Summer at Hideaway Key Page 13

  He was looking at her when she turned to face him, his expression unreadable in the dying sunlight. Had she imagined it? Their eyes met, holding briefly before she dragged her gaze away. No, she hadn’t. There was a question there, an invitation—one without complications.

  But there were always complications, weren’t there, no matter what was said at the outset? Guilt, hurt feelings, self-recrimination. Three weeks of fun hardly seemed worth the risk.

  “I’ll be gone in three weeks, Dean.”

  He leaned close, letting his lips brush the curve of her cheek, his words breathy and warm against her skin. “I wasn’t proposing.”

  “It isn’t . . . It’s not a good idea.”

  But Dean was undaunted, continuing to blaze a maddening trail along the soft underside of her jaw. “Since when is a little fun between two interested parties a bad idea?” He paused to trace two fingers along her collarbone, coming to rest lightly at the base of her throat, and the tiny pulse that beat there. “We are two interested parties, aren’t we? Or am I reading it wrong?”

  No, you’re not reading it wrong.

  Lily cleared her throat as she stepped away from his touch. “You’d better go check on the fish.”

  SIXTEEN

  December 21, 1955

  Mt. Zion Missionary Poor Farm

  Zell has come back.

  For a while I thought I might be safe, that he might have come back a changed man—repentant, like Paul after Damascus. At least in the kitchen I’m out of his sight. I don’t mind shucking corn and scrubbing pots. As long as I don’t have to go back to the office. I still see him, of course, pious in his shiny black suit as he goes about God’s business. He’s skittish now, careful not to meet my eye in the mess hall, or from his pulpit on Sunday mornings—so careful I think his wife has started to take notice.

  She seems to be everywhere these days, forever lurking and finding fault. If I’ve left too many eyes on the potatoes, or dribbled gravy on the stove, she’s there to scold with a finger in my face. I’m even convinced she has spies snooping after me—a pair of girls who never liked me very much, and stick together like glue. I feel them watching me, catch their eyes sliding away when I turn suddenly in their direction. It takes everything in me not to fly at them both, to blurt out the whole disgusting truth and shock them into letting me alone. I want to, but I don’t. I know better than to say anything they could take back to Sister Ruth.

  Besides, I haven’t been feeling well lately. I’m wrung out all the time, and light-headed, like any minute I might melt into a puddle. Yesterday, while I was scraping the plates, I thought I was going to have to run for the door and heave up my breakfast. Even Caroline has noticed. I told her I was fine, and not to worry, but deep down I can’t help worrying a little. I think about Cindy Price, about her dying, and wonder who would look after my sister if anything happens to me.

  I’ve heard the stories, people lying in their own filth with no one to clean or feed them, people going in with some small ailment and never coming out again. Maybe that’s because there’s no doctor, or even a real nurse, just Sister Doyle, who used to travel with her husband’s healing show until they threw him in jail for fleecing an old woman out of her life savings. And there’s no real medicine, just wives’ tale remedies. It’s just goose grease, turpentine, and castor oil—and the laying on of hands, for all the good that does. No matter how sick I get, I’m never going there.

  But now I have something new to worry about.

  This morning, I was scraping grits from the breakfast bowls when word came that Zell wanted me. It was Sister Ruth who brought the news. For a moment I thought about throwing myself into her arms, about blurting out the truth and begging her to help me. But there wasn’t much point. I could see it in her face, in the pitiless gray eyes she swept over me, like I was something to be scraped off her shoe. She knows, and always has, what her husband is all about—and knows, too, that there’s nothing she can do to stop it. If there were, she would have already done it. I nodded and wiped my hands, feeling almost sorry for her. It must be awful being married to a brute like Zell, though I can’t think of a woman who deserves it more.

  Caroline stood close by, watching as I stripped out of my apron and squared my shoulders, the venom on her face shocking as I moved past her and out of the kitchen. I knew what she was thinking—that I was deserting her again, leaving her to fend for herself—like Mama had done.

