Home for Erring and Outcast Girls

by Julie Kibler

  Docie pulled right up into the bed without help, tucking her warmth against Mattie’s side as if she’d always known her. Her innocent trust loosed what Mattie had never intended to feel toward any child again. Though her arm shook, she wrapped it tightly around the girl.

  When Lizzie returned, she glanced around by the moonlight through the window glass until her gaze lit on Mattie and Docie. She hurried to Mattie’s bed in her odd little shuffling walk to fuss at them for frightening her.

  “She was alone.” Mattie pointed to the now sleeping child. “Can you blame her?”

  Lizzie’s face fell. “I weren’t but a minute. She was sleeping peaceful, and I needed the pot. I were only gone a minute.” She reached to take Docie.

  Mattie surprised herself again. “Leave her be. If she wakes, I’ll bring her to you.”

  Lizzie hovered.

  “Go on now,” Mattie said, just as she had to Docie. Lizzie nodded. She glanced back as she went, as if to reassure herself.

  Neither slept a wink that night, with Lizzie alert to every tiny sigh or movement, and Mattie to the astonishment of wanting Docie against her heart.

  * * *

  —

  One evening in early summer, when the sun took more time dropping below the horizon than the rest of the year, Lizzie claimed she needed to walk and pray. But by full dark, she hadn’t returned. Mattie worried about her wandering alone in a mood, but Lizzie had made her promise not to come after her. In spite of her unease, Mattie waited—although if Lizzie didn’t return within the hour, she was going to break that promise.

  Docie cried out in her cot, and Mattie hurried to gather the child. Her kicking arms and legs relaxed as Mattie carried her, and her haunted gaze gradually shifted from the look of being trapped inside recurring nightmares. “Aunty Mattie,” she sobbed.

  “Hush now. I’ve got you, baby.” She pulled Docie’s back against her belly, tight to her hip in the narrow bedstead, though the bedroom was already stifling at night. The child’s sobs eased until she slept, her breath still catching at times. Mattie wouldn’t sleep until Lizzie was safe in bed. She watched the doorway, her eyes burning, until it was only a few hours before dawn.

  Finally, just as Mattie was ready to go after her—and maybe to Sister Susie to share her fears—Lizzie tiptoed in, cautiously navigating the evenly spaced beds occupied by sleeping women and the smaller cots beside them, swaying as if she could hardly stay on her feet. Mattie relaxed her eyelids and breathed as if she were sound asleep.

  Lizzie hesitated but went to her own bed. She sat to remove her shoes and dress and pulled her nightgown over her head. Mattie was certain she fretted over more than the struggle of whether to bring Docie back to her bed this time, but eventually, Lizzie dropped to her knees and folded her hands against her coverlet, her head bowed except when she lifted her chin to gaze across the room again. If the rest was routine, Mattie knew that particular prayer was heartfelt. The weight of Lizzie’s sigh floated across the space as she settled her stocky body into bed.

  Safe or not, Mattie wouldn’t let this go. Something didn’t sit right about Lizzie’s long absence. This was more than a trip to the toilet or a walk around the grounds to pray away a bad mood. Lizzie was on some kind of mission, and by Mattie’s estimation, one that wasn’t good for her—or for Docie. Otherwise, she’d have told Mattie what she was up to. In the evenings now, they usually huddled together before retiring to their separate beds, chuckling or sighing or complaining quietly as they dissected each day. Gertrude Chase still turned her nose up to see them so friendly. But Lizzie had been distant the last day or so, avoiding Mattie in general. Mattie cringed at unbidden images of Lizzie doing whatever she must to get snuff—or worse. Surely she wasn’t so desperate. Her life was good here. Docie was thriving, and Lizzie seemed fine most days.

  By now, though, Mattie had seen enough life to know appearances could lie.

  They could lie right to your face.

  She pulled Docie closer. She was thankful she wouldn’t have to disturb Sister Susie tonight, for their sweet matron was already exhausted after days of dealing with May, the most recent dope-addled woman Sister Maggie Mae had brought in. May had thrown the gentle care back in Sister Susie’s face, running away as soon as she was half-coherent.

