Lacy's End (3 page)

Lacy watched her unwanted guest as she scribbled something on her notepad. She knew, from the expression she wore, that Angela didn’t believe her. She had told yet another version. Would she drill her mother for answers now?

She watched her rise. She walked across the room and stood beside Brenda’s bed. Lacy froze. “How are you feeling, Mrs. Waldrip?”

Brenda tried to speak but her throat was dry, and no sound came out. She licked her lips, trying to get moisture to them. She struggled to sit up but moaned against the pain. She fell back against the mattress.

Angela, seeing the poor woman struggle, reached across her, picked up the bed control and raised her head a few inches. Brenda groaned with relief. Next, she picked up a pitcher of water, poured some into a cup and put a straw into it. She raised it to Brenda’s lips. After she had a few sips, Angela pulled it away. “Not too much,” she said.

When she had settled back down, Angela asked, “Do you feel like talking?”

Brenda shook her head, a tear escaping down her cheek. Angela extracted a tissue from the Kleenex box beside the bed and wiped Brenda’s tears away. “It’s okay, we can talk tomorrow.”

Lacy watched the display of compassion and softened her resolve. She began to wonder if this woman really might be able to help them. What if she told her about her father? Would she be able to stop him? If she were unsuccessful, would the beatings increase in frequency, or worse—in intensity. If they took her away but left her mother behind, what would become of her mother?

Lacy bit her lower lip and continued watching as Ms. Martin administered tenderly to her mother. “Ms. Martin,” Lacy began. At first, the woman didn’t turn around, and Lacy almost lost her nerve. Then she slowly turned. Lacy saw the tenderness in her gaze, a sympathetic, almost understanding look.

She smiled. “Yes, Lacy. Do you want to talk now?”

Lacy nodded an almost imperceptible nod and choked back tears. “I—” she began, and then jumped when the door burst open with a loud bang and her father’s voice bellowed, “Lacy!”

Angela spun around, coming face-to-face with the demon in the sheriff’s uniform. He looked first at Lacy, then to Brenda, and finally his eyes came to rest on Angela. Finally, understanding became clear. She knew why Lacy was so reluctant to name her father as her attacker. Sheriff Peter Waldrip’s reputation stood alone. Sheriff Waldrip instilled fear in even the toughest criminals in their little town. Hard on youth, tough on thieves, even the gang leaders bowed to respect him. She wondered—would even his deputies turn their backs in the face of domestic abuse. She had no doubt they would. What recourse did either Lacy or Mrs. Waldrip have against them?

“What is going on here?”

Angela saw Lacy cringe against his anger, even Brenda, lying helpless in her bed and half-comatose, jumped when she heard his voice.

No one spoke for several seconds. Then Angela took a deep breath, plunged on, “We’re having a private conversation here,” she paused, drew up tall and, squaring off with the sheriff added, “Sheriff Waldrip.”

The sheriff relaxed his stance. “I’m not sure who you are,” he said, looking her up and down. He grinned at the sprite woman who was more bark than she could be bite, “but you shouldn’t be in here. It’s obvious my family has been in an accident of some kind and need their rest.”

Angela ignored the dismissal. “I’m Angela Martin from social services.”

The sheriff laughed. “We don’t need social services. This town pays me just fine.”

“I’m not that kind of social worker,” Angela said, gritting her teeth. “If you’ll excuse me…” She stepped around him, stopping at Lacy’s bedside. “I’ll be back tomorrow so we can talk again.”

“Don’t bother,” Sheriff Waldrip said, “she won’t be here.”

She looked him in the eye. “The doctor hasn’t released them yet.”

The sheriff grinned. “He will. One way or the other, Ms. Martin, I’m taking my family home.”

“Then I’ll just see her at home,” she said and stalked out.

When the door shut, Peter turned to Lacy, staring her directly in the eye.

Emboldened by Angela’s bravado, Lacy stared right back, shooting him with a venomous stare. “I didn’t say a thing.”

Peter smiled. “Of course you didn’t, Lacy—you’re a good girl.”

