by Julie Kibler
The officer sighed. “You from around here?” We shook our heads. “Didn’t think so. Got a call about Colorado plates. Figured hippies thought they’d located free lodging, though why anyone would want to stay in this shi—excuse me, pit, I have no idea. That your car in the lot next door?”
“Yes, sir.”
I’d never heard River say sir—or ma’am. I was used to it, having grown up in small-town Texas, but it sounded weird to me, even so.
“ID?”
“In the car,” River said, and I nodded my agreement.
“Next time, carry it. Someone catches you inside a place like this, not as sweet as me—maybe slits your throat and leaves you for dead—it’s good to have something for easy identification.”
I shivered, and we both nodded again.
“Gonna let you off with a warning. It’d take more time to book you than it’s worth. But I’ll shoot straight—if I ever find you in my precinct doing something like this again, I will take you to jail. I don’t care who you are or how nice you’re dressed. It’s illegal to trespass.”
I released my long-held breath. “Yes, sir,” we both said. We followed him to the opening, and he held the board while we passed through and trailed us all the way to River’s car.
We drove to the edge of town in silence before we pulled over at a gas station, where River finally glanced at me guiltily, and I burst into hysterical laughter. I don’t think either of us was taking it lightly, but laughter was all that could release the tension that had wound through our bodies the minute we entered the hotel, and only increased when the officer arrived.
Finally, we spoke at once.
“Holy mother of—”
“Holy crap!”
We dissolved again, grabbing our sides where they hurt from laughing so hard.
“Okay,” River said. “You were definitely right on this one. We’ll stick to the smaller stuff. Can you picture us trying to rob a bank?”
We laughed off and on all the way back, reliving the moment again and again, but as we neared home, I asked River to take a detour. I had to say something about prom. We carried gas station drinks into a park I knew, to a picnic area hidden in the trees. I sat on top of the table. River clambered up by me. “Why are you suddenly so serious?”
I sighed. “I’m going to prom.”
“Okay?”
“I thought you should know.”
River gave me a small, curious smile, and I felt almost stupid for bringing it up. We hadn’t talked about our relationship in terms of…well, anything. Were the feelings mine alone?
“I have a gig that night. The only reason I really care is I hoped you could come. I didn’t take you for the prom type, but maybe…”
“Stop,” I said. River laughed. “Someone asked, and my mom seemed heartbroken that I might say no. She’s into it. I’d much rather see your show.”
“No big deal. But…who’s someone?”
My heart quickened. “Just a guy from church. You wouldn’t know him.”
River looked off toward nowhere.
I knew I should say more, but I didn’t want to talk about Seth. I wanted to talk about River and me—with River. Instead, though, I thought of all of the sleepovers where Jess and I had talked for hours, her about Jordan, me about Seth. How our names sounded with their last names. How far we’d go if we ended up going out. After a retreat about God’s plan for sexuality, the how-far part was still fuzzy. Jess had always speculated bluntly while I cringed.
I’d spent countless hours daydreaming about a person who had rarely given me the time of day before, but met every qualification I thought mattered, while River, whom I’d never needed to chase, was right here, right in front of me, and completely off-limits.
So this was a big deal. To me, it was.
We sat silent. Eventually, I reached to wind my fingers through River’s. The gesture seemed clear to me. More so than tugging each other along into murky places, or clinging to each other in terror. It was deliberate. Intentional.
But was it clear?
In case there was any question, I picked up River’s hand and kissed our clasped fingers.
LIZZIE
Arlington, Texas
1910
The days were long with Mattie gone. Lizzie wandered aimlessly in the evenings after getting Docie to bed, moving quietly from group to group, but never settling, like a ghost of herself. Before, she’d have been happily huddled somewhere with Mattie. She tried to be an example to the newer girls, but they often regarded her with silent mistrust. She was the “old” one now—at all of twenty-five—and they likely worried she’d tell on them if they made any wrong moves. She didn’t have the heart to convince them she was as prone to stumbling as they were.
