Getting Somewhere

by Beth Neff

  She can feel the cool, smooth gold in her palm, the light brush of the girl’s fingertips as she fastens one of the other pendants, one Lauren doesn’t want, around her neck, the barest movement of air on her neck as she lifts her hair to admire the necklace in the mirror, all the while watching the one she does want, the one she’s going to take, as if it might slither away. And that’s when she decides. She sends the clerk to another case and while her back is turned, Lauren acts. It only takes a small movement, a slight shifting of balance, a little help from gravity, for one of the chains to slip over the edge, for the links to slowly sink from sight. The girl gasps, rushes to retrieve it from the floor and, in that instant, the gold pendant slides across the glass and is safely nestled in the bottom of Lauren’s bag.

  Lauren is sure the clerk has seen nothing. There were way too many pieces out on the counter for the girl to notice one is gone, several having been brought from another case. Too confusing and the clerks are not that familiar with the stock anyway. Lauren is walking through the store, still in the part, still pretending to herself that she might have been interested in buying one of those others, as if her thoughts can be seen, and she can fool everyone if she just thinks the right ones. She lingers for just a moment among the handbags, casually fingering the stitching on a mahogany-tinted leather bag without bothering to consult the tag. Even as the security guard steps into her path, she doesn’t believe it is for her. She thinks he is opening the outer door for her, acts as shocked as she might have if she hadn’t stolen anything—she is that surprised she’s been caught.

  Not that it hadn’t happened before, but she was an amateur then. They’d dropped the charges the first time, and the second time her dad just paid the fine and she had to attend that class. The third time, the lawyer somehow got the charge reduced to a misdemeanor, bigger fine, still no jail time, maybe because the stuff wasn’t valuable enough. She was going to quit, or at least stick to little stuff, just for fun once in awhile. But Jason had said he could sell anything she got, especially gold, the good stuff. That she had a special talent, they’d save up, maybe get married or something and she wouldn’t even need her stupid fucked-up parents anymore. Lauren didn’t believe a word of it, and yet it mattered that he said it, thought maybe he might believe it and so pretended she did, too.

  When she tries to see Jason’s face now, it’s as if some of the features have become smudged, out of focus. He’s like a figure retreating into the mist at the end of a movie, a blurred shadow. She can’t remember the difference between the fantasy of him and her together and how it really was. The story is only good if the girl is always pretty, pretty enough that people can never blame her for anything, won’t send her away if she does something they don’t like, pretty enough to always stand in the front row, to be the first selected, to convince them she is exactly the kind of girl they need her to be. It’s important to skip over the parts of the story that hurt, the parts that have a girl in them who isn’t perfect, who isn’t loved by everyone or is confused about what love even means, can’t understand why it sometimes feels like pain; the parts that remind her that stealing came long before Jason, that she doesn’t know why she does it, that sometimes she wants to stop and can’t.

  No. There’s no question whose fault it is and no question who has to get her out of it. Isn’t that always the way it is? Everybody else in Lauren’s whole family is all fucked up and Lauren is the one who has to take the brunt of it. Lauren sits up abruptly and runs a finger under each eye to remove the mascara she knows is smeared there, rubs the black stain from her fingertip into the sheet. She steps to the window and peers out again. She can see them now—Grace and Ellie, Jenna and Sarah—far away in the garden, not even in the first field closest to the house. There’s no reason that Donna and Cassie wouldn’t be out there, too, but it bothers her a little that she can’t see them. Wait a bit longer or just go? No, she’s ready. At least it will be a little cooler downstairs.

  Lauren is moving through the hallway quietly, placing her bare feet down carefully on the creaky floorboards, hugging the wall along the stairs. When she gets to the bottom, she tiptoes across the foyer and stands to the side of the front door and looks out, can’t see anyone from there. It will be a long time before they start packing in the shed, and even if someone began walking up now, it would take them a good five minutes to get here. Lauren circles through the living room, the dining room, and the kitchen, assuring herself that the house is empty. Inside her chest, her heart beats like a memory, and she feels momentarily saved.

  She’s not interested in Donna’s room, though she glances in as she passes by. The room used to be a pantry off the kitchen, and Donna has made it comfortable and cozy, though Lauren thinks she would go crazy in a space that small. She takes one step in to better see the items that are scattered on the top of Donna’s dresser. There is a jar of coins, a little over half full, among the candle stubs, scraps of paper, pens and paperclips, a tiny statue that looks like some naked buxom goddess, a roll of antacids, and an open plastic box with index cards in it, a couple sticking up the long way, probably recipes. But Lauren has nowhere to spend money, especially small change, isn’t tempted by Donna’s stuff. Besides, she’s not looking for things to steal. What could she possibly want from these people?

  She passes by the office on the other side of the foyer from the living room and pushes open the door of Ellie’s bedroom, debating whether to shut it behind her or leave it open so she can hear a little better. She decides to leave it open a crack and then turns to survey the room. There is a bureau in here, too, though the top is much less cluttered than Donna’s, plus a desk and a closet. Lauren ignores the bed and the bookshelf, notes a small stand beside the bed with a lamp on top and a drawer.

