The Girl from Charnelle

by K. L. Cook

  She had heard a rumor that Mrs. Aguilar, who operated the Mexican restaurant on the west end of town with her husband, helped girls in trouble. What exactly she did, Laura didn’t quite know, the rumors never specific, and she had no idea how you solved this kind of problem. She had heard, too, about a home in Amarillo and another one in Dalhart, where girls were sometimes sent. Debbie Carlson’s cousin, who lived in Borger, had been sent away to the home in Amarillo for several months, and then she’d returned to school like nothing happened. And one of Gloria’s friends, Janet Cornwall, had disappeared for months as well—supposedly to visit her sick aunt in Brownsville, but Gloria had hinted that she was really in Dalhart. She missed half her senior year, returned skinnier, and then never graduated, apparently too ashamed to go back to school.

  And plenty of girls from Charnelle got married right after graduation, and sometimes, she knew, their wedding dresses couldn’t hide their growing stomachs. Gloria herself was one of those girls. Julie had come into the world only seven months after her parents eloped.

  Gloria had cautioned Laura to be careful. And they had been, hadn’t they? Evidently not careful enough.

  At three-thirty, Laura retrieved Rich from Mrs. Ambling. The snow had turned to sleet for a while, and the path between their houses was slick and treacherous. Mrs. Letig showed up a few minutes later and brought Jack inside.

  “Man, oh, man, is it getting bad out there,” she said, stamping on the welcome mat, taking off Jack’s coat. “John’s going to try to get off work a little early. He should be here about five.”

  “How’s Willie?” Laura asked. He was sitting in the Letigs’ snow-covered car, which was still running.

  “Oh, he’ll be fine. Another earache, but he seems better today. This is more a checkup than anything.”

  Mrs. Letig wore a thick black overcoat and a red wool scarf over her head. Laura felt suddenly angry at her, felt that somehow this whole mess was Mrs. Letig’s fault—everything, all of it. If she’d been a better wife, maybe her husband would not have seduced the sixteen-year-old daughter of his friend. Would have knocked up his wife again instead. Laura looked at the woman’s face, her eyes lined darkly with mascara, her lips glossed with lipstick the color of her scarf, her dark red hair pinned neatly under the scarf to protect it from the elements. Made up, painted, a phony. Underneath her coat, she was no doubt wearing one of her expensive dresses. Laura felt the urge to slap her.

  “I better get going. We’re late,” Mrs. Letig said, backing out the door, waving. “You be good, Jack.” And then to Laura, “Thanks, honey.”

  So this was how it would end, she thought. Messy.

  When John showed up that afternoon, a little after five, before her father got home, she couldn’t contain herself. Manny and Gene were gone. Rich and Jack were in the kitchen playing checkers.

  “Hello,” John said, knocking on the door, his collar up, a wool cap pulled over his head.

  She burst into tears.

  “Hey,” he said, grabbing her by the arms, bending down to see her face. “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m late,” she whispered.

  “What?”

  “My period hasn’t come.”

  Jack and Rich appeared at the kitchen door. “Go get in the truck, son,” John said.

  “What’s the matter?” Jack asked.

  Rich frowned at her. “Why are you crying?”

  “It’s nothing,” she said, but then she ran to the bathroom, put her face into a towel to muffle the sound.

  “What’s the matter?” she heard Rich ask John.

  “I don’t know,” John said. “Rich, why don’t you walk out to the truck with Jack?”

  “Laura wouldn’t let us go out because it was snowing.”

  “You can get in the truck with him for a few minutes. Are your brothers home?”

  “No, sir,” Rich said.

  “Get your boots,” John said. “Bundle up, boys.” And a few minutes later she heard the front door open.

  He rapped the bathroom door lightly. “Laura,” he said.

  She didn’t answer. She ran cold water and splashed it on her face.

  He knocked again. “Laura, where are Manny and Gene?”

  “Manny’s at work. Gene’s at the library. My father’s picking him up on his way home.”

