by Rena Olsen
“I won’t share this little spell with Glen, okay? This will be our secret.” Mama’s voice is soothing, but there is a warning in it. If Glen finds out what I have done, I’m not the only one who will be held responsible. For the first time, I wonder if Glen didn’t ask Mama to stay just to keep an eye on the girls, but also to monitor my behavior. I shake the thought loose almost as soon as it pops into my head. Glen trusts me.
The guilt washes over me then. I have broken that trust. But he doesn’t need to know. He will never know. And from now on, I will trust him implicitly. Until death.
Now
My pulse beats faster as the van moves along the gravel drive toward Glen’s brothel. This is the first time I have been granted a pass to leave the facility other than my visits to Glen and my field trip to the prison. After Mama’s information about the graveyard proved to be valuable, they decided that I might be able to help with more than just information. I agreed to help them look for documents. The agents have brought me here first to see if anything is salvageable, but my heart sinks as I spy the blackened skeleton where the building used to stand.
“Someone sent up the alarm here before we could get to them,” Connor explains. “They torched the place.”
“What about the girls?” This is the first time I have given much thought to anyone besides Glen, myself, and my daughters. What happened to the rest of Glen’s men? To the women who lived here? Connor’s face is grim, and I already know before he speaks that I do not want to know that answer.
“There were many deaths, Clara.” Everyone continues to use the name I am used to, even my family when they visit. “Some survived, but no one made it out without injuries.” Connor takes a deep breath. “It appears they didn’t plan on anyone getting out. The doors and windows were locked. Our men were lucky to get the ones they did.”
Panic threatens to overcome me as the van stops. I don’t want to get out, but it’s something I need to do. Connor helps me from the backseat, and I walk toward the ruined structure. The scent of a campfire is on the breeze, mixed with something more sinister, and I breathe through my mouth to avoid inhaling the stench of death. I walk closer and see that in a couple of the rooms, the doors, though blackened, remain in their frames. Long scratch marks mar the wood beneath the ash and soot, and I can almost hear the desperate screams of the women trapped inside.
I wonder if any of them welcomed death. If the heat and smoke and flames were like friends, coming to free them from a weary life, to bring them to a new place and time. I’m not sure I would have survived in a place like this. I have Glen to thank for keeping me out of it. It is a strange dichotomy of emotions, and one I am still not ready to tackle. I turn to Connor.
“Can we go to the house now? There’s nothing here.”
He nods. “Of course.”
We climb back into the van and travel the few miles down the road to the beautiful house that Glen bought for me. For us. For our family. For his business. I am gripped with unexpected emotion as the house comes into view. It is as gorgeous as the first day Glen brought me here. Unchanged, except for an overgrown lawn and a general atmosphere of abandonment. Yellow police tape flutters in the wind where it has come loose. I take a deep breath and exit the van.
It is as if the entire world has been holding its breath for this moment. All is silent. No one moves as I step forward. They all seem to realize what this means. I walk up the steps, my feet echoing across the wood of the porch. Connor reaches around me to remove the last remnants of the police tape blocking my progress. I had not even realized he was behind me, and when I look back I see that I am at the head of a sort of macabre parade. Everyone looks solemn as they survey the house. It’s a small group, and I wonder how many of them were in the original raid, when this house was bursting with children.
I step inside and am transported back to that day. Everything is almost as we left it, although there are signs of a search here and there. A pile of clothes sits in the side hallway, where Elaine dropped it when the men entered the house. My chair, where I sat brushing Daisy’s hair, is still pulled out at the same angle, though they took the brush as evidence. I walk through the rooms, running my hands over objects, memories, vestiges of a life that seems so long ago, yet like it happened yesterday. I gaze out the giant windows in the great room, the mountains unchanged, and look down on the rows of cabins, almost expecting to see the normal bustle of activity as men rush from one assignment to the next.
“Clara.” I jump as Connor appears beside me. “I don’t want to rush you, but . . .”
“Of course. The papers.” I turn left and head toward Glen’s office.
“We searched in here,” Connor says, keeping pace with me.
I enter the room without replying, but stop short in the doorway. This room looks very different. It has been searched thoroughly. There are open drawers and broken knickknacks everywhere, and the empty file cabinets show that every scrap of paper in here has already been taken. I force my feet forward and around the desk.
Kneeling, I reach to the far back portion under the desk, finding a small knot and pressing to reveal a secret compartment. From the compartment, I withdraw a key. Connor’s eyes widen with interest when I stand to show him.
“Glen doesn’t know that I know about that, but I did some exploring of my own from time to time.” My hands tremble slightly as I recall sneaking into the office in Glen’s absence and what I learned from that exercise.
“So where does that key fit?” he asks. His eyes are bright, cheeks flushed with excitement. It gives me a certain degree of satisfaction to be holding all the cards, but also to be able to make Connor happy.
“This way,” I say, heading out of the room.
“Not in the study?”
