These High, Green Hills (34 page)

“It’s a girl. She’s badly hurt. Put Barnabas in the garage.”

“Dear God!”

“I’ll take her to the study.”

Her knees gave way, and he moved to pick her up. “Don’t touch m‘ back!” she cried. “Git me laid down.” The look of appeal on her face was crucifying.

“Put your arm over my shoulder,” he said. “I’ll help you walk.”

“I cain’t. It pulls m‘ back.”

Together, he and Cynthia eased her along the hall and into the study. “Quit ... jigglin‘ me,” Lacey murmured through bruised lips.

As his wife hurriedly spread an old blanket over the sofa, he became aware of the strong scent of blood and body odor, and something unidentifiable that wrenched his stomach. He sensed that it was, somehow, the smell of violence itself.

“Lay me down easy.”

“Right. Easy does it.”

She cursed as they helped her down. “Not on m‘ back!” she said. “On m’ side.”

The blood on her arms had crusted, but fresh blood appeared to be coming from her head, staining her hair at the crown.

“I’ll call Hoppy,” he said. “She needs a doctor.”

“Don’t call no doctor!” yelled Lacey, trying to raise her head. “Don’t call no doctor, I don’t need no doctor—”

“You’re badly hurt.”

“I been hurt worser. I ain’t killed.”

“You could be hurt internally.”

“I ain’t, I know m‘self. If you call a doctor, I’m leavin’. Wash me off, git some salve on m‘ back.”

“Can you do that?” he asked his wife.

“Yes,” she said, looking pale. “Get hot water and soap and clean rags—those old diapers I use to clean silver. And bring the peroxide—and the bandages.”

“Done,” he said, going from the room, shaken.

They sat in the study with a single lamp burning against the dark.

Cynthia had bathed Lacey’s wounds and patiently worked the fibers of her shirt from the raw flesh on her back. She had cried out only once when the peroxide was swabbed into the swelling lesions, and said nothing as Cynthia applied an antibiotic ointment and bandages.

He made a strong, dark tea with sugar and lemon, and Cynthia spooned it onto Lacey’s tongue, avoiding her swollen lips, then helped her lie again on her side, covered with a light blanket. She was silent, except for occasional sharp intakes of breath through her teeth.

He looked at his wife, sitting on a footstool drawn close to the sofa, and saw the suffering in her own face. She was moved to tears or laughter with nearly anyone at all, being as open as a door to the feelings of others.

“You’re safe here,” she told Lacey. “I want you to know that.”

The girl nodded.

“How did you come to us?”

“Ol‘ Preacher Greer. I met ’im in th‘ road here lately. He said if I was ever to git bad hurt, run to th’ preacher in th‘ collar, he takes in young ’uns.”

“Did you know,” asked the rector, “that the preacher in the collar was the same person you saw in the ferns?”

“I tol‘ Preacher Greer I couldn’t run t’ you, you’d done caught me stealin‘. He said go on, anyway, he’ll he’p you.”

“You were brave to come to a strange house in the night,” said Cynthia.

“I was s’ skeered of Pap, it didn’t make no mind t‘ me where I hid at. Preacher Greer wouldn’t tell me wrong, so I come. Always before, I run t’ Widder Fox, but she went off to th‘ ol’ people’s home. You cain’t tell nobody I come here, or Pap’ll lick me worse’n this.”

“Why did your pap lick you, Lacey?”

“I don’t go by Lacey, I go by Lace.”

“Lace, then,” said Cynthia. “Why did your pap lick you?”

“ ‘Cause he was drunk and you cain’t say nothin’ to ‘im if he’s drunk. I knowed better, I should’ve hid under th’ house or som‘ers, but he come in th’ house s’ quick, I couldn’t do nothin‘. I quit diggin’ ferns and rhodos, is what it was, an‘ he seen m’ sack was empty. Two or three times, I repented of stealin‘ an’ quit, and ever‘ time, he licked me bad.

“Me’n Jess is got t‘ dig twenty-five fern and sixteen rhodo a week when th’ weather’s good, and I ain’t dug my half n‘r nowhere near. So he said he was goin’ to knock m‘ teeth out to where I couldn’t eat nothin’, as I wadn’t doin‘ my part t’ earn nothin‘ t’ eat, then he took off ‘is belt and got me with th’ buckle. He was goin‘ to beat m’ head in, but I give ‘im m’ back or he’d of killed me.”

“Your mother ... can’t she do something?”

“M‘ mam’s got a blood ailment and cain’t git outta th’ bed. She lays there and hollers f‘r ’im t‘ quit, but he don’t.”

His heart weighed in him like a stone. “Are you hungry?” he asked.

“I ain’t eat, but I ain’t hungry, neither. M‘ head’s asplittin’.”

