The White Horse (3 page)

“Well, yes, but—that's a very good point, Lorraine. But we need to know what kind of dialogue might develop, especially since the show is live.”

“Live?”

“Scary, right?” We winked at me. “But it sure gives us an edge in the ratings.”

“Because there's no telling what might happen.”

“Exactly. But I don't want you to think that's what Larry's all about. What he's trying to do is open the lines of communication. Bring people together. Solve problems. Help the family. Because without the family unit, what've you got, Lorraine?”

“My life.”

“Ha-ha!” he said. “You've seen the show?”

“No.”

“We've got a trained psychologist. I mean a real one; not one of these nuts who's plugging a book. She helps put the family back together.”

“After the show?”

“No, in the last fifteen minutes. Then Larry comes on and gives his parting shot—Let me run one for you, give you some idea.”

He put a videotape into the VCR. A pack of wackos screamed at each other while the studio audience hooted and hollered, egged on by the host, who gazed into the camera, shaking his head in sorrow
.

“See what I mean, how Larry draws them out?”

My mind drifted away. I wished Sonny were there. The penthouse looked like he pictures heaven: enormous and white. Rooms full of clean beds
.

“You're not listening, you bitch!” Someone shrieked on the TV. That's what people really want: attention. My mother craves the big fix: an audience applauding her, and somebody famous calling her by name: So tell us, Carla … millions of listeners, hearing how bad her life has been, then leaping to their feet for a standing ovation, shouting; You're right, Carla: You were gypped. So now it will always be your turn
.

“Okay, you get the idea. Jeez, those people were screamers.” Dick turned off the VCR. “What happens is, Larry will ask you some questions based on the information we've been given. Your mother said something”—he glanced through a notepad on the coffee table—“about foster homes. Detention homes. Can't read my own damn scribbling. You were in foster homes?”

“Yeah.”

“How many?”

“A million.”

“Why?”

“Ask my mother. She put me there.”

“All right. That's good. What we're looking for, Lorraine, is human emotion. Real people. Real pain. Don't hold anything back. If you feel it, say it. It's okay if you swear. We can bleep that. Get it off your chest! Get it out! There's always two sides to every story, am I right? Honest communication. That's what we're after. That's the only way the healing process can begin. Besides, it makes for dynamite television. Your mother tells us you're a junkie.”

The guy on the phone said, “No, not really. What makes you think so, Fred?”

I couldn't believe it. “She said that?”

“Would you be willing to admit it on the show? We'll disguise you if you want; a wig, dark glasses—”

“Would I have to show my tracks?”

“Needle marks? No. Unless you want to,” he added eagerly
.

“The ones in my ears might not show up good on camera.”

“In your ears? Don't you use your arms?”

“There's some on my tongue, too. See?” I stuck it out
.

“They're too small, I guess.”

I almost laughed in his face but I was hurting. Telling him I'm a goddamn junkie when I've never touched a needle in my life. She's the one
.

“She tell you she's a shooter?”

“What, guns?” He looked confused
.

“Meth. Speed. And she snorts and takes pills. But she don't do weed. You gotta draw the line somewhere.”

“I don't believe she mentioned that.” Dick wrote on his notepad. “Your sister Sheila says you're an alcoholic.”

“She should know. Did she mention the time she and that girl got in a fight, and the cops—”

“Your mother seems to think”—he was grazing through his notes—“that your substance abuse problem has something to do with Bobby.”

I lit up a smoke. “I ain't talking about Bobby.”

“He was the baby of the family, wasn't he?”

“You heard what I said. I ain't talking about Bobby.”

He placed a cold hand on my arm. “Wouldn't it be better to get it out, Lorraine? After all, it wasn't your fault. When he died you were only, what, seven years old.”

I laughed. Oh, what that laugh cost me
.

Then I spoke to him in a different voice. The one I use here, with you
.

“She'll say anything to get on this show. It's her favorite, you know. She never misses it.”