Soon after Mattie’s departure, Lizzie volunteered for the Refuge, thinking maybe it was time for a change for her as well. The work was grueling, and Lizzie struggled to keep emotion from ruling her head—not to mention, her replacement in the nursery proved helpless. The flighty young woman ordered changes that made the babies cross and uncomfortable, so Brother JT and Sister Susie thought Lizzie should return. They put Lizzie in charge this time, answering only to Birdie Cagle, a girl who, like so many, had been jilted after becoming pregnant. Smart, quick, and responsible, she’d been at the Home several years now and headed the children’s department in general. Birdie gave Lizzie room, and now the babies were sweet angels again. Everyone commented what a fine job Lizzie was doing, with three others to help. She loved all her babies, but the Home was a different place now. Lizzie missed Mattie so much it hurt to even think about her some days.
Before Mattie left for Oklahoma, the two of them had usually spent Sunday afternoons walking and talking, enjoying the quiet after long, busy weeks. Now Lizzie dreaded the loneliness. After Sunday services, most of the girls memorized scripture, learned music, or flocked to Sister Maggie Mae’s literary society, called by Greek letters Lizzie couldn’t even pronounce. They talked about books or put on little plays—sometimes for worship services and Camp Meeting. Though Sister Maggie Mae claimed Lizzie was welcome, she’d always felt outside the circle. That word, literary, meant things she’d never be. Better not to be reminded.
One summer Sunday after service and dinner, she settled Docie inside with one of her precious chapter books. Docie had tried yet again to show Lizzie how numbers and names broke up the pages and words, but everything stubbornly turned upside down and scrambled in her brain, like always. Once Docie was deep in her book, Lizzie wandered outside.
There used to be a path worn through the brush to the Refuge, but they’d cleared everything between it and the printing office to give a clear view. Even now, Sister Susie wrestled inside with a girl who’d come from San Antonio to get off the dope.
Seeing the building always made her think of May. Lizzie had been so sure her determination could save her, but she’d finally learned. In the aftermath of the chaotic dust storm, Lizzie had confessed everything about that situation to Brother JT, sitting in his parlor between him and Sister Maggie Mae, holding the baby Mattie had rejected, nearly hysterical herself with sorrow and guilt. She’d admitted she’d worried something was off with Mattie but kept quiet about it. And then she’d told how she’d been the one to bring May to the barn.
Brother JT had said Mattie could stay, even if she continued to refuse the baby. It was, in his opinion, one of the times they’d have to bend the rules. It was a special circumstance.
When he gently praised Lizzie for coming clean, and reminded her how proud they were of her determination and compassion, she’d handed the baby to Sister Maggie Mae and knelt right then and there, giving her life over to helping fallen girls see the light.
Now, though, she reckoned that meant taking care of their babies while someone else did the hardest work. She was no good at the other.
Lizzie turned aw
ay from the Refuge, walking until she stopped to heft herself onto the big stone that overlooked the fields. She felt close to Mattie there.
One of Lizzie’s newest helpers in the nursery, Ivy Bernard, had arrived shortly after Mattie’s departure, and she knew Lizzie missed Mattie something fierce. Her history wasn’t clear yet, but her companionship made up some for Mattie’s absence. At times, though, her hanging on got to be too much, especially when Lizzie needed to be alone. She’d probably hurt the girl’s feelings earlier today when Ivy had asked if Lizzie wanted company.
Lizzie had said, “No, thank you, dear.”
Ivy’s face had darkened. “You’re tired of me.”
Lizzie laughed. “Hush! I just need room for thinking. I get weary of baby talk all week and need to recall how to think like a grown woman again. You come find me in a while.”
