That Camden Summer

by LaVyrle Spencer

  ‘‘I believe you, Roberta.’’ Touching a bruise on her throat, he repeated, ‘‘Did he do this?’’

  ‘‘I fought and I screamed, but he was stronger than I thought and there was nothing I could do. First he held me down, and when I wouldn’t stop fighting he bburned me with his c-cigar.’’

  ‘‘Oh God . . .’’ He drew her up and gathered her close while she wept, while pity and rage created a maelstrom of emotions within him. He clasped her to his breast, her forehead at his throat, his eyes closed, terrified to ask where she’d been burned. His heart was racing as he pictured the worst. But he forced himself to ask, ‘‘Where?’’

  She pulled back some and ran the edges of her dirty hands across her eyes. ‘‘Under my chin.’’

  Under her chin. Sweet Jesus. He’d kill that goddamned sonofabitch. He took her shoulders and urged, ‘‘Lie down, Roberta. Let me see.’’

  When he saw the red-rimmed blister his rage trebled. But he forced himself to think of her first and vengeance second.

  ‘‘I’ve got to put something on that.’’

  He moved to rise but she clutched his sleeve. ‘‘No, Gabe, please. Isobel will be coming home for supper and she can’t find me here looking this way. I don’t want my girls to find out.’’

  He covered her hand with his own, squeezing hard. ‘‘Isobel’s at your house. I’ll call there and tell her to stay awhile. You rest and I’ll be right back.’’ He rose from the bed, extending his hands to prolong his touch as he moved away. ‘‘I’ll only be a minute, Roberta.’’

  His hand slid away and she heard him hammer downstairs as if someone were after him with an axe. She closed her eyes and listened to the call bell ring as he summoned the operator, then his voice, indistinct, as he gave the number. Of the conversation with Isobel, she heard only snatches. ‘‘Mrs. Jewett and I are talking . . . would you . . . yes . . . our house . . . you later . . .’’ Then nothing more.

  She rested, with her hands at her sides, fanning them over the soothing nap of the bedspread that had probably been selected and washed and tucked beneath the pillows countless times by his wife. Odd, but the thought of that dead woman whom she had never known brought courage and strength to Roberta.

  She sat up unsteadily and balanced herself with both hands, looking down blearily at the spread. It was patchwork. The walls were papered in gray, spattered with yellow roses.

  He found her that way, sitting up looking somewhat stronger.

  ‘‘I brought some boric acid and pineoline, but you should see a doctor.’’

  ‘‘No,’’ she said with surprising vehemence. ‘‘No doctor! It’ll be all over town and my girls will hear about it. If I wanted that, I would have gone straight home.’’

  ‘‘But you’re hurt, Roberta, scraped up and burned.’’

  ‘‘The burn is nothing.’’ She took the tin from his hands and tried to open it, but her shaky hands couldn’t manage. ‘‘It’ll heal up in a week, and the real hurt is much deeper than any doctor can cure.’’

  He retrieved the tin, opened it and said, ‘‘Lie back. I’ll do it.’’

  She did as ordered, lifting her chin while he dusted the burn with boric acid, then dabbed it with pineoline jelly. She winced, and he did too, hating that he had to hurt her after all she’d already been hurt. ‘‘I’m sorry,’’ he said, but she set her jaw and tolerated his ministrations with remarkable stoicism.

  When she heard the cap go back on the pineoline her eyes opened and met his. He rose from the side of the bed and she sat up, too, swinging her legs over the edge and raising one dirty hand to her hair. He stood before her, out of his element, uncertain, but realizing she was still in no condition to get to her feet and walk out of here.

  ‘‘You’re sure about the doctor?’’

  She nodded, her eyes downcast.

  ‘‘Then what do you want me to do?’’

  ‘‘A bath,’’ she said quietly to her knees. ‘‘I’d like a bath.’’

  Her answer jolted him with unwanted images and a keener realization of the sordidness remaining, even after the act was over.

  ‘‘Of course,’’ he said, turning to the dresser.

  She studied the blue chambray on his back as he moved away and opened a drawer.

  ‘‘I’m so much trouble to you,’’ she said.

  ‘‘Yes, you are. But not in the way you think. Not today.’’ He selected something then moved on to a highboy, followed by her eyes. Momentarily he returned to the bed and laid some clothing beside Roberta. ‘‘These are some things of Caroline’s. She was a lot thinner than you, but that’s a dress she wore while she carried Isobel, so it should do. I’ll bring up some water.’’

