The Lost Girls

by Heather Young

  Then, without warning, Maurie was there. She’d refilled her champagne glass, Justine saw. She put one hand on the fireplace mantel above Ray and said, “Hello, Agnes.”

  Agnes pressed her lips into a thin line. “Maurie, it’s lovely to see you.”

  “It’s lovely to see you, too.” Maurie’s tone was breezy, as though she’d run into an acquaintance at the supermarket, but her consonants were clipped the way they got when she was trying very hard not to slur them. Everyone in the group stopped talking. The attendant stopped picking her nails. Justine’s nerves flickered with foreboding.

  Arthur said, “We’re glad you could come, Maurie.”

  “Glad to be here. Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask you something, Artie. Do you know where Mother’s engagement ring is? We can’t seem to find it.” Maurie’s voice was still light, but she glanced at Agnes for the barest instant. “As you can imagine, it’s of great sentimental value.”

  “Yes, I imagine it would be.” Arthur’s voice was neutral. “I told Lucy so. But Lilith wanted it buried with her, and Lucy honored that wish.”

  Maurie could not hide her shock. For three seconds, she didn’t move. Then, in the same easy tone as before, she said, “Really. Does Agnes know that?” She turned to the old woman. “Agnes, did you know my mother is wearing your ring in the Methodist Church cemetery?”

  Her voice wasn’t loud, but the room quieted as people, feeling the prickle of malice as only people in a small town can, turned to watch. Justine said, “Mom, don’t.”

  “Don’t what?” Maurie said. “I just came over to ask Agnes if she’s enjoying my granddaughters’ company. They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

  Angela looked worried. Melanie watched Maurie with a stony glare that made her look even older.

  “Of course they are,” Agnes said acerbically.

  “I think they look a little bit like Charlie, don’t you?”

  Justine heard several gasps. Agnes said nothing but drew her lips into a sphincter.

  “Maurie, that’s enough,” Arthur said.

  Maurie’s voice was still measured, but now rage quivered beneath it. “Enough? It may be enough for you, Artie. After all, your daddy sent you to law school and gave you this fancy house. Nobody ever called you a half-breed, or your mother a whore.”

  More gasps. Agnes’s thin voice cut through them. “How dare you talk to Arthur like that in his own home?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Agnes. Maybe it’s because I’ve known this guy since we were five, and in all that time he’s never said one word to defend me to all the people in this town who treated me like shit. Maybe because I’m looking at the woman who turned her back on my mother because she didn’t think she was good enough for her perfect, dead son.” Maurie pointed at Agnes. “Let me tell you something. When your precious boy got himself blown up, my mother could have had any man in this town, but she didn’t want them. And when she died, she wanted Charlie’s ring on her finger forever. Does that sound like a whore to you?”

  Justine said, “Mom, stop. Please. It’s all over and done with.”

  Maurie’s eyes snapped to her. Then she looked around the room. Every last person in it was watching her. She forced a smile. “Right. We’re here to celebrate Christmas. Love thine enemies and all that.” She raised her glass in a toast, drained it, and walked out, careful not to wobble in her high-heeled boots.

  In her wake the room filled with shocked conversation. Justine turned to Arthur. “I’m so sorry. I’ll take her home.”

  “It’s not your fault.” He looked shaken.

  Agnes was white beneath her face powder, with two spots of high color on her cheeks. Justine felt sorry for her; no one deserved to be spoken to like that, least of all a frail old woman. Then again, according to Maurie, Agnes had been very cruel to Lilith, and even though it was long ago, her cruelty had inadvertently led to the wandering, dissatisfied misery of Maurie’s life. That Maurie had gotten to tell her off pleased Justine in a way she didn’t feel all that bad about. “I’m sorry about what my mother said,” she told Agnes, as diplomatically as she could manage.

  Agnes raised her napkin to her lips. “I don’t hold you to account for your mother’s behavior.” This statement was so steeped in unintentional irony that Justine stood up without answering. She could feel everyone’s eyes on her as she thanked Arthur, told Ray good-bye, and led her daughters from the room.

  She found Maurie in the entryway, talking with Quentin and two other men. “Mom, we need to leave.”

