Red (3 page)

She started up the driveway, dragging her feet. Funny how fast the hours at Miss Opal's passed, and how slow the ones here did. Time had a way of doing that, she thought. Of standing still for misery.

Becky Lynn smelled the whiskey the moment she stepped onto the sagging front porch. She hated the sweetly sour smell. Sometimes she would wake in the night and feel as if she were being suffocated by it. It permeated everything, her clothes, the furniture and bedding, her father's skin.

Her life.

Becky Lynn couldn't remember a time before the reek of whiskey.

Until that moment, she'd managed to forget today was Friday. The day her father got his pay. The day he drank the best, Jim Beam sour mash. He bought a fifth on the way home from the foundry, and he drank until the bottle was empty or he passed out, whichever came first. The rest of the week he settled for the best he could afford. Most times on Thursdays he couldn't afford anything, so he slept. Becky Lynn looked forward to Thursdays almost as much as she did the arrival of the new glossies. Almost.

Through the tattered screen door she heard “The Family Feud's” closing music. Why her father loved that show so much, she couldn't fathom. He never laughed. He never tried to predict the highest scoring answers. Other than an occasional grunt, he just stared at the television screen. And drank. And drank.

Considering the time, her father had no doubt been at that very thing for a couple of hours now, just long enough to have gotten stinking mean, just long enough to be spoiling for a fight. If she had been just a few minutes earlier, if she had arrived in the middle of the lightning round, she would have had a much better chance getting inside without her father noticing.

Cursing her own timing, she slipped quietly through the
door. She knew exactly where to place her hands so the door wouldn't squeak, knew precisely how far to push it in before it scraped the floor.

She held her breath. Her father's back was to her as he stared at the TV, and pressing herself against the wall, she inched toward the kitchen. If she was lucky, she would avoid his ire tonight. If she was lucky, she would be able to ease by him and—

“Where do you think you're goin', girl?”

Becky Lynn stopped, recognizing his tone, the slurring of his words, from a hundred times before. Her stomach turned over; the breath shuddered past her lips. So much for luck.

She swung toward him, forcing a tiny, stiff smile. “Nowhere, Daddy. I just thought I'd see if Mama needed a hand in the kitchen.”

He grunted, and raked his bloodshot gaze over her. A shiver rippled through her as he stared at the apex of her thighs. When he met her eyes again, his were narrowed with suspicion. “You been out whoring around?”

“No, sir.” She shook her head. “I had to stay late at Opal's. We were busy today, even for a Friday.”

“What d'you got there?”

She tightened her arms on the magazines. “Nothing, Daddy.”

“Don't tell me ‘nothing,' girl!” He lurched to his feet and crossing to her, ripped the magazines from her folded arms. She bit back a sound of dismay, knowing the best way to avoid the full brunt of Randall Lee's fury was to be as quiet, as agreeable, as possible.

He stared at the magazines a moment, spittle collecting at the corners of his slightly open mouth. Then he swore.
Wheeling back, almost losing his balance, he threw the magazines. Becky Lynn jerked as they slammed against the wall. “How many times I told you I don't want you readin' this shit. How many times I told you not to spend money on—”

“I didn't!” she said quickly, breathlessly. “These are the old issues. Miss Opal gave them to me. If you'd check the mailing labels, you'd see—”

“You tellin' me what to do, girl? You sayin' I'm dumb?” He took a menacing step toward her, his fists clenched.

“No, sir.” Becky Lynn shook her head vigorously, knowing that she had somehow, once again, crossed the invisible line. But then, it had always been like this with her father. She'd never had to do anything in particular to set him off.

Her mother appeared at the kitchen door, her face pinched and pale, her eyes anxious. “Becky Lynn, baby, why don't you come in here and help me with the supper.”

A ripple of relief moved over Becky Lynn, and she sent her mother a look of gratitude. Randall Lee didn't like interference and he wasn't averse to turning his rage onto his wife. And it was an awesome rage. But then, her father, at six foot four inches tall and as big as a tree trunk, was an awesome man.

“I'd better help Mama,” she whispered, taking a step toward the kitchen.

Her father grabbed her arm, his big hand a vise on her flesh. She winced in pain but didn't try to jerk away.

“How much you make today?”

