Читать книгу Forbidden Fruit - Erica Spindler, Erica Spindler - Страница 13

New Orleans, Louisiana 1979

Living in New Orleans’s French Quarter suited fifteenyear-old Victor Santos just fine. No place else he had lived was quite like it. Day and night, the Quarter vibrated with energy and excitement; he never lacked for something to do or someone to hang out with. He liked the sounds and the smells, he liked the old buildings whose cracked plaster walls were always damp, he liked the lush, hidden courtyards and the fanciful iron balconies.

But most of all, Santos—called that by everyone but his mother—liked the people. The Quarter was home to all ages, persuasions and colors, home to the good, the bad and the ugly. Even the crush who flocked to Bourbon Street at night—most of them dedicated party animals, the rest curiosity seekers come to ogle the outrageous—fascinated him.

His school counselors were always telling his mom that the Quarter was no place to raise a kid because of the bad element. Of course, they would lump her into that category, too, if they knew she was an exotic dancer and not the waitress she had told them she was.

As far as Santos was concerned, those counselors were a bunch of full-of-crap know-it-alls. As far as he was concerned, hookers, junkies and runaways had a lot more heart than no-good sons-of-bitches like his daddy. No, from what he had seen of life, the folks who’d had nothing but hard times and hurts didn’t have room inside them for hate.

Santos crossed Bourbon Street and shouted a greeting to Bubba, the guy who worked the door of Club 69, the place his mother danced nights.

“Hey, Santos,” the burly bouncer called back. “You got any smokes? I’m out.”

Santos laughed and lifted his hands, empty palms up. “Gave it up, man. Haven’t you heard? Those things’ll kill you.”

The man flipped Santos a friendly bird, then turned his attention to a couple of tourists who had stopped outside the club and were craning their necks to get a peek at the show.

Victor continued down Bourbon, then cut across to St. Peter, hoping to shave a few minutes off his walk. He had promised his mother he would pick up a couple shrimp po’boys on his way home.

His mouth started to water at the thought of the big, sloppy sandwiches, and he stepped up his pace, though not too much. August in New Orleans didn’t lend itself to hurrying. Although the sun had begun its descent more than an hour ago, the sidewalk was still hot enough to fry an egg. Heat emanated from the concrete in sweltering waves, and the air, heavy with the ninety-plus-percent humidity, could suffocate the overzealous. Just last week, a touristbuggy horse had fallen over dead in the street, a victim of August in New Orleans.

“Hey, Santos, baby,” a woman said from behind him. “Where you goin’ in such a hurry?”

He stopped, looked over his shoulder and smiled. “Hey, Sugar. Going to the Central Grocery, then home. Mom’s waiting.” Until about six months ago, Sugar had danced at the club with his mother. She’d been forced to start working the streets full-time when her man had taken off, leaving her and their three kids.

“Your mama always did like them sandwiches. Bet you do, too, a big boy like yourself.” She laughed and patted his cheek. “You tell your mama I said hello. You tell her Brown Sugar’s doin’ okay.”

“I will. She’ll be glad to hear it.”

Santos watched her walk away, then shook his head and started off again. Sugar was an example of the kind of folks those do-gooder school counselors called a bad influence. The way he saw it, she was doing the best she could to take care of her family. The way he saw it, sometimes life didn’t offer anything better than a shit sandwich. When that happened, you had to eat it or starve.

Not that there weren’t some bad people in the Quarter. There were plenty; just like everyplace else. He figured folks came in three varieties: the haves, the have-nots and the want-to-haves. The way he saw it, the lines between these three groups were very clearly drawn. It was economics, pure and simple.

The haves were easy. They liked their lives, and as long as members of the other two groups stayed out of their way, they weren’t any bother at all. But the want-to-haves were trouble. They came from all walks of life, they grappled for money and power, they would do anything to anyone to get it; the want-to-haves burned in their gut to lord it over somebody else.

Santos considered himself a pretty tough kid, but he steered clear of that kind. Experience had taught him well. His daddy had been like that, always hungry for what he didn’t have, always yearning to lord it over somebody else, ready to raise his fist to somebody smaller or weaker. Like that would make him a big man.

