The Story of Beautiful Girl

by Rachel Simon

  She felt the child snuggle inside her coat and drew her arms close, hugging them both. When she looked up, they’d arrived at the lake. This was the point, Henry had explained, where the man would propose. “Graciela,” Martha asked, “what’s the lake called?”

  “We named it after Tía Julia,” Rose said.

  “Yes,” Graciela added. “But we used the ‘j’ sound. So it is Lake Julia.”

  “Lake Julia,” Martha said. “That’s good.”

  “That’s good?” The children giggled.

  She opened her coat. The child looked up at her with the hugest smile Martha had ever seen. The sheepskin blanket meant nothing. The smile warmed her in a way she had never felt. This was the love that had been taken from her so long ago, returned to her arms at last.

  “Welcome to your first Christmas,” she said. Storms could come, she knew. Winds and rain and hail. Right now, though, the baby’s smile seemed sure to last forever.

  “May we always be this happy,” Graciela said.

  “May we always be this happy,” Martha repeated, touching the baby’s face. And then she added, “Julia.”

  Turning Pages

  LYNNIE

  1968

  Finally, on Christmas Day, they sent Lynnie back.

  She was not expecting to go back. For all she knew, her punishment—“the debt No-No has to pay to society,” Clarence told her with a look of false sympathy—was going to last forever. After all, for five weeks she had lived and worked in Q-1, the “behavior ward.” Q-1 was the cottage for residents who couldn’t care for themselves or were viewed as uncooperative. Some were even kept in cribs through the day unless a working girl like Lynnie wheeled them to the dayroom TV. Clarence and his second-shift pal, Smokes, had come in early after Lynnie was captured just to escort her to Q-1. They were the ones who’d put on the restraints—“so you won’t run off again,” Smokes said as he’d unbuckled the leather ties, eyes blank behind his thick glasses, mouth chewing his toothpick. Lynnie knew the restraints were there to put her in her place, but that didn’t stop her from squirming and howling and chomping her jaw at their hands.

  The humiliation hadn’t stopped with the leather ties. When Clarence and Smokes had walked her into Q-1, Smokes told her, “You’ll be sleeping in a crib now, ’cause you’re a big baby.” Then he looked at Clarence, who laughed. After they left, Janice showed Lynnie her crib and Bull locked her few possessions away. They gave her a dry scrubber—a mop with a concrete block for a mop head, which she was to cover with a cloth to wax already waxed floors. She wanted to hurl it back at them. Yet she forced herself to do as they wished, positioned so she could always look up to a window. She’d think, Buddy’s under that same sky, and he’s coming back. She’d envision him appearing in the glass, saying with his hands that they’d escape again. She’d see them running through the underground walkways, emerging at the wall, and hurrying back to the old lady, who’d show them where she’d hidden the baby.

  The first few days, as the milk in Lynnie’s breasts dried up and her arms ached to hold the baby, the jubilation induced by this private movie overrode her resentment of the punishment. By the end of the first week, she began to worry. What if something had happened to Buddy? What if he’d made his way back and didn’t know she’d been moved to Q-1? What if he’d gotten lost in the tunnels as he tried to find his way to her—or someone had found him and assumed he knew what had happened in the closet?

  The good thing was, Q-1 residents were fun. Gina roared with laughter when the Benson & Hedges commercials came on where smokers had accidents that chopped their cigarettes in two. Tammy rocked back and forth beside the linen cabinet so when Bull unlocked it, she could run off with a towel she’d unravel and make into a twirly toy, entertaining herself. Marion did imitations of every irritating staff person from Uncle Luke down, sometimes right behind their backs. Though Lynnie hated how staff didn’t pay the Q-1 residents enough attention, letting Tammy bang her head against the wall till it got bloody or Gina lie in her own waste all day. And Lynnie hated that her work was so much like the staff’s that Marion sometimes mocked her, too.

