The White Horse Read Free Page B

acted like I was trying not to cry. Was this my cue for tears? Not yet .
    I said, “Wouldn’t it be better for me to answer on TV, to keep it, you know, spontaneous and fresh?”
    â€œWell, yes, but—that’s a very good point, Lorraine. But we need to know what kind of dialogue might develop, especially since the show is live.”
    â€œLive?”
    â€œScary, right?” We winked at me. “But it sure gives us an edge in the ratings.”
    â€œBecause there’s no telling what might happen.”
    â€œExactly. But I don’t want you to think that’s what Larry’s all about. What he’s trying to do is open the lines of communication. Bring people together. Solve problems. Help the family. Because without the family unit, what’ve you got, Lorraine?”
    â€œMy life.”
    â€œHa-ha!” he said. “You’ve seen the show?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWe’ve got a trained psychologist. I mean a real one; not one of these nuts who’s plugging a book. She helps put the family back together.”
    â€œAfter the show?”
    â€œNo, in the last fifteen minutes. Then Larry comes on and gives his parting shot—Let me run one for you, give you some idea.”
    He put a videotape into the VCR. A pack of wackos screamed at each other while the studio audience hooted and hollered, egged on by the host, who gazed into the camera, shaking his head in sorrow .
    â€œSee what I mean, how Larry draws them out?”
    My mind drifted away. I wished Sonny were there. The penthouse looked like he pictures heaven: enormous and white. Rooms full of clean beds .
    â€œYou’re not listening, you bitch!” Someone shrieked on the TV. That’s what people really want: attention. My mother craves the big fix: an audience applauding her, and somebody famous calling her by name: So tell us, Carla … millions of listeners, hearing how bad her life has been, then leaping to their feet for a standing ovation, shouting; You’re right, Carla: You were gypped. So now it will always be your turn .
    â€œOkay, you get the idea. Jeez, those people were screamers.” Dick turned off the VCR. “What happens is, Larry will ask you some questions based on the information we’ve been given. Your mother said something”—he glanced through a notepad on the coffee table—“about foster homes. Detention homes. Can’t read my own damn scribbling. You were in foster homes?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œHow many?”
    â€œA million.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œAsk my mother. She put me there.”
    â€œAll right. That’s good. What we’re looking for, Lorraine, is human emotion. Real people. Real pain. Don’t hold anything back. If you feel it, say it. It’s okay if you swear. We can bleep that. Get it off your chest! Get it out! There’s always two sides to every story, am I right? Honest communication. That’s what we’re after. That’s the only way the healing process can begin. Besides, it makes for dynamite television. Your mother tells us you’re a junkie.”
    The guy on the phone said, “No, not really. What makes you think so, Fred?”
    I couldn’t believe it. “She said that?”
    â€œWould you be willing to admit it on the show? We’ll disguise you if you want; a wig, dark glasses—”
    â€œWould I have to show my tracks?”
    â€œNeedle marks? No. Unless you want to,” he added eagerly .
    â€œThe ones in my ears might not show up good on camera.”
    â€œIn your ears? Don’t you use your arms?”
    â€œThere’s some on my tongue, too. See?” I stuck it out .
    â€œThey’re too small, I guess.”
    I almost laughed in his face but I was hurting. Telling him I’m a goddamn junkie when I’ve never touched a needle in my life. She’s the one .
    â€œShe tell you she’s a