The Mare

Ginger

I got to the show at nine o’clock; Velvet wasn’t riding until about ten thirty, but she would be there, and anyway, I wanted to see it all. I wanted to see what Mrs. Vargas was going to see when Paul brought her and Velvet’s brother. What I saw made me feel satisfaction and vindicated joy: a sunny meadow, horses in spacious pastures, an enormous well-tended barn, tiny girls with bright faces confidently shepherding horses toward two good-sized arenas where families were gathered on a small set of bleachers watching girls warm up. Someone who must’ve been the judge was sitting in a chair placed on a flatbed truck parked between the two arenas; a middle-aged woman carrying a plastic bucket filled with ribbons walked past me, headed in his direction. Two other women in a dollhouse pavilion talked enthusiastically and half audibly through microphones; I noticed one of them had the discordant profile of a drunk, deranged elf, but never mind — there was a sweet little concession stand selling homemade cookies, and banners with the names of local businesses snapping in the wind. The scene was lovely, proud and modest both.

The stable was open and I walked through it, hoping to find Velvet and tell her that her mother would come after all. But I didn’t see her. I asked a couple of girls if they knew her. They said, “Who?” and looked at each other like I must be joking. This bothered me more than it should’ve. I went to the pavilion and waited to get the attention of the women. The one with the strange face sat back and fixed me with a speculative, quietly malign look that I didn’t understand and pretended not to see; did she know me? “Excuse me,” I said to the other. “I’m looking for Velveteen Vargas. Do you know who she is?”

“The name certainly stands out,” she said. “I don’t know her personally, but—” She scanned a list with the help of a swollen finger. “Here she is. She’s here with a horse called Fugly Girl.”

“Oh,” I said, relieved but bothered again. “That’s a mistake; that’s not the horse’s name.”

“Well, that’s what it says here, that’s—”

“Ginger!” I turned and there was Paul saying, “They weren’t there. They weren’t at Poughkeepsie or Rhinecliff. I checked. I tried to call them several times, but I got no answer.”

“There she is!” said the swollen-fingered woman. “There’s your girl right there!”

We looked up just in time to see her fighting to stay on her bucking horse, which as I watched, changed tactics, and spun around so hard Velvet lost her seat and fell.

I cried out, and Paul went, “Oh no!”

“Not a big deal,” said the pavilion lady mildly. “It’s spring, and the animals are—”

I looked at her and saw instead the face of the other, quietly gloating as Velvet got to her feet. That’s when I remembered her; the trainer who taught Velvet to ride bareback with a bullwhip.