Skinner Luce

by Patricia Ward

  “Don’t be silly. I could make a stew, but I only have a few potatoes,” Eva worries. “There’s no time, though.”

  “Ma, really. Stop.” Suddenly weak, Lucy sits down hard on one of the wood chairs. She wonders where Bedrosian is, if he’s with the sentries, or waiting like her. If any of it is actually real.

  Eva approaches but doesn’t touch her, she knows better, and for this Lucy is grateful. “What’s wrong, baby?”

  Lucy shakes her head.

  “You’d tell me if something was wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong.” Lucy rubs her eyes, tries to straighten herself up. “Actually, things are good.” She makes herself say it, because it’s true, and she needs to believe it herself. “I mean, things are going to change. It’s going to be a lot better, going forward.”

  Eva brightens a little. “The job—they want to keep you?”

  “No. But it’s O.K.,” Lucy says quickly, “there’s always another job to be had. And I think I’ll finally be able to get back to school. Maybe go traveling, too.”

  Eva’s looking a little suspicious of all this good news, and Lucy thinks, Too much, too fast. Her own head’s swimming, like she’s tipping over an edge, barely hanging on. She’s only just started thinking of how her life could change, really change. “Never mind, I’m so tired right now, Ma, I think I’m kind of crazy.”

  This, Eva can handle. “You lie down while I make a sandwich,” she commands.

  It’s an appealing notion, but Lucy heads for the secretary desk. “If I fall asleep now, I’ll wake up at two in the morning. Lemme go over your papers. I haven’t gone over things in a while.” She notices the Amazon gift card still standing at attention on the secretary desk, the centerpiece. She swipes it up between two fingers, shakes it at Eva. “Didn’t you order yet?”

  “I haven’t decided what to get. I like browsing.”

  Eva busies herself at the counter, the fridge, pulling out turkey, cheese, mayo, lettuce. Lucy shoves aside all the junk mail on the desk, hefts a sheaf of papers out of the file cabinet and starts separating things into piles: bills, bank statements, correspondence, donations.

  “Eva, you can’t give this much to the SPCA,” she groans.

  “Those poor animals have no one.”

  “I give you my hard-earned money so you can save a cat?”

  Implacable, sturdy in her cause, Eva does not relent. She sets to chopping a red onion with vigor, her arms flopping with the motion. It comes to Lucy that maybe, after all, the animal’s a better investment than the girl ever was. Though that’s going to change.

  She wishes Bedrosian would call with an update. Instead, when the phone rings, it’s Sean. Eva puts him on speaker, announces Lucy is here. They exchange greetings, Lucy hollering from her position bent over the lower drawer of the file cabinet. Eva asks him to pick Phyllis up first so she can get the window, which Lucy finds pretty funny. It’s too much, Sean with two old ladies in his truck on a Friday night: it’s a wonder what he puts up with.

  Time passes with Lucy going over statements and bills, munching on her sandwich while she works. Eva changes into a navy blue wool suit she got on sale two winters ago, adds a string of fake pearls to the ensemble, and fusses endlessly over her hair in the front hall. When Sean pulls up, Lucy helps her down the steps, then scatters deicer on the way back up. She waves and Sean honks. They pull away.

  She’ll be able to come home whenever she wants, she realizes. Every weekend. She can stay over Christmas.

  She enters the house, closes the door and locks it. One of the cats meows, rubbing figure eights around her legs. She gazes at the polished table with its rectangular lace doily and jade cat, Eva’s snow boots primly stationed on a boot tray next to the door, the little wooden plaque hanging on the wall with its merry painting of a sandcastle and pail above the scrolled words: Gone To The Beach! Lucy made it in grade school. She wanted to open a shop and sell such knickknacks to tourists. Eva got her paints, wood scraps, ribbon and string to hang up her creations. She made about ten, sold them for two bucks each to Eva’s friends, then lost interest. She’s seen this plaque a thousand times and not once before has it ever made her feel like crying.

  Get a grip, she chastises herself.