Recently, with the help of a new girl, Lizzie had dictated a letter to Mattie, telling her about Ivy, how relieved she was to have someone to talk with now and then—especially one who understood some of her struggles. She didn’t tell her what Ivy had told Lizzie in secret: Like Lizzie, she could hardly read or write. Lizzie had said it hadn’t mattered to anyone at the Home that she still struggled with both. Even if they intended to send girls on their way at the end of a year, with training that would earn them a decent living, they wouldn’t put Ivy out. After all, Lizzie was here nearly six years now. They said the girls had a home for life if needed, and they meant it. Uneducated girls like Lizzie and Ivy had little choice but the street or jobs that didn’t pay enough to keep them off it. Good homes weren’t likely to hire them for cleaning or caring for little ones once they found out their histories. They’d lost the privilege of protection.
Listening to Mattie’s reply, Lizzie had quickly realized Mattie resented her new friendship. But she wouldn’t give it up. Lizzie couldn’t understand why Mattie would begrudge her the pleasure of another good friend now. It wasn’t as if God gave each human only one. Lizzie would joyfully include Mattie in their new little circle if she came for Homecoming—but now she worried Mattie would claim Ivy was trying to break them up. Lizzie wouldn’t have the patience for it. Mattie had yammered about finding a way out of the Home for years. She’d found it, and she’d gone away, as Lizzie had expected. And now Lizzie would not be alone after all.
Lizzie turned her head at footfalls on the path. She beckoned and shifted to make room. She wouldn’t mind sitting with Ivy now. Ivy climbed up hesitantly, but Lizzie insisted she take her fair share of the rock.
The rock made a fine place to set lunch pails while they sowed seeds in the spring and harvested crops in the fall. Nearly everyone helped with the harvest—corn for eating, and cotton, weighed and sold at the gin. The girls kept a portion of what the Home earned from it so they could purchase letter paper, postage, or personal items from the general store or druggist in town. Lizzie rarely needed anything but the occasional undershirt or pair of stockings for herself or little things for Docie, so she’d saved nearly all of her money in a knotted handkerchief in the corner of her drawer.
Lizzie pointed out to Ivy the first heads of corn forming on the stalks in the field. After a wet spring, they’d wondered if they’d ever show. But it had warmed up finally, and good.
Ivy interrupted her small talk. “Do you ever miss your husband? Or your family?”
Lizzie hadn’t thought of Willis in months, though her marriage was common knowledge around the Home. He’d left her not two months after their wedding at the courthouse in Sulphur, and every time he’d shown his face afterward had been for nothing good.
“Like I’d miss a flock of birds roosting on my head,” Lizzie said. “This is my family now.” She gestured toward the big house, just visible over the treetops. “Guess I’m like Ruth in the Good Book.” As soon as she said it, a great lump rose in her throat. That couple who took Mattie’s baby had moved far away less than a few months after it came. She guessed they were worried Mattie would change her mind, but Mattie had never even said her name, not even to Lizzie.
Ivy tugged at a lock that had escaped from her bun. She struggled with something else. “What is it?” Lizzie said, once she’d regained her voice. “You know most of my secrets.”
That was true. Once they’d put her story in the Journal, she’d felt clean and free, even if folks wanted to judge what she’d done. She worried for Docie, with everyone knowing, but Lizzie had needed to confess for the world to see. It was the only way to stop the guilt. She’d held back a few things that concerned only her girl—that would be Docie’s to tell, if she ever remembered.
And of course, there was the one other thing she couldn’t make herself say out loud.
But the Lord knew.
Ivy’s next question came fast and low. “Do you ever miss a man’s touch?”
Lizzie forced herself not to shudder. She’d seen how Brother JT kissed Sister Maggie Mae’s cheek when he thought nobody watched. It was sweet, but nothing she yearned for. “Men never had no need for me beyond planting pain in my womb,” she said. “No such thing as a gentle touch.”
Willis had romanced her the month they met, her only fourteen. He was a good looker and knew it. At a barn dance, he’d led her around the floor, then pushed her down in the grass behind the place before she knew which end was up. Why he’d listened to her mother’s threats and carried Lizzie to the courthouse was anyone’s guess.
