The White Horse (11 page)

“You're sick. You've always hated me.”

“Why couldn't you love me? Because I knew what you'd done? I loved you anyway.”

“I'll fucking kill you if you don't shut up.”

“Too late; I'm already dead. Why aren't there any pictures of me and Bobby?”

“Don't you dare bring that up. Don't even say his name.”

“There's pictures of everybody else.”

“Do you hear what I'm saying? I mean it, Raina.”

“You act like he never existed. He did. Are you so ashamed?”

“I can't believe you'd do this.” Her mother moved toward her. “After what you done. It's disgusting.”

“I didn't do nothing wrong, Mom. I tried to wake you up.”

Her mother was on her, hitting her face and neck. Raina hunched forward, protecting her belly. Brandy jumped up and grabbed her mother. Please, Mom, don't! Got knocked aside. Her mother slapped Raina, tore her hair and shoved her. She landed on the floor in front of the couch. She looked up; Lyn was staring at the TV set.

She climbed to her feet, pointing at her mother. “That's it!” she said. “That's the last time you ever touch me!”

“Get out of here! You think I want you around? You and that retard in your belly? You've probably screwed it all up, like everything else! You're nothing to me! You don't exist! You're dead!”

“Please don't make her go!” Brandy cried.

She took nothing with her; she just left.

Chapter Nineteen

Something awful happened tonight. Raina came by. I was brushing my teeth, then the doorbell's ringing.

She didn't have a coat. She sat down on the couch.

“How's it going?” she said. “Long time no see.”

I could hardly bear to look at her, I felt so sorry for that baby in her belly.

“All right.”

“Aren't you glad to see me?”

“I'm always glad to see you, Raina. I've been wondering how things were going.”

“Fine. I been staying with my mom.”

“That must be nice. She always sounded like such a fun person.”

I shouldn't have said that. But seeing her made me feel so upset. She's not some story in the newspaper; another article about the tragedy of teenage pregnancies. She's real, and she was sitting on my couch.

And I wanted her to go away.

“Have you been doing any writing?”

“No, not lately. I been getting ready for the baby and stuff. Trying to think up names. It's important what you name a baby.”

“Yes.”

“What about Savanna? For a girl, I mean. Do you think that sounds too white trash?”

“No.”

“That's what my sister was gonna name her kid, if Jimmy hadn't been a himmy. If it's a boy I might call him Douglas Stephen. That was his daddy's real name.”

“I see.”

“What were you gonna name your kid? If you'd had one.”

It was like some hideous dream. “Oh, I don't know, Raina. That was a long time ago.”

“I just thought, you know, you might have some ideas.”

I said, “I kind of liked the old-fashioned names.”

“Like what?”

“Kathryn, for a girl. Or maybe Grace or Hope.”

“What about a boy?”

“I don't know. Maybe Warren.”

“You'd name a kid that? Good thing you didn't have one.”

“It's late, Raina. What do you want?”

I hadn't meant to hurt her. But I felt like she was torturing me.

“Nothing. I just thought I'd drop by and say hi.”

She told me she and her sister were going to get a place, as soon as she got her AFDC.

“But she sits around on her butt all day, so I end up doing everything. It's a drag. So I was thinking it might be better if we didn't. You know, live together, I mean.”

I'd known Raina long enough and well enough to know that we were done with the preliminaries.

“I been thinking about what you said, Miss Johnson.”

“About what?”

“You know, the baby and stuff. How I'm too young to raise it by myself.”

“You already knew that, Raina.”

“Yeah, but things got kinda confused for a while. My mother thinks families should stay together. Till death do you part, if necessary. So I was thinking maybe we could stay with you.”

“Me?” I couldn't breathe.

“It'd be my baby but you'd be here too, and if I'm doing something wrong, you could tell me.”

“No, Raina. That wouldn't work.”

“Why not?”

How could she even ask me?

“You think I could sit here and watch a sixteen-year-old girl—”

“Seventeen. I had my birthday last week.”