  The fact that she’s getting bought out keeps swooping into her mind out of nowhere, leaving her stunned all over again. It’s going to take days, weeks, to come to terms. To really, truly grasp that it’s real. She pops open Eva’s sherry and pours herself a stiff portion. She picks up her knapsack, carries it and the drink upstairs to her room. She dumps the knapsack on the bed, sits down. The room is dusty and dim; the nightstand light’s burned out, and the ceiling fixture gives off a blue glow, which was what she liked when she was a kid, to be encased in a womb-like darkness, hunched up on her bed with her knuckles digging at her ribs. The walls are bare except for a Dürer print of the grim reaper. The book shelves still hold the sci-fi and fantasy series she was reading back then, a snow globe, a wooden recorder, a Tarot deck.

  Alone in this quiet, exhaustion setting in once again, her elation at her freedom dissolves into an acid pool of guilt for the betrayal that bought it. Especially Ernesto: it pains her even more than Julian.

  They wrote you off first, she reminds herself.

  It’s weird she’s not that distraught about Julian, but maybe being in this room is keeping her in check. That one time she brought him to Hull was just so wretched. Why the hell had she, anyway? He’d wanted to come, that was the main reason. But also because, truth be told, she couldn’t stand to go a day without him—that’s first love, sick and cloying and blind to everything till it’s too late.

  Julian, who’d never had a real family, wanted to see. It was like a circus attraction for him, to peek into the musty tent of Lucy’s childhood, to look upon the strange creature called mother. That was how it felt, after all the giggling and making out on the ferry, once they stepped into the house and Lucy saw the avid curiosity on his face, the sneering way he looked around like he was in a place beneath him. In that moment, Lucy wanted to take it all back, swoop backwards in time, the ferry flying backwards across the waves, them trotting back to her apartment, back to the moment when she said, Sure, come along, when she should have said, No.

  Eva sensed it. She was guarded, welcoming but suspicious, and a little scared, and happy, too. All her conflicting emotions were so pathetically obvious, laid bare for Julian to see, and Lucy couldn’t help it, the skewed resentments she’d felt as a child resurfaced: Eva had no spine, no ability to discern, to conceal, to put up a fight. She was weak, flaccid. It was why she’d given Lucy up, in the end.

  At the same time, Lucy knew she should protect Eva, shield her from Julian’s nasty curiosity, from the whispered comments, I can’t believe you lived here, and, What a dump. Because in his and Theo’s view, the Before was infinitely superior to this world: servs were like princes driven from their thrones, they did not belong here, they deserved better. Anything in this world was shit, and Lucy’s little brown house in this working-class neighborhood was a cesspool.

  But Lucy was too cowardly to protest. She hung on Julian’s arm, mimicking him. They filled Eva’s house with meanness and snobbery, they ate her meal, went out drinking, they came home and fucked on this bed.

  Lucy stands up, repulsed. The memory is a pit of awfulness, of everything she just wants to forget. Most of all Eva’s collapsed look, a few hours in. Her resignation, a sheep headed for slaughter. Plodding back and forth with dirty plates and silverware, making bright conversation, putting on a show that all three of them knew was a farce.

  I’m sorry for everything: that’s what Lucy always says, and maybe it’s really just for that one time. It’s the most awful thing she ever did, because it was conscious. Not the ravings of a bewildered serv child with no guidance. It was calculated: she made her choice, and she chose Julian.

  In the morning, Eva took her aside. She said, I don’t like that man, Lucy. She sounded resolu
te, despite her total humiliation. You stay away from him.

  Eva doled out some good advice over the years, all of which Lucy let pass through one ear and out the other. It might be time to start paying heed.

  Time: the word itself fills her with new wonder.

  She’s got time. Time lies ahead, pouring away, and all she must do is step forward into the stream. It’s just not believable. She’s never made a plan more than a week ahead. Even in the off-season, she’s never dropped her guard, not ever. A host of threats lurks right around the corner, always. No serv makes a plan without we’ll see or let’s check in again. They live day to day, week to week maximum. Even without Nafikh in town, there are cranky overseers slapping on penalties, other servs trying to edge into a choice bunk, squabbles over jobs and tasks. Even privileged with her own apartment, there is dealing, maneuvering, wrangling, all in the effort to position oneself for the coming season. There is the desperate quest to put away extra cash for bribes, drugs, emergency dupes, and in her case, Eva’s loan, her rent, utilities, food—

  She lets out a sudden laugh, more like a choking sound. The urge to call Bedrosian practically topples her: Is it real? Did you pay yet? Is it a trick?

