The Girl from Charnelle

by K. L. Cook

  “No thanks.”

  “I insist,” she said, leaning forward, too close.

  “A glass of water, I guess. I could get it, Mrs. Letig.”

  “Anne,” she said.

  “I know you’re in a hurry.”

  “I’m not in a hurry, Laura.” She cocked her head. “Are you wondering if you’re getting paid for this time?”

  Laura shook her head, worried she had offended her. “No, ma’am.”

  “Well, you are. Getting paid, that is. Consider yourself on the clock.”

  “No, I didn’t mean that.”

  “I know you didn’t, dear.”

  She patted Laura’s hands again and stared at her for an uncomfortably long time, her bloodshot eyes beginning to brim. Laura looked away, embarrassed. Mrs. Letig sniffed and then breathed deeply.

  “I’ll be right back,” Mrs. Letig said. “Don’t you go anywhere now.”

  Laura sat on the edge of the unmade bed, the wrinkled sheets and spread hanging off the ends as if they had been kicked off. She searched the room for more clues. Mrs. Letig’s vanity table was not in its usual order, lipsticks and nail polish bottles tipped on their sides, a wad of her red hair ratted in a wire brush. Two empty wineglasses with dried purple residue in the bottom stood amid the strewn makeup. Laura had never seen their room like this. Was this grief or something else? She had to find a way to excuse herself, to get out of this house. She could not be here. It was a mistake her coming, letting her father bully her into coming. She wanted nothing more to do with the Letigs. She’d done enough, hadn’t she?

  Mrs. Letig returned, the hem of her green robe dragging the floor. She carried two glasses of wine, both of them full. She handed one to Laura. “Here.”

  “Mrs. Letig—”

  “Anne, please.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can. Drink it.” This seemed like an order, and so Laura took the glass, but she just held it. She did not dare drink.

  Mrs. Letig sipped hers twice and then set the glass down on the vanity table, next to the empty ones. “Drink, please. This is good wine. None of that cheap Armory stuff. I got this in Dallas last spring when I visited my sister.”

  Laura hesitated. Last spring, when she had watched Jack and Willie while Mrs. Letig took a vacation. She took a sip of the wine. It tasted bitter.

  “See, isn’t that better? Isn’t this cozy?”

  Mrs. Letig sat at the vanity table and removed the blue towel and threw it on the bed. Wet and hanging down in tangled ringlets, her red hair seemed almost black. She took the wire brush from the table, removed the wad of hair in it and threw it on the floor, then ran the brush roughly through her hair.

  “So…your mother,” she began.

  “We really don’t—”

  “No, no, no,” Mrs. Letig said. “I want to talk to you about your mother. That’s a good theme, don’t you think? Motherhood.”

  “Pardon?”

  “You know, I have given your mother quite a bit of thought, Laura. What makes a woman walk off and abandon her family like that? I have thought about it more than I care to admit. I have come up with several theories. Would you like to hear them?”

  She said this lightly, and again Laura felt a strong sense of incongruity, as if her actions and her words didn’t go together. Laura didn’t want to hear Mrs. Letig’s theories about her mother.

  “I don’t know,” she muttered, staring down at the floor where a black slip lay rumpled by the legs of the vanity table.

  “You don’t know? Hmmm. I’ll take that for a yes. Okay, first theory, pretty obvious: She was crazy. Of course, I never remember thinking that about her. She seemed such a practical woman. Quiet, yes. Hard to read her. No one could, I guess. A lot of people thought she was strange, arrogant. I know she had a crazy uncle. And perhaps she fell into some kind of spell, walked off, and that was that. Maybe she’s in some nuthouse, even as we speak. What do you think? Does that hold water?”

  Laura continued to stare down at the floor. This was not good. Where was she going with this?

  “Second theory—and this was certainly a rumor—is that she was murdered, though I guess we have the bus depot man’s testimony and the bus driver’s as well. And your neighbor saw her leave with a suitcase in hand. So that pretty much rules out that theory.”

  Mrs. Letig looked into the mirror and continued brushing.

