Authors: Rena Olsen
Mallory starts where she left off as soon as we are seated.
“I don't know how long I was in that dark storage unit. I cried until I couldn't anymore. I peed myself because no one came to take me to the bathroom. My feet and hands were numb. I hadn't eaten in hours. I thought I would die there on that ratty mattress, alone in the dark. Finally, the door opened. A group of women came in and turned on a light. They didn't talk to me, but they untaped me and undressed
me, cleaned me up as best they could. They put a robe on me and helped me across the hall to a makeshift office. A doctor . . . examined me.” Mallory pauses. Her entire body is locked up, and her knuckles are white. Heather doesn't interrupt, doesn't ask if she needs another break.
“Another man, Mike, was watching the whole time. When the doctor finished with me, he brought me to another area. It looked like a warehouse. There were three other girls there, naked. Mike took my robe and pushed me over to them. He sprayed us down. After that we were given short shirts to wear, and nothing else. They brought us back to the hallway with the storage lockers. I was put in one with two other women.”
I feel a soft brush against my fisted hand. Tori has moved to sit next to me. She places her hand over mine, using gentle pressure to urge me to relax. My fingers release, and I see that I have left red crescents on my palm. One has started bleeding. Tori says nothing, but leaves her hand on mine, offering me comfort. I don't know this girl. But I allow it. I'm not sure why Mallory's story is affecting me so strongly. It has nothing to do with me. Still, I focus on Tori's warming presence and tune back in to Mallory's story.
“It was only a few days before they took me out for the first time. They had a special van for outside runs. Sex for delivery. There were several different jobs, but the first was always to a high-paying john who wanted a virgin. My first was at least fifty years old. We went to some posh hotel. I didn't even fight back. It hurt. And I didn't fight.” Mallory hangs her head, tears falling unchecked into her lap.
“And you still feel guilty for that?” Heather asks, her voice low.
Mallory nods. “If I had fought, maybe I could have gotten away. Maybe I could have run for help. Maybe I wouldn't be living this fucking half existence now.” She pulls her knees to her chest, sobbing.
I jump when Tori's voice next to me breaks the silence. “I tried to
run away once,” she says. “I mean, most of you know my story is a little different. They kept me in a house in the middle of a city.” She looks at me, guessing that I am the only one who doesn't know this. “I passed up so many opportunities that I thought I could have escaped. Finally I tried it.”
Mallory doesn't speak, but she has raised her head, chin resting on her knees.
Tori locks eyes with Mallory. “What did they do to girls who tried to escape?”
“Ice bath.” Mallory's voice is mechanical. No more tears fall. “Hours in an ice bath. Girls died sometimes. But it didn't leave marks.”
Tori nods. “The ones who took me didn't care about marks. They caught me and beat me until I wished I was dead. I got two days off before I had to service the johns again. You were right not to run, Mallory.”
I can tell that Mallory wants to believe Tori, but the doubt lingers in her eyes. I feel like I've been through the emotional wringer. I don't understand why Dr. Mulligan thinks a group like this will help. My life is nothing like these tragic stories. I have a beautiful house. I have a beautiful family. I have Glen. I've traveled. I am not tortured. Only disciplined when necessary. There is a big difference.
“I think that's enough for today, ladies,” Heather says, wrapping an arm around Mallory's shoulders. “Please stay and visit.”
I stand, knocking Tori's hand away from my arm.
“Clara,” Tori begins.
I give her a tight smile and stride toward the door. Connor jumps up as I slam out of the room. “Finished? Ready to talk to Dr. Mulligan?”
“No.” I am vibrating with anger. “I just want to go back to my room.”
Connor's smile falters. “I thought you had a session today.”
“Not anymore.” I never want to speak to her again.
It is late afternoon, and the sun slants through the windows of the parlor. Glen is tense beside me as we drink tea in silence. The source of his tension is the imposing man across from us. Glen's parents insist on gathering us all together each afternoon. Our betrothal was announced to the house two weeks ago. I do not know what happened with my client, Mr. Q. Two girls were sent in my place, but I am unsure what other compensation he was given.