  The first gong of the doorbell jolts her out of her reverie, followed by the ladder of merry notes echoing through the house. She peeks out the window, sees Sean’s truck idling in front of the house. She rubs her eyes. She needs to change the sheets, replace that dumb blue bulb, eat some more. And hit that bottle of sherry again for sure; she can get Eva another one before she leaves. There’s no way she can go out. She needs to rest, think, get herself in order.

  She opens the door and leans against the jamb, arms folded. “What, no Janie to keep you busy?”

  “It’s over for good this time. Let’s go for a drink.” He flicks his wrist, miming a dart toss. “Come on. If you don’t, I’ll lose.”

  Lucy hesitates. It’s not every day a serv gets bought out. Maybe she should celebrate. “O.K.,” she says. “Lemme get my darts.”

  IT’S THE WITCHING HOUR and Maggie’s Shack is crammed. The two boards are already occupied, so Lucy signs up for the next round. She heads for the only stool left, at the far corner of the bar next to the cash register. In the mirror behind all the bottles she glimpses her drawn, hollow-looking face, her nose and cheeks pinched red from the walk across the parking lot. Sean lags behind, nodding hellos, cracking a joke or two. Mayor Sean, that’s his nickname, because he knows everyone, and everyone loves him. A woman with streaked blonde hair latches onto his arm, all twinkle-eyed and adoring. It’s obvious they had a thing at some point. Sean can’t shake her off because, as usual, he’s too nice for that. At least Janie is out of the picture.

  Lucy goes ahead and orders a Jameson, fixes her gaze on the scratched and dirty bar, letting all the noise wash into her, the band setting up in the corner, people crowding in already on second and third drinks and getting loud. The guy next to her is digging into a burger, smacking his lips, fingering the balled-up napkin. Lucy thinks of Eva’s fridge and decides she’ll go shopping with her tomorrow, so she can really stock up with Lucy there to carry the bags. She turns on her stool, finds Sean approaching. Something about him takes her back what feels like a hundred years to the wet stadium grass seeping through her shirtback, Jamie O’Conell’s groping hand making a try for her tit. How old was she—eleven? Twelve? O’Conell was fifteen at least. Then Sean barreled out of the dark, waled on the older boy with whirligig fists. The last she heard, O’Connell works for some consulting firm in Boston, drives a BMW, and can’t be bothered to get to Hull for his own mother’s birthday. Asshole.

  “How long we got?” Sean asks, peering over the crowd to try and see the boards.

  “Maybe half an hour.” She downs the Jameson and pushes the glass forward, signaling her need for another.

  “Already on number two?”

  “You were busy chatting up boobs over there.”

  “You could get padded cups, you know.”

  “Ha-ha-ha.”

  She feels his weight pressing in on her space as he fits himself between the barstools. The bartender slides a pint down the counter without comment. Sean takes a long drink. “So are you gonna tell me what’s been going on, Luce?”

  Her mood sinks a little. “There’s nothing going on.”

  “Yeah? You look like the cat dragged you in.”

  “Wow. Thanks.”

  He chews on his lip, leaning over the bar with his arms folded. “Seriously, Luce. I mean, that cop?”

  She shakes her head, downs the rest of the Jameson in one gulp. She meets his eyes in the mirror, between all the bottles. “It’s nothing, Sean. Just drop it.”

  “Drop it?” He draws in his chin, amazed. “Boston Homicide comes to the house, and you say drop it?”

  Lucy’s starting to wish she stayed home after all. “I know how it looks. I’m sorry. But I swear, it’s all taken care of.”

  He regards her with obvious distrust. “That just sounds like a lie.”

  “Well, it isn’t.”

  It’s pretty ironic that the one time she’s telling the truth, he still calls her out. The girl who cried wolf, she supposes. She turns to survey the room. There are so many familiar faces in here: Pat McGill, Georgie whatsit, Ellie from middle school, her red hair cut short now, still with the tattoos and now a snake circling her bicep. And Damian Leary, who used to pepper her with spitballs. He’s a freaking cop now. He turns, catches sight of her. His round freckled face breaks into an awkward smile, and he lifts his hand in greeting. Lucy waves back.