  “Three is hard. Theory number three is this: She’d had enough. With Zeeke, or with you all. That was difficult for me to comprehend at first. A woman. No money. All five of you kids, or four kids, I guess, since Gloria had flown the coop already. Four beautiful children. Well behaved. They say, ‘yes, ma’am’ and ‘yes, sir.’ They help with the chores. Good kids. But maybe that’s just how they seem.”

  She paused and turned toward Laura, raised an eyebrow. The brush was still in her hand, and she held it like a weapon.

  “Maybe they’re actually terrible,” she said. “Or she believes them to be terrible, or maybe she believes herself to be a terrible mother. And she has to leave before she does something awful. Something she won’t be able to forgive herself for. Perhaps it’s an act of charity, her disappearance.”

  “Mrs. Letig—”

  She clicked her tongue and wagged a finger in front of Laura’s face. “Anne,” she said.

  “Anne, I don’t want to—”

  “Please,” she said, smiling. “Indulge me for a while longer.”

  Laura didn’t know how to stop this. Mrs. Letig took another drink of her wine and straightened the folds of her robe. Laura set her still-full glass on the bedside table and then crossed her hands in her lap and felt strangely like a little girl, waiting to be punished.

  “Now, where were we?” Mrs. Letig continued, too brightly. “Theories. Theories about your mother. Theory four is that she killed herself. I was sure of this for a long time,” she said, nodding her head. “That mysterious uncle. She just made it seem like she abandoned you all, but then she just didn’t want to saddle you with the burden of her death. But what is worse? I’ve often wondered. To kill yourself and have your family live with that shame, that burden? Or to have them think you hated them so much that you just up and left—started over but didn’t kill yourself? It’s a toss-up. Very difficult choice. But what mother hasn’t felt the desire to just walk away sometimes? Men do it all the time. It’s more difficult for women, though. Your children are part of you, you see.” She suddenly stood. “You still have the scars. Your body is one big scar. Look at this, Laura.”

  She opened her robe. Beneath, she was naked. Laura, shocked, put her hands in front of her face and closed her eyes. “Mrs. Letig!”

  “No!” the woman said sharply and then reached over and grabbed Laura’s chin between her fingers, turned it toward her body. “You look at this,” she demanded. “I want to show you, so you know what motherhood does to your body. Girls should be shown this so they know. Look, look here at these marks! You see them. Those are scars. When John and I first married, I was as thin as you. But this is what they did to me. See—”

  “Mrs. Letig, please don’t—”

  She ignored Laura’s pleas. “Look, damn it! Look at these hips. Look at this belly. Not pretty, is it? Not very sexy. And this is just two children. I can’t imagine five. And look here, look at these breasts. They used to rise of their own accord, just like those movie stars you daydream about. I used to be a looker. I was. But see them now? Look at them, Laura!”

  She sat back down on her vanity stool but did not close her robe. She took another long, deliberate drink of her wine.

  “It’s not pretty, is it?” she said calmly. “Your mother was still pretty, honey, but her body had lost the war. And Zeeke, well…your father, he was no saint. I bet you didn’t know that, huh? Or maybe you do. Here, you want to touch?”

  “No!” Laura rose quickly and darted for the door.

  “Wait!” Mrs. Letig shouted, grabbing Laura’s wrist and jerking her back
into the room. “Here,” she said. “I want you to feel the scars.”

  “No—”

  “Touch them. I want you to touch them!”

  She was strong and quick, and she forced Laura’s hand onto her stomach, ran it over her skin. Laura fell to her knees, but Mrs. Letig held tightly to Laura’s hand and pressed it against her body.

  “Do you feel that?”

  “Stop it! Please, stop it! Why are you doing this?”

  She let go of Laura’s hand, closed her robe, shut the bedroom door, and sat back down on her vanity stool. Laura lay on the floor, crying.

  “I’m sorry, Laura. I don’t know what got into me.”

  Laura started to get up from the floor. “I’m going.”

  “You’re not going anywhere.”

  “I know you’re upset,” Laura sobbed.

  “Upset?” Mrs. Letig seemed puzzled by the word.

  “In grief,” Laura amended.

