The Lost Girls

by Heather Young

  Playing with the kittens, I wanted to say, but I didn’t have the nerve.

  “You know what he’s like,” Father said. “He may be nearly grown, but he’s still a child in his heart. He doesn’t think like that. And God doesn’t judge us on the things we do, but on the intentions of our hearts.” As always when he invoked God, his voice rang with authority. He smiled at Mr. Williams and, by the faintest glance, at me, which sent a small delighted shock tingling through my fingertips. “Mens rea, isn’t that the term you shysters use?”

  Mr. Williams smiled, too, and shook his head. “You should have studied law, not religion.”

  Mayor Lloyd ran one hand over the top of his balding head. His hand trembled a little, with relief, I thought. “Maybe so. But it’s not right.” He turned to Mr. Miller, who still stood with his sons by the bar. He pointed a finger at him, belligerent again. “You tell him. We can’t have it. Not anymore.”

  Mr. Miller’s eyes wavered for the smallest instant, and he gave a curt nod. He said to Abe, “Get back to the kitchen,” and Abe disappeared through the door. Matthew followed. Mr. Miller returned to the bar, turned his back to us, and began wiping the glasses in the drying rack. Soon Dr. Pugh and Mr. Davies took Amanda to town to stitch up her arm, Lilith and her friends left, and everyone else carried on as though nothing had happened.

  But later, as I was looking through the books on the lending shelf, I heard Mr. Miller’s voice, raised in anger, through the back door. The lodge was empty save for me; it was that dead time between the afternoon and the early supper crowd. I went to the door and stood with my ear close to it.

  “It’s got to stop,” I heard him say. “You can’t play with them anymore. Not with the girls.”

  “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

  “That’s not what I mean. You’re grown now. It doesn’t look right, you playing with the girls. It’s going to bring trouble on us. Play with the boys all you want, but if I catch you with one of the girls again, I’ll strap you, so help me God.”

  That was all he said on the matter, at least within my hearing. But for the rest of that summer, and for all the summers after, Abe stayed away from the lake children, girls and boys alike. Even when the town folk stopped coming and the summer people became vacationers from distant cities, Abe worked in the back of the lodge, out of sight. None of the mothers had minded Abe’s attentions to their daughters; in fact, Abe with his gentle ways was the only Miller they liked. The fathers, though; that was something else. The fathers didn’t like their little girls playing with older boys. Especially older half-breed boys.

  Which is why it was interesting that, of all the men in the lodge that day, it was Father who wasn’t bothered by what happened. Father, who couldn’t abide Lilith sitting next to Charlie Lloyd at a bonfire, had no trouble with Abe and Amanda playing in the Millers’ shed, or with Abe and Emily playing under the lodge. The difference, I decided after giving it much thought, must lie in that thing he’d said to Mr. Williams. Mens rea. It wasn’t until years later I learned what that was: a legal term meaning “guilty mind.” Some acts, no matter how dire the results, aren’t considered crimes without proof of an intent to do harm. To Father, Charlie Lloyd had mens rea; Abe did not; and that was all that mattered.

  He was right, of course. About Charlie, about Abe, and even, to some extent, about himself. Charlie had had lustful thoughts about Lilith for years, and would until the day he died. Abe was not incorruptible, as I later learned, but I’m certain he never meant to hurt anyone. As for Father, no matter what you think of him when my story is done—and I expect you will judge him harshly indeed—I will say only this. I believe he tried, as best he could, to keep his intentions pure in the eyes of his God. And when he saw that he had failed, he imposed upon himself without complaint the harsh punishment his God demanded.

  Justine

  Justine only checked Lucy’s post office box every few days, so she wasn’t sure how long the letter from the assistant principal had been there. “I would like to schedule a meeting with you about your daughter Melanie,” it said. Justine was alone in the kitchen when she read it, and she thought about throwing it in the trash. It had been three weeks since the assistant principal called, but Justine hadn’t done anything about it. She’d decided to ignore the whole thing. They were leaving anyway, so what was the point?

