by Rena Olsen
“You think you can go behind my back and talk shit about me?” A woman with wild blond hair towers over a petite woman with dark coloring.
“Oooo,” Marge whispers. “You picked a good day, vizzie. Things gonna get crazy.”
“I ain’t said nothing,” the petite woman replies, calmly taking another bite. “You need to check your source of information.”
The blonde grabs the front of the other woman’s shirt, yanking her off the bench. “You need to check the shit pouring out of your mouth before it gets you in trouble.” Spittle flies into the other woman’s face, and she flinches as the drops bathe her skin.
Everyone in the room has gone quiet. The other women at the table edge away from their comrade, unwilling to fight this fight for her.
“Your breath smells like shit.” The smaller woman wrinkles her nose in distaste.
Blondie laughs and drops the other woman back onto the bench. “You’re right, lady. Maybe I’ll go give my teeth a good brushing.” There is a dangerous quality to her voice. She walks away, giving Marge a significant look as she passes.
“Stupid bitch,” mutters the dark-haired woman, wiping her face with a napkin.
“All right, ladies, time to move on,” says the guard. We’re going to spend the afternoon on work detail again. As I stand to leave, Marge grabs my arm.
“Stay clear of the east bathrooms this afternoon,” she says, then gets up and walks out before I can respond. A chill runs through me. I shake it off and rejoin the group.
The afternoon is more of the same. I’m stuck in the laundry room for a while with some of the teenagers, who spend the time gossiping. They don’t seem the least bit scared. One of them brags that this is her third time going through the program. I can’t help but shake my head and think how much more respectful my daughters are.
“Hey, you,” one of the inmates says. I look up to find her pointing at me.
“Yes?”
She shoves a stack of sheets into my arms. “Take these up to the medical wing and see if they need someone to scrub the floors up there.” The corner of her mouth quirks up. “You look like you’d be good on your knees.”
I flush and turn my gaze to the blindingly white sheets in my arms. I have no idea how they get them so clean, especially considering some of the stained sets I saw go into the washer. Ignoring the laughter of the other workers, I follow a guard out the door and through the labyrinth of hallways to my next assignment.
I am halfway through cleaning the medical wing when there is a flurry of activity from the doors. A group of men enters, carrying a woman and putting her on one of the beds. I cover my nose as the stench hits me. It smells like she was swimming in a sewer. She isn’t moving. I see blood.
“Where’s the nurse?” the guard barks.
“She-she ran to get more supplies.”
“Radio her,” he commands another guard.
I inch closer. I recognize the petite woman from the cafeteria. She is covered with a brown substance, and the blood is coming from her stomach. A strong hand pulls me back.
“They got her in the bathrooms,” he says. “Shoved shit down her throat and stuck her with a sharpened toothbrush. No one saw anything.” He shakes his head.
My mouth drops open. Marge had warned me. I wonder if he knows about what happened at lunch. The guard is watching me with suspicious eyes. “You don’t know anything about this, do you?”
I shake my head quickly. The woman on the bed moans, drawing his attention, and fresh blood seeps from her wound. I run to the nearest trash can and lose the contents of my stomach. It doesn’t taste much worse coming up than it did going down.
Then
I am sitting in a parlor, surrounded by girls of different ages. Most are in their teens. They are fascinated by me. Genevieve sits off to the side, staring out a window at the rolling South Dakota Black Hills and puffing on a slim cigarette.
“You’re just with one guy?” a girl asks, leaning forward.
“I, um, I am with Glen, and I raise our daughters.”
A surprised look. “You have kids?” Her eyes rake up and down my body. I laugh.
“No, I don’t have them. Glen brings them and I train them.” I ignore the pang in my chest at the words. Of course these girls know nothing about the babies I have lost.
Ahhhs and ohhhs sound around the room.
“What about the other men?” another girl asks.
“I don’t see much of them. I mostly stay in the house.”
“You don’t . . . service them, too?”
