The White Horse

by Grant, Cynthia D.

  “Real funny,” she said, trying to ignore him. They were huddled in a store doorway, out of the wind.

  Sonny’s face got ugly. “You acted disgusting, throwing up in front of all those people. Shit.”

  She could’ve said bunch of junkies, who cares. But the best thing to do was keep her mouth shut.

  “They were gonna let us stay till you fucked up. I’m serious,” he said. “You got a real problem, Raina.”

  She could’ve said: Tell the guy in the mirror. When she met him his habit was a tiny little pet, but now it was a horse that rode him.

  “You hear what I’m saying? The truth hurts, don’t it. Why don’t you say something?”

  She wouldn’t, so he shoved her. They pushed each other against the windows until somebody came out and said I’m calling the cops. She walked off.

  “Nice going,” Sonny said to her back.

  He needed a fix and they were dead broke, so they looked all around but couldn’t find Stevie Joe. They went down to the Plaza but the day was cold; the tourists kept their hands in their pockets. Hey, man, Sonny said, it’s the Christmas season. The season for giving, you tightwad bastards.

  She went to Macy’s to get some stuff to return or maybe snag a purse if she got lucky, but a rent-a-cop grabbed her and threw her out. She and Sonny had burned too many places. People knew their faces and drove them off like dogs.

  Maybe they could borrow some money from Bert. When they got to the Laundromat he wasn’t around. A guy in camouflage was reading a Watchtower while his clothes dried.

  “How’s the war going, Sarge?”

  The guy looked at Sonny.

  “Who’s winning, us or them?”

  The guy just stared.

  “Mind if we bum one of those cigarettes?”

  “Yeah.” The guy didn’t blink. His eyes were scary.

  “We’re starving, man. How ’bout you loan us a dollar? Come on, fifty cents.”

  “Let’s go,” Raina said.

  “Fifty cents, man. That’s all I’m asking. A quarter. A dime.”

  She tugged Sonny’s sleeve.

  “A nickel. A penny. Hey, we pay you, Sarge!”

  She grabbed Sonny’s arm, pulled him out the door.

  “What’s the matter with you?” she said. “He’s nuts.”

  “So what?” Sonny said. “These goddamn shoes.”

  “You shoulda got some when we had the money.”

  “You drink it all up.”

  “You’re a goddamn liar.”

  “Don’t call me a liar.”

  “Who’s the junkie? Not me.”

  He grabbed her and slammed her against a building. Then his eyes got sad and he kissed her mouth as if he were trying to hide inside her. She tasted tears. They hugged each other hard.

  They passed an antique store with stuff out front. Raina sat down in a wooden wheelchair, and Sonny wheeled it off. The owner ran out and squawked, but Sonny snarled at him and he went back inside.

  They parked near the Plaza. It worked out great: the tourists gave her money and asked about her legs. She said there was hope, maybe an operation. Then they saw a cop and left the chair behind.

  Sonny wanted to get high, but Raina said no; they had to eat first, did he want to get sick? She wouldn’t give him the money. They gulped down corn dogs. Let’s go, let’s go! He was on a mission.

  The streets were deserted. They couldn’t find anybody but the skeleton guy nobody liked to deal with; the skin on his face so tight he always smiled. No, Sonny, she said, don’t use that needle. Just wait—too late. He was smiling too.

  “Things are gonna get better. They’re gonna be different. Are you listening to me, baby?”

  “Sure,” she said, smoking a cigarette, trying to look interested, but freezing on the park bench. “Let’s go see Bert.” Hearing in her mind the warm roar of the dryers. Nah, Sonny said, he wanted to party. They went by Kimmy’s, but she’d moved out and the people wouldn’t let them in.

  “Shit,” Sonny said. He was coming down quick. “That asshole burned me.”

  “What’d you expect?”

  “I’ll kill that bastard! I’ll tear him apart! I’ve got more muscle in my shit than he’s got in his whole body!”

  They couldn’t find the guy. They couldn’t find anybody.

  “Jesus Christ,” Sonny howled, “where’d everyone go?”

