The Girl Before (8 page)

“And how will being pregnant affect your work?”

My brow furrows. “It won't, sir. I mean, of course, when the baby comes, some adjustments will need to be made, but until then—”

“What sort of adjustments?”

This time it's Glen's hand that finds my knee, giving me comfort as I fumble for an answer. I want to swat him away, as he rebuffed me earlier. I am only in this position because he could not keep our secret. But, as usual, I cannot shy away from Glen's touch. I lean into him, and his hand moves from my knee to loop around my shoulders.

“During the pregnancy, I will be training Passion and at least one of the other older girls to help with some of the more important tasks.”

Papa scoffs. “Passion. That little pet of yours should have been gone long ago.”

“She's only fourteen,” I say.

“She's untrainable.”

I sit up, ignoring the increased pressure of Glen's hand on my shoulder. “She does everything I ask her.”

“Yes,” Papa says. “Everything
you
ask her. But she is downright belligerent to anyone else who tries to give her an order. How do you expect a client to take that on?”

“If a client could not handle her, how could we have possibly gotten rid of her?”

Papa raises his eyebrows, taking a bite as he waits for the answer to come to me.

My heart stutters. “You can't put her there.”

“They could tame her.”

“No.”

He shrugs. Glen clears his throat and I jump. I had forgotten anyone else was there. I am surprised that both Glen and Papa let me speak so forcefully for so long. I will pay for it later, I am sure.

“Clara has a tight hold on the girl,” Glen says. “She is quite helpful, and I see no reason to get rid of her, especially with the baby coming. I have every confidence that she will be helpful both with the other girls and in helping with the baby when Clara is . . . indisposed.”

I swallow hard, understanding his meaning. My thoughts race as I try to figure out how Glen will deal with me while I carry his child. We will have to come to an agreement. I must protect this baby.

“Glen,” Papa begins. “I really think—”

“It's not your call, Father,” Glen says, picking up his wineglass and taking a large drink. Topic closed.

“Very well,” Papa says, leaning back in his chair. I can tell from the look in his eyes that this conversation is far from over, but I know I will not be witness to the rest of it. I have already overstepped.

The rest of the meal is finished in silence. I help Mama clean while the men have an after-dinner drink, and then we join them. Mama fixes me a special tea that she tells me keeps nausea away. She made it last time as well, and I resist wrinkling my nose before taking the first sip. I remember the bitter taste, but I hide my disgust and drink the entire cup. She hands me a tin before we leave, reminding me to drink one cup a day. I know she will check next time they are over, and it does seem to help, so I accept the gift with a smile.

Our drive home is silent, and I am surprised when Glen only kisses me good night and turns off the light. No lecture. No punishment. Maybe this baby will be good for us in more ways than one.

•   •   •

Good things never last. This is what I have learned. When I wake up in the middle of the night two weeks later, stickiness running down my thighs, the metallic smell of blood in the air, I already know my baby is gone.

My lip curls as I study the food on the tray in front of me. If it can be called food. A river of grease runs from the pile of meat, pooling at the corners of the compartment. Rubbery green beans give off a questionable odor, and I can see flakes of something unrecognizable in the mashed potatoes.

“Big day today, meat and potatoes! They always roll out the big guns for the vizzies.” A large woman drops into the seat next to mine. She leans in. “And you better eat it, or you may not make it home this afternoon in the same condition you got here.”

I jerk my eyes toward her. She motions in the direction of the kitchen, where an imposing woman stands, watching me. It is possible this woman is messing with me, trying to scare me, but I don't want to risk it. I take a tentative bite, controlling my gag reflex as I swallow the chewy meat. I manage a smile at the woman in the kitchen. She smiles back. I keep eating until she turns her attention elsewhere.

My lunch companion laughs. “Nice work, vizzie.”

“Vizzie?”

“Visitors. Short-term ladies. Although”—her eyes scan my body—“I wouldn't mind if you stuck around.”