Lacy turned over in bed, away from her father. She heard him walk to the head of her mother’s bed. She could tell he was bending over her, and she shuddered when she heard him kiss her on the cheek.

“What’s wrong, baby? How’d you get here? Who did this to you?” he asked as if some alien being had invaded his body. As if nobody in this wretched town knew what Peter Waldrip did to his family on a routine basis.

Lacy gritted her teeth. How many times had she heard those words come out of his mouth? She knew the pattern, could almost tell you how long each stage would last. They didn’t need to worry. The punishment phase was over for now. They were in the remorse stage, now. This stage angered Lacy the most. This stage made her father think all was well. He would be nice for a while—the drunk was over.

From the bed beside her, she heard the murmuring, the whispering of, “I love you,” from her father. Then the sobbing from her mother. The noisy caresses of her father, complete with the moaning and grunting. If they were at home, her mother and father would head off to the bedroom, where she would have to listen to them have wild makeup sex while, in the bathroom, Lacy would clean her bloody lips and tear-stained cheeks. She would bandage the superficial wounds while the emotional ones festered and grew.

When she finished, she would lie on her bed with the stereo cranked up loud, so she wouldn’t have to hear them. Certainly, he wouldn’t do it here, would he? But he might, it was part of the steps.

She heard her mother beg with her dry, cracked voice, “Please, Peter, not here, not in front of Lacy.”

“She’s a big girl, baby—she knows about these things.”

Lacy gagged, and her stomach rolled in waves of nausea. Apparently, her father was going to insist. “Please, Daddy,” she whispered. “Not in front of me.”

She waited for the slap, the kick to the kidneys, the pulling of the hair—not that there was much hair left to pull. She had grown tired of having her hair pulled, and one day, in a fit of anger, she stood in front of the mirror with her mother’s sewing scissors and chopped it all off. When her father saw what she had done, he just shrugged and said, “Like that really would stop me.” Even though it had not stopped her father from pulling her hair, she had decided she liked it and kept it short. Now as she lay there, waiting for the expected, all she heard was the sound of drawers as her father pulled them open.

She felt something drop on top of her. “Here,” her father commanded. “Put those on.”

She looked down at her bundle of blood-stained clothes. Was he nuts? What was he expecting to do? She sat up, stared over at her mother, who stirred and mumbled something. She watched her father as he disconnected the tubes that protruded from her arms, not bothering to staunch the blood drips. He stripped off the hospital gown and put her bloody clothes on her. “Get dressed,” he snapped at Lacy.

Lacy jumped and did as she was told, not daring to argue.

When he had finished dressing her mother, he looked at Lacy. “Ready to go?”

Lacy nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She watched her father pick up her mother, effortlessly, as if she were a rag doll instead of a grown woman. It reminded Lacy about her father’s strength. He carried her mother to the door, opened it and walked through. Lacy trailed behind.

As they approached the nurses’ station, everyone turned to stare at them. Dr. Petoro was writing something on a clipboard when they walked past. He stopped and stared after them. Then he dashed to stand between them and the front door, daring Peter to pass.

Peter’s eyes bore hard into the doctor. “Move!” Peter roared.

Dr. Petoro shook his head. “I will not let you take them from this hospital. They need medical attention.”

“And you gave it to them. Now I’m taking them home.”

“You could jeopardize their lives.” Peter stood his ground, his bulk large and intimidating. The battered woman lay in his arms like a rag doll. Whatever else the man lacked, he clearly kept his body in good condition. “I’m begging you, Sheriff, let them stay so I can tend to them.”

For a moment, Lacy thought the two men would have a standoff. Could it be that Dr. Petoro would be her hero, her knight in shining armor? Would he be the one person who had the courage to stand up to her father? Then Angela Martin, that interfering busybody, stepped in.

Lacy watched her place a hand on the doctor’s arm as she spoke to him in a tone barely audible at her distance. “Let them go, Dr. Petoro. I have enough to start the investigation, and this only adds to my case.”

Lacy waited anxiously to see if Dr. Petoro would comply. She wondered what her father would do if he didn’t. Would he take out his revolver, holstered to his hip, and blow him away? For some odd reason, Lacy smiled at this thought as a vision of the well-meaning doctor’s headstone popped into her head.
Here lies Dr. Petoro—the only man brave enough to stand up to Sheriff Peter Waldrip
.