“Twelve dollars.”
Seventeen, counting the five she'd tucked into her shoe.

He narrowed his eyes. “You'd better not be lying to me.”

She straightened and looked him right in the eye. “No, sir.”

“Empty your pockets.” He dropped his hand and stepped away from her, weaving slightly.

She did as he asked, handing him the money. He looked suspiciously at her, counted it, then handed her two dollars back. She stared at the crumpled bills, thinking of the heads she'd washed that day, of the hair she'd swept off the floor. And of the fact that there would probably be enough money for her father to drink Thursday night.

Bitterness welled inside her, souring in her mouth. She supposed she should be happy, she thought. Most times, he took it all.

Her brother, Randy, came in then, the screen door slapping shut behind him, and her father's attention momentarily shifted. He swung toward his oldest child. At eighteen, Randy, who had been held back in the third grade, was already as big as his father. And almost as mean. His disposition on—and off—the field had moved his fellow football players to nickname him Madman Lee. “Where've you been, boy?”

Randy shrugged. “Out with the guys.”

Randall Lee opened his mouth as if to comment, then just snorted with disgust and turned back to her.

Randy shot her a cocky glance and ambled toward the kitchen. Frustration welled up inside her. Her father rarely attacked Randy. Not Randy, star tackle on the Bend High School football team. Because he was a jock, and because he had the right friends, boys like Tommy Fischer.

No, he saved all his hatred and bitterness for her. He always had. And she didn't know why.

Suddenly furious at the unfairness of it, she jerked her
chin up. She looked at her father, not bothering to hide her contempt. “May I go now?”

“You'll go when I say so.”

“Why do you think I'm asking?”
Idiot. Asshole.

At her tone, a mottled red started at the base of his thick neck and crept upward. He grabbed her arm again, but this time he twisted it until she cried out in pain. “Where'd you get the right to put on airs?” he snapped. “Just like your mother, thinkin' you're some kinda queen.” He dragged her to the room's single window, twisting her arm again, forcing her to face her reflection. Tears stung her eyes and she fought to keep them from spilling over. “Take a look, girl. What man's ever goin' to marry you? Tell me that.” He shook her so hard her teeth rattled. “I'll probably be stuck looking at your ugly mug for the rest of my life. Now get outta here, it makes me sick to look at you.”

He flung her aside, so violently she hit the wall, much the same as her magazines had only moments before. Her head snapped back, cracking against the wallboard. Pain shot through her shoulder. She sank to the dirt floor, thinking, oddly, of the pretty pink and white linoleum at Miss Opal's. Flecked with silver, it was always so clean it shone.

Shaking her head to clear it, she sucked in a deep breath and using the wall for support, eased to her feet. Her father had returned to his place in front of the television, and she saw him bring the bottle to his lips. She stared at him a moment, hatred roiling inside her, the urge to lunge at him, to claw and hit and scratch, thundering through her. Its beat matched that of the blood pounding in her brain, and she pictured herself doing it. Just walking up to him and smashing her fist into his face.

Becky Lynn squeezed her eyes shut, fighting back the urge. She wouldn't lower herself to his level. For even worse than living the nightmare that was her life, was living his. Becoming like him.

Besides, he'd probably beat the hell out of her before she could get in the first punch.

She limped to the kitchen. Her mama and Randy were there. Her mother chattered softly about the things that needed to be done that weekend, and Randy stood by, his stance uncomfortable and stiff. Neither of them met her eyes, but Becky Lynn could see it in their faces, in their downcast gazes:
If it wasn't you, it might be me.

She couldn't say they were wrong. She knew they weren't. And she knew that was why Randy never inter-ceded for her, why her mother never openly tried to comfort her. They didn't want to incur Randall Lee's wrath.

Becky Lynn squeezed her fingers into fists. She'd inter-ceded for Randy before; she had stepped into the line of fire on his behalf. She had done the same for her mother; she still did.

They didn't even have the guts to look at her.

She drew in a shuddering breath, pain spearing through her shoulder once more. She was so weary of living alone with her fear. With her despair. Wasn't Randy? Wasn't her mother? It hurt to hold it in, day in and day out. Didn't they long, as she did, to share their pain? Didn't they long to have someone to whisper with in the dark, to hold on to and love?

