Made in the U.S.A.

by Billie Letts

  “You going to come to school here? Why?”

  “Well, my sister and I live in the Gold Digger Inn, and it’s not so far from here.”

  “No, it ain’t far at all. Just the first stop along the line.”

  “The line of what?”

  “You stay there and watch me, let me show you the line.” The man, with salt-and-pepper hair—more salt than pepper—stood a broom he was holding in the corner, then erased the comment from the board. He drew a star on one end and said, “This is the Gold Digger where you livin’. Right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The man then made a star a couple of feet beyond the first one. “There the school where we standin’ this minute.” He put down a third star past the center of the chalkboard. “This is the jail. County jail ’bout five mile from here.” Finally, he drew the fourth star at the far end of the board, put down the chalk, and turned to face Fate. “That”—he tapped the final star—“the prison.”

  He paused, waiting for his lesson to sink in. “That the line, boy. You come to this school, it only be the second stop on the line. You hear what I’m sayin’?”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  Three days later, on Fate’s fourth visit to the school, Joshua Washington, the only janitor at James Baldwin Elementary, gave Fate a job—a secret job, in case any of the teachers or staff showed up and asked about the boy. Should that happen, Joshua said he’d tell them Fate was his grandson, another secret between the man and the boy.

  Fate had to take care of all the jobs that involved bending, as Joshua had arthritis in his spine. And there were plenty of jobs that required bending: holding the dustpan while Joshua swept debris into it; pulling up all the rubber mats used in the gym for floor exercises, then taking them outside to be hosed down; lugging boxes of textbooks to the rooms where they would be used. Joshua was happy to pay Fate three dollars a day from his own pocket and share the lunch his wife sent with him every day. Though this was the time of the year when Joshua’s job was most demanding, it would provide work for Fate only until school started.

  But there was a catch. In addition to Fate’s help for six hours a day, he had an assignment to read many of James Baldwin’s books, a grand assignment for a book lover who had never read any of Baldwin’s work. Not so for Joshua, who had read them all, some several times over. For instance, he’d read Notes of a Native Son seven times and Go Tell It on the Mountain four times.

  He told Fate that at home he had all of Baldwin’s books, which he kept on a special shelf with a framed autographed picture of Baldwin dated 1975, when he spoke and signed his new book, Just Above My Head, in a bookstore in Harlem while Joshua was there visiting his sister.

  Each time Fate finished one of Baldwin’s books, he and Joshua would discuss it for days. Once, following a brief rainstorm, Joshua reclaimed one of Baldwin’s lines: “God gave Noah the rainbow sign, No more water, the fire next time!”

  Fate sometimes thought that God was looking out for him and Lutie. The notes left for them, and the food they found on the hood of the car and in the library. All of that came from someone. And if it didn’t come from God, then maybe Fate’s mother was watching over them or maybe even Floy. But he felt pretty certain that it wasn’t his daddy because he didn’t figure Jim McFee had the status of an angel.

  Anyway, whether it was a guardian angel or fate or just plain luck, he had traded the Clark County Library several miles away for the Gold Digger Inn, the James Baldwin Elementary School, and Joshua, a new and badly needed friend.

  Joshua told him about the teachers he’d be with in most of his sixth-grade classes, talked about the ones who couldn’t or wouldn’t even try to hide their bigotry, told him about the big, tough-talking gym teacher who was the sweetest, most caring, most accepting of all, gave him a heads-up on those teachers who hated their jobs and those who loved teaching.

  Joshua also told him about the students who’d be in his classes, told him the ones to steer clear of—the “hotheads,” he called them—boys who fought with their fists, boys most likely to have a knife, and the ones who managed to get guns into the school despite the metal detectors. Joshua had found a half dozen or so hidden around the building—taped to the backs of toilet tanks or on the tallest shelves in the supply room. Once he even found one wired to the bottom of a teacher’s chair. Said he’d found Rugers, Colts, Smith & Wessons, and even a TEC-9, “the cop-killer gun,” Joshua called it.

