The Girl from Charnelle (38 page)

He put the car in reverse, and without looking at her or even looking behind him, he backed the car out so fast that the ground moved violently beneath them.

“Lights,” she said softly. He pulled the knob, and two thin beams shone ahead. His shoulders were slumped, his eyes seemed to be on the road, but she wasn't sure he saw it.

When they hit the main street, she crouched down on the floorboard as she had grown accustomed to doing in the truck, and she watched him. He still had that same expressionless stare she had seen first at the funeral and ever since he'd picked her up, a blankness that seemed to her dangerous because she didn't know how to read it. He sped up, and she wondered if he would deliberately wreck the car, if he was determined to kill them both.
It would be what we deserve,
she thought.

She watched the trees and buildings and houses and telephone poles and streetlamps blur. Despite the speed and his apparent recklessness, the drive seemed to take forever, and when she looked above her, the trees and sky also seemed strange, foreign. He'd gone too far. Where was he going? He turned twice but barely braked, the tires squealed; and she found herself holding on tightly to the door handle, bracing herself hard against the dash.

When he finally stopped, the car jerked forward and then back. She lost her balance and slid, her head tapping the glove box. It hurt, but she was relieved that at least he'd stopped. He did not turn off the engine, did not say a word. She rose from the floorboard and discovered that they were in front of her house. She scrunched back down onto the floorboard, alarmed.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

He didn't answer.

“What do I say?” she asked.

He didn't respond, just stared ahead. She sat up, opened the door.

“John,” she said, thinking at that moment that she would, most likely, never see him again.

Before she could say anything else, he pulled away. The door shut by itself, nearly knocking her over. The back wheels spewed pellets of cold gravel onto her jeans and over her shoes. She watched the red taillights receding. Her stomach knotted. She turned, reluctantly, toward her house. An amber glow blossomed in the living room. Her father's truck was not in the driveway, but the old Ford, the one Manny now drove, was, and she could see her brother in the window, staring out at her.

S
he walked toward the porch, her face congested with dread. He stood at the window, fingering his small mustache. She knew he'd start in on her with the doggedness of an interrogator:
Where have you been? Why did Letig drive off so fast? What's going on?
She was in trouble. She was in a lot of trouble. It was her fault. She was to blame. Even if her father wasn't there, it would only be a matter of time before Manny would tell him, just to see his rage, just to increase her grief, everybody's grief.

But before she reached the porch, he opened the door. His face was not twisted into the taunting mask she had imagined. His forehead instead was furrowed with worry; his mouth twitched anxiously, like her father's.

“Laura,” he said gently, “are you okay?”

She was so surprised that she tripped on the steps. He caught her, then helped her into the house, took her coat, and sat her on the couch.

“Where is everybody?” she asked.

“They went to get the Christmas tree. What's wrong? What happened?”

There was no accusation in his voice, only urgent concern. He was worried. She almost wished he would accuse her. His tenderness made her feel vulnerable. And when she tried to speak, her voice cracked, and then the flood of tears came. She covered her face with her hands. He sat beside her and put his arm around her.

“Hey,” he said softly and then again, “Hey.” After a moment, he asked, “Were you baby-sitting for the Letigs today? Dad didn't say anything about that. What's wrong, Laura?”

“I can't tell you.”

“You have to.”

“I can't tell anyone. It's terrible. It's a terrible thing.” She put her face back in her hands. She wanted to hide.

“It's okay,” he said. “You can tell me.”

“You'll tell Dad.”

“No, I won't.”

“I can't,” she sobbed.

He drew her hands away from her face, wiped her eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. “Tell me,” he said. “Maybe I can help.”

“No one can help. It's all my fault.”

He stood up. “You weren't baby-sitting today, were you?”

She shook her head and watched the truth dawn on him.

“Whoa!”

He handed her a handkerchief and then brought her a glass of water. He started to say something, hesitated, then asked quietly, “Did he hurt you?”

“Yes,” she said, and then, “No.” And then, “I deserved it.”

She didn't know how to explain this night, only that it was complicated and painful and must have been somehow necessary. There was no way she could ever describe it.

“I'm terrible,” she said. “I'm a horrible person.”

“No, you're not.”

“I am,” she said and then lowered her head back into her hands, ashamed to look at him.

She felt Manny's hand on her shoulder. “It's over, isn't it?” he asked.

