The Mare

Paul

We both went to pick her up at the station. Without telling me, Ginger had bought Mrs. Vargas a pair of earrings and the boy a goofy toy that stuck out its tongue when you squeezed it. I swallowed my irritation, but I was embarrassed to be bringing these things, which I pictured them accepting sullenly. But Mrs. Vargas not only smiled to see us, she gave us something first, wrapped in a silver and pink gift bag. The boy was sullen, but this time he looked up when I said, “Hey there, young man,” and he mumbled something. We went to a diner to exchange the gifts and his quick, pleased glance said he was happy with the toy. Mrs. Vargas had given us a scented candle. We ate sandwiches and this time when we said good-bye to the mother and brother, we all hugged and said Merry Christmas; Mrs. Vargas kissed Ginger on both cheeks. She took my hand and gave me a look that was not flirtatious, but that nonetheless acknowledged me as a man. I thought, Well, she is polite.

Then the boy suddenly stepped close to me and said, “Can I come too?” Ginger spoke quickly: “Maybe next year.” And Velvet frowned; I frowned too, and put my hand on the boy’s shoulder to cover it. His mother frowned also, quietly but deeply; she and Velvet exchanged words. Then, with a sideways “Good-bye” in English, Mrs. Vargas pulled her son away from me and down the street. And Velvet smiled again.

While we walked to the train, I asked her what her mom had gotten for her. “The same thing she gets me every year,” she said flatly. “A mug with a flower on it.”

I pictured the tree we had waiting at home, all the gifts Ginger had piled under it. And I felt uneasy, nearly ashamed.

Until we got home and she saw the tree.