River's Edge (16 page)

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Authors: Marie Bostwick

BOOK: River's Edge
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“What in the world is going on here? Mr. Harkness? Mr. Muller? Mr. Woodward? Who started all this?”
“I don't know, Mr. Simmons,” Mark answered. “Elise came running up to me with her dress all torn and said Junior and Hark was fighting.” The eyes of the other students turned to me and, seeing the rip in my gown, started whispering amongst themselves. I blushed in embarrassment and wrapped my arms more tightly around myself.
“I tried to break up the fight, but Hark slammed his fist into my jaw, so I punched him back.” As Mark spoke, the teacher's gaze darted from Mark, to me, to the still breathless Junior and Hark, then back to me, looking for all the world like a human adding machine, quickly tallying up the personalities and facts and coming to an accurate summation of the events. His eyes bored into mine, his questioning concern obvious. For the first time that awful night, my eyes began to fill with tears, and I fought hard to blink them back, not wanting anyone to see me crying.
Mr. Simmons turned his attention from me to the gaggle of students and clapped his hands officiously. “All right, boys and girls! There's nothing to see here. It's all over. Go back inside, everyone.” The students grumbled and began to disperse reluctantly. Mr. Simmons threw me a quick look that I knew meant I should stay where I was.
The crowd began breaking up and shuffling back in the direction of the gym. I could hear snippets of murmured conversation and whispered speculation.
“What was she doing alone out here with him, anyway?”
“Did you see her dress? I mean, really!”
“I don't know,” someone else said. “She doesn't seem fast, and everyone knows Hark is wild. My mother said he's a juvenile delinquent and I should steer clear of him.”
“That's my point. Everyone knows about him, so what was she doing with him? Dressed like that. She wanted everybody to notice her, and they certainly did. She was asking for it, that's what I think.”
My face flamed with anger. Part of me wanted to turn around and slap the girl who was so liberally dishing out her opinion, and another part of me was sick with shame.
Mr. Simmons threw a steely gaze at the boys. “Gentlemen, I'd like you all to join me in my office, and we'll see if we can't get to the bottom of this. Here, Mr. Harkness,” he said, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket and holding it out to Hark, “wipe the blood off your face.”
Then Mr. Simmons looked at the retreating crowd and spotted Miss Gaffney, one of the dance chaperones, who taught home economics and was now herding a clucking group of girls back to the building. He silently summoned her from her task with a bend of his forefinger. “Miss Gaffney, would you please take Miss Braun somewhere and help her get cleaned up?” He lowered his voice and added confidentially, “Let me know if we need to call a doctor.”
Seeing my disheveled state and torn gown, Miss Gaffney's eyes registered a moment of shock, but she quickly regained her usual demeanor of motherly efficiency. “Come along, Elise.” She draped her arm sympathetically around my shoulder and began shepherding me back into the school, but toward a different door, away from the swarm of gossiping students. “We'll go to my classroom. I've got a first-aid kit there. You can wash your face while I make you a nice cup of hot tea. Then we'll take a look at that dress; I might be able to repair it for you.”
I mumbled my thanks and let Miss Gaffney lead me away. There was a sound of running feet behind us, and I turned to see Cookie jogging toward me, carrying a coat and my discarded heels in her hands.
“Elise! Are you all right?”
I couldn't answer her. I knew that if I did, it would be impossible to keep from crying. There was just no way to explain all my feelings without bursting into sobs. I nodded a mute reassurance.
Miss Gaffney reached out and laid her hand on my shoulder. Her eyes grew dark and serious, and she ducked her head down toward mine, insistent on establishing an unbroken line of communication. “Elise,” she said with gentle firmness. “You mustn't keep any secrets from me. You can trust me. If you were”—she searched for a soft word—“If you were hurt, you must tell me.”
“I'm fine,” I assured her, sniffing back my tears. “There's no need to call the doctor. Truly, there's not.”
The teacher eyed me questioningly, but after a moment's hesitation she seemed convinced of my veracity. Her expression of doubt was replaced by one of relief.