His daddy. Santos curled his lips in distaste. He had nothing but bad memories of Samuel “Willy” Smith. The man had been pure oil-field trash, but too good to marry the “spic-squaw” girlfriend he had knocked up, too good to give their baby his name. He used to call Victor and his mama half-breed wetbacks and tell them they were no good.

Santos remembered feeling little but relief the morning the sheriff had come by their trailer to tell them Willy Smith had been killed—his throat slit from ear to ear—in a barroom fight. Every now and then, however, Santos did wonder about his old man—he wondered how he was enjoying hell.

Santos reached the grocery and went inside, grateful for the blast of cold air that hit him as he opened the door. He ordered the sandwiches, shot the breeze with the counter girl while he waited, and ten minutes later was back on the street, the po’boys and a couple bottles of Barq’s in a brown take-out sack.

He and his mother lived on Ursuline, in a small, secondfloor apartment. The place was clean, cheap and unairconditioned. They endured the summer months with two small window-units, one for each bedroom. Sometimes it was so hot in the kitchen and living room, they ate on their beds.

Santos reached their building, jogged up the one flight of stairs, then let himself into their apartment. “Mom,” he called. “I’m home.”

His mother stepped out of her bedroom, a brush in her hand, her features masked by the thick layer of makeup she wore to work. She had told him once that she liked wearing the makeup when she danced, because it made her feel as if it was somebody else up on the stage, as if it wasn’t really her the men were staring at. She had told him, too, that those guys, the ones that came to the club, liked her to look cheap. Like a whore, or something. It was part of their thrill. Santos thought it was really fucked-up. He wished his mother didn’t have to put up with it.

She shut the bedroom door behind her, careful not to let the cool air escape. “Hi, darlin’. How was your day?”

“Okay.” He fastened the safety chain. “I have the sandwiches.”

“Great. I’m starving.” She motioned toward her bedroom. “Let’s eat in here. It’s hot as hellfire today.”

He followed her and they sat down on the floor, then dug into the sandwiches. While they ate, Victor studied his mother. Lucia Santos was a beautiful woman. Half American Indian—Cherokee, she thought—and half Mexican, she had dark hair and eyes, and an exotic-looking, highcheekboned face. He had seen men look at her, when they’d been out together, just the two of them, her in her blue jeans, her hair pulled back into a girlish ponytail, her face free of the makeup that exaggerated and hardened her features.

He took after her; everybody said so. And every time he looked in a mirror, he said a silent thank-you for it. He didn’t think he could have faced getting up every day, looking in the mirror and being reminded of Willy Smith.

“Mrs. Rosewood called today.”

One of those know-it-all do-gooder counselors. “Great,” Santos uttered. “Just what we need.”

She put down her po’boy and wiped her mouth with a paper napkin. “You start school next week. You need some things.”

His gut tightened. He knew what that meant. Tonight, tomorrow night or the next, she would come home with a “friend.” Suddenly, there would be plenty of money for clothes and doctor’s visits and book bags. He hated it. “I don’t need anything.”

“No?” She took another bite of her po’boy, chewed slowly, then washed it down with a long swallow of the root beer. “What about the two inches you’ve grown over the summer? Don’t you think your pants are going to be a little short?”

“Don’t worry about it.” He crushed the paper his po’boy had come wrapped in and shoved it into the empty take-out bag. “I’ve got some money saved from my job, I’ll get new clothes myself.”

“You also need to visit the dentist. And Mrs. Rosewood said your records show that you’re due for—”

“What does she know?” he interrupted, angry suddenly. He jumped to his feet and glared at his mother. “Why can’t she just leave us alone? She’s just an old busybody.”

Lucia frowned and followed him to his feet. She met his gaze evenly. “What’s the problem, Victor?”

“School’s a waste of time. I don’t see why I can’t just quit.”

“Because you can’t. And you won’t, not while I’m alive.” She narrowed her gaze, her expression fierce. “You need an education if you’re ever going to get out of this dump. You quit school and you’ll end up just like your daddy. You want that?”

