White Horse: A Novel

CHAPTER ONE

There was something strange, mysterious even, about the White Horse tonight. Normally, it was merely an Indian bar. My Indian bar. But there was a milky, dreamy quality to the red lights swinging over the pool tables, like the wind from the open doors was bringing them something new, something I’d pushed away for as long as I could remember.

"Debby, do we have to talk about her again?" I took another swig of my beer and slammed it back down, eyeing my cousin as I did. She would never let this subject go, no matter how much I rebuffed her. I sighed, taking in the dank, wet-wood smell of the bar, the harsh laughter of the bikers in the booth behind me.

The thing is, I found—

I interrupted her with a brush of my hand.

I hoped Nick, the bartender, would come by and ask if I needed a refill, but all I could see was the mirror in front of me, the words Miller High Life emblazoned in gold cursive on the front. Right next to it a sign read, FIRST FIGHT. LAST DRINK. PERMANENT 86. Besides us, the bartender, and the bikers, the White Horse was empty. It was always empty, but I loved it. I loved the long wooden bar, the cats wandering in and out; the mangy orange one was my favorite. She liked to sit on top of the bar and let me pet her while she closed her cloudy eyes and purred.

Debby shifted her weight on the stool, the plastic crackling as she did, the bar stirring around me like a bad dream.

"All I’m saying is that you don’t know your mom’s story."

Yeah, okay, Debby. That’s great, I said.

I signaled Nick when he came out of the bathroom. Two more, I said, hoping he’d remember.

A couple of Diné came through the doors, quiet the way they were, and made their way to a pool table in the back. One of them saw me when he came over to order a beer, and he gave me the friendly nod, his black hair glistening red in the faint bar light. I nodded back and that strange feeling I’d had earlier flooded back into me.

The thing is, Debby said, "you know how we check in on your dad?

I hung my head. Yeah, so?

I went over there the other day to do that, and some cleaning, because I know the nurse is great and everything, but I like to see how he is, and I’d just come home from work, and was dropping the kids off—

Jesus, Debby, if you’re not going to let it go, spit it out.

Okay, okay, she said, starting again. So, Mom had been pushing me to clear some of the boxes in the attic. And like, we were going to haul them out and throw them in the dumpster, but Mom seemed to want to look through them. And mainly they were full of old toys, and papers and rusting appliances, but then, we found something.

What? I whispered, and that dreamy quality snapped back.

Something of your mom’s.

I was silent. My mother. The woman who had abandoned me when I was only two days old. The woman who my father had been so devastated over he began to take long drives, a bottle of Jack between his legs. The woman who had made it so that I had to care for my dad like a baby, instead of the other way around, after he’d gotten into an accident that had left his body but taken his mind. Cecilia.

"And the thing is, Kari, it was some Indian jewelry—and it’s old."

I felt like changing my drink to something stronger.

And, like, since your mom was Apache and Chickasaw?

I nodded.

I’m just saying that it might be significant, she said.

I continued to stare down at the wood of the bar, run my fingers along the rough edges.

But the important part is, like, when she found it? When I picked it up, I felt weird.

I was silent for a long time, my heart hammering in my throat. I signaled Nick and ordered a whiskey to go with my beer, the dark brown liquid splashing a bit over the rim of the tiny paper cup as he set it down. Want one?

No, I gotta drive back, Debby said, glancing at her clock. It takes at least forty-five minutes to get from Denver to Idaho Springs, and I’m sure Jack’s already wondering why I’m not home.

I rolled my eyes, and we sat in an uncomfortable silence.

You know I don’t like talking about her, I finally said, grumbling.

I’m just going to like, give it to you, okay?

Fine, I said, watching as she dug into her purse.