Then they heard the front door open. They hadn't even heard her father's truck in the driveway. The sound was so sudden that they both jumped up. She dropped the glass, but miraculously it didn't break.

“Manny, give me a hand with the tree,” her father called.

“I'll be right there,” he said.

Her father went back outside, leaving the door open behind him. A cold draft swept through the house.

“You can't tell,” she whispered.

“I won't.”

“How do I know you won't?”

“Joannie and I are getting married.”

“What?”

“She's pregnant. About two months now. After New Year's, we're going to tell Dad and her parents. You're the only one who knows. Joannie would kill me if she knew I had told anyone. That's your collateral.”

“What?”

“That's how you know I won't tell.” He squeezed her hand, assuring her.

And then her father and Rich and Gene were on the porch. The tree filled the doorway, so huge and thick and tall that it seemed, despite their tugging and prodding and complicated maneuvering, fallen needles spraying the floor, that there was no way, even with the whole family helping, that they could pull it through.

M
rs. Letig answered the door in a dark green floor-length robe, her hair wrapped in a blue towel. She wore no makeup. Her eyes were puffy and bloodshot, her nose red, her cheeks blotchy. Laura had not seen Mrs. Letig since the funeral, and she had not seen her face that day except for that one terrible moment when she had lifted her veil. Mrs. Letig had called this afternoon to ask if Laura could watch Willie. Laura didn't want to, had told her father, who gave her the message, that she couldn't, that she was going to the library with Marlene to prepare for a debate in her history class, but he was angry with her, said that she could cancel whatever she was doing with Marlene, that the Letigs needed their help and, by God, they would do what they could. She was surprised by his anger. He even called Mrs. Letig back himself and said Laura would be there, that he'd bring her over. Reluctantly, Laura agreed. She rode over on her bike, worried. She felt relieved that the Letigs' car was not in the driveway. She wouldn't have to see John.

“Am I too early?” Laura asked nervously.

“No,” Mrs. Letig said, staring blankly at her. “Come in.”

Laura stepped across the threshold. Mrs. Letig shut the door behind her. The house was a mess, unfolded clothes piled on the furniture and Willie's toys scattered all over. Two plates of partially eaten lasagna sat on the coffee table, the fork tines buried in the congealed cheese, beside several glasses with syrupy residue in the bottom, water stains underneath. Laura had never seen their house this way.

“Where's Willie?” she asked.

“With Mrs. Langston across the street. I'll go over and get him soon,” she said. She stared at Laura for an interminable minute and then sighed heavily.

“I could go over and get him for you now,” Laura said, eager to leave.

“No, no, no,” she said. “I want you to stay here with me. Besides, we never had that talk. I want to talk with you.” She patted Laura's shoulder, then hooked her arm inside Laura's. “Don't you want to talk with me?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Oh, listen to you. You are so polite,” she said, releasing Laura and then stepping past her. “You don't have to call me ‘ma'am.'”

“Mrs. Letig—”

“Anne,” she corrected. She turned back to Laura and adjusted the towel on her head. “Call me Anne, please.”

“We don't have to talk right now,” Laura said. “I know you're upset.”

“You do, do you?”

“Well…I mean,” Laura stuttered. “I mean—”

“No!” She spoke sharply, pointing her finger at Laura. “Let's not talk about
that
. Please.”

“I'm sorry.”

Mrs. Letig grabbed Laura's hand, squeezed it, and then leaned in close to her and smiled again. “I want to talk about
you
. We never had the opportunity, and I promised you.”

Laura didn't know what to say. She felt uneasy. She was supposed to be here to baby-sit, but Mrs. Letig seemed in no hurry to get Willie.

“Just for a little bit,” Mrs. Letig said, releasing Laura's hand. “Why don't you come on into the bedroom. We can talk while I dress.”

“I can just wait out here for you,” she said, not moving.

“Oh, don't be ridiculous.” She pulled a handkerchief out of the pocket
of her robe, wiped her eyes and nose. “I don't have time to dress and then talk with you later.”

“Where's Mr. Letig?” she asked.

She did not want to see him, not in this house, not with his wife there, not after what happened. But she felt she needed to know if he might be coming back. She needed to prepare for it.

“John's out. You don't have to worry about him, honey. He won't be coming back anytime soon. It's just us girls,” Mrs. Letig said, grabbing Laura's hand again. “Come on, dear. Come in here with me.”

Mrs. Letig led Laura into the bedroom. Her dresses, slips, bras, and stockings lay scattered on the bed and floor. The top of John's dresser was completely empty. Something had happened.