Finally, Dr. Petoro stepped aside, and the sheriff walked from the hospital with his family in tow. He didn’t see Angela slip a card to Lacy with her home number written on it. She didn’t even have to write a message on it. Lacy knew what it meant. She would have known her meaning even if she had written the message in invisible ink.
Call me if you need anything
.

As the sliding doors closed behind her, Lacy turned, made eye contact with Dr. Petoro and Angela Martin, and slowly waved. That was the beginning of the end for Lacy Waldrip.

The school bell rang on Monday morning, and Lacy slammed her locker door. She looked with longing at the double doors that would take her to her beloved outdoors and beyond the reach of the scrutiny of her peers.

She wasn’t sure how long she could keep being late for class, or ducking the kids in the hallway for that matter. Eventually, she would have to face their taunting. Worse were the teachers. They looked at her with concern, eager to ask Lacy what had happened to her, but none of them was any help. She looked again at the doors. The longing to escape was overpowering. They couldn’t make fun of her if she didn’t give them the chance. She took two steps toward the door before bumping into the vice-principal.

“Where are you going, Miss Waldrip?”

Wordlessly, she turned around and headed toward her chemistry class, arriving just as Mrs. Horton began writing the assignment on the board. Mrs. Horton turned and looked at her. “You’re late, Lacy.”

“I know, Mrs. Horton. I truly am sorry, but I missed the school bus this morning and had to walk.”

“You have two healthy parents. Couldn’t one of them have driven you? After all, your father is the sheriff. Certainly, he could respect the rules and see that his daughter arrived at school on time.”

Lacy looked down at her feet, fidgeting with the fringes of her suede purse. She was sure people would be shocked if they discovered she made the purse herself to conceal all of the first aid supplies she needed to get her through the next week.

“My mom’s not feeling well this morning. She and I had an accident and, although I’m feeling better, Mom wasn’t as lucky.”

Mrs. Horton stared at Lacy, assessing the damage to her face: swollen right eye, a small but significant slash—apparently sutured—over her left eye. There was heavy bruising around both eyes...and was that—she walked closer to Lacy, squinting her eyes in disbelief. Coming to stand immediately before Lacy, she reached out and moved a piece of a scarf, which Lacy had tied around her neck, to hide an ugly purple bruise.

She gasped. “Come with me, Lacy.” She put an arm around her shoulders and led her out the door.

“Where are we going?” Lacy asked.

“To the office.” She turned back to the class. “I’ll only be a minute.” She pointed at Jacoby. “You’re in charge,” she said, and then narrowed her eyes at him. “I’ll know if you screw off.” The threat was so high that she knew she could count on him.

As they walked to the office, Lacy grew nervous. Mrs. Horton’s high heels made a click-clack noise with every step she took, intensifying Lacy’s already agitated state. They were striding so fast that when they rounded a corner, they nearly knocked over a kid on his way to the bathroom. Lacy flinched.

Mrs. Horton, sensing Lacy’s uneasiness, sighed and slowed her pace. “It’s okay, Lacy. You don’t have to worry.”

Lacy shrugged. Whatever. She knew this wasn’t true, but how could she tell Mrs. Horton that a phone call home from the office would surely mean a beating for her when she got home.

They rounded another corner and the ominous sign directing them to the office came into sight. Lacy’s heart raced. Blood rushed through her ears in a whooshing sound. Lacy hesitated, but Mrs. Horton’s arm only grew tighter. “Come on, Lacy. I told you it was going to be okay.”

Mrs. Horton pushed open the door and gave Glenda, the principal’s secretary, a hundred-watt smile. “Good morning, Glenda. I have Lacy here, again,” she said as if the woman couldn’t see Lacy standing there beside her.

Glenda frowned, noting the bruising and lacerations on Lacy’s face. “Let me guess, you walked into a wall. No, wait—a dish popped out of the cupboard and you caught it with your face.”

