The Mare

Ginger

I was in the kitchen getting a pork roast ready to cook when I heard her come in the front door. She came in fast, running up the stairs, and then there was a heavy thud through the floor on the other side of the house. Paul came in from his studio and started to say something; there was a crash. “Uh-oh,” he said, and then we heard her scream.

“Velvet?” he yelled. There was silence, but it was humming.

“I’ll go,” I said to him, and on the stairs, I shouted up, “What is it?” She didn’t answer. When I came in, she was sitting on the bed crying quietly and angrily. The covers were all but twisted off, and the bedside lamp was broken on the floor; she threw herself backward, staring, but not at me.

I sat on the bed. “Honey,” I said, “what is it?”

She didn’t say anything. I heard Paul coming up the stairs. With a hard, embarrassed motion, Velvet wiped the tears from her eyes.

Paul sat on the bed with us. He was calm, and that gave him authority. “Velvet,” he said. “Did somebody do something to you?”

She reacted to his authority; she collected herself. “That girl,” she said. “That girl in the barn? She basically called me a illegal. Her and that stupid boy. He said he’s gonna tell Pat I talk to my horse and give her apples, and they gonna send me home.”

“That’s crap; they’re just being hateful,” I said. “I’ll talk to Pat. She might scold you, but nobody’s gonna send you anywhere.”

She wiped her eyes again and stopped crying, though she was still not looking at us. We sat with her, feeling shame. At least I did. Her hurt felt too private for us to look at. Paul must’ve felt that too, because he said, “Do you want to call your mom?”

She sat up. “No,” she said. She wiped her face. “She wouldn’t care. She would just laugh.” She said this like an adult would, resigned.

We sat for a long minute. Then I said, “Do you want me to brush your hair?” She nodded. I went and got her brush from the dresser. She sat with her back to me. I smoothed her hair with my hand first, getting at the big tangles with my fingers. Then I went to work with the brush. I could feel her concentrating on the sensation, letting it relax her. I could feel Paul near me; I could feel him relaxing too.

“I hate that girl. She was rude to me from the first day. The boy’s too stupid to hate.” She spoke quietly. “But that girl, I’d like to cut her tongue out.”

Paul wiped his nose. He got up and left the room.

“Did you do anything to her? I mean after she said it?” I asked. “Hit her or anything?”

“No. I didn’t because if I started, I woulda smashed in her face.”

“Good. I’m proud of you for holding back. Not because I care about her. I don’t. But because it would’ve been worse for you.”

I kept brushing her hair. The hard, clean waves of her anger entered my body; I remembered what it was like to feel that way, and it felt good, right, to feel it so purely. I began to sing softly as I brushed her hair, a song I remembered from childhood: Roses love sunshine, violets love dew. Angels in heaven know I love you.

Paul came in with a broom and began sweeping up the broken lamp. I kept on.

Know I love you dear, know I love you. Angels in heaven know I love you. And then I couldn’t remember the rest, so I just sang “La la la la” to the tune of it, still combing her hair, even though it was smooth now and untangled.