Uncharted Territory

by Betsy Ashton

  I had to do something, tell somebody. The next night Mother and I were alone in the kitchen while we cleaned up after dinner. I wiped a plate and told her what Uncle Phil tried to do to me.

  “Don’t you dare lie about your uncle.” Mother’s face turned dark red. She slapped me. “He’s helping us. I need him.”

  I put the plate away, tears running down my face. I turned my back on my mother, even though she continued to yell at me. She grabbed my arm, spun me around and shook me as hard as she could, all the time whispering, “Don’t you dare tell anyone. If you do, I’ll make sure no one believes you.”

  I ran through the living room where Daddy lay on the couch. He must have heard the argument, because tears soaked his cheeks and drool bib. I didn’t stop. He couldn’t comfort me any more than he could prevent what Uncle Phil did to me. I hid in my room with Junie.

  For weeks, strange night sounds woke me. The creaking screen door sounded nothing like crickets. Neither did the stealthy footsteps in the hallway that continued to Mother’s bedroom. One night thumping came from her bedroom. After a groan, the thumping stopped. Uncle Phil was in the bedroom with Mother. I ran to the bathroom and threw up.

  ####

  I set my pen aside. My hand cramped to my shoulder. I looked at the monster mob. Junie and Marianna separated, one relieved her story was known, the other terrified because hers had yet to play out.

  “I couldn’t protect you, Junie,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

  “But you can protect Marianna,” the ghost of childhood past said.

  Junie smiled and faded into the shadows. Marianna followed, glancing over her shoulder, her eyes pleading.

  “I will protect you, Marianna. I promise.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Mississippi, week of January 9

  I read what I’d written, hoping to find an excuse to stop. No such luck. No matter how much I wanted to sleep, the monsters were in control. I swung my legs out of bed and stared at the creatures waiting to be banished. Or to win if I quit.

  “Don’t you dare go anywhere. I’ll be back after I pee.”

  I returned to bed with an empty bladder, a glass of water and two of Emilie’s peanut butter cookies.

  ####

  On Junie’s birthday, Uncle Phil came into our room and went to Junie. He stood next to Junie’s bed and unzipped his pants.

  “You leave her alone.”

  “Don’t say anything.” Junie turned her face toward the wall.

  “How are you going to stop me? If you say anything, I promise I’ll hurt her.”

  After he left, I crawled into Junie’s bed and held her while she cried herself to sleep. He’d ruined her birthday.

  I sought out Sam in the milking barn the next afternoon. Under normal circumstances, I loved the barn. The cows smelled warm and grassy; the barn smelled of fresh milk and cow poop. This day I didn’t pay any attention. I couldn’t keep the fear inside any longer. I told Sam what Uncle Phil did to Junie, but he didn’t believe me. He knew about Mother and Uncle Phil.

  “You don’t know how badly Mother needs Uncle Phil to run the farm.” Sam pushed a cow toward the opening that led to the back pasture.

  “Bad enough to let him touch Junie where he shouldn’t?” My anger rose along with my voice.

  “You’re lying. Mother warned me you were spreading tales about him.” Sam released the last cows from the automatic milkers. He walked past me without looking at my tear-streaked face.

  When Daddy died, I had no one but myself to rely on. I’d told my family, but no one would do anything to stop Uncle Phil. I comforted my baby sister as best I could.

  Two weeks after my fifteenth birthday, Uncle Phil came in from the barn and wanted a glass of cold water. I got up from the kitchen table where I did my homework, too afraid to study alone in my room. When I handed him a glass of water from the pitcher in the refrigerator, he grabbed me with a grimy, nicotine-stained hand.

  “I warned you if you told anyone, I’d hurt Junie. You told your mother. She believed me over you. Time for Junie to pay.” He shook his fist before he went back outside.

  I promised myself if he ever touched Junie again, I’d stop him. I didn’t know at the time Aunt Helena had thrown him out of Grandma’s house because of his relationship with Mother. I begged her and Grandma for help, but Aunt Helena cried and Grandma pressed a knuckle to her lips.