  She decides to start with the desk after determining that there are no photos displayed in the room. She opens the top middle drawer, but it is clearly crammed with typical office-related items and nothing of a particularly personal nature. It doesn’t take long for Lauren to discover that none of the desk drawers offers anything much of interest, though she does withdraw a single sheet of stationery from a box buried under some loose papers in the bottom drawer and a matching envelope to which she affixes one stamp, hesitates, and then another from the book lying on the desk. She folds the stationery to fit into the envelope and slips it into the waistband of her shorts in the back, just barely covering it with the hem of her skimpy shirt.

  She is kneeling on the carpet, already on the third big drawer of the bureau before she finds anything. It is a photo album tucked among some flannel pajamas, and Lauren pulls it out, stopping to listen for a moment before sitting back on her feet and opening it across her thighs. Lauren doesn’t recognize anyone except a younger Ellie until a good way through the book and then, finally, there is Grace, too. The pictures look like they were taken on some kind of vacation. The women are wearing coats and hats and gloves. Behind them are rocky walls like canyons, and in another photo they are standing by a waterfall with icicles hanging from the rocks beside it. They look pretty much the same as now so Lauren guesses the pictures are no more than a couple years old. Usually, there is just one of them in the picture, obviously taken by the other, but there are two in which they are standing together, leaning in with their arms hooked around the other’s waist, nothing really beyond friendship apparent in their stance. She stares at the pictures for a while, hoping to see something in them that isn’t immediately obvious, disappointed not to have found something more explicit or incriminating.

  What a stupid, boring trip that must have been. Lauren is trying to imagine what would make someone take a winter vacation, what could possibly be fun about hiking on icy trails and freezing your ass off. Why aren’t there any pictures of the hot tub after the hike or the snuggle in bed with hot toddies and some vigorous sex to get the old bloodstream flowing again?

  Lauren is disgusted and captivated by the thought. Ther
e is something both disturbing and inviting about having actual people to plug into the images she has always carried of lesbians. She has only ever thought about the notion vaguely, applied generally to girls who were butchy or jocks or just ugly or to celebrities who are kind of expected to behave in bizarre ways. In her imagination, gay people have always been men. She’s never really put the idea together with women, adults who would live together, take vacations together, make love in a mountain cabin, or celebrate anniversaries together. It almost makes it seem even more depraved if it isn’t just a sex thing, if it is about love and never, not ever, being with a guy or having kids or being a normal family.

  She flips the page of the photo album angrily, more incensed than ever that these women are allowed to have a bunch of young girls come stay with them, are allowed to have a program that’s supposed to set people on the right path when they’ve “gone astray,” as the counselors like to say, themselves. Who could have approved such a thing? Are they hiding it? Is she the only one who knows who these women really are? Lauren is even more determined than ever to find real proof, is sure that, with it, she can go over the heads of peons like Tracy Hughes who just treats her like a naughty child and doesn’t have any power anyway.

  It is not until the last page that Lauren finds what she is looking for. In fact, the picture is just tucked into the edge of the book as if someone had taken it out to look at it more closely. It is a picture of Ellie and Grace together and they are leaning toward each other with their lips pursed, just ready to meet in a kiss. There is a cake in front of them with candles on it and the edges of what look like champagne bottles and glasses. The picture is kind of blurry, and it is even difficult to make out their faces, but Lauren is sure it’s them. It’s not great but it’s better than nothing. She lays the album on the carpet and then, after peering at it one more time, slides the photo into her shorts beside the envelope.

  Something catches as Lauren tries to replace the album in the drawer, and she pushes harder trying to make the album lie flat. She realizes she has been making a lot of noise and stops to listen, thinks for a minute she might hear someone in the hall or the kitchen, freezes, holding her breath. Nothing. Lauren debates getting up to check the front door again but decides that would take too much time. Instead, she reaches into the back of the drawer to see what is causing the problem. It’s another smaller album that has been shoved into the back of the drawer, and Lauren opens it with excited anticipation. Certainly, something this hidden must be just what she is looking for.

  But this one is even worse than the first. The pictures look like they are a hundred years old, so ancient that the early ones are in black and white. If there are even people in them, they are awkwardly posed, unsmiling, wearing what looks like old-fashioned everyday clothing. Most show a couple with a small girl who looks like she could be Grace but Lauren thinks the pictures are even too old for that. Then there’s one with four people, the couple, grown older now, a younger woman, and a child, also a girl. Lauren leans closer to peer at the little girl’s face but doesn’t really care who it is, has already lost interest in the album, and begins flipping through the pages quickly, barely even focusing on the photos.

  On the last page, there is a newspaper clipping folded and slipped into the sleeve. Lauren withdraws it and carefully lays the thin, worn paper on her lap. The headline reads, “Charges Dropped, Death Ruled Suicide” and under it, a smaller but still bold line states, “Local man released when daughter’s death ruled a suicide, investigation closed, says sheriff.” Lauren briefly wonders why the article has been saved but has no further interest in it as she folds it up and replaces it in the back of the album, adjusting the edges to lie flat in the sleeve to betray no evidence of her handling. Just more of Grace’s holy family history, she is sure. Why not something about Ellie? Why don’t they ever hear about her background, her childhood, some explanation for how a girl, a woman—an actually pretty woman—could turn into this?