“Here,” Cookie said, “you forgot your shoes.” She held them out to me one at a time while, leaning on Miss Gaffney for support, I slipped them back on my feet. They were scuffed and muddy. One heel was loose, and I knew that even if they were repaired, they'd never be the same.
Cookie draped her own coat around my shoulders. I pulled it closed in front of me so it would cover my exposed bosom. “I couldn't find your wrap, so I just grabbed mine instead.” I smiled gratefully at my friend. Leave it to motherly Cookie, upon hearing such shocking news, to have the presence of mind to think I would need a coat. She was never dearer to me than she was at that moment.
“Thank you, Cookie,” said Miss Gaffney. “That was very thoughtful of you. You run along now. I'll see to Elise. She'll be just fine.”
“Can't Cookie come, too?” I asked. “Please? She's my best friend.”
Miss Gaffney looked first at my pleading face and then at Cookie's. She smiled understandingly. “Of course she may.”
Chapter 12
I
slept late the next day. Mama had come into my room after I'd fallen asleep and closed the curtains tight to block out the light. When I finally opened my eyes, I rolled over and groaned; every muscle in my body ached. For a moment I was confused by the onslaught of pain, but then I remembered the dance and everything that had happened.
The clock on the bedside table said it was nearly eleven o'clock. How could I have slept so late? It was Saturday, and I was supposed to be at Mrs. Ludwig's. Over the objections of my aching body, I pulled myself upright and sat on the edge of the bed. My neck hurt. I got up and walked across the room to look at myself in the mirror that hung over the bureau I shared with Cookie. There was a raw, red cut around my neck, thin and cruel, as if carved by a knife blade.
I couldn't imagine how I'd gotten such a nasty cut. Hark hadn't had a weapon, and he hadn't scratched me; his punishments had been inflicted entirely with his closed fists. Then I remembered my mother's pearls, the necklace Father had sent along with the note explaining that she had been saving them to give me when I turned sixteen. They were gone! Hark must have reached up and jerked them loose from my neck during the scuffle. They were probably scattered all over the ground—unless—of course, someone had already found them and taken them for themselves.
I was heartbroken. My eyes welled up and threatened to rain down tears, but I forced myself not to cry. There were so many awful things to regret about the night before, but dwelling on them would do no good. The best thing was to get up and go on with my day.
I took a plaid skirt and cotton blouse from out of the armoire and put them on, then sat back down on the edge of the bed to put on my shoes, pointedly ignoring the broken-heeled pumps that were lying under the chair where I'd draped my dress the night before. My gown had come apart at the seam, so Miss Gaffney had been able to fix the tear, but, as I'd suspected, the shoes were ruined. Later that day I threw them in the garbage. Then I hung the dress up in the back corner of the armoire and left it there.
At least the prom was the last event of the school year, I thought. I wouldn't have to face the inquisitive stares of my classmates anytime soon. In spite of the ache in my muscles, I was looking forward to going to Mrs. Ludwig's. Once I got to her house and put on the fresh, clean apron she always had waiting for me on a peg by the door, I would be able to forget everything and lose myself in some mindless, mechanical task like kneading bread or chopping onions. Yes, chopping onions would be perfect. Then I could cry to my heart's content and no one would ask why.
But when I came downstairs Mama informed me that one of Mrs. Ludwig's sons had called to say that she had a cold and I shouldn't come that day.
“Is she all right?” I asked Mama. “Maybe I should go over and look after her. I could make her some soup.”
“There's no need. Harold said he was going to spend the afternoon with her and that his wife was already on the way over to make Milda's lunch. I'm sure everything will be fine, and it wouldn't hurt you to just stay home and get some rest today.”
“But Mrs. Ludwig can't stand Betty,” I protested. “She says she can't even fry an egg without burning it and that she's got the personality of a field mouse. Betty will never be able to manage her, and it will be just awful for both of them.”
Mama smiled at my assessment of the relationship between Mrs. Ludwig and her youngest son's wife. “I am sure they'll get on just fine without you. Besides, it's time Milda realized you can't pick your relatives, so she might as well learn to get along with them. Betty Ludwig is a perfectly nice young woman, even if she is a little on the mousey side. Though it isn't very nice of Milda to say so, and”—Mama raised her eyebrows and scolded me gently—“it isn't very nice of you to say that Milda said so.”