  The last time Uncle Phil tried to have sex with Junie was the last time he tried it with anyone in our family. I hid a kitchen knife under my mattress in case I needed it. Mother went to bed early with a migraine.

  Uncle Phil came into our bedroom wearing nothing but underpants, stripped them off and threw them on the floor. He tore at Junie’s sheet, pushed her nightgown up to her chin and climbed on top. I could smell his rank sweat across the room.

  He clamped a rough hand over Junie’s mouth and tried to push himself inside. I reached under the mattress and grabbed the knife. Before he could penetrate Junie, I stabbed him in the butt. Uncle Phil bellowed.

  Sam threw the door open and switched on the overhead light. The blood on Junie’s face, the knife in Uncle Phil’s ass, and the blood on the sheets proved I hadn’t been lying. Mother came in, screamed, and fell to the floor.

  Sam dragged Uncle Phil outdoors. In the front yard, the two men, one naked and bleeding, the other in pajamas, slugged it out. I ran at Uncle Phil and head-butted him in the stomach. The knife was no longer in his butt, but I didn’t care. I hit him where I’d stabbed him hard enough to make him scream.

  Sam pounded the older, larger man, leaving his face swollen and bloody. Uncle Phil yelled loud enough to bring the neighbors at a run. He fell face down in the dirt. Sam and I kicked him in the ribs, our bare feet adding to Uncle Phil’s humiliation. The neighbors ran him out of town that very night.

  “Now you’ve done it. Who’s going to work the farm?” Mother blamed me for Uncle Phil’s behavior.

  Sam loomed over Mother. “She told you what he was doing to Junie. She told me too. We didn’t want to believe her.”

  Sam balled his fists. Dan and Carl pushed him into the house to calm down. They left me with Mother and the neighbors. One by one, the neighbors drifted home.

  “I hope you’re satisfied, young lady. If we lose the farm, it’ll be your fault.” Mother hissed accusations as she dragged me into the living room. She slammed the door and turned the dead bolt for the first time in my life, locking me in, not Uncle Phil out.

  Junie withdrew. The bubbly little girl who’d clapped at sunbeams and danced with dandelion pompoms stopped smiling. Maybe she’d stopped earlier, and I hadn’t noticed. Over the next few weeks, she lost weight. Her collarbones and shoulder blades almost poked through her skin. When I held her, I could count every vertebra, every rib.

  The walls of our once-safe yellow room had faded to an ugly tan, blotched with brown water spots from the leaky roof over the window. Even with Uncle Phil gone, I hated our room.

  I tried to talk to Junie, but she refused to say anything for the longest time. When she could no longer keep the poison inside, she confessed Uncle Phil had hurt her down there when he climbed on top of her. I’d promised to protect her, but I hadn’t.

  That year flu struck harder and lasted longer than anyone could remember. All of us got it. We ran fevers, ached horribly and coughed our lungs out. Junie was the sickest. She went from flu to pneumonia. Within two weeks, Junie slipped away in the middle of the night. I held her when she left. I kissed her forehead and prayed to God to take care of her. That was the last time I prayed to anyone.

  That was Junie’s story.

  Uncle Phil and Mother were gone.

  “Isabella, we’ll find a way out. I promise. I’m older than when Junie died. I can do much more to protect you and Marianna.”

  Isabella faded into a dark corner of the room.

  A derisive snort got my attention. Father Alvarado’s alter ego sneered.

  “You’ve pissed o
ff the wrong woman, you bastard.”

  ####

  I dragged myself out of bed around four and turned on a pot of coffee. Within minutes, Emilie jumped down from her bunk, poured, and sat opposite me at the breakfast table.

  “Well?”

  I handed her my journal and went to take a shower.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Mississippi, week of January 9

  “Let me see if I have this right. You blame yourself for what happened to Junie.” Emilie sat with my journal open on the table in front of her. She tapped a page.

  “I do.” I walked barefoot into the kitchen, a towel wrapped around my head. “I’ve never forgiven myself for not being able to protect her.

  “You were a kid. You tried to help, but no one would listen.” Emilie leaned back, arms folded across her chest.

