by Rena Olsen
“Everyone has to start somewhere.”
“True.”
Connor opens the folder in front of him. “Are you ready for some more questions?”
I make a face.
He pulls out a glossy photo and puts it in front of me. Vomit bubbles in my throat as Joel’s face glares up at me.
“I think she’s going to throw up,” Jay says. Connor runs to grab the garbage can, and soon my breakfast joins the bits of paper and empty takeout containers in the receptacle. Connor knocks on the door and hands the trash bin to a disgruntled-looking guard.
“Can we get some water?” he calls, and someone hands him a bottle. He walks back to the table and opens the bottle before handing it to me. I take grateful gulps of the liquid and place my forehead in my trembling hands.
“So you recognize him, I take it?” he says.
“Joel,” I croak.
“Yes, Joel DeSanto, age twenty-five when his body was found in a ravine about fifty miles from your acreage. He was badly beaten and someone shot his genitals off.” Connor says it as if he is commenting on the weather.
I close my eyes, willing the flashes of memory to disappear, longing for the healing of Glen’s touch. Many nights I woke up screaming, long after I knew Joel was dead. I never stayed alone with the girls overnight again.
“How does Joel fit into your story, Clara?” Connor asks. He seems more put together today and is more like the gentler version of himself that he was when we first met. This is a Connor I can come closer to trusting. I push my emotions back, making them as tiny as possible, and I recount my dealings with Joel, general information at first, that he was second in command to Glen, that he headed up a lot of the training in the boys’ camp. He was trusted by Glen. Never by me, but I left that part out.
“And how did Joel end up in a ravine, minus his balls?”
Taking one more deep breath, I tell them, detail by detail, what happened the night I found Joel trying to soil Grace. I remain emotionless, but I can tell the story affects them. I had hoped it would. They need to know just how far Glen will go to protect me, protect his family. Surely they can’t find fault in that.
“He raped you, so you shot his junk?” Jay mutters. His fists are clenching and unclenching on the table.
Connor is sitting next to me, a comforting hand on my arm. “I think we’re done for today,” he says after a pause.
Then
The mood is somber as we enter the small country chapel. There are not many people who have come to celebrate the life and mourn the death of Papa G. He was a man with few friends, and those who are in attendance are here more out of obligation than connection. Many check their watches, estimating the time until they can leave without being rude, while others use the opportunity to network. All eyes are on Glen, no matter the chosen distraction. He is being watched, assessed.
Glen has been running the business for the past year, since Papa got very ill, but even though Papa was technically “retired,” he was still at the helm. Even from his deathbed, he was able to strike fear into the hearts of those who would dare come up against him. Now that he is gone, Glen will have to prove that he is every bit the leader Papa was. Papa always called him soft, but I don’t doubt Glen. I know what he is willing to do for things that are important to him. I am not worried.
We walk to the front of the small room, where the casket is set up, lid open. Inside, Papa sleeps, the hard lines of his face softened in death as they never were in life. The skin is loose and translucent. Even a skilled makeup artist could not cover up the evidence of the wasted man he became in his last days. Glen squeezes my fingers so hard, I cannot feel the tips. I brush my other hand over the top of our joined hands, and he relaxes. We turn to make room for others to pay their respects.
Mama Mae sits in the front row, staring at the large portrait of Papa G set up next to the casket. He is several years younger, his face filled in, his hair thick with no hint of the wispiness it developed near the end of his life. There are no tears from Mama. Glen takes the seat next to her, patting her hand as he sits. She glances at him, nods, and moves her hand away from his. Mama is not comfortable with displays of affection, and she has refused any comfort since Papa died three days ago.
A man in a long black robe steps to the front, and the hum of conversation hushes. It is a generic proceeding. We did not know this man before he was commissioned for this service, and we will never see him again after today. He reads a few Bible verses, extols the imaginary virtues we fed to him before the service, and within fifteen minutes we are part of the procession walking to the small cemetery situated behind the church. The burial is more of the same. We each toss a handful of dirt as Papa is lowered into the ground, and it is over.
