The Stone Necklace

by Carla Damron

  Joe took the pamphlet and scanned the long list of rules. Nobody admitted after 6 PM. Must clear the metal detector. No fighting, profanity, or theft tolerated. Must leave shelter by 8 AM. It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t stay in the shelter until he had to. He’d seen how the bunks lined up—forty or more to a room. Being closed in was one thing, but being shut up with a bunch of men he didn’t know was something else entirely.

  About ten feet ahead of him a young woman held the hand of a little girl. When the woman turned, he could see her belly full and round like a basketball. Soon, she’d have another mouth to feed, her nothing more than a child herself.

  “Do families stay here?” Joe asked, worried for the young woman.

  “We use a hotel,” Carl said, eyeing the young mother.

  Joe remembered those times when Papa left the family, how Joe’s mama had a tough time keeping the family fed and clothed, but they never were without a home. They made do with a kerosene heater in winter, all sleeping in the same room, and when they couldn’t afford electricity Mama would build a campfire in the back yard to heat up soup. They’d bundle up in blankets and sometimes she’d tell them ghost stories, until the kids were all droopy-eyed and they’d go inside to sleep. Maybe they were hard times, but not to Joe. He had his mama and brothers, and sooner or later Papa would come back, and until the demons started up, things would be good.

  The line moved forward. Up at the kitchen door stood Rag Doll, wearing a frayed straw hat with faded ribbons hanging down, tray in hand, looking skittery like she was trying to dodge the police. She carried her food to the furthest table, sitting so she could watch everything, the way Joe liked to.

  A voice boomed from inside the kitchen: “That all the fried potatoes I get?”

  Joe didn’t want any ruckus. He wanted to fill his stomach in peace.

  “Damn place always cheap with the food.” The man’s voice echoed as he pushed himself through the swinging door, tray in hand. Big as a sycamore and nearly as dark, Cyphus Lawter held the tray like a weapon, staring down the whole dining room before making his way to an empty table. Joe lowered his head, not wanting to be noticed. He didn’t want any fuss with Cyphus Lawter. Once he got to the serving area, he’d get his food and leave. He’d be long gone before Lawter got into a fight with whoever looked at him the wrong way.

  “Just the burger, ma’am,” Joe said to the plump woman who tried to put French fries on his plate.

  “How about an apple?” she asked.

  “Yes ma’am, that’d be fine.” The apple would fit in his pocket, the bottled water and sandwich in his hands. As he exited into the dining room, he looked for the young mother, and was relieved to spot her on the opposite side of the room from Cyphus Lawter. Rag Doll had vanished, which was what Joe intended to do, too. He slipped through the side door and up the street.

  Once in the park, he found a bench under a towering magnolia to have his lunch. A few crows pecked at the ground around the tree, fat shiny scavengers feasting on bread crumbs left by a picnicker. Overhead, a squirrel leapt branch-to-branch, quivering the heavy leaves on each limb. The burger went down in three hasty bites but he took his time with the apple, savoring its tarty-sweetness, letting the juice slide down his chin. He leaned back, very sleepy. Since no cops were around, maybe he could take a nap. He let his heavy eyelids close and drifted off.

  He awoke to a loud whir-scrape-whir-scrape sound: two kids on skateboards careening down the sidewalk, balancing like they were riding a wave. Joe stood, testing his creaky knees. Not as bad as earlier, and a walk would get the blood flowing again. The plastic bottle from lunch bulged in his pocket, so he decided to head deeper into the park and find a water fountain to refill it. Then he’d start thinking about supper.

  About five minutes down the narrow walkway he spotted a familiar hat lying in the grass like a napping creature: the ratty straw thing Rag Doll had worn at lunch. She usually took better care of her things, didn’t just let them blow away. He snatched it up, thinking he might bump into her sometime later, and continued down the path.

  “Stop it!” The voice was muffled. Joe wasn’t sure if it was human or demon or even the Lord. He paused, listening.

  “Please! You don’t got no—” It was not the Lord. The Lord never talked like that. And Satan didn’t plead. This was not Joe’s business, so he resumed his walk.