  “To Florida for the winter.”

  “Whose side are you on?” As if he were playing a game he could win.

  She followed as he raged up and down the sidewalks, fixed on revenge, his body quivering. After a while he forgot about the guy. He had to get high.

  “We got any money left?”

  “Not enough,” she said.

  “We gotta get some money right now! I’m in trouble!”

  She saw his face change. She knew what was coming.

  “One guy. Just this once,” he said. “That’s all I’m asking.”

  “Fuck you.” She turned away, but he grabbed her arms.

  “I need it, Raina!”

  “Let go.”

  “Don’t you love me?”

  “You’re hurting me, you asshole!”

  “Listen, baby. Honey, please. I’ll never ask you again. I swear. I promise. But this is an emergency! I’m really sick.”

  “Then go to the Clinic.”

  “I will, tomorrow morning. First thing I’m gonna do. Get offa this shit.”

  “You must think I’m so stupid.”

  “I need you, baby. I love you so much.” He cupped her face. “Just this once. I promise.”

  “But I love you, Sonny.” Crying like a baby. “We’re supposed to be engaged.”

  “We’re still engaged. I’m gonna marry you, honey. That’s why it’s so beautiful you’d do this for me.”

  He pressed her to his chest. She could feel his heart beating.

  “Let’s go find Bert,” she said. “He’ll give us some money.”

  Sonny turned her face to the busy street. “Look around you, honey. We’re alone on the planet. It’s you and me, baby. That’s all we’ve got.”

  “But I want things to be the way they used to be.”

  “They will! I promise. We’ll sit on the hill and watch the boats come in, all the little sailboats on the bay. Go skating at the rink, with all the lights twinkling and the music playing. Wouldn’t you like that, honey? I just need you to do this one little thing. Just sex, that’s all it is. It don’t mean nothing. I’m gonna marry you, honey. And I’m gonna get clean. I’m so sick of this shit. I mean it, I’ve had it. Things are gonna change. Real soon, I promise. Look at me, Raina. You believe me, don’t you, honey?”

  His eyes were so sad, she had to look away. “I don’t wanna get in anybody’s car,” she whispered.

  “You can take him to the hotel. I’ll be right outside the room.” He kissed her face softly again and again. “Don’t worry, honey. Nothing weird’s gonna happen. I’d kill anybody who hurt you.”

  They started toward the block where people shopped for bodies. Fog was rolling down the street. Sonny walked fast. It was hard to keep up. He pushed through the crowds, his torn sneakers flapping.

  “We gotta get you some shoes,” she told his back.

  He turned around and smiled, feeling so much better already, he didn’t wait for the light at the corner to change. He jumped off the curb and into the crosswalk, hungry for the thrill of screeching tires, the shrill joy of forcing people not to kill him—in front of a car driven by someone just like him, another kid who didn’t give a damn.

  And went sailing through the air until he hit the pavement, his head splashing open like a water balloon.

  A crowd formed fast. She got pushed to the back. Cops came, and an ambulance instantly appeared, as if it had been tailing Sonny for blocks, for years. Some guys covered his face, scooped him up and drove off. Cops talked to the driver; he acted pissed, like: I’m already late for work, now this. Got surly, got searched and p
opped for possession, then thrown into the back of a squad car, screaming. A TV news crew arrived. People fought to be witnesses.

  A fireman in boots hosed down the street.

  The crowd talked and talked, telling each other what they’d seen.

  After a while she walked away.

  Chapter Ten

  I must look lost because I’m always being found. By all kinds of people with plans for me, and all kinds of maps to my future.

  Went to church one time with foster parents number three. Didn’t work out with them. Long story. Nice people. Anyway, they took me to their church. More nice people; the women in dresses, kids sparkling clean. Minister up front, talking about Sunday stuff. People listening and nodding, little choir singing.

  The next thing I know, everybody goes crazy: jabbering and shouting and waving their arms. My foster mom’s on the floor; she’s laughing and sobbing—

  I almost talked in tongues myself, I was so scared.

