Home for Erring and Outcast Girls

by Julie Kibler

  MATTIE

  Arlington, Texas

  1910

  Uncle Bud wanted to move on to Oklahoma nearly immediately, so by late Monday morning, Mattie was packed. She’d arrived with nearly nothing, and what she’d accumulated over five years took no time to tuck into a trunk left by a runaway girl. Her dresses and undergarments. Her “secret” face cream everyone knew about. Her Bible and a few other books she’d received as gifts.

  The garments Cap had been wearing the day he died.

  They’d been carefully laundered and returned to her. They’d buried him in a little suit handed down from one of the Upchurch boys, but she’d given up his blanket.

  It belonged with him.

  She’d wrapped his tiny shirt and pants—and his remaining shoe—in tissue, and now she transferred them from the bottom of her dresser drawer to the bottom of her trunk, laying her own garments on top. She’d know his things were there, but she wouldn’t have to see them.

  She had an hour left before Uncle Bud’s entourage would depart. With the trunk fastened and waiting at the foot of her bed for someone to help her drag it downstairs when it was time, she looked around the room she’d shared with Lizzie and Docie and a revolving cast of Home girls and children for the last five years. She brushed away a tear that came from nowhere.

  Families in Oklahoma City had offered beds to the visiting evangelists, and those who stayed would eventually find permanent quarters. If she stayed after the band moved on, perhaps she’d even have her own room. That would be a first.

  But she’d miss this…

  The morning call to rise, certain girls meeting the day as if they couldn’t wait, while others hid under covers for a last moment of rest—then rushed to make morning prayers. She’d been in both camps.

  The evenings, when lamplight or firelight warmed the room, beckoning the girls to settle quietly, babies tucked around them in donated cradles or bassinets—or close to their sides if they preferred—and the older kids in cots, sleeping soundly after their milk and stories and prayers. A few girls, like Mattie, alone, tormented or comforted in turn by those sweet little faces.

  And the between times, when any shallow excuse to fetch something from the dormitory would do, maybe a letter to post or a pin for unruly hair. Mattie was certain every girl, over the years—maybe even Saint Gertrude, who’d rarely wasted a moment—had slipped up here for a moment of peace, away from the hubbub of the Home.

  Something about the bedroom in the middle of the day, when motes floated in sunlight over their neat white coverlets and the muted noise of the household gave way to the rustling of leaves and the sigh of a breeze grazing the curtain, made her feel entirely at home.

  She would miss all of it more than she’d realized.

  The door opened, and she shook her nostalgia away. Lizzie had come, finally, and now Mattie would need to be strong enough to make the break for both of them.

  Lizzie was worried. They were all worried.

  Brother JT had invited Mattie to his study after breakfast. Seated across from her at his desk, he’d questioned her stamina for an environment so different from the Home. In roughshod Oklahoma, she’d work harder than ever, cooking plain meals—not the indulgent recipes they’d often allowed her here. She’d had more freedom in the Home than she wanted to admit.

  He’d said, “Oklahoma City is a crude place, especially where they’re building the mission. Are you strong enough? And are you confident in your faith?”

  Had she ever felt confident in her faith? Certainly not the way he did, or Lizzie did. Mattie had more questions and doubts at nearly thirty years old than she’d had as a child—and at age twenty-three too.

  How could she not?

  But she was confident that working through the questions—even if it left her with a trust still cloaked in uncertainty—had helped her regain her footing. And if it could work for fallen girls like her, perhaps it could work for others: Families who sold everything to claim a scrap of land in a new state. Men who drifted in and out with the railroads, laying track or shoveling coal, longing for community in spite of—or maybe because of—their perpetual movement. And maybe most of all, other women who needed new beginnings.

  “Yes,” she’d said to Brother JT. As for being strong enough, how could anyone ever know? She’d been strong enough to pull through tragedy, not once, but more times than anyone should have to, and she was still standing, wasn’t she? She let her one-word answer stand alone too.

