by Sophie Weeks
Emilie wouldn't look at her and was shivering violently as she cried, noisy as a child. Her distress actually helped Margaret, who paused in trying to process what she'd seen and pulled a blanket up over Emilie. “Em,” Margaret said, “Shhhh … it's okay.”
“It's not okay!” Emilie screamed.
“All right, it's not okay,” Margaret admitted. Then her face hardened. “I'm going to string Rob up by his balls.”
“Nooo …” Emilie sobbed.
“Don't try and protect him, Emilie. You were stupid, but he did this, he wanted to make money off you. He wanted to hurt us.”
Emilie was crying louder, but Margaret barely noticed, as she was seething in fury. She should have smashed his phone or smashed his face. How had she imagined they could trust him? She'd been a fool. “I'm reporting him to the RCMP. They'll pick him up, he'll still be in Alberta—”
Emilie sat up and grabbed Margaret's arm. “Don't!” she pleaded, with hysterical violence. “It ... it wasn't Rob, Margaret. I never sent Rob the v-v-videooooo …” She collapsed into tears again.
“Oh … oh.” Margaret took a moment to process that. “Who was it then? Who did this?”
“I'm not sure,” Emilie whispered. “I sent it to … a boy, but I think he might have sh-showed it to other people …” She looked up slightly. “Margaret, please don't tell him. Please. I'll give you back my phone, I don't want it anymore, please, Margaret, I'll be good!”
There was a long pause. Margaret struggled with herself. She didn't want to tell her father. It would be laying one more burden on him. But he had to know—he was Emilie's guardian, and he would have to contact the people who ran the web site, informing them that one of those “barely legal girls” was plain old illegal. And the crown might press charges. Her head whirled as she tried to figure it out, and she knew that she couldn't navigate this by herself. They had to tell Jon. “We have to,” she said finally, softly. “Em, I don't have a choice.”
Emilie was now sobbing so hard she was hyperventilating, and Margaret was afraid she'd have to find a paper bag, but a few minutes of rubbing her back and holding her close seemed to calm the girl somewhat. “He'll kill me,” Emilie sobbed.
“I don't know what he'll do,” Margaret admitted. “But he can't kill you.” He might kill someone else, though, she thought worriedly. “Come on. Let's wash your face and go downstairs.”
“Not yet,” Emilie pleaded.
“It's not going to get any easier,” Margaret said, helping her cousin to her feet. She led Emilie to the bathroom and blotted her face in a gentle sisterly fashion. She knew Emilie was mostly responsible for her own problems, but teenagers never anticipated consequences. “It'll be better if you tell him. He'll find out somehow, Emilie, and it will be worse if you haven't told him.”
Emilie didn't like that at all, but she was miserable enough to be docile, and she allowed Margaret to lead her downstairs and towards Jon's office. Margaret kept a supportive arm around her waist and knocked lightly on the door before going inside. She closed the door after them and noted that it wasn't a propitious moment. Leonard Cohen was moaning from the stereo, and Jon already looked like a thundercloud as he looked over his mail.
“Dad,” Margaret said nervously, “Emilie wants to tell you something.”
Jon looked up, and he pulled off the glasses he wore for reading, his face sharp. “What is it now? Swear to God, Emilie, if you failed another math test …”
Since what had happened was much worse than that, it took Emilie a while to manage to get words out. Slowly, stumbling and muttering, and with many sharp interjections from Jon, she told her story. Margaret's eyes were fixed on her father as he stood up, his face a mask, and moved around the desk. She held Emilie close to her, but it was instinct rather than experience that made her pull her cousin back the instant she saw her father's hand raise. It fell, and owing to Margaret's quick reaction his hard palm connected not with Emilie's cheek, but with her own.
For a moment, there was perfect silence as Margaret and Jon stared at one another in horror. Margaret's father had never raised anything more than his voice to her in her life. Emilie had her face hidden in Margaret's shoulder and was shaking still as she cried. Finally Margaret recovered enough to push Emilie towards the door wordlessly. Emilie went out, looking back once fearfully.
