The Good Daughter (18 page)

Kit touched the scrawl—
I’m the luckiest person I know
—thinking that Michael wouldn’t like his stepdaughter’s journal entry. But then, he’d already made it clear that he didn’t like her.

After a moment Kit took her pen, a blue ink gel that wrote practically effortlessly,
Tell me about Mineral Wells. What was it like? Do you miss it? Do you miss your grandfather?

Abruptly she lifted her pen, considered what she’d written, wishing she could ask the questions she was most curious about—where Delilah had gone to school for the past month, why her parents had chosen Memorial for her, and how she felt about her mother reconciling with her stepfather. But she didn’t ask.

This was Delilah’s journal. Delilah’s story. And Delilah would share when she was ready to share.

D
elilah wasn’t having a good day, but then, when were Mondays ever good days? Today was worse than usual, though. Howie had left late last night for a trip, which meant that Mama
overslept this morning and Delilah ended up missing her shower, breakfast, and her normal bus. She arrived at her stop to see Bus 57 pulling away, and by the time the next bus arrived, she was already twenty minutes late.

Sister Elena spotted her in the office waiting for a tardy slip, and lectured her on the importance of being organized and on time.

Grimly Delilah headed off for her first class, math, arriving in time to be handed a test but not having time to complete it.

By the time she reached her third-period class, English, her stomach was growling loudly and the kid behind her laughed. Mortified, she slid lower in her seat, chewed on her thumb, and watched Miss Brennan pass the stack of graded journals back, returning them to each student’s desk.

Delilah bit a hangnail, feigning boredom, not wanting to act like she cared about this class, or Miss Brennan, because who knew how long she’d be here? Howie might put his fist through Mama’s face and knock her teeth out again and then they’d be packing up and moving somewhere new again. Someplace where no one knew them. Someplace where no one could call the cops and say Missy Dempsey has a black eye and is missing one of her nice white front teeth.

The black spiral-bound notebook dropped onto the corner of her desk and Delilah didn’t look up until Miss Brennan had walked on.

She was dying to open her notebook and see how Miss Brennan had responded to her first entry. Would the teacher realize she’d been ironic? Or would she read Delilah’s entry and think,
Ah, lovely, Delilah has such a lovely life
?

Delilah’s upper lip lifted, curled. Adults were so stupid. So oblivious to what was right before their eyes. Only most people didn’t pay attention because they didn’t want to know. Because if
they knew…if they saw…then maybe, just maybe, they’d have to get involved.

With a careless flick of her wrist, she flipped the notebook open to the first page with her introduction and Miss Brennan’s response.
Tell me about Mineral Wells. Do you miss it? Do you miss your grandfather?

Hot emotion filled Delilah’s chest, licking at her heart, making her hurt, making her sick.

Mineral Wells was small and poor and in the middle of nowhere but it was home. It was who she was and what she’d always known. But then Howie came along and convinced Mama that better things were waiting elsewhere. Fewer fights. More money. Happier times.

Delilah picked up her pen and set it to the page.
I hated Mineral Wells until I found out that other places are worse. Like Bakersfield. We were only there four months, thank God, because that place sucks. It’s ugly. And smells like shit. Even the sky is brown.

She paused to read what she’d just written.

And then other images of Bakersfield flashed to life. Images of Mama’s jaw swollen and her fingers crushed, broken. Images of Mama hushing Delilah, telling her not to cry and not to argue with Howie. Telling her that fighting back would only make things worse. Better to just take it. Better to just let him get it out of his system because tomorrow everything would be better. Tomorrow things would be good again.

Liar
.

Delilah clenched the Bic pen so hard it snapped in her fist, black ink splattering her palm.

Miss Brennan was passing down the aisle on the other side of Delilah’s desk and paused. “Need a pen?”

Delilah kept her eyes on the tiny ink splatters puddling across her pale wrist. “No, ma’am. I have another one.”

Miss Brennan moved on and Delilah wiped the wet ink across the open journal with her wrist, smearing the whiteness of the paper with black.

Serves the page right. Nothing escapes life unscathed.

Furious, Delilah yanked the page from the spiral-bound notebook and crumpled it up.

A girl next to her looked up at the ripping sound. “You can’t do that to your journal. You have to leave all the pages in.”

