The White Horse (2 page)

She knew better than to ask him how. He'd left school in tenth grade but had no trouble getting work; he was so blond and friendly and good-looking. She'd seen pictures. But the jobs never lasted; he'd show up late. He'd oversleep. He'd call in sick. Forget to call. Not show up at all. Come in stoned. Skim money from the till. He needed it, see; he was strung out, hurting.

The years were carved on his face like scars. Wouldn't nobody hire Sonny now.

“You can go to college,” he'd said last night, flying. “Get loans or something. You can do it, you're smart.”

Usually he thought school was a waste of time. Made fun of her when she wrote in her notebooks. Got ahold of one and read a poem out loud. People laughed, he made it sound so stupid. She tried to grab it back but she was too small. When he finally gave it back she tore it up. He'd ruined it.

On the roof last night he'd talked about their future. Things were gonna change. Sometime real soon. But not this morning, not today; he needed a fix and he needed it now. And he needed new shoes; his were falling apart. Nobody in the place had any money or dope. Everybody started arguing.

Luckily, Stevie Joe dropped by. He was a real nice guy. They called him Robin Hood. When you were broke he'd float you dope to tide you over. He bought groceries and diapers for people's kids. He rode a big Harley and wore black leather and mirrored shades, if it was day or night, like he was starring in the movie about his life and everyone was watching.

He'd brought a box of doughnuts for people to share. Then he and Sonny went into the bathroom. When he came out Sonny was smiling.

“Let's go down to the Plaza.” He kissed Raina's cheek. “There's always lots of tourists there on weekends.”

She'd tell them she was a runaway and needed a quarter to call her mom. I've changed my mind! she'd sob. I wanna go home! The tourists always gave her more, she looked so young and scared. Sonny waited for her around the corner. Most people were nice, but a few were sharks, cruising for little kids. She could've made lots of money that way. But she and Sonny were engaged.

The other day he'd said something weird. He knew he was asking a lot,
A LOT
, but couldn't she just do it once in a while? Not with perverts. And nothing strange or dangerous, but just so they'd have some money, honey?

What are you saying? She was shouting, drunk.

Look, he'd do it himself, he explained, but the guys who want to sleep with guys have AIDS, and the guys who sleep with women don't.

ARE YOU SO FUCKING STUPID? OR DO YOU JUST NOT CARE?
She socked him. He smacked her. They got in a fight, then things got blurry and they forgot. He hadn't mentioned it again.

Stevie Joe laid out some lines. People crowded close. Someone bumped his elbow. “Watch it, man,” he said, frowning. The guy apologized, almost crying. “No worries,” Stevie Joe said gently, letting the guy go first, then everyone else. Soon everybody was talking and laughing. Then someone said, “Shit, it's the landlord,” an old drunk but he wasn't drunk now.

“You kids gotta get out of here,” he said. “Too many people not paying.”

“We're paying!” Kimmy shouted. “It's our apartment! We can have friends over if we want to!”

“The neighbors been complaining—”

“You should see what they're doing!” Kimmy's nose holes were ringed with white powder.

“Look at this place. It's a goddamn dump.”

“It was a dump when we moved in!”

“You listen to me—”

“No, you listen to me!”

She was just showing off. People packed up their stuff, blankets and trash bags full of clothes. Someone asked Stevie Joe could they crash with him. He looked sad and said no. Nobody knew where he lived.

Out on the sidewalk the sun was too bright. Sonny looked bad. She could smell herself. Maybe they could sneak another shower at the health club.

There was a guy at the door now. He said forget it. She could go to the Y, but that was a hassle; they always tried to get her into counseling or the teen shelter when all she wanted was to wash her hair.

They headed downtown, the traffic thick. Sonny did this thing he always did: stepped into the crosswalk, not waiting for the light. People slammed on their brakes so they wouldn't hit him, then hung out their windows, screaming. Sonny grinned.

“That's so stupid,” she said.

“No worries,” he told her. He believed that he had some kind of good luck. So why were they sleeping in boarded-up buildings, in unlocked cars, on people's floors? So many people crammed into the apartments, you didn't know whose it was, but it didn't matter; they took care of each other. And ripped each other off. She'd done it herself, taken clothes and stuff. She had to; there wasn't any money. She tried to get jobs, but people looked at her like she and Sonny were wearing matching sweatshirts that said
I'M WITH THE JUNKIE
. And when she did get work, some jerk got in her face and she had to tell them off.

She wasn't a little kid anymore. She wasn't taking shit from anyone.

The main thing she had to do was stay in school. She couldn't say why that was important. Maybe because Sonny and her friends thought it was stupid. She didn't like doing what people wanted. Didn't want anyone thinking they knew her, thinking they had a map to her mind. School was the place where Miss Johnson waited, telling her:
Raina, this is a wonderful story. You should submit it to a literary journal. Maybe the
—

She'd cut off the teacher: “Does it pay?”

Well, no, but—

Screw it. She'd walk away, the praise a burning nugget in her heart.

The tourists weren't biting. The weather was too good. People felt sorrier for them when it rained.

“Fucking tightwads.” Stevie Joe's treat had worn off, and Sonny's hands were shaking. They walked down to Macy's. He waited outside. She could steal some stuff, then try to return it. That worked sometimes, but probably not today; today she looked too dirty.

She rode the escalator up to the ladies' lounge. Washed her hands for a while. The soap smelled good. Women came and went, some with babies in strollers, some with big white bags full of purchases. Raina rummaged in her pockets like she was hunting for something. Her timing had to be perfect.

The lounge door opened. An old lady came in, followed by a couple of younger women. The old lady was wrinkled but she was wearing a suit, and big rings sparkled on her fingers.

She took the last stall at the end of the row. The young women took stalls beside each other. Laughing and talking, they finished their business, then washed their hands and put on lipstick.

