by Vickie Hall
“What’s her name?” Candy asked, taking the cat from Irene to hold it.
Bonnie couldn’t believe how the women oohed and ahhed over the kitten, making such a fuss over it. Somewhere deep within her, though, Bonnie felt a sense of pride, knowing her cat could illicit such responses. “I call her Baby Girl. That’s what my mama called me.”
“That’s sweet,” Irene said. “Now you’d better get Baby Girl locked in the bathroom while we pack the rest of the apartment.”
“I’ve got to go down and speak with the manager, but before I do,” Bonnie said, taking the kitten into her arms, “I just want to say something to all of you.” She paused a moment and looked at each of the women. She swallowed and battled against feelings of insignificance. “Iwanted to thank you for doing this for me. I really didn’t know what I was going to do…”
“You’re more than welcome,” Ann said as if it was no big deal. “Any friend of Mom’s is a friend of ours.”
Again tears welled in Bonnie’s eyes, but she didn’t want to unleash them. She already felt foolish enough for making such a scene earlier with Irene and Don. Bonnie wondered what her life would have been like if she’d been raised by people like the Ortons. Who would she have been? Of course, she would never know that. She was who she was. But had it been different, she knew San Diego would never have happened.
“Where have you been?”
Bonnie froze in the doorway of the apartment at the sound of her father’svoice. “I was working.”
He came forward, his eyes narrowed with accusation. His hand swung back, then came crashing toward her, landing against her face with a sharp blow. “Liar! You should have been home an hour ago.”
Bonnie gritted her teeth against the stinging pain. She refused to crumble, refused to let him see her suffering. “I worked an extra hour,” she said, her insides quaking with mix of fear and rebellion.
“Liar!” he yelled, towering over her sixteen-year-old frame. “You were out whorin’ around! Weren’t you!”
Bonnie shook her head. “No. I was working. You can call Mr. Gowan, and ask him.”
His meaty fist struck her again and Bonnie collapsed to the floor with its force. She glared up at him, compelling her tears to remain unshed. “Believe whateveryou want,” she snarled.
He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her toward him. “Don’t you talk to me like that,” he roared, jerking her head back and forth. Bonnie flinched and wrapped her hands around his wrist in a vain attempt to minimize the agony. Her scalp felt as if it were ripping free of her head. She buried the pain and swallowed down her cries. Hatred welled up in her with such vehemence she began to lash out at him, swinging her fists wildly, but his hold only tightened as he yanked her off the floor by the hair. Bonnie scrambled to gain a footing. Another blow knocked her senseless. She crumpled to the floor once more as his booted foot plunged into her stomach.
“You whore! You little whore!”
Bonnie heard the accusation ringing in her ears and saw her mother come in from the kitchen. Her mother’s misshapen face mirrored a look of sorrow and guilt as she stood helplessly in the shadows, offering nothing to save her daughter. Bonnie’s world began to slip away, a darkness descending over her with sweet, welcomed oblivion. ///////
It was nearly eight in the evening when everyone finally left the Orton home. Don had cleared out one of the two bedrooms in his basement. Bonnie had her bed, dresser, the overstuffed chair, lamps, and end table in her room. Everything else was boxed up and stored in the garage, along with the small drop-leaf table and chairs.
Baby Girl seemed undeterred by the move, snooping around in her new room with interest as Bonnie hung up her clothes. She was tired and anxious, wondering if she had done the right thing in coming to the Ortons. She felt stressed sharing their home, uneasy about feeling so exposed. It wasn’t comfortable—it was probably dangerous. She was used to being on her own, liked not having to answer to anyone. But this had been a rushed answer to a dire situation, and the only one she had at the moment. She promised herself she’d move as quickly as possible, get out before she said or did something she’d regret.
Irene’s voice floated down the back stairs. “Bonnie? Come on up, will you?”
She dreaded the thought, but felt she owed them for their generosity. She shut the cat in the bedroom and went upstairs. Forcing a smile to her lips, she entered the kitchen. “Whew! We’ve had quite a day.”