“—watch a teenager trying to raise a baby? I can't.”

“Do you think I'm such a moron?”

“No, you're a child. And kids can't be good mothers.”

“I can.”

“Not now,” I said. “Maybe later. Maybe someday.”

“After what, thirty years of therapy? I thought you might want us around.”

“Not like that. If you want to talk about letting the baby be adopted—”

“Why, so you can steal it?”

“I don't want your baby, Raina.”

“Don't worry,” she sneered. “We don't got AIDS.”

I had never felt so hopeless. “That's not it.”

“You think I fucked it up. That's why you don't want it.”

I wanted to physically throw her out; out of my house, my mind, my life.

“You think I'd take this baby and have to deal with your family for the rest of my life? They'd never leave me alone. They'd drive me crazy. For God's sake, Raina, give this baby a chance! You've got to put it up for adoption.”

“I can't.” She hung her head. “Don't you understand, Miss Johnson? This baby's all I got.”

“I'm sorry, Raina. I'd like to help you, but I can't do what you want.”

She looked up at me then, her eyes gleaming. “My mother threw me out. We got nowhere to go.”

I felt sick to my stomach. “I don't appreciate this, Raina. I don't like being manipulated.”

She shrugged and smiled. “Hey, I'm desperate.”

“That's your choice, not mine. You can't stay here. That wouldn't be best for anyone. Not for you or the baby. Or me.”

“Then I guess that's it.” She stood up and stretched, her belly poking at her sweatshirt.

“Where's your coat?”

“Don't got one. It's not that cold.”

I gave her a jacket, and she put it on. I was afraid to let her go into the night alone, but more afraid to let her stay.

“Let me give you some money.”

“I don't want your money.”

“I can give you a ride.”

“Where?” she said. “I'll see ya.”

That was hours ago. Every time I close my eyes I see that kid walking down the dark street.

Chapter Twenty

She went to Kimmy's that night, but two guys got in a fight and the manager called the cops and they made everybody go. She hung out in a video arcade full of crazies, trying to look bad so they'd leave her alone.

In the morning she called Granny. Granny didn't want to talk.

“I'm late for work, honey. I gotta go.”

She heard Granny's lighter hiss, her lungs reaching for the smoke. She knew her mother had phoned as soon as she was out the door.

“She tell you what happened?”

“Oh, honey.” Granny sighed. “Why can't you two just get along?”

“She hit me, Granny. She knocked me down.”

“She says you started it. Why'd you do that, Raina? You know how she is.”

“So do you.” She had to wait until Granny stopped coughing. “She threw me out. I got noplace to go.”

“What about your AFDC?”

“I didn't get it yet. I go back next week.”

“Tell them it's an emergency. They'll put you up in a motel till the money comes through.”

“Couldn't I stay with you? Just for a while?”

“Oh, honey, that's not such a good idea.” Granny explained that having guests was against the rules. Too bad, or she'd be glad to have her.

“That's not true. You're just afraid she'll hit you too.”

“Raina, why do you say stuff like that?”

“You know she does. I've seen her do it.”

But Granny's tears were a curtain she could not get through.

She stepped out of the phone booth. Rain was falling, turning into beads on the teacher's coat. She went by the Laundromat. Bert gave her a few bucks and told her a long story, something about his first wife and Social Security. She couldn't follow it; her back ached, and the baby kept moving.

Was her doctor's appointment this morning? No, Tuesday. This was Monday. She checked the newspaper rack outside to be sure. The front page story was all about the mayor's new clothes. She read as much as she could above the fold and thought: This baby's got more than one family.

She took the bus downtown, watching people on the sidewalk, their faces pinched shut, bodies hunched against the cold. It was warm inside the bus. She should just keep riding. But she made herself get off at City Hall.

It was even bigger than the welfare building. There were security guards and lots of people with briefcases. She took the elevator up to the seventh floor and found the City Attorney's office.