Delilah stared at the girl with the red velvet headband, dark eyes, pale skin, and glossy brown hair. She had that money look about her. Delicate little watch. Long straight hair. Little pearls in her ears. Definitely rich. “I don’t care,” Delilah said, shutting the notebook and shoving it in her backpack. “It’s a stupid assignment anyway.”

“Journals are ten percent of your grade.”

“So?”

The girl’s forehead furrowed ever so slightly before she shrugged and muttered, “Whatever. Be a loser.”

And then bad got worse when Miss Brennan assigned them scenes from
Twelfth Night,
and partners, too, telling them they had two days to rehearse before performing their scene in front of the class.

Of course Delilah’s partner would be the Little Rich Girl with the red hair band. Delilah was going to say something to Miss Brennan, but Kendra, her spoiled-rich-girl partner beat her to it. Miss Brennan, though, refused to assign her someone else.

Delilah watched Kendra with the perfect hair flounce back to her seat and waited for her to sit down before glancing over at her. “I didn’t want you either,” she said, biting yet another hangnail and spitting it out.

Kendra shuddered. “That’s gross.”

“I know,” Delilah answered, peeling off another tiny strip of skin and rolling it between her teeth.

“You’re disgusting
and
messed up.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s not a compliment.”

Delilah’s eyes met Kendra’s and held. “Says who?”

“I do.”

“And who are you?
No one
.”

T
uesday, Delilah and Kendra had to sit off in a corner and rehearse their lines. Kendra refused to look at her, so they read their lines to the storage cabinet. Delilah didn’t mind. She didn’t want Kendra to like her. Wasn’t interested in making any friends. It was so much easier moving when you had nothing, and no one, to leave behind.

Delilah sauntered to PE, arriving a minute later, but Miss Jones had to be a hard-ass and make her run two extra laps for tardiness, and then two more for having attitude. Delilah told her she wasn’t having attitude, so she had to then do ten push-ups. She couldn’t do even ten girl push-ups, which made a bunch of the kids laugh. So Delilah got mad, tripped one by accident, which Miss Jones said wasn’t an accident, and assigned Delilah a three-page paper—typed, double-spaced, Courier font—on respect.

Due tomorrow morning before school started.

By the time Delilah stepped off her bus and walked the four blocks to her house, she was in a foul mood. Mama didn’t help things by shouting at her when she entered the house to get started on her homework right away.

Delilah went to her bedroom, slammed and locked her door, and threw herself onto her bed. She hated Memorial High. Hated Kendra. Hated Miss Jones. Hated everyone.

An hour later she sleepily opened her eyes to the sound of loud knocking on her locked bedroom door. “Dee. Dee, what are you doing in there? Open the door.”

Delilah slowly opened her eyes and turned over on her back. She stared up at the ceiling, chilled. She’d had the weirdest dream. It’d been so real. Shivering, she reached for her bedspread and pulled it across her body.

“Delilah!” Her mother’s voice was louder, anxious. “Howie’s on his way home from the airport in a terrible mood. Get up. Get your homework done.”

“’Kay.”

But she didn’t move. She clutched the quilted bedspread, a blue-and-green swirl of colors that made her think of the ocean, and tried to get warm. She felt strange. Her room felt strange. Unsettled, she slid from bed, grabbed her backpack, and left her room, heading to the kitchen table to study.

Mama was standing at the kitchen sink peeling potatoes. “I’d go easy on Howard tonight. He had to fly to Houston early this morning and he’s had a rough day.”

Delilah dropped her backpack on the table, wishing that for once Mama would ask about her day, or want to know how she was feeling. But there was no room in Mama’s life for anyone but Howie. God, Delilah hated Howie. “What do you mean, go easy on him? I never do anything—”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about. That tone of voice. That attitude. It’s just going to upset him and we don’t need to do that. He’s already going to be worked up when he gets home.”

“Why? Did he get laid off again?”

Missy shot Delilah a sharp glance. “No. He wasn’t laid off.” She took a quick breath, her right hand swiftly working the peeler, slicing the skin off in long graceful spirals. “There was an explosion at one of the refineries. Men are missing. Two of them were Howard’s good friends.”

“That’s too bad,” Delilah answered flatly, jerking out one of the chairs, letting it scrape against the floor. “Shit happens, don’t it?”