  But the tone of the letter was stern. It used the words consequences and unacceptable, and Justine worried about what the woman might do to punish Melanie without consulting her. Better to meet with her and apologize for whatever Melanie had done. So, on the Monday before the winter break, she told her mother she had some errands to run and went to the school an hour before the final bell.

  She pictured Elizabeth Sorensen as a gray-haired woman with reading glasses and a buttoned-up mouth. That was how the assistant principal in San Diego looked, and that was how she remembered all the assistant principals she’d met as a child. She’d spent a lot of time in assistant principals’ offices. Sometimes her mother was there, too, and when she was, the assistant principal would talk about the importance of a stable home in a voice that sounded just like Mrs. Sorensen’s had on the phone.

  Instead, Mrs. Sorensen turned out to be a tall, attractive woman about Justine’s age with straight, straw-colored hair in a blunt cut. She wore brown tweed pants, a soft brown sweater, and a cream scarf, all with a casual elegance that made Justine feel short and frumpy in her T.J.Maxx jeans and pullover. Her office was small and outfitted with cheap public school furniture, but framed Audubon prints hung on the wall, and a kilim rug lay on the industrial carpet. The effect was cozy, which Justine also found discomfiting.

  She sat with her purse on her lap while Mrs. Sorensen opened a manila folder. “I’ve read Melanie’s records from her school in San Diego.” She looked down at the file. “The counselor there said she had become resistive. Refusing to follow instructions and do classwork. Over the past few months she had several physical altercations with her peers.”

  Justine hadn’t known Melanie’s disciplinary record would follow her here. So much for a clean slate. The mother of the girl whose backpack Melanie threw in the mud had snatched the new backpack and shut her front door before Melanie could finish her apology. Justine felt again the helpless anger she’d felt that day, both at the woman and at Melanie. She gripped the vinyl handles of her purse. “Just tell me what she’s done so we can make it up.”

  Mrs. Sorensen’s blue eyes were cool and intelligent, like a scientist’s. “She hasn’t done anything. I was surprised to read all this in her file.”

  Justine was confused. “Then what—?”

  Mrs. Sorensen softened almost imperceptibly. “Look, it’s a small town. We don’t get new kids often. I keep an eye on them, because I moved here in fourth grade myself, so I know how hard it can be.” She paused, inviting Justine to appreciate her solicitude. Justine doubted whether pretty, blond Elizabeth Sorensen had any idea how hard it could be, so she said nothing. The assistant principal continued, “Angela’s doing fine, all things considered. She’s a sweet girl and she’s working hard. Melanie’s situation is different.”

  So that was what this was about: Melanie hadn’t made a friend yet. Justine was relieved it wasn’t a disciplinary issue, but Melanie’s lack of social skills wasn’t a new problem, either. Melanie hadn’t had a friend since the third grade. Alicia Clark had been the last, a cute, red-haired girl who came over on Saturday afternoons until her mother stopped calling without explanation.

  Then Mrs. Sorensen said, “Unfortunately, she’s being targeted by some of the other girls.”

  Justine wasn’t sure she’d heard her correctly. “Did you say targeted?”

  “Bullied, I should say.”

  “Melanie’s being bullied?”

  Mrs. Sorensen picked up a pen and turned it over in her fingers. Then, her expression as bland as though she were describing the weather, she told Justine how a group of girls—the “queen bees” she call
ed them, daughters of the town’s oldest, most prominent families—had organized a campaign against Melanie almost from the day she’d arrived. They called her Smelly Melly and made up cruel rhymes about her. They said she was dirty and anyone who touched her had to wash their hands. Even things she touched, like pencils, books, or her desk, had to be wiped before anyone else used them. It was a small school, Mrs. Sorensen explained, and all the students in the fifth grade, even the boys, were under the social control of these four ringleaders.

  Stunned, Justine waited to hear how Melanie had struck back. Hit someone, wrecked someone’s backpack. But Mrs. Sorensen said nothing about that. Instead she said, “Melanie was so distant when she arrived. She acted like she didn’t care about these girls, or their power. They saw it as a challenge.”

