The White Horse

by Grant, Cynthia D.

  I’d better not write my Christmas cards tonight.

  Raina came in this morning. Maybe that’s why I feel so bleak. I hadn’t seen her in weeks. She looked awful.

  I said, “You missed the SATs.”

  She handed me some pages. I was alarmed by what she’d written.

  “You sound kind of down,” I said. Doy. Suicidal. But I didn’t want to put words in her mouth. “Is everything okay?”

  She shrugged.

  “Where are you staying these days?”

  “Around.”

  “You know you’re not supposed to smoke in here.”

  She ignored me.

  “Toby says you’re hanging out with some bikers.”

  “Ain’t none of his business what I do.”

  “Raina, why do you talk like that? Why don’t you talk the way you talk on paper?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “It sounds like you’re depressed. Have you thought about seeing a counselor?”

  “What for?”

  “So you can talk about your feelings.”

  “That’ll help.”

  “It might. Will you be seeing your family over the holidays?”

  “Yeah, on America’s Most Wanted.”

  “Do you have any plans for vacation?”

  “I’m going skiing at Tahoe. Or maybe to Hawaii. I haven’t decided.”

  “You’re welcome to stay at my house, if you’d like. I’ll be gone for a few days, but you could make yourself at home.” Invite your biker friends over. Hock the furniture for drugs. “When I get back we could spend some time together. Do a little shopping. Rent movies, make popcorn.”

  “Maybe we could sing some Christmas carols.”

  “Raina, you’re too smart to act like this.”

  “Like what?”

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about. You need to stay on track if you want to go to college.”

  “College?”

  “Have you given any thought to what you’d like to do?”

  “Yeah, I’m gonna be a supermodel.”

  I snapped. I’d had it.

  “You don’t want me to care? That’s fine. That’s great. Then quit telling me you’re having a hard time.”

  “Okay.” She shoved the pages in her pocket.

  “What do you want from me, Raina?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then why do you keep coming here?”

  “It’s warm.”

  “Well, I’m trying to teach. This isn’t the Laundromat.”

  She shrugged. “So teach. Don’t let me stop you.” She sprawled in her chair, her eyes almost friendly.

  “All right, then,” I said. “Let’s get down to business. The first thing you need to do is put out that cigarette.”

  She walked to the door, ground it out, and kept going.

  I refuse to believe that any child is doomed. But what if her hope is gone?

  Chapter Twelve

  It seemed like the rain had always been falling, roaring like the traffic outside the Laundromat. She watched through the steamed-up windows, Bert talking. She couldn’t hear what he was saying, but it didn’t matter; he liked to talk, wouldn’t stop if she left.

  One morning, she guessed it was Christmas, less traffic, he brought her some clothes and cigarettes. They shared a bottle of his favorite wine and ate Chinese takeout for breakfast.

  Then she went to the Plaza and hung around with some friends; she knew their faces not their names, and everybody got real high on downers and drank a lot. She shrieked with laughter.

  Drifted in and out of people’s apartments. Slept in the Laundromat some nights. Fell down, got up, got loaded, passed out, never sure where she was when she opened her eyes.

  For a while she stayed with some Hell’s Angels, but they acted too corny, like TV bikers, trashing the place and having stupid fights. The fattest one hit on her all the time, so she told him she had something vague; not AIDS, he would’ve beaten her up.

  Money was tight; Christmas had tapped out the tourists, so she went to the block where the girls hung out, freezing in their miniskirts and short shorts, thighs flashing purple in the neon lights. A few of the girls didn’t want her around. One cranky blonde said, I’ll keep you in mind the next time someone’s looking for a toddler.

  But the others were nice, especially the drags, in their sky-high heels and flapping wigs. They treated her kind, like their own child; drove away the pimps and told her who to avoid. It worked out okay except one guy wouldn’t pay; he laughed in her face and walked out. And one night she got too stoned and made a big mistake; knew it as soon as he locked the door. She thought: This is it. I’m gonna die. Her mind ran away and hid but came back the next morning and he’d beat her up so bad she had to go to the free clinic.

  The doctor scowled when he saw the bruises.

  “How old are you?” he asked, examining her face.

  “Forty.”

  “You won’t see twenty at this rate.”

  He stitched her cuts and took X rays and blood. She wanted to leave, but they’d taken her clothes, so she had to wait on the examining table. The paper crinkled when she moved. There was nothing to read and nothing in the cupboards worth taking. The doctor came back with the lab work, sighing.

  “You know what I’m going to say, don’t you,” he said.

  She shrugged.

  “Why’d you wait so long to come in?”

  “I been busy.”

  He rubbed his face. “We could’ve done something. Now it’s too late.”

  “I don’t want you to do nothing.”

  “I’ll need to examine you and run some tests.”

  He said a bunch more stuff, but she’d stopped listening. They couldn’t make her stay, so she got dressed and left, but once she got outside she didn’t know where to go. She could call up Granny but that wouldn’t help; all she did was cry and talk about herself, as if she were the star of every show.

