Read The Girl from Charnelle Online
Authors: K. L. Cook
The Girl from Charnelle (11 page)
“Ow!” her mother said, pulling back sharply. “Don't do that.”
“What happened?” The blood felt warm and greasy on her fingers.
“I scratched myself on some barbed wire,” her mother said. “Dumb. It's nothing. We better get going. Come on, Fay.”
The dog stood sleepily, hay clinging to her back, and fell in step at Mrs. Tate's heels.
“You, too, Laura.”
“But, Mommaâ”
Her mother was already through the barn gate, though, striding across the meadow toward the distant light of the house. Laura followed, but her mother moved fast, dissolving into the darkness until both she and the dog seemed merely gold-lined silhouettes.
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On the drive home, Manny, Gene, and Laura wore their wool caps and mufflers and huddled together with Fay under the two afghans Aunt Velma had given them. Gene fell asleep, and Manny and Laura watched the shifting stars as the truck hummed north along the highway back to Charnelle. With the wind and the sound of the truck's tires on the asphalt, it was too loud for talk, which suited her just fine, because she liked this time without words. Lying flat in the bed, she could see the headlights from passing cars and trucks shining over them like spotlights. The sky had cleared, and she delighted in identifying the constellations she knew and searching for her own patterns, which she gave foolish names she soon forgot.
She could tell they were close to Charnelle at least ten minutes before they arrived. The traffic going the other way increased, and the sky brightened from the lights. She sat up and peered through the cab window. The tip of her father's cigarette glowed orange and brightened when he inhaled. Rich was asleep in Mrs. Tate's lap, and she had her head turned toward the side window to the low dark hills that rose and toppled as they sped along. Laura rubbed her fingers together. Though she couldn't see them, she knew they were still stained with her mother's blood. In the scramble to get going, she had forgotten to wash it off. She put her fingers to her nose but smelled nothing.
What was her mother thinking about? Laura wondered. She seemed so secretive, ever since Gloria left, almost a year ago now, or perhaps before thatâyes, definitely before. Laura wished she could get inside her mother's head for only a few minutes and see what was going on in there, but she knew that was impossible, just as she sensed that others would probably never be able to clearly know what she thought and felt.
Through both the cab window and the front window, she could see the lights of Charnelle spread across the plains like a prairie fire, flickering, blinking, calling them home. Tomorrow she'd be back in school, back to the routines of classes and chores and the chattery, joking banter with her friends. That would be good, but she wasn't there yet, and the weekend itself, the reason they'd gone, the fun they'd had, was over, and there was only this between time of traveling in the dark.
A wave of sadness swept through her. She didn't know if it was the weekend ending, or worries about her mother, or just tiredness. She was prone to these quick spells of sadness or confusion. She often felt a strange, conflicting pull either to give in to the spellâ“wallow in it,” as her father saidâor to resist it,
shake it off, get up and do something, anything, which did seem to work. Motion triumphing over mood.
Gene and Manny, asleep on either side of her now, turned at the same moment and tugged the afghans from her, sending a whistling chill through her bones. She pulled the covers back and nestled against Fay. She absently stroked the dog's warm fur as she watched the sky lighten from behind, the town seeming to curl over the cab into the truck bed.
After pulling into the gravel driveway, her father turned off the truck, which rattled and shook Gene and Manny awake. The silence after the drive seemed cottony and thick. Her father said something to her, but she couldn't understand and had to yawn several times to unplug her ears. Without a word, her mother grabbed the box of leftovers Velma had sent home with them and went into the kitchen. Gene wobbled sleepily, and Laura helped him to bed. Her father put Rich in his crib, and after helping unload everything into the living room, Laura slipped into her nightgown.
She expected her mother to say good night, but she didn't utter a sound, just retreated to the bathroom and then her bedroom, the door closing abruptly behind her. Another sign, Laura thought, but of what? In bed, the sadness from before was replaced now by a grateful warmth, the familiar pleasure of the journey finally ended, of returning home, of being home. Still, she felt unsettled, as if this weekend had been trying to warn her of something but she'd not been listening carefully. She tried to recall all that had happened. The fall from the horse, the movie, which seemed, now that she considered it, all about exile and return. Her mother's disappearance into the barn where Uncle Unser's ghost still seemed to reside, her mother crying in the shadows with the dog, the sense of there being invisible barriers between her mother and the rest of the family. Laura felt darkness, glass, and a quietly hostile silence that no one else seemed to register. She believed she was on the verge of understanding something, as if she could almost grasp how a puzzle fit together. But the darkness and the breathing of her brothers in the room enveloped her, pressing down, and the sculpted contours of her mattress held her like a soft hand and urged her to sleep.
