That Boy From Trash Town (4 page)

She'd been almost eight when she'd found out that Dean's stepfather was beating him on a regular basis.

The first time she'd noticed the bruises, Dean had shrugged them off, telling her that street-fighting was a way of life in Trash Town. She hadn't liked it, but her faith in Dean was total. If he thought the fights were necessary, she would try not to be upset when she saw his battered face.

But one day she had learned the truth. That day, she had sneaked through the gap in the hedge at home and had run through Trash Town to find Dean so she could tell him about the perfect score she had gotten on a spelling test.

She was still more than a block away from Dean's house when she saw him. He was standing on Adam Street talking to a slightly overweight, balding man.

The anger on Dean's face stopped Whitney in her tracks, and she hid behind a broken baby buggy so she could listen to what was being said without being spotted by him.

"I want to help you, Dean," the man was saying, "but I can't do a thing until you tell me what's going on. Other people have told me, but I need for you to confirm it. Just say it. Say, 'My old man is beating the hell out of me.' That's all you have to do. I can take it from there. I can get some help for you."

"Like what?" Dean asked, his voice sullen. "You gonna turn me over to the social workers so I end up in juvie hall?" He snorted in disgust. "Like I really need that."

The man was silent for a moment. "You know what I'm most afraid of? I'm afraid that one day you'll have had enough and will lose your temper... and wind up killing him. You've got a good brain, kid. Most of the time you don't use it, but it's there, and I don't want to see it wasted in prison. At least let me talk to your mother about this."

Dean moved closer to face the man his features stiff with rage. "You stay away from my mother," he warned. "You hear me? Stay away from her. If it's like you said—and I'm not admitting nothing—even if my stepfather is doing what you think he's doing, what do you think it's like for her? Do you think she'd be safe with me gone?"

It took a while, but the truth had finally dawned on Whitney. She didn't take in the rest of what was being said, because the blood was pounding too loudly in her ears.

Jumping out from beyond her hiding place, she started to run. She was running from words she didn't want to hear. She was running from reality.

She hadn't gone more than half a block when arms came around her from behind, holding her twisting, struggling body tight.

"Whit—Whit— For pete's sake, would you stop kicking me?"

She looked up at Dean, but after a moment she began to struggle again. "Let me go!" she ordered hoarsely.

"Why? What are you doing here? Where are you going in such an all-fired hurry?"

She gulped air into her burning lungs, and without looking at him, she said in a tight whisper, "Uncle Ames has guns. There's a room in Harcourt House that has guns everywhere, on the walls and in cabinets. I'm going to get one, and I'm going to shoot him."

Dean was quick. He always knew what she was thinking, sometimes even before she knew. He pulled her down to sit on the curb, his arm around her holding her still.

"I wish you hadn't heard any of that," he said, and he sounded angry again.

"Well, I did. You shouldn't have lied to me, but I don't care about that now. Alls I care about is—"

"Getting a gun to shoot him," he said with a strange combination of sorrow and amusement. "You're not going to shoot anyone. And if I catch you anywhere near your uncle's guns, I'll beat your butt. You hear me?"

She sagged. "Dean—" She broke off, and dropping her head to her knees, she began to cry, letting the outrage and frustration and anguish come out in her tears.

"Come on, don't do that, Whit," he said, his voice gruff.

She shook her head. "You should have told me. I can't stand it. I just can't stand it. You said you were fighting with other boys and I didn't like it because your poor face got hurt, and I knew you were a better fighter than anyone else and they probably looked a lot worse than you did. But it wasn't boys. It was your own father that—"

"Stepfather," he corrected sharply.

"Your stepfather was doing it," she amended. "And he's an adult. He's not supposed to be hurting a kid. They're just not supposed to do that."

He shrugged away her childish logic. "That's life. Stuff happens all the time, even when it's not supposed to. But I want you to stop worrying about it. A coupla times a month he gets fried to the tonsils and he lays into me. Mostly I stay out of his way, but sometimes he catches me. It's no big deal. He's usually too drunk to do much damage." He grinned. "The booze messes up his balance. Come on now. Straighten up your face and tell me why you came to see me."

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "Nothing important. Who was that man you were talking to?"

"My English teacher: He's all right, but he doesn't know much about living in Trash Town."

"I wish you didn't, either," she said fervently. "I wish you could come and live with me in Sweet House. Mother never hits."

