As I opened the door and exited into a blast of arctic air, he shouted spitefully, “This also means you’ll get no help for your hideous wounds, no plastic surgery. That means no prosthetic toe, Max. And Charlene—no skin graft.”
“We never asked for that,” Max said, joining me on the porch.
“Then you’d better get used to your ugly hand, Charlene,” Grandfather sneered.
I glanced at the cross on my palm. “It’s not ugly.”
Max and I walked down the drive and out the gate, letting it slam shut behind us with a final, freeing clang.
* * *
We should have taken a stand together and left Grandfather a long time ago, I thought as Max and I walked down the sidewalk. For all the old man’s raging and threatening, it hadn’t been difficult at all. Especially not with Max standing strong beside me. His arm looped around me, supporting and warm, and I relied on him to lead the way.
And I actually felt sorry for Joy and Gwen. Grandfather’s focus will be all on them now.
As we continued walking, I could tell Max had a destination in mind. A shelter? A friend’s house? A bus station? It didn’t matter. We’ll be okay. We’re in this together.
We ended up at Wayne’s house, where the family had just returned home from vacation. Upon hearing our story and learning that Grandfather had kicked us out, they insisted we stay with them. Max shared Wayne’s room, and I was given a small room in the rear of the house, near the laundry—it was really more of a closet than anything, but I didn’t complain. It had just enough room for a small air mattress. Shelves of books lined the walls, and I enjoyed perusing the titles. When I discovered a worn copy of Gone with the Wind, I settled down with it right away.
Wayne’s sisters, ages fourteen and fifteen, occupied a bedroom on the other side of my room and liked to play country music at all hours. The sad songs wailed through the wall, and sometimes the tunes reminded me of Clay. When that happened, I put a pillow over my head. I didn’t like thinking about him sitting in a jail cell somewhere, alone. Or worse, not alone.
The case was scheduled to go to trial in May, but was delayed until late August to give the defense more time to prepare. Meanwhile, Max and I continued with life. We returned to school. Max was more popular than ever, and I received some attention as well, but I knew it was because of the kidnapping, and I had no desire to talk about the experience.
Detective Donnelly kept us posted with any details worth knowing. The cottage we had sheltered in belonged to a nice retired couple who lived in the city but liked to come up every couple of weeks for peace and quiet. Abner’s body was retrieved from the lake by divers. Investigation unearthed a dead body with remnants of a wedding dress in the cabin’s cellar. The body was identified as Lydia Morrow, Abner’s wife. She had been three months pregnant when killed by trauma wounds—wounds, they deduced, that had resulted from being hit by a vehicle.
Tight-lipped as Max and I were about our ordeal, publicity still found us. Job offers rolled in, invitations to appear on talk shows, “fan” letters, even a few proposals of marriage. It was crazy, and I couldn’t wait for it to all subside. But I supposed there’d be no chance of that happening till after Clay’s trial.
Of course, Max and I didn’t want to be a burden to Wayne’s family, so we did take jobs. We selected low-profile ones. I worked in the local college library, and Max worked at a sporting goods store. It would take time for us to save enough money to be able to move out into our own place.
In the meantime, I helped Wayne’s mom with grocery shopping, cleaning, and—worst of all—laundry. It was a very strange, unnerving feeling, reaching into the dryer for a load of clean clothes. But I made myself do it, over and over.
Graduation came, and I wasn’t surprised that Grandfather didn’t show up. He had been strictly true to his word, and we hadn’t seen him since “That Day,” as I called it. But when Max and I descended the stage with our diplomas, I was surprised to see a familiar face in the crowd: Joy, my stepmother. I had not seen her since “That Day,” either. At school, Gwen avoided me.
I didn’t really blame them. I knew that Grandfather had commanded them not to associate with us, and now as the sole heirs to his fortune, he had them in his complete control. Life back with Gwen, Joy, and Grandfather now seemed like another lifetime.
