Whitehorse (6 page)

Not long after Johnny's visit, Leah's fever spiked at one hundred and three. Shamika put her to bed, proceeded to pump her full of orange juice and aspirin, threatened her with physical harm if she so much as thought of answering the phone again before she had kicked the fever. "You're not going to do anyone any good if you're in the hospital," she declared with that telling tone that warned Leah that her friend's patience was long past its limits.

Leah rested against propped-up pillows, her gaze locked on the asphalt highway as the television droned in the background. Shamika had brought her another lunch, chicken noodle soup and Ritz crackers, which Leah had allowed to go untouched. The mail had arrived an hour ago; obviously Shamika had screened it and decided the demands for payment would be too much for Leah to deal with at the moment.

"You're supposed to be sleeping," Shamika whispered from the door.

"That would be nice," she responded wearily. "But I'm beginning to suspect that sleep has been deleted from my memory banks."

Shamika had tied a leopard-print scarf turbanlike around her head and donned a pair of dangling bronze earrings that tinkled when she moved. They were Val's favorites. She regarded the uneaten food with a raised eyebrow. "Your starving yourself isn't going to help build up your strength."

"I was never one who could force myself to eat."

Folding her arms over her chest, Shamika studied Leah closely. "What's going on, sweetie? You haven't been yourself for a while now. That tantrum you threw earlier at Johnny wasn't like you at all."

"You haven't seen me around Johnny before. He's always had a way of driving me crazy. I lose all common sense when he's around."

"I can see how he would do that. He's one good-looking specimen. The photographs I've seen don't do him justice. I imagine getting over a man like that would take some doing."

"I got over Johnny a long time ago. He's arrogant and shallow.
Cher
can have him, or whoever that was I saw on his arm in
People
magazine."

"From what you've said in the past, I got the impression you two were hot and heavy for a long time. You never did tell me what broke you up. Did he cheat on you?"

"Johnny's not a two-timer. With him it's all or nothing."

"Then he lied to you? Abused you? Took you for granted?"

"We're not talking about my ex-husband here." Leah laughed. "No. Johnny treated me better than anyone has treated me my entire life."

"I know his race had nothing to do with it. Or did it?"

Leah snatched a Kleenex from a box and proceeded to tear it into shreds. She looked out the window and watched a breeze play with the leaves on a nearby poplar tree. "I
loved
Johnny for who and what he was. I worshipped his spirit. I applauded his hunger to rise up from his circumstances and succeed. I also loved the fact that he was forbidden to me."

"By your father, I take it."

"By everyone. His father didn't approve of me any more than mine approved of Johnny, so our lives were spent meeting on the sly. We were going to come out of the closet, so to speak, and let the world know that we were in love on prom night. What I didn't know was that my father had suspected that something was going on between us. Just minutes before Johnny arrived at the house, Dad confronted me and threatened that if I ever saw Johnny again he would fire Johnny's father and make certain he never worked in
New Mexico
again."

Sinking a little deeper into the pillows, Leah took a shallow breath. "I'll never forget the look in Johnny's eyes. First shock and confusion. Then pain. Then so much anger."

"You did tell him the truth, didn't you? About your father's ultimatum?"

"Of course not." She shook her head. "Johnny despised my father. Had I told him the truth—dear God, he might have torn Dad in two with his bare hands. The confrontation between them the next day was ugly enough. Johnny spent the night at
White
Tail
Peak
, drinking himself into mindless oblivion. He showed up at our door at five the next morning, shirtless and barefoot, drunk and demanding to see me. He'd applied war paint to his face. He and my father stood toe to toe on the front porch. Johnny informed him in shocking detail about our year-long relationship. My father called him a no-account Indian with the morals of a tomcat, and that the only reason he allowed his old man to continue working his horses was because he was the best shit-picker minimum wage could buy. Johnny should kiss his feet for even keeping the old drunk employed. He wasn't worth the three-fifty he paid him an hour to crawl out of bed."

Shamika pursed her lips and whistled softly. "Nasty stuff, huh?"

"Johnny's weak spot was his father. He'd watched Jefferson Whitehorse go from a proud man and one of the finest racehorse trainers in the state to a broken man whose dreams were diluted by whiskey." Leah tossed the tattered Kleenex aside and drew the comforter up to her chin. She had begun to shake and sweat. Obviously the fever had begun to break, thanks to the aspirin she'd taken earlier. "I'm ashamed to say that my father was partly to blame for
Mr.
Whitehorse'
s
problems, as much as I tried to deny it back then.
Jefferson
had a special way with horses, as if he could communicate with them. If a horse hurt, he could look into its eyes and determine the problem. If the horse was afraid, he reassured it. I've seen him take the wildest colt and within an hour have it follow him like an adoring puppy."

"So what happened? Did the horses not run well? Didn't they win?"