“What do you mean?” He quit patting my arm. “Are you saying this isn't for real?”

I shrugged
.

“All the stuff your mother said, the stories she told me—”

“Her doctor says it's best to play along. We don't want her having another breakdown.”

“Good God.”

“She probably won't. She's on medication. But you might want to check with your TV shrink.”

“Well, talk to the attorneys,” said the man on the phone. “Our asses are blowing in the breeze here.”

“This probably happens to you a lot,” I said. “Can we still be on Larry's show?”

“So you're not a homeless junkie?”

“Nope.”

He groaned, the enormity of this near disaster sinking in
.

“Hey,” I said, “I have an idea for the show. You know what would be killer for the ratings?”

“What?” He leaned toward me again, his eyes greedy
.

“Have somebody pick off a big ugly scab. Just peel it right off. Or stab a kitten. The camera zooms in. All this blood and guts. Or somebody could die on the show. Before your eyes. Some old guy with cancer. Or a kid in a coma and his brain's not working. He could be unplugged. His whole family sobbing. And the TV viewers could be right there, and it'd be so sad, they'd almost feel something—”

“Whoever you are, get out,” Dick said
.

As a consolation prize, I took the ashtray with me
.

By the time I called my mother she'd heard from the show. Thanks, they'd said, but no. Would she like free tickets?

“You really fucked up big time!” she shouted. “Couldn't you do this one thing for me?”

“You lied about Bobby!”

“You're the liar!” she said. “A liar your whole life!”

“That's not true, and you know it! You know what you done! You're the one, not me!”

Then we said a bunch of stuff, and she hung up
.

Too bad I didn't pass the audition. Things might've changed, might've turned out different. Maybe the TV shrink could've helped us. Maybe all the hurts would've been forgiven. Maybe we finally would've been a real family
.

It would've made for dynamite television
.

Chapter Five

Dear Superintendent Kelley,

Remember me? Margaret Johnson, the teacher at Emmanuel Wright Continuation High? The school that looks like a public restroom with flags?

I just wanted to let you know that you can stop worrying about the ants. They're not a problem anymore. They're gone. They drowned. The leaks in the roof are beyond belief. Learning to swim has become a graduation requirement.

Superintendent Kelley, I'd like to know why you're building a band room at Doris Washington, and approved thirty (thirty!) new computers for Hiram Clawson, when at EWC we're up to our necks in trash cans full of asbestos dust and water.

By the way, the new trash cans are lovely. Thank you.

You talk about The Importance of Education, and Investing in Our Most Precious Resource, Our Youth, yet you write off my kids like a bad debt. Problem children. Too much trouble. Maybe that's why you sent over the trash cans. So we can haul them to the dump.

All these kids need is a chance to succeed and adults they can count on. We can spend the money now on education or we will surely spend it later: on welfare, probation officers, drug rehab, crack babies.

I wish I had the guts to say this.

Sam quit. He took that sheet metal job. I begged his mother to let him finish the year. He was so close to graduating.

She said, “He can always get his GED. Right now we need the money.”

He'd gotten Social Security since he was seven, when his dad died. Then he turned eighteen and they cut him off. His mother was used to that steady income; she insisted he take the job. “We all have to grow up sometime,” she said. He's such a nice kid. I'll miss him.

Sara's applied to UC Berkeley. Even though she's
POSITIVE
she won't get in, because who wants people with a juvenile record? Anyway, she says, she doesn't have the money. That's what loans and scholarships are for. I tell her she's got a really good chance; if not at Berkeley, maybe at Chico or Davis. She wants to believe me but she's afraid; why hope for something and get disappointed?

Brenda said Ricardo's wrong; she isn't carrying a knife, and if he doesn't shut his mouth, she'll stick him.

New kid this week. Not sure what to make of him. Thomas from L.A., staying with his dad. His mother kicked him out. He goes back and forth. Looks at me with these tired eyes like he's seen it all before.