Inversion
A
t four o'clock on Saturday afternoon, Laura rode her bicycle over to the Letigs' and parked it in the backyard. Jack and Willie answered the door and lunged against her, almost knocking her over with their hugs. Willie unlocked himself from her legs and ran down the hall, shouting, “She's here, she's here!”
John emerged from the bedroom, wearing his brown work boots, a pair of tight jeans, cuffed at the bottom, and a faded red-and-black-plaid shirt with silver snap buttons, his pack of Lucky Strikes poking out the top of his pocket. He didn't have pomade on, so his blond hair seemed longer, lighter, shaggy.
“Put the boys to bed early. I wore them out this morning. They should sleep hard.”
He looked at her knowingly, and at the door he quickly touched her hand so that it seemed an accident. She knew it wasn't.
While he was gone, she and the boys played checkers and Parcheesi, but the boys yawned through supper. Jack complained that his ear hurt, but he seemed fine after she read them two long stories from the Letigs' copy of
Grimm's Fairy Tales.
She put them to bed by seven-thirty, and they were conked out by eight, sleeping hard, as he'd said they would. John returned about nine-thirty.
“Boys asleep?”
“Yeah, they were exhausted.”
“I thought they'd be.”
He drew the curtains and then kissed her right there in the living room. He'd had a few beers and something stronger. She could smell it on him.
“Be careful,” she whispered and stepped back, looking toward the boys' bedroom.
He grabbed her hand, led her to his bedroom, and pulled down the white shades. He didn't speak. He put one arm around her waist, the other around her shoulders, drew her up to him, and kissed her again. She put her head against his chest, and they danced slowly in tight circles. She was excited, but nervous, too, her stomach like taffy, stretched loose, about to break.
“What about the boys?” she whispered. He didn't answer. “What about the boys?” she asked again.
He unwrapped his arm from her waist and leaned over and locked the bedroom door. Then he was kissing her again. He seemed too quiet and intense, and she worried about the liquor on his breath. His face was nestled in her neck, and the heat from his mouth felt good, his tongue fluttering in the hollow of her throat. Then, without warning, he lifted her up, his arms clenched around her legs, his face suddenly buried in her stomach.
“Hey!” She gasped. “Be careful.”
He made a low growling sound and laid her on the bed, undid his shirt snaps, which clicked like castanets, and let his shirt fall to the floor. He stretched over her, his mouth moving to hers and then down her throat. He unbuttoned the top button on the front of her dress, kissed below her collarbone, and then unbuttoned the second one. She placed her hand on his to slow him down, but he was insistent as he unbuttoned another and then another until her torso was exposed, and he kissed her ribs and the top of her chest. He reached under her back, deftly unsnapped her bra, and moved his hands over both breasts, placing one of them in his mouth, then the other
one, sucking gently at first, but then harder. She tried to guide him back up, slow him down by easing his mouth to her mouth. She was nervous. It felt good, but scary, too. He kissed her stomach, moving his face in slow circles, his mustache tickling. Then he put his hands under the skirt of her dress, moved them over her thighs and across her panties and along the sides of her ribs.
“Hey,” she whispered, but he didn't seem to be listening. He lifted her dress up and touched her again, then moved his mouth in circles around the insides of her thighs and her stomach.
“John,” she whispered and sat up, reached around his shoulders, but his face was between her legs. He eased her back down with his arms and extended them over her stomach and chest, his hands on her breasts, squeezing. She felt light-headed, dizzy, dizzy. She tugged on his arms, trying to draw him up again. This was happening too fast, though she didn't know what exactly was happening. He suddenly pulled down her panties, breathed heavily. Her head spun, she felt disoriented, confused, and then just as suddenly he was gone. She opened her eyes, and the rest of his clothes were off, which scared her. She pushed him away.