  He went off, leaving her with his wife’s precious, untouchable clothing. She picked up the garments, overcome by his generosity and how far he’d come during this eventful summer, from where he’d been when they first met. She held the dress by the shoulders and it cascaded over her knees, an umbrella of violet-sprigged muslin with two small permanent stains on the front yoke. The stains—evidence of a real life, in the real world—released Roberta’s tears once more. She put her face into Caroline Farley’s maternity dress and silently told her, I love your husband. I don’t want to, but I do, and he doesn’t want to love me either, but I believe he does. You see, I’m nothing like you, and it scares him, and he fights his feelings for me because he thinks he’s being disloyal to you. I know perfectly well that if he ever breaks down and tells me, it’ll never be like it was with you. But he’s a good man, and you were lucky. Thank you for letting me borrow your clothes.

  Gabe stopped in the doorway, holding a dishpan of hot water, with a towel slung over his shoulder. Roberta raised her face from Caroline’s dress, which she held bunched up in both hands. There was a prayerfulness to her pose that caught at his heart.

  ‘‘Water was still warm in the reservoir.’’ He entered and set the dishpan in the center of a hooked rug. ‘‘Brought you some soap and a washcloth and towel, too.’’ He laid them on a nearby chair, then turned to find her watching him, her hands fallen to her lap in the folds of the sprigged muslin.

  ‘‘Thank you, Gabriel,’’ she said.

  ‘‘When you’re dressed, call me and I’ll carry the dishpan out.’’

  ‘‘I will. You’re very thoughtful.’’

  After an awkward pause, he moved once again, then stopped abruptly.

  ‘‘You sure you can stand up okay?’’

  She did, to show him. ‘‘You see? I’ll be fine.’’

  ‘‘Okay then, take your time.’’ He gestured with lifted palms. ‘‘There’s no hurry.’’

  She sent him a weak smile and he headed for the door.

  ‘‘Gabriel, there’s one more thing I need to ask you to do for me.’’

  He spun in place. ‘‘Anything.’’

  ‘‘It’s an indelicate matter, but I don’t see any other way than to ask. You see . . . I don’t want his baby. If there should accidentally be one, I don’t want it. Do you understand what I mean?’’

  He colored and shifted his weight, dropping his eyes to the rug. ‘‘Guess I do.’’

  ‘‘Could you mix up some of that boric acid in a quart of warm water and bring me my bag from the motorcar? There’s something in there I can use.’’

  He cleared his throat, still unable to meet her eyes. ‘‘Of course. Be right back.’’

  The bedroom door was closed when he returned with the things she had requested. ‘‘I’ll leave it out here, Roberta,’’ he called, tipping his head toward the door.

  ‘‘Thank you, Gabriel,’’ she said from inside his room.

  ‘‘Listen, I’ve got to leave for a while. Will you be all right for a little bit?’’

  ‘‘I’ll be fine.’’

  He shifted his weight to his other hip, roughed up the hair behind his right ear and decided that—indelicate subject or not—he could be just as brave as she.

  ‘‘Commode’s under the b
ed, Roberta. Feel free to use it.’’

  Beyond his bedroom door, all was silence. He pictured

  her standing on the other side and wondered what she’d use, then felt like a damned pervert for giving in to curiosity at a time like this. But hell, he’d been married to Caroline for eight years, had lived with her through a wedding night, a pregnancy and a birthing without running up against anything this earthy. He felt as hot-faced as the time he’d seen the fat lady at the carnival who couldn’t close her legs. But this was no time for dissembling. Roberta had been raped, and reality needed facing. Remarkable, how she faced whatever life handed out to her and turned the stronger for it.

  He put a palm on the door frame and told her, ‘‘You wait here for me. Don’t walk home, understand?’’

  ‘‘I won’t. But Gabriel? Where are you going?’’

  ‘‘To my shop,’’ he lied. ‘‘Quick stop, then I’ll be right back.’’

  ‘‘Wait! Gabriel, could I ask you one more favor, since you’re going out anyway?’’

  ‘‘Anything.’’

  ‘‘My nurse’s cap . . . I must have left it up there on the road where it happened. I don’t want anyone to find it, and I need it for tomorrow morning. Would you mind driving up and getting it for me?’’