  “What do you know about grief?” Mrs. Letig asked. No anger, no bitterness. A legitimate question. She leaned over to Laura, still on the floor, and touched her arm. “Here, come sit down. And please tell me what you know about grief. Tell me what you know about mourning.”

  Rising, Mrs. Letig’s hand supporting her elbow, Laura brushed the tears from her face, tried to collect herself. “I need to go.”

  “No, you don’t. You don’t need to go anywhere. You need to be here with me.”

  The door was right there, but Laura could not move. She stood, frozen, near the bed, staring at the woman. “I think you’ve had too much to drink,” she said.

  Mrs. Letig released her arm and then pointed toward the bed. “I’m paying you to be here. Now sit down.”

  “I can’t,” Laura said, still standing. “I have to go, Mrs. Letig.”

  “I told you to call me Anne. Please.”

  “Anne…I really think I should leave now.”

  Mrs. Letig nodded and then reached out for Laura’s hand again, squeezing it more gently than before. “Maybe I have had a little too much to drink. I used to never drink. But I’ve recently developed a taste for it. I’m not drunk, though. It’s important that you know that. I’m not. I’m sorry about what happened before. I really am,” she said. “Just sit back down. Let’s finish our conversation.”

  Laura didn’t know what to do. How did she let herself get inside this room?

  “Sit down. I didn’t mean to scare you. Now sit down, please.”

  Reluctantly, Laura sat again on the edge of the bed. Mrs. Letig picked up her wineglass, saw that it was empty, so reached over to get Laura’s glass from the bedside table. She poured half the wine into her own glass, spilling some on the floor. She didn’t seem to care.

  “Now where were we?”

  “Mrs. Letig—”

  “Anne.”

  “Anne, I’m so sorry about Jack.”

  “This isn’t about Jack. This has nothing to do with Jack,” she said, taking another drink. She closed her eyes, as if to relish the taste, and said, smiling, “You know what this is about, sweetie.”

  She had been a fool to think that this was all about grief. “I’m sorry,” Laura whispered. “I really am.”

  “No, you’re not the least bit sorry,” she said, shaking her head, talking quietly but very deliberately. “You’re only saying that because I’ve got you here, and you can’t really bear that I know the truth.”

  “I am sorry—”

  “I think, honey, it would be better if you didn’t talk. He told me everything. Well, maybe not everything. I don’t think I could have handled everything. But enough for me to get the picture. It was a very tearful confession.”

  “I am so sorry.”

  “No!” she said, rising again, grabbing Laura’s face with both her hands. “Stop right there. Listen carefully to me. I want you to stop saying that. You are not allowed to say that. Do you understand? Say ‘I hate you, Anne Letig.’ Say ‘I’m young and stupid and selfish.’ But don’t tell me that you’re sorry. We are not lying right now, you and me. My son is in the grave. And I’m staring at the girl, the girl I entrusted with my children, with my dead boy…and I learn that this same girl has been screwing my husband for the past year, that in fact he ran off the road because you told him you were pregnant. Why you told him that, when it was not true, I do not know. But my son is dead. That’s what I do know. We are past the point of lying. You got that? We are only telling the truth now. Do you understand me?” She shook Laura’s face. “Answer me.”

  “Yes,” Laura said.

  Mrs. Letig let go of her and sat back down. Laura felt a sickening dread. She realized she had expected this moment, had been waiting to finally be accused directly. Mrs. Letig was right. She was responsible.

  “Good.” Mrs. Letig drank the rest of her wine and then took Laura’s glass. “Good.”

  “What are you going to do?” Laura asked.

  “You don’t really have the right to ask that question, now, do you?”

  Laura shook her head. She no longer felt concern for her own safety. She was instead suddenly worried for Mrs. Letig. “Are you going to hurt yourself?”

  “You flatter yourself, girl,” she said, laughing. “That would be convenient, wouldn’t it?”

  “Anne—”

  “Mrs. Letig!”

  “What?” Laura asked, confused.

  “Mrs. Letig. You call me Mrs. Letig.”

  Laura stared at her for second, then said, “Yes, ma’am.”

  “If I were to kill myself, then what? You marry John? You raise my son?”