He threw back his head and laughed. "I can just see your mother if you brought me home. 'Whitney, dahling, quick, call the bug man. We've been invaded. And for heaven's sake, don't touch him.' "

She started to punch him, then she remembered his stepfather and leaned her head against him instead. "Promise me you'll be more careful. Promise me you'll stay out of his way from now on."

He had made the promise, a hand over his heart in a mock-solemn vow, but periodically she would see bruises on his face again. After that first time he wouldn't let her talk about it again. But that didn't stop her from thinking about it, and it didn't keep her from worrying about him. She would sneak out of the house late at night and watch his house, praying that he was safe, asking God to watch out for him.

Even now, years after the fact, it still hurt her to think about the kind of childhood Dean had had. He had been her protector, but there had been no one to protect him, and she found the inequity difficult to swallow. She not only wanted the beatings to stop, she had wanted Dean's stepfather to pay for what he had done. She had wanted the police to take him away and lock him up for the rest of his life.

Dean hadn't killed his stepfather as his English teacher had predicted, but he had gotten big enough and strong enough to make the man think twice about picking a fight.

And eventually Dean's stepfather walked out, leaving before he could get what he deserved. Whitney had never told Dean, but that part still bothered her. Even though she knew the man was an alcoholic and probably lived in his own special brand of hell, it still infuriated her that Dean's stepfather had never been made to pay. Someone should have been held accountable for the theft of Dean's childhood.

"I'll make it up to him," she said to the night To the stars. To God. "I'll make him happy, I swear I will. When we're married, I'll make sure his life is full enough and happy enough to make up for all the bad."

He might be dating Barbara What's-Her-Face now, he might even be sleeping with her, but someday that would change. Whitney knew that in her heart.

Someday she and Dean would be together. They had to be.

Heracles shifted beneath her slightly, and as she watched, a light came on in the house with the antique weather vane.

She felt her muscles relax and seconds later she stifled a yawn. She could go back to Sweet House now, and this time she would be able to sleep. Dean was home.

Chapter 3

W
hitney sat in the front passenger seat of her mother's dove-gray Mercedes. Anne was driving, her white-gloved hands holding the big steering wheel in a death grip.

The sight of her insubstantial mother behind the wheel of a car always struck Whitney as slightly preposterous. It was a little like watching a cartoon character—Mr. Magoo or the little old woman who owned Tweetie Bird—step off the screen into real life.

The fact that Anne's beigy-cream features were obscured by a wide-brimmed, mint-green hat added to the feeling of unreality, but of course Harcourts always wore hats. Whitney's own—navy blue with big white polka dots—matched her gloves and the bow at the neck of her white dress.

Whitney had planned on attending Dean's church today. It was a friendly, comfortable place where people said amen out loud and the music had some spirit to it. But Anne had felt that a show of Harcourt unity was essential on this particular Sunday, so Whitney had found herself going to church with them. All the Harcourts had been present at the regular Harcourt church, nodding with just the right amount of noblesse oblige as the minister thanked Uncle Ames from the pulpit for his generous contribution to the building fund.

"I don't think she was there," Anne said to Whitney as they were driving back to the estate. "I looked for her. Unobtrusively, of course. It's all well and good to say that another individual's opinion of one doesn't really count, but to be accused of slighting a friend hurts, darling. I had my mind made up that I would greet her, but not fulsomely."

"And then she didn't show up?" Whitney asked. Her voice was sympathetic even though she didn't have a clue as to the identity of the mysterious "she." "That's tough. Such a good plan, too."

"Yes, it's annoying. The minute Madelaine mentioned it, I told myself I couldn't let it slide this time. I said to myself, 'Anne, this has gone on long enough. This time you simply misttake strong action.'"

Whitney nodded, her expression earnest, her eyes sparkling with amusement. Talking to her mother was a little like a carnival ride. You never knew where the next curve would take you.

"That's exactly how I would expect you to react," Whitney said. "I don't know how often I've said, 'My mother is a woman of action.' And given the circumstances, I can see that extreme measures... like not greeting her with wholehearted enthusiasm—" She broke off and shook her head. "Well, I can only say I admire your courage, Mother. I truly do."

During Whitney's speech the Mercedes had slowed to a crawl, an indication that Anne was in deep thought. It was a curious phenomenon. Whitney had never met another person whose brain was directly attached to her foot. Anne could either think or maintain acceleration. To do both simultaneously was a physical impossibility.

"Perhaps it was a bit extreme," her mother said finally.

It was too much. Whitney let out a loud whoop of laughter, which resulted in confusing her mother enough to bring the Mercedes to a full stop.

