The Mare

Velvet

I said we could go to the horses, but I didn’t really care. I just said that because I knew they were close — I did want to see horses, but I didn’t feel like it right then. Because my mom was gone when I called and I felt alone, like she was really gone, and I was stuck here with a devil on the wall and nice people who didn’t have anything to do with me.

But I went with the lady, Ginger. She talked about something, I don’t know what. I was trying to count the hours in the days I had left and trying to subtract how much time I’d been there, starting from the bus. We passed through a gate with a sign that said “Wildwood”; suddenly there was too much space around us — green and green and green with some little fences and in the distance a big building with a giant hole for a door. I wanted to reach for Ginger’s hand, and that made me mad at myself because I was too old for that. Then she said, “They give riding lessons for kids here. That’s something we could do if you want to.”

I didn’t say anything.

And then we came to the building with the giant door.

“Here’s the stable,” said Ginger.

It looked scary from the distance, but inside it was not. It was dark and warm. It was all wooden. The smell of it was deep. You could feel it, like it was breathing all around you, but it wasn’t scary, it was the opposite. And there was a horse, looking at me from an opening in his cage. A sign over him said “Graylie,” and there were pictures and a dirty red teddy bear next to his face. And then there was another one and another one: “Diamond Chip Jim” (he had a purple fish toy and a bunch of fake flowers); “Blue Boy” (he had a bunch of plastic bottles); “Baby” (she had a doll); “Officer Murphy” (he had a bunch of stuff written on some papers and a blue ribbon); “Little Tina” (she didn’t have nothin’). There were some people too, walking around, but I didn’t notice them. The horses were all looking at me and Ginger, and some of them were saying things: Who are you? Come over here! Have you got something for me? I’m lonely. Don’t bother me!

“Do you like them?” asked Ginger.

I said, “Yes,” and then, “Can I touch them?”

“Yes, but be careful. Some of them can bite.”

I went up to one named Rocki. He was cream-colored with a short mane and a black stripe down the center of it. He was beautiful but with sad, hurt eyes. He didn’t have any pictures or toys. I put my hand out to him. He let me touch his nose and his strong neck.

Ginger said, “Hi, Pat.” I turned and saw a round woman with a red face and blond-gray hair sticking out everywhere. She was wearing old beat-up clothes and she was pushing a big wooden wheelbarrow like I’d seen in books about farm life; it was full of wet dirt and bits of straw. “I just brought the young lady over to see the horses.”

“Hello, young lady,” said the woman. It was funny, the way she looked at me; she looked past me, but still it felt like she was looking right at me. It was like her eyes were on the sides of her head. Like the horses. “What’s your name?”

Her face was nice but her voice was strong, like she might beat your ass, so my answer came out like a whisper.

“Nice to meet you,” said Pat. “I see you met Rocki. He’s a good guy.”

I wanted to ask her why he was so sad, but I just looked down instead.

“Look around all you want, just pay attention to the signs.” She picked up the handles of the wheelbarrow again and began walking the other way.

“Is she the one that gives the lessons?” I whispered to Ginger.

“Yeah.” Ginger smiled down at me, and that crying thing moved through her face really fast. “Interested?”

I was confused by Ginger’s face, by everything that was happening. But Pat was moving away and I suddenly felt like I had to talk or my chance would be gone. “Yes,” I whispered.

And so we went down to the other end of the stable so that Pat could check her appointment book. I walked slowly after them so I could look at the horses. I looked at the stable too; there was cool stuff in it: leather straps hanging everywhere, metal boxes, chains, helmets, saddles — everything was old and beat-up, but somehow that was what made it cool. It all looked like it had a reason, even the dirt and balls of hair and straw on the floor of the stable — even that somehow was right, and didn’t seem like dirt.

Ginger and Pat were in an office somewhere off to the side when I saw a girl in one of the horse-cages by herself. It was open and the horse was gone and it looked like she was cleaning the cage with a fork. She was a white girl, thin but strong-looking, with long shiny brown hair and a chin that reminded me of a pit bull. When she looked up and saw me, she didn’t say anything and neither did I. She just looked, then went back to what she was doing.

And then two other white girls came in from a hallway I didn’t notice. One of them had a boy-face and hair that was half blue, half purple; the other was regular. They were leading a huge horse and talking loud, like they thought they were hot. When they saw me they stopped and stared. Suddenly there was this loud, mad-pissed-off banging, and I heard a horse making angry wanting noises. The other horses answered like, We hear! The boy-girl yelled, “Shut up, Fugly Girl!” And the other said to me, “We don’t mean you.” And the boy-girl laughed.

I walked away from them toward the office. One of the girls muttered, “Sorry.” The banging got louder. And then I saw where it was coming from. There was a gold-brown horse kicking and biting the hell out of her cage. Her eyes were rolling in her head and you could see the white around them. But she was the best one so far, not the most beautiful, the best. There were no ribbons or toys or even a name on her cage, just a sign that read “Do Not Touch.” I came close to her and she looked at me. That’s when I saw the scars on her face, straight, deep scars around her nose and eyes. She turned her head all the way to one side and then the other. I thought, Your scars are like the thorns on Jesus’s heart. She stopped biting and kicking. I could see her think in the dark part of her eye. The white part got softer. The girls behind me went quiet. The wonderful horse came up to me. I put my hand out to her. She touched it with her mouth. I whispered, “You are not fugly.”

“Hey, can’t you read?” the boy-face girl yelled at me. “That horse is dangerous, get away from it!”

“She’s only dangerous if she doesn’t like you,” said Pat. I turned and saw her and Ginger coming out of the office. Pat came up to the horse and rubbed her on the nose. “The trouble is, she doesn’t like anybody except me — and sometimes she doesn’t like me.” Pat looked at me, straight on this time. “So I’ve got a slot open tomorrow. Does that work for you?”