Tears stinging her eyes, Becky Lynn shifted her gaze to the other room, to the magazines scattered obscenely across the floor. Her gaze landed on an old
Vogue,
on model Renée Simonsen's beautiful, smiling face.

Someone to whisper with in the dark, she thought, hopelessness clutching at her. Someone to lean on, someone who would give her one perfect moment without fear. Her eyes swam; the model's face blurred. Turning her back to the glossy image, she crossed the kitchen and began to help her mother with the peas.

“B
ecky Lynn, baby, come here.”

Becky Lynn stopped at the front door. Feeling like a prisoner who had gotten caught a moment before she'd made her escape, she turned to her mother. The other woman stood just outside the kitchen; she wore the floral print housecoat Becky Lynn had bought her two Christmases ago. The rose pattern which had been so vibrant and pretty when she'd purchased it, looked tired and gray. Like her mother. And everything else in this house.

Becky Lynn gazed at her mother's gaunt face and shadowed eyes, pity moving over her. And fear. Fear that by age thirty-six she, too, would look beaten and without hope.

She pushed the thought away, and forced a smile. “What is it, Mama?”

Her mother's lips curved into a wispy smile. “I thought I might brush your hair.”

Becky Lynn hesitated. She'd planned to hike to the river before it got too hot, and spend her day off from Opal's sunning and reading. She had several magazines, a soft drink and a sandwich packed in her knapsack. It would be her last opportunity before school started; she'd been on her way out the door.

She darted a glance over her shoulder, to the bright day,
and bit back a sigh. Her mother derived too much pleasure from it to deny her this ritual. The river would wait.

“That sounds nice, Mama,” she said, smiling again. She set down her knapsack and crossed to one of the chairs around the kitchen table, choosing one that faced the window.

Her mother positioned herself behind Becky Lynn and began, with long, smooth strokes, to pull the brush through her daughter's hair. Familiar with the ritual, Becky Lynn wasn't surprised when her mother began to tell a story about her own childhood. The only talks they'd ever had, the only moments of mother-daughter comradeship, had been while her mother ran the brush through her hair.

Becky Lynn had often suspected that she was her mother's favorite, although she never understood why. Perhaps because her father hated her, perhaps because she looked so much like her mother's father or because she reminded Glenna Lee of someone else she'd once known, someone who had been kind to her. Whatever the reason, she held that suspicion to her as if it were the most prized possession on earth.

“It's the color of strawberry soda pop,” her mother murmured after a moment. “You get it from your Granddaddy Perkins. You never met him, he died just after you were born.”

About the time Daddy lost the farm, Becky Lynn thought. Because of his drinking. And laziness. But she didn't say that. “What was he like?” she asked instead, even though she already knew. Her mother had talked about Granddaddy Perkins many times before. He had adored his only child. And Randall Lee had despised him.

She sensed her mother's smile. “He was a nice man. A good husband, a good daddy.” She laughed lightly, the
sound faraway and youthful. “He called me his little princess.”

A lump formed in Becky Lynn's throat. How, after being someone's princess, had she ended up with a man as base and cruel as Randall Lee? Why had she married him?

And why did she allow him to treat her and her children so badly?

Becky Lynn wanted to ask her mother, the questions teased the tip of her tongue. She swallowed it. She couldn't ask; her mother had been hurt enough. “He sounds nice, Mama.”

“Mmm. He was nice.” Her mother continued brushing, but Becky Lynn knew her thoughts were far away.

After a moment, the older woman murmured, “Did I ever tell you about the dress I wore to the prom? It was white and dotted with these pretty little pink flowers. The most delicate pink you ever saw. I felt like a princess in it.” She laughed softly. “And my date looked like a prince. He wore a tuxedo and brought me a rose corsage. It was pink, too.”

A rose corsage.
Becky Lynn imagined her mother, a blushing teenager, wearing that frilly white dress, the cluster of roses pinned to her chest, and tears flooded her eyes. She fought the tears back, fought the emotion from clogging her throat. “Your date, who was he, Mama?”

Her mother hesitated, then shook her head. “Nobody, baby. I forget.”

She'd asked the question before; she'd gotten the same answer. But her mother hadn't forgotten, Becky Lynn knew. The boy had been someone special. So special, her mother feared saying his name.