Her gaze makes me uncomfortable, but I try not to let it show. “I'm Clara,” I say.

“Marge. I killed my husband.”

I choke on the soupy potatoes. Marge laughs as I lunge for my milk, washing the obstruction from my throat.

“That's . . . nice,” I say, unable to think of a better response.

“It really was,” Marge says, a dreamy look taking over her face. “I'd do it again, too. Bastard.”

I nod, trying to look sympathetic.

“Those your girls?” Marge asks, indicating the group of teenage girls at the next table.

I shrug. “I guess.” The girls were from some “scare 'em straight” program and had been with me since the morning. We were “processed” together, which consisted of being strip-searched, fingerprinted, photographed, and given the standard gray jumpsuit that would be our uniform for the day.

The warden had given us a tour of the facilities, and then set some of the inmates loose on us. They walked us through work detail, screaming the entire way. I spent the morning with Glen's face at the forefront of my mind. He was the reason I was doing all this. I would go through this every day if I could protect him.

“You're a little old, ain't you?” Marge asked.

“I'm not with their program. Just along for the ride.”

“What'd they get you for?”

“They want me to give them information.”

“What sort of information?”

I shrug. I've said enough. Marge doesn't push, and we finish the meal in silence. As I scrape up the last of my potatoes and force them into my mouth, there is a commotion at the table behind us.

“You think you can go behind my back and talk shit about me?” A woman with wild blond hair towers over a petite woman with dark coloring.

“Oooo,” Marge whispers. “You picked a good day, vizzie. Things gonna get crazy.”

“I ain't said nothing,” the petite woman replies, calmly taking another bite. “You need to check your source of information.”

The blonde grabs the front of the other woman's shirt, yanking her off the bench. “You need to check the shit pouring out of your mouth before it gets you in trouble.” Spittle flies into the other woman's face, and she flinches as the drops bathe her skin.

Everyone in the room has gone quiet. The other women at the table edge away from their comrade, unwilling to fight this fight for her.

“Your breath smells like shit.” The smaller woman wrinkles her nose in distaste.

Blondie laughs and drops the other woman back onto the bench. “You're right, lady. Maybe I'll go give my teeth a good brushing.” There is a dangerous quality to her voice. She walks away, giving Marge a significant look as she passes.

“Stupid bitch,” mutters the dark-haired woman, wiping her face with a napkin.

“All right, ladies, time to move on,” says the guard. We're going to spend the afternoon on work detail again. As I stand to leave, Marge grabs my arm.

“Stay clear of the east bathrooms this afternoon,” she says, then gets up and walks out before I can respond. A chill runs through me. I shake it off and rejoin the group.

The afternoon is more of the same. I'm stuck in the laundry room for a while with some of the teenagers, who spend the time gossiping. They don't seem the least bit scared. One of them brags that this is
her third time going through the program. I can't help but shake my head and think how much more respectful my daughters are.

“Hey, you,” one of the inmates says. I look up to find her pointing at me.

“Yes?”

She shoves a stack of sheets into my arms. “Take these up to the medical wing and see if they need someone to scrub the floors up there.” The corner of her mouth quirks up. “You look like you'd be good on your knees.”

I flush and turn my gaze to the blindingly white sheets in my arms. I have no idea how they get them so clean, especially considering some of the stained sets I saw go into the washer. Ignoring the laughter of the other workers, I follow a guard out the door and through the labyrinth of hallways to my next assignment.

I am halfway through cleaning the medical wing when there is a flurry of activity from the doors. A group of men enters, carrying a woman and putting her on one of the beds. I cover my nose as the stench hits me. It smells like she was swimming in a sewer. She isn't moving. I see blood.

“Where's the nurse?” the guard barks.

“She-she ran to get more supplies.”

“Radio her,” he commands another guard.

I inch closer. I recognize the petite woman from the cafeteria. She is covered with a brown substance, and the blood is coming from her stomach. A strong hand pulls me back.

