Good Daughter (9781101619261)

by Porter, Jane

  “Delilah!” Her mother’s voice was louder, anxious. “Howie’s on his way home from the airport in a terrible mood. Get up. Get your homework done.”

  “’Kay.”

  But she didn’t move. She clutched the quilted bedspread, a blue-and-green swirl of colors that made her think of the ocean, and tried to get warm. She felt strange. Her room felt strange. Unsettled, she slid from bed, grabbed her backpack, and left her room, heading to the kitchen table to study.

  Mama was standing at the kitchen sink peeling potatoes. “I’d go easy on Howard tonight. He had to fly to Houston early this morning and he’s had a rough day.”

  Delilah dropped her backpack on the table, wishing that for once Mama would ask about her day, or want to know how she was feeling. But there was no room in Mama’s life for anyone but Howie. God, Delilah hated Howie. “What do you mean, go easy on him? I never do anything—”

  “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. That tone of voice. That attitude. It’s just going to upset him and we don’t need to do that. He’s already going to be worked up when he gets home.”

  “Why? Did he get laid off again?”

  Missy shot Delilah a sharp glance. “No. He wasn’t laid off.” She took a quick breath, her right hand swiftly working the peeler, slicing the skin off in long graceful spirals. “There was an explosion at one of the refineries. Men are missing. Two of them were Howard’s good friends.”

  “That’s too bad,” Delilah answered flatly, jerking out one of the chairs, letting it scrape against the floor. “Shit happens, don’t it?”

  “Delilah.”

  “It’s true.”

  Missy clenched the peeled potato in her palm, her voice rising. “If you say that to Howard, he will just lose it. Lose it. Do you understand?”

  Delilah stared at her, her gaze hard, understanding all too well. “Why did you marry him?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “It is my business.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “What happens to you happens to me—”

  “Nothing happens to me.”

  “You have a black eye or broken bone every couple of weeks.”

  “Don’t exaggerate. It’s not that bad. And when something happens, he always feels terrible about it later. He’s a good man, Dee. Just had a rough childhood.”

  “Who hasn’t?”

  Missy glanced nervously toward the back door as if waiting for it to open. “This isn’t the time. As I said, Howard’s had a bad day and he’s going to need things nice and quiet.”

  It was always about Howard, wasn’t it? Keeping him happy. Making sure he was comfortable. Smoothing things over so he could feel like The Man.

  Never mind that her mama was nothing but a doormat, just there for him to wipe his feet on.

  How was that fair?

  Delilah ground her teeth as she watched her mother pick up another potato. How could her mother take it? Accept it? Worse, how could she make excuses for him? God, there was no justice. No justice at all. “Which of his favorite dishes are you making, Mama?”

  “German pot roast and mashed potatoes.”

  Delilah’s eyes smarted, and she shook her head and looked away toward the living room with its brown leather couch and love seat. Howie’s furniture, of course.

  “So he’s pretty torn up?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  Delilah swallowed around the ache in her chest and the fear thickening her throat. “Would you like me to make my Texas sheet cake? You know he always likes that.”

  Missy shot her a grateful smile. “Oh, that’d be wonderful, hon. He loves your Texas sheet cake. Says it’s better than even his mama’s.”

  Delilah went to the sink to wash her hands but suddenly turned to her mother and pressed her cheek to her warm, thin back. She could feel her narrow bra strap through Mama’s blouse and caught a whiff of her perfume—Fantasy, by Britney Spears. Howie had bought the perfume for her after their first date and Mama wore it whenever she wanted to make him happy.

  And Mama tried so hard to make Howie happy.

  Delilah squeezed her eyes shut, held her breath. If Mama hadn’t met him…If only Mama could have been happy with just the two of them…

  “You okay?” Mama asked.

  Delilah drew a quick breath. “Mm.”

  Slowly Missy reached around with a wet hand and patted her arm. “I love you, hon.”

  “Mm.”

  She patted Delilah’s arm again. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

  “Mm.”

  “And, baby, Howie’s going to love the cake.”

