“You’re looking at me like you know me,” she says.
That’s something else that separates her from May Beth, besides the hair—her voice. May Beth’s voice is crumbling sugar cubes. This woman’s is tart apple pie. Or maybe it’s not that she sounds like that, it’s what I’m smelling. There’s a pie rack a few feet down the counter, the diner’s famous apple sitting on top with its soft, syrupy pieces of fruit tucked into a beautifully flaky crust. My mouth waters and I know I’ve been hungrier than this in my life, but that caramel-cinnamon-sugar kiss is making it hard for me to remember when. My stomach growls. The woman arches her eyebrow and it’s then I notice the name tag pinned over her right breast says RUBY. It’ll be a bitch pushing that one past my lips.
“Forget it, Roo,” Saul says from behind the service station. “She can’t talk.”
Ruby turns to me. “That true?”
“—”
I close my eyes. A block: a feels-like-forever moment where my mouth is open and nothing happens—at least, not on the outside. Inside, the word is there and the struggle to give it shape makes me freeze, makes me feel like I’ve been disconnected.
“Y-you l—” I fight for the L, fight my way back to myself. I open my eyes. I feel the woman beside me staring. Ruby, she doesn’t even blink and it makes me grateful but I fucking hate that too, because the kind of decency everybody ought to live by isn’t something that deserves my gratitude. “You l-look like s-someone I know.”
“That a good thing?”
“Yeah.” I nod, faintly pleased with its successful landing. Yeah.
“Thought you didn’t talk,” Saul says, unimpressed.
“You want something with that coffee?” Ruby asks.
“I’m g-good.”
She purses her lips. “You know you can’t be nursing that all night.”
Jesus. I clear my throat.
“I w-was wondering if I c-could ask y-you s—” Something. “A question.”
That’s a thing I can do sometimes: fake out my stutter. I psych it up to ruin one word and switch it out with another at the last minute and it somehow never manages to catch up to me. The first time I discovered this, I thought I was finally free, but no; I was being held hostage in a different way. It’s exhausting, doing all that thinking for the kind of talking no one else has to think twice about. And it’s not fair but there’s not much in life that is.
“Sure,” she says.
“Is R—” I close my eyes briefly. “Ray around?”
She winces. “Died a few years back.”
“S-sorry.” Shit.
“What do you need Ray for?”
“Have you w-worked here l-long?”
“Going on thirty years.” She peers at me. “What’s this about?”
“T-trying to f-find someone.”
There’s a faster way to do this. Before she can respond, I press my lips together and hold up my finger. She waits the minute I’m silently asking for while I open my backpack and take out a photograph. It’s eight years old, but it’s the only picture I have that holds the face of the particular person I’m looking for. It’s a summer scene, all of us posed outside May Beth’s trailer. I know it’s summer because her flower beds are in full bloom. She’s the one who took the photo and I took it from her, where it was nestled in the album she keeps of me and Mattie. This is the only picture of us that includes Mom—and Keith.
He has a hard face, a week’s worth of beard and deep crow’s feet I can’t believe he ever got from smiling too much. He looks like he would step out of the photograph just to hate you up close. He has a child on his hip and that child, with the messy blond hair, is Mattie. She was five. The eleven-year-old girl in pigtails out of focus in the far corner of the shot is me. I remember that day, how hot and uncomfortable it was, and how I could not be coaxed to pose alongside them until my mom finally said, Fine, we’ll do it without you, and that didn’t feel right to me either so I crept into the frame and became the moment’s blurry edges. I stare at it too long, like I always do, and then I point to the pen in Ruby’s apron pocket. She hands it over. I flip the photo and scribble quickly across its back:
HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?
But I already know the answer because I heard about Ray’s from Keith. He used to talk about this place, said he was a regular, used to cradle Mattie in his arms and run his hand through her hair and say one day, maybe, he’d take her to Ray’s for a slice of apple pie because baby, you never tasted anything so good … if Ruby’s been here as long as she says she has, I know she’s seen him. I pass the photo to her. She holds it careful as anything while I lean forward, watching her closely for some flash of recognition. Her face gives nothing away.