  Brother JT had blessed her and sent her away. Miss Hallie hovered in the hallway, as always, and Mattie forced a smile and a handshake on her way back upstairs to pack. “You always mean well, Miss Hallie,” she’d said. “It must have been hard giving up a regular life to help with us girls. You’d probably like to be married, with children of your own. Thank you.”

  Miss Hallie had tilted her head back and forth in a way that said she was taken aback. Finally, she said, “Well. I’m entirely content to be in service to the Lord here. My work is my life, and the Upchurches have made me family. I can’t imagine any other, but to each her own. I do hope you’ll be cautious. So many will take advantage of naïve young women.”

  “That’s true anywhere, but I can stand up for myself now. You be careful too.”

  Miss Hallie stepped back, and her eyes looked like a grown dog’s caught sneaking into the kibble, but her lips stayed pursed. Mattie thought that must surely be exhausting.

  But as Mattie had continued toward the stairs, Miss Hallie called, “Take care, Mattie.”

  Mattie looked back to see her lip quivering.

  Now Mattie turned to Lizzie. She embraced her, then pulled her downstairs and away, to the secluded grove that had grown so much since they’d arrived. They circled the burial ground, arm in arm. They walked past the little headstone sunk into the ground and Mattie slowed. Could she truly leave without looking back?

  “I want letters,” Lizzie said. Mattie looked at her sideways. “Docie’s learning her reading and writing fast. She’ll read them to me. Someone will.”

  “I can’t tell you everything in letters.”

  Lizzie swung her head up. “Mattie, don’t you go forgetting all you learned.” Her eyes went darker, more exposed than ever. “I’m awful afraid for you. I ain’t sure it’s the right thing.”

  Mattie had half thought to avoid this talk, knowing it would dampen her enthusiasm, but it was inevitable. Lizzie had to understand. It was impossible for her to stay—harder each year.

  “I won’t forget what I’ve learned,” she said. “But I can’t write everything we’d laugh over in letters, not when others will read them. Especially not Docie. She’d be horrified. You know I’ll find plenty to laugh over. I’ll save certain things for when I visit.”

  She watched Lizzie struggle to contain her grin. They did love to carry on in private. No telling how often they’d stifled giggles when someone read aloud one of Miss Hallie’s sanctimonious pieces in The Purity Journal. Mattie knew Lizzie felt guilty for it, but Mattie always reminded her that if they didn’t laugh at life sometimes, they’d keel over from keeping so straight their joints froze.

  Lizzie’s grin faded now, and her mouth tightened again. The past—both of theirs—still tormented her. Not so often these days, but Mattie regretted causing her any worry at all. “Oh, honey,” she said. “I’ll be good. I promise I will. I have to be. And I won’t throw myself at any ol’ fellow that happens along. Don’t you think I’ve learned my lessons?”

  But Lizzie’s leg kept dragging as they continued to walk the path Mattie had worn nearly by herself inside the circle of oak trees, and they were quiet for a time, remembering how hard those lessons were. They never spoke of them aloud.

  Mattie had one more thing to say, however. “You must promise me something too. If anything ever happens to me…” Her voice faded. She gazed across the
clearing, swallowing hard.

  “Hush, now,” Lizzie said. “You got your whole life ahead. And if you need it, you can come back home.”

  “I know,” Mattie said. But she bent her head and pulled Lizzie along, sharing what she’d thought about as long as she’d known her, the till-now-unspoken hope she’d nursed more than any other hope.

  Lizzie nodded, and though she protested even the idea of it, inside and out, she promised she’d do what Mattie asked. She owed her that and more.

  CATE

  Grissom, Texas

  1998

  Nothing could match that first day in Carr City, but over the next several weeks, River and I continued to drive to abandoned places within a few hours of home. Most of the buildings we explored were gutted, hardly passable after years of abuse by vandals, animals, or the weather. Sometimes we struck a small vein of gold, but what I craved most was our time together.

