The Mare by Mary Gaitskill

Author:Mary Gaitskill
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2015-11-02T16:00:00+00:00

Ginger

She humiliated her mother. It wasn’t her fault. It was mine. The look on her face when she looked back at us, walking with that obnoxious woman! I didn’t blame her. Her mom was a bitch, and she was getting back. But I couldn’t forget the way the woman shrank and then just went away. Like she was the child and her twelve-year-old daughter had all the power.

Velvet

She closed the door and knocked me down in the hall. She said, “Get up.”

Dante went away down the hall.

She said, “Get up, bitch!”

Dante turned the TV on and up loud.

My mother kicked me and yelled, “Get up!” I tried to stand; she kicked me in the stomach and I sat back down. I heard Dante talking to the TV, cursing and calling it “bitch.” I held back crying.

“Understand,” she said. “I will knock you down until you don’t get up. Every time you get up, I will knock you down again. Maybe you’re the boss with that fool woman, but here I am the boss.”

“Mami,” I said. “Mami—”

Dante talked faster, louder.

“You want to ride those horses, fine, ride them. You want to die, die. I don’t care.”

There was more, her cursing and kicking and then Dante ran at her yelling. “I don’t want Velvet to die!”

Then me running out the door, down the stairs. My mother was yelling at Dante and he was yelling back. I ran out into the street. It was snowing, and I ran in front of a car with music blasting out of it. People laughing at the crazy girl, but stopping, caring if I died. Laughing on their way somewhere else. I was never out this late before and the street was full of people I didn’t know. Lydia; I knew Lydia. I ran to her; I rang all the doorbells on her door. A man said, “Hey, lil’ mama,” but he saw I was crying and went away. I rang and rang but Lydia didn’t come. I sat on her steps and stopped crying. I looked at all the people going by. Some looked back, some kept going. I thought about the play where people were singing and dancing and pretending to be poor. I thought of Fiery Girl. I wanted to go into the stall with her and feel her body, see the snow falling outside the barn while I was beside her warm body.

A woman passed by carrying plastic bags full of bottles. She wore a winter coat, but instead of shoes she wore furry house slippers with socks that were soaking wet in the mushy snow. I realized she was the lady my mom called “the Haitian.” But I liked her; her hair was gray under her scarf and her eyes were deep and kind. “Young woman,” she said. “What’s going on with you? You look sad.”

“My mom hit me and said she doesn’t care if I die,” I said. “I don’t want to go home.”

She came close to me, but her eyes didn’t look at me.

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