  Twelve

  Jude heard the first scream from the kitchen, where he was browning ground beef for his Hamburger Helper dinner. The hair on his neck rose and he stood motionless, wooden spoon suspended over the frying pan.

  It was a scream, wasn’t it? He held his breath and listened harder, ears, senses, straining.

  All was silent except for the sizzle of meat. But Jude’s gut felt tight.

  He knew what was happening next door in the Dempsey house, and it made him nuts. It did. Someone needed to teach that bastard a lesson.

  There were rules to the universe, rules every man knew. You hit a man, or pounded a punching bag, but never a woman.

  Never a woman.

  Jude knocked the skillet onto a back burner and headed outside to stand on his front porch and listen.

  The night was cool, almost cold, and the moon was nonexistent. In the dark he listened to the silence. And he listened to the small sounds. And he listened for what he couldn’t hear but could all too easily imagine.

  Crying. Whimpering. Pain.

  He squeezed his hand into a fist and realized he was still holding the wooden spoon.

  And then it came. “No, Howie. Howie, please!”

  The pleading shriek tore at Jude. Spots danced before his eyes. His stomach rolled. He started down the steps, reached the sidewalk, and then abruptly stopped.

  He couldn’t get involved.

  He had to get involved.

  He wasn’t allowed to get involved.

  But God help him, how could he not? Tossing the spoon, Jude reached into his back pocket of his jeans for his phone and swiftly punched in a number of someone who could get involved, giving him the address for the house next door, even while still listening to see if he needed to bust through the door to borrow a cup of sugar. And then before he could hang up the phone, the front door on the neat white house next to his opened and shut. Howard Dempsey stood on his own steps, car keys jingling in his hand.

  He was leaving. Heading out now that he’d been the big man and taught his woman who was boss.

  The edge of Jude’s mouth flattened as he stood in the dark on his sagging front porch, watching Howard climb behind the wheel and back his gleaming gray Lincoln from the driveway into the street.

  Jude waited until the red taillights of the car disappeared down the street before heading over to the Dempseys’ and knocking on the front door.

  He heard muffled voices and crying but no one answered.

  He knocked again. Waited. “It’s Jude,” he said through the door. “Is everything all right? Is there anything I can do?”

  No one came to the door. But then, knowing what he knew, he hadn’t really expected anyone to.

  He returned to his house, found a sheet of paper, and scribbled: If you need anything call me. He added his name and phone number and then slid the piece of paper under his neighbor’s door.

  Back at his house, he threw himself down on his couch and pressed a fist to his forehead, hating himself for not busting in and punching Dempsey out. Dempsey deserved to hurt. Deserved to bleed. Unfortunately, Jude couldn’t be the one to do it. Not until he’d taken care of a few other people first.

  Wednesday morning Kit sat in a chair at the back of the classroom waiting for the next group to assemble at the front to perform their assigned scene from Twelfth Night. Accor
ding to her assignment sheet, Delilah and Kendra were next up.

  “Delilah and Kendra, are you ready?” she asked, prodding them to action, even as she glanced down at the one-page printout of the girls’ assignment. In this scene the beautiful, popular Kendra would play the lovely, aristocratic Olivia and Delilah would play Viola, who was pretending to be Cesario, Duke Orsino’s servant.

  Kit was fully aware that this had not been a popular pairing. Kendra had not wanted to be assigned to Delilah, preferring to be paired with one of her cheerleader friends, but Kit hadn’t been swayed. She knew that Kendra wouldn’t blow off the assignment and she wanted to see what Delilah would, or could, do.

  The girls took their places at the front of the room and Kit was pleased to see that they were both in costume, Kendra in an emerald gown with her brown hair piled high, and Delilah in tweed trousers and a men’s white dress shirt and brown vest, her hair hidden beneath a jaunty cap.

  Delilah, as Viola, started the scene. “The honorable lady of the house, which is she?”

  Kendra, channeling an arrogant, albeit exquisite, Olivia, stepped forward, fanning herself with a pink Japanese fan she’d pulled from her sleeve. “Speak to me,” she said imperiously. “I shall answer for her. Your will?”