The sarcasm cut like a knife through Lacy’s heart. Mrs. Horton, not acknowledging Glenda’s comment said, “I think it’s time we spoke with Mr. Walker. It’s a bad one this time.” She gestured at Lacy, pulling down the scarf and pointing out the bruising around her neck.

“What for, it won’t do any good,” Glenda said.

“How can you say that?” Mrs. Horton asked.

Glenda pointed at Lacy, causing her to shrink back. “Because that little one there protects him, and unless she’s willing to stand up against him, nothing will improve. Isn’t that right, Lacy?”

Mrs. Horton and Glenda both looked at her with accusing glares.

Mr. Walker walked in, saw Lacy standing there and sighed. “What did you do to provoke him this time?” he asked.

“Mr. Walker!” Mrs. Horton exclaimed, anger seeping up her neck and into her face. “I hardly think that’s an appropriate question.”

Lacy, who had remained silent up to this point, spoke in a wee voice, “I didn’t do anything.” She turned her back to them, sinking into a chair and hiding her face, hoping to shut out the entire world.

Mrs. Horton, finally recovering from the shock, rocked back on her heels and crossed her arms over her chest. She said, “I think it’s time we called the authorities.”

Lacy’s head snapped up, and her eyes flew open wide. “No! You can’t do that,” she pleaded. “I’ve been to the hospital. Nothing’s broken. It was an accident, really.” Tears stained her cheeks as her pleas became an agonizing demand.

Mrs. Horton placed an arm around Lacy’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Lacy. We’ll figure this out.” She looked at Mr. Walker, jerking her chin upward in indignation. “Apparently, you aren’t going to be any help. I’ll handle this on my own.”

She and Lacy walked back to the classroom. To her surprise, Jacoby was standing in front of the blackboard teaching the other students the lesson, and they were listening.

Lacy took her seat, pulled her bangs over her right eye in an attempt to hide as much of the bruising as she could.

Bethany Martin looked over at her, giving her the
what’s wrong with you
stare. Lacy turned her head away while Bethany leaned over and whispered in Chad’s ear.

She knew what kind of things they were saying.

“Ignore them,” a voice beside her said.

Lacy snapped her head around, surprised to see the guy from the pond and the hospital. She looked anxiously around, trying to see if anyone else noticed him. “What are you doing here?” she whispered.

“Lacy?” Mrs. Horton asked. “Is something wrong?”

“Something definitely is wrong,” Bethany said, raising her eyebrows, “
with her
.”

The whole class tittered, making Lacy flush with embarrassment.

“Let’s get out of here,” the boy beside her said.

“I can’t just walk out of the classroom in the middle of a lesson,” she whispered.

“Why not?”

She gritted her teeth. “I just can’t.”

“Lacy?” Mrs. Horton called again.

“Come on,” the boy said.

Lacy stood and walked to the front of the class. “Can I please use the bathroom?”

“Well, why didn’t you just say so, instead of talking to yourself and making all that noise?”

“But, I…” Lacy started to say, pointing beside her. She looked over, and he was gone. “I’m not feeling well,” she said. “Can I please be excused?”

Mrs. Horton pulled a pad from her desk and wrote Lacy a hall pass. “Do you want someone to go with you?”

Lacy looked out at the student body, who all wore the same mocking expression.
Yeah right, who would that be?
“No thanks, Mrs. Horton. I can handle it on my own.”

She ripped the note from the pad and handed it to Lacy. “I hope you feel better.” As Lacy started to leave, Mrs. Horton put her hand on her arm. “I know I’m not supposed to do this but,” she gave her a business card, “if you ever need to talk…”

Lacy looked down at the card. Printed on the card were Mrs. Horton’s name, the school’s name, address, phone number, and the school’s website address. Below her name, Mrs. Horton had written her home phone number. “Thanks,” Lacy said and walked out of the classroom, stuffing the card in the back pocket of her jeans, right on top of the social worker’s card.

“They are such jerks.”

She jumped at the sound of the voice. She turned to see her friend again. “Hey, where’d you go?” she asked. “One minute you were there beside me, and the next you weren’t. My teacher thinks I talk to myself.”

