White Horses

  White Horses

  A Novel

  Alice Hoffman

  ONE

  THEY LIVED IN A HOUSE in Santa Rosa that was always darkest in summertime. Bedspreads were draped over the windows in the living room, venetian blinds were drawn, the screen door in the kitchen was lined with old newspapers that filtered the sunlight through faded print. The refrigerator always held a pitcher of lemonade—made with fresh, sour lemons and tap water; mosquitoes and long-winged dragonflies circled on the back porch waiting for the opportunity to dart inside. By early July most people in town went into their front yards, drawn by the scent of water. Although the river ran nearly ten miles outside of town, its odor seemed to cover the distance in between, rising up from the asphalt, the dirt driveways, the yards, touching sunflowers, roses, and chard with a film of brown water and fish.

  On particularly hot days, when the temperature reached ninety long before noon, the smell of the river called children out of their houses and summoned them to the tall, yellow fields just outside town; and even Teresa, who never strayed far from home, went to the window and breathed in the cool air. There were times when Teresa thought briefly of running away, following that river scent right through town, past the highway and the fields, not stopping until she reached one of the small towns where houses were built on high wooden stilts, their doors well above the water in times of summer drought, only inches away from the currents after the October rains. But Teresa had only passed through these river towns on occasional fishing trips with her father; she had been to river beaches only twice, on class outings at the end of the school term; she didn’t even know if the river ran north to south or east to west. So she stayed at home; if Teresa might get lost on the paths and dirt roads which crisscrossed the river, she could never lose her way on the cracked cement sidewalks of her neighborhood, in the empty lots behind the shopping center, or the dark corners of her own cellar, where jars of canned vegetables and fruit lined the wooden shelves—there the blackberry jam shimmered like rubies, apricot preserves were the color of honey, a wonderful pale gold. During the summer when she was eleven, Teresa believed that the crickets who lived in the weeds that sprang through the sidewalk were trying to speak to her. At night, while the rest of the family slept, she sat in her bedroom on the second floor, close to the window, listening for the words she was certain those insects were forming, waiting for a clear green song. There were times when Teresa fell asleep still listening for the crickets’ message, her feet curled beneath her as she sat in a wooden chair, her long braids still neat and tight. There were other times when she stayed awake nearly till morning, convinced that if she were quiet enough, if she waited long enough, the night would reveal itself to her in a slow stream of syllables shaped by wings; a song only she could understand.

  After these all-night vigils, Teresa could easily have slept until afternoon if her mother, Dina, had not had definite plans for her. As far as Dina was concerned, six a.m. was the best time to work in the garden; the higher the sun rose, the more dangerous the day became. Dina was certain that every jump in temperature could force arguments to rise from the dust, ghosts could appear in the midday haze. Although she let her husband and two sons sleep, Dina needed an assistant to carry the shovel and spade, she needed her daughter to chase away the black squirrels and hungry birds, and so, when the sky was milky and gray, she went to wake Teresa.

  Whether she found her sleeping daughter in bed or in the chair by the window made no difference to Dina. “Hurry up,” she would whisper, pulling the sheet out of Teresa’s fingers, or tapping on the back of the wooden chair. “We have to get out there before it’s too hot. The sun won’t wait for us,” she would warn.

  No matter how tired she was, Teresa dressed quickly; and while her older brothers, Reuben and Silver, dreamed in the room right next door, Teresa combed her hair into new braids, and then followed her mother downstairs. There was always a pot of thick, hot coffee in the kitchen, and Teresa and Dina would stand side by side drinking from blue and white porcelain cups. This was a treat—no other girl Teresa knew, at school or in the neighborhood, was allowed coffee, not even when it was mixed with hot milk and sugar. If it stunted her growth, Teresa didn’t care; the coffee was wonderfully dark, it was hotter than the breath of the men upstairs when they turned in their sleep. Teresa stirred sugar into her cup and watched through the window as hummingbirds drank from the sage at the edge of the vegetable patch.