  “I wish I could have figured out how to get Junie away. Maybe she would have been okay.” What was my center color?

  “Darker pinky-orange than usual.”

  “Okay.”

  “You told your mother, right?” Emilie sipped her coffee, steam rising around her face. “When she called you a liar, she betrayed you.”

  “Mother couldn’t admit to what was going on inside her house. She sold us out when she began sleeping with Uncle Phil.”

  I stared at the clock on the microwave. Could I make it run backward? Could I make things right for Junie at last? The second light mocked me by blinking; the minute number moved relentlessly ahead. Guess not.

  “Now I get why you’re worried about Marianna. She reminds you of Junie.” Emilie walked to the counter to refill our coffee cups. She poured a glass of orange juice. Too early for either of us to want breakfast. My throat was so tight I couldn’t have eaten anything solid if I tried.

  “She does.”

  “Is this what you meant last year about schizophrenic childhoods?” Emilie peeled a banana and broke off a bite.

  “Partly. My childhood was great until Daddy got hurt. When Uncle Phil showed up, it turned dreadful.” I stole a bit of Emilie’s banana. “It was never good again, even after Sam ran Uncle Phil off. I couldn’t trust my mother.”

  “Mine was great until Mom’s accident, then it stunk after she was murdered.” Emilie handed me more of her fruit.

  “And now?”

  “Now it’s great. I love being here with you.” We finished the banana in silence.

  Emilie flipped to a page in the journal. She pointed to a pair of monsters. “Why do you link Mrs. Sanchez with your mother? She’s frantic to protect Marianna. Could she be a victim like Junie, just older?”

  Was Emilie right? Was Mrs. Sanchez a victim or a monster?

  “If she does nothing and allows evil to happen, like your mother did when you warned her about your uncle, I’d agree, but I don’t think she knows what to do.” Emilie was way too serious for her age. Again. “Stop beating yourself up. You can’t change what happened in the past. What can we do to protect Marianna? And Mrs. Sanchez?”

  Why had Emilie added Mrs. Sanchez almost as an afterthought instead of including her in her first statement? I got up to top off our cups, killing the pot. I held it up in a silent question: should I make more? Emilie held out hands that shook from a caffeine high. Better not.

  “You have some ideas, don’t you?”

  “Not yet. But I’m working on it.” I hugged Emilie.

  “Let me know when you figure out what you’ve already decided.”

  “I wish I knew what you think I’ve decided.”

  ####

  I carried my last cup of coffee into my bedroom and shut the door. I was too exhausted to think straight and too wired to sleep. No one liked confronting failure. Nothing Emilie said could ease my belief I hadn’t protected Junie. In spite of the caffeine burning through my body, I lay on the bed and closed my eyes.

  The last thing I heard was Emilie whispering into her cell in the hall outside my door. “She’s totally broken.” A long pause. “I’ll leave her to heal.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Mississippi, week of January 9

  When I woke again around noon, Emilie hummed in the kitchen where she fried bacon for BLTs. I was totally trashed, my mind too fatigued to work, my body toxic from too little sleep and too much caffeine.

  “Smells yummy.” I sniffed, surprised at how hungry I was.

  “Sit.”

  Emilie set glasses of milk and orange juice on the table. I snatched a piece of bacon and did as I was told.

  “Aren’t you out of class early?” I found time to be the disciplinarian, even if I didn’t feel like it. I inhaled the bacon in three bites.

  “I started class at six, remember. Mr. Ducks let me out.” She slid a plate onto the table. “He drilled us on English grammar all morning.”

  “Sounds dull.”

  “It wasn’t, really. He makes even routine stuff fun.” Emilie shook her head. “My brain feels like it’s had a double shot of espresso, though.”

  “Still wired?”

  “Du-uh.”

  We bit into sandwiches and chewed in silence. Halfway through lunch, Emilie said she’d shared some of what I told her with Mr. Ducks—“Not your journal, though. It’s on my bunk.”

  “He already knew most of it, didn’t he?” I bit into a spear of dill pickle. Juice trickled down my chin.