Becky Lynn fisted her fingers in her lap. Her father wasn't even in the house and her mother was afraid. “I thought you and Daddy were high school sweethearts?”

The brush stilled for a moment, then Glenna Lee began stroking again. “After your Granddaddy Lee's heart attack, your daddy had to quit school to work on the farm. He didn't go to the prom.”

And he never forgave you for going, did he?
Becky Lynn drew her eyebrows together. What else did he not forgive her mother for? “But where did you meet him?” she asked. “The boy you went to the prom with, I mean.”

Glenna hesitated again, then murmured, “He was from the high school over in Greenwood. My daddy knew his. He arranged it.”

“Granddaddy Perkins didn't like Daddy much, did he?”

Her mother tugged the brush through her hair, and Becky Lynn winced. “No, not much.”

“But you married him, anyway.” She heard the accusation in her own voice and for once, didn't try to hide it. “Why did you, Mama?”

Her mother paused, then dropped her hand to her side. The brush slipped from her fingers and clattered onto the table. “Your daddy wasn't always…the way he is now. Having to quit school changed him. He got bitter. He started to drink. Try to understand, baby, he was the star of the football team his junior year and had dreams of playing ball for a college, of being a professional player someday. He dreamed of getting away from Bend.”

Try to understand?
Becky Lynn froze, disbelief and fury warring inside her. Did her mother want her to feel bad about what Randall Lee had given up? Two weeks had passed since he'd knocked her around and the
bruises he'd given her had finally faded to faint green blurs. It had been a full seven days before she'd been able to shampoo a customer without wincing. Everyone at Opal's had noticed and whispered about her behind their hands.

She laced her fingers in her lap, trying to control the anger surging through her. She didn't care what Randall Lee had given up; she would never forgive or excuse him his cruelty. Never.

“What about your dreams?” Becky Lynn asked, her voice shaking. “You had dreams, too, Mama.” She twisted to look up at her mother. “And what about mine?”

The other woman met her gaze; in that instant, her mother's eyes were clear, full of life and hope. “You're smart, Becky Lynn,” Glenna said, a tremor of urgency in her voice. “You could go to college, make something of yourself. You're special, baby. I've always known it.”

Dry-mouthed and stunned, Becky Lynn gazed at her mother. “You really…think so? You think I'm…” She couldn't say the words; they felt wrong, foreign, on her tongue. They felt impossible.

“I do, baby. That's why your daddy…why he… You're special. You're strong.” Glenna cupped Becky Lynn's face in her hands. She shook her lightly. “Listen to me. You can make something of yourself. Have a career. A life away from Bend. You could go to Jackson or Memphis.”

Becky Lynn covered her mother's hands with her own. “You could come with me, Mama. He wouldn't come after us, I know he wouldn't.”

The light faded from her mother's eyes, and she extricated her hands from Becky Lynn's. “Your scalp'll be raw if I brush anymore. Go on now, I know you had plans.”

Becky Lynn shook her head. “But, Mama, I don't understand. Why won't you come? Why—”

“Go on, baby,” she said again, turning her back to Becky Lynn. “Your mama has things to do.”

Glenna Lee started for the doorway, stopping when she reached it. She looked over her shoulder at her daughter. Becky Lynn saw resignation in her eyes. “I'll be here when you get back, Becky Lynn. I'll always be here.”

Her mother's words stuck with Becky Lynn during her hike to the river. She held them close to her heart; she replayed them like a mantra in her head.
You're smart, Becky Lynn… You could make something of yourself… I've always known you were special.

Her mother believed in her. She'd never voiced that belief before, nobody had. Not ever. Until today. Becky Lynn tipped her face up to the cloudless blue sky and smiled. It felt wonderful. Magical, even. She never would have guessed how something so small could make her feel so big.

The river in sight now, she cut across Miller's Lane, heading for the shade on the other side. In the short time she'd been with her mother, the sun had crawled considerably higher in the sky, the temperature seeming to have doubled with it. Even the birds had quieted, as if saving their energy for later in the afternoon, when the sun dipped once more.

Becky Lynn stopped and wiped her forehead, longing for the Coke tucked inside her knapsack. It seemed impossible that September was only a matter of a few weeks away; it felt as if the heat would never break. But that's the way summers were in the delta, hot, humid and as long as forever.