“Sorry.”
Mama smiled to show I was forgiven, then turned to a shelf and began pulling down mixing bowls. “Now, what can I make you for breakfast?” she asked brightly before launching into an artificially cheery monologue. “Everyone else ate hours ago. Curt and the twins are out in the barn. Said they were working on building a human glider kite, so if you look out the window and see one of them up on the roof, let me know so I can stop them before they crash. Mark came by in his father's car to pick Cookie up about an hour ago. They said they were going to the library, but seeing as the school year is out, I kind of doubt that. Probably they're just off for a joyride.” She paused for a moment. “I hope that's all they're doing.” Her brow wrinkled with momentary doubt before continuing.
She shrugged. “Well, Mark seems like a nice boy, and Cookie is relatively sensible for being sixteen, so I'm sure they're fine. Papa asked Junior to drop him off at church so he could work on his sermon for tomorrow. I thought he'd be back by now, but maybe he's out joyriding, too. It's a nice day for it. The sun is shining, and it must be about sixty-five degrees outside. Anyway, I can make you some pancakes or scrambled eggs and ham. Miss Gaffney came by to check on you this morning and left a coffee cake, so you can have a slice of that, too.”
“That was nice of her. Too bad I missed her,” I lied and drew my lips up in what I hoped would pass as an appreciative smile. I didn't want to be reminded of last night.
Mama murmured in absentminded agreement as she opened a drawer and rattled through a collection of utensils until she finally located the object she'd been searching for. Pulling a wire whisk out of the drawer, she brandished it triumphantly, and said, “There it is! Now, what would you like for breakfast?”
“I'm not really hungry.”
The smile faded from Mama's face and was replaced by a look of searching concern. I could see that she'd been working as hard as I had at pretending everything was normal. “Elise, are you sure you're all right? You can tell me anything.”
The tears I'd been working so hard to suppress came rushing out in a convulsion of sobs. The wire whisk dropped from Mama's hand and fell to the floor with a metallic crash. Mama ignored it, rushed across the room, and wrapped me in her arms.
“Elise. It's going to be all right.” She rocked me in her arms, stroking my hair and shushing me as if I were five years old. I let myself melt into her comforting embrace, releasing all my pent-up anguish until I was spent from the effort. Gradually, my tears subsided, and I rested in Mama's arms, hiccupping and out of breath.
Mama looked at me soberly and asked, “Elise, I know you were hurt last night. You're bruised, and have that cut on your neck, and I'll bet you feel as sore as if you'd run ten miles, and simply wrung out with exhaustion. But is that all? If something else happened, you need to tell me. It's important that I know.”
I shook my head mutely and wiped my wet cheeks with the back of my hand before speaking. “Honestly, Mama, nothing else happened. I just feel so ashamed. Some of the girls said it was my own fault, being out there alone and wearing that dress. They said I was asking for it, that I was trying to get the boys to notice me. I'll admit I did want to be noticed, but not by Hark! I swear not!”
Mama pulled a chair out from the kitchen table and sat down. “Of course not. I know that,” she said sincerely.
I pulled out another chair and sat down next to her. “When we got to the dance, I could feel everybody looking at me, and I knew I was overdressed. All the girls were talking about me. I felt like a fool, and I knew no one would ask me to dance, so I went outside and pretended to smoke cigarettes. It was silly, I know, but I just had to get out of there. I never thought about anyone else being outside.
“Then, when I heard those girls talking, I suddenly felt like it was all my fault. I shouldn't have been outside alone. I shouldn't have worn that awful dress,” I reprimanded myself.
“Nonsense!” Mama retorted. “Elise, that is a perfectly beautiful dress. There is nothing awful or immodest about it! Do you think I'd let you leave this house if I thought you were improperly dressed?”
I eyed Mama and shook my head doubtfully, surprised by the vehemence of her reaction.