The receptionist said, “May I help you?”

“I want to see Douglas Peterson.”

The woman looked surprised. “He's expecting you?”

“No.”

“I'm sorry, he has to be in court this morning.”

“That's okay. This won't take long.”

“May I ask what this is concerning?”

“His son.”

The woman frowned and went into another office. In a moment a man in a suit came out. His eyes were very blue, and his hair was gray. That's how Sonny would've looked someday, she thought. When he saw her his eyebrows narrowed into an arrow. He waved her through the door into his office.

“Sit down.”

He sat behind his desk. She looked around. The room was bigger than her mother's apartment.

“What about my son? He's dead, you know.”

“Yes.” The words she'd planned to say stuck to her tongue. “I just thought you'd like to know—Sonny was my boyfriend.”

The way he looked at her, then. At her stomach, her clothes. As if she'd told the most disgusting joke.

“And I suppose you're going to tell me that's his baby.”

“Yeah.”

He picked up a pen, tapped his desk, put it down. “Do you know what I do for a living?”

“Sorta. Sonny said—”

“I'm a lawyer. An attorney. Ring a bell? You think you can walk in here and give me some story—”

“It's true,” she said. “You can do a test. Check the baby's blood or something. You can tell.”

“Then what? Maybe you could come and live in my home. Or maybe I'll give you some money for your drugs. Is that what you were thinking?”

“No.” She didn't know what she'd expected, didn't know why she'd come. “It's your grandchild. Sonny's baby. Don't you care?”

“Do you have any idea—no, of course you don't. How old are you, anyway?”

“Twenty.”

He swiveled his chair around and stared out the window at the city spread below. He said, “My son was dead to me a long time ago. Long before you ever met him.”

There were pictures on his desk, of a beautiful woman, and of Sonny's sisters, in graduation gowns and dresses. There were no pictures of Sonny.

He turned to her again, his voice as flat as his expression.

“I don't ever want to hear from you again,” he said. “No letters, no phone calls, no visits to the office. And don't try to call my wife or come by the house. She's suffered enough. Do I make myself clear?”

She didn't move. Couldn't. She just sat in the chair.

“What did you expect?” He sounded so helpless. His empty hands were spread.

“Nothing. I don't know.”

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I can't help you.”

He was standing, waiting. At the door she said, “You didn't even ask me my name.”

“Does it matter?”

A security guard stood outside in the hall.

“Don't worry,” she told him, “I can find my own way.”

The shelters were full, but the last one took her in when the man at the door saw her belly. He gave her a cot and a towel and a toothbrush. The room with the beds was big and empty; the people had to leave during the day.

“So they can look for jobs,” the guy explained. “The bathroom's over there. Don't touch nobody's stuff.”

She stretched out and tried to sleep, but her eyes wouldn't close. There was nothing to read so she stared at the ceiling, trying not to think, to disappear; like when she was a kid and her mother had whipped her and she'd lain on her bed, melting into the mattress, dissolving into darkness, her arms and legs gone, absorbed into the bed, becoming the blackness, her mind shattered, somewhere else. I'm not here.

At seven o'clock they let the people back in, the men in one room, women and kids in the other. The girl in the next bed had a baby in a stroller and a boy about four with curly brown hair. He reminded her of Bobby. The baby was asleep; the girl put her in a crib and tucked the boy into bed. He kept asking questions: “Who's dat, Mommy? Where's she going?” She said, “Close your eyes, honey,” and rubbed his back until he slept.

Beside the girl's bed were two framed pictures, of herself and the kids, and of her parents, Raina guessed. The girl rummaged through the plastic sacks beneath her bed. Then she began to brush her long blond hair.

“Hi.” She smiled at Raina. “You're new here.”

“Yeah.”

“When's your baby due?”

“Anytime. I'm Raina.”

“Jennifer.” The girl wrinkled her nose. “Call me Jenny. Too bad people can't choose their own names. Like when you get older, you could be who you want. What would you choose?”