  “Some of these boys is just plain crazy, few of the girls, too. Me and my wife, Doreen, raised three girls. No boys. Each time Doreen got pregnant, I was wishing and praying for a boy, but the Lord knew what was best, ’cause our girls turned out fine. Two of them finished high school, and both of them went off to college.”

  “What about the other one?” Fate asked. “Your third girl? Is she still in school?”

  “Bea. Honey Bea, I called her. She died. Fifteen years old and she died.”

  “Was she sick?”

  “Drive-by shooting. One crazy boy in a car full of crazy boys just driving around to find someone to shoot. My Honey Bea walking with a bunch of kids going to the mall. And the boy who shot her? Didn’t even know her. Didn’t even know her name.”

  Joshua turned away, picked up a bucket of soapy water and a mop, then headed down the hall. “This school got a lot of them crazy boys. You best to steer clear of them hotheads, Fate.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll try. I’ll sure enough try.”

  Lutie was barely holding on to her job at Denny’s. But if she knew it, she didn’t show it. Most of the time she came in to work her shift, and usually she wasn’t more than an hour or so late. But since she didn’t have a phone, and probably wouldn’t have thought to call if she did, her coming in for work was a crapshoot.

  And though her body might have been there, her mind wasn’t. She always seemed to find herself reliving that day at the Desert Palms.

  She screwed up orders—serving well-done steaks when the customer had ordered rare; making mistakes in tabulating the bills; forgetting to refill drinks; overlooking her tables stacked with half-eaten meals, spilled coffee and milk, crumbs on the booths. And worst of all, she kept calling the boss Stan when his name was Steve.

  When she got off work in the morning, she’d bring Fate some breakfast, then crawl into bed for the day, sleeping until her next shift at Denny’s.

  But all that changed one night when one of the cooks, a young guy named Johnny Viper, said, “Hey, girl, what’s going on with you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You look like shit. Sick?”

  “Yeah. Sort of.”

  “Ain’t none of my fucking business, but I got something that’ll make you feel good no matter if you’ve got the measles or if you’re sick in your head.”

  “Really?”

  “Real fuckin’ really. Meet me out back when you take your smoke break.”

  And that’s what she did.

  Her first few “buys” were free, but once she was hooked, she had to start paying, so by the time school started, almost all her tip money went into Viper’s pocket, cash that Fate didn’t know about.

  The day school started, they had a little less than two hundred dollars, but Lutie had a surprise for Fate. She’d noticed that his shoes were so small for him that he’d sliced the seam down the back so his heel could stick through. And every pair of pants he owned were at least two inches too short. So she went to the Catholic Charities, where she picked out some used shoes and clothes for her brother.

  She thought at first that he’d be excited when he woke up and found “new” clothes laid out on her bed, but as she placed them there, she saw them for what they were: athletic shoes that had been the rage four or five years ago; a shirt that had been patched on the elbow; a pair of slacks that a banker might wear.

  When she turned to wake him, she found that he’d gone to sleep reading his tattered copy of the Paradise Elementary School brochure, and she knew the clothes weren’
t going to raise his spirits at all.

  He ate the Danish she’d brought home from Denny’s, washed it down with a small carton of milk she kept in a cooler.

  When she waved him off to his first day of classes at James Baldwin Elementary, he managed a tight-lipped smile in return. And even in the used clothes she’d bought, she thought he looked fine.

  But when he came in that afternoon, he looked anything but fine. He had a cut over one eye, blood dripping from his nose and lip, both knees of his banker’s slacks torn out, and one sleeve of his shirt ripped off.

  “Fate! What in the world . . . Are you all right?”

  “Well, I had a little trouble, as you can see. But it’s a wonderful school. Intellectual atmosphere. And very friendly. I obviously made a good impression and gained so many new friends.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  LUTIE HADN’T SLEPT at all the night before, wrestling with her decision. But by the time the sun came up, she knew what she had to do.

  Fate was still sleeping when she left the motel room. She had cleaned his wounds and bandaged them the day before, but there was no cover for the bruises on his face or the swelling of his upper lip.