  ‘‘Just tell me where.’’

  ‘‘At the bottom of Howe Hill where it meets Hope Road. There’s a T in the road.’’

  ‘‘I know where it is. Take me about twenty minutes. You be okay?’’

  ‘‘I’ll be just fine . . . and thanks a lot, Gabriel.’’

  ‘‘All right, then . . . I’ll be back.’’

  He made plenty of noise clomping down the stairs so she’d know he was gone and had total privacy.

  Outside, he didn’t think twice about taking her car. It was parked out front, and when he cranked it he was concentrating on Elfred with so much rage he nearly lifted the front tires off the ground. He motored straight to Elfred’s house, gripping the wheel and scowling, feeling his pulse elevate with each passing block until his adrenaline was pumping sweet vengeance through his bloodstream. An eye for an eye isn’t good enough, he decided. In Elfred’s case we’ll go maybe twenty to one.

  The Spears’ front door was open and voices came from the rear of the home. It was post-suppertime for most families, and Elfred’s was probably just finishing up the meal.

  Gabe pounded on the screen with the edge of a fist and shouted, ‘‘Elfred, get out here! I want to talk to you!’’

  In the depths of the house, the voices silenced.

  Gabe beat the screen door again. ‘‘Elfred, get your ass out here right now or I’ll come in there and drag it out!’’

  More silence, followed by whispering.

  ‘‘Elfred, you know what this is about, so I can settle it in there in front of your family or out here in the front yard! The choice is yours, but you better make it soon or I’m comin’ in!’’

  Down the center hall Elfred’s head appeared around the dining room archway. Somewhere behind him, Grace murmured, ‘‘Elfred, what is it? Is that Gabriel Farley?’’

  Elfred said, ‘‘Farley, are you crazy?’’

  Gabe opened the screen door and ordered, ‘‘Get your ass out here, you chicken-shit bastard! I came to give you what no woman can give you, and my blood is pumpin’ mighty fast, Elfred, so don’t make me come in there and get you, ’cause you’ll only make it worse on yourself!’’

  Elfred, visibly frightened, wiped his mouth with a linen napkin, then hid behind it for a moment.

  Gabe stepped inside and let the door slam loudly.

  Elfred pointed a finger and said, ‘‘You get out of here, Farley, or I’ll have the police on you.’’

  Gabe marched down the hall. ‘‘I’ll get out of here when I’ve finished my business with you, you bastard.’’ He collared the surprised diner and hauled him straight down the hall in a headlock, opening the screen with the top of Elfred’s head while his feet pedaled to keep up. The Spear family spilled through the archway and some of them screamed as they watched the man of the house unceremoniously used as a ramrod.

  ‘‘Elfred! Oh, dear God!’’ Grace cried, following.

  Gabe hauled Elfred down four steps, still in a headlock, choking him with his necktie. Every word Gabe spoke came out in a clear baritone bellow. ‘‘Now, just so there won’t be any question, this is for the woman you raped, Elfred, ’cause she can’t do it herself. ’Course you knew that when you raped her, didn’t you?’’

  He landed the first blows while Elfred’s head was still couched at his hip. Four of them— crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch —that broke Elfred’s pretty little nose and put a matching strawberry on the eye Roberta had missed. He released him by thrusting a knee up and flipping him backward against his own front steps. When he landed, a rib cracked and Elfred screamed. His children and wife were standing in the doorway blubbering and crying, but Gabe worked on Elfred for another minute or so, hauling him to his feet time and again before Elfred’s rubbery legs would finally no longer support him. Then Gabe dropped him like a used saddle, Elfred’s limbs folding under him like stirrup straps while Gabe bent above him and rifled his vest pockets. He withdrew a cigar, nipped the end, spat, struck a match with his thumbnail and puffed four stinking clouds of smoke into the lavender evening air before grabbing his prey by the hair and yanking his listless head back.

  ‘‘One last thing, Elfred. An eye for an eye, a burn for a burn . . . only let’s not hide it. Let’s put it where everyone will ask about it.’’

  Elfred still had enough fear left to scream as the cigar coal approached the center of his moustache. In the end, Gabe’s common sense reared up and stopped him when he’d only singed Elfred’s moustache enough to ruin it.