“They got her in the bathrooms,” he says. “Shoved shit down her throat and stuck her with a sharpened toothbrush. No one saw anything.” He shakes his head.

My mouth drops open. Marge had warned me. I wonder if he knows about what happened at lunch. The guard is watching me with suspicious eyes. “You don't know anything about this, do you?”

I shake my head quickly. The woman on the bed moans, drawing his attention, and fresh blood seeps from her wound. I run to the nearest trash can and lose the contents of my stomach. It doesn't taste much worse coming up than it did going down.

I am sitting in a parlor, surrounded by girls of different ages. Most are in their teens. They are fascinated by me. Genevieve sits off to the side, staring out a window at the rolling South Dakota Black Hills and puffing on a slim cigarette.

“You're just with one guy?” a girl asks, leaning forward.

“I, um, I am with Glen, and I raise our daughters.”

A surprised look. “You have kids?” Her eyes rake up and down my body. I laugh.

“No, I don't
have
them. Glen brings them and I train them.” I ignore the pang in my chest at the words. Of course these girls know nothing about the babies I have lost.

Ahhh
s and
ohhh
s sound around the room.

“What about the other men?” another girl asks.

“I don't see much of them. I mostly stay in the house.”

“You don't . . . service them, too?”

I'm not sure what she means, and it must show on my face.

“You don't fuck them?” A chorus of girlish giggles around the room, and my face heats.

“No,” I say, “I am with Glen. Just Glen.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-two.”

This time the response is gasps, echoing throughout the room.

“But you are so
old
,” one says. She is not being unkind. I would be unmarketable to private clients at my age, though several of the girls at Glen's other businesses are older than me.

Genevieve speaks up from her spot across the room. “So Glen took you over when you were no longer useful.” Though she is trying to sound aloof, I can hear the curiosity in her voice. Genevieve cannot be much younger than me. I wonder how she has maintained her position in the house.

“I have never been with anyone but Glen,” I admit.

“You're married?”

I laugh. “Yes. Of course.”

“For now.” Genevieve's raspy voice holds a finality as she turns back to the window, as if she knows her fate, and thinks she knows mine. But she doesn't know Glen. Glen and I will be together forever, like Papa G and Mama Mae. I choose to ignore her dig and go back to discussing my apparently fascinating life with these young girls. I keep the information general and do not name any of my girls. Glen did not prepare me for this conversation, and I do not want to say something I shouldn't. Mostly they are interested in my relationship with Glen and how we ended up together, so I tell them about dance class and Glen going to his father about me. I do not mention the fights, or the running away, and I can tell by their faces that they are completely caught up in my fairy tale.

We have been in the room for an hour or so when the door opens and a small group of men walks in. Glen is there, as is Mr. Harrison. I stand and walk to Glen's side, where his hand finds mine. I hear some wistful sighs from my new friends. Genevieve doesn't move until Mr. Harrison clears his throat. I see her neck tense and relax, and by the time she faces us, her mouth has curled into a small half-moon. She slithers over to Mr. Harrison and slides her arm across his shoulders.
He yanks her closer, his arm clamping across her waist, and she winces, but recovers with a flirty giggle.

I do not know what to think of Genevieve, but it is clear she is unhappy. I wonder what other duties she is bound to perform. She does not act like a mother to these girls, and though their attitude is somewhat deferential toward her, they mostly ignored her during the time I was with them. I shake off my morose thoughts when I feel Glen's eyes on me, and turn to smile at him.

“What do you think of these girls, baby?” he asks.

“They are very sweet,” I say. “More experienced than my girls.”

Glen nods. “I need you to help me choose five of them.”

My brow creases. “Choose? For what?”

He grins. “They're going to help us expand the business back home.”

I frown. “They are not trainable.”

He shakes his head as a spark jumps into his eyes. “You won't be training them, Clare. Just pick five.”