Made in the U.S.A. (17 page)

One afternoon after Fate had almost nothing to show for his efforts to sell his golf balls and cans, he said, “Lutie, are we getting anywhere?”

“What do you mean? Getting where?”

“Well, we’ve been here for . . . what? Six, seven weeks? We’re still living in the car, still eating at the shelter and whatever you manage to slip out of Denny’s. We’re not in school, and we don’t seem to have much chance to get a place of our own. At least not in time for—”

“I don’t see it that way, Fate. I know it’s slow going, but we’re getting there. And we’re doing it all on our own. Besides, what choice do we have?”

“That’s what I’ve been thinking about.”

“A choice? Like what?”

“Well, maybe we should’ve stayed in Spearfish after Floy died. Sure, we would’ve gone on to foster care, but maybe we would’ve been lucky. Both of us might’ve gone with a nice family. A mom and dad who wanted us,
really
wanted us. A couple who would treat us well, buy us school clothes, maybe have a computer and lots of books. Maybe even a dog or—”

“Fate, what world are you living in? Huh? You’re describing one of those sweet little TV series like
Seventh Heaven
or something. A make-believe life where everything works out, everyone is happy, everyone loves everyone. But life’s not like that, kid. And it sure as hell isn’t what foster care is like.”

“But if we—”

“You go back if that’s what you want. We’ve got enough money to buy you a bus ticket, but I’m not going with you. So you’d better think about this real hard. If you stay here, I’m going to get you in that fancy school and—”

“Paradise.”

“Whatever. But if you go back, you’ll be in Bernard Elementary again, you’ll be living with a family that probably won’t give a damn about you, and you’ll be doing it all without me. So make up your mind. And do it now.”

Fate chewed at an imaginary hangnail, an attempt to buy enough time to blink away tears, but when he finally turned to Lutie, one tear had broken free and was tracing a path down his cheek.

“I’m not going back without you, Lutie. No matter what happens.”

Lutie had forgotten about the cotton taped on the inside of the bend of her elbow, a dressing she’d been wearing since she left the blood center early while Fate was still asleep in the car. She’d decided to forgo their showers in order to be at the center when it opened at seven, figuring she could still make it to the motel by eight.

She knew if she was late, she’d hear about it from Pavel, who kept a ledger, entering the times each of the girls came to work and the times they left work every day.

She was lucky this morning, arriving exactly at eight, just in time to join the girls circling Pavel as he called out their room numbers. As they went to the supply rooms to get their carts, she fell in beside Urbana, who had seemed cool toward her since the night they’d gone out with Raul and his roommate.

“How’s things?” Lutie asked.

“Fine,” Urbana replied. But something in her voice said she was not inviting conversation.

“Hey, Urbana, are you upset with me about anything?”

Urbana shook her head.

“You know, I’m sorry about getting plastered when we went out with Raul and Arturo, but I want you to know how much I appreciate you taking care of me, getting us a room, helping me sober up and all.”

“Okay.”

“How’s Raul?”

“I don’t see him much. He dating a girl he met at the Habana. He with her all time now.”

“Guess I didn’t make a very good impression, huh?”

Urbana shrugged.

“Come on, talk to me. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

“Okay, I tell you. Someone take money from my purse that night. Twenty dollars, lot of money to me. And the only times I leave my purse at table was with you.”

“Oh, Urbana. I didn’t take your money. I wouldn’t do that. You’re my friend.”

“What I think, too, but—”

“Maybe I left our purses at the table when I was dancing. As a matter of fact, I was missing thirty dollars myself and I don’t remember spending it for anything.”

“Yes, Raul and Arturo pay for drinks, give us zip, buy the—”

“What’s zip?”

“Crank. Crystal. You say you don’t remember? Hell to dammit, Lutie, you the worsest drunk I ever know. But look like you make friend with the needle now.” She touched the bandage on Lutie’s arm.

“Oh, no. I gave blood this morning.”

“I see. You a real . . . what you say, humantarium.”

“Afraid not. I did it for the money. Thirty-five dollars. See, my brother and I are saving for our apartment.”