  Maurie linked her arm through Quentin’s. Her eyes glittered. “No. I’m having a good time with my friends. Why don’t you go eat some more Christmas cookies with Agnes? Maybe she’ll give you some of her money. That’s what you’re after, isn’t it, other people’s inheritances?”

  Justine stepped back as though Maurie had pushed her. Don’t cry; she told herself. Don’t let her make you cry in front of all these people. She felt a hand take hers, and looked down: Angela’s. Melanie pulled her pashmina higher on her shoulders and looked at the men, her face a mask of distaste.

  Then, thankfully, Arthur appeared with their coats. Once he was there Maurie cooperated, pressing against Quentin as he helped her into hers. She made a bit of a show of walking to the door, her head held high, but she stumbled on the steps, and by the time they got to the car she was leaning on Justine. On the way home she rested her head against the window, her eyes closed. Justine drove slowly. It was almost utterly black on the county road, and she saw just one other car, a pair of headlights that held steady a half mile behind them. When she turned into the forest the headlights drove past, into the night. They belonged to a pickup truck, color indeterminate.

  At the house, Justine helped her mother up the steps as Melanie and Angela followed in shocked silence: how had the vivacious grandmother who had draped them in jewelry and shawls two hours before become this woman who leaned on their mother and swore every time her foot missed a step? Francis had come home drunk often, but not until three or four in the morning, and even Maurie, though she’d been tipsy plenty during her last visit, hadn’t gotten staggering drunk. Justine’s anger made her pull her mother along more roughly than necessary. “Wait down here,” she said to the girls. Then she half dragged Maurie up to the lavender bedroom and let her fall onto the bed.

  Maurie smiled a wobbly smile up at her. Her lipstick was smudged, which made her mouth look bruised. “I think Quentin liked me. Don’t you think so, sweetie?”

  Justine didn’t answer, and within seconds Maurie was out. Justine stood for a minute longer, catching her breath. In the corner she saw a shopping bag with a vase sticking out of it: Maurie’s loot from the house, no doubt. She peeked inside. Besides the vase the bag held one of the flowered plates from the kitchen, a stained plaid apron, and one of the Hummel figurines—a little girl with a puppy tugging at her underwear. That was all.

  Justine ran her hands through her hair. The apron and the plate. Maurie hadn’t given Justine the nurturing stability they represented, but apparently in some neglected corner of her heart she cherished it from her own childhood. Now that was irony, Justine thought bitterly. Maurie snored gently through her open mouth. Justine took off her mother’s boots. She’d leave her clothes on; it was easier. She removed the gold earrings, then turned off the light and closed the door behind her.

  Melanie and Angela were sitting close together on the living room sofa. The Christmas lights were still on, glowing like the lights of a distant emergency. Angela’s cheeks were wet. Melanie had wiped off her makeup, leaving dark blotches beneath her eyes.

  “What’s wrong with Grandma?” Angela asked in a tiny voice.

  Justine sat in one of the armchairs. The house creaked, high in its rafters, like an old woman shifting in her rocker. “Grandma had too much champagne. It makes you very sleepy.”

  “Why was she so mean to you?”

  Without warning Justine’s eyes filled with tears. Her breath wheezed in her c
hest, and for a precarious moment she thought she might lose it completely. She closed her eyes for a moment, and that steadied her a little. “She gets that way sometimes. It doesn’t mean she doesn’t love you.”

  Angela climbed onto her lap. Justine slipped her arms around her. Angela was too big to sit on her lap, she realized; her feet reached the floor, and Justine wasn’t sure when that had happened. Meanwhile Melanie sat on the sofa, alone, picking at her fingers as she watched them.

  Justine eased Angela away, keeping hold of her hand. She reached her other hand to Melanie, who, after a moment’s surprised hesitation, took it. “Let’s go upstairs. I’ll read to you.”

  So they got in their pajamas, and when Justine said she was too cold to sit on Angela’s bed they all got into Lucy’s. Justine lay with the Emily books at her feet, Angela’s head on her shoulder, and Melanie loose limbed on her other side. She read until her voice faded, and her daughters drifted to sleep, and the snow began to fall in the small, still hours of Christmas morning.

