The Lost Girls (30 page)

Father slapped her. Emily screamed, and I jerked backward. Lilith sang again, louder: “
Shout sister, shout sister, shout!
”

He slapped her again, so hard she had to sit on the stairs. Emily started to cry. I pressed against the wall, where the photographs of my grandparents watched their son with dead eyes.

“You were clean,” Father said, and his voice broke.

Lilith's smile was gone, and her lips were swollen from his
blows. The light that had shone in her guttered out, leaving a slight girl with oddly harsh features in a ridiculous dress. In her face was fear, and maybe sorrow, but also triumph, crouching there small and fierce, and it pulled all the air from inside me. “Not anymore,” she whispered.

In the silence that followed none of us moved. Then Lilith stood unsteadily, her dress hitching up so the bloomers underneath blazed white. She turned and walked up the stairs with her back straight. Father watched her go. His hands were shaking. The sound of our bedroom door closing echoed throughout the house.

Mother sidled up to Father. “Thomas,” she said, her fingers picking at his sleeve.

“Take Emily to bed,” he said without looking at her. And she did. She took Emily by the hand, and pulled her up the stairs. She didn't look at me. But Emily did. Her eyes were hollow with fear. Fear for me, left alone in the foyer with Father.

He was between me and the stairs. I edged forward, thinking to slip past him, but he turned to me. His face was so wracked with pain that I felt faint. “Lucy,” he whispered. “Help me.” He fell to his knees before me and pulled me into his arms. When he pressed his face into my neck I felt the buttons of his shirt like pebbles against my chest. His wiry hair scratched my face, and his arms were so tight around me I could hardly breathe. He dug his fingers into my back, kneading between my ribs, as if digging for my heart, and he muttered words, fast and slurring, into my ear:
Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy lovingkindness,
he said, as his hands ran up and down my back, clawing for purchase.
Wash me thoroughly from mine iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin, for I acknowledge my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me
.

The hallway light fell in its circle around us. Beyond it the entire house was dark.
Against thee, thee only, have I sinned, and done this evil in thy sight
, he said, and his voice shook with a violent emotion I didn't understand, and I wanted to cry in terror
and incomprehension—how was I supposed to help him? I stood with my eyes closed as he buried his face deeper in my neck, murmuring,
Behold, I was shapen in iniquity; and in sin did my mother conceive me
, and pulled me tighter against the whole of his body from his thighs to his shoulders, saying,
Behold, thou desirest truth in the inward parts: and in the hidden part thou shalt make me to know wisdom
.

“Oh, Lucy,” he moaned. “Help me.” Now his hands lay upon my buttocks, cupping them through my dress and my underwear, and he said,
I will wash my hands in innocency; so will I compass thine altar, O Lord
. And he took my hand in his, and drew it to that place between his legs, and held it there. He whispered into my ear,
Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean: wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow
. I did cry then; I did; with fear and a dark shame. With his other hand Father smoothed my hair. “Don't cry. Don't cry.
Make me to hear joy and gladness; that the bones which thou hast broken may rejoice. Hide thy face from my sins, and blot out all mine iniquities
.” His hand on mine in that place between his legs tightened, as did the hand that held my hair, and his voice strangled,
Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me.

“Lucy,” he said again, into the joining of my neck and my shoulder, and
create in me a clean heart
, again and again, rocking me back and forth, as though I were a babe and he were comforting me, but I couldn't help the tears that flowed down my face and into his hair. Was I helping him? Or was I the iniquity? A madness was on him, and I didn't know if I was its cause or its cure, and I was so afraid, and he held me so tightly that sparks danced before my eyes.

At last he shuddered, and my hand felt him shudder, and then he gave a deep sigh, the breath of it entering into my pores. He let go of my hand and my hair and wrapped both his arms around me again, tenderly now, his body heavy against me. My skin crept across my shoulders and down my back. “Daughter,” he said. “My innocent. You have saved me from sin.
I am clean without transgres
sion, I am innocent; neither is there iniquity in me
.” Without lifting his face from my neck he rested his hand upon my forehead. “
Cast me not away from thy presence; and take not thy holy spirit from me. Restore unto me the joy of thy salvation, and uphold me with thy free spirit. Amen.
”

He released me, and my head spun with the rush of blood that returned to it. “Go, now, my daughter and my salvation,” he whispered, but in the shadows in his eyes I saw no one who had been saved, and no one I could recognize. I stepped around him, my limbs stiff, my jaw clenched, and walked up the stairs in the dark, leaving him kneeling there on the floor.