  The assistant principal regarded her with studied, bureaucratic sympathy. Justine looked away, over Mrs. Sorensen’s shoulder at a print of a red bird with an orange crest. She’d grown accustomed to Melanie spurning other children, but for her to be the object of these attacks, so similar to the social torments Justine herself had experienced as a child? And she’d had no idea. She remembered how Melanie had walked up the school steps just that morning, her feet heavy, her head bowed. Still, she’d trudged into the San Diego school, too, hadn’t she? How was Justine supposed to have known the difference? The red bird stared back with one bright, black, accusatory eye.

  Mrs. Sorensen was waiting for her to say something. Justine thought for a minute, then said, “What are you going to do about it?”

  This was the right question; the one the assistant principal expected. Her tone became, if possible, more officious. “Well, in addition to serving as the assistant principal, I’m the school counselor. What I’d like to do is use this situation to start a school-wide discussion about bullying that, frankly, is long overdue. Melanie’s difficulties will be a learning opportunity for everyone at Williamsburg Elementary. It’s a teachable moment, as they say.”

  Justine’s mouth opened in disbelief. She couldn’t imagine anything Melanie would like less than to serve as the poster child for an antibullying campaign. But what would other mothers say about this? Would they give permission? They probably would. It was the expected thing, to want to help your children. And of course she did want to help Melanie. She also didn’t want to make trouble for her, because trouble apparently followed you, in your records, from town to town.

  Then she remembered the winter break was four days away. “Can it wait until after the break?” she asked.

  Mrs. Sorensen nodded. “That would be best.”

  Justine relaxed—they would be long gone before Mrs. Sorensen could seize her teachable moment. She picked up her purse, preparing to leave. The assistant principal cleared her throat. For the first time she looked a little uncomfortable.

  “There’s one more thing. I’m worried Melanie may have deeper problems that need to be addressed. With your permission, of course.” She took another folder from beneath the first and slid it toward Justine. This, Justine figured with a sinking dread, was going to be the same thing the San Diego school always wanted to talk about. Melanie was unhappy. Melanie was angry. Melanie missed her father. All of it true, all of it immutable. In San Diego she’d assured them Melanie lived in a stable home with a good man who wouldn’t leave, and that had mollified them somewhat. She wouldn’t be able to say that here.

  But the folder didn’t hold the counselor’s report she’d expected. It held a stack of drawings on lined papers torn from a spiral notebook. They were clearly done by Melanie, but unlike Melanie’s usual delicate sketches the lines of these drawings were heavy, as though she’d driven the pencil hard into the paper.

  The first was of a girl crouching in a forest. She wore a white dress and had black hair that covered her face except for her eyes, which were wide with fear. The forest was a tangle of scribbled trees that pressed down upon her from all sides. In the branches loomed a man’s face, his hair a dark mass, his eyes black holes. The drawing was crude, but the menace in the woods was visceral, like something done from a nightmare. Justine’s pulse quickened as she turned the page over. The next drawing was of the same girl, her arms reaching as she fell into a circling black vortex. Her mouth was open in a scream.

  There were a dozen more, each of a terrified dark-haired girl, usually in a tangled forest, sometimes in a swirl of black circles, many with that same face watching from someplace close and dark. In each, the pencil had scored with a passion that made Justine’s fingers shrink away as though the paper were hot. As she turned the pages the air in the assistant principal’s office became heavy, smothering.

  “She was drawing in class, and her teacher took away the notebook,” Mrs. Sorensen said.

  Justine licked her lips. “She likes to draw.”

  Mrs. Sorensen turned the pen in her fingers. “The registration papers you filled out don’t list a father’s name.”

  Oh, God, here it was. “Their father left. Over a year ago. I don’t know where he is.”

  “I see.” The pen turned and turned. “Is there another man now?”

  “No. We left him in San Diego.”

  “Why?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Was there violence?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Did he touch the children in ways they weren’t comfortable with?” The assistant principal’s face was mild, as if she were asking the girls’ shoe size, but a faint pink tinged her cheeks.