Victor clenched his hands into fists. “That really sucks, Mom. I’m nothing like him, and you know it.”

“Then prove it,” she countered. “Stay in school.”

He flexed his fingers, frustrated. “I’m big enough to pass for sixteen. I could quit school and get a full-time job. We need the money.”

“We don’t need the money. We’re doing fine.”

“Right.”

At his sarcasm, she flushed, obviously angry. “What’s that supposed to mean? Huh?” She poked her index finger into his shoulder. “What do you want that you don’t have?”

He said nothing, just stared at his feet and the remnants of their meal, an ugly mess on the pieces of white butcher paper. Like this whole, fucking situation. Anger and helpless frustration balled in his chest until he thought he might explode with it.

“What?” she asked, poking him again, this time harder. “You want some high-priced stereo system? Or maybe you need some of those fancy, name-brand jeans or a color TV in your room?”

He lifted his head and met her eyes, the blood pumping furiously in his head, “Maybe what I want, maybe what I need, is a mother who doesn’t have to turn tricks every time she has to buy her son a new pair of shoes or take him to the doctor.”

She took an involuntary step back, as if he had slapped her, her face going white under her foundation and blush.

He held a hand out to her, contrite. “I shouldn’t have said that, Mom. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t.” She took another step back from him, working to get control of herself. “How did you know about the…tricks?”

Santos dragged his hands through his hair, frustrated, wishing he had never started this. “Give me a break, Mom. I mean, I’m not blind. Or dumb. I’m not a kid anymore. I’ve known for a long time.”

“I see.” She gazed at him another moment, then turned and crossed slowly to the one window in the small room. She stared out at the street below, her view partially obstructed by the small air conditioner. The seconds ticked past, seeming more like minutes. Still, she said nothing.

He took a step toward her, then stopped, cursing himself. Why hadn’t he held his tongue? Why hadn’t he just let her believe he didn’t know her little secret? He couldn’t take his words back now, and her silence hurt him more than one of his daddy’s blows.

“What did you expect?” he said, softly now. “Every time I needed something, you came home with a friend. He would stay an hour or two, then leave. Of course, we’d never see him again.”

She bowed her head. “I’m sorry.”

A catch in his chest, he crossed to her and wrapped his arms around her. He pressed his face to her sweet-smelling hair. Tonight when she returned from work, it would reek of cigarettes and the dirty old men who had pawed at her. “Sorry for what?” he asked, choked.

“For being a…whore. You must think—”

“You’re not! I think you’re the greatest. I’m not…” His voice thickened, and he struggled for a moment to clear it. “I’m not ashamed of you. It’s just that I know how much you hate it. You’re always so quiet after. You always look so sad.”

He breathed deeply through his nose. “And I hate that you do it for me. I hate that I’m the reason why you let those guys…” His words trailed off.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, her voice small and broken. “I didn’t want you to know about the tricks. I thought…” She shook her head. “This isn’t the kind of life I wanted you to have. I’m not the kind of mother you deserve.”

“Don’t say that.” He tightened his arms around her, wishing he could protect her, wishing he could take care of her. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I just wish you…if I quit school, you wouldn’t have to do it anymore.”

She turned and faced him, her eyes and cheeks wet with tears. “I would do anything for you, Victor. Don’t you see? You’re the best thing I’ve ever done. The best thing in my life.”

She cupped his face in her palms. “Promise me you’ll stay in school.” She tightened her grip, her gaze on his intense. “Promise me, Victor. It’s important.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll stay in school. I promise.”

“Thank you.” She smiled, but he saw that her mouth trembled. “You always keep your promises. You always have, ever since you were old enough to make them to me.” She shook her head. “Sometimes I wonder how you can be so honorable, coming like you did from Willy and me.”

She made a move to lower her hands; he caught them. “I’ll take care of you someday,” he said fiercely. “You won’t have to put all that crap on your face, you won’t have to work the way you do now. I’ll take care of you,” he said again. “I give you my word on that.”