  Lucy

  That evening, when it was time for the end-of-summer party, we wrapped ourselves in our raincoats and hurried through the drenching downpour to the lodge. Lilith had gone early to get ready for the cabaret, so it was just the four of us. Father and Mother walked together, Father carrying Emily, and I walked behind. We could see our neighbors coming as well, hooded like pilgrims in the miserable light.

  The lodge was crowded and warm from the press of bodies. The Millers had arranged a buffet on the bar with fried chicken, bean salad, corn bread, and Matthew’s grandmother’s cookies for dessert. Matthew and Abe stood behind the bar, serving. I looked for Lilith. Several of the other teenagers were there, but Lilith, Jeannette, and Betty were not. At a corner table, four weekend lodgers ate their meals, no doubt wondering what had happened to their quiet fishing retreat. They were whiskered and unwashed, a sharp contrast to the scrubbed and polished small-town gentry that filled the room.

  Mother, Father, Emily, and I were an island of silence among the chatter of our neighbors, who seemed energized by the closeness of the too-small space. Now that we were around other, happier, people, Father’s face looked even more haggard. Mother looked tired, too, and rested her hands on Emily’s shoulders, as though for support.

  When I got to the buffet, Matthew gave me the same smile he’d given everyone else, but he picked me a nice, fat chicken breast, and placed it on my plate with the smallest flourish of the tongs. I kept my head down. Abe, ladling the bean salad, looked away from me. I felt queasy as I passed him.

  The Williamses had saved two seats at one of the tables. Mother told me to take Emily and sit with the other children, so I found a spot on one of the couches where we ate with the two youngest Jones brothers and the younger Pughs and Davieses. We didn’t talk, to them or to each other. I looked around again for Lilith, but I still didn’t see her.

  As dinner wound down, the teenagers moved us off the couches and carried them from the porch into the main room, where they set them to face the front wall, leaving an area about fifteen feet across. Then they moved the tables and arranged the chairs in rows behind the sofas. There weren’t enough seats for everyone, so people stood along the bar and the back wall, and the littlest children sat on the floor at the front. Mother and Father sat with the Williamses in the first row of chairs, while Emily and I sat on a couch with Josie Pugh and Melody Lewis. Mr. Miller and Matthew’s grandmother came from the kitchen to stand with Abe and Matthew behind the bar. The four weekend fishermen stood near the back door, unsure of their welcome but curious about what was afoot. Lilith still was not there.

  The teenagers went back to the porch, where they conducted further boisterous preparations for several minutes. Finally, after the backstage noises crescendoed and then quieted, Ben Davies came out wearing his father’s coat, tie, and fedora. Above his lip he’d drawn a Clark Gable mustache. The adults gave an appreciative round of applause until Ben raised his hands for quiet. “Welcome to the first annual Miller Lodge Cabaret!” he said in a circus-huckster drawl. “Prepare to be dazzled, amused, amazed, and entertained! I, Ben Gable, will be your master of ceremonies, and your guide through an evening you won’t soon forget!”

  Delighted laughter rippled through the room: Ben was a bit of a show-off, and he was in his element. With a grand wave he introduced the musical accompanist, Opal Williams. She was small and plump like her mother, and she walked to the piano with a pile of sheet music. I had to admit I was impressed. Lilith’s and her friends’ managing to get their hands on all that music reflected a level of planning I hadn’t expected.

  Once Opal was settled, Ben introduced the first act: The Great Magician “Evan Roberto,” who wore a mail-order black cape and top hat. He had a trick wand that sprouted flowers, and he did card tricks and pulled quarters from the ears of the children on the floor while Opal played a jaunty ragtime tune. He was pretty good; despite my black mood, I found myself smiling with everyone else at his exaggerated movements. Then Felicity and Sincerity Pugh sang a sweet duet of “Red River Valley,” their blond heads nodding in time, followed by Charlie Lloyd, who juggled Coke bottles—three, then four, then five—sweating with concentration and cutting his eyes to his father, whose florid face betrayed such relief that his son wasn’t making a fool of himself that it was an embarrassment in itself.