  She was hungry. No money and she looked like hell. The soup kitchen reeked of all the freaks hunched over bowls. But at least she got to eat, and when they tried to save her soul she pretended she couldn’t hear them.

  Her toes were frozen. She had to get warm. She could call the teacher, maybe stay in her house, but she’d probably steal something, then school would be over and there’d be nothing. There had to be something.

  She bummed some change—the bruises helped—and took the bus to the roller rink. It was warm and dark inside. No one stared at her face and the place was so loud, she didn’t have to think; the roaring skates and blades filled up her head, and the music played and the lights were twinkling.

  She watched families swoop by, children with their parents and groups of teenagers playing crack the whip. The deejay said, “Couples only this time,” and a parade of old people circled the rink, turning this way and that like square dancers. Young couples glided by, holding hands. She and Sonny had pretended they were in the Olympics, his arm around her waist. They never lost their balance, even when the strobe lights made their faces dance. He was always so graceful until things went bad and he lost track of what to do with his arms and legs.

  She put on her skates and entered the rink, moving slowly at first, then picking up speed, cutting through the skaters like a Roller Derby queen. Big, nasty gals on wheels. Don’t mess with me. Her mother used to watch them on TV. Saturday afternoons, beer cans and babies on the floor. Where’s Bobby? Dammit, Raina, I told you to watch him. He’s getting in my purse again.… The packs circling the rink, then clashing on the rail in a snarl of flashing fists and yellow hair.

  She paused to catch her breath. A boy skated up beside her.

  “Hi.” He smiled. He had a baby face and glasses. “I’ve been watching you. You skate real good.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You come here often?”

  “No.”

  She took off. The deejay said, “Let’s turn back the clock,” and played a song she’d never he
ard.

  He was beside her again, his braces gleaming. “I come here a lot. What grade are you in?”

  She pulled ahead. He stumped along behind her.

  “I’m seventeen,” he called. “How old are you?”

  She was too small, that was the problem. People thought she was a puppy they could pick up and put in their pockets. All she wanted to do was think about Sonny, and this stupid kid was ruining it.

  “You got a boyfriend?”

  She lost him, streaking through the skaters until the breeze was blowing on the sparkling bay and the sun was shining. She and Sonny were sailing. He looked so strong. He knew exactly what to do. He used to have a boat, and a mother, and a life. Let’s not think about that now, Sonny said; let’s be happy.

  But the kid was in her face, the lights bouncing off his glasses.

  “Why are you acting so stuck-up?” he said.

  “Leave me alone, okay?”

  “I’m just being friendly.”

  She stopped skating and faced him. “Listen to me, you stupid little twit. Go find somebody else to play with.”

  He looked so shocked, she almost laughed. Then he was staring at a knife like he couldn’t figure out how it got in his hand. “You shouldn’t act so rude,” he said. The knife swung out and ripped her jacket.

  She jumped back and flew, but she couldn’t lose him. Round and round the rink, the music blaring, the strobe lights flashing in some weird dream where he was trying to kill her and nobody noticed. She glanced over her shoulder. His face was blank.

  She sailed out of the rink to the snack bar, the street, down the sidewalk, dodging traffic, through the crosswalk, people shouting, the kid calmly knocking down an old man in his way.

  Saw a cop car ahead. Didn’t stop; she’d be dead. Burst into a store past a rent-a-cop running, walkie-talkie squawking, down aisles crammed with clothes, to the housewares section; startled faces, glass smashing, the kid behind her crashing through shoppers and displays.

  Out a door to the street, down some steps, almost fell. Legs shuddering, heart thumping, her breath the only sound now in the world.

  There was nowhere to go.

  Maybe Bert would help her. The Laundromat was empty. She ricocheted off a washer toward the bathroom door. Was it locked? Jesus God. Fingers fumbling with the knob. Wrenched it open, pulled it shut, turned the bolt.

  The kid slammed into the door. He pleaded and howled, he kicked and snarled, fists raining on the wood. She crouched beneath the sink. The kid finally calmed down. He kneeled on the floor and put his mouth beneath the door and said, “Why’d you have to do that? That was rude.”

  It got real quiet, but she didn’t move. She couldn’t understand what had made her keep running. Why was she trying so hard to stay alive? Why hadn’t she run toward the knife, like Sonny?

  A long while later Bert came back.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It seems amazing that anyone can have a baby, like a puppy in a box outside Safeway. You want one? You got one. You don’t need any training. You can even be on drugs or drunk or crazy.

  I see these little girls with their big bellies. They think they’re growing somebody to love them, someone who’ll never go away. They’re happy because people are finally paying attention; asking, How’re you feeling? When’s the baby due? They’re important; they’ve got appointments to go to, and doctors and nurses who care what they do.

  Then it hurts like hell and the party’s over and the baby’s screaming and they’re all alone.

  I see them bouncing their crying babies. I say: Just hold them still and close. But the girls don’t listen or look at the babies; they’re watching the door to see who’s coming in. Maybe it’s the dealer or their speedfreak boyfriend, still looking cute, he hasn’t lost his teeth.