  And they were off, reciting lines with ease, holding the class spellbound. Kit was spellbound, too. While Kendra was playing to type as Olivia, Delilah was a revelation, transforming from a silent, hostile teenager into the perfect Viola, charming and yet vulnerable. Even more impressive was that she had memorized the scene, and never once referred to the script clutched in her hand. Kendra and Delilah’s familiarity with the lines allowed them to nail Shakespeare’s banter. It was beyond good, it was brilliant, and Kit sat on the edge of her seat as the scene came to a close with Olivia telling Viola to tell the duke that she could never love him, and Viola responding with some of Kit’s favorite lines in the play:

  Love make his heart of flint that you shall love;

  And let your fervor, like my master’s, be

  Placed in contempt! Farewell, fair cruelty.

  And then Viola was to have exited. It’s what Shakespeare wrote. Exit. But in a surprise staging move, she leaned forward and kissed Kendra. On the lips.

  Kendra froze, horrified, then abruptly came to life with a scream.

  The kiss, clearly, hadn’t been rehearsed. Someone in the back of the room whistled. Someone else made a catcall.

  Kit was on her feet, clapping her hands, taking control. “Okay, enough drama for the day,” she said, moving to the front of the room.

  Kendra was unraveling, though. “Why did you do that?” she shouted, red-faced in her emerald gown. “What’s wrong with you? What kind of freak are you?”

  Delilah shrugged. Her jaunty cap had been knocked off and her pale skin appeared almost translucent. “The kind that likes kissing girls.”

  “You’re a lesbo?” Kendra’s voice spiraled.

  The class laughed.

  Kendra slapped Delilah hard.

  Adrenaline pumping, Kit stepped between the girls, fearing Delilah would retaliate. “That’s enough,” she said firmly.

  Delilah shrugged a thin shoulder, ran the tip of her tongue over her upper lip, and sang, “I kissed a girl and I liked it.”

  It was a perfect Katy Perry imitation and the boys were on their feet, whistling and giving Delilah a standing ovation.

  Kendra burst into tears.

  The door to Kit’s classroom opened and Mrs. Adams, the short, square, stodgy English teacher next door entered. “I cannot teach over the din, Miss Brennan.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Adams,” Kit answered. “We were just wrapping up our scenes.”

  Delilah did a little sexy shimmy and sang, “It felt so wrong, it felt so right…”

  Kendra launched herself at her with a scream.

  “Fight, fight, fight!” the boys chanted while the girls were making mewling sounds.

  Another teacher popped her head in to say she’d just called for Sister Elena and Ms. Jones.

  Sister Elena arrived at a run, her gray veil, white underveil, and gray scapular flying. The fight was over before Sister burst into the room, but Kit knew the damage was done. Sister didn’t tolerate fighting at Memorial, and the punishment was always swift and severe—immediate suspension, if not expulsion.

  Still breathless, Sister turned to one of the girls in the front row and demanded a brief explanation of what had just happened.

  The girl, Merrie Garnier, was a cheerleader and close friend of Kendra’s. “Delilah kissed Kendra,” she said with a sniff. “Kendra started crying and might have hit Delilah, not sure, and then Delilah dragged her to the ground.”

  “It wasn’t exactly like that,” Kit interjected crisply. “But there was an argument—”

  “After the kiss,” Damien shouted from the back of the room. “So Kendra slapped Delilah silly.”

  Sister Elena’s gaze swept from Damien in the back row, over the class, and settled on Kendra and Delilah at the front. “One more time. Who hit who?”

  Kit took a deep breath. “Kendra hit Delilah.”

  Sister’s forehead furrowed deeply. “Kendra, is this true?”

  Kendra’s cheeks were splotchy. “She kissed me, Sister! And with some tongue, too!”

  “Stop exaggerating. There was no tongue,” Delilah said.

  Sister Elena turned to look at Delilah, her expression forbidding. “Did you kiss her?”

  Delilah rolled her eyes. “It was just a little kiss.”

  Sister’s lips compressed. “Miss Brennan, when the bell rings you will escort Miss Hartnel to her locker, where she will clear out her things and then I will see both of you in my office.”