  She found T. at the Carnival Court, having a drink at the bar with a young redhead wearing a low-cut tank top that barely covered the nipples of her crafted breasts. When he noticed Lutie standing a few feet away, he wasted no time in reaching her.

  “Sweet little Lutie,” he said as he wrapped her in his arms. “I’ve missed you, darlin’.” With just a look, he sent the redhead away.

  “I’ve got to talk to you,” Lutie said.

  “Then let’s take a table so we don’t have to put up with the same old lies the drunks at the bar love to tell.”

  He pulled out a chair for Lutie, then scooted his close to her.

  “So, precious girl, how’s life treating you?”

  “Not so good.” She bit her lip, a sure sign of tension. “I’ve got to get seven, eight hundred dollars. Today.”

  “Whoa, baby, whoa. What makes you think you can pull down that kind of money in a day?”

  “I’ll make one of those movies for you. A porno film.”

  “Well, honey, it’s not all that easy. See—”

  “I can do it. I can do whatever you and Philo want me to.”

  “Let me explain this to you. Philo’s finishing a project today, which means that as soon as it’s in the can, he’ll start a new one.”

  “Then it’s the perfect time for me.”

  “I doubt it. I leave the casting up to Philo, so I imagine he’s already made up his mind about who he’s using.”

  “But maybe not. Call him, please. Call him now and just ask him, T. I really need that money.”

  “You’re a girl in a hurry, aren’t you? What’s the matter, Lutie? You got a habit now? Little coke problem?”

  “This is not about that.”

  “Then—”

  “My brother, Fate. We’re living in the Gold Digger and—”

  “Oh, shit. You are in trouble. I’ve had three girls attacked there in the past couple of years. One of them lost an eye, another died. Stabbed in the chest. Sweet Jesus, Lutie, why would you even consider moving in there?”

  “The motel’s not the problem. It’s the school Fate’s going to. He got beat up yesterday, the first day of classes.”

  “So you need this money to—”

  “To move. To rent a place close to a different school, a school Fate’s visited. It’s Paradise Elementary, but the Digger’s not in their zone. So will you call Philo? Ask him to put me in this new movie?”

  “Honey, you need to understand something. Philo’s good at his job. And he’s fast. But these films aren’t shot in just one day.”

  “How long does it take?”

  “Four days, five. It takes as long as it takes, so you probably wouldn’t get paid until sometime next week.”

  “Then can you loan me the money now and when I finish the film—”

  “I don’t know, Lutie. That doesn’t sound like such a good idea to me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Let’s say I give you seven bills, and you go on a coke binge. You don’t show up to film, the money’s gone, and I’m left holding the bag. An empty bag.”

  “That won’t happen, T. I promise you that won’t happen.”

  “Well, if Philo’s lined up Ebony and Lingo, they might be able to cover for you when you fuck up—no pun intended.” T. grinned at his own cleverness. “They’re two of the best. Ebony knows her way around, guess she’s made eight or nine pictures for us, and Lingo—”

  “T., I won’t lie to you. I’ve never done it with a girl, but—”

  “Piece of cake, Lutie. Piece of cake. I’ll show you a couple of videos at the studio and you’ll know exactly what to do. Hey . . .” His brow wrinkled when an unpleasant thought struck him. “You’re not a virgin, are you?”

  “Hell, no!” She tried for a look of defiance, but when she saw the picture of the rapist in her head, she asked T. if he’d get her a screwdriver while she went to the ladies’ room.

  “How about I get two screwdrivers?” he said. “Start this day off right for the both of us.”

  While he was at the bar, Lutie made a dash to the bathroom, where she snorted a dime of coke inside one of the stalls. Then, at a large mirror over the sink, she made a quick check for telltale signs of white powder on her face before she returned to the table. T. was waiting there with their drinks.

  “What happened, sugar?” He reached across the table and brushed away one speck of white just above her lip. “You stop in for a little pick-me-up?”