  Laura shook her head. “No, I didn’t mean—”

  “Well, what did you mean?”

  “I just don’t…want you to…hurt yourself,” she stammered.

  “Well, what you want doesn’t really count for a whole hell of a lot anymore. Does it? If things were different, then maybe. Maybe I would kill you. Or kill John. If there wasn’t Willie. Well, then, it might be a possibility. Maybe a probability. But…Willie’s too important. And I am not going to mess up his life because of another trampy little slut of John’s. Oh, I’m sorry. You probably think you’re the only one.”

  She threw her head back and laughed sharply.

  “You’re not the first one, honey. Did he tell you that? Did he tell you about the other little peccadillo? After Jack was born? She was a little older than you, and he, of course, was younger, and so it was more serious. He actually did leave me and Jack. For two weeks. Ran off to Kansas City. But I wouldn’t give him a divorce, and he didn’t really want one. Mr. Letig decided he loved Mrs. Letig after all, and he was ready to settle down and be a good boy. But I guess he wasn’t such a good boy after all, now, was he?”

  Laura didn’t move.

  Mrs. Letig leaned forward, waiting for an answer. “Was he?”

  “No.”

  “No, he wasn’t. And I suppose I should have known, should have suspected. The way he sometimes looked at you. All those shenanigans out at Palo Duro Canyon on the Fourth. I should have known. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.”

  She pulled her robe more tightly together, closed her eyes, and ran her fingers through her hair.

  “And he’s still not a good boy, but he came to me. He’s a sweet boy, a charming boy. But not good. I’ll give him this, though. In the end, he’s an honest boy. He told me. And now what am I supposed to do with that information? My son is dead. My husband has been…with a girl half his age. Jesus!”

  She shook her head and laughed again. Then she stared at Laura, squinted her eyes. “What would you do if you were me?” Laura didn’t know if the woman really wanted her to say anything. “Well?”

  She hesitated and then muttered, “I…I…don’t know.”

  “No, you don’t. Of course you don’t. You have no idea. I thought, absurdly, before you came over, that I might just shoot you. Why not? But I couldn’t do that. I don’t have that in me. I have to do something, though, don’t I? That’s
why John told me. So I would do something. He wants to be punished. He wants me to punish him. But the irony is that he doesn’t want to be punished for what he’s done with you. He wants to be punished for killing his son.”

  Laura began crying again. “That’s not true,” she whispered, though she realized as she said it that Mrs. Letig was right.

  “Oh, yes, it is. He knows I would never accuse him of that. It was an accident. So he tells me this other thing, this thing about you, because he knows I will punish him for that. He knows he can be punished for that.” Mrs. Letig took the last drink of her wine. “So how?” she continued. “How do I punish him? What would you do?”

  Laura looked at the floor, shook her head.

  “Well, of course you must know what some of my options are. You must have considered them. You’ve kept your pretty little mouth shut for the past year. John must have warned you. Maybe he threatened you. This was dangerous business, you understand.”

  She nodded.

  “He can go to jail if I want him to. You know that?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” she whispered.

  “Don’t ‘yes, ma’am’ me! That’s a term of respect. You say that to someone you respect. You got that?”

  Laura flinched, afraid Mrs. Letig might strike her. She didn’t answer. Language was not her ally.

  “So you know that I could pick up the telephone and call the authorities,” she said, her voice quietly threatening. “I could explain, very calmly, what happened. And John would go to jail, maybe not for long, but perhaps long enough. It would happen. He wouldn’t even contest it.”

  Laura nodded again.

  “And you, you would be humiliated. We all would be humiliated. But you are just a girl, aren’t you? And perhaps you are a victim in this.”

  Mrs. Letig stood up and began pacing the room but never got far from the door. “Jesus, I can’t even remember what sixteen was like.” She waited for Laura to respond, but when she didn’t, Mrs. Letig eyed her carefully before she spoke again, standing now beside John’s chest of drawers.

  “Or we have option number two: If I don’t want to publicly humiliate myself, if I don’t want more pity than I already get as the mother of the boy who died in the accident, then I could just tell your father. What do you suppose he would do? Huh? Tell me, Laura. What would he do?”