  Sister Elena swept out with a weeping Kendra, and as the door closed behind them, Kit slowly turned to face her class, avoiding Delilah’s gaze.

  “Are you going to be fired, Miss Brennan?” Damien called from the back row.

  “No, Damien, I’m sorry. I will be back tomorrow.”

  “And what about Delilah?” he persisted. “Will Sister expel her?”

  Kit’s stomach heaved. She couldn’t go there, couldn’t think of that now. “I don’t think that’s any of your business, Mr. Franco.”

  And then the bell rang. Thank God.

  Kit’s heart pounded as everyone filed out. If she was walking Delilah to her locker to empty it out, it meant that the girl was done. Gone. Kit couldn’t even imagine how Michael would respond to the news.

  She glanced at Delilah where she still stood at the front of the room. She hadn’t moved from the spot where she and Kendra had performed. Kit’s gaze rested on the red handprint still evident on her cheek.

  “Why did you do that?” Kit whispered, sinking down on the stool next to her overhead projector. “Why in God’s name would you kiss her?”

  Delilah’s gaze dropped to the floor. “Wanted to taste her cherry ChapStick,” she said dully.

  For a moment Kit couldn’t breathe. Her heart hurt. Her head was pounding. She hated to think that Delilah was already gone and she hadn’t even been at the school for two full weeks. “You know you’re in trouble, don’t you?”

  Delilah shrugged. “Not the first time,” she said, her voice wobbling, betraying her. “Won’t be the last.”

  Sister Elena was still closeted with Kendra, getting her version of the story, when Kit and Delilah arrived at her office. The two of them waited silently, sitting two chairs apart, until Sister’s door opened and Kendra emerged, her nose high in the air.

  Sister called Kit in and motioned for her to close the door. “Kendra told me what happened,” the principal said, “but I’d like to hear your version.”

  Kit swiftly recounted the events, neither embellishing nor editing details.

  When she’d finished, Sister’s eyebrows rose. “This is very serious.”

  “Delilah was just goofing around,” Kit answered.

  “It’s sexual harassment.”


  “She was trying to get attention.”

  “She has it, and she’s not going to like it.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “You know the consequences for sexual harassment.”

  Kit sat down in the chair opposite her principal, hands clasped in her lap. “Please don’t expel her. She’s still settling in here and I know she’s having some adjustment problems, but, Sister, Delilah needs us. She needs Memorial. I can’t explain it, but this is where she should be. This is where she needs to be.”

  “Ms. Jones has had problems with her. I’ve checked her grades. She’s not passing anything—”

  “It’s so early, Sister. She’s only been here eight days—”

  “Only eight days and this kind of trouble. Exactly my point, Miss Brennan.”

  “I know, but if you’d seen her perform her scene with Kendra this morning, you would have been amazed. She came in costume—most kids didn’t even bother to dress up. She knew her lines, by heart, and she’s the only one who memorized them. She wasn’t just good. She was brilliant.”

  “I can’t permit this kind of conduct at my school.”

  “I agree, but—”

  “I must hold all the kids to the same standards.”

  “Yes, but it wasn’t a real kiss—”

  “Not a real kiss?” Sister’s eyebrows lifted. “Did lips not touch, Miss Brennan?”

  Kit blushed. “No, they touched.”

  Kit’s principal studied her. “You’re fighting hard for her, Miss Brennan.”

  “Yes, Sister.”

  “But you always fight hard for your students.”

  “They’re children, Sister.”

  Sister Elena continued to look at her, her lips pursed, her expression speculative.

  “But Jesus said, ‘Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven.’”

  Matthew 19:14. Kit knew the verse well. “She needs us, Sister.”

  “And what about Kendra, who was humiliated?”

  “She’ll recover.”

  “You are playing favorites.”

  “I don’t mean to, but think about it—Jesus didn’t treat everyone the same. He gave what people needed. Love, compassion, forgiveness. Kendra’s hurt—her pride’s hurt, she’s embarrassed—but she’ll be fine. We both know that. But Delilah…I don’t know if she’ll be fine if you send her away. I don’t think her home life is all that stable. Her parents have only recently reconciled.”