The Mare

Ginger

Velvet’s mother was short, thick, powerful-looking. She was much older than I imagined, I thought at least forty, maybe close to fifty. Her heavy jaw and low brow had none of her daughter’s lush softness. She was very light-skinned and her features were small, hard, and fine. Even if she lacked her daughter’s dark beauty, she had obviously been pretty once. It took me a minute to realize that the power in her body didn’t come from her musculature or size, but from her character; she sat in her body like it was a tank. When I walked in with Velvet, she looked at me first; it was an intensely focused look, rapid and bright, going instinctively from assessment to approval in seconds. She greeted her daughter, but her eyes dimmed at the sight of the child, no longer approving but acknowledging only. Docile, Velvet sat on the couch next to her. I sat in a chair to the side. In front of us were two erect, alert, smiling women from the Fresh Air Fund, one of whom was Carmen, the sweet-voiced Latina who had translated for me on the phone. But Mrs. Vargas sat there like she was alone in her tank, bored like a fighter is bored when there is no fight.

I asked Carmen to tell her, “Your daughter is beautiful,” and was sorry immediately. Mrs. Vargas grimaced, as if with disgust, and made a gesture I understood as, Don’t give me that. I flinched. Velvet didn’t react. Carmen’s smile froze for a moment and then she translated: “Don’t swell her head, it’s already too big.”

And then Mrs. Vargas withdrew into herself, answering questions when asked, seeming to barely hear as the translator told her what Velvet and I were saying about the fair, the lake, the little ponies. Velvet glanced at me when I said those words, and her eyes were full of complicity. Her mother didn’t react. I felt no guilt or embarrassment at this. What I felt was unease that she had looked at me with approval but not her daughter.

I don’t know what anyone else thought of this. There was institutional friendliness (Carmen) and probing (the white social worker). Papers were filled out. When we got up to leave, Mrs. Vargas kept her head down and yanked on her skirt. She frowned. I thought, She moves like a farmhand. But she had style, even though she dressed very poor; her skirt was beige, but her high-heeled shoes were orange and so was her blouse. She gave me another glance; I realized she was checking me that way too, and liking my cheap but great sandals — which I’m sure she noticed on Velvet.

When we came out of the building and onto the street, Mrs. Vargas seemed to wake up. She put her arm around Velvet and talked to her harshly, but with warmth. Velvet and I had to wait for the train, so I suggested we get coffee and sandwiches.

In the coffee shop, Mrs. Vargas’s demeanor changed. She sat across from me, next to Velvet, touching the girl with a proprietary air. When she looked at me, her face was open. I couldn’t understand what she said, but she was out of the tank; I could feel her. I couldn’t say exactly what she felt like, except that she was substantial. I liked her. I liked her even though she had made that nasty face when I’d told her Velvet was beautiful. First I didn’t understand why and then I knew: it was the way she met my eyes. When I need to know who someone is and if I can trust them, I sometimes look too deep into their eyes. I don’t do it on purpose, but sometimes I can feel it happening and that it makes people uncomfortable — most people just look away; some get pissed off. Some look back, but like they’re scared. So I don’t do it on purpose, but if I need to know, I can’t help it, I look. I looked at Velvet’s mother in the diner. And she looked back. She looked in exactly the same way I was looking: like she wanted to know who I was and if she could trust me. It was like, for that moment, we were speaking the same language. I could not remember the last time I’d had that experience.