They had reached the last rooms at the end of the hall, just before one of the outside entrances. Lutie would be working the rooms on one side of the hall, Urbana on the other.

“Let me ask you a question, Urbana. When Raul brought me to that room, did he . . . did we . . .”

“So you accuse him of what?” Urbana said, her voice rising with anger. “Fuck you while you pass out? You listen to me, little rat, my brother good man. He no take advantage of a cheap drunk like you. Do I know? Yes. I was with him when he carry you into room, put you on the bed. So now I know you take my money and you accuse Raul of—”

“No, Urbana. No! I’m not accusing him. Honest. I just needed to ask because—”

Urbana, turning her back on Lutie, knocked on a door and called, “Room service,” the process the girls went through sixteen times each day.

Lutie did the same at a door directly across from Urbana’s room. Receiving no response, she used her key to open it, wedged her doorstop beneath the door, grabbed sheets and pillowcases from the cart, and went inside.

She didn’t see the naked man hiding inside the darkened bathroom, didn’t hear him remove her doorstop or close the door. But when she heard the lock turn, she walked to the end of the bed to see who was there, a pillow in one hand, the pillowcase she was changing in the other.

She tried to scream, but he was fast. She got out no more than a surprised yelp before he yanked the pillow from her hand, pressed it against her face, and shoved her back onto the bed, his body on top of hers.

She was screaming, but no sound escaped the pillow as he clamped it ever tighter over her face. Soon, she was fighting for breath.

As he yanked up the skirt of her jumper and tore off her underpants, she grabbed a hunk of his hair and pulled, but his hair was greasy, preventing her from keeping her grip.

He was inside her within seconds, his body slick with sweat as he lunged again and again. She felt as if he were splitting her in two.

She tried to concentrate on what Urbana had told her about Pavel: “You always leaves the door open when you cleaning. If it close, we know he’s inside and we come in to bring fresh towel.”

And now she knew Urbana was working right across the hall, knew she must notice that Lutie’s door was closed. Surely she would use her key, come in and help her.

But the door never opened even though she heard the wheels of Urbana’s cart as it moved on to the next room.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

L
UTIE NEVER RETURNED
to the Desert Palms, even though she had a few days’ pay coming. After the rape, she’d recovered her own clothes from the girls’ dressing room, then showered, scrubbing herself raw, shampooing her hair until the bottle ran dry.

Finished, though still feeling putrid, but believing she was as clean as she’d ever be, she’d set fire to her uniform in the bathtub. She’d waited until it was fully aflame, dark smoke billowing, then walked unhurriedly out of the building seconds after the fire alarm sounded, setting off the sprinkler system in the halls, the lobby, the office, and all the rooms.

She’d spoken to no one when she left, even the few, which included Urbana, who’d run for the exits.

She’d surprised Fate, who was still in the library following his whore’s bath, reading before he started his day in the streets. She’d told him she’d been let go at the motel, saying little in answer to his questions, simply explaining that business had dropped off and since she was the last hired, she was the first fired.

She’d spent the day alone while Fate was taking care of his business of collecting golf balls and cans. Sitting in the shade of a tree on the library lawn—never nodding off, though she was more tired than she’d been in her entire life, never shedding a tear despite the feeling of intolerable anger and unbearable sadness—she’d stared soundlessly at a scene only she could see.

That evening when she and Fate went to the shelter for supper, she ate nothing, but the look and smell of the food sent her running for the bathroom twice to throw up.

She’d worked only two hours of her shift at Denny’s that night, telling the manager she was too sick to stay, then she’d driven the car back to the library parking spot without a word to Fate.

He’d known, of course, that beyond losing her job at the motel, something else had gone terribly wrong for her, but he hadn’t asked. He knew her so well, knew she would tell him when she was ready. Not before.

Now, only days later, Lutie was working her full eight hours at Denny’s, but she was only going through the motions. Her personality had changed—her real smile had faded, replaced by one that was wooden and forced; her quick, funny comebacks to her favorite teasing customers were no longer quick or funny, leaving her conversation flat, lacking spirit. She felt, without caring, that she was old, worn out, hollow, and used up. She knew, at just fifteen, that she was damaged. Beyond redemption.