"Mother...Mother, everyone's honking," Whitney said, choking out the words as she tried to stop laughing. "Mother, they're— They're getting angry."

But the woman of action was too busy sputtering indignant half thoughts to pay attention to the line of cars behind her. When Whitney saw a very large, very red-faced man get out of a pickup, she pushed her mother's foot out of the way with her own and pressed sharply on the gas.

"Whitney... Whitney!" her mother said in a squeaky gasp as she began steering frantically.

During the rest of the drive home, even after Whitney had relinquished control of the acceleration pedal, Anne continued to mutter breathy, cryptic remarks. Whitney caught something about an Uncle Ethan who always wore a pink carnation behind his left ear, but apparently, being a Harcourt, he had managed to carry off the thing with dignity. The only other complete thought was Anne's fear that being thrown from a horse when she was eight had somehow damaged Whitney's sensibilities.

"I'm sorry," Whitney said as the two women entered the house together. "I shouldn't tease you... I know I shouldn't tease you." She kissed her mother's flushed cheek. "But it's all your own fault. You're just so adorable when you're flustered."

In an act of contrition, Whitney listened with a straight face to the lecture that followed. Then, after promising to accompany Anne to a luncheon she'd previously planned to avoid with the excuse, if need be, of an emergency appendectomy, Whitney left her mother and went upstairs.

Half an hour later Whitney, changed into denim shorts and a yellow tank top, was in the process of carrying plants from the shed to the little garden behind the house.

Although the black earth beneath her fingers was slightly cold, Whitney didn't notice. She was thinking, as usual, about Dean, wondering if he had slept late this morning, wondering if he had a reason to sleep late. Like physical exhaustion brought on by a night of hot, unrestrained sex.

After apologizing to the pansy she had almost squeezed the life out of, Whitney sat back on the flagstones and wrapped her arms around her bare legs.

She knew Dean had sex with the women he went out with. She had always known. But she also knew that none of the women he had it with were important. None of them was permanent. They were nothing more than mere interludes, episodes of short-term affection. Not one touched the heart of him.

But, she thought with a short laugh, she would have been less than honest if she didn't admit that she would gladly sacrifice a couple of important limbs if he would consider her for the position of his next babe de jour.

After a few minutes of exploring the possibilities, she decided her luck wasn't that good, and she reluctantly turned her attention back to the plants.

Whitney was working on relocating the last begonia when she remembered her interview at Boedecker and Kraus. She had written the time down. Somewhere. She didn't like the idea of calling to check with the secretary; it probably wouldn't give the right impression if she let them know she had already forgotten the time of her appointment. That didn't sound at all efficient, and she was pretty sure professional people were supposed to be efficient. And on time.

Giving the earth around the plant one last loving pat, she carried the tools to the shed and washed her hands before returning to the house.

The small study at the back of the house was decorated in the pastels Anne Grant loved so much. It was a gentle room. Gentle colors on the walls, gentle lines to the furniture, and only gentle books were allowed on the bookshelves.

After probing her memory for a moment Whitney moved to her mother's little Queen Anne desk. She had been sitting at the desk when she confirmed her appointment with the secretary at Boedecker and Kraus. She had written the time on something, she remembered that much. But she hadn't used her mother's little lavender notepad. It was an envelope or a receipt or something like that. And then...

"And then'' was the problem, she thought as she sat down at the desk. She couldn't remember what came next. Had she left the scrap of paper just lying on the desk? It was a definite possibility, and knowing her mother, the paper had probably been swept into a drawer along with anything else that happened to be on the desktop.

After shuffling through the clutter in the shallow middle drawer, Whitney began on the others.

After half an hour there was only one drawer left. The drawer. The one where old scraps of paper went to die. The drawer that held Whitney's grade school report cards, dozens of homemade valentines, five-year-old shopping lists and ten-year-old slips with dental appointment reminders. Amelia Earhart's flight plan was probably somewhere in that drawer.

There was no use in putting it off any longer, she told herself. The drawer from hell would have to be tackled.

Or maybe not, she thought seconds later when she tried to open the drawer. It was either stuck, or someone very small and very strong was holding it shut from the inside.

Taking a deep breath, Whitney tugged at it once, twice, but it still wouldn't move. Frustrated, she braced her left foot against the leg of the desk and pulled at the drawer with all her strength. The maneuver worked. It worked so well that the drawer came completely out of the desk and bounced off her bare shin on its trip to the floor.