  I’d invented a Saturday study group at the home of a classmate so I wouldn’t have to fake being at the coffee shop anymore, and then, as AP exams approached, I studied half the night to make up for time lost on the weekends. I felt confident. If anything, I felt nearly euphoric, as if I had endless energy. My ability to retain tiny details—names, dates, and places; obscure terms and theorems—blew me away. If falling for someone felt like this, it was proof a person actually could live on love.

  I grudgingly insisted on a weekday for prom shopping with my mom. She was shocked to see that my usual dress size hung off me. I wasn’t surprised. My clothes had grown looser since I’d met River, as if, along with my reduced need for sleep, I didn’t need to eat either. For once, I was not only model tall, but nearly model thin.

  Mom tugged at the dress after zipping me into it, frowning. “Honey, are you eating?”

  “Mom,” I said. “I just forget sometimes. I needed to lose a few pounds anyway. I look good, don’t I?” One perk of shopping with your mother was that you could be obnoxiously arrogant and she just laughed. The other was her credit card.

  But she tilted her head after zipping me into the next size down. I did look beautiful—even I could see how my eyes gleamed, and my skin had a new glow. Saturday afternoons outside had something to do with it. Because I burned or stayed exactly as pale when I tried to tan on purpose, I’d always preferred to remain pasty while my friends tanned for hours. This spring, however, gradual exposure to the sun had lifted my complexion to the slightest golden tone, and my arms looked healthy and strong.

  “I hope you’re not dieting,” Mom said. “You look great, but don’t go overboard.”

  “I won’t,” I promised, though I had little control over my appetite these days, and would not give up my time with River.

  We bought the dress, matching shoes, and accessories, and booked a hair appointment—makeup, too, because Mom was on a roll. By the time prom started, I wouldn’t recognize myself. But she was happy. Jess was too. She and Jordan and Seth and I were all going together.

  Telling River I was going with Seth was last on my checklist—but most important—and prom was two weeks and a few days away. River never assumed we’d spend time together, but we had a routine. Each week, at some point during my library assistant period, River paged through the Encyclopedia of Texas and pointed out a former landmark or town.

  “This one?”

  I’d interrupt whatever I was doing to look. “Perfect!” I’d exclaim, or now and then, I’d say, “That’s the best you can do?” with a sarcastic shrug. River liked a challenge.

  We’d begun talking late at night, after my parents had gone to bed. They were used to the murmur behind my closed door. As long as I kept up my grades, they didn’t care if I was on the phone. Jess didn’t notice me calling less; she was always talking to Jordan. She’d hoped for a prom date, but it seemed she’d gained a boyfriend as well.

  That Saturday, two weeks before prom, River decided to surprise me, not giving up the details even when I begged. We left as early as I could manage without worrying my mom and drove more than three hours west. AP exams were approaching quickly, so Mom didn’t even blink when I rushed out the door at eight a.m.

  River never pressed for more on why I didn’t want my parents to know about our excursions. By the same virtue, I didn’t ask many questions. River’s parents were a vague image for me, though I’d learned the basics. They’d always moved a lot. Both were software engineers, and like most of the new people in town, they’d wanted to be near the high-tech sector of Austin but with better schools and less traffic. I was surprised two engineers had managed to birth a musically inclined history and photography freak, not to mention a quiet rebel with little appreciation for order—unless the order made random sense to River. Not engineer-y at all.

  I was grateful not to be stereotyped either. But for the very first time, when we pulled up to River’s mystery destination, I balked.

  The Hotel Zagosa was different from the other places—mostly ghost towns or abandoned buildings in the country. It was in the middle of a functioning small town, with cheap chain motels on the outskirts and a clearly living population. Trying to sneak into an old building where someone was likely to see us made me nervous, but River assured me we’d be fine. If anyone tried to stop us, we’d leave, and if we got caught inside, we’d claim ignorance—River still had a Colorado driver’s license and plates.