The discussions in the parlor usually surround our future, the hard work we will need to put in, how much training we both need for our respective roles. When we speak at all. Most of the time is spent in terse silence, the weight of Papa's judgment feeling like a ten-ton brick, pushing us further into submission.
And yet, even thinking the word “us” causes me to sit up a little straighter. Despite the judgment, despite being worked morning until night, the end result is the same. I will be with Glen. We do not have to be apart. Ever.
Papa is still glaring over the rim of his cup when the door bursts open. One of the older men, Scott, stomps in, dragging a girl by the arm. Her hair is loose, swinging around her face, and with her free arm she is struggling to hold a shirt in front of herself. She is otherwise naked. She looks up and our eyes meet.
It is Macy.
I jump to my feet, my teacup crashing to the floor, splintering into a thousand shards that could just as well be piercing my heart. What has she done? Glen's hand is on my arm, restraining me, but I struggle against him. Macy's grip on the shirt is slipping, and soon she will
be completely uncovered. I can't let my friend be presented to Papa like that.
“Stop,” Glen whispers, his voice harsh as he holds me back. “Do not get involved. Do you understand?”
Papa stands as well, though Mama continues to sit and sip her tea as if nothing is amiss. I wonder if I will ever adopt that uncaring attitude. I hope not. Papa's eyes narrow as he observes the pair. Two more guards step in behind Scott and Macy, each loosely holding the arm of a boy who is not struggling. Macy's secret boyfriend, Josh, appears unconcerned. His chest is bare, his pants unbuttoned. His long feet, shoeless, are white from lack of sun.
“What's going on?” Papa asks, his voice calm despite the storm I see brewing on his face.
“Found this
girl
,” Scott sneered, “entertaining Josh during afternoon break.” He jerked Macy forward. “From what I hear, she's been entertaining him pretty frequently.”
I hear a small gasp, but when I look over at Mama, her face is smooth again, the slight shake in her teacup the only indication that she is rattled. And with good reason. Macy is promised to another important client. I had my suspicions about Macy's activities, but I had hoped she was just fooling around. Her client would not be happy if he found out she'd been making out with another boy, but it wouldn't be a deal-breaker. But if she's been having sex with Josh, if she is no longer pure, that is unforgivable, and could cast a bad light on Papa's entire business. Part of what our clients pay for, what they expect, is that they will be our first experience. A buzzing begins in my ears as the implications of the situation begin to sink in.
Papa's fists clench. He picks up the teapot and hurls it across the room. It smashes against the far wall, tea splattering over the furniture and wall hangings. I jump, and Glen squeezes my arm. I no longer struggle against him. I am frozen in place, terrified of what will come next.
Papa strides forward and grasps Macy's chin, forcing her face up. She whimpers, but maintains eye contact. “You want to be a whore, little girl?” Papa hisses. Now his voice has become angry. “You were meant for great things. But giving yourself to this boy has sealed your fate.” He looks up. “Take her to the tree,” he says, nodding at Scott. He turns to Josh, who still has a self-satisfied look on his face. “I'll deal with you later,” Papa says. “Personally.” Josh's smirk disappears as Scott yanks Macy out of the room.
My hand flies to my mouth. The tree is where they whip the boys. When I was whipped, Mama did it on the back porch, away from prying eyes. The tree is in the middle of the men's camp. Whipping is a spectator sport for them. Tears fill my eyes, and Glen's hand is cutting off the circulation to the bottom part of my arm.
“You two,” Papa says, not turning around. “You will come down as well.”
“Now Gâ” Mama begins.
“Mae.” There is a warning in Papa's voice. “This is a part of it. These children think they are ready to take on all the responsibilities? They need to know what comes with it.”
I do not want to go. I want to run away. I want to hide in my room. I want to find the real Macy and laugh over the mistake, cluck our tongues over the poor girl who made such atrocious choices. I want to huddle in the safety of Glen's arms, block out the terrible things that are about to happen.