By the time she reached the river, her T-shirt was soaked and her hair clung uncomfortably to the back of her neck. She selected a shady spot under a big, old oak tree, sank to the ground and dug her soft drink out of her bag.

She popped the top and took a long swallow. The sweet, fizzy drink tickled her throat and nose, and she took another long swallow before easing her head against the tree and closing her eyes. Becky Lynn held the cool can to her forehead, smiling to herself, thinking again of her mother's words…and of the day she would leave Bend behind forever.

Her smile faded. But leaving Bend meant leaving her mother. Glenna Lee wouldn't go. She'd made it clear that she felt some sort of responsibility to stay. Some sort of responsibility to her husband.

Why? Becky Lynn drew her eyebrows together. Did she love him? Is that why she stayed? If so, how could she? How could she feel anything but fury and hatred when she looked at him?

What was between her mother and father that she didn't know about?

Maybe nothing. Becky Lynn frowned and took another swallow of her drink. She didn't like to think that, didn't like to think that her mother stayed with her husband because she didn't have the guts to leave him, or because she was resigned to her fate.

A twig snapped behind her, and Becky Lynn twisted to look over her shoulder. Her heart stopped, then started again with a vengeance. Coming from the direction of the road was her brother and his gang.

“Well, looky, looky, Randy,” Tommy called out. “It's your little sister.”

At the boy's mocking words, she scrambled up, collecting her knapsack and soft drink. She'd hiked forty minutes to get to this spot; she'd claimed it first. And now, right or wrong, fair or not, none of that mattered. All she cared about was getting as far away from these boys as fast as possible.

“Where ya going, Becky Lynn?” Ricky drawled, planting himself in front of her. “You're going to make us think you don't like us.”

“Yeah,” said Tommy, moving to Ricky's right. “You'll hurt our feelings.”

“I'm going home now,” she said as calmly as she could around her thundering heart. “Excuse me.” She made a move to step past Tommy; he blocked it.

“Excuse you?” Ricky taunted. “I don't think so.” He angled a glance at Tommy. “What do you think, Tommy?”

“Nah.” The boy grinned, and a shudder moved up Becky Lynn's spine. “I don't think so, either.”

She tried again, this time moving to her left. Ricky blocked her. Tears pricked her eyes, and she fought against them. It wouldn't do for them to know how helpless and vulnerable she felt. Taking a deep breath, she inched her chin up. “Let me pass.”

“Where are our manners? You didn't say the ‘P' word, Becky Lynn.” That brought fresh snickers from the boys.

Fear soured on her tongue. She swallowed. “Let me pass…please.”

“Well…since you asked so nice.” Ricky smiled thinly and stepped aside.

Relief, dizzying in its sweetness, spiraled through her. She started past him, but didn't get three steps before he grabbed her arm, stopping her. Relief evaporated, replaced
by a fluttering panic. She should have known they wouldn't let her go before they'd had a chance to really humiliate her.

“Don't you touch me, Ricky Jones,” she said, jerking her arm from his grasp.

The boys made a collective sound of amusement. Ricky took another step closer. Behind her, Tommy blocked a retreat. “She said that just like a queen, didn't she, boys?”

“Yeah,” Tommy chirped in. “A queen bitch.”

Becky Lynn dared a glance at Randy. He slid his gaze away, his expression twisted into a resigned grimace. He wasn't going to help her, she realized, the panic clutching at her. She was on her own. Always on her own.

Screwing up her courage, she forced herself to take one step, then another. When she took the third, Ricky grabbed her bottom and squeezed, digging his fingers into the soft flesh of her right cheek. Her control snapped. She took physical abuse from her father; she had all her life. She wasn't about to take it from this spoiled boy. She swung around and slapped his hand as hard as she could. “I told you not to touch me, Ricky Jones!”

For one moment, electric with tension, the boys were quiet. A cloud moved over the sun; the breeze stilled. Somewhere above them a bird screamed. Then fury lit Ricky's eyes. And hatred. She recognized both from years of seeing them in her father's.

She'd made a mistake. A big one. Her breath caught as real fear moved through her. The kind of fear that stole one's breath and free will. She ordered herself to run; her feet wouldn't move. Instead, she stared at Ricky Jones in dawning horror. He meant to hurt her.