  Lost languages, she told me in the car, going home. A sweet puffy woman. Her name was Winnie. “It’s the Holy Spirit moving through you, Lorraine. The Living Ghost.”

  Dead ghosts were bad enough. I was nine.

  “There’s only one thing you have to fear, Lorraine. The Devil. He’s real.”

  “I know,” I said. My devil didn’t have horns, just a stinky yellow T-shirt. My mother’s fyon-say, that’s what she called him. Throwing kids against the wall. Or foster daddy number two, peeling off his business suit like it was a costume. Locking the door, crawling into my bed. It’s okay, he said, we’re not related.

  Winnie and her husband were really nice. They weren’t into sex, even with each other. They couldn’t have kids, so they wanted to save me so I could go to heaven and be their little girl.

  What will we do there? I’d ask.

  Be with God, Winnie said. Adore Him forever. Sometimes heaven sounded like an endless church picnic, people strolling around, eating ice-cream cones and smiling. Other times it sounded like everyone who’d ever died was part of a vast choir, always singing His praises.

  I couldn’t picture it.

  “If I go there and I’m your little girl,” I said, “how can you be a little girl with your own mother?”

  She’d loved her mom a lot and still missed her. She was always telling me about their happy times together.

  “It’s kind of hard to understand,” she admitted. “But it’s all at the same time. It works out fine. And when it’s your time to die, God calls you home.”

  “How does He know my name?”

  “Like any father knows his child.”

  I didn’t know mine. There were millions of people in our city alone. How could He keep us all straight?

  She thought and thought. “God’s God,” she said, as if that explained everything.

  My family hardly ever talked about God, except when people died. Then He was everywhere. It’s God’s will, Granny told me at the funeral home. Home, she called it, as if my brother lived there. My mother screaming and flinging herself on the coffin. Such a tiny little box. How could Bobby breathe in there?

  Don’t be sad, Granny said later when I couldn’t stop crying; God wanted Bobby for his very own. Bobby’s with Him in heaven now. And God is always with us.

  If He’s always with us, why’d He have to take Bobby? Couldn’t He drop by the apartment and visit?

  It’s kind of hard to explain, Granny said. He’s in heaven, but He’s with us too. He’s invisible.

  Then how do you know He’s here?

  You just do.

  So you mean He just sat there and watched Bobby die?

  My mother slapped me; she thought I was being smart.

  I hope there’s a heaven and I’ll get to see Bobby. But will I be a kid or an old lady? If God’s as powerful as everybody says, why doesn’t He protect the little Children? They didn’t do nothing wrong, they didn’t hurt anybody.

  I’ve asked lots of people, but no one can tell me.

  When someone dies people say, That’s too bad, then they hurry away and the world goes on; as if nothing’s changed, as if the person didn’t matter; as if he were just a dream they’d had and as soon as they woke up, they forgot him.

  How can people be alive, then gone so fast? Just gone and you can’t see them, you can’t touch them or feel them. You keep looking at all the people in the street, like it’s all a mistake and any second he’ll be there. I thought you were dead. What? You musta been dreaming. Gone, completely gone. You can’t believe it. One minute you’re walking along together, then suddenly they disappear. They’re not beside you anymore. They’re not anywhere. A day ago, a minute ago, things were fine and you keep trying to turn back the clock in your mind, but now a door’s closed and they’re on the other side and you knock and knock but nobody answers.

  When people die are they just dead or do their spirits surround us? Do they disappear or go to heaven? I try to believe, but it seems like heaven’s something people made up because death’s so scary.

  I don’t want to be alone in the ground somewhere, or sitting on a cloud by myself. I want to BE with someone. I go see Bobby; he’s buried in this section for kids. Lost Lambs. My mother bought him a big marble angel, with fancy writing on the stone, Bobby’s name and the dates, and the words IN GOD’S HANDS. She never goes there. Granny visits sometimes; last year she planted plastic flowers.

  I sit there and talk to him and try not to think about all the bones beneath the grass. Acres of grass, like a big green blanket. I picture Bobby as he was, his cheeks soft and pink, his eyes closed, taking a nap. Just sleeping. I shut my eyes and pretend we’re little kids again, crowded into bed or curled up on the floor. But it’s not like our house: it’s real quiet and peaceful. No yelling or screaming, no cops at the door.