I’m not sure what she means, and it must show on my face.
“You don’t fuck them?” A chorus of girlish giggles around the room, and my face heats.
“No,” I say, “I am with Glen. Just Glen.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
This time the response is gasps, echoing throughout the room.
“But you are so old,” one says. She is not being unkind. I would be unmarketable to private clients at my age, though several of the girls at Glen’s other businesses are older than me.
Genevieve speaks up from her spot across the room. “So Glen took you over when you were no longer useful.” Though she is trying to sound aloof, I can hear the curiosity in her voice. Genevieve cannot be much younger than me. I wonder how she has maintained her position in the house.
“I have never been with anyone but Glen,” I admit.
“You’re married?”
I laugh. “Yes. Of course.”
“For now.” Genevieve’s raspy voice holds a finality as she turns back to the window, as if she knows her fate, and thinks she knows mine. But she doesn’t know Glen. Glen and I will be together forever, like Papa G and Mama Mae. I choose to ignore her dig and go back to discussing my apparently fascinating life with these young girls. I keep the information general and do not name any of my girls. Glen did not prepare me for this conversation, and I do not want to say something I shouldn’t. Mostly they are interested in my relationship with Glen and how we ended up together, so I tell them about dance class and Glen going to his father about me. I do not mention the fights, or the running away, and I can tell by their faces that they are completely caught up in my fairy tale.
We have been in the room for an hour or so when the door opens and a small group of men walks in. Glen is there, as is Mr. Harrison. I stand and walk to Glen’s side, where his hand finds mine. I hear some wistful sighs from my new friends. Genevieve doesn’t move until Mr. Harrison clears his throat. I see her neck tense and relax, and by the time she faces us, her mouth has curled into a small half-moon. She slithers over to Mr. Harrison and slides her arm across his shoulders. He yanks her closer, his arm clamping across her waist, and she winces, but recovers with a flirty giggle.
I do not know what to think of Genevieve, but it is clear she is unhappy. I wonder what other duties she is bound to perform. She does not act like a mother to these girls, and though their attitude is somewhat deferential toward her, they mostly ignored her during the time I was with them. I shake off my morose thoughts when I feel Glen’s eyes on me, and turn to smile at him.
“What do you think of these girls, baby?” he asks.
“They are very sweet,” I say. “More experienced than my girls.”
Glen nods. “I need you to help me choose five of them.”
My brow creases. “Choose? For what?”
He grins. “They’re going to help us expand the business back home.”
I frown. “They are not trainable.”
He shakes his head as a spark jumps into his eyes. “You won’t be training them, Clare. Just pick five.”
His grip on my hand has grown painful, and I know better than to question further. I look back at the girls, who are all watching me with hopeful expressions. I barely know t
hem, and I’m about to change their lives forever. “Do you have any preferences?” I whisper to Glen, expecting backlash, but receiving only a small chuckle.
“Just pick a variety,” he says.
I pick five at random, mostly younger girls, two redheads, two blondes, and the small brunette who was so interested in my relationship with Glen. After I whisper my choices to Glen, he nods at Mr. Harrison, who barks orders at the girls. They get up and leave the room on quick feet.
“They will be ready for departure in two hours,” Mr. Harrison says to Glen, though his eyes are on me. “You may wait here or come back for them.”
Glen pushes me behind him. “Joel will wait for them with the van. I’m going to take Clara back to the lodge. It’s been a long day.”
Mr. Harrison’s eyebrows rise a fraction, but he only nods. “Very well, my boy. I hope this is the beginning of a profitable relationship for both of us.” He comes forward and kisses the air by Glen’s cheeks again.
“As do I, sir.” Glen pulls me out of the room before the man can reach for me, and we move quickly down the stairs and out the door.
I am not sure what just happened, but it is a relief to be out of the house. Though the girls were nice, I felt stifled there, like the walls were closing in. As we drive away, I see a curtain on the second floor twitch, and I feel the weight of eyes on me, though I cannot see who is watching. I shift closer to Glen, and his arm comes around me.