“
Delilah.
”

“It’s true.”

Missy clenched the peeled potato in her palm, her voice rising. “If you say that to Howard, he will just lose it.
Lose it.
Do you understand?”

Delilah stared at her, her gaze hard, understanding all too well. “Why did you marry him?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“It
is
my business.”

“No, it’s not.”

“What happens to you happens to me—”

“Nothing happens to me.”

“You have a black eye or broken bone every couple of weeks.”

“Don’t exaggerate. It’s not that bad. And when something happens, he always feels terrible about it later. He’s a good man, Dee. Just had a rough childhood.”

“Who hasn’t?”

Missy glanced nervously toward the back door as if waiting for it to open. “This isn’t the time. As I said, Howard’s had a bad day and he’s going to need things nice and quiet.”

It was always about Howard, wasn’t it? Keeping him happy. Making sure he was comfortable. Smoothing things over so he could feel like The Man.

Never mind that her mama was nothing but a doormat, just there for him to wipe his feet on.

How was that fair?

Delilah ground her teeth as she watched her mother pick up another potato. How could her mother take it? Accept it? Worse, how could she make excuses for him? God, there was no justice. No justice at all. “Which of his favorite dishes are you making, Mama?”

“German pot roast and mashed potatoes.”

Delilah’s eyes smarted, and she shook her head and looked
away toward the living room with its brown leather couch and love seat. Howie’s furniture, of course.

“So he’s pretty torn up?” she said.

“Yes.”

Delilah swallowed around the ache in her chest and the fear thickening her throat. “Would you like me to make my Texas sheet cake? You know he always likes that.”

Missy shot her a grateful smile. “Oh, that’d be wonderful, hon. He loves your Texas sheet cake. Says it’s better than even his mama’s.”

Delilah went to the sink to wash her hands but suddenly turned to her mother and pressed her cheek to her warm, thin back. She could feel her narrow bra strap through Mama’s blouse and caught a whiff of her perfume—Fantasy, by Britney Spears. Howie had bought the perfume for her after their first date and Mama wore it whenever she wanted to make him happy.

And Mama tried so hard to make Howie happy.

Delilah squeezed her eyes shut, held her breath. If Mama hadn’t met him…If only Mama could have been happy with just the two of them…

“You okay?” Mama asked.

Delilah drew a quick breath. “Mm.”

Slowly Missy reached around with a wet hand and patted her arm. “I love you, hon.”

“Mm.”

She patted Delilah’s arm again. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

“Mm.”

“And, baby, Howie’s going to love the cake.”

J
ude heard the first scream from the kitchen, where he was browning ground beef for his Hamburger Helper dinner. The hair on his neck rose and he stood motionless, wooden spoon suspended over the frying pan.

It
was
a scream, wasn’t it? He held his breath and listened harder, ears, senses, straining.

All was silent except for the sizzle of meat. But Jude’s gut felt tight.

He knew what was happening next door in the Dempsey house, and it made him nuts. It did. Someone needed to teach that bastard a lesson.

There were rules to the universe, rules every man knew. You hit a man, or pounded a punching bag, but never a woman.

Never a woman
.

Jude knocked the skillet onto a back burner and headed outside to stand on his front porch and listen.

The night was cool, almost cold, and the moon was nonexistent.
In the dark he listened to the silence. And he listened to the small sounds. And he listened for what he couldn’t hear but could all too easily imagine.

Crying. Whimpering. Pain.

He squeezed his hand into a fist and realized he was still holding the wooden spoon.

And then it came. “No, Howie. Howie, please!”

The pleading shriek tore at Jude. Spots danced before his eyes. His stomach rolled. He started down the steps, reached the sidewalk, and then abruptly stopped.

He couldn’t get involved.

He had to get involved.

He wasn’t allowed to get involved.

But God help him, how could he not? Tossing the spoon, Jude reached into his back pocket of his jeans for his phone and swiftly punched in a number of someone who
could
get involved, giving him the address for the house next door, even while still listening to see if he needed to bust through the door to borrow a cup of sugar. And then before he could hang up the phone, the front door on the neat white house next to his opened and shut. Howard Dempsey stood on his own steps, car keys jingling in his hand.