“Who wants to know?” she finally asks.
My heart hopes as little as I’ll let it. “H-his d—his daughter.”
She licks her lips and I notice her lipstick has faded and all that’s really left is the harsh red of her liner. Then she locks eyes with me and sighs in such a way I wonder how often this happens, girls asking after men who have nothing in them to give.
“We get a lot of men in here and they don’t really stand out unless there’s something wrong with ’em. I mean—more than what’s usually wrong with ’em.” She half-shrugs. “He might’ve come through, but I don’t remember him if he did.”
I can hear a lie a mile away. It’s not some superhero perk from stuttering, being in tune to other people’s emotional bullshit. It’s just what happens after a lifetime of listening to liars.
Ruby is lying.
“He s-said he w-was a r—a regular. Knew R-Ray.”
“Well, I’m not Ray and I don’t know him.” She slides the photo back to me, the tone of her voice taking a saccharine turn. “You know, my daddy left me when I was younger than you. Trust me when I tell you sometimes it’s just better that way.”
I bite my tongue because if I don’t, I’ll say something ugly. I make myself stare at the counter instead, at a dried coffee splotch that hasn’t been wiped up. I put my hands in my lap so she can’t see them curl into fists.
“You said he’s a regular?” Ruby asks. I nod. “What’s your phone number?”
“D-d-don’t have a f-phone.”
She sighs, thinks on it a second, and then reaches for a take-out menu from the neat stack next to the napkins. She points to the number on it.
“Look, I’ll keep my eye out. You call, ask for me, I’ll tell you if I’ve seen him. I can’t make any promises.” She frowns. “You really don’t have a phone?”
I shake my head and she crosses her arms, the look on her face wanting a thank you, I think, and it just makes me madder. I fold the menu and shove it and the photograph in my bag, trying to ignore the hot flush working its way across my body, the awful shame of not getting what I want. Bad enough it happens in the first place, worse to be forced to wear it.
“Y-you’re lying,” I say because I won’t let her make me wear it.
She stares at me a long moment. “You know what, kid? Don’t bother calling. And you’re done with your coffee.”
She heads back into the kitchen and I stare after her. Good job, Sadie. You fucking idiot, now what?
Now what.
I exhale slowly.
“Hey.” The voice sounds featherlight, uncertain. I turn my head and the woman is staring at me. “Never seen anybody call Ruby on her bullshit before.”
“—” I push past the block, letting out a small gasp. “You n-know w-why’s she’s b-bullshitting me?”
“Haven’t been around that long. Just long enough to know she can be a real bitch when she wants to be.” She looks at her hands. Her nails are pink and long and pointy, and I imagine the feel of them clawing across skin. Every little thing about you can be a weapon, if you’re clever enough. “Look, there’s a guy … sometimes he’s hanging around behind the diner, sometimes, it’s the gas station … if he hasn’t been chased away from them, that is. If he has, you can usually find him
by the Dumpsters at the back of the parking lot. Name’s Caddy Sinclair. He’s tall, skinny. He might be able to tell you something.”
“He a d-dealer?” I ask, but it’s a question that answers itself, so she doesn’t bother. I slide off the stool, tossing a five on the counter, because I know where I have to go now. “Thanks. A-appreciate it.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” she says. “He doesn’t do anything for free and no one talks to him unless they have to so you might want to think long and hard on whether or not you really do.”
“Th-thanks,” I say again.
She reaches over for my half-drunk coffee, wraps her hands around it and says, bitterly, “I know a thing or two about missing dads.”
* * *
“You here for the Ruby Special?”