“I didn't—” Jon choked out but could say no more.
Margaret sank into a chair, trying to process what had happened. Eventually she said, “Do you hit them?” An hour ago, she could never have imagined asking Jon that question. “The girls. Do you hit them?”
“No,” he said hoarsely. “I—” He closed his eyes, looking sick. “I never hit a woman or child before in my life.”
Margaret sat quietly with her palm pressed to her crimson cheek, trying not to cry. She hadn't been slapped since she was a very small child and never by her father. Her gaze was arrested on a photograph of Penny up on the wall, and for a moment Margaret felt very close to her aunt in a way she hadn't since the accident had taken her away forever. She could almost feel Penny there beside her, and then she did cry, because if Penny were there, none of this would be happening. Emilie wouldn't be the talk of the town with her amateur sex shows, Margaret would be in Ontario studying, Jon wouldn't be so lost that all the best things in him calcified into a dumb, bestial endurance. “What would Aunt Penny say to you?” Margaret whispered finally.
Jon groaned. “Say, hell. Penny would come after me with a two-by-four.” He slumped down behind his desk. “I'm sorry …”
“I know,” she said in a little voice, and it was true. Rationally, she knew that her father was facing the worst crisis of his life, that he wasn't himself. Jon had not meant in the least to hurt her, but her heart was almost more troubled at the fact that he had meant to slap Emilie. And she couldn't stop crying, not even when she saw the pain on her father's face at her sounds of sorrow.
Jon stood up then and moved towards her hesitantly, as though afraid she would fear his lanky frame now. But Margaret sat very still, with her head lowered, and she didn't try and resist when he drew her hand away from her cheek so he could inspect it. He tried to speak several times, then finally said, “I'll go get Mom.”
Margaret almost assented, then stopped. “No, don't.”
“But—”
“She'll be so upset,” Margaret protested. Part of her wanted that. Part of her wanted her grandmother to blaze forth in fury as of old and set everything right. But she'd seen Louise's fragility too much of late to believe that possible. Louise would only be able to vent her anger weakly onto her already miserable son. “And we can't tell her about Emilie. She couldn't bear it.”
Jon swallowed and nodded, then said, “I'll get an icepack.” He went into the kitchen, and she heard him speaking in a low voice to the two younger girls; then he returned, pressing the cold pack into her hands. “Just keep that on your cheek.”
“Will it bruise, do you think?” Margaret said, a little calmer now.
Jon shrugged unhappily. “Maybe a little. I didn't—it wasn't a very hard hit, w-was it?”
Margaret shook her head. “It just … surprised me, mostly,” she said slowly. After a moment, she said, “What are you going to do about Emilie?”
“I'll have to …” He rubbed his chin fitfully. “I'll have to call the lawyer,” he said grudgingly. “We'll get it taken down, and we'll try to do it quietly. She doesn't need her name all over the papers as a teen porn star. What in the hell possessed her?”
“I don't know. I … I knew she'd been sending photographs to boys,” Margaret admitted. “I thought I handled it. I punished her, but I didn't know this would happen.”
“And some goddamn kid sold that and …” Jon's jaw was very hard. “If I ever find out who that boy is, he's going to the hospital.”
“Great. That sounds helpful,” Margaret snapped. She chose not to mention what Emilie had said about whom she'd sent the video to. The last thing they needed was
Jon assaulting some dumb teenager.
Jon didn't appreciate that, but he didn't protest either, just said, “All right. I'll call Henry, though he's as stuck here as any of us. Probably a letter will do the trick. Find out the information for the site.”
“You're going to have to talk to Emilie sometime. Did she tell Sam what happened?”
Jon shook his head. “She went back upstairs without a word to them.” He looked at Margaret appealingly. “What do I say to her?”
“Just don't yell,” Margaret answered. “She was so scared of you … she thinks you hate her.”
“I don't hate her. How could I hate my sister's kid?”
“She misses her parents. She doesn't have parents anymore, Dad. The only person she has to protect her is you, and she thinks you don't love her.”