Emily's door was shut tight. I heard no sound from Mother or Emily behind it. In our room Lilith was lying fully clothed on her bed, her eyes open, looking at the ceiling.

“Lilith,” I whispered.

She didn't answer.

“Lilith,” I said again, and my voice shook. But she turned her face to the wall.

“I'm sorry, Lucy,” she said. “I can't help you anymore.”

It was barely light when Justine left her daughters sleeping in Lucy's bed. From the basement she got the presents that Santa Claus would leave on the living room floor: hair ribbons, socks, a diary for Melanie, a doll with golden hair for Angela. A couple of cheap cotton sweaters. The usual pathetic haul. But she'd also bought a pair of imitation suede boots like the ones Angela coveted, and for Melanie she'd bought a secondhand guitar. It cost $40 at the pawnshop, almost more than everything else combined, and way too much, given Lucy's dwindling account balance, but when she saw it she thought about Melanie singing in the chorus and Francis moving her fingers across the frets and she wanted, immediately and powerfully, for Melanie to have it.

When she'd laid out the gifts, she sat with her coffee on the sofa, waiting for the girls to wake up. It hadn't snowed as much as she'd thought it would, and the flakes that fell now were sparse and small. This worried her. She'd awoken with the certainty that Patrick would come today—he wouldn't be able to resist seeing her on Christmas, surely—so she'd hoped it would snow enough to keep even his sturdy truck from reaching them. Now she hoped he'd come later in the day, for Christmas dinner. She thought she could manage that. It would only be for a couple of hours.

As she finished her coffee she heard Angela's feet scuff across the landing. A moment later her youngest daughter appeared in her pink nightgown. She stopped halfway down the stairs, a question in her face. Justine smiled at her. “Santa came. Go get your sister.”

Angela said, with an anxious look, “Should we wake up Grandma?”

Justine had been thinking about this. Maurie had driven here, she claimed, to spend Christmas with them. But she'd gotten plastered on Christmas Eve and lacerated Justine with the bitter meanness that always lurked below the campy veneer she wore to disguise it. She could be just as cruel hungover as she could be drunk. And Justine could still feel her daughters' sleeping bodies, warm and trusting beside her, in her bones. So she told Angela to let her be.

For a little while, despite her mother sleeping off her hangover and Patrick lurking at the Motel 6, it was the best Christmas she could remember since the early days with Francis. She had bought cinnamon rolls, and she put them on a plate on the coffee table. Melanie and Angela unwrapped their Santa presents with no more enthusiasm than they warranted, but Melanie seemed to like the diary, and Angela petted the little golden-haired doll even though, as Justine watched her with it, she realized she'd gotten too old for dolls. Outside the window the lake was gray and quiet, and for now at least, Patrick seemed very far away.

When the Santa presents were done, Justine told them she had her own presents for them. This wasn't the usual thing; Santa had always been their only Christmas benefactor. Even though Melanie had outgrown the Santa myth and Angela soon would, Justine felt better pretending it was Santa, not she, who brought the annual gifts from Walmart. But these gifts, she wanted credit for. So she told the girls to close their eyes, and pulled the guitar and boots from their dining room hiding places.

Their reactions were everything she'd hoped for. Angela squealed as she reached for the boots and didn't seem to care that they weren't the brand the other girls wore. Melanie was struck still when she saw the old guitar, scratched and dinged but strung with new strings by the woman at the pawnshop, who played
herself. “Later we can find someone to give you lessons,” Justine said.

Melanie put three fingers on the frets, and a C chord sang in the room. Angela looked up from her feet, which were already in the boots. “Hey, that's good!”

Melanie raised one eyebrow at her, played the chord again, and the three of them laughed together for the first time in what felt like forever.

Then, above them, the floorboards creaked. Both girls turned to Justine. “I'm sure she's feeling better,” Justine said. They heard water running in the bathroom sink. Scrambled eggs, toast, and coffee; that was what Maurie would need. As Justine stood up, Melanie set the guitar aside, carefully.