“Glen’s too smart for that,” I say, wincing at the worship I still hear in my own voice for him. Glen is smart. It’s part of what drew me to him so strongly. Part of what still draws me. I lead our small parade up the stairs and to the master bedroom. This room, too, has been searched thoroughly, and I frown when I see that our mattress has been sliced open, springs jutting out at odd angles. “You sure you checked everywhere?” I ask, trying to keep my tone light to detract from the heavy atmosphere. Connor doesn’t respond.
The vanity in the corner has been searched, but not moved. Not surprising, since it is made to look like it is part of the wall. I feel along the mirror for the handhold and pull the vanity easily from its niche in the wall.
“Holy shit,” I hear Connor gasp from behind me, and I smile. The safe is in the wall behind the vanity, with both a lock and a combination.
“The combination is 10-6-91. Our wedding date.” I insert the key, spin the combination, and pull the lever to open the door. I barely glance at the stacks of paper and money stuffed into the compartment before stepping back to let Connor examine it. I do not care what is in the safe. With that final act of betrayal, I have sealed Glen’s fate. And possibly my own.
Then
I am on my side in bed, facing the wall. I feel nothing. Nothing but empty. Glen has given up on me. He left hours ago after pleading with me to talk to him. He doesn’t understand. How could he? It isn’t his fault.
I am the one who lost our baby.
This is the third time I have woken up to find blood on the sheets. The third time I have felt the cramps that signal the demise of our miracle. The third time the doctor has come to remove what is left. Empty. Lost. Alone in my body once again.
The door opens. The footsteps that enter are not Glen’s. They are lighter, more graceful than his clomping gait. Too heavy for one of the girls. In a distant corner of my mind, I wonder how the girls are doing. Who is taking care of them. If they are doing their lessons. But I cannot find it in myself to care in this moment. This moment is mine to grieve, to crawl into that black hole. I am not sure I will emerge this time.
Springs sq
ueak as the mattress lowers. “Clara?” Mama’s voice is soft, soothing, unlike her usual brisk tone. “You need to eat something, dear.”
Eat. The idea would almost make me sick, if I could feel anything. I continue to stare at the wall, not really seeing the grimy paint. Wondering what my baby would have looked like. If she would have had Glen’s nose. My eyes. Or if it was a boy, Glen’s strong jaw. Glen would make such a good father to a boy. He deserves a boy. And I cannot give him one. Again I have failed him.
“Clara. You need to get up. Glen needs you.” I can hear the struggle in Mama’s voice as she admits that. Though we have been married for four years, Mama still cannot give her full blessing. At least she is kind to me most days. Today more than ever. Today she talks as if I am dying. Maybe I am. “Glen doesn’t know how to help you, Clara. He is drinking. I’ve never seen him drink this much.”
That catches my attention. As a rule, Glen has never been a big drinker. He doesn’t like the way alcohol dulls his senses. He blames Papa’s drinking for his botched deals, the ones that put us under for a while. I don’t know details, but Glen gets chatty in bed sometimes. I learn a lot if I stay quiet. I turn to face Mama. “How much has he had?”
“Too much to be of use to you tonight. He’s passed out in the study.”
I sit up. Passed out? I have never known Glen to pass out. “Is he okay?”
“He’ll feel like hell in the morning. The best you can do to help him is get yourself cleaned up and be ready to go when he comes out of it.”
Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I nod. Glen is hurting, and I need to be there for him. I stand on shaky legs, and Mama grabs my arm. She helps me toward the bathroom, and even assists in removing my nightgown and stepping into the shower. She is there when I emerge, still feeling empty, but slightly more human. There is a cup of tea waiting for me.
“It’s medicinal,” Mama explains, handing me the mug. “Recommended by the doctor.”
I take a sip, and the liquid tastes like honey and cinnamon, sweet and spicy. Much better than the morning sickness tea Mama has been giving me. I won’t be needing that anymore. I sit in one of the chairs in the corner of the room, unwilling to crawl back into bed yet. Mama takes the second chair. She watches me carefully.
“I’ll be fine.”
“I know.” Mama takes a breath. “It’s not right, you losing your babies.”
Shocked, I can only stare at her. I expected more of a “buck up” statement. Even after all these years, Mama can surprise me. “Thank you for saying that.”
She studies me again. Her expression changes, as if she has made a decision. “I told you once about Glen’s sisters.” It is not a question. She assumes I remember, and of course I do. It is the sort of information that I dared not ask about, but that I stored away to examine every once in a while, to try to find my own meaning or explanation. I nod.
“You never asked me what happened to them,” she continues.
“No,” I say. “It wouldn’t have been proper.”
“Smart girl,” Mama says. Another compliment. Sort of. She is on a roll tonight. “It’s time you knew.” She closes her eyes, as if it will be easier to tell me her story if she can’t see me. “I always wanted girls,” Mama says. “And when I married Papa, I got more girls than I had ever dreamed. Papa G, he wanted boys. Strong boys to help with the business, to take over when he couldn’t handle the load anymore. So when I got pregnant, he was over-the-moon excited.
“Back then, you didn’t find out ahead of time if you were having a boy or a girl. At least most people didn’t, and we didn’t have the means anyway. So after eighteen hours of hard labor, we learned that I’d been growing a girl for almost ten months. Papa walked out without a word.”