I tried to talk to Raina today. I asked where she's been staying. She wouldn't tell me, of course. She writes down all this personal stuff, then, when I act concerned, she backs off. All she wants to know is, is the writing any good? Yes, it's her story that's appalling.

I said: You must've felt terrible when Bobby died. Duh. She stared at me, her eyes so cold. It sounds like, duh, something terrible happened. Trying to give her an opening, a door. She slammed it in my face.

Her writing is so articulate and insightful that it's hard to believe it comes out of the same kid who acts so rude and tough. Interrupting when I'm working with Scott, then telling him to shut up. Raina, that's uncalled for, I said. You'll have to wait your turn.

Forget it. Help the idiot. She slammed out the door, stopping to light a cigarette and toss the match on the floor.

Scott, I said, I apologize. I don't approve of that kind of language.

That's okay, Miss Johnson, he said. The bitch don't know any better.

I have got to buy bigger panty hose. I'll need the Jaws of Life to get these off.

I intended to get some at Payless today when I stopped to buy supplies for school; exotic stuff, like pencils and paper. By the time they arrive from the District Office, the kids will have quit or graduated.

But on my way toward the panty hose aisle I passed a display of pregnancy tests, those little boxes with the hopeful names: Answer, Promise, Tomorrow.

I used to love to buy them, to follow the directions, counting the minutes while the future developed, our son or daughter, there, on paper. Then flying to the phone to call my husband at work. Sid would always come home with flowers and champagne.…

But the baby that was coming always slipped away; disappeared without a trace. No heartbeat, no pictures. As if it were just a dream we'd shared, so real we woke up in tears.

After a while we couldn't look at each other, our faces reflecting only pain.

I almost died when Sid sent me the picture of his twins, then despised myself for feeling jealous. Those are not your babies, I told myself. Your children are safe in your heart. They will never feel pain. They will never grow old. This world can never hurt them.

But why is it so hard for some people to have kids when thousands who don't want them give birth every day? Like that cheerleader who delivered her baby in the bathroom, then went back to the football game. Why can't we trade?

I tried and tried. How can those days be done? So irrevocably. So suddenly.

I saw that display of pregnancy tests and stood there for a moment, then my mind went somewhere else. When I came to, I was driving home, crying. Kind of the way I was thirty one day, and the next, I was forty-five.

Chapter Six

The weather turned bad, and she lost her coat. Sonny didn't feel cold; he was always flying. Every dime they could get went into his neck. The veins in his arms had collapsed, exhausted.

She was hungry all the time.

Grabbed handfuls of mints and flavored toothpicks at Sizzler. Swiped fruit from the bins outside the Chinaman's store. Boosted what she could at Safeway: not much—private pigs pretended to be shoppers. Lifted purses left behind in shopping carts while their owners, so stupid, wandered down the aisle. Stole change cans: UNICEF, Save the Children. Grabbed a pizza and ran out the door while the people who'd paid were on their way to the counter. Or called in an order that would be tossed out later when nobody picked it up. One place wouldn't play: they sprayed their Dumpster with ammonia. She and Sonny smashed a window, someone shouting inside.

Stood with the winos and the losers and the dying in the long lines outside the soup kitchen.

“Look,” Sonny said, his face twitching, “that teacher will give you money. She likes you. You gotta ask her. Are you listening to me?”

But she wasn't asking no one for nothing.

At night they slept in the Laundromat. Old Bert the wino watchman liked them, even though they'd stolen some clothes one time. He let them lean against the warm dryers. The place was filthy but it had a bathroom with a sink; cold water, no mirror. Bert said if there was a mirror, people hung around. He tried to remember to keep it locked when he was gone or people were in there doing God knows what. I can't let no one sleep here, he explained; if the boss finds out, I'll lose my job. But he pretended not to notice when she and Sonny conked out, curled beneath an old Bekins blanket.