The voice is like phlegm, thick and unappealing. I cross from the light into the long, outstretched shadows of the truck stop until I’m in front of Caddy and Caddy is in front of me. I circled the diner and the gas station, and he wasn’t there. He’s in the last place I was told to look—the back of the parking lot next to the Dumpsters. He’s leaned against one of them, contoured by darkness that, for one moment, almost gives him extra dimension until my eyes adjust and I see how pathetically built he really is. He’s thin, his eyes cloudy and lifeless. Stubble shades his jawline and pointed chin.
“N-no.”
He’s smoking, takes a deep drag off the cigarette nestled between his long fingers. I watch the cherry flare and fade and my neck prickles uncomfortably at a memory of Keith. I don’t want to get into it, but I still have the scar on the back of my neck and I was afraid of fire for a long time after I got it. When I was fourteen, I forced myself to spend a night with a pack of matches and I made them burn bright, held them for as long as I could stand it. My hands would tremble, but I did it. I always forget fear is a conquerable thing but I learn it over and over again and that, I guess, is better than never learning it.
Caddy tosses the cigarette on the pavement and grinds it out. “Didn’t your mama tell you about approaching dangerous men in the dark?”
“W-when I see a d-dangerous man, I’ll k-keep that in m-mind.”
I’ve got no sense of self-preservation. That’s what May Beth used to tell me. You wouldn’t care if you died for it, so long as you were gettin’ the last word. It was hard enough having the stutter, let alone being a smart-ass on top of that.
Caddy slowly pushes himself from the Dumpster and sets his murky gaze on me.
“Wuh-wuh-wuh-wuh will yuh-yuh-yuh you?”
It’s not the first sorry imitation of myself I’ve ever heard, but I still want to pull his tongue out of his mouth and strangle him with it.
“I n-n-n—” Calm down, I think and then I want to slap myself for it. Calm down doesn’t do anything. Calm down is what people who don’t know any better tell me to do, like the difference between having a stutter and not having one is a certain level of inner fucking peace. Even Mattie knew better than to tell me to calm down. “I n-need to talk t-to you.”
He coughs, spitting something resembling drying Elmer’s Glue onto the ground. My stomach turns at the sight. “That right?”
“I w-w-want—”
“Didn’t ask you what you want.”
I take the picture out and hold it right in front of his fucking face because it’s already pretty clear that I have to do this differently than I did it with Ruby. What’s that saying: better to ask forgiveness than permission?
But I’ve never been good at saying sorry either.
“D-do you know this m-man? I n-need to know where t-to f-find him.”
Caddy laughs and shoves past me, his bony shoulder slamming into mine, forcing me into a graceless backward shuffle. There’s something confident about the way he moves his body for a guy who can’t be a buck twenty soaking wet. I try to memorize it, the way his shoulders lead.
“I’m not goddamned Missed Connections.”
“I can p—I can pay.”
He stops and turns to me, running his tongue over his teeth as he contemplates it. In one quick clean stride, he closes the space between us and rips the photo from my hands. If I’d clutched it any tighter, I’d still be holding half of it. My first instinct is to make for a grab back, but I catch myself in time. Sudden movements don’t seem like they’d work in my favor.
“What do you want with Darren Marshall?”
I try not to wear the shock of this name on my face. Darren Marshall. So that’s what Keith’s calling himself now. Or maybe Keith was the name he gave himself when he lived with us and Darren is his real name—part of me wants that to be true. There’s something about peeling back a layer this fast that feels good. I haven’t felt good in a long time.
Darren Marshall.
“I’m his d-daughter.”
“He never mentioned no daughter.”
“W-why w-would he?”
He squints and holds the picture up in what little light there is and the long, loose sleeves of his shirt creep down enough for me to see a constellation of track marks on his left arm. May Beth used to tell me it’s a sickness and made me tell Mattie the same thing, but I don’t believe it because people don’t choose to be sick, do they? Show a little compassion for your sister’s sake. Hate the sin, love the sinner. Like my junkie mother’s addiction was my personal failing because I couldn’t put my compassion ahead of all the ways she made me starve.
“Got somethin’ to say?”
He knows exactly where I’m looking.