  Pretending not to understand the question or deciding simply to ignore it, Lutie said, “So, will you call Philo now?”

  “I already did.” T. raised his glass, waited for her to do the same, then said, “Here’s to our new porn princess.” As they toasted their new venture, T. slid seven hundred dollars across the table to Lutie.

  At the studio, Lutie met Ebony, a statuesque beauty whose skin was the color of coffee, and Lingo—tall with a sculpted body and a gay partner, Brice, who did hair and makeup for the cast.

  Philo had the three “stars” disrobe in their dressing rooms, then, wearing kimonos, come to the studio bedroom, where he told them the story line of the movie, a plot featuring a married couple—Ebony and Lingo—bored with their sex lives until they hire a young live-in housekeeper, who would be played by Lutie.

  When Philo had them remove their kimonos and pose in various sexual positions for Polaroid shots, Lutie was so uncomfortable and embarrassed that she wanted to run. But she didn’t. She knew she had no choice. If she didn’t make this film, she and Fate would soon be living out of a car again, and he would still be going to James Baldwin Elementary, where his next beating might be worse than the first.

  After Philo finished with the still photos, he thumbtacked them to a bulletin board, then sent the actors to the fitting room, where a Vietnamese woman was waiting. She had them try on costumes, which she measured, marking seams with chalk, pinning up hems, adjusting straps, belts, chains—and doing her work without speaking a word.

  From there they returned to their dressing rooms, put on their street clothes, and met with Philo again so he could give them their scripts. He told them to memorize their lines for tomorrow, the first day of shooting, because he would not tolerate an actor who didn’t know his or her lines. He said their day would begin at eight o’clock, not a minute later, and told them to be prepared to stay late, as he planned to finish this film in three days.

  On her way to the Digger, Lutie stopped at Denny’s, where she bought fifty dollars’ worth of coke from Viper with the money T. had given her, flashing—without intending to—the entire seven hundred not only to Viper, but to another guy working in the kitchen.

  When she got back in her car, she snorted a few lines to try to ease the ugly memories of the pictures she’d just posed for, knowing that the next three
days she’d be doing more of the same. And probably worse.

  By the time Lutie got to their room at the Digger, she’d come up with a story to tell Fate, a wild tale that was certain to arouse his suspicion, but she couldn’t think of another explanation for the money in her purse. Besides, even if he didn’t believe her, he’d be so thrilled to learn he was going to be a student at Paradise, he might not throw too many questions at her.

  “You’re going to what!?”

  “Be in a commercial. A toothpaste commercial.”

  “And you’re going to make six hundred dollars?” The look on Fate’s face, something between a sneer and a grin, told Lutie he didn’t believe her.

  “True.” She crossed her heart, a sign of gospel fact. “And I’ll get another six hundred if they like it.” Anticipating an extended interrogation, Lutie jumped in with the lines she’d rehearsed after she’d left Philo’s studio. “See, when they make a commercial, they test it out in a certain area. The Northeast, for example. Say, Maine and Illinois and New York. Like the thirteen colonies.”

  “Lutie, Illinois wasn’t one of the thirteen colonies.”

  “Yeah, but you get the idea. So, if the commercial does well there, then they’ll show it in the South, maybe, then the West, and so on.”

  “But actors, real actors, have to audition. Some guy doesn’t just walk up to you and offer you a job in a commercial without even—”

  “Listen, Fate, it’s kind of like what’s-her-name being spotted at a drugstore by some talent agent. Next thing you know, she’s a movie star. That’s kind of how it happened to me, except I wasn’t in a drugstore. I was walking into the Gap because they had a Help Wanted sign in the window and—”

  “Lutie, if you think I’m going to believe this, then you—”

  “Well, maybe you’ll believe this.” She pulled six one-hundred-dollar bills from her purse and slapped them down on the nightstand between their beds. She’d hidden the other fifty inside the zippered pocket of her jeans, money she’d need for her next buy from Viper.

  “But you haven’t even started filming yet,” Fate said as he spread the bills across his pillow.