  Maybe heaven’s like that, a big, quiet room where you sleep beside the people you love. You can’t see them or feel them but you can hear them breathing, and there’s blankets and everybody’s warm.

  Chapter Eleven

  Thank God it’s almost Christmas vacation. If I don’t get out of here soon I’ll be taking hostages in the District Office. Those people are driving me CRAZY. I say we’re leaking, and they give me trash cans. I ask for software and get computer paper. If I said I wanted a language lab, they’d send me a foreign exchange student.

  It’s not just them. I took the car in to be fixed. The guy comes out with this sad look on his face and tells me I should put the car to sleep. I know it’s old and tired, will you please just fix it? He says it’ll be done the next day. It takes a week. But does he tell me why? Can I get him on the phone?

  Sorry, he says when I finally catch him; I’ve been real busy.

  If we’re all so busy, why are things so screwed up?

  The kids are antsy. They always get like this before Christmas, hoping that for once it will turn out perfect; the whole family hugging. A Hallmark commercial. Meanwhile, in real life, it’s Holiday on Ice Cubes; people drinking and eating WAY too much, fighting tears and each other—

  But enough about me.

  Brenda’s run away again. Nobody’s seen her.

  Luis came to class wearing gang colors. I sent him home. He hasn’t been back.

  Janessa’s going with a guy too old for me. The other day he picked her up in a brand-new Porsche. I didn’t know what it was, of course; the kids told me. I said, That’s not her dad, is it? They looked at each other like: Is she for real?

  None of this was covered in my Ed. classes.

  It was wonderful having Wendy here. We talked and talked then I felt so guilty because the whole time I’m listening to her, I’m thinking: How come SHE gets a husband and children, and students who think she’s a fabulous teacher?

  I’d file a complaint if I knew where to go. Think how long the line would be.

  Last week my doctor asked if I’d considered hormones.

  Yes, for my mother! I wanted to shout. What are you saying to me?

  Well,
she said, when you reach a certain age—

  What’s certain about it? The other day I burst into tears again, at the supermarket, in the frozen foods section. An old lady said, Are you all right, dear? I said: Everything is so expensive.

  I’m just depressed, I told the doctor. Isn’t everyone?

  No. Had I considered counseling? Or medication?

  I’ve considered everything but a head transplant. I can imagine what she’s written on my chart. Patient is so self-absorbed, she is digesting her brain.

  Mom called last night. Sandy and Rob and the kids will be there Saturday and stay through New Year’s. What about me?

  Well, I said, I can’t stay too long this time.

  Why not, Peggy?

  Because you’ll drive me crazy, asking when I’m going to get married again.

  I said: I’ve made other plans.

  Plans? I could practically hear her smiling. Does this involve a man?

  Yes! My psychiatrist! I almost shouted.

  I said: I’ve got a lot of work to catch up with over vacation.

  Oh, she said. Oh. But that was plenty.

  I shouldn’t complain. My family loves me. Compared to most of my kids, I’ve got it made. Scott told me his dad chopped down the Christmas tree. That’s nice, I said. In the living room, he added.

  There’s nothing wrong with my life. I just expected something different. The prince on a white horse. A husband and children.

  Wendy asked if I’d considered adoption. Yes, but who’d adopt me? I’m too old, ha-ha. I went to a few meetings for the Fost-Adopt program. Sometimes the children live with you for years while the parents are trying to pull their lives together. If the kids can’t be reunited with their families, you can adopt them. But sometimes you have to give the children back. It’s okay, the parents say; We’re not drug addicts anymore. We promise we won’t burn Susie with cigarettes, or let her nearly drown in the bathtub.

  I couldn’t handle that.

  Some people say that all children are wanted. They’re talking Gerber babies. We’re talking kids with problems: drug babies, AIDS babies, teenagers filled with rage—

  Let’s face it: I don’t have what it takes. By the end of the school day, I’m all used up and it’s not enough to save any of them.