“What do you think of South Dakota, my love?” he asks, nuzzling me under my ear. I smile.
“Right now, it’s perfect,” I say, and he pulls me closer for a kiss.
Now
I am in an unfamiliar room, curled up in the corner of a cushy couch. Sunlight streams through the window, giving life to the plants scattered throughout the room, but it does nothing for me. The chill I feel has nothing to do with the temperature. I still see the blood mixed with brown all over the woman’s face. A woman whose name I never bothered to learn. I still see her deadened eyes, blank with shock. I wonder what put her there. How did she get to the point where she was locked up, fearlessly goading fellow prisoners? I don’t even know if she survived. They rushed her out of there, and me soon after. There was so much blood . . .
The woman across from me adjusts her glasses and shifts in her seat. “Clara?” she says, her voice patient, though we have been sitting in the room together for twenty minutes and I haven’t said a word. I have said nothing since the prison. When I started talking, things went bad. It’s best if I stop, no matter what Glen said. If he knew about everything that has happened, he would tell me to go silent again, too. I am sure of it.
“Clara, this is a safe space.” The woman introduced herself as Dr. Mulligan when I was brought in. She seems nice, but I know that no place is safe. No one is to be trusted. I started to trust Connor, and he put me in the prison. I haven’t seen him since the brief glimpse I got as I was brought back to the ward. His face was white as they ushered me back into my room, and if I didn’t know better, I would have thought his concern was for me. I know, though. I know he was only worried that I might have been hurt, and that would have hurt his case.
“What you saw yesterday, Clara . . . well, that couldn’t have been easy.” No kidding. I wonder if observations like that earned her a doctoral degree. My eyes skitter across the room and I catch sight of her desk. Framed pictures line the edges. A smiling family, laughing children, a wedding photo. Dr. Mulligan has a life outside of these walls. She has no idea.
Dr. Mulligan sighs and sets down her notebook. I catch sight of swirling doodles before she closes the cover. A small smile plays at my lips. I had assumed she was making all sorts of observations with her pen movements. Instead, she really was just waiting on me. I decide I like her just a little more. But I still won’t talk.
“I need you to let me know that you’re okay, Clara,” Dr. Mulligan says, standing up and walking to a bookcase. “I can see that talking makes you uncomfortable.” She selects something from the shelf. “Would you be willing to write some things down?”
She walks back and hands me a fresh notebook. It even smells new. The cover is a bright blue, and a thick spiral holds the pages in place. I pause before taking it, but cannot resist having it in my hands. I used to write. Before Glen took over for Papa G. Poetry, stories, adventures that I longed to take. Papa G found it one day and threw it in the fire. He told me that making up stories was not a useful skill, was nothing more than daydreaming, and forbade me from doing it.
I slide to the floor, positioning my legs under the small table in front of the couch. Dr. Mulligan hands me a pen. Black ink. The first strokes of pen on paper are bliss, and I feel the first spark of happiness since the last time I saw Glen. I start with swirls similar to those I saw in Dr. Mulligan’s notebook, and the corners of her lips tug up into a smile.
“Guess I’m not so sly at hiding my doodles, huh?” she says, and lifts her notebook from the table. “I’ll just continue my doodles here. You write what you want, and I won’t disturb you unless you ask me to.”
I nod, earning another smile, and return to my paper. So many words, begging to be released. I am not sure what I am supposed to be writing. She gave no instructions. I love you, Glen. It is the first thing that pops into my mind. I promise I will not betray you. Even though you’re not here to help me, I will be strong. I continue writing my love note to Glen until Dr. Mulligan indicates that our time is finished.
I stand, hugging the notebook to my chest. Will I take it with me? Where will I keep it? Will the guards be as discreet? Will they try to read it? Panic begins to choke me.