Irene went to the stove and turned off the gas as the tea kettle whistled out a high-pitched screech. “I’ll say. I thought you might join us for some tea.”
Bonnie hesitated, but there was something about Irene that had her nodding her head. “Sure,” she said, pulling up a chair at the table beside Don.
Irene placed another cup on the table. “I know it’s still a little hot outside, but Don and I have a cup of tea every night together. We have all our married lives.”
Bonnie couldn’t imagine any such domestic moment shared between her parents. Her memories entailed wondering if she’d get to finish her meal before her father threw the plate of food across the room, blaming her mother for burning the meat, even when it wasn’t. She remembered her father hunched over the tailgate of the truck, slurping coffee from a tin cup, complaining her mother couldn’t brew a decent cup if her life depended on it. And the time in Long Beach when he’d thrown a cup of hot coffee in her mother’s face because he claimed it was bitter tasting.
Shaking her memories to the back of her mind, Bonnie smiled at the Ortons. “I still don’t know how I’ll ever repay your kindness. You and your family are just amazing. I’ve never seen anything like it, how you all pulled together to help me. You were so…so,” she struggled for the right word, “organized.”
“That’s Irene’s doing,” Don said, grinning. “She’s the queen of organization. She raised all our kids to know that there’s a place for everything and everything in its place. She taught them to pitch in together with chores and never let them miss an opportunity to help others.”
Irene poured the hot water on the waiting tea bags. “Many hands make light work, I always say.”
“And as to repaying us,” Don said, reaching for the sugar bowl, “you’ll do no such thing. Allowing us to help you is its own reward.”
Bonnie looked at Irene when she joined them at the table. “Well…thank you.”
Irene covered Bonnie’s hand with her own. “You’re welcome. And now that topic is closed.” She pulled back her hand to stir her tea.
“I’ll find a place as soon as I can,” Bonnie said. “I don’t want to trouble you more than necessary. And I want to pay you for the room and—”
Irene cocked her head and drew her brows together. “Bonnie, stop. You are our guest, and you’ll not pay us a dime.”
“But I can’t just live here for free—”
“Tell you what,” Don said. “You help Irene with the laundry and shopping and cleaning, help me a little with the yard work, and we’ll call it even. How’s that sound? Deal?”
Bonnie smiled and placed her teaspoon on the edge of the saucer. “Deal.”
“And you take whatever time you need to find a new place, too,” Irene said. “Don’t just take the first thing you find. Make sure it’s what you want and can afford and lets you keep Baby Girl.”
Bonnie nodded and sipped her tea.
“That Baby Girl,” Don mused, “she sure is one cute cat.”
“She’s lucky you found her in that drain pipe,” Irene said.
“No,” Bonnie corrected with a smile, “I’m lucky she found me.”
They sat for a moment in the quiet of the evening, tired and worn out from the picnic and the move. It was relaxing to sit and sip the tea, letting the day come to a lazy close. Bonnie imagined Don and Irene sitting together every night, drinking their tea, sharing the quiet. It must be comforting to know someone was there at the end of the day.
“So where were you born, Bonnie?” Don asked over his ra
ised cup.
Bonnie saw Irene shoot him a look she could only interpret as one of disapproval. A thousand different answers raced through Bonnie’s mind. What should she say? What answer should she choose? She decided she owed them the truth, or at least as much of the truth as she dared reveal. It seemed wrong to lie to them after they’d been so good to her. “I was born in Kentucky. That’s where my mama was from. I don’t remember it, though,” she said. “We moved around a lot.”
“So how did you end up in Omaha?” Don continued without looking at his wife.
Bonnie sipped at her tea while she thought. How could she tell them her destination had been random, a quickly purchased bus ticket meant to facilitate her escape? How could she tell them why she had to leave, about the secrets she kept that drove her to anonymity? “Just seemed like a good place to come,” she said with a shrug. “And I’m glad I did. Glad I’ve met people like you and your family.”
“So do you have brothers and sisters?” he asked.
“Don,” Irene said under her breath.
Bonnie swallowed hard. What should she say? She’d been so careful around Irene, so cautious about letting things slip, about lying. Now it seemed she owed them some sort of truth, something real she could share about herself. “No,” Bonnie said looking at Irene. “It’s okay. I know I don’t talk much about myself at work.”