Diploma in hand, Max moved off to talk with some friends. A moment later, Joy approached me timidly, glancing over her shoulder. “I can’t stay long,” she said in a hushed tone, “but I have something I need to give you.” She placed a dark wooden box in my hands. “I was saving this for your twenty-first birthday, but I thought you’d better have it now.”
Curious, I lifted the golden latch and opened the box. My breath caught in my throat. A stunning assortment of jewelry rested on a bed of wine-colored velvet: A ruby pendant, a diamond cross necklace, a string of pink pearls, and a various rainbowed assortment of jeweled rings and winking silver and gold bracelets.
“Your grandfather would be furious if he knew I gave these to you.” Joy tittered. “But they were your mother’s, and they belong to you. They’re very valuable. I thought that maybe you could sell some of them . . . get your own place. It’s no fun living in someone else’s house.” She gave me a light kiss on the cheek before flitting away.
I touched the pink pearls, admiring the smooth, creamy color. These were them, the pearls I remembered my father giving my mother so long ago, the pearls I had loved above all my mother’s jewelry.
A memory I had long forgotten, returned to me, an image of my mother getting ready for a party. I watched her, leaning my knobby six-year-old elbows on her white frilly dressing table as she glided crimson lipstick onto her smile.
“Now all I need to do is choose a necklace, and I’ll be ready to go,” she said, opening a wooden jewelry box.
“Let me, let me!” I pleaded, bouncing on my heels. “Let me choose it, please?”
She laughed, her musical, piano-scale laugh. “Go ahead.”
I plucked up the pink pearl necklace with no hesitation. “This one,” I breathed.
She smiled. “A lovely choice. But pink pearls with a yellow dress?” She laughed again. “You have your father’s fashion sense.”
“It’s so pretty!” I cried. “Please wear it, Mommy, please?”
“Of course,” and she looped the strand around her neck as my dad strode in.
“A vision of beauty,” he said, “the both of you,” and he swooped us into a bear hug.
Now, closing the jewelry box, I hugged it to my chest. I couldn’t have received a more wonderful graduation gift.
* * *
When I brought Max to the doorway of my room and showed him the jewelry and told him my plan, he was delighted.
“That’s awesome, Char. So’s the timing. Now I can go and I won’t have to worry about you being stuck here. You can get your own apartment and make it exactly the way you want it.”
I backed up, almost stumbling over my air mattress. My own apartment? I thought it was going to be our apartment. But something else he’d said was even more disturbing. “So you can go? What do you mean? Go where?”
He moistened his lips. “I didn’t say anything earlier because I didn’t think I could manage it, but now—this is perfect. Me and Wayne have been talking. We’re finally done with high school—we want to hit the road and try making a go of our magic act. We really think we can do this. And now with all the publicity—well, it’s bound to help. We might as well take advantage of this while we can.”
“But what about college?”
“There’ll be time for that later,” he said dismissively. “You know this is what I’ve always wanted to do.”
“And the trial, in August?” I added softly. He and I had met with the lawyers on both sides; they knew how we felt, yet they both wanted us on the stand.
“I’ll be back for that.”
What else could I say? “It sounds so impractical. What if you don’t make en
ough money? And where will you sleep?”
“We’ll rough it. That’s half the fun. I’ve got some money saved, but you never know; we might make it really big. We won’t know unless we try. I could buy us a house of our own.” He grinned. “I could even get a new toe.”
I nibbled at my lip.
“I need this, Char. Life’s been too serious for too long. I need a break. A change.”
I met his eyes. He read me, like he always could.
“You could come with me. Be our assistant or something. You need a change, too. Between here and your job at the library, you spend all your time cooped up with books. What do you say?”
I searched his eyes, then dropped my gaze. As he could read me, I could also read him, and I knew he didn’t really want me to come. “No, but thanks for asking. This is your and Wayne’s thing. I really don’t want to tag along, sleeping in a crammed car, eating gas station food three times a day with a couple of belching guys. And besides, I happen to like my job. I like a calm, orderly life.” I lifted my head and met his gaze, realizing the truth of my words. “We can’t always be together. So you go be a traveling magician, and wow everyone.” I forced a smile. It’ll be good for you to keep busy. “Send me some postcards, and I’ll hang them in my new apartment.”