“Now.” There is no question of disobeying. Glen detaches his vise grip on my arm and claims my hand instead. We follow Papa outside and through the trees to where the men's cabins are located. I do not look at Glen. I am not sure what I want to see. Do I want to see him scared? Worried about Macy? Or do I want to see the strength, the resolve it will take to do what needs to be done? Glen knows what Macy means to me.
By the time we reach the tree, Macy has already been lashed to the trunk, her only article of clothing in a heap several feet away. Even from where we are, I can see her shoulders shaking, her barriers down. Papa stops at the edge of the circle and lifts his chin. Scott turns, raises his arm, and brings a branch down hard against the tender skin of Macy's back. The switch whistles as it falls again and again. I close my eyes.
An arm snakes around my waist, pulling me from Glen. Papa's other arm comes to my forehead, lifting the skin so it is difficult to keep my eyes closed. His breath tickles against my ear. “Don't you dare look away, Clara,” he says, voice low enough that I'm not sure Glen even hears. “This could have been your fate if it weren't for my son. This is how we maintain order, stay in control. Without consequences, there would be chaos.”
Tears stream from my eyes, but I cannot look away. After several minutes, Papa removes his hand from my forehead and calls for Scott to stop, and I wince as my eardrum pulses, but I sag in relief that it is over.
“Glen,” Papa says. My head swings to look at Glen. I see panic in his eyes before he shutters the emotion and looks at his father with bored nonchalance.
“Yeah.”
“Take over for Scott.”
I see Glen's jaw clench, and his eyes dart to mine. I plead with him through my expression to refuse, not to inflict more pain on Macy, who has long since stopped making noise, slumped against the thick tree trunk. He looks back at his father, and whatever he sees in Papa G's expression seals his decision. He stands up straighter and, without another glance at me, strides out to take the branch that Scott holds out to him.
“Watch, Clara, as my son becomes the man he was always meant
to be,” Papa says, pride evident in his voice. “Don't you dare look away.”
It is like seeing a horrible accident. I cannot stand to watch, and I cannot look away. I see my Glen, my sweet, funny, easygoing Glen, transform before me. His swings start out tentative but become more aggressive as he gains confidence. The look on Glen's face terrifies me, and for the first time I wonder how much I know about the boy I have pledged my life to. And the man he is becoming.
The carpet in Dr. Mulligan's office looks like a forest up close. I study it carefully, just as carefully as I ignore the good doctor. She has been sitting quite patiently since I came in. I had not planned on coming back, but Jay showed up this morning and announced that I didn't get a choice. I may not have a choice to be here, but I do have a choice to speak. It's my old trick, but it has served me well. Dr. Mulligan disagrees.
“Are you playing this game again, Clara?” she asks, and I am surprised that her voice sounds just as calm as her face appears. “I know you're good at it, but it hasn't gotten you out of anything in the long run.”
True. But for now it's the best I can do. I pluck a long blond hair from the carpet. It doesn't match mine or Dr. Mulligan's. It hasn't occurred to me until now that she might see other people. Of course she does. She does such a good job of treating me like the most important person in the world when I am in here. Certainly she cannot do that for everyone who crosses her threshold. I flick the hair away and sit up from where I am sprawled on the floor. My notebook lies on the coffee table, but I have yet to break the seal from last time.
I fiddle with the tape, pleased to see that as betrayed as I feel by Dr. Mulligan, she still hasn't read what I've written.
“Connor said you were upset after the group. I understand it's a lot to take in, but I think it will be beneficial for you to get to know those girls.”
A laugh bubbles up from deep in my belly, but not a laugh of amusement. A lot to take in? She thinks it will be beneficial? A volcano of anger erupts after the laughter and I snap. “Beneficial? I am
nothing
like those girls. If you find a group of wives torn from their husbands and daughters and wrongfully imprisoned, I would be more than happy to attend.”
Dr. Mulligan raises an eyebrow. “I'm sure you could find stories like that at the prison.”
The blood leaves my face. I know it's not a threat, but the memory still bothers me. “I am nothing like them, either,” I mutter.
“Then who are you like?”
What kind of question is that? “I am like me. I am me.”
“Have you met anyone else like you? In similar circumstances?”