  “Come on out. Your dad will be here soon, then.”

  She opened the door and stepped into the hallway. He leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. There was a layer of snow on the side of his wool cap. His jacket was wet, his face flushed red. She didn’t know whether to reach out to him or to stay where she was. She crossed her arms as well, stared at him.

  “How late are you?”

  “Five days.”

  “Shit,” he said, shaking his head. “Did you count right? Maybe you messed up the math. Anne did that a few months back.”

  The mention of Mrs. Letig made her stomach flip, and the “few months back” reference made her feel even sicker. “Yeah, I counted right. I counted a hundred times. That’s all I’ve been doing.”

  “We’ve been careful, though,” he said.

  “I know.”

  There was a long pause, and then he grimaced. “Is there somebody else?”

  “What?” she shouted and then shoved him. “No!”

  “I just meant—”

  She punched him on the chest with her fist, hard. “Why would you say that?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.”

  He reached out for her, but she backed into the bathroom. “Why would you say that?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Then they heard the front door open. Her father. She slammed the bathroom door shut. She leaned against the wall and slid down, her head in her hands.

  “Where’s Laura?” her father asked.

  “In the bathroom.”

  “The boys said she was crying.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. When I came in to get Jack, she was crying and then ran to the bathroom. I sent the boys on to the truck so I could try to find out what was wrong.”

  He sounded bad, she thought, nervous.

  “She won’t talk to me, though,” he said. “Maybe something happened at school today.” His voice seemed more in control now, more convincing.

  “I thought I heard a door slam,” her father said.

  “Yeah, she opened the bathroom door and then slammed it shut again. I don’t know, Zeeke. I’m no expert with teenage girls. Thank God I have boys….”

  She hated that he said “teenage.”

  John continued, “I’m glad you’re here. I’m sure she’d rather talk to her dad. Besides, I gotta get home and check on Willie. Anne took him to the doctor today. Can’t seem to get rid of that earache.”

  Silence. She could imagine the look on her father’s face, the corners of his mouth twitching of their own accord. He never knew what to do when she was upset. Laura wondered if that’s when he most wished his wife were still here, to deal with situations like this. Though this was too complicated for any of them, and she wasn’t sure she would have wanted her mother here anyway. The blood pounded in her temples. She breathed deeply, and then she unwound some toilet paper from the roll, wiped her nose, and listened.

  A knock. She didn’t say anything. What could she say? She wanted them both to go away now.

  “Laura?”

  “I gotta go, Zeeke,” John said, trying to make his getaway.

  Good. Get out of here.

  “Bye, Laura.”

  She started to answer. What could she say, though?

  “Good-bye, Zeeke,” he called.

  “See ya, Letig. Careful out there. It’s coming down hard now.”

  “Hope everything’s okay,” John said.

  And then he was gone. She turned on the water to let her father know she was fine. She heard his footsteps as he walked into the living room, where he told Rich, “Take your b
oots off and go wash up in the kitchen.”

  “I gotta go to the bathroom.”

  “You’ll have to wait.”

  “Why?” he whined.

  “You want a spanking, son? Just do what I said.” Footsteps again. Her father rapped on the door. “Laura,” he said, irritation in his voice.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Laura, what’s the matter?” he asked.

  She kept the water running. “Nothing.”

  “Doesn’t sound like nothing.”

  “I didn’t do very well on my history test,” she said. “But it doesn’t really matter, Dad. I just don’t feel good…. I’m sorry, I just…don’t want to talk right now.”

  “Well, okay, honey,” he said, more gently. “You can tell me about it later if you want, though. You know that, right?”

  “I’m fine, Dad. Please. It’s okay. Really. It’s nothing.”

  “I’m just saying that—”

  “I don’t want to talk!” Her voice sounded too sharp. It echoed in the bathroom. “Please,” she added softly.

  “Okay, okay. Later, then. You let me know.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  After a few minutes, when she heard him in the kitchen, she went to her bedroom, shut the door, and locked it. She could hear her father telling Manny and Gene, in whispered tones, about her behavior.