“She has you to protect her,” Jon said morosely. He moved toward the door, then looked back at Margaret once. “I'm sorry, honey,” he said softly. “I'm so sorry …”
“I know. I'm okay.” Margaret laid the cold pack down and stood up. “I'm going out to the barn.”
In the dim light of the barn, Margaret found Gene wiping down some machine part she couldn't identify. Wordlessly, she took him by the hand and pulled him into a stall, shutting the door behind them. In the darkness there she sank in against his body, laying her head on his shoulder. “Hey,” he whispered. “Hey, what's wrong, baby?”
Slowly, with many pauses to just breathe and rest against him, Margaret told him the whole story from beginning to end. He listened quietly but touched her cheek softly when she explained about the accidental slap. “You want to get out of here?” he said finally, hugging her close.
Margaret nodded. “I really do,” she said with a short laugh.
“C'mon. I'll buy you a drink down at the Golden Spur.” Then he paused. “Unless you'd rather not be seen in town with me?”
Margaret wanted to say that she didn't care … but half the clientele of the Golden Spur were drinking buddies of Jon's. “We can't … Dad's already going insane and talking about putting people in the hospital.” She looked at him apologetically. “It's not that I'm ashamed …” she lied. He lifted an eyebrow skeptically, and Margaret blushed.
“It's okay,” he said finally. He seemed a little amused. “I'm not in a hurry for a trip to the emergency room either. Be nice if you were willing to be seen in public with me, though.”
“I'm sorry,” she said, kissing his jaw. “It's just … he didn't even let Alan share a bedroom with me when he visited.”
“And I bet he wasn't a dirty roughneck.”
“Gene, don't. You know it's not about that. I'm not ashamed of that.”
“Then what are you ashamed of, Margaret? That you're having sex?”
“That I'm having sex under my father's roof with one of his employees, okay?” she shot back.
“Former employee, you mean,” he said roughly. “He paid my last wages a month ago.”
“I know. And having you here means a lot to him, and to me. But that's why it's so bad, because he likes and trusts you.”
Gene sighed and didn't say anything for a long time. Finally he said, “What if it wasn't like that? What if I talked to him and asked his permission?”
“You want to ask my father's permission to fuck me?”
“To be your …” He stopped, looking unhappy. “Shit, never mind.”
Margaret's heart sank. “I don't … I don't want a boyfriend, Gene.”
“So what am I, then? Your fuckbuddy?”
“No …” She didn't know what Gene was, what any of this was, she just knew it felt good to be with him, to have him hold her, to have his mouth on hers, and to forget that everything had gone to hell around them. “I'm sorry,” she whispered.
After a while, his mouth came down to kiss the top of her head. “Me too. You've already had a hell of a day. Sorry.”
Then Margaret relaxed against him, and she said, “I should take Jess home. Can you saddle up Scooby? I can get her there and back before dark, and she loves riding. And … and you could come with us.”
“Are you sure?”
Margaret nodded. “I'm not saying let's make out on the way,” she added hastily. “But … come with us. I don't like riding alone so close to night.” She squeezed his hand and smiled after him as he went to saddle up the three horses. If she had wanted a boyfriend … But it was only an idle thought. She didn't want anything else to tie her to this horrible province.
Inside, Jess's face lit up when Margaret said they would take her back on horseback, and she hurried outside, giving Whisper a hug first before accepting a leg up onto Scooby. “How's your mother doing?” Margaret asked, as she swung up onto Whisper.
“Fine, ma'am,” Jess said in a little voice. She clucked to Scooby and began riding forward.
Margaret exchanged a look with Gene and followed. “Is there something wrong at home?”
“No, ma'am. Not like that. Mom lost her job on account of not being able to go to work.”
“Oh, no.” Margaret remembered then that Kate had worked in Red Deer. “I'm so sorry. Does she need anything? I wish you'd told me before we left the house …”
“It's all right, ma'am,” Jess said quickly. “We manage fine, and Mom goes over to the church most days to get supplies. Please don't trouble yourself.”
