “I can’t get her to slow down.” And then Silvia was gone. The translator said she couldn’t tell if she’d said anything about a contest or permission, all she could really make out was something about “a can of whup-ass.”