  Soon, the men upstairs would leave; but when Dina and Teresa first went out to the garden Teresa’s father was just putting on his workboots. Reuben, the oldest son, would not walk down to the Safeway where he crated vegetables until eight-thirty, and it would be hours before Silver even woke up. When they weeded and hoed, Dina wore a chiffon scarf covering her long hair, Teresa a cotton kerchief which rubbed against her ears. Both wore canvas gloves, which allowed them to tear out dandelion roots and ragweed from the south end of the garden without any scratches or scars. By seven-thirty, when Teresa’s father had slammed the front door shut behind him and walked out to the dirt driveway, Teresa and Dina had already weeded the first row of tomatoes. Harry Connors, known to his friends as King, didn’t even glance over toward the garden. He walked down the driveway and got into his pickup truck. All summer long he had been working construction in Santa Rosa; it was rare for him to have a job so close to home, and spending so much time with his wife set King’s nerves on edge. He found himself wishing for jobs which would take him farther and farther away from home—to Arizona, or Oregon, or southern California. Because here at home, nothing he did ever seemed to be right.

  “Other people have cars. Look what we have,” Dina said when she saw King in the pickup. “Other people have cars,” she called to her husband.

  In the driveway King Connors stepped on the gas; the engine jumped and then died. King Connors got out, waving a wrench. “Let’s see you get us something better,” he said to Dina as he threw open the hood.

  “Me!” Dina laughed. “I don’t even have a job. What would I pay for the car with—turnips? Blueberries?”

  Teresa left her spade on the ground and walked to the driveway; she watched as her father checked the carburetor, her eyes were as large and as guarded as lanterns.

  “What the hell are you looking at?” King Connors asked when he noticed her hanging on the fender. “You got some complaints, too?”

  Teresa traced her finger over the chipped paint on the hood. King Connors’s sister had the car Teresa had always wanted; a two seater, light enough to take the curves in any road at top speed, whiter than pearls. When King Connors closed the hood and climbed back into the truck, Teresa followed him and stood by the open window.

  “How about a Corvette?” she asked.

  King Connors was already late for work; he had two teen-age sons still asleep in their beds, and a wife who spoke more to the plants in her garden than she did to him. “What the hell do you know about Corvettes?” he said to his daughter.

  “That’s what Renée drives,” Teresa told him.

  “Renée.” King Connors turned the key in the ignition, started the motor, put the truck in reverse, then leaned out the window and looked at Teresa, eye to eye. “You want a fancy car?” he said as he edged the truck down the driveway. “Then you go on and move up to Portland. Move in with my goddamned sister.”

  Teresa watched the truck disappear down Divisadero Street before she returned to the garden; one of the pickup’s taillights was cracked all the way through, the metal bumper hung on by a welder’s thread.

  “He told me to move in with Renée if I wanted a fancy car,” Teresa told her mother.

  “That’s a good one,” Dina said. She handed Teresa a spade. “The last thing in the world that woman wants is ch
ildren. If she had any she couldn’t afford to keep that sports car of hen.”

  Later in the morning, when Reuben had left for his job at the supermarket, and the sun was stronger, Teresa worked alone on the third row of tomatoes. Dina stood in the shade of the house, one hand over her eyes; she looked at the heat waves that shimmered in front of the eucalyptus trees with the same distrust she had felt when she had stared at the rose-colored mesas on the outskirts of Santa Fe years before.

  When she was growing up, Dina rarely ventured any father than her own house. Inside the family’s walled garden there were always roses in July, gardenias in August. Even when on the other side of the wall the earth was nothing more than dust, fine enough to run right through a woman’s fingers, the garden bloomed. Dina went only to the market, or to friends’ houses, or on walks with her father in the evenings when the mesas seemed as blue as water. It was not until she was eighteen and met King Connors that Dina went beyond the New Mexico state line; it was then she first saw the asphalt of the interstate heading west toward Arizona.