  “Some. He doesn’t know the details, but he gets the connection between Junie and Marianna better after last night.”

  “He didn’t sleep much either, did he?”

  “Nope.”

  Having a second spook around comforted me. I hesitated to tell Johnny things Ducks and Emilie knew because I didn’t know how he’d handle them. Besides, what happened to Junie was ancient history, but I’d need Ducks’s support before this mess worked itself out. I’d need Johnny and Whip and Charlie too.

  “Anyway, I’m done for the day.” Emilie slugged back half a glass of milk. “We’re going to do a makeover.”

  “You just streaked your hair purple. What color do you want to add?” I loved Emilie’s ever-changing hair color, even if her father didn’t. I never knew what she’d do on any given day.

  “Not me. You.”

  “Me?”

  ####

  Since I’d been overwhelmed by my monster attack the night before, I could be forgiven for forgetting the two pastors were coming over late in the afternoon for an update on the park. Wiped my memory card completely clean. I was shocked when Pastor Taylor called to say they were on their way. Emilie carried fresh-squeezed lemonade and cookies to the bus. Pastor Washington pulled into the compound seconds before Pastor Taylor.

  “Hodge.” Pastor Washington held out his hand.

  “Roland.” Pastor Taylor gripped his colleague’s hand.

  “You have blue stripes in your hair, Miz Davies.” Pastor Washington stared at my makeover.

  “It’s a long story, Pastor. Maybe I’ll tell you one day.”

  I led the way into the bus, where Ducks gave them the grand tour. I remained uncomfortable with our ostentatious display when the pastors had next to nothing. Too late to rethink the bus and the RVs.

  “This really was John Madden’s bus?” Pastor Taylor could hardly believe it.

  “It was. I was lucky to get it. Mr. Madden had taken delivery on a new one. I grabbed this on lease for as long as we need it.” The bus worked out better than I could have imagined. “I wish I’d had the bus company paint it yellow, though.”

  “I never seen anything like this.” Pastor Washington was the proverbial kid in a candy shop.

  “When Max hired me to teach the kids, I thought I’d be roughing it,” Ducks said with a shrug.

  “If this is roughing it, I can be packed and ready to move in within the hour.” Pastor Taylor relaxed in a padded leather chair. “Sure beats our folding chairs, doesn’t it, Roland?”

  Emilie poured lemonade and put the plate of cookies on the table. I texted Alex to join us; he was studying in his dorm. Emilie wen
t back to ours to give her brain a rest. She’d take a nap or read or both. My money was on read first, nap second.

  Alex clomped up the bus steps. He walked over to a side table and returned with a folder. Since I hadn’t seen its contents lately, my normally disorganized grandson’s organization of the park project surprised me. Alex laid pictures of the equipment and a detailed drawing of the park’s layout on the table, along with an estimate of the number of people he needed and what construction equipment, supplies, and labor he wanted donated.

  “I’ve spoken to several members of my congregation and should have five or six ready when you are.” Pastor Taylor reached for a cookie.

  “I don’t have many folks back yet, but I’ll be out.” Pastor Washington said. “May not seem like I’m good for much, but I can use a shovel and carry trash.”

  “I’ve been working with one of your families at Hope Village, Pastor Washington,” I said. “Mrs. Jordan and her two older children are more than willing to help. I don’t know where her husband is yet, but I’ll put this woman up against anyone. She dug in to finish her house. And she has five children, three of whom will be playing in the park.”

  Ducks and Alex had promises from the road crews to donate their time and equipment. After the mounds of trash were removed, the crew would come in with small rollers to flatten the area.

  “What’s this?” Pastor Washington pointed to a wide rectangle outside the park boundary.

  “Um, well, we’re hoping Pastor Taylor would let us put in a basketball court between the park and his rec hall. Maybe you two could start a sports league to give some of these kids something to do.” Alex barreled on, ideas bubbling out of his overactive brain.

  “Don’t know about that.” Pastor Washington scowled. “Mightn’t be a good idea.”

  “Why not? Everyone likes basketball.” Ducks reached for the lemonade pitcher.