“Maybe it wasn't the wisest thing for you to be outside alone, but that doesn't make any of this your fault!” she snapped. “It's just beyond me how people can be so ignorant and stupid! Those girls are just a clutch of jealous, gossiping, little ...” She let out a frustrated, undecipherable word in a huff of exasperation, leapt to her feet, and began striding back and forth in front of the table. She had recovered the wire whisk from where she'd dropped it and held it in her hand, stabbing the air with it emphatically, underscoring the certainty of her convictions, as she continued.
“If it were true that wearing a particularly pretty dress turned men into animals, then every man who saw the dress would react the same way, but they don't! Some men act like animals because they
are
animals! Those girls were just jealous. There's nothing at all wrong with wanting to be noticed. You looked absolutely stunning, but that doesn't mean you were asking for some brute to beat you and try to ...”
She stopped her pacing and spun around to look at me, her eyes still popping sparks of righteous rage. She pointed her finger squarely at me, and she raised her voice to the edge of shouting. “None of this was your fault! Do you believe me?”
I paused to think for a moment before quietly answering. “Yes, Mama,” I said, not to appease her, but because it was true. What she said made sense. If my dress had somehow possessed the power to inflame men to fits of violent lust, then all the men would have had the same reaction. Hark had been inflamed to violence because he was a violent person. He had proven it before.
Mama chest was heaving with emotion. She stared at me evenly, as if she didn't quite believe me.
I answered again, louder and with more conviction, “Yes, Mama. I believe you.”
Mama took a long breath and gave her chin a quick jerk, as though doing so would help unclench her tightly locked jaw. “Good,” she said. “Now, how would you like your eggs?”
“Over medium, please.”
 
After breakfast, I sat down to play the piano, letting the last lingering traces of humiliation and self-doubt pour out through my fingertips onto the keyboard. As my hands moved up and down the keys, my mind wandered again over all the things Mama had said, and the more it did, the more I came to understand why she had been so indignant. I became indignant, too, and before long my indignation blossomed into anger.
Not just at Hark but also at the gaggle of girls who had whispered such terrible things about me. They'd meant for me to hear them talking about me; they'd wanted to embarrass and humiliate me! It wouldn't work. I wouldn't let it!
My fury reached a crescendo, and I played faster and more furiously, banging out Beethoven with an intensity that expressed my rage in a manner that could never be matched by words. The last livid bars were an indictment against my enemies, and I slammed out the chords with such tremendous force that the whole instrument vibrated from keyboard to pedal. When the last notes faded and the piano was finally quiet and still, I felt spent, but somehow relieved and absolved. I sat still on the piano bench, my chest heaving with the effort of my exertions, for several long silent minutes before my breathing settled into its regular, even pattern.
Rather than feeling worn out by my cathartic playing, I felt oddly refreshed. I got up from the bench and went into the kitchen to find Mama.
“I bet that got it all out. Feel better?” she asked. I said yes, and she smiled her approval. “Good. It's important for a woman to have some productive way to let off steam. That piano seems to be your pressure valve. Now that you're finished, why don't you go for a nice, long walk? With everyone out of the house, this is the perfect opportunity to start my spring cleaning. It'll be easier to wax the floors without having to dodge eight pairs of feet.”
“Oh no, Mama” I protested. “Let me stay and help you. It's too big a job to tackle by yourself.”
“No,” she insisted. “You'll be doing me a favor, letting me clean by myself. It's not too often that I get to have the house to myself. That's how
I
let off steam,” she confided, “and I'm so mad at those thoughtless, stupid girls with their thoughtless, stupid comments, by the time I'm finished, these old wooden planks should have quite a shine!”
I understood what she was talking about. Usually, when I felt upset, I worked out my frustration by baking. I loved pounding and kneading the dough and by the time the fresh loaves of hot bread stood lined up on the counter and the whole house was permeated by that sweet, yeasty smell, I always felt much better.
When I stopped to think about it, it was amazing how much I had learned about housekeeping, farming, and other kinds of work in the three years I had lived with the Mullers. It was even more amazing to realize that I really enjoyed doing my share of the simple, humble tasks which were required in the day-to-day business of living. It made me feel as though I had something of worth to offer this dear family who had taken me in and treated me as one of their own.

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