White Horses

by Alice Hoffman

  “I knew it,” Eddie said later, when he turned to her. “I knew I’d have you sooner or later. I knew it the minute he said I wasn’t good enough.”

  Teresa leaned back against the wooden headboard, her arms were still wrapped around the feather pillow. Eddie got dressed; he reached for his boots and his denim jacket. In the room next door the two-year-old turned in his sleep; across town his parents watched a movie in the dark, and, in their bed, Teresa drew her knees up, just beginning to realize how sore she was.

  Eddie lit a cigarette and sat at the foot of the bed; Teresa wished he would just go, he wanted to go, he wanted to turn around and walk out the door without another word, Teresa could see it in his eyes, in the way he played with the buttons on his jacket.

  “You understand, I won’t call you,” Eddie said.

  Teresa shrugged; when she looked at him she barely recognized him.

  “I know you won’t say anything to Silver,” Eddie said now. “You’re not that stupid.”

  Teresa looked at him carefully; she couldn’t believe that moments ago he had touched her. He patted the quilt on the bed; now that it was over he seemed nervous. But Eddie had nothing to worry about, it was too late for Teresa to tell Silver. If she ever did, he would stare at her, nothing more, but in his eyes there would be hundreds of accusations, grim planets of betrayal.

  “No,” Eddie said. “Of course you won’t tell him. You wouldn’t dare.”

  Teresa didn’t walk him to the door when he left; she stayed where she was, she listened to the front door close. And even when he had gone, Teresa didn’t bother to get up and turn off the lights in the kitchen, she didn’t care whether the front door was locked. She left her clothes in a pile on the floor, she pulled the quilt up so that it almost felt as if she were held in someone’s arms rather than feathers and cotton. She thought about summer, and imagined there were crickets outside the window who sang her to sleep. And that was how the Harmons found her when they came home at one-thirty that night. Linda Harmon knelt by the bed and whispered for Teresa to get up; Joel Harmon stood in the doorway of the bedroom and stared at the pile of clothes on the floor.

  That night, the Harmons slept in the living room. First they called Dina to say that Teresa was staying over, then they took the pillows off the couch, pulled out a bed, made it up with blue sheets, and checked on their son. Then they noticed the two whiskey glasses left half full, they choked on the smoke which hung in the air, and they whispered about the lecture they would give the babysitter in the morning. But in the morning Teresa would still not wake up.

  Joel Harmon wanted to call the police, he wanted Teresa taken away on a stretcher, her sleeping hands bound in white cotton. But when Linda went into the bedroom, when she bent down and listened to Teresa’s slow breathing, all of the anger she had felt toward the girl last night turned to fear. She persuaded her husband it would be best to call Teresa’s mother again; it would be better, she told Joel, for them not to touch the girl, better not to even look at her.

  After the telephone call, the Harmons sat on the couch. They couldn’t have been more nervous if a brown bear had been sleeping in their bed. A few blocks away, Dina stared at the phone for a moment after she had returned the receiver, then she went up to Silver’s room and woke him. “I want you to go over to Greene Street,” she told him. “You have to pick up Teresa.”

  Silver pulled the sheet over his head. “It’s early,” he said. “I didn’t get home till three o’clock.”

  “Now,” Dina said. “Teresa’s sick again.”

  Silver got up and got dressed, he threw on rumpled jeans, a blue shirt, a black leather jacket; he didn’t even bother to run a comb through his hair. He kept his foot pressed down on the accelerator when he drove to Greene Street, he hadn’t had a cigarette yet, not even one cup of coffee. When he pulled up in the driveway, Joel Harmon was waiting for him at the front door.

  “I don’t know what the hell went on here last night,” Joel Harmon said. “Drugs,” he guessed. “Some sort of drug party, and now we can’t wake her up.”

  Silver went into the bedroom; the shades were still drawn, it might have been midnight. He scooped up Teresa’s clothes, then went into the living room and handed them to Linda.

  “Could you put these in a shopping bag?” he asked.

  Linda Harmon nodded; she went to the kitchen, pulled out a brown paper bag, then folded the clothes inside. Her heart was racing; she wanted them out of the house, both of them, the sleeping girl and the young man who wore black leather so early in the morning.

  Silver had gone back into the bedroom. And once he was there, he felt hypnotized, he could have watched Teresa sleep forever. He wondered if he’d be able to move at all, and when he did, he moved quickly, as if he believed that if he stopped for an instant he would be forever transfixed. Silver pulled back the quilt; Teresa’s legs were curled up, her left arm covered one breast. He tried not to look for too long, he tore off the top sheet and covered her in it, then lifted Teresa off the bed. Her long hair fell in strands, and each strand attached itself to Silver’s skin, each strand felt like electricity.

  “Just where do you think you’re taking that sheet?” Joel Harmon asked when Silver stopped in the living room to pick up the bag of Teresa’s clothes.

  Silver smiled briefly. “She’s naked,” he told Joel Harmon. “Do you want to take this sheet off her?”

  “Take her home,” Linda Harmon urged Silver. “That’s all we want.”