She pulled an ancient hammered-copper bracelet out of her bag, a bit of patina around the edges. It hummed with power, with history. My history. It was the kind that Indians used to wear all the time, and it was old. I squinted, thinking, upon closer inspection, that it was probably turn of the century. I could see, as Debby held it out in her little pink hands, that there were different objects carved into each thick copper square, links connecting each section—symbols I recognized from Indian jewelry of the time. Stuff that was common for urban Indians, or that had been lifted from plains culture. A thunderbird. A waterbird. A spiral. A Lakota chief’s headdress. Then there were others that I thought were perhaps Apache. Symbols for water. The sun and mountains. The moon and arrows. A war club—yes, that was definitely Apache. Stuff my Auntie Squeaker back in the Springs would know about, I was sure. And lastly, something that made me ill just looking at it—a stick figure that seemed to represent a monster of some sort. In the back of my mind, I could almost remember the name for it.

My thoughts wandered, unbidden, to my mother.

Debby shoved it into my bag, and I kept drinking, nodding as she went on about her husband, listening to the eerie, lonely sound of the wind whistling through the open door. But though I tried to focus on everything but that bracelet, it began burning into my mind, glowing almost, roping me to thoughts of my mother, and my painful, locked-away past.

CHAPTER TWO

I looked at the clown’s face, the big, red mouth with the hole at the center for the ball, and thought about the two-odd years it had taken Jack—Debby’s obnoxious husband—and his best buddy from high school, Carl, to build a mini putt-putt into the old, rotting apartment complex that Jack had inherited from his father. Jack had decided, upon his father’s death, that what he really needed in his life was an indoor mini putt-putt course. Carl had been very supportive of this move. Debby less so.

Jack took an awkward swing with an ancient, rusty golf club, and the ball ricocheted off the clown’s face he’d built into an old fireplace, whacking him in the leg. Goddamnit, he said, picking up a can of Miller Light sitting on an old end table. The ball had hit uncomfortably close to his crotch.

Jack took another gulp of his beer and set it down.

So, Kari—got a boyfriend yet? Jack asked.

Carl perked up. We’d boned once in high school, and Carl had never forgotten it.

Yeah, actually, I responded. I do.

Jack blanched.

Kari! Debby said, squealing and clapping her tiny white hands. "You didn’t tell me about this! Why didn’t you tell me about this?"

Well, Carl said, don’t keep us in suspense. Who’s the lucky guy? He pushed the remaining dark blond wisps of his hair over his pate.

Yeah, Kari, Jack said suspiciously.

"Your dad," I said, barely suppressing a cruel jag of laughter, and Jack’s expression blackened.

Kari, Debby said nervously.

"That’s not funny, my dad’s dead," he said, and I could hear Carl muffling laughter.

Jesus, Carl, be on my side for once! Jack said, thwacking him in the arm. She’s never gonna get on that d—

Hey! Carl said. Then, Ow. He rubbed his tricep.

Maybe you’ll stop asking me that kinda shit now, I said, lifting my eyebrows up sharply, and holding my drink out to him for a cheers.

Needless to say, he didn’t clink. He grunted and took another swig. Beer ran down the side of his mouth, and he brushed his arm across his lips.

He was always after me to get a man. Thing was, Debby was too. She figured that Jack wouldn’t be such a jerk about us chilling together if I had a dude, and we could double-date. But that wasn’t my thing. At all.

Carl saddled up to take a shot at the clown.

Jack sighed, heavily. Look, Kari, don’t take offense, Jack said, stumbling slightly where he stood. I don’t mean to try to push you or anything it’s just that… he stopped, and I could almost see the gears slowly grinding in his mind.

It’s that, you know, Kari, we want you to be happy. And like, when you have a partner in life, it like, means you learn stuff about yourself— Debby started, and I groaned.

Exactly, Jack said, interrupting. And it makes you more mature.

I watched Jack, clearly the pinnacle of all that is male maturity, slightly stagger once more from too many Bud Lights, and wondered if he’d ever washed a pair of his own underwear in his life.

Baby, I can speak for myself, Debby said, giggling girlishly. But she was clearly irritated. Jack interrupted her a lot.

I don’t—I mean, I didn’t, Jack started. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt, or like, speak for you.