Without the benefit of the washers and dryers she’d used at the motel, her clothes and Fate’s were dirty and wrinkled, but she didn’t seem to notice or care when she wore a blouse with yesterday’s ketchup or a pair of pants with dried splatters of grease down the legs.

Her new personality and appearance soon resulted in fewer tips at the restaurant. And with the loss of her income from the Palms, the savings she and Fate had worked so hard to put together began to suffer.

She went to sell blood again, but her weight had fallen to one hundred and eight, two pounds below the hundred and ten limit, so she was turned away. She tried panhandling once more, this time an older couple walking the Strip, but she couldn’t manage a convincing performance and came away empty-handed and embarrassed.

One morning, when she was sitting in a park she’d recently discovered, a disheveled middle-aged woman and a young girl parked their grocery cart and squeezed in on the bench beside her.

“Pretty day,” the woman said. “I’m Fiona, and this is my daughter, Pammy. She’s deaf, but she can sign and she’s pretty good at reading lips if you talk slow.”

“Hi,” Lutie said.

She would have known they were homeless even without seeing their belongings heaped into the cart. She would have known because of their eyes—hopeless and defeated. Even the girl, who couldn’t have been as old as Fate, had eyes with the look of the lost, the forgotten.

“Want some pizza?” Fiona asked. “We have pepperoni. I think it has extra cheese, too.” She reached into the grocery cart and took from the top a package of greasy newspaper, peeling back the stained pages to reveal an almost whole pizza. She held the paper out to Lutie, an offering. “Help yourself.”

“No, thanks. I just ate.”

“You go to St. Vincent’s for lunch?”

Lutie shook her head, then was struck by the knowledge that this woman, this stranger with everything she owned stuffed into a rusted grocery cart, had recognized her as homeless, too. She realized that her own eyes had taken on the look of desperation that belonged to people who had no shelter, no job, no money. People without hope.

Fiona broke off a piece of pizza for her daughter, then one for herself. “We usually go to St. Vincent’s, except for those days when we have a hankering for pizza. If we time it right, we’re among the first waiting at the Dumpster behind Mama Roma’s at one-thirty when they start clearing out their lunch buffet. Right around one-thirty. You oughta try it.”

“Yeah.”

Fiona wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then said, “So, honey, how long you been on the street?”

Fate, alone while Lutie was working her shift at Denny’s, wondered if he’d ever be comfortable with night sounds. Sirens, barking dogs, falling tree twigs, breaking glass, a crying child, fighting cats. And tonight, the sound of distant laughter woke him.

He didn’t know what time it was; the clock in the dash of the old Pontiac hadn’t worked in years. But he could tell from the color of the night sky that dawn wasn’t far away. Knowing Lutie’s shift was about to end, knowing she’d soon be back to the car, eased his tension, letting him doze off again.

Minutes later, the car was jarred by a concussive blow accompanied by an explosive sound.

Yanked from sleep, he jerked himself upright to find three boys, older teens, staring at him through the windows. Two were standing beside the back door; the other one was on the hood of the car.

“What do you want?” Fate asked, his voice giving weight to his fear.

“Sucker act like he don’t know what we want,” said the teen nearest the door, causing his cohorts to laugh.

They were black or Hispanic. Fate couldn’t tell for sure on the darkened parking lot despite the light poles ringing the property. They were all dressed pretty much the same: baggy jeans, black T-shirts covered by red jackets, and bandannas on their heads. The one on the hood threw him a sign, prompting the others to do the same—keeping their index fingers and pinkies straight while curling the other fingers and thumbs into their palms.

“Get your skinny white ass out here.”

“No.”

“No? Did he say ‘no’ or did I just imagine that?”

“I think the punk said ‘no.’”

“I don’t have any money, if that’s what you want.”

“Sure you do. Only question is, how much and where’s it at?”

“You think my sister and I would be living in this car if we had money?” Fate was trying to sound tough, but for a skinny eleven-year-old, “tough” was hard to pull off.

“You don’t come out, we gonna bring you out, and you’re not gonna like what happen to you then.”

All pretense of “tough” drained from his voice, Fate said, “Please don’t.”