  “No! Patrick would never do that!” Justine snapped the folder shut. He wouldn’t. She knew it with absolute certainty. Whatever his faults, he wasn’t a child molester, and he loved Melanie. Melanie hadn’t loved him back, but that wasn’t because he’d done anything terrible. He just wasn’t Francis, that was all.

  Elizabeth Sorensen’s face was quite pink now. “Surely you can see how these drawings might arouse suspicion.”

  “No, I can’t. They’re just drawings! How do they mean Patrick hurt her?”

  “I’m troubled by how distressed the girl is in these pictures. And by how much she looks like Melanie. And there’s a man in several of them.”

  “That man looks nothing like Patrick.” Justine felt a hot rage. This woman! So perfect, so smug, so certain she knew everything about the single mother and her children who’d showed up in her insular little town dressed in cheap, ill-fitting clothes. So troubled, by the dismal life of abuse and neglect they must lead!

  “Even so, may I have your permission to talk with her about them?” Mrs. Sorensen prompted.

  “No.” Justine snatched the folder and walked out, leaving Elizabeth Sorensen sputtering about not removing documents from a student’s file. She walked past the secretary, out of the school, and got in her car. It took every one of the ten minutes remaining before her daughters came out for her hands to stop shaking.

  Lucy

  August came. August in Minnesota is a miserable month, thick with heat and the buzzing of horseflies as big as grapes. In the towns it’s something to suffer through, especially in those days before air conditioners, when people sat inside with the windows shut and the drapes drawn and children spent hard-won nickels on fountain sodas that cooled them only for a moment. But our lake was so deep it never fully gave up the cold of winter, and the shock of it against our hot skin made even the worst days bearable. At night we slept with our windows open, listening to the crickets and the frogs, in sleeveless nightgowns under white sheets, as water-fed breezes cooled our faces.

  One morning, not long after the scene in the lodge with Abe and Mayor Lloyd, I woke to find Father sitting on my bed in his fishing clothes. It wasn’t quite dawn, and everything floated in shades of gray, so at first I thought he was the afterimage of a dream. I managed to keep my breathing even so he wouldn’t know I’d woken. I couldn’t imagine why he was there. He just sat, with his elbows resting on his thighs and his hands clasped between them, his head bowed, as if he were praying. The lines of his sho
ulders, the curve of his back, the clenched muscle in his cheek, all betrayed the weariness and tension that had haunted him the past few weeks. After a minute or two I couldn’t help myself; my breathing hitched, and he looked at me. He relaxed a little when he saw I was awake, and smiled. “Lucy. Do you want to come fishing?”

  Fishing! I had to fight to keep the joy and, yes, triumph, from my face. He’d never taken any of us fishing. None of the men took their daughters; fishing was only for the sons. Lilith used to say we were lucky to be girls, because no one pulled us out of bed before dawn on Saturday mornings, but now that Father had asked me, I wanted nothing more than to get up and go fishing with him.

  He waited on the landing while I dressed. Like Lilith before her evenings at the lodge, I dithered over what to wear, then chose my simplest skirt and plainest shoes. When I came out, Father smiled again. “It’s not the usual fishing attire,” he said, “but it will do.”

  All but two of the boats were already gone. Mr. Jones stood in one of them, stowing tackle boxes and rods while two of his sons waited on the dock. Bobby and Davy were younger than I, and they looked at me with open surprise. Mr. Jones said, “Going to try a little fishing, Lucy?” He had a gentle way about him, and was the unlikely father of six wilding boys who were in and out of trouble their whole lives. At his funeral those boys, grown men then, would sob like children as they carried his casket from the church.

  Father said, “I decided I shouldn’t have to fish alone just because God gave me daughters.”

  “Your girls are so pretty, they’ll be doing fishing of a different sort soon,” Mr. Jones said, winking at me. Father didn’t say anything to that; he just went to the shed, where he got two fishing poles. While he was gone the Joneses’ boat pulled away. Mr. Jones waved, and I waved back. I was pleased he’d said I was pretty.