  Mattie would confront Lizzie herself, and soon. For now, she squeezed her eyes shut and said her own perpetual prayer: To forget.

  CATE

  Arlington, Texas

  2017

  River’s last song ends, and I bolt. I closet myself in a tiny restroom stall, praying nobody else will need it. Well, prayer isn’t exactly the word for what I do these days. I have an understanding with God. I won’t judge him by the people who claim to represent him if he won’t judge me for keeping my distance. But I can’t help crying out to something beyond myself when I end up in a situation I think I can’t handle alone. I mentally gather the emotions that pour over the edges of what I can contain and hand them up to an invisible being with bigger palms than mine. My therapist suggested this, based on AA—though she thought it would help even more if I allowed another human to play the part of empathetic vessel.

  Tonight’s the perfect reminder why I don’t. History has a way of catching up with you. Something as simple as a voice and a tune can bring everything you’ve buried right back to the surface.

  But I’m not going there again. Ever.

  I lean against the wall and try to contain the panic that threatens to overtake me. I press my fingers against my temples and eyelids and breathe in and out. The restroom door creaks open. A voice travels under the door of the stall.

  “Cate? Is that you?”

  Not answering will make things worse. “Sorry, I started feeling light-headed, but I’m fine now. Enjoy the music. I’ll meet you at the car when it’s over. Can you hand me your keys?”

  “You’re sick?” Angela says. “Let’s leave, then!”

  “I’m fine. I just don’t want to stay in the crowd. Promise.”

  Angela groans. “I don’t want you to have to sit in my car alone.”

  I work to control my breathing. “Oh, please. I’ll grab something from a drive-through. By the time I’m back, the concert will be over. I should have eaten earlier is all.”

  Angela rummages in her purse, and her key clinks against the door frame. “I feel terrible, but I trust you. I’m dying to see this next musician. The first one was so good!”

  I close my eyes. Angela needs to stop talking. “Go! Please don’t worry.”

  The door opens a few more times and two women chat while they wait. I cautiously leave the restroom, navigating the wine-sipping crowd in the foyer. A nearby room contains tables laden with hors d’oeuvres and glassware, and my heart punches my ribs to see the back of familiar shoulders clothed in denim. The gestures haven’t changed, though the body is that of an adult now—no more skinny teenage arms and legs. I pause, though instinct tells me not to, drawn to those movements, longing to hear River’s voice once more.

  That would be catastrophic. Not in the way tornadoes or acts of terror are catastrophic. But if our eyes connect, we’ll have to talk, and I’ll never be able to look River in the eye without telling the truth. And that will be a disaster.

  For River. And for me.

  I escape through the screen doors, across the porch, and back to Angela’s car. I lock myself in, drive around the block, then pull back into the same space, and for the first time in years, allow myself to sob messily. These are not the silent tears that flow in a cemetery. This is unrestrained weeping. This is anguish, rocking my body as violently as if another human is kicking the back of my seat.

  * * *

  —

  On the way back to Arlington, Angela curbs her usual stream of chatter, sensing I’m still not well. When we arrive, I fumble for my house key. The bottom of my purse is a soggy me
ss of tissues I took from the restroom at the venue.

  “Thanks for sticking it out,” Angela says. “Oh! I bought CDs.” She shrugs. “Nobody besides me listens to them anymore, but the suggested donation was only five bucks—so I grabbed two. It’s the least I can do to thank you for soldiering through.”

  I accept it reluctantly, as if even touching the CD, with River’s face haunting me from the cover, is opening myself—and others—to a whole new level of hurt. But I can’t refuse Angela’s gift. I have no explanation ready. I never intended to talk about this again.

  I push the cardboard sleeve into my purse, clutching my keys and eager to cut things short so I can disappear inside the anonymity of my house. “Thanks. I’m sorry I was lousy company. It…took me by surprise. I feel terrible.”