  “Help!” A woman’s voice, familiar like the hat in his hand: Rag Doll. He scanned the wide thicket of bushes, knowing there was a hollow behind them where the crack smokers sometimes hid. He inched in closer, parting the branches, and peered in.

  Rag Doll lay on the ground with a man in a bright red hat towering over her. Cyphus Lawter, his fist drawn back, his face hard as flagstone.

  “Joe!” Rag Doll’s shirt was torn apart to reveal white scratched flesh. Tears streaked her face. “Help me.”

  “Joe Booker, this ain’t none of your business.” Cyphus Lawter was ten years younger than Joe and packed with muscle like an ironworker. He straddled Rag Doll, a noticeable bulge in the crotch of his dungarees.

  “Leave her be,” Joe hollered.

  “This ain’t your affair,” Lawter growled. “She owes me. She know she owe me.”

  Joe looked at Rag Doll, wondering what idiotic bargain she had struck with this beast of a man.

  “I don’t, Joe. I borrowed money, but—but I’ll pay him back. As soon as I got the cash. I will.” She was always the fast talker, though Cyphus Lawter wasn’t letting her talk her way out of this.

  Lawter jerked open his belt buckle and clawed his pants down till they were bunched around his knees. “I’ll take what you owe in trade.”

  “You should know better than to deal with a man like him,” Joe said to Rag Doll, but his eyes fixed on Lawter. Rag Doll would lie with a man for money—everybody knew that. So why was she begging for help? His gaze skimmed the contours of her splayed body. The torn shirt. The way she cradled her arm against her. The spark of fear in her wide, dark eyes.

  “Please Joe,” she whispered.

  “Please Joe,” Lawter mocked, lowering his massive body on top of her. “Please Joe, stay and watch. See how a real man gets it done.”

  Joe wanted to walk away, to leave Rag Doll to this mess she’d made for herself, but she looked pale and fragile lying there. He thought of Mama and the darker days with Papa, the days when the devil pumped venom into his fists, when he’d seen bruises and fear on Mama’s face.

  Joe stepped into the thicket. “She don’t want you doing her.”

  Lawter laughed, his teeth white as sandwich paper against his dark skin. “Even better.”

  “Get off her.” Joe could feel his pulse pounding against his skull as his fingers curled into fists.

  Lawter pulled up, hands flat against the ground, his junk riding the length of Rag Doll’s shin.

  “Off her!” Joe shoved him hard, Lawter landing in a heap beside Rag Doll, who scurried back, clutching her torn shirt.

  Lawter bolted up. His narrowed eyes glared like they could sear skin. “You a dead man, Joe Booker.”

  Joe positioned himself between Rag Doll and Cyphus, who jerked his pants up as best he could. “Dead man,” Lawter repeated, and lunged.

  The elbow caught Joe like a spear right under his ribs. Joe lost his balance, toppling into the shrub. He sprang up, but Lawter was ready, his fist knuckling into Joe’s chin. Pain exploded like fireworks but Joe pushed through it. He grabbed Cyphus’s arm and swept a leg behind him, knocking him to the ground. Once on top of him, Joe pummeled his face with an angry fist. Blood spurted from Lawter’s nose but Joe kept on.

  “Kill him!” the devil said.

  A trail of red streamed down Cyphus’s cheek. The devil was working inside Joe and Joe couldn’t stop. “Kill him!”

  “Joe,” Rag Doll said. “Joe!”

  The voice cut through. Joe froze.

  Lawter bucked and Joe climbed off him. His hand shook as he pulled one of the twenties from his poc
ket and threw it to the ground. “You got your money.”

  Joe grabbed Rag Doll by the elbow, and huffed his way out of the bushes and up the sidewalk.

  “Dead man, Booker!” Lawter yelled after them. “Dead man.”

  As they hurried away, Joe tried to slow his breathing and the steam still building inside. They made it to the bench by the fountain, and Joe dropped down, knotting his hands between his knees to still them. Rag Doll tied up her shirt, wiped her eyes, and took the hat Joe had kept for her.

  “He’s a mean bastard. I wasn’t sure what he’d do to me.” She spoke quietly, her voice trembling.

  “Stay away from him.”

  “You, too. You got the better of him. Cyphus Lawter ain’t likely to forget.”