Dr. Mulligan’s eyebrows rise fractionally, and she regards my anxious stance with sympathetic eyes. She reaches her hand toward me. “Would you like to keep that here, Clara?” she asks. “I can lock it up tight in my cabinet, and no one will read it. Not even me.”
I still don’t trust her. She will open the pages as soon as I leave the room. She will laugh at my silly letter to Glen, where I talk about the first time I saw him, the first time he kissed me, the first time we were together. My cheeks heat.
Dr. Mulligan withdraws her hand. “How about this, Clara? I’ll take this piece of tape and seal your notebook shut.” She extracts a roll of blue tape from her desk drawer. “You can write something or draw a picture or sign your name on the tape, and you’ll know I didn’t open it.”
It could work. I hand her the book and watch as she seals the pages shut. She hands it back to me, and I sign my name with a flourish, partially on the cover, partially on the tape, so I will be able to tell if it’s been removed. She takes it from me and opens a drawer in her cabinet. The notebook earns a spot in the back, behind a bunch of folders. She closes the drawer and turns the key.
“There. Your secrets are safe.”
For now.
Then
I stare at the human-shaped lump over on Macy’s bed. If only it were a little more convincing, maybe my heart wouldn’t be racing and my shaky palms might not be dripping with stress sweat. Mama is due to come for morning checks at any moment, and Macy has not returned. I tossed and turned all night, praying for the sound of the window sliding up, but all remained quiet and still. She has never stayed out all night before.
The sound of Mama’s sharp voice carries up to our attic room. She will be here soon. Panicked, I toss back my covers, jump up from my bed, and rush across to Macy’s. I toss the pillows and rumple the covers so it looks like her night was as sleepless as my own. Sprinting for the bathroom, I turn the shower on full blast, shut the bathroom door, and leap back into bed seconds before the tap comes at the door.
We are not to get up until Mama comes in the morning. It discourages late-night or early-morning wandering. Of course, everyone breaks the rule, but we all at least pretend to abide by it. I think Mama expects some rule-breaking, which is why she is so strict. But even small infraction
s, if discovered, can carry heavy consequences. I do not want to think what our punishment will be if Mama discovers Macy has been not only out of her bed, but out of the house.
“Clara. Macy. Morning.” Mama’s clipped tone carries through the heavy door. The knob turns and she is there, filling the doorway, looking in confusion at Macy’s empty bed. I sit up, rubbing my eyes, doing my best impression of a groggy teenager just woken from a deep sleep.
“Good morning, Mama.” I yawn, stretching before rubbing pretend sleep from my eyes.
“Where is Macy?” Mama’s words cut through my act.
I shoot a confused look at Macy’s rumpled covers, then point to the bathroom. “She wasn’t feeling well last night. Maybe she got sick?” My tone is innocent, but Mama’s eyes narrow anyway.
Mama strides to the bathroom door and knocks hard enough that even my knuckles hurt. Of course there is no answer. “Macy?”
“Uh . . .” I fumble for an excuse. I kick myself. If I had left her bed, I could have played dumb. Now I have played an active role in deceiving Mama, and my punishment will be severe if she figures it out. I am so angry at Macy, I almost admit the entire thing, but I cannot do that to my friend. “It’s really hard to hear through that door,” I say. “I’m sure she will be out soon.”
The look Mama gives me is dubious, but she turns and heads back to the door. “I’ll be back in five minutes. Make sure she’s out by then, and we’ll have a reminder about out-of-bed rules.”
Wiping my sweaty palms on my nightgown, I nod, thankful that Mama did not just barge into the bathroom. “Yes, Mama. I’ll tell her.”
She slams out of the room, heading back down the stairs to wake the rest of the girls. Almost as soon as she leaves, the window slides open and Macy tumbles through.
“Shit, Clare, just throw me under the bus!” she says, jumping to her feet. “Now I’m gonna get it for being out of bed.”
“It was that or let her find your sorry excuse for a pillow person under your covers,” I hiss. “I put myself on the line for you.”