  “Don’t feel terrible—you’re sick! I feel bad you had to wait—”

  I interrupt. “Listen, I have to get inside. I don’t think it’s anything catching. The first month of school is brutal, and I just waited too long to eat.”

  “Okay, but I’m calling to check on you tomorrow.”

  “Don’t check on me!”

  Her face falls, and I realize I’m being rude. I soften my tone. “Truly, you don’t need to worry. I’m turning off my phone, and a good night’s sleep will cure this.” I climb out of the VW and back away. If I don’t, our conversation will circle, apologies flying back and forth until I genuinely lose it again—this time in front of her.

  I wave one last time, then let myself into my house, flashing the porch light to let her know I’m safe—just as my parents taught me back when they had an interest in protecting me from the evils of the world. Sometimes I crave their embraces, especially at times like these, when the past invades without warning and threatens to shake my carefully constructed fortress until it crumbles.

  But it was my parents who, in the end, became the most surprising enemies of all, who betrayed me, inconceivably and irreparably.

  I trudge across the threshold, pausing to kick off my shoes, and sink deep into the sofa I bought on a whim two moves ago. It’s the most comfortable, most comforting thing I’ve experienced that isn’t human—and if good sense has anything to do with it, the only thing that will ever embrace me again.

  I intend to open my tablet and return to my research on the Berachah girls until my eyes won’t stay open. The possibility of discovering something new is still the most welcome distraction I can think of tonight.

  Except the CD sleeve draws me instead, mercilessly, as if it’s magnetic and I’m the metal it craves. River, in spite of the years elapsed between the last time we were together and when this photo was taken, looks much the same. The reserved, genuine smile. Those golden-brown eyes, so knowing my breath catches halfway down my throat if I gaze too long. Sinewy fingers cradling the fretboard of a guitar, gracing hands that took me places I’d never imagined, whether steering us toward ghost towns to explore a forgotten past, or playing guitar notes so intensely I sometimes laughed and cried at the same time, or touching me, it seemed, to the center of my soul.

  I thought I’d exhausted my well of tears alone in Angela’s car, but it turns out I have more. They overflow the crater carved in my chest two decades ago, its depth fathomless, no matter how I empty it.

  LIZZIE

  Arlington, Texas

  SUMMER 1905

  Docie came scurrying to greet Lizzie when they rose, eyes all lit up like she’d not seen her mama in a dozen years—being all of four. Lizzie felt Mattie eye her from across the room. Mattie stood by her washstand rubbing in store-bought face cream with a cloth, always vain about her skin. They were not to adorn themselves with anything that might subtract from the glory of the Lord, but Mattie managed to get her hands on that cream somehow, and it was doubtful anyone would argue even if they caught her. Her skin was touchy—freckled and easily irritated.

  Lizzie never thought on her own skin a minute, but Docie watched Mattie taking care. Even being tall, with a hardy appearance now that she was eating again, and coming from farm folk, Mattie wasn’t as strong as Lizzie. Maybe her boy had come by what ailed him naturally. Mattie had mentioned that two brothers and a sister had passed before she was even born.

  Docie stopped short when she reached Lizzie. “Mama, you smell like Aunty Dilly. What have you got on you?”

  Lizzie flushed hard as she scrambled for an excuse. Dilly kept their clothes spotless in the laundry, and the girls always needled her over smelling like carbolic. Lizzie felt Mattie’s gaze again. She fetched her hairpins, then smoothed and twisted her braid before answering Docie. “I took sick during the night, little bug. Had to clean myself and change my gown. Good thing you wasn’t in my bed.”

  Docie’s eyes filled. She clung to Mattie when Lizzie wasn’t there, but Lizzie didn’t doubt Docie loved her best, just as Lizzie had loved her ma best, too, despite all she’d let happen. Her ma had done what she must to survive, and that was how it was for women. Lizzie held to a stringy thread of hope that her ma still loved her. “Docie, honey, run along,” she said. “Alpha will worry if you’re late for playtime.”

  Docie’s face lit up again. Dilly’s boy, Alpha, was only two but looked twice her size, and they were sweet on each other. Docie scrambled away, and Mattie frowned at Lizzie, sidling close. There’d been curious stares from the others as well, but they’d sidestepped in case Lizzie was still of a mind to dispense harsh words.

