The Mare

Velvet

When we walked at night, it was cold and I had to borrow Ginger’s jacket because my mom didn’t buy one for me yet. There were no more bug noises and the smells were deeper and secreter.

While we walked, Ginger talked to me about self-destruction. She said she was afraid I was destroying myself by not turning in my papers. She said it made her feel bad because it reminded her of her sister who died, because her sister failed her classes even though she was smart. I didn’t say anything. I just pictured Fiery Girl running out in the open, her sides shining and thick white sweat between her legs. I pictured her up on her hind legs, kicking with her front. Ginger said she was sad because if my grades weren’t good Strawberry couldn’t come, and it was almost the end of the semester.

“Does it mean you don’t want me to come up?” I asked.

And she said, “No.” She put her arm around me. “I want you to come up. But you can’t bring anyone else — that’s a privilege. That has to be earned.”

That was the time when Joker bucked off Beverly. She was in the round pen working with him on his “manners,” and as soon as I saw them I could see they were not getting along. I could see it in Joker’s skin, in the way his body was under Beverly’s legs and in the things Beverly was saying without words, angry things she said with her legs and her hands. I had the funny feeling she didn’t even know what she was saying, but I could see it and I know he felt it; when they passed me at the fence and I saw his eyes, I felt scared — and it was two seconds after that he bucked and Beverly flew and hit the ground so bad her head bounced. Joker bucked again and kicked, I put my hand on my mouth because I felt a scream coming, and Beverly — she sat up and smiled. She got on her feet and shook her head and I saw her helmet was cracked. She looked at the horse and he looked at her, head up like he’s proud of himself. She said, “Why, you little snot!” And he let her get back on.

The next day she was showing her cracked helmet to Pat and Gare and laughing about it, bragging about herself and the horse. “The little SOB. He threw me high, wide, and handsome, I’ll tell you! He has got one nasty sense of humor, mean and sloppy like his owner.” Then her voice came down so that I could barely hear it. “You know what they say about her in town? Any man could have her and who would want to!” Pat laughed — nervous, not happy — and then she said something that Beverly didn’t answer.

Maybe they thought I wouldn’t hear because I was grooming Spirit on the other side of the barn. I didn’t want them to know I heard because it was so ugly it was embarrassing.

I was also a little scared of Spirit; he was pissed off because his friends were outside and he wanted to be out too. He was pawing at the ground, and he even stamped his foot. I was telling him to “stand like a gentleman” like Beth told him, but he was not listening to me. I talked soft and put my hand on him, and he stamped both his feet. That’s when I heard Beverly go, “Shut the fuck up and settle down!” And she was right in his face like his hooves were nothin’ to her and she grabbed his halter, going, “Shut the fuck up and settle down!”

She wasn’t yelling, but there was something in her voice that made it like yelling. Spirit’s eyes rolled and he moved to the side, but not like with attitude. He didn’t have no attitude now. I remembered that when I first met Beverly, she was talking about Spirit when she said, “I hurt him worse than he hurt me.”

“I know you’re not supposed to curse,” she said. “But when you need a horse to back off and settle down, it helps if you say curse words. You make your voice deep and say curse words. Not because they understand the words, but because your voice will right away say those words different. And he’ll know you mean it.”

“I think he just wants to go out, Miss Beverly.”

“I know he wants to go out. He wants a lot of things. He wants to go to a horse show where they have great big flags. Just because he wants it, doesn’t mean he gets it.” And then she grabbed his halter again, but not hard this time, and said, “Right?” Then she petted him and said, “That’s right.”

And she moved around him, scratching him with her nails, in a nice way. When she got to his butt, she stopped.

“Oh,” she said. “So that’s why he’s got his nose open.” And she pointed at these sores on his butt. “Poor fella.” And she went and got this cream and she put it on him, massaging it in with her fingers and scratching his itchiness. She said, “Sweet man! Who loves ya, sweet man? Who’s ya daddy?” And he turned around with his lips trembly.

I thought, Pat is nice, but Beverly is cool. Her fingernails were all broken and still she was scratching him so hard she was getting dirty all up in them. But why did she think a horse cared about big flags?

“This is how the alpha horse grooms,” she said. “You can always tell who dominates by who grooms who first and how. Want to try it?”

And I did. And Spirit did his lips at me, too.

“FYI,” she said, “it’s right to discipline a horse. It’s necessary. You see those big tears and cuts on their body when they come in from the field? That’s what they do, kicking and biting each other. That’s their idea of playing. It’s really almost impossible for a human being to hurt a horse, unless it’s with a nasty bit in the mouth.”

“But Miss Beverly, then why do they care if you hit them with a whip?”

She tapped her head. “It’s all psychological. It doesn’t really hurt, but it hurts a little. They’re sensitive. That means they get all messed-up easy. They figure if you can do that, something worse might be coming.” She looked at Spirit. “And it might be, right? You control them from inside their heads. The physical is backup. Mostly.”