  “Luce, Jesus,” Sean hisses. “Now will you quit telling me everything’s O.K.?”

  Her sleeve rode up when she waved, exposing the dark mottle of bruises. She tugs it down. Her surroundings are momentarily obliterated by the memory of the Nafikh clenching her forearms over and over, fascinated by the way the skin changed color when He let go. The muscles in her face tense up, automatically ready to shape the rictus smile. She bends her head. “I said, just drop it.”

  “Is that what it’s all about, some asshole beat you up? Was it one of the ‘bad guys’ that detective was talking about?”

  “No, Sean.”

  “Because I can take care of that shit, you understand?”

  She is momentarily baffled. “What?”

  He leans in, subtly points to Damian, then another guy in a black leather vest, his name is Call. He’s beefy and short, he plays drums in a local band. “All I have to do is say the word.”

  Understanding dawns. “Uh, Sean, hello. They hate me.”

  “They don’t hate you. They just think you’re weird. Which you are. Anyway, they like me,” he points out, “so they’ll do what it takes.”

  She pictures them in the doorway to the mansion, the Nafikh turning His gaze upon the intruders. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “It’s all some kind of joke to you, is it?”

  “It’s not a joke.”

  “Do you realize how worried Aunt Eva is? ‘Find out what’s going on, Sean.’ ‘You have to make her talk, Sean.’ That’s all I got, all the way to Hingham!”

  “So that’s why you wanted to go out?”

  “God, you take the cake, you do!”

  “What the hell am I supposed to think?”

  She turns away, furious at this interrogation, but he won’t let up. He leans in, forcing her to look at him. “I wanted to go out because I care, too! Aunt Eva said you’re talking big about things changing and going back to school? That sounds nuts, Lucy, especially with cops after you!”

  “There aren’t any cops—Jesus! Things are looking up at last, and I get criticized? What do you want from me?”

  “What do we want—?” He’s gripping his glass, white knuckled, and his mouth clenches into a hard line. She’s rarely seen him so worked up, and it leaves her off balance. “What we want,” he says through his teeth, voice low and hard, “is the fucking truth, for once. That is what we want. It’s the
least we deserve.”

  Her eyes blur and she turns abruptly, blinking hard. The van turning on the circular drive. The mansion against the moonlit sky, Cora whining why don’t you just put her up front.

  “You know what, forget it,” he snaps, shoving his half-empty glass so that it totters, almost falls. Then, to her shock, he throws some bills on the counter and walks away, headed for the door.

  It takes a moment before she’s confident she can pick up her Jameson without slopping it everywhere. She drinks slow and deep, sliding the liquid in a tiny stream along her tongue and down the back of her throat. To feel the fire of it. To obliterate the sting of tears in her eyes. He’s drunk, is what it is, already worked up about Janie, and then Bedrosian’s stupid visit.

  Although, he’s got a right to be so mad. She has lied to his face for years, after all, every single fucking time, a lie. Same with Eva. And he knows it. He just doesn’t realize how deep things go.

  She slides off the stool. She makes her way across the crowded room, erases her name from the lineup. Damian notices her, waves in farewell. She forces herself to acknowledge it, gives a little smile, because after all, it’s true he’d beat someone up for her. At the door, she pulls on her parka and ties the belt, pulls her wool hat down low. When she steps out she discovers it’s snowing heavily now. They’re predicting up to two feet. The sea wind picks up the snow and tosses it in mist-like swirls and eddies across the parking lot. At the end of which Sean’s truck idles with the headlamps pouring cones of light through the snowfall.

  She stands there, not sure. Then she’s walking forward without having really decided to, but she can’t turn back so she keeps going. Her boots make tracks all the way, and he doesn’t get out or drive forward, just sits there waiting. She can hardly blame him. The walk towards him feels redemptive in some way, like she’s doing her penance.

  She waits at the passenger side till the lock thunks, giving her permission. She gets in. It’s hot and noisy with the fans blowing high to keep the windshield from fogging. He’s sipping coffee from a thermos. The whiskey in it perfumes the air. She feels the Jameson now in the heat and in his proximity. She drags her wool cap off.