“And you don’t have to,” Irene said firmly. “You have a right to your privacy, and I respect that.”
Bonnie smiled and turned to look at Don. “No brothers or sisters. My mama died recently of cancer, and I don’t have a relationship with my father.”
Don’s expression changed, darkened somehow. “I’m sorry about your mom. Mine died last year. She was eighty-two years old. Stubborn and independent to the day she died. We tried to get her to move in here with us, but she wouldn’t hear of it. I still miss her.”
Irene covered Don’s hand with hers and squeezed his fingers. “Enough for now,” she sa id. “We’re all tired, so I say we get ready for bed and call it a night.”
When Bonnie went downstairs, undressed, and crawled into bed, Baby Girl jumped up and sat on her chest. The cat was purring and happy to see her. Bonnie stroked the cat’s silky fur and Baby Girl lay down on Bonnie’s chest, curling her front paws back to back on Bonnie’s softly rising chest.
There was something cathartic in telling the truth about her life, as if it had opened a locked door, giving her a sense of freedom she’d not felt in years. She began to comprehend she used her lies as a barrier, a shield against intimacy. There was nothing like that with the Ortons. They were open to each other, without the secrets and lies that had imprisoned her in darkness.
Tears flooded Bonnie’s eyes as she continued to caress the kitten’s head with the tips of her fingers. She’d never realized how profound the void in her life was until now. Seeing what good parents could be like, how family could really mean something, could love each other, made her own emptiness feel like a crushing weight. She’d been cheated and now she knew it, and the pain of that knowledge wrapped her in a blanket of sorrow.
///////
Glen Taggart stepped from the train and onto the platform with a small satchel in his ha nd. He glanced up at the depot and saw a sign that read Helena, Montana, Elevation 4,090 feet. He was bone-tired from the long trip, and he felt as if he’d been traveling for months. He was anxious to get this part of it over with so he could go home and stop all the traveling. Living on the move during the war, the voyage back to the U.S., then the extensive train trip to Helena had Glen vowing he’d never leave home again—once he finally got home.
Glen stretched his aching back and stifled a yawn. He was still wearing his uniform, finding it allowed him a great deal of attentive service and special treatment. People were quick to offer him a seat, pour him a drink on the house, or give him a free sandwich as a token of their gratitude. He felt a bit guilty about that, but wasn’t entirely willing to change into civvies just yet. When he got home, he thought, when he at last stepped foot in Omaha, he’d give up the uniform forever. But just now it afforded him some much appreciated consideration.
He stopped at the information desk and pulled off his cap. “Can you recommend a good hotel?”
The man behind the counter straightened and cleared his throat. “Yes, there are a number of good hotels in town. There’s the Grandon, the Denver Hotel, the Placer, the Harvey—”
Glen held up an impatient hand. “Okay, the Harvey. Where’s that?”
The man smiled, took a small copy of the city map from behind the desk, and pushed it in front of Glen. “This is Main Street, or Last Chance Gulch, as we call it,” he said, placing an “X” on the map. He skimmed the pencil further across the map. “Now over here is the Civic Center, a must -see while you’re in town. This is the location of the State Capitol building—”
Again Glen raised his hand. “I don’t mean to be rude,” he said, scratching his forehead, “but I won’t be in town long enough for any of that.”
“Oh. Well, then here is the hotel,” he said, circling the map. “You’ll have no trouble finding it.”
Glen pulled the map between his thumb and forefinger, bowing it in half with the motion. “Thanks for your help.”
“No trouble, Corporal. Welcome home.”
Glen smiled and stuffed the map into his pocket. “Thanks,” he replied as he turned from the counter. He left the depot and headed left for Main Street. The hotel wasn’t far, and Glen sighed as he entered the hotel lobby. He was more tired than he initially thought, and decided he’d take a nap before contacting Amy.