“Well, don’t you?”

She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”

She started to walk. “Where are we going?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I’m just walking.” She stopped, turned and looked at him, regarding his features. He was cute, dark hair, tall and thin. Not that she was into guys or anything. That was for other girls, ones who didn’t have sheriff daddies who toted guns on their hip. “Who are you?”

“Just a friend. I’m here to help you through your problems.”

“What’s your name?”

“Jake.”

“Jake what?”

“Just Jake.”

“Suit yourself,” she said. She shrugged and kept walking.

They exited the school building and rounded the front of the school, walking intently now.

“Do you know where we’re going yet?” he asked.

“Under the bleachers.”

“What’s under the bleachers?”

She looked him in the eye, concentrating. Would he see her destination and run straight for the principal’s office? She doubted it. The vibes she got from this stranger said she could trust him, and she was good at reading vibes. She raised one eyebrow, which made him chuckle. She grinned. “It’s what’s
not
under the bleachers.” At his look of confusion she explained, “People. There are no people underneath the bleachers.”

“Ah, I see.”

They didn’t just go under the bleachers. They went all the way to Alaska under the bleachers. “How far do we have to go?”

She shrugged again. “Far enough to escape any chance of getting caught.”

She found a spot and judging from the amount of stuff that he saw there, she did this often. There was a small table with a candle in the center, a vase of silk flowers, a Bible, and some chewing gum.

“What is all this stuff for?” Jake asked.

“It’s for forgiveness.”

“I don’t understand.”

She heaved a heavy sigh. “Look, Jake, you’re welcome to stay if you want, but you have to be quiet. I need to concentrate.”

He sat back and watched as she took a box of matches from underneath the table and lit the candle. She put her hands together and began to pray. “Dear God, my Father in heaven…the only father who cares, hear my prayers this morning.” She said the rest of her prayer silently. At first, Jake thought she had stopped in midsentence, but as he looked closer, he could see her lips moving.

When she finished the prayer, she picked up the Bible and began to read. She read a bunch of stuff that sounded like poetry. He sneaked a peek over her shoulder and saw she was reading from the book of Psalms. She sensed his presence and peered over her shoulder. Their faces were mere inches apart. He grinned. “Do you mind?” He pulled back.

Finally, she shut the book and turned to look at him. “Okay, done.”

“What were you doing?”

“Praying.”

“Praying for what?”

She sighed. “Praying for patience and forgiveness.”

He nodded, pleased. “So you believe in God.”

She hesitated, bit her lower lip and gave a slight shake of her head. “I don’t know.”

Jake cocked his head to one side. “What about the Bible reading and praying?” he asked.

“What about it?” she asked.

He gestured toward the Bible. “I just thought with all the reading you do…well, I thought for sure you’re a believer.”

She stood and walked abruptly toward the edge of the bleachers. “Does it matter? Am I to believe in a god who lets fathers beat their daughters into submission?”

“I guess that’s up to you.”

She turned to look at him. They stared for several seconds, and she turned back, not wanting him to see her vulnerable side.

“What are we going to do now?” he asked.

“I’m going to gym class. I don’t know what you’re going to do.”

She made her way back from the bleachers. When she got near the end, she stopped, looked around to make sure nobody was watching. Jake decided he liked this sneaking around stuff. It was fun. She saw the coast was clear and emerged into the bright sunlight.

“Oh, no,” she said.

“What’s wrong?”

She pointed at a group of girls standing uniformly in line. “I’m late for gym class. Now I’ll have to stay after school.” She lowered her head, absently touched her injured eye, and mumbled, “Which means another confrontation with my father.”

She broke out in a run. Maybe if she moved very fast, Mrs. Jackson wouldn’t notice how late she was. She tore into the gym, stripping as she ran, her shirt half off by the time she hit the door. She opened her locker in seconds flat, dressed in five, and headed for the field. The group was doing jumping jacks as she sidled into place.

Mrs. Jackson, catching a glimpse of odd movement, turned her way just as she took her first jump, which was discordant with the rest of the class. “Miss Waldrip,” she said, coming to stand before her. “You’re late again.”