* * *
A month later, I tacked my first postcard from Max on the wall of Wayne’s old bedroom. Ever since he and Max had left, his parents had insisted that I move into this larger room. I wasn’t having much luck yet finding an apartment. It had torn my heart to part with any of the jewelry, a legacy from my mother, so I sold as little as I possibly could and searched for cheap places. The pink pearls, I would never sell.
Finally, I moved into a rundown mud-colored complex on the far side of town. Wayne’s parents were not a fan of it and pleaded with me to stay with them. But I told them this was something I had to do.
The first thing I did when I moved in was stick Max’s Grand Canyon postcard on my whirring fridge. Then I spent a weekend scouting Goodwill, Wal-Mart, and rummage sales for furniture bargains. I ended up with two mismatched oak chairs, a worn kitchen table with water rings, and a simple nightstand with a nicked drawer that tended to stick.
As I climbed into bed at night, I wondered how long it would take before this apartment felt like home. The nights were the worst.
Dear God, I prayed as I pulled a single bed sheet over my body, keep the nightmares away. It was really too warm for the sheet, especially without a window or fan in my room, but without it, I felt too exposed, too vulnerable. As if the sheet would stop anyone or anything, I chided myself.
The dreams came. And Abner starred in every one of them.
Around me, ice shattered, giving way to a watery black pit, from which Abner rose. He cackled fiendishly, his arms reaching from the water to grab me from my shaky little ice island. And the blackness was his skin, wrinkled, fire-burned, devil skin. “Cold, are you?” he snarled. “You won’t be for long, not where I’m taking you.”
A crash startled me awake. That wasn’t ice. It was glass breaking. And it had come from somewhere in my apartment. I trembled in sweat.
There’s no one here. No one but me.
The suspense finally drove me from bed. I snapped on a light and surveyed my surroundings. In such a small apartment, it didn’t take me long to find the cause of the crash.
I let out my breath and stepped gingerly. The bathroom mirror had fallen and shattered on the yellowed tile floor. That’s all. Seven years bad luck. I choked on a laugh. Good thing I’m not superstitious.
I swept up the mess and returned to bed, finally falling asleep with the light on. Light keeps away darkness, I told myself logically. Darkness is evil. And evil is Abner.
* * *
Maybe I should have gone to counseling, I thought as I carried the Tupperware of chocolate chip cookies into the church basement after Sunday Mass, my head foggy with sleep deprivation. I’d been attending St. Paul’s Catholic Church ever since I’d left Grandfather’s, and I had thought that if I went to church, I shouldn’t need counseling. Wasn’t God supposed to be able to take care of all things? Turn to Him with our fears, and He would comfort and protect? He’d promised not to give us more than we could handle. So why were the nightmares getting worse? I can’t handle them, God.
I set my bake sale contribution on the blue countertop, behind which a middle-aged lady with abundant brown hair smiled and thanked me.
A glass bottle of holy water, which I’d filled this morning from the church’s reservoir, sat heavily in my purse. Now I needed a holy water font. I turned away from the fattening array of goodies and wove through the mingling parishioners to reach the shelves of “for sale” Catholic goods.
The selection was surprisingly large, and I ended up choosing two fonts. But I didn’t stop there. Seeing all the religious items, so holy and protective looking, a kind of fever hit me. If I cram my apartment full of religious things, I reasoned, I’ll feel as safe as I do in church.
I picked pieces up like I was grocery shopping. In fact, I secured a plastic shopping bag from the bake sale and loaded it with my purchases: A Virgin Mary statue, a votive candle, another rosary and scapular, a Miraculous Medal, a crucifix, a Bible, a Sacred Heart picture, a Saint Michael holy card depicting the warrior angel conquering a scaly green devil dragon, and a book enticingly titled, Why Must I Suffer?
“Wow, you’re really stocking up,” came a male voice over my shoulder. “You starting your own church or something?”