"Oh, you didn’t," Debby said, and I tried to stop my eyeballs from rolling so far back in my head that they disappeared for the rest of time.

I mean, look, Kari, you’re strong and independent, and that’s not a bad thing, Debby said.

Jack stared at her slack-jawed for a moment, clearly confused about where she was going with this line of thought, and Carl took a whack. The ball sailed straight into the clown’s mouth, and the clown swallowed and yelled Whooopeee! Carl followed with a whoop of his own, walking into the bedroom to get to the ball.

Yeah, that’s right, Jack said, uneasily.

I suppressed laughter.

He knew he was being manipulated into something, and he didn’t like it one bit.

She can take care of herself, he said, hiccupping in the middle of his sentence.

"I completely agree with you. That’s exactly why I need to hang out with her sometimes—just her and me," Debby said, pulling her club up and over her shoulder. It was Jack’s turn with the clown, and he was taking his sweet time. I always went last.

What? No. No. That’s not—

Debby rotated in my direction, sipped at her rum and Coke, and set it delicately back down on a glossy, wooden coffee table. The table was covered in stickers—mainly Care Bear.

Because sometimes you get in trouble on your own, don’t you, Kari? She said, her voice high-pitched and sweet as a child’s.

I went to open my mouth, and Debby burned holes into me. She knew goddamn well that my troublemaking days were long over. That when I hooked up with a guy, I always texted her his number and address. That I hadn’t even smoked weed in years. That Bud Light was the hardest drug I downed these days. And she knew exactly why. Jaime.

Yeah, I answered.

Debby, Jack said, that’s on you. Sweetie, I love you, you know I do, but sometimes you’re too … too—you know, obsessed with helping other people. Which is what I love about you, he said quickly. But you don’t need to babysit a grown woman.

I wanted to blow fire at him, but honestly? He was kind of right. I didn’t need a babysitter—I needed Debby to stand up to Jack for once. He was a typical dude, but he supported his kids, he often took Debby out to eat, gave her foot massages, said nice things to her. Though he didn’t like it whenever I stood up to him, he’d not only back down, he’d often see my point. So why she wouldn’t tell him to chill the hell out was beyond me.

You want to try again? Debby asked Jack, interrupting him.

What? he said, backing into one of the little hedge-animals that he and Carl had scattered throughout the rooms.

With the clown?

Oh, yeah, he said, disentangling himself from the hedge. After about the fourth whack, the ball went through, and Jack trailed behind Carl into the bedroom.

Debby picked up her club, and on the third attempt, got the ball in. I whacked a few times and followed.

Jack and Carl were mumbling amongst themselves, and Debby rolled her eyes and elbowed her way through them, breaking them up. This next course was her favorite, and no matter who was in what order, they always let Debby go first.

It was three cat butts, with long, wavy tails moving across the floor. You had to time your shot just right, so that the ball would enter the empty spaces between the tails, and pop up, and into, of course, a cat butthole.

This one always makes me vaguely uncomfortable, I said, sipping my beer and standing back.

Debby had her tongue out, squeezed in between her lips.

The men guffawed at my comment, and Debby whacked, violently, and the ball rolled up and into the butthole of an orange cat. There was even a little faux-litter box that one of her cats had mistaken for real once, to Jack’s consternation. Sometimes me and Debby would take lawn chairs and sit in the box during the summer, and let her kids play while we drank mai tais.

Yes! Debby said, plucking her drink, complete with mini umbrella, up from the floor where she’d set it, and took a celebratory sip.

Jack went next, and it took him a couple tries to get a ball up and into a gray butthole.

Despite what Jack had said in the clown room, I was hoping he was finished, and that Debby wouldn’t bring it up again. But as soon as she’d finished drinking, she said, Okay, so like I was saying, and Carl started moaning.

"Oh no, I thought we were done with this," Carl said, planting one hand over his eyes.