The small crowd disperses, a few of the men stopping to murmur condolences and to inquire about setting up a meeting with Glen. He handles the condolences and the business requests with equal class. After all, Papa would not consider a funeral to be an excuse to alienate business partners. We are the last to leave.
I sit in the backseat while Glen drives Mama Mae back to the big empty house she will now live in alone. Glen has not discussed whether she will stay, but I know she will. She refused our offer to move in with us for a short time. She is a strong woman, never as dependent on Papa G as she pretended to be.
Their relationship was always a mystery to me. They never touched, and rarely interacted outside of stilted conversations, at least in front of us. She did not cry at all when Papa died, but I have caught her staring at nothing several times over the past few days, her eyes far away, expression empty. Emotions overwhelm me as I try to imagine losing Glen. Just the thought of being without him squeezes at my lungs, and I wrap my arms around myself. Glen glances at me in the mirror, his forehead creased, and I give him a watery smile. He has enough to worry about without dealing with my anxiety.
When we arrive at Mama’s house, Glen and I follow Mama inside. She heads straight for the kitchen and begins clanking pots around. “Clara!” she calls. “Come help me with dinner.” It is as if we are back to normal, having Sunday dinner together, Mama and me in the kitchen while Papa and Glen sit in the study and talk trade. Glen squeezes my hand and pushes me toward the kitchen. I look back and catch him staring at an old family portrait, looking like a lost little boy, a foreign look on him.
As expected, Mama shoos us out the door after dinner is cleaned up. She refuses Glen’s offer to stay over, and insists we hurry home to make sure our girls behaved for the men we left behind to watch them. Glen drives home, his mood pensive. Through all the preparations, we have not spoken about what Papa’s death means to Glen.
“Glen,” I begin, but he shakes his head, clamping a hand down on my leg.
“No, Clara,” he says, his tone firm. I close my mouth, but his hand remains on my leg, squeezing until my eyes water. I turn to look out the window so he will not see. I know he doesn’t do it on purpose.
That night, his lovemaking is rough. I do not comment on the tears in his eyes that I glimpse before he collapses on top of me. In the morning, he leaves early. I examine the hand-shaped bruises around my upper arms and wrists and choose a long-sleeved shirt before stripping the bloody sheets off the bed.
I do not bring up Papa G again.
Now
I am surprised when the door to my room opens late in the afternoon. I’ve already gone through my daily questioning, which is getting repetitive, and my session with Dr. Mulligan. Usually I am left alone until they bring me dinner, but it is too early for that.
Jay walks into the room, his hands fidgeting more than normal. I look at him without speaking, my question in my eyes.
“There’s someone here to see you,” he says, not meeting my gaze.
“To see me?”
“Yes, in the visitation room. Let’s go.”
I stand and follow him from the
room. We take a route that is unfamiliar, and outside a windowless door, he stops and turns. His face is apologetic. “I need to put these on you,” he says, holding out a pair of silver handcuffs. They look shiny and new, not scuffed like the ones Connor used when I first arrived. I hold my hands out, and flinch as the locks click in place around my wrists. I take deep breaths to calm my sudden feeling of confinement. I realize I am being irrational since I have been confined all along, but this feels different.
Jay opens the door and motions for me to enter. There are a few tables in the room, but only one is occupied. Mama Mae sits facing the door, her face expressionless as I enter. I feel a smile tug at the corner of my lips, something that I would not have expected with Mama being my first visitor, but she reminds me of happier times. Almost imperceptibly, Mama shakes her head. She does not let any recognition show in her eyes. She stands, her back straight.
“Clara?” she asks, as if she doesn’t know who I am.
“Y-yes.” My answer is hesitant. What game is she playing?
She holds a gloved hand out. Mama and her silly old-fashioned gloves. “My name is Mae Lawson. I am Glen’s mother.”