"Oh yes. They won all right. But not with
Jefferson
as the trainer of record. Mr. Whitehorse would get them ready for the track, in peak condition, then my father would remove the horses and send them to Jack Jones—a well-known trainer who would run the horses, win, and get the credit for training them. My father's excuse to Mr. Whitehorse was, because of Jack's influence at the track, Jack could request the best jockey, and get them. He could also pull a few strings and ensure he got the best gate positions. There was never a chance of Jefferson Whitehorse getting a reputation in the business for training because there were never any horses running under his name. Johnny often tried to convince his father to go out on his own—start his own training facility—but my father wouldn't have it. He made subtle threats that he would see
Jefferson
's license revoked. And besides, what chance did an Indian have making a name for himself on the white man's track?

"Johnny wanted desperately to get an education so he could make enough money to back his father's business
…
but when Johnny was a sophomore at the university, he was notified that his father had been found dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to his head."

Shamika closed her eyes. "Lord, girl. No wonder Johnny Whitehorse hates your father."

"Can you understand now why it's so difficult to see Johnny?" Leah asked. "My family has done nothing but bring him pain."

"He didn't seem so angry today, at least, not until you booted him out the door with coffee dripping off his nose. I think he's much too smart to think that you had anything to do with his father's problems."

"I'm ashamed to say that through it all I defended my father—right up until the day I learned about
Jefferson
's suicide. I guess I just didn't want to accept the fact that my own father was the sort of man who could so coldly and calculatingly destroy another human being. My, how times change, huh? If I'd known then what I know now, I would have told my father where he could put his prejudice and walked off into the sunset with Johnny Whitehorse.

"I've thought a lot the last few years about how different my life might have been had Johnny and I got married. Gotta admit that seeing him again stirs up all the old
if onlys."

Shamika put her hand on Leah's and gave it a squeeze. "Johnny's not married, you know. Maybe—"

"No. Don't even think it, Shamika. Johnny and I exist in different worlds—different dimensions, for heaven's sake. He can have any woman he wants, and probably has, judging by the tabloids. Besides, you and I both know there are far too many complications to a relationship with me."

"Then why are you going out with Sam Clark again this Friday night? I mean, if you think your life is too complicated to get involved with a man, why are you wasting time on this jerk?"

"Sam is
not
a jerk." Leah sniffed. "He's fun. He likes to dance."

"Excuse me? The man sells used cars—"

"Meaning?"

"Meaning … nothing. I just think you could do better."

"I did better, once. I married a petroleum engineer making nearly a hundred grand a year. Look where that got me."

Shamika raised one eyebrow. "Have you told Sam about Val?"

"Not exactly." Leah shook her head and averted her eyes.

"Meaning…"

"He knows I have a seven-year-old son."

"And…?"

Leah shrugged. "I'll get around to telling him when the time is right. I simply haven't seen the necessity of bringing up Val's disability yet. Our relationship hasn't advanced to that point. It's really none of his business."

"I think you'd better
make
it his business just so you know whether or not you want to waste any more time on him," Shamika pointed out with an agitated shake of her head. "We've been down that road before, girlfriend. Don't you be setting yourself up again to get hurt." She checked her watch, then glanced out the window toward the highway. "Bus will be coming soon. You need me to pick up anything while I'm in town?"

"Yes. Hostess cupcakes. Chocolate. I feel a craving coming on."

"Honey, I'll buy you a whole box full if it means you'll put some food in your stomach." Shamika turned for the door. "I'm turning the phone ringer off. Stay in bed. Sleep. We'll be home around six."

"Give Val a kiss for me!" she called. "Hundreds of 'em! And tell him I love him desperately and that as soon as this damn fever is gone we'll snuggle."

"Yep."

The back screen door slammed. A moment later the van drove past the house and skidded to a stop at the end of the driveway. Shamika jumped out and stood by the highway, hands on her hips, her gaze fixed on the yellow bus rounding the nearest bend in the road. Sitting up in bed, Leah watched the bus crawl like some lumbersome tortoise along the shoulder, its inhabitants' animated faces peering out at Shamika as the bus stopped and the door opened with a whoosh that released the sounds of laughter and garbled noises that were meant to be words. The driver jumped out, even as the back door of the bus opened and a ramp automatically slid from the bus's belly to form a platform, onto which Sandra Howard, the school's occupational therapist, rolled Val in his wheelchair. As the ramp slowly lowered toward the ground, Sandra, smiling brightly, lifted Val's arm and waved his hand at Shamika. Val rewarded Shamika with a brilliant smile.

Leah lay back on the bed and closed her eyes.

At long last, she slept. It was not the drifting-through-dreamland-like-a-feather-on-air sort of sleep, although she often dreamed of soaring weightlessly through cumulus clouds while space and time rushed by soundlessly below her. Nor was it the frantic, confusing streak through a jumbled subconscious splashed by strange images that would leave her scratching her head and pondering over their meaning as if they were alien hieroglyphics. This dream was gut-wrenchingly real. Fact, not fiction. No cryptic meanings. Just stark as black print on white paper.