At the end of the row the old lady sat frozen, her handbag between her feet.

The young women left the lounge, the door closing behind them. The room was silent. Raina sat real still. She could feel the old lady waiting, listening, until she thought she was alone and no one would hear her go.

The next thing she knows, a girl's head's under the door. They stared at each other, not saying a word. Raina snatched the purse and was back on the street while the old lady was still struggling with her girdle.

At the park she and Sonny sat on a bench and dumped everything out of the purse: Kleenex, lipstick, dental floss, credit cards—they'd have to use those quick—keys, a gold pen, family pictures, a comb, and seventy-five bucks and change.

They tossed the junk in a trash can, then hit some stores and charged everything they could carry: clothes, watches, sleeping bags, toothpaste, shampoo, cigarettes, expensive candy, then treated themselves to Chinese food for lunch.

They traded cash and a credit card for Sonny's meds, some crank for her, and a bottle of booze at a place where the guy never asked any questions, never even looked into their faces.

At a hotel where they stayed when they had the dough they tried to make love, then Sonny fell asleep, his arms flung back against the sheets like someone was holding a gun on him.

Raina stood in the shower for a real long time, shampooing her hair until it squeaked.

Daylight faded from the windows. Sonny snored beside her. Raina drained the vodka bottle and watched TV, scribbling in her notebook until she fell asleep, still clutching the old lady's gold pen.

And woke up the next morning thinking: We forgot to get Sonny any shoes.

Chapter Four

I don't know why my mother hates me. Maybe she hated my father more than the others. I didn't like him either. Luckily, he wasn't around for long. Men came and went, most of them mean, leaving behind: Paymond, Sheila, Lynette, Lorraine, Willie, Bobby and Brandy. Seven children and she never wanted one
.

Especially me
.

Not that she babied the others. Once, she hit Raymond twenty times. I counted. And she'd get right in Sheila's face and scream so hard, her veins stuck out like Frankenstein's. You think you got it bad? You shoulda seen my childhood! As if somehow it was Sheila's fault. The way my mother sees it, she's been robbed, ever since she was a tiny girl. What she didn't get then, she's going to get now
.

My mother's the only child in her world
.

I called Sheila a few weeks ago. She'd left messages around. It had been, oh God, a year since we'd talked. Even though we all live in the same city, we're not what you'd call a close family
.

She skipped the how-you-been stuff and went straight to the point. Sheila and I don't get along
.

“Mom wanted me to call you.”

“Why? What's wrong?”

“Nothing. She wants us to be on TV.”

“What?”

“Just listen. You know the Larry Singer show?”

“No.” My hectic schedule doesn't allow for much TV
.

“He's this talk show host. People get on and talk about their problems and their families.”

“So?”

“He wants our family to be on the show.”

“How's he know about us?”

“She called him. There's a number at the end, and you call the show. They're gonna be in the city interviewing people.”

“What's this got to do with me?”

“You're part of the family.” Sheila sounded pissed. “They want everybody there so it'll be more real.”

“Maybe we could all get in a fight.”

“Look, it wasn't my idea to call you! Mom wants to get on. It's the least you can do.”

“Right. After everything she's done for me.”

I could hear Sheila smoking, blowing hard
.

I said, “Will Willie be there?”

“Maybe. He's in juvie.”

“What about Ray and Lynette?”

“Ray's in jail.”

“For what?”

“Being stupid. Selling crank to a cop. Lyn's back East.”

“How come?”

“She and Gary finally got married.”

“How's Brandy doing?”

“You can ask her yourself. Don't you wanna be on TV?”

“Not really.”

“Mom wants you there! The people said—”

How many times can you trick a dog into coming back so you can kick him? A lot. A lot. This time you might pet him
.

So I called the number Sheila gave me and made an appointment to “audition.” That's why I didn't show up at school that week. One reason
.

The appointment was in this big hotel downtown. The doorman tried to chase me off until I said who I was meeting
.

I rode the elevator to the top of the building, up to the penthouse, one whole floor. A guy opened the door, looking too glad to see me. Another guy was on the phone the whole time I was there
.

“Lorraine? Come in! Dick Simpson! Associate producer. We've heard so much about you!”

“I'll bet.”

“Sit down! Can I get you something to drink?”

“Yeah, a fifth of vodka.”

“Ha-ha! Seriously, would you like a soda?”

I was playing the part, being who he expected. I didn't want to disappoint him. Or her
.

“So!” Dick said. “They tell me you're homeless. That must be pretty rough.”

“Yeah.” The place was huge, with a thick white carpet and a glass wall framing the skyline and bridge. The furniture was all chrome and leather. “That wig sure looks real,” I said
.

“It is.” He looked alarmed
.

“Real hair cost more?”

“No, I mean it's mine. See?” He didn't look happy. “So, anyway,” he said, “you left home when you were twelve.”

“For good? Or all the other times she kicked me out?”

“For good, I guess.”

“Fourteen.” I lit a Marlboro
.

“Your mom said you two don't get along. Is that right?” He handed me a gold and crystal bowl for an ashtray
.

“You're kidding me,” the other guy said into the phone
.

“She said you were incorrigible,” Dick added
.

“I doubt it. She wouldn't even know what that means.”

“Uncontrollable, she meant.”

“She said that?”

“Not exactly.” His eyes bulged. “I gathered that you were the most difficult of all her children.”

“Most intelligent,” I said. “She don't like that.”

“Why not? Please tell me about it, Lorraine.” He leaned forward, lips parted for a juicy morsel
.

I acted like I was trying not to cry. Was this my cue for tears? Not yet
.

I said, “Wouldn't it be better for me to answer on TV, to keep it, you know, spontaneous and fresh?”