  When I stepped into the office Zell was waiting with a present in his hands, a parcel wrapped in tissue and tied with bits of ribbon.

  “Merry Christmas,” he said, fixing me with one of his oily smiles.

  When I didn’t move, he gave the ribbon a tug, then folded back the layers of tissue. I shrank back as he pressed the gift into my hands—a peach sweater with tiny pearl buttons sewn down the front. I stared at it, wondering where he thought I would ever wear such a thing.

  He was looking at me, watching my face and waiting for me to say something—thank you, probably—but I couldn’t form the words. I didn’t want his presents.

  “I wanted you to have something nice,” he said, “something . . . grown-up.” He took a step toward me, and then another, until I felt the edge of the desk against my backside. “I missed you while I was gone, Lily-Mae. Did you miss me?”

  I wouldn’t answer. Not to that. He could push me down on the desk and take what he wanted. There was nothing I could do to stop him. But he couldn’t make me say I had missed him. Could he not see that I despised him? That I had wished him dead a hundred times while he was gone? A thousand?

  He reached for me then, taking my chin in his hand, forcing it up until I had no choice but to look him in the eye. “I’ve been kind to you, haven’t I, Lily-Mae? And to Caroline? Do you think I’m that kind to all the girls here?”

  The room started to wobble, and I felt my hands go clammy. I wanted to say I thought he was kind to the pretty ones, but didn’t give a damn about the rest, but I knew better. I let him keep talking, trying to ignore his free hand, on my waist now, skimming higher with every word.

  “There are lots of girls who’d like to be my pet, who’d like the presents I give you. I could do that, you know: choose someone else to help me here, someone else to do favors for. How old is your sister now, Lily-Mae? She’s growing up nicely—a pretty little thing, just like you.”

  The room began to turn and shift. “I . . . missed you, too, Brother Zell.”

  He smiled then, because he could see that I understood. “Yes, I thought so.”

  His hand slid up to cup my breast, squeezing until I nearly cried out. He was hurting me and he knew it. And then his mouth was on mine, pulpy and slick as he shoved me back onto the desk, and I reached for the rope of the old tire swing.

  January 17, 1956

  Mt. Zion Missionary Poor Farm

  The sickness has gotten worse. So much worse that there are times I’m sure I must be dying. But there’s a part of me—one I’ve refused to listen to—that has always known I wasn’t sick, that knew what was wrong with me was worse than sick—worse, even, than dying.

  One morning I was brushing my teeth when the sickness came again. I nearly buckled when it hit me, holding on to the sink for dear life until I had retched myself empty. When I straightened again, Sister Ruth was there in the mirror, reflected back at me in all her rigid rage, and I knew, suddenly, what a fool I had been to deny the truth—that Harwood Zell’s baby was growing in my belly.

  For a moment I thought I would be sick again. But there was no time. Before I could grab hold of the sink again she had me by the arm, whipping me around until we stood face-to-face.

  I didn’t see the slap coming until it rocked me back against the sink. A second one came quickly on its heels, stinging the other cheek. I tasted blood, coppery and hot at the corner of my mouth.

  “Whore!” she screamed, drawing
back for another slap.

  I dodged it, but she latched onto my sleeve, shaking me until the teeth rattled in my head. Spots danced in front of my eyes. She was the only thing keeping me on my feet. “It wasn’t my fault,” I choked, begging her, begging God—begging anyone who could hear—to believe me. “I didn’t want him to. He forced me!”

  “It’s a lie!” she bellowed, giving me another savage shake. “You’ve been throwing yourself at him since the day you got here, sashaying after him with that red hair of yours, you . . . harlot!”

  I was dimly aware of the crowd gathering outside the door, of a sea of curious faces peering in at us, and wondered if Caroline was among them, watching this awful spectacle. I sagged to the floor when Sister Ruth finally let go, half blind with shame, with tears that wouldn’t stop. She kicked me then, and kept on kicking me, with all the hatred that was in her, trying to kill me, to kill the baby. And suddenly I didn’t care anymore. The world had grown fuzzy and cold, the lights over my head shrinking, fading, until, finally, they were gone.