  Joe knew this. “Dead man, Joe Booker!” Cyphus’s threat rang in his ear.

  “I’ll pay that twenty back,” Rag Doll said, replacing the hat on her head. “I promise. You know I’m good for it.”

  He watched as she limped off, knowing he’d never live to see that money.

  He’d be lucky if he lived to see spring.

  LENA HAD PROMISED THERE would be no more secrets. It was a silent vow to her daughter asleep in the hospital room, to her husband, up in heaven (if there was one), and Lena would honor it, starting with her sons. So she told Elliott everything. About her separation from Mitch and her affair with Royce, dancing over the details about the distance that had claimed her marriage long before her cancer. Elliott had been understanding, even forgiving, but that he couldn’t look her in the eye, that he’d left the room as though scurrying from a house fire had pierced her heart. Elliott was upstairs now. Was he packing? Perhaps he found his cramped New York apartment preferable to this house of lies.

  Lena poured herself a glass of wine and eased down in a chair. A few flames flickered low, the fading embers glowing orange as a sunset. Lena wished she had on a sweater but didn’t want to go upstairs because Elliott was there. They both needed their space.

  Clomps down the steps weren’t him, she knew that before Abby huffed into the room. She approached Lena, her hands tucked into the pockets of her nubby fleece jacket. “Everything okay? El looks like someone just kicked his kitten.”

  “Then I guess everything isn’t okay,” Lena answered.

  Abby regarded her for a long moment then said, “That wine looks great. Think I’ll join you.” Abby went to the kitchen. Lena heard the back door open, then close, the clink of glass against bottle, then Abby’s clogs thunking against the hardwood floor as she returned carrying the chardonnay, a glass, and a thick log for the fireplace. She heaved the log onto the glowing ash and wedged a chunk of fat lighter she’d found on the hearth underneath it. The fire shwooshed to life.

  “Thought that might cut the chill.” Abby poured herself some wine. “Did you and Elliott have a . . .” she hesitated, measuring her words. “Disagreement?”

  “No.” Lena sipped, hoping the wine might infuse her with the bravery she longed to feel. Abby kicked off her shoes and stretched her broad feet across the coffee table. Firelight reflected in the bowl of her glass.

  “You carry quite a load, Le-Le. Wish you’d let me help.”

  “I betrayed Mitch.” The words hung in the air like stubborn smoke. Saying it a second time was no easier.

  Abby didn’t say anything.

  “It was two years ago. I took an oil and acrylics class at the university. I’d wanted to go for years but always talked myself out of it. I missed painting, though. It felt like a part of me that I kept locked in a box.” She had wondered if it was still alive. “I was in a bad place. Smothered. That may sound dramatic but that’s how it was. It started out as boredom, but then it got . . . darker. Besides keeping house and getting dinner ready for Mitch and Becca, I had no way to fill my hours. After a while, I stopped trying.” She remembered the clock ticking. Three hours till Becca comes home. One hour before time to start dinner. Ten minutes before Mitch comes through the door. Three hours before time for bed. Twelve hours before she’d do it all over again. Tick. Tick.

  “How were things with you and Mitch then?”

  It was painful for Lena to consider the death of her marriage. Nothing sudden, but five years of steady decline. Habits had hardened. Mitch’s rituals, like cleaning his ears with a Q-tip that he left on the sink, or flossing then studying each millimeter of the string as though looking for treasure, changed from minor annoyance to maddening. Worse was his panicking over every little health issue, becoming needier when she lost patience with him. The more he pulled on her, the stronger the drive to pull away.

  Her habits became entrenched, too. Starting projects that she’d never finish. Expensive changes to the house like the granite countertops, new teak cabinets, and the garden tub in their bath: changes she made out of sheer boredom, to hell with the cost. Sex became a monthly exercise of sweat and tolerance. Things in bed were never creative, more like following a recipe: first do this, then this, etc, but after thirty years Lena grew to dread it.

  “You and Mitch were together since you were seventeen. I can’t imagine being with anybody that long,” Abby said.

  “I hungered for a change. Any change.” The hunger became starvation. Lena had felt herself on the edge of a terrifying and familiar precipice: the black hole that swallowed her after Becca was born.

