The Mare

Ginger

I went back to my painting; classes started for Paul. The feeling of normalcy was delicious. I still went “walking at night,” but alone, feeling my signal again, now big and broad and full of new things.

I found myself talking to women I barely knew — the manager of the health food store, a colleague of Paul’s, somebody I’d met at a wedding — in the store, in the middle of a parking lot, at the post office; talking a mile a minute, I would confide in them about Velvet. About the remarkable things she’d said or done. About the fight I’d heard on the phone, about how I was going to help her with her homework. About how scared and excited I was. It felt like I was actually talking to women for the first time. I felt this even though the conversations were fleeting and partial. It was something about the way our eyes met, the way they took my words in; it was something that had never happened before. It was like being the signal rather than hearing it.

Of course, not every conversation was this way. The weekend after Velvet went home, Paul and I went to a party given by a local celebrity photographer who had just won some big award for taking pictures of Muslim kids. Paul’s ex-wife, Becca, was there along with her friends, all huge women whose bodies exude importance, or as my mom used to say, “impo’ance.” They sit together like a high school clique, these women in their fifties, and they walk like they’re saying, “Get out the way. I’ve got tits.” One of them is an editor in the city, one of them is an artist who shows in the city, one of them was a model about a hundred years ago; they all have kids and they all act like bitches to me. At least if Becca is there. If Becca’s not there, they’re basically polite. If my friend Kayla is there, they even try to be nice because she’s friends with the editor. I understand the situation, but it’s awkward, especially if Kayla’s at the party and I have to sit with them either monopolizing Kayla or being ignored.

This time, though, I tried to connect, even though Becca was there. I couldn’t help it. I told them about Velvet and the horses, especially the horses. And even they got interested, even if Becca got hard in the face; they overflowed like women will do, giving suggestions for activities, horse camps, children’s theater, petting zoos. Until Becca spoke and they all stopped. “Sounds like a fun project,” she said. “Sounds like an easy way to play at being a parent.” And the conversation moved on.