  King Connors had come to New Mexico temporarily; he poured concrete at a power plant in Los Alamos, and on his days off he drove to Santa Fe. He sat near white adobe walls and drank beer; he thought about women, and about going home to California, where a tree did not have to be carefully watered and pruned in order to grow. He met Dina accidentally, at a dinner party given by a family he barely knew. They ate barbecued chicken and rice; Dina wore a white cotton dress, and she was thankful that her father was the only one who accompanied her and that her mother hadn’t come along to keep her under her watchful eye. When King Connors left New Mexico three weeks later, Dina was with him, her eyes shining when she saw the sign welcoming her to California, her hand in his, fingers entwined.

  Although nearly twenty years had passed since Dina had left New Mexico, she could still remember each rosebush that grew in her father’s garden; she could still hear her mother’s voice telling her to stay in the shade, warning that heat and harsh light could produce evil spirits, wrinkles, despair. After a girlhood of cautious flowers and garden walls, Dina had never been able to trust the outdoors. So she stood by the southwest corner of the house, watching her daughter water the vegetable garden, stepping into the sun only to chase away jays when they landed between the rows of tomatoes.

  “Fix your scarf,” she called when Teresa’s kerchief slipped, exposing her head to the sun.

  Teresa didn’t hear her mother’s warning over the spray of the hose. She aimed the water at the plants and through the drops she could see a car pull up on Divisadero Street. The man behind the wheel wore a sports jacket even though it was a record-breaking day filled with dry, yellow heat—the sort of day when no man Teresa knew would ever wear more than jeans and a T-shirt.

  “You’re drowning them,” Dina said, coming from the shadows to grab the hose from Teresa. Puddles had formed around the tomato plants, leaves drooped.

  “They can’t even breathe, how can they drown?” Teresa said.

  Dina looked at the sky and shook her head. Her eyelashes were so long that whenever she cried each tear caught and her vision grew blurry.

  “Well, how can they drown?” Teresa demanded.

  “I can never teach you anything,” Dina said. “You’re too much like me. I would never listen either; I thought I knew everything.”

  Teresa was silent now; she had no idea what it meant to be like Dina. It had always seemed that Dina had no past, certainly not one that was talked about. Teresa knew that Dina had come from New Mexico, but she had no idea when or why, she did not even know her mother’s maiden name. To Teresa, Dina might just as well have always been in Santa Rosa; she had probably never been a child, never listened for crickets or put lightning bugs in a Mason jar, she had never watched the slow white orbit of evening clouds or looked for ghosts in the clothes closet.

  “You’re like me, and Reuben’s like your father,” Dina told Teresa as she put away the hose. It was clear to everyone that Reuben was Dina’s least favorite child—she barely paid attention to him, it didn’t matter to her if he stayed out all night long, she never wondered where he was or when he was coming home. It was Silver she worried about, Silver who reminded her of a man she had never met, a man her father had told her about year before: an Aria, an outlaw, the man Dina was sure Silver would one day become. “It’s Silver who’s like no one we ever met before,” Dina informed her daughter. “He’s the one who’s special.”

  When they had finished their work, they went inside to find Silver at the kitchen table, carefully polishing his new leather boots. Dina went to shower and wash the earth out from beneath her fingernails. Teresa took the nearly empty pitcher from the refrigerator; she reached for some lemons and the glass canister of sugar. As she was halving lemons on the drainboard next to the sink there was a knock at the door.

  “Answer it,” Silver told his sister.

  “I’m busy,” Teresa said as she carefully arranged lemon slices in the glass pitcher. Teresa stood on her toes; if whoever was at the door would back up only a few inches, she would be able to see him through the window above the sink.

  There was another knock, but Teresa ignored it; Dina had told her never to trust strangers and she could not imagine anyone important enough to interrupt her lemonade.

  “I told you to get the door,” Silver said.

  The knocking had stopped. “There’s nobody out there,” Teresa said, but could see the man in the sports coat as he backed away from the door to observe their house. “There’s only some jays out there eating the vegetables,” she said matter-of-factly, for there was no way to protect the garden from every bird and snail that wandered through.