The thing is you know what Kari’s like. She needs someone patient and reasonable with her, to stop her getting into trouble. Debby’s mouth creased into an expression of satisfaction, and she walked into the bedroom for the next step up. Jack had built the cat butts into an old closet that led to another bedroom. This one was my favorite.

The balls were waiting at the bottom of several old kiddie pools. There were four pools, and a bunch of fake greenery and fake flowers. To make the setup weirder, there were four plastic Ronald McDonalds in each pool, complete with vines and flowers wrapped all around them, that Carl had found in a dump in Denver—or so he claimed—in each corner of the room. Jack had spent hours drilling holes into their faces to elongate their mouths, and every mouth led to a different room. And each pool had a little fountain.

Jack frowned and walked up to one of the Ronalds. He looked ready to whack but stopped and turned to me. You really think you need a babysitter? Cause that seems like the opposite of who you are to me.

He went to hit the ball again and stopped once more. In fact, damn, Kari. That’s something I always respected about you.

The irony.

I was in a tough spot. If I told him I didn’t need a babysitter, which was true, he’d justify throwing a shit fit every time I wanted Debby to go off with me to the White Horse, or to Walmart, or wherever.

I mean, sometimes, I guess, I just … look. What’s wrong with just me and Debby hanging without you sometimes? I think you’re the one acting like he needs a babysitter, I said, unable to help myself.

His face twisted with confusion and rage.

Jack exploded. Why don’t you find one of those men you fucking hook up with to hang out alone with then? And not my wife!

I don’t like them for that long, I said, not missing a beat, and ending with a Nicholsonesque smile.

Kari, oh my God! Stop it! Debby sputtered.

Yeah, Jack echoed.

I snorted.

Jack, you apologize to Kari! Debby said, turning to him, her lower lip trembling.

I— Jack said.

I started dancing, banging my head in celebration, one hand in the air, fingers crooked into a devil-sign.

Kari, you’re only making it worse! She swiped a tear away from her face.

Yeah, Kari, Jack said, his eyes narrowing.

I stopped. Sighed.

Debby’s voice was quavering now. "Jack, please. I do everything for you. Why can’t you let me have this? I cook. I clean. I work. And I know what you’re going to say, you don’t have the time to take care of the kids while I hang with Kari. But I find the time, all the time, while you’re off with Carl talking about high school and chicks and building this— she said, gesturing with the club and swinging it near Carl’s head, who wisely ducked, thing," she finished.

The silence in the room was palpable, and we all watched Jack take a breath.

I wondered if he’d apologize. He was as stubborn as I was, and it was always like this. Me, wanting her to myself, and Jack, wanting the same. An eternal tug-of-war.

I’m sorry, Kari. I just … I guess I don’t see why you have to go off alone with her, that’s all, he said. I’m sorry, baby, he finished, his eyes cutting over to Debby. I know you do a lot for me. I’m sorry.

She sighed, heavily.

It was my turn.

I’m sorry, I said lamely, and Jack narrowed his eyes at me again. He knew I wasn’t sorry, not one bit.

What I’d wanted to say—what was on the tip of my tongue—was, I’m sorry Jack’s a jerk. Or worse, a basically okay human being who, because he was a dude, because the whole world thought his kind of shit was warranted, because my sweet cousin had had kids with him too early to know what she was getting into, thought forcing Debby to make him her entire life was okay.

This is exactly why I’d never had a boyfriend. Why Jaime and I had made the pact early on. But I’d been the only one to keep it.

CHAPTER THREE

The lights of Roller City flickered pink, then green, highlighting the path in front of us, and Debby pushed ahead of me, smiled, and twirled, ending with a bow.

I clapped, and she giggled like a kid.

Still got it! she yelled over the sounds of All the Way Up.

She rejoined me and we linked hands, our left feet pushing back smooth and long at the same time, then our right, to the beat of the song.

We’d come here as children, sometimes every weekend—at first, Debby lacing my skates for me, holding my hand and guiding me to the floor, catching me as I fell, showing me the way to keep my balance, then slowly, how to bring flash into something simple and beautiful, full of teenage grace. We began to dance together, to spin, and in my case, to catch the eyes of the boys in the sweaty, hormone-soaked corners of the rink.