Justine was scooping the eggs into a bowl when Maurie appeared at the kitchen door, still in her blue robe. Her skin was sallow beneath her makeup. “You had Christmas without me.”

“We thought you'd want to sleep.”

“You thought I'd want to sleep through Christmas with my granddaughters? The last Christmas I'm ever going to have in this goddamned house?”

Justine felt the listening silence from the living room. She held the bowl in front of her stomach. “I'm sorry. The girls got up early. And they haven't opened your presents yet.”

Maurie's mouth twisted. She turned her back on the eggs and toast. In the living room she clapped her hands. “Are you girls ready for your presents from Grandma?” Melanie and Angela watched with palpable misgiving as Maurie got her packages from the corner, but, though she looked like hell and her hands shook, her familiar, make-the-best-of-things energy soon enlivened the room, and Justine felt her daughters relax as they saw the grandmother they recognized.

Angela gasped in delight as she unwrapped a pair of ice skates,
clean and white and new, the silver blades shining. “I got the right size from your shoes,” Maurie beamed at her.

“Mom, those are great,” Justine said. She wondered how much they cost, and where her supposedly broke mother had gotten the money. She was glad she'd given Angela the boots.

Melanie's gift was a plastic purple case with a pair of eyes painted on it. Inside was an array of eye shadows, lip glosses, and blushes. Maurie pushed the guitar aside and sat beside Melanie. “These are jewel tones, and they are the perfect colors for your hair and skin. Remember how gorgeous you looked last night?” She drew Melanie into a hug. “You and I, we're the dark beauties in this family,” she said in her ear, and beneath the forced brightness in her voice Justine heard such a yearning ache, such a weary homelessness, that her throat tightened. But while Melanie didn't resist the hug, she didn't surrender to it either, and when Maurie felt that, she let her go.

The afternoon eased by. Patrick didn't come. Justine cleaned the wrapping paper from the living room floor; then, while Maurie napped, Melanie strummed her guitar, and Angela played with Melanie's makeup, she slipped upstairs and packed her clothes. She'd never fully unpacked, so it didn't take long. Tomorrow morning she'd put the girls' things back in their pillowcases; that wouldn't take long, either. She put her bag in Lucy's closet beside the Emily books, two boxes of family photos, a box of her great-grandfather's books, the old leather Bible, and the few other heirlooms she'd stashed there the day before.

She had it all figured out. Tomorrow she would tell Maurie they were leaving. She'd ask her to finish going through the house, and tell her she could keep whatever money Lucy's belongings would fetch. Maurie would be sorry to see them go, but she'd known
they'd planned to, and the money would please her. Once Justine and the girls were settled in their new apartment, Justine would contact Arthur and ask him to wire her Lucy's money and the house sale proceeds when the probate was done. They were going to Atlanta. She'd never been there, and it was warm.

They'd invited the Millers at seven, so at six they ate their precooked turkey, microwaved mashed potatoes and sautéed beans. Patrick still didn't come, and Justine began to nurse a tiny, flowering hope that he wouldn't. They sat in the dining room, and Maurie opened a bottle of wine, and it was all rather nice. It wasn't until they finished that they heard the truck drive out of the woods, and Justine's frail hope died. At least, coming this late, he wouldn't be able to stay very long. She stood up without looking at anyone, and carried her plate to the kitchen. When the doorbell rang, she went to answer it, feeling her daughters' eyes hot on her shoulder blades.

Patrick stood at the door with a shopping bag full of presents. His pickup was parked in the driveway, and Justine was surprised to see that the snow came halfway up the tires. It couldn't have been an easy drive. “Merry Christmas,” he said. His voice was too loud. He strode past Justine into the living room, put the bag on the coffee table, and took off his coat to reveal a blue shirt and a red tie. He grinned, his shoulders thrown back, and he vibrated with nervous energy—he was in his salesman mode. Justine took a moment to collect herself as she hung up his coat. He had something planned, something more than just the visit and the presents, and he was excited about it. She needed to marshal her strength.

“You're just in time for our party,” Maurie said, and Justine knew her mother was not her ally. She'd decided she liked Patrick.

Patrick's grin faltered, then recovered. “Party?”

Justine shut the closet door. “We're having the neighbors over.”

“Don't tell me other people live out here.” It was a joke, but it sounded forced. Justine watched him closely. He hadn't planned on
other people being here, and it threw him. She wasn't sure if that worked to her advantage, or against it. It could go either way.