  I woke with my stomach heaving, choked by the mingled stench of urine, sweat, and unwashed sheets. I was in a room with three empty cots, and a sign on the half-open door that read “Quarantine.” Turning my head, I retched drily onto the stained mattress. They had taken me to the infirmary.

  I had no idea how I came to be there, only why I was there. Gradually, sounds began to penetrate, ragged snores and heavy groans from the beds in the other room, the drone of flies against the windows, and from somewhere behind me, the hiss of female voices. I couldn’t make out what was being said, but I recognized one of the voices as Sister Ruth’s.

  Dear God . . . have I lost the baby?

  My eyes stung with sudden hope. Ashamed, I turned my head and blinked away the tears. To be free of it, to be spared the shame, the hideous reminder. It was wrong to hope for such a thing, but I did hope for it.

  And then suddenly there was a woman hovering over me, a large, square-built woman with shoulders like a man and a face like God’s own judgment—Sister Doyle. She was standing beside the cot, arms folded, looking me over like she was sizing me up for a roasting pan.

  “How far?” she grunted.

  I blinked up at her, trying to make sense of the question.

  “She doesn’t show yet,” came Sister Ruth’s cold voice from somewhere behind the bed. “I want it taken care of. Now.”

  Sister Doyle nodded gravely. “I’ll get help, then, and we’ll be done with it.”

  I had no idea what they were talking about as Sister Doyle disappeared, or what they were in such a hurry to be done with, but something in Sister Ruth’s tone filled me with dread. I craned my neck, trying to find her, to demand to know what they meant to do with me, but a fresh wave of sickness drove me back to the mattress.

  Sister Doyle returned with two heavy-boned women I had seen before but never spoken to. They were careful to keep their eyes from mine as they approached, looking at their hands, their shoes, anywhere but at my face. I still didn’t understand when Sister Doyle pulled a handful of rags from her pocket and handed two to each woman.

  They fell on me then, without a word, as if it had all been prearranged, dragging my arms above my head, winding rags about my wrists as they lashed me to the bed frame. I railed and thrashed, suddenly, hideously aware of what they meant to do, but their weight and their strength were too much for me. Soon my legs were bound as well, my knees bent toward my ears, spread wide apart.

  When they finished with their knots the heaviest woman lay across my belly, pinning me to the mattress, exposed and helpless. A wadded sheet was shoved under my hips, but I was left uncovered. Sister Ruth stepped to the foot of the bed then, her face twisted with a kind of grim satisfaction as Sister Doyle pulled something long and slender from the pocket of her stained apron. It looked like a knitting needle, shiny and sharp in her thick fist.

  “Don’t,” I pleaded in a voice I no longer recognized as my own. Girls died from what they were about to do. They got infections, or they bled to death. “You can’t do this!”

  Sister Ruth stepped forward, her face drawn, and white as chalk. She trembled as she reached for me, winding her fingers through my hair, twisting until my eyes began to water and our gazes locked. A vial was pressed to my lips, forcing them apart. I choked as the bitterness trickled down my throat.

  Sister Ruth bent down then, her breath hot against my ear. “Do you think you’re the first? That there haven’t been others like you? Maybe not as pretty, but there have been plenty, and more than one has ended up tied to this bed. You’re not special.”

  I stared at her, groping for words, but my head was fuzzy suddenly. How could I make her understand? I didn’t want her husband, and I didn’t want this child. But I didn’t want what they were about to do, either. There were ways—other ways. I could go away, give up the child as soon as it was born. But my tongue was too thick and the words wouldn’t come.

  I felt the grip on my hair ease as Sister Ruth turned to Sister Doyle. They muttered something, but the words seemed to melt and run together. When the whispering ended Sister Doyle gave a nod to the woman sprawled on top of me, then moved to the foot of the bed, face hardened, needle poised. Terror swirled up into my throat, panic mixed with bile and the beginnings of a fresh scream—a plea for help from a God who wasn’t there. Then a rag was shoved into my mouth, and Sister Doyle went to work.