But not in Debby’s. Even then, it was Jack waiting for her. Jack with his shy eyes. Jack, who watched me grow from child to woman, who bought me ice cream, the kind that came in little cups, with built-in little spoons, handing me my favorite, chocolate—first, even before he handed Debby hers.

I remembered thinking of him as an older brother. I remembered liking him.

Debby squealed with excitement. The song she’d requested was on. I didn’t think they would do it: Roller City had closed at one point, and when it reopened, like much of Denver, it was full of polish, suburban charm; its carpeting a thick neon and black, ROLLER CITY in fancy green cursive embedded into the fabric.

Though her musical tastes and mine were as far apart as humanly possible, her joy over hearing Tiffany’s I Think We’re Alone Now, her flushed cheeks, her triple spin, made me feel like the past was here, was linked to us as surely as our arms were linked into one another’s, as if a portal had opened and allowed us in, just for this one moment, back into the best parts of both of our adolescence.

That didn’t mean I wasn’t going to tease her mercilessly about it.

We skated to the song, Debby singing her middle-aged heart out, and when it finished, she pushed to the edge, and hung her head, her thin, slightly curly hair drenched in sweat. When it came back up, she asked me if we could take a break, and I agreed.

We sat down, and I plopped my skates up on the seat next to me.

You thirsty? she asked, and I nodded, and got us both Cokes at the concession stand. I peered hard at the menu, but the little ice creams were long gone.

She sipped, ran her hand along her brow. It’s been so long. I can’t believe I remembered how to skate at all!

And then some, I said, to Tiffany—because, and here I paused to close my eyes, and thrust one light brown fist up into the air, I think we’re alone noooow.

I opened my eyes and smiled.

Don’t you start. Tiffany got me through some dark times.

I laughed and took a long gulp of my soda. That and New Kids on the Block.

I don’t care what you say, she said, pulling her hands through her hair, I loved them.

I remembered. She’d had their poster on her wall for years, until her mother’s Christianity had accelerated into evangelical, and she’d torn it down, thrown it away. I remembered Aunt Sandy had called it evidence of her unholy, lustful feelings. God, Debby had cried.

I think we’re alooone now, I sang again, and Debby whacked me on the arm until I stopped. So, how’d you get away from Jack? I asked, shifting on my seat.

She glared. Kari, you make it sound like I’m in prison.

Shit, Debby. As far as I’m concerned, you are. I don’t want to tell nobody where I’m going all the time.

That’s not fair!

Debby, when I called you, I could hear him yelling ‘Where are my shorts?’ in the background.

Well, the baby vomited all over his favorite shorts, she said, plus, it’s not only Jack—I work too, you know, and my mom can’t take the kids every time you have a yen to go roller skating.

I sighed. I know, Debby, but like sometimes, I just wish… I trailed off.

You just wish it was like when we were teenagers.

I rolled my eyes. No.

You just want me to have zero responsibilities, like you, and that’s not my life, Kari. I’m sorry. She crossed her arms over her chest, and her brow darkened.

I knew I was in trouble, that I should probably do something to head off the oncoming storm, but I was sick of her and Jack going on at me about this shit. They’d even tried to fix me up with Carl once. I told Debby he had trouble getting it up at sixteen, and that I could only imagine how much worse that had gotten over time. She’d just gotten red in the face and told me that a real relationship wasn’t all about sex. I’d countered with, well, that’s why I ain’t interested in a real relationship. That had shut her up.

I have two jobs, I said defensively. What was it with married people, especially ones with kids? They always thought they had it harder than everyone else, and they always thought that having kids meant they were doing something heroic.

But that’s not the same as a family, she retorted.

I sat back. I guess. I did love her kids. They were cute as hell, and I liked taking them around, bragging on them about their early reading skills when people asked if they were mine. And then I would laugh and say no.

We were quiet for some