“You sit on the bed there. I'm going to have a glass of wine. Would you like one, Laura?” Mrs. Letig smiled with her mouth but not her eyes, and there was a rise in the pitch of her voice.

“No, ma'am.”

“You are
too
polite. Now, come on. How old are you? Seventeen?”

“Almost. My birthday's in a couple of weeks.”

“So only sixteen. That's right. I know Zeeke, though. He wouldn't mind if you have a little glass of wine. Or maybe a beer.”

“No thanks.”

“I insist,” she said, leaning forward, too close.

“A glass of water, I guess. I could get it, Mrs. Letig.”

“Anne,”
she said.

“I know you're in a hurry.”

“I'm not in a hurry, Laura.” She cocked her head. “Are you wondering if you're getting paid for this time?”

Laura shook her head, worried she had offended her. “No, ma'am.”

“Well, you are. Getting paid, that is. Consider yourself on the clock.”

“No, I didn't mean that.”

“I know you didn't, dear.”

She patted Laura's hands again and stared at her for an uncomfortably long time, her bloodshot eyes beginning to brim. Laura looked away, embarrassed. Mrs. Letig sniffed and then breathed deeply.

“I'll be right back,” Mrs. Letig said. “Don't you go anywhere now.”

Laura sat on the edge of the unmade bed, the wrinkled sheets and spread hanging off the ends as if they had been kicked off. She searched the
room for more clues. Mrs. Letig's vanity table was not in its usual order, lipsticks and nail polish bottles tipped on their sides, a wad of her red hair ratted in a wire brush. Two empty wineglasses with dried purple residue in the bottom stood amid the strewn makeup. Laura had never seen their room like this. Was this grief or something else? She had to find a way to excuse herself, to get out of this house. She could not be here. It was a mistake her coming, letting her father bully her into coming. She wanted nothing more to do with the Letigs. She'd done enough, hadn't she?

Mrs. Letig returned, the hem of her green robe dragging the floor. She carried two glasses of wine, both of them full. She handed one to Laura. “Here.”

“Mrs. Letig—”

“Anne, please.”

“I can't.”

“Yes, you can. Drink it.” This seemed like an order, and so Laura took the glass, but she just held it. She did not dare drink.

Mrs. Letig sipped hers twice and then set the glass down on the vanity table, next to the empty ones. “Drink, please. This is good wine. None of that cheap Armory stuff. I got this in Dallas last spring when I visited my sister.”

Laura hesitated. Last spring, when she had watched Jack and Willie while Mrs. Letig took a vacation. She took a sip of the wine. It tasted bitter.

“See, isn't that better? Isn't this cozy?”

Mrs. Letig sat at the vanity table and removed the blue towel and threw it on the bed. Wet and hanging down in tangled ringlets, her red hair seemed almost black. She took the wire brush from the table, removed the wad of hair in it and threw it on the floor, then ran the brush roughly through her hair.

“So…your mother,” she began.

“We really don't—”

“No, no, no,” Mrs. Letig said. “I
want
to talk to you about your mother. That's a good theme, don't you think? Motherhood.”

“Pardon?”

“You know, I have given your mother quite a bit of thought, Laura. What makes a woman walk off and abandon her family like that? I have thought about it more than I care to admit. I have come up with several theories. Would you like to hear them?”

She said this lightly, and again Laura felt a strong sense of incongruity,
as if her actions and her words didn't go together. Laura didn't want to hear Mrs. Letig's theories about her mother.

“I don't know,” she muttered, staring down at the floor where a black slip lay rumpled by the legs of the vanity table.

“You don't know? Hmmm. I'll take that for a yes. Okay, first theory, pretty obvious: She was crazy. Of course, I never remember thinking that about her. She seemed such a practical woman. Quiet, yes. Hard to read her. No one could, I guess. A lot of people thought she was strange, arrogant. I know she had a crazy uncle. And perhaps she fell into some kind of spell, walked off, and that was that. Maybe she's in some nuthouse, even as we speak. What do you think? Does that hold water?”

Laura continued to stare down at the floor. This was not good. Where was she going with this?

“Second theory—and this was certainly a rumor—is that she was murdered, though I guess we have the bus depot man's testimony and the bus driver's as well. And your neighbor saw her leave with a suitcase in hand. So that pretty much rules out that theory.”