  February 10, 1956

  Mt. Zion Missionary Poor Farm

  For days—I can’t say how many—I lapsed in and out of something like sleep, sweating and tossing in a darkened room, dreaming of blood-soaked sheets, of towels wadded thickly between my legs. And then, when the bleeding was finally over, the fever came. I remember little of those days, only the memory of sweat-drenched sheets, and a feeling like drowning as water was forced past my lips.

  I was alone when I woke, dazed, and so dry I could barely pry my lips apart. Finally, a woman in a red and brown kerchief poked her head in, startled to see that my eyes were open, then backed out hastily.

  Moments later, she returned with broth and a pan of cool water, going about her business without words or pity, then left me again, alone behind the closed door of the quarantine room. There was something she knew but wouldn’t say. I could see it in her face as she turned away from my questions. As she slipped out with lowered eyes, she said Sister Doyle would be in to talk to me when the time came.

  Time ground slowly while I waited for Sister Doyle, the hours so long and empty I thought I might go mad. Instead I lay there, sifting through my feelings, trying to muster some kind of sadness or rage, but all I felt was numb. The child—Zell’s child—was gone, and it would be a lie to say that I was sorry. But the taking of it, the sheer brutality at the hands of those so-called godly women, will be with me always.

  And then Sister Doyle finally came, filling up the doorway with her square frame and dour face. Her expression was set, hard as granite, with no hint of sympathy. “You’re better,” she said gruffly, leaving no room for an answer. “It’s time to talk about things.”

  “Things,” I repeated, my voice rusty from disuse.

  “Your little difficulty has been seen to, Lily-Mae, but you gave us a rough time of it there for a while. I’m afraid there were complications . . . damage.”

  Damage. The word should have alarmed me, but didn’t somehow. Perhaps because I had no inkling of what she was about to say. Or perhaps because I did, and the prospect stirred no regret in me.

  “In cases like yours, it’s doubtful there will ever be children.” The words dropped from her mouth like hard little stones, and for just a moment her eyes skittered away, avoiding mine. When they finally found me again I could see that her resolve was firmly back in place. “Do you understand?”

  I managed a nod against the pillow, wanting her to go away. Sister Doyle studied my face, waiting for tea
rs, for grief, but I felt none. Her words could not wound me since I had already decided no man would ever be allowed to touch me again. So where was the loss? I was aware of my numbness, of the cold, hollow space where my grief should be, but wasn’t. My heart was empty and locked down tight. Zell had seen to that the first time he laid his hands on me.

  “God has seen fit to let you live,” Sister Doyle said gravely. “But only just. You would do well to remember that, and to lay down your wicked ways.”

  For a moment something like fury flickered in my chest. I stared at her with her condemning tone and her unkind eyes, longing to tell the pious Sister Doyle that it was not my wickedness that had brought me here, but that of the saintly Brother Zell. But there was no time to say any of that. She was heading for the door.

  She paused when she reached the doorway, her thick hand resting heavily on the knob, and in that instant I felt those hands on me again, gripping my knees, forcing them apart—and I hated her. Not for what she had done to me, but for what she believed about me, that somehow I deserved all of this.

  “You’ll be here a while yet, until you’re stronger.”

  “My sister? Can I see her?”

  “That would be unwise. She hasn’t been told of your . . . condition. She knows only that you were taken with a violent fever and have been in quarantine.”

  I let the words sink in, feeling tears prickle against the backs of my lids. For the first time, I felt relief. She’d been told only part of the truth, though I suspect leaving out the rest had been Sister Ruth’s idea. Not to save me any shame, but to protect her husband. I didn’t care about the why just then, only that Caroline should never know the truth.

  “Is she . . . being looked after?”

  Sister Doyle squared her already square shoulders and glowered at me from across the room. “All the girls at Mt. Zion are looked after.”