  Silver went outside; he opened the passenger door of the Chevy and lifted Teresa into the front seat. While he drove home her head was leaning against his thigh, the sheet slipped a bit and showed her bare shoulders. At home, Dina had already made up Teresa’s bed, she had lit a candle on the bureau and drawn the curtains. She stood watching at the bottom of the stairs as Silver carried Teresa up to her room. And while Dina closed her eyes, leaned on the banister, and wished for better fortune, Silver put Teresa down on the bed. He pulled back the blankets, unwound the borrowed sheet, then stood there for as long as he dared. When he finally covered her, he knew he would never ask what had happened the night before. He couldn’t stay there a moment longer, not without thinking of the reservoir, not without remembering a day when there were hawks overhead in a sky that was blue as sapphires. Silver walked out, closed the door behind him, and went downstairs to tell Dina that everything was all right, everything was in order.

  Teresa slept for almost twenty hours; by the time she woke up, the candle Dina had placed on the bureau had burned itself out and Silver had already left for the night. No matter how hard Teresa listened for him on the other side of the bedroom wall, she wouldn’t hear Silver pacing the floor—for he had already delivered all his packages for Gregory, and now he was parked outside a two-story house on the other side of town. On the second floor a seventeen-year-old girl named Lee was waiting to sneak out her bedroom window; nearly every night she edged across the garage roof, then climbed down the drainpipe. When she was sure her feet dangled close to the ground, she jumped and then went running over to Silver’s car. It was not really that Silver wanted a steady girlfriend, a sweetheart with big blue eyes. He saw Lee because it was easy—he had never even asked her out. Lee had come over to him one night at the Dragon. She had used her older sister’s driver’s license as proof of age, and when she saw Silver across the room she felt more like twenty-five than seventeen, she felt drawn to him, pulled by hot, white strings.

  Lee made certain to ask for nothing—not birthday presents or telephone calls, not promises of undying love, not even faithfulness. It wasn’t that she didn’t want all these things, but she knew they were together on Silver’s terms or not at all, and she sensed that his terms could change without a moment’s notice. When she didn’t see the headlights of Silver’s car outside her house at midnight, she couldn’t sleep all night; on the darkest edge of insomnia she imagined Silver with other girls, older women who knew more than she did about love and forgiven
ess. She thought about heartaches, she whispered his name, she bit her fingernails until they bled, leaving red traces on her nightgown, on her blue lambswool sweater.

  But on the nights when he did appear all of the waiting seemed worth it. When they walked down the street every woman turned to stare at Silver, but it was Lee who held on to his arm, and she tossed her head so that her blond hair swung out in bands of victory. She knew that her position was shaky; any of her girlfriends would have gladly changed places with her, and she was certain that they would all betray her if given the chance, one telephone call, one wink, one invitation to a night of desire and they would be in her place. So she held on to Silver tightly, she wrote his name and her own in the toilets of every bar in town, and she circled their names with blood-red hearts. When women at the Dragon looked at Silver a little too long, Lee put her hand into Silver’s jeans, she didn’t care who was looking, she wanted them to look, she’d stare them down until they looked the other way.

  It was so easy to be with Lee that Silver found himself spending more and more time with her; there were rumors that he was going steady, gossip that he was finally in love. And frankly, Silver didn’t care what other people said—he knew the truth—he wanted a woman at all times, and he didn’t really care much who she was.

  On the night when Teresa was just waking up from the sleep, which had begun on Greene Street, Silver had his first serious argument with Angel Gregory. Silver was edgy that night, he had been from the start. He couldn’t stop wondering what had gone on at Greene Street—and wondering made him powerless and mean. When Lee had run through the darkness and gotten into the car, Silver hadn’t said a word to her. He was hunched over the wheel, thinking about Teresa, and when Lee leaned over and kissed him, Silver didn’t push her away, but he looked at her, confused, as if she were a stranger. She had brought the odor of lilacs in her perfume with her; when she had kissed him, her mouth had felt cold.

  “Do you have to work for Gregory tonight?” Lee asked as they drove away toward the Dragon. Even though Lee had accompanied Silver on some of his late-night runs and had waited for him in the parked car, she had never asked him just what his business was. She had learned that he would tell her exactly how much he wanted her to know.

  “I don’t have to work for anyone,” Silver said sullenly, and Lee could tell that he’d already been drinking.

  “Did you make all your deliveries tonight?” Lee asked, as if Silver drove a car for a pharmacy or an auto parts shop instead of a drug dealer.

  “Shit,” Silver said. He wrinkled his nose. “What is that goddamned smell?”

  Lee sank into the leather upholstery. “Perfume,” she told him.

  “Well, I don’t like it,” Silver said. “Don’t wear it anymore.”

  Later, when they got to the Dragon and Silver had ordered a shot of tequila for himself and a seven and seven for Lee, Lee went into the ladies room and scrubbed her neck and wrists with a damp paper towel. She rubbed at her skin until every bit of the perfume was gone, and even then, when she walked back to the bar she was afraid that the odor of lilacs—Desire, the perfume was called—was still with her, betraying her, forcing Silver to turn away. When she walked past the bouncer, he smiled at her and didn’t ask for any proof of age, he knew she belonged to Silver and that was proof enough. At the bar, Gregory was standing next to Silver, but Silver looked straight ahead, his eyes were narrowed and dark.

