The Mare

Ginger

When we drove to the train station, she cried. She seemed okay that morning; she smiled and said she wanted to see her little brother. She went to visit the horses one last time and came back with a big rusty horseshoe that she wrapped carefully in one of her shirts.

But on the way to the station I turned around in my seat and saw her face withdrawn and her body slumped like it had no feeling. Then when we got out of the car, she dropped her suitcase — it seemed like on purpose — and it popped open and she began to quietly cry.

“Don’t cry,” said Paul. “You’ll be back.”

“When?” she asked.

He paused uneasily and then said, “Next year.”

But she heard his unease louder than his words. She stopped crying and withdrew again. She stayed withdrawn for most of the train trip, staring out the window at the bright river with her lips parted and her eyes a thousand miles away.

—

Her mother and little brother met us at the station. The woman surprised me by kissing me on both cheeks; Paul she merely approved with her measuring eyes. The boy eye-checked us and pretended to ignore his sister. He was beautiful too — lighter-skinned than Velvet, more inward, more visibly intense, eyes flashing privately.

“I’ll call tonight,” I said to Velvet. “Don’t forget about the homework.”

And it happened again; she put her head down and quietly began to cry. Her mother’s eyes darkened powerfully. Her brother began whispering to himself with his face turned away.

“Here!” I said, my voice too bright. “Here’s some pictures of Velvet’s trip.” Small-voiced, Velvet translated. I handed Mrs. Vargas a carefully edited envelope. She took it angrily, stuffing it into her purse. She took Velvet by the arm and headed toward the subway.