Mrs. Letig looked into the mirror and continued brushing.

“Three is hard. Theory number three is this: She'd had enough. With Zeeke, or with you all. That was difficult for me to comprehend at first. A woman. No money. All five of you kids, or four kids, I guess, since Gloria had flown the coop already. Four beautiful children. Well behaved. They say, ‘yes, ma'am' and ‘yes, sir.' They help with the chores. Good kids. But maybe that's just how they
seem
.”

She paused and turned toward Laura, raised an eyebrow. The brush was still in her hand, and she held it like a weapon.

“Maybe they're actually terrible,” she said. “Or she believes them to be terrible, or maybe she believes herself to be a terrible mother. And she has to leave before she does something awful. Something she won't be able to forgive herself for. Perhaps it's an act of charity, her disappearance.”

“Mrs. Letig—”

She clicked her tongue and wagged a finger in front of Laura's face. “Anne,” she said.

“Anne, I don't want to—”

“Please,” she said, smiling. “Indulge me for a while longer.”

Laura didn't know how to stop this. Mrs. Letig took another drink of her wine and straightened the folds of her robe. Laura set her still-full glass
on the bedside table and then crossed her hands in her lap and felt strangely like a little girl, waiting to be punished.

“Now, where were we?” Mrs. Letig continued, too brightly. “Theories. Theories about your mother. Theory four is that she killed herself. I was sure of this for a long time,” she said, nodding her head. “That mysterious uncle. She just made it seem like she abandoned you all, but then she just didn't want to saddle you with the burden of her death. But what is
worse
? I've often wondered. To kill yourself and have your family live with that shame, that burden? Or to have them think you hated them so much that you just up and left—started over but didn't kill yourself? It's a toss-up. Very difficult choice. But what mother hasn't felt the desire to just walk away sometimes? Men do it all the time. It's more difficult for women, though. Your children are part of you, you see.” She suddenly stood. “You still have the scars. Your body is one big scar. Look at this, Laura.”

She opened her robe. Beneath, she was naked. Laura, shocked, put her hands in front of her face and closed her eyes. “Mrs. Letig!”

“No!” the woman said sharply and then reached over and grabbed Laura's chin between her fingers, turned it toward her body. “You look at this,” she demanded. “I want to
show
you, so you know what motherhood does to your body. Girls should be shown this so they know. Look, look here at these marks! You see them. Those are scars. When John and I first married, I was as thin as you. But this is what they did to me. See—”

“Mrs. Letig, please don't—”

She ignored Laura's pleas. “Look, damn it! Look at these hips. Look at this belly. Not pretty, is it? Not very sexy. And this is just two children. I can't imagine five. And look here, look at these breasts. They used to rise of their own accord, just like those movie stars you daydream about. I used to be a looker. I was. But see them now? Look at them, Laura!”

She sat back down on her vanity stool but did not close her robe. She took another long, deliberate drink of her wine.

“It's not pretty, is it?” she said calmly. “Your mother was still pretty, honey, but her body had lost the war. And Zeeke, well…your father, he was no saint. I bet you didn't know that, huh? Or maybe you do. Here, you want to touch?”

“No!” Laura rose quickly and darted for the door.

“Wait!” Mrs. Letig shouted, grabbing Laura's wrist and jerking her back into the room. “Here,” she said. “I want you to feel the scars.”

“No—”

“Touch them. I want you to touch them!”

She was strong and quick, and she forced Laura's hand onto her stomach, ran it over her skin. Laura fell to her knees, but Mrs. Letig held tightly to Laura's hand and pressed it against her body.

“Do you feel that?”

“Stop it! Please, stop it! Why are you doing this?”

She let go of Laura's hand, closed her robe, shut the bedroom door, and sat back down on her vanity stool. Laura lay on the floor, crying.

“I'm sorry, Laura. I don't know what got into me.”

Laura started to get up from the floor. “I'm going.”

“You're not going anywhere.”

“I know you're upset,” Laura sobbed.

“
Upset?
” Mrs. Letig seemed puzzled by the word.

“In grief,” Laura amended.

“What do you know about grief?” Mrs. Letig asked. No anger, no bitterness. A legitimate question. She leaned over to Laura, still on the floor, and touched her arm. “Here, come sit down. And please tell me what you know about grief. Tell me what you know about mourning.”

Rising, Mrs. Letig's hand supporting her elbow, Laura brushed the tears from her face, tried to collect herself. “I need to go.”