  “Give her some room,” he said.

  “Is she on the rag?” Manny asked.

  “Keep your voice down. I don’t know.”

  She got out her calendar and counted the days again. And then again. Yes, five. And then she curled up on the bed and tried to calm down. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. It would be okay, she told herself. She shouldn’t worry yet. Not yet. And she definitely should not have told John. Stupid, stupid thing to do. She looked out the window at the snow, mixed with sleet and ice, the sky metallic and gloomy. It was ten till six. She closed her eyes. She heard the clattering of pans as her father prepared supper.

  The phone rang. She rolled over so she could hear who it was. Would he call her? To find out if she was okay?

  Her father answered. “No, Anne. He left here forty-five minutes, maybe an hour ago.”

  She looked at the clock. It was nearly six-thirty. She must have dozed off.

  “No, he said he had to get home. If I hear from him, I’ll give you a ring…. I don’t think it’s anything to worry about, Anne…. Have you tried the Armory?…What about 4-D’s?”

  There was a long pause. It should have taken John only five minutes to get home, maybe a little longer in this weather. She could get there by bike in ten minutes, twenty minutes at most, when she walked. She got up and stood by the door so that she could hear better.

  “Yes, Anne. Yeah, I know the roads are bad, but he’s a good driver…. Well, maybe he dropped by the grocery store…. Anne, it’s okay…. You want me to go out and find him?…Okay…. Yeah. Don’t worry…. You’re welcome.”

  He put the phone down.

  “Where are you going?” Gene asked.

  “Manny, you finish supper.”

  “What happened?”

  “I’m going out to see if Letig’s stuck in the snow somewhere.”

  “You want me to come with you?” Manny asked.

  “No. You boys stay here. Gene, check on Laura.”

  “You might need some help, though, if he’s stuck,” Manny said.

  “Stay here. Finish supper. I’ll be back soon.”

  From her door, where she had listened to all this, she moved to the window and watched her father trot to his truck, his head bent, his hood covering his face. He opened the door, turned on the lights, slashed the blades across the icy windshield. In his headlights, the sleet shot past like burnt film on the drive-in screen, silver and white spikes exploding on the ground. The street was dark but glistened from the ice, a thick white membrane collecting along the sides of the street and the lawns. She watched him back out of the driveway. On the street, the end of his truck fishtailed when he accelerated. He slowed down and drove cautiously away, the exhaust pipe spewing a milky cloud behind him.

  32

  Momentary Silence

  She was not pregnant. Her period started before her father even arrived back home, and that seemed a terrible irony. She was in the bathroom when Gene called out, “He’s back. I see him.”

  It was nearly eleven, and she was at the window in time to see his truck rumbling slowly into the snow-packed driveway, the beams from his headlights catching the hard lines of sleet and snow still falling from the sky. He didn’t immediately turn off the lights and the engine. Rich was asleep, but she, Manny, and Gene all stood by the window, waiting for him to come in. He finally cut the engine, the lights flicked off, a dim yellow afterglow still visible in the globes. He opened the truck door and walked too slowly through the snow and sleet to the porch, with his head down, his hood draped darkly over his face.

  All of them stood silently, peering through the window to the porch, as he pulled back his hood, scraped his boots on the step, and stamped a couple of times on the mat outside the door. Then he stepped in and was surprised to see them there, as if he’d forgotten them or figured they would not have waited up.

  “What happened?” she asked. Her voice sounded like a lamb’s bleat, but no one laughed. It was not funny.

  He just shook his head and inhaled deeply. They did not rush him. He took off his coat, shook it out on the porch, and then hung it on the peg by the door. His jeans were wet and darkened up to his coat line. His boots, too, were soaked, as were his gloves, and his hair was wet as well. They watched him patiently as he dripped, a puddle encircling him on the Home Sweet Home mat inside the door, the snow and water spreading out to the hardwood floor, so that it darkened, too.