Whitney spent the next few seconds hopping around on one foot, squeaking through clenched teeth until the pain began to subside. Then, regaining her seat, she rubbed the injured spot as she stared at the papers scattered all over the study floor, literally hundreds of them, all shapes and sizes, festooning the Persian carpet.

Sliding off the chair, she dropped to her hands and knees and began to scoop up handfuls of the papers. It was only after she had cleared away perhaps half of the mess that she noticed a folded sheet of paper wedged in a crack at the back of the drawer.

Curious, she pulled it free and unfolded it. After a quick glance she knew it wasn't what she was looking for, but when she went to return it to the drawer, something stopped her. Opening it again, she saw that it was the last page of a fetter, and at the bottom it was signed "Yours forever, Lloyd."

It must be an old love fetter from her father to her mother, she thought, probably written during one of his business trips. Although Whitney knew very well she shouldn't read the fetter, words on the page jumped out at her, catching and holding her attention.

"How is Whitney?" her father had written. "It still amazes me that I could have fathered such a child. Even when she was an infant, I knew she would be extraordinary. Bright and beautiful and full of life is my Maid Mary."

Maid Mary. The old nickname pulled up vivid images, making her smile. Lloyd Grant had been a big man. Tall, and broad in the shoulders. And his personality had had the same strength. He had worn a mustache, and she remembered that his hair had been as black as hers, only thicker. He had big, strong hands, hands that were strong enough to make her feel safe, gentle enough to make her feel absolutely loved.

Every night, after her mother had brushed Whitney's hair and made sure her teeth were clean, her father would come to her bedroom to tuck her in. Sometimes, when she was too full of energy to settle down, he would hold her on his lap and read to her from her favorite book, The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood of Great Renown in Nottinghamshire. At some point the characters had become Robbing Hood, Maid Mary, Lily John and Fried Duck, who, in her imagination, looked a little like Daffy, only crustier.

It was natural that childhood memories should fade. It was a part of life. But this particular memory had stayed strong because after Lloyd's death, Whitney had played the scene over and over again m her mind. It was a piece of her father that' no one could take away from her.

As she stared at the fetter, reading the parts that didn't have anything to do with her, Whitney found herself bombarded by a whole catalog of emotions. Although she felt the keen sense of loss she always felt when she thought of her father, there were other things, as well. There were memories of the special bond she and her father had shared. There was guilt for having intruded on her mother's personal life. And finally, there was surprise that her mother could inspire such warm feelings in any man, even one as loving as Lloyd Grant had been.

Whitney had five letters that her father had written to her, letters he had sent to her before she could even read. She kept them in a little wooden box in her top bureau drawer. It had never occurred to her that her mother would also have letters. Now, staring at the page, she thought it was sweet and sad and a little out of character for her mother to have saved the letter all these years.

As she began to refold the page, she glanced down at her father's signature and for the first tune noticed the date. Lloyd Grant had always dated his letters below his signature, even on his letters to Whitney. The peculiar thing about this letter was that it was dated eleven years ago, when her father had already been dead for eight years.

After staring at the date for a moment, she gave a soft laugh. Her father must have been talking to someone when he added the date. The same thing happened to Whitney all the time. She would be writing a check and start talking to the salesperson, then distracted, would find she had filled in some outrageous amount. It was nice to know that she took after her father, even in a small way.

Laying the letter gently in the drawer, she began to gather up the bits of paper that were still scattered around the room. She was reaching for the last piece---it had somehow landed under a footstool—when her mother walked into the study.

"Oh...you startled the life out of me," Anne said, then frowned as she spotted the desk drawer. "What are you doing? Oh, no, you haven't donated the desk to charity. I didn't mind when you gave away the aubergine bowl... that is, of course, I minded, but one gets over these things. But Great-grandmother Winslow's desk? Really, Whitney, I can't allow—"

"The drawer was stuck," Whitney said hastily. "That's all. It was stuck. I pulled it out, papers scattered, but now I've picked them up. It was all perfectly innocent, I promise you." She laughed. "Great-grandmother's desk is safe."

She reached down and picked up the letter from her father. "But look what I found, Mother. It's a letter from Daddy. It was wedged in the back of the drawer.

It gave me a little shock when I saw the date, but then I realized he must have—"

Before she could complete the sentence, the letter was jerked from her hand. "You— You have no business looking through my desk!" her mother said, her voice uncharacteristically loud. "Do you hear me, Whitney? You have no right to go through my things."