  The girls want to play. I’ll be right back, they say, handing the baby to whoever’s around. Here’s his bottle, he likes Pepsi. Then they’re out the door. For an hour or a day, sometimes longer.

  The girls don’t nurse their babies. They think it makes them look ignorant.

  Sometimes I hold the babies and I feel so bad. I look into their innocent eyes and think: You could’ve been born to anyone, but you had the bad luck to get stuck with a kid who doesn’t know enough to support your head and forgets to change your diaper till it’s dripping.

  You can call the county and make a report, but nothing happens unless the kid’s practically dead.

  When I was little lots of people came to our house: teachers and social workers and cops. The cops scared my mother, but she told the others: It’s none of your business WHAT I do. She’d made us; she could do whatever she wanted. One social worker told my mother not to hit me. Like this? Looking right at the woman while she did it. The woman left. They all did; there were so few of them and so many of us. In the places where we lived, all the families were like ours: apartments crawling with lice and mice and kids. One social worker went out on the balcony to smoke. I said, You better not stand there; sometimes people get shot.

  People think kids get used to where they live, but we were scared every single minute.

  I hid inside books. And I liked going to school. There were bells and snacks and assignments and rules. But homework was hard; you could never find a pencil, or a clean place to put the papers down. And it was always so noisy: the TV blaring those scary movies my mother loved; chainsaw massacres and vampire zombies, the little kids watching, their eyes bugging out.

  You need a home to do homework. So sometimes I didn’t do it. My teachers thought I was making up excuses.

  I’ve seen your house, stood outside in the dark. So many rooms with nobody in them. We never had enough beds. Or socks or toothbrushes. We never brushed our teeth. No one taught us what to do. Ray was a boy, he didn’t have to do nothing, so Sheila got stuck taking care of us but after a while she got sick of watching kids and ran off with this guy and got married and pregnant. He beat her up bad and she begged to come home but my mother said No, you made your bed. Sheila standing in the hall, tears running down her face. Please let her stay, Mom, I said, but she wouldn’t.

  After Sheila left, things got wild. My mother was gone a lot. She’d come home flying. People were spying on her, she said, watching her from the rooftops with binoculars. I’d see my brothers in the street; they’d wave and keep going like I was part of something they’d left behind. Sometimes I missed school because I had to watch Bobby, but I didn’t mind. He loved me best. He’d sit on my lap and we’d look at books. He was such a smart baby. He learned so fast.

  One time it got late and my mother didn’t come home and there wasn’t any heat and Bobby was freezing, so I wrapped him in a blanket. There was nothing to eat so I asked the neighbors and they gave us some wieners and milk. When my mother came back and found out she was pissed, like I’d done it just to make her look bad.

  After Bobby died lots of people came around, asking questions and investigating. They went away again and nothing changed but me. Then my mother had Brandy, but I never really knew her; I was doing the foster care thing.

  You read about these girls in the newspaper who don’t know they’re pregnant until the baby drops out. People say, she must’ve known. But sometimes the girl doesn’t. She doesn’t want to know. She’s completely freaking out. So she keeps getting loaded so she won’t have to think, so she doesn’t have to notice her swollen belly. Trying to get so loaded, she passes out. Hopes she never wakes up, because she feels so quilty.

  What if the baby’s screwed up and it’s all her fault?

  Miss Johnson, I’m so scared. Please help me.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I almost burst into tears when I read what she’d written.

  “Are you telling me you’re pregnant?”

  She started to reach for a cigarette, then put the pack away.

  “How far along are you?”

  She shrugged. “A ways.”

  “Have you been to the doctor?”

 
“Yeah.”

  “What did they say?”

  “Don’t know,” she said. “I didn’t listen.”

  My fingers itched to slap her, hard. Someone had beat me to it.

  “What happened to your face?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What is it, some kind of teenage thing? You break out in bruises?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Your mother do that?”

  She smiled.

  “Your boyfriend?”

  “No. Forget it.”

  I was trembling, I was so upset.

  “You come into my classroom, tell me you’re pregnant, looking like you were dragged down the street on your face—”

  “It was just some guy.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “They wouldna cared.”

  “Why not?”

  “It was a trick.”

  “What kind of trick?” Duhhh.

  “You know. A john.”

  I felt as if the top of my head had lifted off and was shooting around the room.

  “You’re selling your body?”

  “I ran out of Girl Scout cookies.”

  “This isn’t a joke!” Tears filled my throat. “What about the baby? What about AIDS?”

  “I’m careful.”

  “Careful!”

  “There’s ways,” she said. “Anyway, the baby’s father used. But he hardly ever shared needles.”

  I’ve heard so many sad stories in this room, so many tearful variations on this theme. I’m pregnant, Miss Johnson. What should I do?

  “Have you had an AIDS test?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m scared.” Fear wiped away the sneer. She looked like what she was: a child.

  “Raina, you’ve got to think about this. You’ve got to make some important decisions.”

  “I know. I was thinking maybe you could help me.”

  It’s too late! I wanted to shout. I wanted to run out of the room. I wanted to lay my head down on the desk and sob.

  “Have you talked to your family?”