  Abby lifted the bottle and refilled Lena’s glass.

  “I took the class. I was scared to death.”

  “Was Mitch supportive?” Abby asked.

  “Of course he was.” She could have told him she wanted to go to the moon and he’d support it. If he felt threatened by the disruption to their lives, he never voiced it.

  “The class was intense,” Lena said. “One of our first projects was to paint a self-portrait. I wanted to do it right. It had to be . . . perfect.”

  “That’s my sister,” Abby said with a smirk. “Never second best at anything.”

  Lena considered the truth in those words. It had been what their father expected. How she craved his approval, those fleeting smiles and nods, between drinks. God help her, she’d put the same burden of perfection on her own children.

  “Did you create a masterpiece?” Abby’s voice held a hint of sarcasm.

  “No. It was . . . difficult for me.” Lena’s mind flashed on Becca at her last piano recital, frozen on the bench, unable to play. Lena had not comforted her, something she regretted to this day.

  “When the class ended I asked to take the project home,” she said to Abby. “But Royce wanted me to stay. To try again. So I did. And that was how it all started.

  “The class was okay but I loved the studio time. Royce let me come early and stay late. I felt that was the time I could fully and completely breathe. He understood that.” Nobody else had.

  “Sounds like a kind of epiphany.”

  “I was living two lives. I hated being home. I loved being at the studio. I loved being with him. Royce.” She stopped her story here, wanting to gauge Abby’s reaction. Abby gripped the wine glass against her chest, her face soft.

  Lena continued. “One day when Mitch came home—it was raining. He came home and hung his raincoat on the hook, adjusting the folds so that it hung just right, and he put his umbrella in the stand like he always did, the curve of the handle pointing left, and I wanted to hurl his raincoat on the floor and toss his umbrella out into the garage just to shake up our life. It was like I couldn’t stand it for another single moment.” She had wondered if she was going crazy, because the house was suffocating her, and the husband she had loved drifted farther and farther from her heart.

  “And that’s when you left?”

  “For just a few days at first. I told Mitch I needed some time to myself. Mitch just stared at me like I was on the verge of a breakdown or something. His eyes held many questions but he didn’t ask a single one.” She had hoarded these memories for two years; it was hard to give them voice.

  “I went to a hotel.” She had gotten a
room at a bed-and-breakfast downtown, but barely tossed her suitcase on the bed before she left to take a long walk on one of the riverfront trails. The sky had been gauzy gray with clouds pushing in. When the rain started, she kept moving, pounding down the path, as if she could walk forever if it kept her from going back to that coffin of a home. But instead, she made the call that changed all their lives.

  “Royce met me there.” She would never forget that first night. So awkward at first, Lena floundering and scared but Royce confident and amazed. He loved touch, read her body like it was Braille, every inch to be discovered. Later, cocooned in the four-poster bed with its Irish linens, they watched the rain through the window’s rippled glass.

  “Telling Mitch the truth was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. He looked like something had burst inside him. I moved out the following Friday. He called it a ‘trial separation.’ He thought it was some phase I’d work through.”

  “And Becca?” Abby asked.

  Lena closed her eyes, remembering how she gave her daughter the news: “I’ll have a place downtown, Becca. You can come see me on the weekends. I think it’s best that you live here with your father so you won’t have to change schools.” It sounded so easy. Here, daughter, you stay here. You don’t really have a compartment in my new life.

  Lena said, “I thought I was doing the right thing for all of us, leaving Becca with Mitch. But when I told her she gave me this look—this completely blank look—as though she had no feelings at all about it. About me. She didn’t get hurt or mad. She said, ‘Okay,’ and went upstairs to her room. I thought maybe she was expecting it. I thought maybe she was fine.” But she had not been. She was so very far from fine.

  Why hadn’t Lena seen the signs then? The changes in her daughter’s body she had attributed to puberty, the baby fat melting away, her limbs growing long as vines. Becca’s self-consciousness, hiding in layers of clothes, all girls felt that way. It would change as she matured, as she discovered boys.

  “I rented a loft,” Lena said. “Bought new furniture. Royce didn’t move in, but he was there every night. My separation lasted five weeks.”