Glen liked the dark Spanish leather chairs and overstuffed velour furniture of the lobby. Palm and fern stands anchored sections of sitting arrangements atop colorful oriental rugs. His eyes swept to an impressive painting of Indians astride their ponies that stood on a bluff. Dark red velour drapes hung in rich swags over the windows, and on a fireplace mantel rested a sculpture of an Alaskan dog team.
He checked in and procured a copy of the Helena Daily Independent, then went to his room on the third floor. From his open window, Glen scanned the town. The ochre-colored rise of Mount Helena stood at the southwest edge of the city, dotted with dense clusters of pine trees and rising up from the city floor. In the distance to the west lay the purple-shadowed Scapegoat mountain range, to the north the Big Belt range. Glen left the window open and took off his uniform. He sprawled out on the comfortable bed without considering the time, sank into the mattress and closed his eyes, feeling the slight breeze from the window skating across his body.
It was too quiet. He wasn’t used to it. It made him nervous, filled him with restlessness. He’d grown used to the pounding of artillery, gunfire, exploding hand grenades, men shouting, screaming, crying for their wives and mothers. The quiet seemed suddenly unbearable.
Glen was exhausted, but the silence drove him from the bed. He went to the bathroom and ran some cool water. He splashed it onto his face and neck, dried off, and cursed. Flipping on the light beside the bed, he glanced at his watch. It was nearly eleven o’clock. He wasn’t sure he could go to sleep—not for a while, anyway. It was far too late to call Amy. That would have to wait until the morning.
He looked out the window and thought about Amy. He was here, in the same town, where even now, she probably slept. He pictured her curled up in bed, her soft brown hair cascading across the pillow, her full lips slightly parted as she breathed. He shook his head and forced the images from his mind. Glen got dressed and went to find a drink.
///////
Glen awoke around ten in the morning and stumbled into the shower. The hot water eased his aching head as he stood beneath its steady stream. He thought about meeting Amy and felt a gnawing guilt in his stomach. He wanted Amy. He tried to argue with himself that he had no right to her, no right to violate his friendship with Charlie. But Charlie was dead, and it was up to Glen to console his grieving widow.
He cursed out loud
and turned off the water. Why hadn’t he just mailed the letter to her? It would have been so much simpler if he had. Glen snagged a towel and began drying off as he berated himself for his selfish thoughts. He didn’t know Amy, he only knew about her. There was a vast difference between the two. So why did he torture himself with wanting her? Maybe it wasn’t Amy he wanted, but what she represented—what she had been to Charlie.
Glen pulled on his shirt and trousers. He looped the tie around his collar and tied it using a full Windsor knot, fitting it in place with a tug. Tucking the shirt into his trousers, Glen fastened his belt then reached for his shoes and socks. He slipped into his coat and caught a glimpse of himself in the dresser mirror, saw the chest of medals and citations he’d earned during the war, the corporal stripes at the shoulders, and the polished buttons of the jacket. For the striking image he cut in the mirror, why did he feel so empty?
He had an early lunch at the hotel, praying it would give him enough strength to face Amy Larkin. He was trying to keep his nerves from getting the better of him as he drew in a calming breath, held it, and let it loose. She’d asked him to meet her at her apartment at noon and supplied him with directions. She lived nearby, only two blocks west of the hotel. He’d been surprised at the tone of her voice when he’d called. She seemed eager to meet him, told him she was happy to talk to someone who’d known her husband.
Glen paced himself as he walked, so he wouldn’t arrive too soon, nor did he want to be late. He licked his parched lips and stood outside the Mission Revival-styled Bonneville Apartment building to check his watch. Glen absently fingered the letter in his coat pocket and swallowed. He went inside and stepped onto the colorful mosaic tiles decorating the floor of what was once the West Hotel. Amy was on the second floor. Finding the correct apartment number, Glen curled his hand into a loose fist and rapped on the door.
He took off his cap and tucked it beneath his arm. He had to remind himself to stop holding his breath as he waited for Amy to answer. When the door opened, Glen caught his breath again. Amy smiled, her soft brown eyes inviting. Her chestnut hair was long and curled at the ends with a sweeping bang that perfectly framed her face. She was lovely, he thought, even more so than the picture Charlie carried with him.