“Hey,” she whispered and closed her legs. He pushed her thighs apart. “Hey,” she said again and shook her head.
He took her hand and moved it to him, and she knew he expected something, but she didn't know what to do. Then his hand was on hers, moving up and down, and she tried to follow his motion, but he seemed dissatisfied, annoyed, and soon he was on top of her, pressing himself against her stomach, moving back and forth. She could feel him under her ribs, slightly painful, his skin hot against her, and suddenly it was wet hot between them. He continued for a long minute after that, and then lay down upon her with all his weight.
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He was heavy, maybe asleep. She couldn't breathe very well. She didn't know whether or not to disturb him. She pressed her arms under his shoulders and lifted a little so she could breathe more easily. Then she heard a knock. He didn't move. She listened. Another knock.
“Daddy.”
She nudged John.
“Huh,” he said.
“Daddy, are you home?” It was Jack.
“Yes, son.” His voice sounded loud in the room, and strange, as if he were drugged. She realized this was the first thing he'd said since they'd entered the bedroom. “Go on back to bed.”
“Daddy, I had an accident.”
“Go to the bathroom then,” he said irritably.
“Is Laura still here?”
She and John looked at each other, alarmed. “No,” he said.
“I saw her bicycle outside the window.”
He didn't answer. Seemed stumped, in fact. She felt panicky, a wild bird caught in a cage. John was still on top of her. She shivered beneath him.
“She walked home,” he said. “Now you go on to the bathroom, son. I'll be there in a minute to help you.”
He rose. “Stay here,” he whispered. He looked around, then leaned down and whispered, “No. In here.”
He opened the closet door. She searched at the end of the bed for her panties and finally found them on the floor. She moved quickly toward the thicker darkness of the closet.
He shut the door, except for a crack, and then she heard the bedroom door open and saw a thin stream of light from the bathroom. She slipped on her panties, redid her bra, and then felt the wetness on her stomach. She crouched down and waited among the dresses and slips and hatboxes of Mrs. Letig. It smelled of perfume in here. Too closed in, too intimate and claustrophobic. He had another private life. She
knew
it, of course, but now she could sense it, smell it. She reached out and clutched one of Mrs. Letig's winter dresses. She ran her hand down the long sleeve, the material silky but thick. She half expected to find Mrs. Letig's hand at the end of the sleeve. The reality of this woman was almost too much to bear. It made her feel suddenly ashamed and lonely. Tears welled hotly in her eyes, and she brushed them away with the back of her hand.
What will happen?
Her bottom lip quivered; she bit it.
This is dangerous
.
He'd said that, and he was right. And then, unexpectedly, she thought of that woman her father had brought home a couple of years ago, not long after her mother left. The dark hallway, Laura watching, exchanging looks with the woman. The woman seemedâwas she remembering right?âto be a girl. And now Laura
was
that girl in some weird, inverted way.
John came back into the room, shut the door. It was very dark. She
couldn't see now. He opened the closet door and whispered for her. She didn't answer at first. He moved into the closet with her, pulled the door shut.
“Where are you?” he whispered.
“Here.” She held out her hand in the darkness and felt his face.
“Ouch.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her to him, put his lips to her ear. “You have to go home now,” he said.
“How?”
“Wait here for a few minutes. Then I'll come get you. You have to walk. I'll bring your bicycle over in the morning.”
“Okay.” Her throat got tighter; tears streamed down her cheeks.
“Shhhh,” he whispered. “It's okay.” Her face was against his chest, and she could feel his skin wet from her tears. There was a long pause before he said, “It's okay, honey.”
“This is terrible,” she whispered.
“No, no, it isn't. Don't think that.”
“Butâ”
“No,” he said. “Everything's fine.”
“You're just saying that.”
“I'm not. Now wait until I come back.”
When he returned, he whispered, “Come with me.”
They tiptoed through the bedroom and living room to the back porch, where he'd left her shoes. He opened the door and nudged her outside. She felt slighted.
“Go down the alley,” he said.
“When will I see you?” she asked, and it seemed to come out as a childish plea. She felt stupid.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “Go on. Hurry up.”