  He would tell them soon enough. She thought she knew what he would say, and she knew that once he said it, it would be truth, and that until he spoke, they all still existed in this world of suspenseful ignorance. Part of her wanted to stay there, didn’t want to hear her father’s voice, and was thankful for his momentary silence. She swallowed, and it hurt.

  Finally he turned to them, sighed heavily, began to speak, and everything changed.

  33

  Charnelle in Grief

  The snow and sleet that began falling on Thursday had come down heavily throughout the afternoon and night. The temperature rose, and the sleet turned to rain, and then the temperature dropped, making the roads slick with black ice. Seven accidents occurred that night in Charnelle alone, and cars and trucks were stranded along the highway leading into Amarillo, where the snow and ice had shut down the city. Two rigs jackknifed and spilled crates of California citrus across the frozen highway.

  Only one person, however, had died in the Texas Panhandle because of the weather. On Monday, the Tate family attended his funeral.

  Friday, schools had closed, the town of Charnelle shut down, except for the plows, which Laura heard grinding and scraping, metal against asphalt, the sound of an accusation. The snow and sleet continued through Friday morning and afternoon but stopped Friday evening. Saturday and Sunday, the sun was out, the temperature kept rising, reaching close to sixty degrees. The snow and ice melted quickly, and by the day of the funeral there was little evidence of the damage, just patches of snow on the shady north sides of buildings and ditches.

  Laura and her brothers didn’t go to school. By two o’clock, when they had to leave for the church, the day was bright and warm. They didn’t need sweaters or jackets. And this, too, this sunshine, this heat, seemed like cruel irony.

  They sat in the middle section of the Charnelle First Methodist Church. Gene sat next to their father. Manny and Joannie sat next to Gene. Laura sat on the other side of her father, with Rich between them. She wore a black-and-white dress that was a little too big for her—really more of a summer dress, one that her mother had left. She put a dark burgundy shawl that had been Gloria’s over her shoulders. Her father and Manny and Gene owned on
ly navy blue suits, so they wore them, though that morning their father bought them all black ties at Thomason’s. Rich wore a dark green sweater and green corduroy pants, hand-me-downs from Gene.

  She had been to only one funeral in her life, Uncle Unser’s. And that was many years ago. She remembered very little. It was a graveside service. Just fifteen or twenty people there. Uncle Unser’s coffin was closed. Everybody seemed embarrassed. Their heads were down all the time. Maybe because he’d killed himself. Afterward her brothers, Gloria, and she went home with her father while her mother stayed with Aunt Velma for a week.

  The church was now nearly two-thirds full. Mrs. Ambling was there, in the pew behind Laura and her family. Jimmy and Bob Cransburgh were there. Beaver Mitchell was there. Most of the men who worked at Charnelle Steel & Construction seemed to be there. The Somersby brothers and even, more surprisingly, Donna Somersby (who seldom left her house) were there, sitting three pews away from Tina Fellows, Dave Somersby’s girlfriend. Billy Sidell and Dean Compson were there, and Debbie and Marlene and their families were there. Several of the teachers were there as well, including Mr. Sparling and Mrs. McFarland, and the librarian, Mrs. Wickan. Laura didn’t understand why they had come, how they knew the Letigs. Luke from the Armory bar and Mr. Thomason were there, as were Mr. and Mrs. Aguilar, Mrs. Aguilar wearing an elaborate black silk dress, gloves, and a veil that covered her entire body. There were other families from town, who had lived here as long as Laura could remember.

  John’s mother and his aunt and uncle had driven over from Pampa, and his two older brothers from Phoenix. John’s mother was thin and seemed frail, walking with a cane. His brothers looked like John: the same athletic bodies, long faces and red lips, blond hair. They both wore thick beards that made them seem foreign. They sat solemnly in the first row, which was reserved for the family.

  Mrs. Letig’s mother was there from Borger, and her sister and her husband had come up with their kids from Dallas. Laura knew all these people because she’d seen pictures in the Letig home, framed on the walls and in meticulously organized photo albums.