  “Where were you all night?” Mattie whispered.

  “Nowhere! I done nothing wrong,” Lizzie said. Mattie’s brows went high.

  Lizzie knew Mattie couldn’t fathom her risking Docie’s safety with nighttime excursions that broke the house rules. If they found her out, they’d likely pack her back to the jail or the county farm. It was anybody’s guess where they’d send Docie. She closed her eyes.

  “I didn’t ask what you did,” Mattie corrected. “Look at me. You’re like a ditched horse.”

  “Them old feelings come over me lately is all, Mat. The urges, the ants—I got to walk them off. Before I finally come to bed, I got the shivers and was sick on myself. I hated telling Docie a fib but can’t bring myself to explain. She’s too little. I’m better now, truly. Leave it be.”

  Mattie leaned closer, voice low. “You know you can trust me, honey.” She looked Lizzie hard in the eye, and Lizzie nearly cracked. She knew she should simply find Sister Susie and confess what she’d done. It was getting too messy.

  Before breakfast, they gathered in the parlor to recite verses practiced the day before and share “roses and thorns”—their daily struggles and triumphs. Nobody questioned Lizzie’s unusual silence, considering the excuses she’d made. If they only knew how her easy life here troubled her. Her current mission was risky, but she’d pay the rest of her life for what she hadn’t confessed when she arrived—could never confess. That long-held secret punished her, but never enough.

  The longer morning circle went on today, the harder she prayed they’d dismiss before she burst. But when they did, her innards truly were sick, she was so torn up about the lies she’d told Mattie and Docie. At breakfast, she asked Mattie to guard her plate so it wouldn’t get bussed away.

  The matron sat in her usual place reading her Bible, finished with her tiny breakfast. Sister Susie had bird bones, and Lizzie guessed she ate only what she needed to keep alive. Maybe she thought staying hungry would prepare her for foreign missions—her biggest dream. Meanwhile, she treated the girls with respect and love, even when they tried her—even when May, the worst so far, had kicked out her window glass before taking off. Sister Susie would have kept right at it had May stayed.

  “Sister Susie?” Lizzie said softly, hoping not to startle her. It was nearly the only time you could—when she was deep in the scriptures.

  The matron lifted her spectacles. “Good morning, dear. Are you your true redeemed self again today?
”

  Lizzie felt shame at the woman’s gentle look and question. How could she continue her deception? At the same time, she struggled to believe the truth would do anything but punish a needier soul. “Yes, ma’am,” she said, “though I’m not right in my gut. You think I could wrap my breakfast for when my belly settles?” Lizzie never left a morsel uneaten, nor let Docie. Passing up a meal was unheard of for her—so of course she’d ask to save it if she felt puny.

  “Of course. Have Gertrude put it by. I’ll pray you’re completely yourself by supper.”

  Bless her; Sister Susie was the sweetest soul—and the wisest. She didn’t let the girls get away with anything, so Lizzie was embarrassed by how easily she’d deceived her. Sister Susie would faithfully bow her head as soon as Lizzie was out of sight. Lizzie nearly spit out the truth again.

  It was nearly time for work, though. They had put Lizzie in the nursery once she was healthy, for it turned out she was good with all the babies. Almost as if she had a magic touch—only she knew different. She’d been bad luck before she’d been good luck. But she couldn’t talk about magic or luck here. If something wasn’t credited to the Lord, the Devil got the blame.

  She scurried through the kitchen and out the back door, carrying the breakfast she had no intention of eating herself.

  * * *

  —

  On her return from the battered barn, in a clearing a good walk away from the big house, twigs snapped in the path behind her. She turned her head and stopped short, holding out her hands to slow her friend. She’d always been honest with Mattie, where it counted, until this morning. It had been three days now, and she had to come clean, even if Mattie gave up the friendship Lizzie depended on now.

  “Don’t touch me, honey,” Lizzie said. “I got to wash off.”