  In between the acts Ben kept up a funny patter that distracted the audience from the hisses and shuffles of the performers backstage. In every crisp entrance and neat bow I detected Lilith’s hand, bossy and sure, directing these older children just as she’d always directed me in every game we’d ever played. The crowd applauded enthusiastically. The four lodgers had stayed, I saw, and applauded along with everyone else. Even the drum of rain on the roof sounded like applause.

  With every act I looked for Lilith, but it wasn’t until midway through the show that Ben introduced “The Boswell Sisters.” I’d never heard of this jazz trio, but it was clear from the anticipatory murmurs that most people in the room had. Lilith, Jeannette, and Betty walked out and stood in a row, Lilith in the center, and I saw why she hadn’t shown her face during dinner: she had cut her hair. The long, sinuous black curls were gone, leaving a shiny bob shellacked in waves that curved around her ears. Her face was made up with powder, rouge, and red lipstick, highlighting its dramatic angles and planes. She wore a fashionable, waist-hugging dress, and she posed with her chin high, looking regal and much older than thirteen.

  Beside me Emily said “oh!” and I heard coos of approval from several of the women. I stole a glance at Father. His face was expressionless, save for two grim lines bracketing his mouth. Mother touched her snood with nervous fingers as Mrs. Williams whispered a smiling comment in her ear. I felt a restless fear stir to life behind my ribs.

  Opal began the music, a slow, jazzy intro that her fingers fumbled only slightly. Lilith, Jeannette, and Betty rotated their shoulders from side to side with the beat. When the music accelerated, they began to sing:

  If you want your soul set free,

  lift your voice and sing with me!

  If the Devil grabs your hand,

  Here’s one thing that he can’t stand!

  The tune was joyful, their harmonies decent, and they had choreographed simple moves that they performed in unison, stepping from side to side, flipping their hands back and forth. The crowd, caught up in the rollicking, syncopated beat, tapped its feet and clapped. I didn’t move. I couldn’t take my eyes off my sister.

  Something had happened to Lilith when she took the stage, and it was more than just the hair and makeup. She was luminous, as though something beneath her skin had ignited. The odd, gypsy bones of her face seemed unified at last, and she was beautiful in a way that was no longer perplexing. Jeannette and Betty, with their pert noses and thin-lipped smiles, looked like ordinary girls in a makeshift teenaged cabaret. But Lilith was something else. Greta Garbo must have looked like this at thirteen, I thought dizzily, and Bette Dav
is, in whatever unremarkable towns they’d grown up in. All those years that Lilith had talked about becoming a movie star, I’d believed her because I adored her. That night it seemed possible to me, even by the harsh standards by which such dreams must live or die.

  The accompaniment slowed again. It switched keys, becoming mournful. Jeannette and Betty stopped swaying and began to hum in a low drone that rose and fell. Lilith stepped forward. The crowd quieted, uncertain. Then, in a husky alto, Lilith sang:

  If that old Devil should grab your hand,

  Here’s one thing that he can’t stand:

  Shout sister, shout sister, shout!

  Oh Lord! Shout! Oh Lord!

  She sang the rousing words as if they were a dirge, every note dripping with warning, and she sang them directly to me. My mouth was dry. The fear in my chest stretched out its clawed feet. I could sense the audience’s collective intake of breath. Behind Lilith, Jeannette and Betty looked at one another.

  Then the song recovered its joyous major key. Lilith stepped back, and the three girls finished together in hip-swinging, finger-snapping rhythm,

  Just tell old Satan how you feel,

  Get that old Devil right off your heel!

  Shout sister, shout sister, shout!

  By the time they finished the tenth repetition of shout sister, the crowd was on its feet. When the girls curtsied, everyone roared their approval: it was, by far, the best act of the night. Opal curtsied, too, and deservedly so; playing that song must have taxed her skills to the utmost. Jeannette and Betty squealed and hugged Lilith between them as they ran backstage. I looked at Father and Mother. Although neither joined in the standing ovation, they were clapping. Maybe it would be all right. Maybe Father wouldn’t mind the makeup and the dress, since it was for a show. Maybe he wouldn’t even mind the haircut. Although it was modern, it was the same style that every woman we knew wore, even proper matrons like Mrs. Lloyd and Mrs. Pugh. But my fear receded only a little.