  But the best benefit of being in Q-1 was how far it was from Clarence and Smokes. For five weeks, as Lynnie shot looks out the window, ready for Buddy to appear, she would also glance toward the boys’ colony. There Clarence and Smokes, officially second-shifters but really, since they lived on the grounds, all-the-timers, prowled around the boys’ cottages day and night. The boys’ colony was only three buildings away from A-3, while Q-1 was far down the hill, with Janice and Bull during the days, Ruthanne at night. All three were large, like most attendants in the lower-grade cottages. They weren’t mean-spirited, even if they were neglectful.

  So when Lynnie woke to Janice and Bull, she didn’t need to be on guard, though she hardly enjoyed a happy waking. How different that was from A-3, where before she’d even opened her eyes, Doreen would be talking away, describing the make-believe finery they’d put on when they got up. Then, while they were dressing in their usual dour clothes, pretending to be movie stars, they’d look over to see Kate coming to supervise the morning shift—her face appearing in the sleeping area, her white smock brightened by embroidery, her red hair high.

  Unhappy wakings were the point, Lynnie reminded herself every morning. She’d run off, and since that was the worst violation short of violence, the goal was to deprive her of the little that brought her gladness: Doreen, the laundry, visits to Kate. Whenever she thought about this, Lynnie felt her teeth clench, but she was grateful they were unaware of her even larger losses. They could have surmised, if they’d noticed that with every day, Lynnie was moving more sluggishly and the defiance that had led her over the wall had given way to resignation.

  Now, Christmas morning, dry scrubbing the sleeping room, Lynnie looked up and saw a smudge of red moving down the hallway.

  Lynnie’s hands ceased pushing the dry scrubber. Could it possibly be Kate? Kate had been here only once all these weeks. She might have been a supervisor, though she was still subject to the rules. Unlike Smokes and Clarence, who could jaunt about wherever they pleased, even with dogs—the benefit of Smokes being Uncle Luke’s brother—Kate had her assigned cottages and that was it. Even wandering around to find, as she once did, an old loom, on which she tried to teach residents to weave, was against the rules. But every so often, Kate broke the rules.

  And it was Kate! In the doorway of the sleeping room!

  Lynnie held herself quiet, as Kate stood a long minute, her face a picture of pain. Lynnie almost made Buddy’s sign for Come here. She felt her voice moaning.

  Finally Kate cleared her face back to the way it always looked. She cleared her throat, too. “Hi, sweet pea,” she said, her voice raspier than usual. “I’m taking you back to A-3.”

  Lynnie threw down the dry scrubber and ran along the rows of cribs, squealing, arms open. Kate had already opened her arms, too, and Lynnie threw herself into Kate’s hug.

  How lovely. Kate had her Kate smell—cigarettes and gardenia soap and a skin-scent found nowhere besides Kate—and her cheeks were soft, her breasts big and comforting. Lynnie knew she smelled of all the nasty smells in this cottage. Kate held her anyway.

  If Kate can come back, Lynnie thought, feeling the pulse in Kate’s neck, Buddy can, too.

  They pulled apart. In the center of Kate’s eyes, Lynnie saw Kate’s smaller self, and it felt smaller than ever. Lynnie moved her vision to take in Kate’s whole face. She was smiling, though the smile was framed by sadness. Lynnie could feel herself smiling the same way.

  “Let’s get you packed up, all right?” Kate said, indicating a cardboard box she’d left at the door. “I’m supposed to get you back before lunch.”

  Lynnie was leaving! Right away! She gave her head a quick roll, not to escape the now, but to find Buddy in her memory so he could share this moment. She found him after one turn: He was walking her through the cornfields, and they were laughing at how the corn
hid them from everyone else, and then he spun around and took her in his arms and kissed her. She fell into the kiss, and everything in the whole world dropped away. It lasted a lifetime, and when they pulled back, a red feather drifted down from the sky and came to land between their chests. She looked at him, and he at her, and then something she could never have imagined occurred.

  Lynnie followed Kate through the rows of cribs to her locker, and even though she felt lighter than she had in five weeks, she could not put a spring in her step. When they reached the bed and Kate said, “Do you want to just watch me pack?” Lynnie nodded.

  Kate lowered the sides of Lynnie’s crib, and as Lynnie sat down, Kate produced a chain of locker keys. Someone is doing something for me, she thought. But the happiness that gave her could not sweep away so much sadness.