  ‘‘Ehh, you shit-sucking maggot,’’ Gabriel said in disgust, flinging him aside and letting him fall as before, limbs crumpled in assorted directions, as Roberta’s had been when Elfred took her down. Gabe stood over him, his adrenaline still pumping, his powerful carpenter’s muscles scarcely taxed by the minute and a half of pulverizing the man who had preyed on women for years. ‘‘You had this coming for a long time, Elfred, and I’m happy to be the one to do it. Anybody wants to know where to find me, I’ll be at home, waiting to testify as to why I ground you into chicken mash. You hear me, Elfred? The law asks, you send ’em my way.’’ He touched the brim of his floppy cap, which hadn’t so much as shifted on his head, and bid, ‘‘Evenin’, Elfred,’’ before turning to Roberta’s car, whose engine was still running.

  In his bedroom, after Gabe left, Roberta bathed herself inside and out, shuddering at times with recollection. She scrubbed her flesh until it hurt, unable to scour away the filthy feeling of Elfred’s hands and male parts abusing her. Sometimes tears interrupted but she swiped at them angrily, unwilling to be bested by anyone as low and bestial as Elfred Spear.

  Don’t let me be pregnant, don’t let me be pregnant, she begged in silence. Sometimes she mumbled the words, then catching herself at it, refused to be reduced to a demented heap of blubbering, and clamped her lips shut stubbornly.

  Once she said aloud, clearly, ‘‘Elfred, you’ll pay! Mark my words, you’ll pay!’’ little realizing Elfred already had.

  When she had toweled dry, she donned Caroline Farley’s maternity dress. It was tight across the bodice but it covered her and smelled of lavender from Caroline’s bureau drawers. The shift Farley had given her was too short-bodied, so she left it folded on the bed, eschewing her own soiled underclothes, which she rolled in a ball and tied with the legs of her pantaloons. On the dresser top a comb and hand mirror lay, just as Caroline had left them. She removed what pins were left in her hair and combed it with stern strokes, sending bits of gravel ticking onto the floor at her heels. While she combed, she studied Caroline’s picture. A dainty rose of a woman, with every delicate feature a man could desire, while in the mirror Roberta’s own reflection showed broad cheekbones and bold features with little to
recommend them, save strength, which most men disdained. Of that she had plenty. The comb moved through her hair almost defiantly, and when she’d finished, she laid it back on the crocheted dresser scarf and said, ‘‘Thank you, Caroline. I’ll do something nice for your daughter. How will that be?’’

  Then she sat on the chair to wait for Caroline’s husband, who seemed to be taking terribly long. She had been there less than a minute when a fuzzy brown cat appeared from beneath the bed, said, ‘‘Mrr . . .’’ and jumped onto her lap.

  She knew it by name, though they’d never met.

  ‘‘Hello, Caramel,’’ she said as it paused in a crouch, sniffing her chin, then circled and found a place next to her wad of clothing.

  ‘‘Well . . . so you’re Caramel,’’ she said, and lifted a hand to scratch the creature’s neck. ‘‘What do you think is taking your master so long?’’

  When Gabe finally knocked, Roberta was dozing with her chin on her chest.

  ‘‘Roberta?’’ he called quietly, and her head bobbed up.

  ‘‘Whmm?’’ she replied, disoriented.

  ‘‘May I come in?’’

  ‘‘Oh, Gabriel . . . yes . . . yes, come in.’’

  He opened the door partway and peered around it. The sun had set but Roberta had turned on no lamp. In the shadowed room she was only faintly sidelit from the one north window whose pane had turned violet. Her hair hung straight down her back. She’d stuck her bare feet into her white shoes, and held a roll of clothing on her lap, which was shared by Caramel, whose eyes squinted closed after identifying her master. Caroline’s dress looked misplaced on Roberta’s much broader shoulders, but he found himself ready to accept it there.

  ‘‘I’m sorry,’’ she said, sitting up straighter. ‘‘I fell asleep.’’

  He pushed the door against the wall and moved into the room where the smell of Ivory soap still lingered. ‘‘That’s all right. That’s good, actually. I worried that you might still be crying . . . or scared . . . something.’’

  He paused at her knee and she looked up. ‘‘I’ve pretty much decided that tears and fright are worthless. What’s done is done, and I’m not going to let myself be ruined by it.’’