Mama looks so sad. I feel for her, though I can imagine Papa doing just that. Glen would have stayed by my side, but Papa and Mama’s relationship was very different. I do not interrupt. I need to hear what happened next, and Mama might change her mind. Her face is tight and her knuckles white where they grip the arms of her chair.
“The next morning, Papa G came in with a fellow he knew from another side of the business. This is the guy Papa went to when one of his other girls got into trouble. They had already come to a deal, and in minutes, my darling baby was out of my arms and out the door with the man. I was promised she would have a good home, a loving family.” Mama laughs bitterly. “As if she were a dog they needed to get rid of. My husband, Glen’s father, sold my babies. All three healthy little girls. I don’t even know what happened to them, though Papa said they went to nice families who could give them what we couldn’t.” A humorless laugh escapes her lips. “It’s ironic, if you think about it.”
I don’t know how to process what I’ve just learned, so I reach over and place a hand over hers. She flips her hand to grip mine. “Clara, Glen was my last chance, and I told you why he is so important to me. It kills me to see him hurting. I know that you’re hurting, too. I know what it feels like. The empty womb, the empty arms. But if you can be there for him, you’ll both get through this. The men pretend they are the strong ones, that they protect us.” Mama smiles. “But we are the ones holding them up, keeping them afloat. We are their anchors.
“I had my doubts about you, Clara, but I can tell that you are the one who can be Glen’s anchor. It took me a while to get here, but seeing you weather these storms, seeing you lose three babies and get up and move forward . . . it’s proven that you will stand by Glen through anything. Remember that: As long as you hold each other up, you will make it through anything.”
Now
I flush the toilet after losing my lunch yet again. I can no longer blame Nut. His contribution to my stomach issues has long since passed. No. Today there is another reason.
Today I see Glen. It has been many weeks since our last visit. So much has changed. I am no longer the girl he knew. And I am more terrified of this visit than I was of starting therapy, or going to the support group, or even meeting my family. I walk to the sink to wash out my mouth, rubbing my rounded abdomen in the way that has become unconscious habit.
Without thinking about it, I begin to pace. I don’t know what Glen will think of the changes in me, and it bothers me that I still care. I worry that I will be susceptible to his charm, as I always have been. That he still holds power over me, despite the revelations of the past few weeks. That I will take back everything I have done.
But I cannot take back all of it. The documents in the safe are proof enough to nail Glen for countless transgressions. I know now what it is called. Human trafficking. Buying and selling and trading humans. And I helped. I do not yet know what my punishment will be.
Jay walks into the room, interrupting my rapidly declining thoughts. He raises an eyebrow. I must look frightful. “Ready?”
I nod, not trusting my voice. I must save it for Glen. We set off down the hall. I do not really need him to lead anymore. I know the way by heart. Into the van and through busy streets to the prison. As we enter the building, I trail Jay, my feet feeling heavier the closer we get to the room where Glen waits. Connor is outside the door.
“We’ll be right in there, Clara,” he says, pointing to a door adjacent to the one I will enter. “We’re watching and listening to the whole thing. As soon as you need to get out of there, just say so. You can have as much time as you need.”
Smiling, I squeeze his arm. I remember his time limits from before. I would have abused them then. I would have stayed until someone pried me away. This time, I will not have that problem. But just in case, I know that he will be there. “Thank you.”
Taking a deep breath, I nod at the guard, who unlocks the door and opens it for me. Glen is the only one in the sparse room. He looks strong, healthy, but his face is drawn, with more lines than I remember. He jumps up as I enter the room, rushing around the table to embrace me. I stiffen in his grasp and pat hi
m on the back before stepping away from the circle of his arms.
“Clara?” His voice is laced with confusion. This is not the reunion he expected.
“Let’s sit down, Glen,” I say, and I am surprised at the strength in my voice. I move to the table. Glen remains where he is for a moment, and then follows, sitting beside me. I scoot my chair a little farther away from his so I can look at him fully. He leans forward and grips my hands, and I do not pull free.
“How are you, Clara?” One of his hands moves to my stomach. “How is our baby?”
“We’re both good, Glen.” I am not sure how this conversation will go. I will let him lead for now. “How are you?”
“How do I look, Clara?” Glen’s eyes flash. “I am in hell.” He runs a hand through his hair, still maintaining his grip on my hand with the other. “And they arrested Mama. Found all sorts of stuff in her house. She should have gotten rid of all of Papa’s records as soon as he died.” He sighs and looks at me. “It’s not looking good, Clare.”
“I know.” Connor has kept me updated. Mama put up a fight when they went to arrest her and search the house, but she is in custody now, being held at the same prison I visited. I hope she is eating the food and playing nice with the others.
Glen looks at me. “You know?” He is curious, but not suspicious yet. I glance at the mirror, where I know Connor and the guards are monitoring our conversation. Glen’s face hardens. “How do you know, Clara?”
I look him straight in the eye as I say, “Because I helped get the information.”
He recoils, dropping my hand as if it has burned him. “What the hell are you talking about?” He stands and begins to pace.
“I told them what they needed to know,” I say, my voice even, calm. “And then I wore a wire when Mama came to visit.”