Read Online Sleep Toward Heaven by Amanda Eyre Ward - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Amanda Eyre Ward
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born, her mother took off for the high life of the city again. She would come to town once in a while, take Karen for ice cream cones. When Karen was twelve, her grandmother died and her mother started selling Karen to men, bringing them to the trailer and then bringing Karen to the city.
When Karen’s mother died (beaten to death, one cheekbone snapped), Karen did not know how to feel. There was relief, but there was also loneliness. Karen no longer had a home. She left Uvalde for good when she was fifteen. Once, when she was small, her grandmother made Apple Brown Betty for her birthday.
Since she is sick, the guards do not make Karen work. She lies on her cot. If she looks to the right of her cell, she can just see the others sewing in the cage. They sit behind the machines, underneath the dolls. They are not supposed to talk, but they whisper occasionally, and touch each other’s arms and hands, pressing skin to skin. On top of the television, there is a photograph from their Christmas party. They had made invitations for each other, and the guard had taken the invitations and delivered them the next day, like mail, like real invitations. In the picture, their arms are around each other, and they are smiling: Highway Honey, Black Widow, Baby Killer, and the Hairdresser of Death (in a Santa hat).
By afternoon, Karen is so dizzy that she falls when she tries to make it to the table for lunch. Two guards take her to the Medical Center. A nurse slides a needle in her arm. Her nausea subsides, and her limbs feel heavy. She is given her meds with a cup of water. She does not ask what has happened to Dr. Wren, and no one tells her.
Lying on a cot in the Medical Center, Karen thinks of Ellen. She can see Ellen in her mind: the curly thick hair, the wide smile. The tummy, just the tiniest bit soft, before she started using again and her stomach sank into her hipbones. Ellen. She was the only one who had loved Karen, but she loved her the most when they had money. That was why Karen turned tricks, why she went out on the road, thumbing from rest stop to rest stop, getting it stuck in her for a few dollars, a twenty, a ten. For Ellen, it was all for Ellen, to come home to their room at the Hi-D-Ho Motel with beer and clothes, cash for Ellen’s smack.
Ellen had cried on her birthday. She cried because Karen had nothing to give her. Karen had worked for five days on the highway to come home with enough money for the previous month’s rent and for beer. “You don’t love me,” Ellen said. “You didn’t even bring me a birthday present.” And she put her clothes in a suitcase, slammed it shut, her eyes bright with the heroin.
Karen begged her not to leave. “I’ll get you a present,” said Karen, “I promise I will, please,” and finally Ellen was soothed. Karen tucked her into bed, turned on the television, left Ellen the beer. And after four nights with no sleep, she went out again onto the highway.
The first car that slowed had two men in it, and Karen kept walking. Her jeans were dirty and her shirt smelled of sweat, but she was skinny then and wore bright lipstick and push-up bras. The second car was a white Toyota with a heavy man. Karen got in.
At the Evergreen Rest Stop, she let him stick it in her. He didn’t want to get muddy, so he laid a blanket on the ground. He gave her a twenty—she always made them pay first. He gave her some whiskey to drink, pretended like it was a date, and then he stuck it in her. He was fat and heaving, his stomach white and soft and Karen thought about Ellen, her skin, her strawberry lotion, and the man pumped away. Finally he finished, got off her, and went to the car. Karen pulled her jeans on, the fabric rough on her hips. Was a twenty enough to go home? She could buy Ellen some chocolates with a twenty, or some flowers at the Circle-K. A bottle of champagne? She saw the man rummaging in his glove compartment.
“You can just leave me here,” Karen said, standing,
When Karen’s mother died (beaten to death, one cheekbone snapped), Karen did not know how to feel. There was relief, but there was also loneliness. Karen no longer had a home. She left Uvalde for good when she was fifteen. Once, when she was small, her grandmother made Apple Brown Betty for her birthday.
Since she is sick, the guards do not make Karen work. She lies on her cot. If she looks to the right of her cell, she can just see the others sewing in the cage. They sit behind the machines, underneath the dolls. They are not supposed to talk, but they whisper occasionally, and touch each other’s arms and hands, pressing skin to skin. On top of the television, there is a photograph from their Christmas party. They had made invitations for each other, and the guard had taken the invitations and delivered them the next day, like mail, like real invitations. In the picture, their arms are around each other, and they are smiling: Highway Honey, Black Widow, Baby Killer, and the Hairdresser of Death (in a Santa hat).
By afternoon, Karen is so dizzy that she falls when she tries to make it to the table for lunch. Two guards take her to the Medical Center. A nurse slides a needle in her arm. Her nausea subsides, and her limbs feel heavy. She is given her meds with a cup of water. She does not ask what has happened to Dr. Wren, and no one tells her.
Lying on a cot in the Medical Center, Karen thinks of Ellen. She can see Ellen in her mind: the curly thick hair, the wide smile. The tummy, just the tiniest bit soft, before she started using again and her stomach sank into her hipbones. Ellen. She was the only one who had loved Karen, but she loved her the most when they had money. That was why Karen turned tricks, why she went out on the road, thumbing from rest stop to rest stop, getting it stuck in her for a few dollars, a twenty, a ten. For Ellen, it was all for Ellen, to come home to their room at the Hi-D-Ho Motel with beer and clothes, cash for Ellen’s smack.
Ellen had cried on her birthday. She cried because Karen had nothing to give her. Karen had worked for five days on the highway to come home with enough money for the previous month’s rent and for beer. “You don’t love me,” Ellen said. “You didn’t even bring me a birthday present.” And she put her clothes in a suitcase, slammed it shut, her eyes bright with the heroin.
Karen begged her not to leave. “I’ll get you a present,” said Karen, “I promise I will, please,” and finally Ellen was soothed. Karen tucked her into bed, turned on the television, left Ellen the beer. And after four nights with no sleep, she went out again onto the highway.
The first car that slowed had two men in it, and Karen kept walking. Her jeans were dirty and her shirt smelled of sweat, but she was skinny then and wore bright lipstick and push-up bras. The second car was a white Toyota with a heavy man. Karen got in.
At the Evergreen Rest Stop, she let him stick it in her. He didn’t want to get muddy, so he laid a blanket on the ground. He gave her a twenty—she always made them pay first. He gave her some whiskey to drink, pretended like it was a date, and then he stuck it in her. He was fat and heaving, his stomach white and soft and Karen thought about Ellen, her skin, her strawberry lotion, and the man pumped away. Finally he finished, got off her, and went to the car. Karen pulled her jeans on, the fabric rough on her hips. Was a twenty enough to go home? She could buy Ellen some chocolates with a twenty, or some flowers at the Circle-K. A bottle of champagne? She saw the man rummaging in his glove compartment.
“You can just leave me here,” Karen said, standing,
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