I flushed and turned, the heavy bag straining from my hand. Maybe I had gotten a little carried away. But I’d be glad for it tonight.
A young man dressed in a well-fitting suit smiled at me. For a moment, I thought his hair had a premature gray streak, but it was only the light reflecting silver off his very shiny dark hair. “Since you’re buying everything in sight, are you going to buy something from the bake sale, too?”
“Ben, you dummy!” called a small girl perched on a nearby table, her white stocking legs swinging, her blue skirt ruffling around her like giant flower petals. “She doesn’t have to buy anything from the bake sale—she donated to it.”
With a twinkle in his eye, Ben said, by way of introduction, “That’s Lucy, my kid sister, the most precocious nine-year-old you’ll ever have the unfortunate pleasure of meeting.”
She grinned at me, showing a missing tooth, and held up a cellophane-covered paper plate. “Wanna buy some cookies? I made them. They’re sugar fish.”
Approaching the table, I saw that the cookies on the plate were indeed fish shapes sprinkled with golden sugar.
“I love fishing,” she explained.
Ben winked at me. “Sorry to break it to you, Sis, but your cookies aren’t the only fish in the bake sale sea. I’ve sampled every cookie here, and I have to say that the chocolate chip cookies in that Tupperware on the counter are the very best.”
I followed his pointing finger and couldn’t help smiling. He obviously knows I made them.
“Ben,” Lucy said, “you’re such a pig. How do you not weigh a thousand pounds?” She shook her head at me. “I would have been able to sell twice this many cookies if my brother hadn’t eaten half the batch last night.”
“Still going on about that?” He flicked one of Lucy’s pigtails. “I promised to take you fishing tomorrow, didn’t I?”
Lucy’s smile widened, but she turned to me. “What’s your name?”
“Charlene.” I never gave my last name unless absolutely necessary.
“Do you like fishing?”
I gave a small shrug. “I don’t really know.”
Lucy bounced the plate of cookies, probably breaking a few of them. “You should come with us. You’d love it!”
“Oh,” I began awkwardly, “I don’t—”
“Ben wants you to come,” she said knowingly, “but he’s afraid you’ll say no.”
I blushed and forced a light laugh.
“What did I tell
you?” Ben nudged Lucy so hard, she almost fell off the table. “Precocious.” He shrugged. “But she’s right. I would like you to come. I know you don’t know me, so it’s no big deal if you say no. But if you come, I promise I won’t make you put any worms on hooks.”
“That’s the best part,” Lucy interjected.
Fishing. Worms on hooks.
“My dad brought us here a few times for fishing and hunting.” Clay’s words came unbidden to my mind. “I remember this one time, when I was six, he locked me in the cellar overnight . . . because I didn’t want to stick a worm on a hook.”
I felt my blushing color drain away. “Maybe some other time.”
“Sure.” Ben bounced right back. “Maybe you could hang around after church sometime, give us a chance to get to know each other first.”
I wasn’t sure if I responded or not. I threaded my way through the crowd, clutching my purse and heavy plastic bag as I exited into the late June sunshine. A fresh warm breeze caressed me, clouds billowed in a blue sky, birds twirled and twittered. I gulped a breath and worked to steady my nerves.
Clay hated the cellar. And now he’s in a cell. A jail cell.
What would it take for me to forget?
But I’m not meant to forget. The trial’s coming up.
Walking home, I listened to the birds sing, but they were all songs about happiness, songs about freedom. I both anticipated and dreaded the trial. I wanted to see Clay and I didn’t want to see him. I wanted to defend him from the stand, but I didn’t want to relive the kidnapping. I wanted to know the verdict and I didn’t want to know it.
It was like part of me was waiting in that cell with him.
Two more months to go.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Do you have a moment, dear? I’d like to talk to you.”
I’d just stepped out of church, ready to make my customary getaway, when the matronly voice stopped me. I swallowed and turned to see the same plump, abundant-haired middle-aged lady who had taken my bake sale contribution a few weeks ago. Her dress was one huge splash of colorful flowers.
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