  “I’m not your boy,” Lee heard him tell Gregory. “So don’t call me that.”

  “As long as you’re working for me, I’ll call you what I like,” Gregory said.

  “Working for you?” Silver said. “I could run your business in no time flat. I’d give your customers more satisfaction than they ever got from you.”

  “Is that what you’ve got in mind?” Gregory said. “Because I’ll tell you right now, I don’t have room for a vice-president.”

  “What are we fighting for?” Silver said to Gregory then, and he bought the other man a drink, he even toasted to Gregory’s continued success. But later, when he and Lee were parked on a dirt road near Cannon’s Field, Silver couldn’t get Angel Gregory out of his mind.

  “He acts like a fucking dictator,” Silver said. “But the news is—nobody tells me what to do.”

  “Forget about him,” Lee said. She turned the car heater on, then climbed into the back seat. “Think about me,” she whispered as she took Silver’s arm and urged him to come into the back with her.

  They made love in silence. All the time he was holding her, Silver was thinking of ways to take over Gregory’s business, and by the time they had finished, and Lee’s arms were pulling him down for one last kiss, Silver had figured out exactly what he would do.

  For the next few weeks Silver didn’t give Gregory any backtalk, he was the perfect employee. But every time he stopped to make a pickup, Silver led the customers around to their dissatisfaction with Gregory. When he knew that a fire was lit, he proposed that they switch their business to him. Silver offered discounts, he spoke with sincerity, when it was necessary, he lied. He insinuated that Gregory had once turned state’s evidence against one of his customers, that he wasn’t a man to be trusted. In no time there were dozens of connections ready to switch their allegiance to Silver. The only problem was how to get rid of Gregory, a way short of murder if possible.

  Not long after his eighteenth birthday, Silver was civil to Bergen for the first time; he had a plan and he wanted the detective’s opinion. And so, on a Saturday night, Silver surprised the family by being at dinner.

  “What would you say,” Silver asked Bergen, “if you were a cop and you got an anonymous call, a tipoff about some criminal activities.”

  Bergen poured gravy over his roast beef. “I never was a cop,” he told Silver. “So I can’t really tell you what I’d say.”

  Silver stopped himself from sneering. “Well, hell,” he said, pushing his plate away, “use your imagination.” Silver reached for a bottle of beer. “Do you act on it and go pick the guy up, or do you shrug it off as a crank call?”

  “I see if there’s a file on the guy,” Bergen said. “If there is, I might watch him. If there’s not, I forget the whole thing and go home and have dinner.” Bergen turned to Teresa. “This is what experience does for you. Gives you the upper hand in playing guessing games.”

  “If he’s got a record you go after him?” Silver pushed.

  “I might.” Bergen nodded. “Why are you so interested?”

  “Interested?” Silver said. He finally reached for his fork and began to eat. “I’m just curious about the way your mind works, Bergen. That’s all.”

  “His mind works just fine,” Dina said. She patted Bergen on the head as she passed by, on the way to the stove for more gravy. “That’s more than I can say for you,” she teased Silver.

  “Oh, really.” Silver smiled. He was pleased, certain that Bergen had the slow mentality of a cop. The old detective had just given him the go-ahead. “We’ll just see about that,” Silver told his mother.

  When Silver called the station house later that week, he made certain that the trunk of Gregory’s car was full of dope. He offered to run so many errands that Gregory wondered if so much dedication didn’t deserve a raise in salary. But in fact, whenever Silver had access to Gregory’s apartment he planted evidence in the clothes closets, in the drawers where Gregory kept his sweaters, in the vegetable bin in the refrigerator. He didn’t make any deliveries that week and instead filled two suitcases with drugs and left them in the hall closet at Gregory’s apartment, and finally on the day before he turned Gregory in to the police, he stole the red leather address book Gregory kept on his desk, so that he finally possessed the names and phone numbers of all Gregory’s most important connections. On the day that he called, Silver didn’t bother to disguise his voice, he didn’t waver when he gave Gregory’s name and address, he was even kind enough to mention Gregory’s one felony conviction—assault in 1964. When he hung up, S
ilver smoked a cigarette and then picked up the phone and dialed Gregory’s number. He left a message on the dealer’s answering machine—he wouldn’t be in for work that night, perhaps not for the rest of the week, he had the flu, he was much too weak to make even one pickup.

  On the night when three officers knocked at Angel Gregory’s front door, Silver was in the living room of his own house, watching TV with Dina and Teresa. He sat with his boots propped up on the coffee table; every face on the TV screen was Gregory’s just at the moment when the cops went straight to the hall closet, and came up with two suitcases full of dope.

  “You’re in a good mood,” Dina said to her son.

  “Is there a law against it?” Silver asked.

  Teresa was sitting on the floor, her back against the couch, homework in front of her. “A girl I know at school told me that you’re going steady,” she said to Silver.