“The capsules I gave you should help,” said Cynthia. “Lace—please let us take you to the doctor, we’ll pay for it, and there’s no need for your father to know—”

“I ain’t goin‘ t’ no doctor—no way, nohow,” she said, and sucked in her breath.

“The guest room ...” said the rector. “We could put her in bed so she can sleep.”

“I cain’t sleep. I got t‘ git back by daylight.”

“You mustn’t go back. You’re in no condition—”

“I got t‘ feed m’ mam. She won’t eat a bite f‘r nobody but me. M’ pap, he’ll be sleepin‘, an’ Jess won’t do nothin‘. My mam’ll die ’ithout me, she said she would.”

“I don’t think you should get up and go anywhere,” said Cynthia. “There must be someone who can take care of your mother while you—”

“They ain’t nobody, an‘ I ain’t stayin’!” Lace said vehemently. “Leave me be ‘til I can git up an’ go, an‘ I don’t aim t’ argue about it, neither. I hate town people. I hate th‘ guts of town people. You talk stupid.” She cursed again, with the same feeling he had heard in Buck Leeper.

“We’ll sit with you,” Cynthia told her.

Like he had sat with Buck Leeper last year, through Buck’s suffering. Unable to walk away, he had stuck with Buck’s rage and lasted it out.

The clock ticked in the silent room as the hands moved slowly toward one in the morning.

Lord have mercy
, he prayed silently, Christ have mercy ...

He dozed in the chair until five-thirty, when he heard Cynthia in the kitchen and went in and called Rodney Underwood at home.

Lace had slept fitfully, occasionally talking in her sleep or waking and asking for water. At a little past six, he helped her up, and she sat on the edge of the sofa.

He placed his hands on her head gently, over the place that had bled, and prayed for her. It was madness to let her leave, but her determination to go to her mother was final and complete; he felt the sheer, unswerving power of it.

Cynthia wiped the girl’s face with a damp cloth, helped her swallow hot cocoa from a spoon, then knelt to put her shoes on.

“I’ve brought you some socks,” Cynthia said.

“I don’t want no socks. Pap’ll be wantin‘ t’ know where they come from.”

“You’ll need peroxide and ointment on your back every day for a while. Can you come and let me treat you?”

“They ain’t no way.”

“Will your father be up when you get home?”

“He’ll lay asleep ‘til up in th’ day, but my mam, she’ll be needin‘ me. She’ll want ’er egg and coffee, she cain’t go ‘ithout it.”

“Your school ... is it over yet?”

“I don’t go t‘ no school. I laid out s’ long, they come lookin’ f‘r me, but Pap told ’em I’d went t‘ Tennessee t’ live with ‘is kin people.”

He saw the pain in Cynthia’s face as she tied the laces of the battered work shoes. “I’ve packed your breakfast. There’s hardboiled eggs and rolls and bacon and fruit and cheese. You must eat, Lace, and keep your strength.”

“If I git a notion....”

They helped her up and led her through the kitchen, where he opened the screen door and held it. “What can we do?” he asked, hoarse with feeling.

“Nothin‘. I thank you f’r washin‘ me an’ all.”

Cynthia touched the girl’s hand. “Come back, Lace,” she said.

“Anytime,” he added.

They watched her go across the yard, walking as if bent with age. She passed through the hedge that gave way to Baxter Park, and vanished in the cool morning mist.

They stood silent, then turned back to the kitchen, where they poured coffee and sat at the table.

Cynthia put her head in her hands. “We lead a sheltered life, Timothy ... out of the fray.”

“The fray,” he said, “has come to us.”

According to Rodney, he’d have to go to social services and file a statement that Lacey Turner said she was being battered. A law enforcement officer could go along to investigate, but that was up to social services.

When he finally found the right office in Wesley and told what he knew, the social worker said matter-of-factly, “It happens all the time.”

“How long will it take you to investigate and get back to me?”

“I’ll put the report in today. Depends. Five days, a week at the most.

A week. Someone could be killed in a week.

He felt useless, impotent—stupid, somehow, like Lace Turner had said.

Dooley would be home from school in a matter of days. He’d ride down with a boy and his family on their way to Holding, and be delivered to the rectory. A blessed relief, given the demands of Cynthia’s new book and his own commitments, which included plans for a surprise celebration of Miss Sadie’s ninetieth birthday, to be held in the parish hall Sunday after next.

There was no question in his mind that a blowout was in order.

Hadn’t Sadie Baxter given five million dollars to Lord’s Chapel, to build one of the finest nursing homes in the state? And hadn’t her father, and then Miss Sadie herself, kept a roof on the church building throughout its long history?

He called the bishop, to ask whether he could attend, but Stuart Cullen had no fewer than four events on the Sunday in question, all of them miles from Mitford.

“Emma,” he said, “call the entire parish and tell them they’re invited.”

Emma’s lip curled. “Call th‘ whole bloomin’ mailin‘ list?”