I understand now. Glen told me to pretend I don’t know his parents. I have avoided answering questions about my life before Glen and I met. Connor gets frustrated with me for this refusal on a daily basis, but I don’t care. And clearly Glen has filled Mama in on the plan, since she’s looking at me with the sort of disdain she usually reserves for untrainable girls.
“Hello,” I say, keeping my voice quiet and my eyes downcast as I lift my linked hands to take hers. She grasps them briefly and releases. No comfort there.
“Please, sit.” Mama gestures toward the table. I sit, crossing my legs and staring at the table, waiting for her to speak. When she says nothing, I can handle it no longer.
“How is Glen?” I ask, and immediately regret it. Mama’s eyes narrow.
“He’s in prison; how do you think he is?”
“I just . . . I just was wondering . . .” My voice trails off and I feel tears pricking my eyes.
“I just wanted to meet the hussy who is trying to send my Glen to prison for things he didn’t do.” Mama’s voice is loud and accusing, and I stare at her with wide eyes.
“What do you mean?”
“I think you know exactly what I mean.” Mama glances over my shoulder, then leans in.
“Clara, Glen has a message for you.” Her voice is so quiet that I can barely hear her. I glance over my shoulder to see that Jay has left the room. I know they are watching, but probably cannot hear us. “I need you to react like I am scolding you.”
This is not a hard instruction to follow. I place my face in my hands as she continues to speak under her breath, trying to concentrate on the rapid flow of words directed at me. “Glen says to stick to the plan, to stay strong, and to give them what they want, as long as it’s not the whole truth.”
I nod as she speaks. This is what I have been doing all along.
“Mama,” I say. “I’m trying, but it’s not working. They are frustrated with me. They brought me to a prison . . .” My throat closes as I remember my visit.
“You can do this, Clara. You’re stronger than I ever gave you credit for.” She looks over at the mirror. “Glen also said they are trying to turn him against you. They will lie to get what they want, Clara. Remember that, and remember who kept you safe all these years.”
“Glen.”
Mama nods. “Good girl.”
I hear the door open behind me. I am not ready for her to go. She was not always my favorite person, but right now she is my only link to Glen. I want to launch myself at her and cling to her neck, but I hold my seat, my eyes the only window to my desperation.
“One more thing, Clara,” Mama whispers, even lower than before. “Glen says he will always love you. No matter what.”
My mouth drops open. The words are meaningful because they come from Glen, but even more so because Mama repeated them. She was never inclined toward the romantic and scoffed at my relationship with Glen being anything more than an infatuation, and then a convenience. Does this mean she believes our love will get us through this? Or is she just trying to give me the strength to continue? Either way, I am grateful.
“I think you’ve had enough time, Mrs. Lawson,” Jay says as he comes to stand behind me. He takes my arm and pulls me to my feet.
“Very well,” Mama Mae says, climbing to her feet as well. “I’d like to talk to her again sometime, if that’s okay.”
“That depends on whether you can remain civil,” Jay says, his tone bland. “She appears very upset now, and we cannot have that in the middle of an ongoing investigation. This ward has very strict rules about visitors, especially those who cause patients distress.”
“I promise to behave,” Mama says, her face the picture of contrition. “Just look at her . . . She’s hardly the monster I thought she was. I’d like to get to know her better.”
I’m sure Jay is going to laugh in her face. The lie is so transparent, it’s a miracle she can keep a straight face. I wait for Jay’s reaction. He is quiet for a moment, but then agrees. “Okay. I’ll talk to the boss about it. But call first next time, okay? Clara looks a little shell-shocked.”
Mama nods, then turns and exits the room without another word. I slump against Jay.
“Hey, are you okay?” he asks, concern coloring his voice. “We don’t have to let her come back.”
“No.” I shake my head. “It’s okay. I was just surprised.”