  Besides, it was Saturday afternoon. Once we found the abandoned hotel, the small-town traffic was nearly nonexistent. Nearby businesses were closed for the weekend, and nobody was outside the few adjacent homes. Still, after we drove around the block, I shook my head.

  I eyed the façade of the Spanish colonial-style building, its windows mostly boarded on the first level and broken on the second and third. Here and there were gaps nearly big enough to slip through, but No Trespassing signs glared from every side of the stucco building.

  River parked near a few other cars in a nearby lot. We walked toward the front of the old hotel, craning our necks. It didn’t hurt to just look, I figured. Terracotta tiles covered the overhangs, amazingly unblemished considering a historical marker dated the building to 1893. The marker was the only reason it hadn’t been demolished. Overly optimistic history buffs probably hoped a wealthy investor would happen along, but from the looks of the town, that seemed unlikely.

  A balcony spanned the upper level across the front, shading the entry area except where arches allowed sunlight to illuminate the boarded and bolted doors. Not a single vehicle had passed so far, and we hurried beneath the balcony’s cover. The few uncovered windows in front contained filthy glass. River shined the flashlight against one cloudy pane. We peeked through and saw nothing. Then River pointed to the building’s corner, where a tall chain-link fence that went all the way around the backside of the building was bent enough to create an opening just wide enough to negotiate.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” I said, “and it’s dumb.” I had stopped worrying about voicing my true opinions well before that day.

  “We haven’t seen a single person since we got here,” River said. “I bet people go in all the time.”

  “I’m not people.”

  “You don’t have to. I won’t judge.”

  I also knew by now that was true. River glanced toward the street, then pulled back the fence to pass through more easily. “Just yell if you see anyone, okay?”

  I stood there only long enough to decide waiting was scarier than going in.

  All my life, it seemed I’d followed rules carefully while everyone else bent them. I wouldn’t be judged by River, but I would have disappointed myself. So I ran between the buildings and rounded the corner. “Wait!”

  River stopped climbing inside where a board had been loosened—probably by the same person who’d made the opening in the fence—and chuckled. “Hi, people!”

  I rolled my eyes.

  Inside,
I plugged my nose. This was nothing like the old depot. There were no pretty pictures on the walls. People had used this building indiscriminately. Empty condom wrappers—and the used condoms—along with broken glass, smashed cans, and plastic syringes littered the floor. The walls were covered in graffiti, not to mention pentagrams and other symbols teens had likely painted to convince friends that satanic cults gathered here to offer blood sacrifices. Even assuming they were faked, the sight of them gave me chicken skin and a queasy stomach.

  We peeked up a staircase too dilapidated to even try.

  “I think I’m done,” I said.

  River nodded easily. “Disgusting. We should stick with less obvious places. I’m sorry for dragging you all the way out here.”

  I shrugged. “You know, sometimes I have the sense that history is worth exploring. Other times, I’m just repulsed by humanity.”

  “You’re telling me…”

  We started back toward the opening, but as we neared it, we heard rattling. River’s eyes widened in the flashlight’s gleam. We grabbed hands, for the first time since the depot, and we huddled together, frantically seeking another escape. My heart felt as if it would thud right through my skin, and I wanted to cry. River switched off the flashlight.

  “Zagosa Police,” a deep voice called. “Do not make any sudden moves.” He sounded weary, as if tired of busting people and hoping he wouldn’t see something he didn’t want to see—teens doing the nasty on the nasty floor, or a junkie shooting up. We stood still, as he’d ordered—and also because we were terrified—though we dropped our hands to our sides. After the officer maneuvered his stocky body through the opening, he shined a light much brighter than ours, then shook his head. “What are you kids doing? Can’t you see the signs?” He was obviously annoyed but seemed almost relieved to find fully clothed teenagers.

  “Just taking a look,” River said. “Sorry, sir. We shouldn’t have ignored them.”