“No.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.” He smiles faintly and gets close to me again. “Is it a money thing? You didn’t give a fuck after he left but now you’re hungry, that it? Why you think a man owes you more’n the life he gave you, huh?” He quiets for a moment, studying me. “Gotta say, kid, I don’t see much of a resemblance.” I raise my chin and he chuffs softly, slightly incredulous as his gaze returns to the photo. “You ever heard of a fool’s errand?”
Fool’s errand. Noun. I think. Like chasing after nothing, but sometimes nothing is all you have and sometimes nothing can turn into something. And I’ve got more than nothing. I know the guy in the picture is alive. If he’s alive, he can be found.
I grab the picture from Caddy. “Then I’m a f-fool.”
“I knew Darren but he hasn’t been around in a long damn time. Might know something about that too,” he says, and my throat gets tight because like I said, I can hear a lie a mile away.
Caddy isn’t lying.
“It’ll cost you,” he adds.
“Already s-said I’d p-pay. How m-much?”
“Who said anything about money?”
I grab the picture back and he grabs me by the arm and the surprising grip of his spider-leg fingers makes me want to separate from my skin just so I don’t have to feel it. The heat of him. A door slams somewhere beyond us. I turn my head to it.
There’s a truck, a big black dog of a thing idling in the dark. A girl runs toward it. She’s small in a way that reminds me of Mattie, and I stare at her tiny body, made of tiny bones, watching as she comes to a halt at the passenger’s side. She stares at it for a long, painful moment and there’s nothing I can do to stop what happens next. I watch as this girl, who isn’t Mattie, pulls the door open. The cab of the truck lights up briefly as she climbs inside. She closes the door. The truck’s interior lights dim, swallowing her whole.
Caddy digs his fingers into me, his nails sharp.
“L-let m-me go.”
He lets me go, coughing into his elbow.
“It’ll cost you,” he says again.
He tilts his head to the side, his eyes drifting over me and then—a little more tentatively than he did the last time—puts his hand on my arm and walks me farther into the darkness. He brings himself closer to me, fumbling for his belt buckle, whispering the kind of nothings in my ear that can’t even pretend to be sweet. His breath is sour. I look into his eyes and his eyes are red.
THE GIR
LS
S1E1
WEST McCRAY:
The first half of the photos in May Beth’s album are only of Sadie. She was a small, happy baby, with brown hair, gray eyes and healthy pink skin. She didn’t look anything like her mother.
MAY BETH FOSTER:
Sadie was the spitting image of Irene and Claire couldn’t stand it, and if you saw Claire with Sadie, you’d wonder why she’d even have a baby in the first place. She hated holding her, nursing her, soothing her. I’m not being dramatic. She. Hated. It. I loved on Sadie best I could, but it was never enough to make up for what she wasn’t getting from her mother.
WEST McCRAY:
Who was Sadie’s father?
MAY BETH FOSTER:
I don’t know. I don’t think even Claire knew. She said his last name was Hunter so that’s what she put on the birth certificate.
WEST McCRAY:
According to May Beth, Sadie had a lonely childhood those first six years without Mattie. Claire’s addiction superseded all affection, and left her daughter attention-starved.
Sadie was also painfully shy, due to the stutter she developed when she was two. There was no clear cause. It might have been genetics. Hereditary. No other members in Sadie’s known family stuttered but her paternal side is unaccounted for. May Beth unearthed a recording she made when Sadie was three; we had to hunt down a cassette player to listen to it.
MAY BETH FOSTER [RECORDING]:
You wanna talk into the recorder, honey? [PAUSE] No? I can play it back for you and you can hear what you sound like.
SADIE HUNTER [AGE 3] [RECORDING]:
Th-th-that’s m-magic!
MAY BETH FOSTER [RECORDING]:
Yeah, baby, it’s magic. Okay, talk into right here, just say hi!
SADIE HUNTER [RECORDING]:
B-but I w—I want t-to, I w—I—
MAY BETH FOSTER [RECORDING]:
Sadie Page 3