“Two old men live in the lodge.” She went to the kitchen, avoiding Melanie and Angela, who still sat at the dining room table. Patrick followed, Maurie close behind, and as Justine washed the dishes they leaned against the counter and talked—about his drive, the weather, and the relative merits of Motel 6's and Travelodges—until the doorbell rang at seven.

Matthew stood there alone, with a loaf of pumpkin bread and a bottle of wine. “Abe isn't up to coming,” he said, without looking at Maurie.

“This is Patrick,” Justine told him. “He's a friend from San Diego.”

Patrick gave Matthew his salesman's handshake, two quick pumps. Justine took the pumpkin bread and the wine to the kitchen. Patrick followed her. While she sliced the pumpkin bread, he opened the wine and started pouring drinks. Just like any other couple with people over, she thought. Except they'd never had people over. Unlike Francis, for whom mysterious men were always leaving cryptic messages, Patrick had slipped into her insular, friendless world as though it was exactly the sort of place he was used to.

“That guy's kind of creepy,” he said. His tone was light, but it had an edge to it.

“He's okay. He's helped us a lot.”

He set down the wine bottle. “Helped you how?”

That had been the wrong thing to say. Patrick hated it when anyone helped her but him. She shrugged, like it was no big deal. “Just little things. Like plowing the road so the girls can get to school.”

He gave a short, hard laugh. “Jus, do you hear yourself? You're living so far in the middle of the backwoods, down a road that's not even a road, that you have to ask some geezer to plow just so
you can get out.” He pointed at the stain on the ceiling. “In a house that's falling apart around you.”

“You're right. It's not what I expected,” Justine temporized. That mollified him, and he went back to the drinks. She picked up the sliced pumpkin bread and returned to the living room, where everyone else was sitting. She pulled another chair from the dining room and turned on the radio. Now that it was Christmas Day the stations were all solemn orchestras and reverent choirs singing hallelujah. She missed Bing and Aretha.

Patrick came out with the drinks on a serving platter he must have dug out from one of the cupboards. He passed them around and raised his glass in a Christmas toast. The testiness of the kitchen had vanished; now he was the picture of gracious bonhomie, and a part of Justine had to admire him. He hadn't planned on Matthew Miller being here, and he felt threatened by him, but somewhere between the kitchen and the living room he'd pivoted, neatly and quickly. That's what a good salesman did, he'd told her many times. He changed his script to meet the circumstances.

“I bet you're wondering how I know Justine,” he said to Matthew.

“A friend from San Diego, she said.” His deep-set eyes were noncommittal.

“I saved her life.”

Justine's cheeks grew hot. Matthew's eyebrows lifted, but he didn't say anything. Maurie leaned forward, her breasts rounding over the neckline of her black wool dress, and gave Patrick what he needed. “Really? How?”

“Well, let me tell you. I was walking to work one day when I saw this little slip of a girl step off the curb right in front of a bus. It's a good thing I used to play football, because all those instincts came right back. The bus missed her by this much.” He grinned at Justine. “I saved her, and then she saved me, is what I always say.”

Everyone looked at Justine. Patrick's grin was brittle; he was
wound tighter than he wanted to be, and trying not to show it. Justine said, “It's true. That's how we met.”

Patrick's grin widened. Maurie made the appropriate congratulatory exclamations. But Melanie's face pinched with a bitter contempt that made Justine look down. She picked up Angela's glass of apple juice, even though she'd barely touched it, and took it to the kitchen, where she leaned on the counter and forced herself to breathe slowly. Melanie was right. She was doing it again; that complicated waltz with Patrick's fragile ego and his moods that she'd done for almost a year. Still, she reminded herself, she only had to do it for a couple more hours.

She took her time topping off Angela's glass. When she came back, Patrick had moved on to other stories. The Indiana farm. The Mustang. The Office Pro. All the stories he'd told her at their first lunch date, all told with that same easy charm, but as she listened to him now she saw why, despite his gregariousness, he didn't have any friends. He talked only about himself, and he didn't let anyone else talk at all. He didn't notice that Melanie listened with open distaste and Matthew with weary politeness, or that no one but Maurie laughed at his punch lines. He just talked, on and on, for over an hour, until, during a small break in the monologue, Matthew said he had to go.