  Lauren’s hands are shaking with fury as she fumbles around trying to get both albums back in the drawer as they were. She stops for a moment, listening once again for movement, considers making her escape now.

  But there’s one more place to check. Lauren moves to the nightstand and opens the small drawer with such a jerk that she sets the lamp to wobbling, has to steady it with her hand to prevent it from falling. In there she finds a pile of envelopes with cards thrown in among them haphazardly, as if they were read in a hurry and no time was taken to match them back up. Or else reading them made the person mad. Made Ellie mad. Does Grace ever sleep in here? If this is Grace’s house, why does Ellie sleep here, in the best room? Lauren stares at the closet doors for a minute, considers checking out the hanging clothes, but what would that prove, even if Grace keeps her clothes in here? Grace sleeps out in that ridiculous little shed. Or at least she goes out there in the evening. Lauren has seen her go, though she’s never seen her come back in the morning since Grace is always up way before Lauren. She glances around the room again, feeling like she is missing something important, can’t think what else to look for.

  She’s starting to get so antsy that she can hardly concentrate. She bends down to examine the cards, thumbs through them with a little more urgency, then picks one out, opens it. It is a birthday card to Ellie, signed, “Love, Grace,” with no other message. Lauren riffles further through the pile, hesitates, then finally just gathers them all together, lifting them as one out of the drawer. There has to be a love letter, at least one, somewhere in here. She’ll just sort through them to find it later. This is good, but it is not good enough. She will have to do more.

  Lauren neatens the edges of the clump of cards and letters just enough to be able to hold them all without dropping any, pushes the drawer shut with her knee, setting the lamp to wobbling slightly again, and clutching the pile to her chest, scans the room one more time as she backs out the door.

  Lauren carefully props the door open just as it had been when she arrived and turns to cross the foyer and climb the stairs with her booty. At first, she doesn’t even notice Cassie standing in the doorway of the living room because the girl hasn’t uttered a single word.

  Lauren startles. “Oh my god! You scared me. What are you, some kind of snoop, spying on people behind their backs?”

  Cassie shakes her head but still says nothing, her eyes on the pile of cards in Lauren’s arms.

  “What are you looking at? God, just mind your own business, okay? Ellie told me I could borrow some stationery, write my parents a letter. I’m sure she would have done the same for you if you actually had parents. You don’t, do you?”

  Lauren is kind of expecting Cassie to break down and cry or at least look shocked. Or saddened. Or something. But she just stands there, doesn’t change her expression, doesn’t even try to answer.

  Lauren steps over a little closer to her.

  “I’m just going to go through these and see which ones I like best and return the ones I don’t want to use. You understand that, right?”

  Cassie’s brow furrows a bit.

  Lauren enunciates her next words like she’s talking to someone just learning English. “Borrowing. Do. You. Understand. Borrowing?”

  “Yes, I understand borrowing.”

  Lauren shakes her head and rolls her eyes.

  “Geez. This place is a nuthouse.” She turns and climbs the stairs.

  Her heart is racing as she returns to her room, but she tells herself there is nothing to worry about. It was just Cassie. She barely even talks. And Lauren is certain, absolutely certain, that she never would.

  LAUREN IS RUBBING her eyes with her fists, looking a bit woozy, when she stumbles into the kitchen for a glass of cold water from the refrigerator. Donna smiles at her. “Feeling any better?”

  “Not really. I took some Motrin but it isn’t really helping.”

  Lauren plops down
at the kitchen table with her glass where Donna has laid the vegetables she plans to cut up for a pasta salad. There is a cutting board and a knife, several zucchini, a pile of carrots, two medium-size heads of broccoli, two large tomatoes, and a couple of bunches of green onions. Lauren pushes the cutting board away from her so there is room on the table for her elbows, reaches toward one of the zucchini, and proceeds to roll it back and forth across the surface of the table, cradling her head in the other hand.

  Donna is racing around the kitchen in a hurry like she has some kind of deadline. It seems to Lauren like the woman is turned on to high and can never slow down. It actually makes her nervous, and she has tried to avoid being around Donna any more than necessary. Plus, Lauren hates cooking and there is no way in hell she’s planning to wash any dishes, hasn’t done it once since she’s been here.

  “Well, you missed all the fun out there,” Donna says cheerfully to Lauren.

  “Oh right,” Lauren answers sarcastically.

  “We picked the first of the tomatoes today. Out of the greenhouse. They’re really nice.”

  “Oh joy,” Lauren intones, lifts her head to glare at Donna. “Don’t you get awful tired of this?”

  “Tired of what?”

  “Everything. The garden and the cooking.” Lauren hesitates. “Having us around?”

  Donna takes a deep breath, considers her answer. “I guess it’s different for me. I choose to be here.”