  The man on the back porch who waited for Teresa to open the door had been hired to find Dina twenty years before. When Dina had run off with King Connors her father had followed them. He had taken the train from Santa Fe to Los Angeles, and then a Greyhound bus up to San Francisco. After a few weeks of searching for his daughter, the old man discovered that he hadn’t the heart to look any farther. Everything about California upset him: the cold gray winter seemed to wrap itself around his bones. The fast cars on Market Street, the dark smell of seaweed and fish that ran through the gutters, the Pacific which threatened to swallow him—all made him homesick, heartsick, set him dreaming about Santa Fe. But before he returned home, taking the same bus and train he had come on, Dina’s father had hired Bergen.

  On the day when he stood at the back door, Bergen was no longer the young man he had been when Dina’s father first came to him. His eyes were weak now; he had to wear sunglasses until dusk cut the glare of the day. He had given up his office across from the bus station in San Francisco—the rents were too expensive now, and he had had his fill of divorces and frauds. He had given up all of his cases but one—Dina.

  Bergen had never really intended to find her; he had never even bothered to look. Twice a year he would receive a check from his client in Santa Fe; he cashed these checks believing that it was better for a father not to recover the sort of daughter who didn’t want to be found. It was only recently, after receiving a note from the old man’s wife insisting that he stop looking for Dina, that Bergen decided to find her. The old man, Dina’s father, had died, too tired to prune his own roses, too old to chase away the lizards that ran across the top of the garden wall. Now that the old man was dead, Bergen had been stung by the blue tongue of remorse. He decided to find the woman he had never bothered to look for before.

  This decision was rapidly turning dry; the longer Bergen stood on the back porch waiting for someone to answer his knock, the more he thought about getting back in his car, driving back to San Francisco on Highway 1, with the mild satisfaction of having tried. Stepping away from the door, Bergen could see a girl through the kitchen window, and he was certain that she could see him. Maybe because of his sports jacket, maybe because he looked so unsure of himself, Teresa sensed that opening the door to this stranger spelled
trouble.

  “I’m not going to tell you again,” Silver said to her when Teresa insisted there was no one at the door.

  “What will you give me if I open the door?” Teresa asked as she wiped her hands on a dish towel. But she knew, before Silver answered, that she would do whatever he asked—he was, always, her favorite. Lately it seemed he was everyone’s favorite. Girls from high school called late at night, dialing Silver’s number from single beds carefully made with pink and white sheets: they called so often that Dina took to leaving the phone receiver off the hook. King Connors, who had stopped taking anyone with him on fishing trips years before, had taken Silver with him twice this year. There were times at the dinner table when Teresa had seen Dina staring at her younger son, her lips parted, her gaze puzzled and admiring, as if she couldn’t figure out, no matter how hard she tried, exactly where Silver had come from; he didn’t seem to belong to anyone, he had never acted like anyone’s child.

  When Teresa teased him, Silver smiled. “If you answer the door I won’t break your arm. How’s that for a deal?” he asked as he spread a new coat of polish over his boots.

  Bergen had removed his sunglasses to wipe his eyes; he blinked in the harsh light when Teresa opened the door. “Is your mother home?” he asked.

  The old man’s wife had written to him after the funeral in Santa Fe. “Don’t bother anymore,” she had written. “You won’t get any more money out of me. Now that he’s dead I’ll tell you the truth; I just don’t care. Don’t send me any bills, don’t go looking anymore, don’t bother to find her.”

  But now here he was, in Santa Rosa, a few feet away from the tomato plants; his eyes were filled with late-morning glare when he came face to face with the old man’s grandchild. The grandchild didn’t open the screen door; but she took in every detail, from Bergen’s black loafers to his button-down collar.

  “Mama,” she finally called, and Bergen was relieved. Soon he would be sitting in the dark, cool kitchen, sipping an icy drink and speaking with the old man’s daughter; finally this last case of his could be put aside.