  The locker door was dented. Kate finally got it open, and Lynnie peered in.

  Dumped inside were her treasures. Lynnie gasped, remembering, as Kate reverently set each on the bed. On top was the white dress from the old lady, still as delicate as spiderwebs. Beneath the dress were the balled-up clothes Lynnie had brought from home—a crinoline dress, a pair of pedal pushers, a sun suit, a blouse, a pair of Mary Janes, and a set of underwear, all of which she’d outgrown. After Kate removed the clothing, there was the photograph. Kate handed it to Lynnie. It was her family before the twins: Daddy and Nah-nah standing before the fish tank, Mommy crouching down, and Lynnie sitting on the floor, legs splayed before her in baby shoes, eyes half-closed, mouth half-open, Mommy’s arm coming forward to hold Lynnie, who could not sit by herself. Lynnie pushed the photo away.

  Then she saw, in the far corner of the locker, the pouch that held her crown jewels.

  “Do you want to see if it’s all still here?” Kate said, and Lynnie nodded. Kate untied the pouch and removed the precious objects one by one.

  The plastic horse Nah-nah had given her the morning she’d left for this bad place, a magnificent blue horse with a green mane that held one leg high in the air. Lynnie often thought of it when she drew the horses in the fields, which were hard to draw because they kept moving. This one stayed as still as Nah-nah herself, who had never grown older in Lynnie’s mind.

  The shoestring Lynnie saved when Daddy once replaced the laces on his shoes. He was going to throw it away until Lynnie threw herself at it as he crossed the room to the trash can. He seemed irked, and then something softened in his eyes, and he bent down and placed it in her hand and closed her fingers over it. That was the face of his she liked to remember.

  The lucky-charm bracelet Mommy had given Lynnie on one visit. At each visit Mommy cried worse, so Lynnie had to push harder to get the crying out. Finally Mommy came wearing sunglasses because her eyes were so puffy. She handed Lynnie the bracelet and said, “You can wear this when you’re a big girl.” After Mommy hurried away, her face pressed into her hands, Lynnie’s attendant put the bracelet in her locker. She had never worn it. And eventually Lynnie realized Mommy wasn’t coming back.

  Oh, and look. The feathers. Each one from Buddy. There was the bouquet of white feathers from their first tractor ride. The plumes of brown, blue, or yellow, some with black lines or tan spots, that he gave her whenever he had to repair something in the laundry. Crests of orange he asked Doreen to deliver when her mail rounds took her to the barn or garage. The feathers he handed over with a bow when he came to Kate’s office, which shimmered blue and green and purple. And her favorite: the red feather that had sailed down in the cornfield that day. Lynnie had hidden them all in her waistband, and then Kate had secreted them in her pouch.

  There was one other thing in the pouch. A metal pencil sharpener Doreen had snuck away from Uncle Luke’s secretary, Maude. Lynnie was hoping to use it if she ever had the good fortune to own her own pencils. Kate had raised an eyebrow when the sharpener appeared in Lynnie’s hand. Then she’d said, “Serves them right,” and stored it at the bottom of the pouch.

  But as Kate returned these gems to the pouch, pencils were not what Lynnie wanted to add. There had been no time to take anything from the baby. Lynnie still carried so much with her: the feel of the baby’s body against hers, the sleeping face that had yet to witness what Lynnie knew all too well, the knowledge that the baby was too helpless to fight. Lynnie did not own as much as a lock of the child’s hair.

  “I wish I could have gotten you out of here sooner,” Kate said as she set the box on the bed and began moving each item inside, folding the clothes as she did. “But I’m lucky I got you this fast. I think they were aiming to leave you here until doomsday.”

  Lynnie did not know what “doomsday” meant, though she could not ask for clarification.

  “I haven’t reported anything,” Kate continued. “I was worried they’d do something worse to you. And me.” She paused. “You know, they do things to us if we speak up.”