He did what he wanted. So maybe he’d had some kind of affection for her.
She’d been tangled in her thoughts again and had stopped paying attention to Ivy. She looked down. Ivy’s hand covered hers on top of the stone. Lizzie glanced up. The girl’s eyes were like a doe’s, shiny, right before the shot ripped through its heart.
Lizzie’s breath caught. She and Mattie had held hands more times than she could count, swinging them as they walked, or skipped arm in arm as they shared their delight over something. They hugged on each other in their dark times, just as sisters would. It was perfectly natural, what she and Mattie had done.
This was different.
Ivy said, “I never craved a man’s touch. Not ever.” Her fingers crept between Lizzie’s now, and with her other hand, she stroked the tender inside of Lizzie’s wrist.
It tickled, but Lizzie stayed still, so as not to spook her. She felt comfort from the hands on hers, to be sure, but this was more than simple affection. Mattie was right after all. Ivy’s sticking so close was maybe more than just longing for friendship.
In the cribs—tiny, filthy shacks where she’d made money at the worst times—she’d seen two women together, usually to entertain a man who could pay. And at times, a proper woman with money had asked in the dark for another. Lizzie had always been taught it was more wicked than anything else, what with the preachers and scriptures calling it an abomination—maybe worse than Lizzie’s sins.
Except she had little room to judge, and she knew it. Ivy was fragile. Lizzie didn’t want to send her running.
Lizzie carefully placed her other hand atop Ivy’s to stop her. “No, honey,” she said. “Even if I wanted a man’s touch, I couldn’t have it. I’m married. And this?” She shook her head gently.
Ivy wrenched herself away. “I’m sorry!” she said. “I didn’t mean it. Please don’t tell.” She strained both toward Lizzie and away from her at the same time, as if she couldn’t bear to stay but was afraid to leave.
“You’re my friend,” Lizzie said. “What you were thinking—it’s a secret to keep. I don’t think you should tell anyone else. They might be less forgiving.”
It was kinder to be gentle.
Tears threatened Ivy’s eyes, and she held herself tight. “I thought…” She shook herself. “I’m just plain wicked—going straight to hell!” She ran off, way across the field, trampling the new cotton.
Lizzie had seen enough in her years at the Home to know each pers
on carried her own burdens, none alike. Every girl here—Lizzie included—had had the world thrust on her, no choice but to submit to the ugliness women had suffered for all ages.
But Ivy’s struggle seemed different. She was a sweet and innocent young woman—no matter Mattie’s jealousy. And while Lizzie believed what she’d been told—that it was wrong for two men or two women to lie together—she couldn’t help but wonder what made Ivy that way.
Surely she wouldn’t choose it. Why would anyone choose something so hard?
Ivy avoided her for days, saying only what she must, taking the babies off to play instead of setting them on the floor between them, rocking a little one to sleep in a quiet corner.
She just needed time.
Finally, when the other girls were in an all-day meeting, where the community came in to sing and pray and study the Good Book with them, Lizzie got up the nerve to talk to her.
Ivy didn’t take kindly to it. “I don’t know what came over me and would thank you not to throw it back in my face.”
Lizzie gaped. She’d only said she loved her and was worried about Ivy’s relationship with the Lord. But now she said, “What happened before you came? You’re not expecting, and you’ve been so quiet about it.”
“I gave my confession,” Ivy said. “Brother JT said it was nobody’s business but mine to share with who I wanted.”
The Upchurches were big on the girls confessing. Some took longer than others, and some gave more of the particulars. Ivy had never said more than that she’d been ruined by a married man. That was common enough, but maybe there was more than Ivy had let on.
She wouldn’t push her. In time, Ivy would trust her, just as Mattie had.
Lizzie was good at two things, in addition to keeping babies happy:
She could keep a promise. And she could keep a secret.
MATTIE
Oklahoma City
1910