Jay looks at me for a moment, and then takes the keys for the cuffs out of his pocket, using them to free my wrists. “All right. But I’m adding an extra dessert to your tray tonight.” He winks.
As he walks me back to my room, I begin to realize that good and bad are relative terms, and that my world, for now, is a constant shade of gray.
Then
The skin on the back of my legs stings with the memory of Mama’s yardstick. She has taken to punishing me for the infractions of the younger girls, since I am to be an example to them. This time, Leslie stained the sheets when she washed them. I was supposed to be supervising, but Macy and I caught sight of some of the boys out on their daily run. I knew it was wrong to watch them, but ever since dance class, I can’t seem to stop thinking of them. One in particular. I missed the extra work shirts Leslie threw in. She had been hoping to save time, but instead earned us both a punishment. I just hope Leslie’s legs are not as sore as my own.
It is my favorite time of day, and as I relax on the porch swing and start the gentle rocking motion with my toe, I let the past hour wash away, close my eyes, and imagine the pain leaving my body, the red stripes fading, the yellow bruises never appearing. Rest time is the best time, I think to myself, smiling at my silly rhyme.
“Do you always smile like that when you’re alone?” A husky voice startles me, and I leap to my feet, the pain rushing back to my yardstick-kissed skin. As if I conjured him with a mere thought, Glen stands at the bottom of the porch steps, hands stuffed in pockets, smug smile in place. He is pleased to have surprised me.
“You-you’re not supposed to be here,” I stammer, and mentally slap myself. Why am I even questioning his presence? Haven’t I been longing to see him again? To spend more time with him? I dream about his eyes, piercing into mine, and his arms, wrapped around me, whirling me around the dance floor.
Thankfully, he is not offended, and laughs. “It’s my house, too, ya know. I grew up here.”
“Yes, I know. But you don’t live here anymore.” Shut up, Clara. Stop being stupid.
His shoulders lift. “The view is better here.”
My face scrunches as I think. I have never been to the boys’ cabins, but I know they are by the river and are sure to have a mountain view. Everyplace has a mountain view out here, though from the porch it is difficul
t to see more than the peaks above the thick trees. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. There are just trees around here.” I make a wide gesture to encompass the surrounding forest, as if Glen has not lived here his entire life. As if he does not realize that there are lots of trees. Stupid stupid stupid.
His boots make slow, heavy clomps on the wooden stairs as he climbs them, coming to stand entirely too close to me. “I really like the view from right here.”
Blood rushes to my cheeks as I realize his meaning. It is improper, but I am having a difficult time caring. I do not think about what Mama or Papa would say, or whether the other girls would tattle on me if they witnessed this moment. The pain in my legs has disappeared, and I’m sure my feet have left the ground. I float, lost in Glen’s eyes.
A door slams inside the house, shaking both of us out of our stupor. Glen grins. “Want to sit?” He nods toward the recently vacated porch swing, still swaying from my abrupt departure. I do not trust my voice, so I only nod and move to reclaim my spot.
Instead of sitting on the other end of the swing, Glen sits toward the middle, so that as he pushes the swing into motion, it causes the fabric of his pants to brush against the bare skin of my lower leg. The touch is angel soft, and if I weren’t so aware of every square inch of him, I might not even notice it. As it is, shivers rush through my body at the small contact, and it feels naughty and forbidden even to be sitting here in silence with him. It is probably both.
We sit like that for the entire afternoon rest period. Too soon, I hear Mama as she begins to rouse the girls to begin late-afternoon lessons. She will be out soon to fetch me. She knows where I like to spend my limited free time.
“You have to go,” I say to Glen, reaching to push his arm, my hand lingering at the feel of the solid muscle hidden underneath the thin cotton of the shirt.
He doesn’t budge. “Do you want to see something?”
“Now?” I ask, anxiety creeping into my voice. I can almost hear the seconds flying away, and I can only imagine what my punishment will be if Mama catches me out here with Glen. Of course, I could leave, too . . . but I don’t.