  Lynnie did know. Years ago, she’d heard that an attendant had come to work one morning and noticed a resident pointing to his feet. They were bloodied and swollen, and even though the boy wouldn’t say what happened, the attendant knew that someone who’d taken offense at something he’d done must have stomped on his feet. The culprit could have been anybody—there were no locks on the cottages, and on the second shift, no one kept tabs. The attendant told a supervisor. The next day, the attendant found feces in his coat, and that night his Ford was scratched with car keys. He quit on the spot and had to move as far as Elmira to find a job. The resident was put in casts. No one ever found out who’d crushed his feet.

  Kate looked out to the room of cribs. “I remember when this was a nursery. So many little babies, sent to this place within a few weeks of being born. At least that’s over.” She paused. “Doreen came here as a little baby, right?”

  Lynnie nodded. She’d heard that Doreen had famous parents—a glamorous actress and a renowned playwright—who brought her here at one week old. They never visited, so even Doreen didn’t know if this was true. One day, after seeing the photo of Lynnie’s family, Doreen got the courage to ask Maude if she had a family photo in her file. Maude told her the files were none of the residents’ business. That’s when Doreen started playing make-believe in the morning. Every shirt was a ballroom gown; every pair of pants, nylons. The nickname that attendants invented for her was “Siamese If You Please.” Doreen preferred “Bridget Bardot.”

  An old attendant once told Lynnie about the nursery. The staff was so overworked, they went down the rows, changing one diaper after another whether the baby needed it or not. The same happened with feeding. The attendant compared it to factory work, only with better pay.

  When Lynnie had thought of all the tragedies that could occur if anyone knew about her baby, the nursery had certainly come to mind. But there were worse things than being raised in Q-1.

  “That’s it,” Kate said, folding the box flaps closed. “We can hit the road.” She looked at her watch and added, her voice less serious, “Of course, I am ahead of schedule.”

  As with “doomsday,” Lynnie didn’t know what “ahead of schedule” meant. Both had to do with time, though to Lynnie, time was confusing. Aside from not reading clocks, she had no understanding of calendars, much less history. So except for what Buddy had showed her about the stars, and except for knowing the seasons, she could not see time. Time was something she viewed as belonging to other people. That’s why they could tell it and she could not.

  That was also why she did not question Kate’s haste after she got Lynnie’s file from Janice and hurried Lynnie toward the door. They were “ahead of schedule,” which meant, it seemed, they had to leave quickly. Though Lynnie did wonder why Kate did not take the fast route—the main path—when they got outside. Instead, Kate got onto the ramp that sloped into the ground, leading to the tunnel. Sometimes residents were herded through the tunnel on snowy or rainy days to cross the grounds. It was also good for hiding, which was why she and Buddy would escape through here when he got back. But Kate didn’t need to hide
, and the day was warm for Christmas. Yet Kate held the tunnel door open, so Lynnie went in.

  The underground corridors were made of concrete, lit by bare bulbs. Lynnie did not like the stretches of darkness, so after stepping from the ramp, she was glad to reach a bulb quickly. Bravery was needed here. Buddy had shown his bravery when they’d run through the tunnel, and it had won them freedom. Tonette had shown it too when she’d gone through the tunnel for a secret talk with the nurse. Except Tonette’s bravery had won her nothing.

  When Kate reached Lynnie at the bottom of the ramp, she said, “I keep asking myself something, Lynnie. You were gone three nights. I was worried sick the whole time. I knew you’d be safe with Number Forty-two, but the world has many things no one can control. Even really smart, capable people like him.” Kate turned them down a corridor to the right. “I’m not supposed to talk to you about what happened. But that’s why I brought you here. We’re told you’ll forget it all like that.” She snapped her fingers. “You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so.” She paused. “Do you want to keep thinking about it?”

  Lynnie nodded hard.

  “I would like to think about it, too, if I knew what to think about, that is.”

  Lynnie could not understand what Kate was saying. This was one way staff was different from the residents: They talked in riddles. Sometimes they lied—though not a lie like not speaking. Their lies weren’t about hiding who they were. They were about hiding what they knew.

  Kate took a deep breath. She said, “I want to help you. Only I can’t if I don’t know what went on. I looked in your chart”—she indicated the folder from Q-1—“but those days were torn out. So, Lynnie, if we go to my office this afternoon, would you draw me what happened when you ran away?”