“It wouldn't be any trouble,” Margaret said, then stopped herself. It wasn't fair to push help where it wasn't wanted. “Just tell your mother she can call us if she needs anything.”
“Yes, ma'am.” Then there was quiet for a time, and the only sound was the horses' hooves breaking through the thin icy top layer of snow. The sun was hidden behinddark clouds to the south, and Margaret absently wondered if more snow was on the way.
They had just reached the trailer park at the crossroads and were walking through the snow when Margaret heard the first call: “Hey, dykey!” It was accompanied by a snowball thrown with great vigor and much less accuracy. Margaret whipped around to try and identify the offender, but Jess grabbed her arm.
“Don't pay any mind, ma'am.”
Margaret frowned down at her. “Do they do that a lot?”
“Yes, ma'am, but usually from a safe distance since I beat up one of the big boys.”
Margaret thought of the horror stories she'd read about in the news, of girls and boys like Jess who didn't quite fit to a pattern and were abused or killed for it. She looked unhappily at the girl who'd already learned that she had to fight her way through the world.
Kate came out on the porch, and Margaret waved to her and said a few polite words before taking the reins from Jess and starting to lead Scooby away. She knew Kate had problems—probably more than her share—but that didn't mean Margaret wanted to deal with the blatant hostility. But then Kate called out teasingly, “Haven't seen you in a while, stud.”
Gene pulled his hat down low and didn't say anything, and Margaret lifted her eyebrows as high as they could go. “Yes, Whisper's a handsome fellow,” she said smoothly. “Though he's not studding at the moment. Bye, Kate!” She set off at a sharp trot, and Gene swore and rode after her.
Margaret didn't look at him or speak until they were back on the bridle path through the trees, but when she did look at him, her gaze dripped with contempt. “Kate? Really?”
Gene didn't answer, and Margaret didn't say anything more. When they got back to the barn, she settled Whisper in his stall and did the tack, but her mind was a million miles away. She had slept with a man who would waste his time on a girl like Kate. That was what she had descended to in her desperation for comfort.
But when she went to leave the barn, Gene was there blocking the door. “It was a year ago, Margaret. It was a year ago, and I didn't know she had a kid, and I didn't know she had a nasty tongue. It happened once. And if you're going to make scenes about girls I sleep with, then I'm going to goddamn well ask your father if I can date you, Margaret Campbell.”
Margaret looked at him standi
ng there, all honest and decent, and she gave a long sigh. “Not tonight, okay? I'm doling out the shocks to him.”
He grinned at her and reached out to pull her close with his hands on her hips. “Okay, Miss Margaret, I'll do it your way. Tomorrow after breakfast.”
“This is so stupid and old-fashioned,” Margaret groaned. But she couldn't think of a better option. Gene was right, they couldn't keep sneaking around forever, and his way was probably a lot more respectful to all parties concerned.
“That's me,” he agreed and gave her a light kiss on the lips. “Your stupid, old-fashioned, blue-collar boyfriend.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IT WASN'T THAT MARGARET WAS AFRAID of Jon saying no and kicking Gene out the door that she was nervous, she decided as she scrubbed dishes and glanced up at the door to her father's office every ten seconds. She was probably more afraid that he'd say yes, and that somewhere along the way she'd end up marrying Gene and taking over the ranch. There was no good outcome here, Margaret told herself unhappily. Either Jon would say no and be furious, or Jon would say yes and be happy, which was worse. He already liked Gene, and if she'd had to pick out a son-in-law to his tastes, she couldn't have done much better.
Son-in-law. What was she thinking? It was all Gene's fault for laying so much emphasis on talking to Jon himself. That was definitely a strike against him. It ought to be her decision whether they were dating or not. It was her decision, she reminded herself. He couldn't just worm his way into her life by being all nice and respectful to her father. But he seemed to have snuck through some errant chinks of desire in her protection, and she had to admit that it would be nicer to be dating Gene than to stop sleeping with him.