The Girl from Charnelle (16 page)

T
he next day, Sunday, her fever spiked. She twisted and turned in and out of dreams. Her sheets were soaked. Her father sat beside her with a cool washcloth, saying, “There, there, honey. Everything's going to be okay. Don't you worry now.” Then he asked about Pamela. Manny didn't know her. She mumbled something, she couldn't remember what. Her father told her there was no such person as Pamela. He'd checked with the school. “What is this business? What in the hell is going on?” He said Beaver Mitchell thought he saw her in Letig's truck, on the road heading out toward Lake Meredith. “Is that true?” He stood, his long shadow hovering over her bed, removed his belt, snapping it menacingly, as he used to do when they were all little, and then he raised the belt above his head, his face clotted in rage.
What in the hell is going on?
>

When she woke, there he was, sitting beside her, asking if she was okay, telling her to calm down. He put a glass of apple juice to her lips.

She closed her eyes, and suddenly it was dark, night, and John crouched
beside her bed, and she whispered furiously that he had to go, he couldn't be here, her brothers were in the room, but he said, No, they weren't, they'd been taken care of, and she tried to get him to leave, but he started kissing her ribs and the crook of her arms and down to her wrists, and then he was licking her fingers, and it felt good and warm, but she kept saying, “You can't do this, you can't do this.” And when she opened her eyes, it was just old Fay, nuzzling a warm nose in her palm, licking her fingers. She felt disoriented and achy and feared falling asleep because she wasn't sure what might happen there.

She kept expecting her father or Manny to interrogate her again about Pamela, but they didn't, so she wondered if their questions had only been in her dreams. Or perhaps what she had said convinced them, or it no longer seemed relevant. They never pursued it, never called Debbie or Marlene to inquire about Pamela and her family, and then she wondered if perhaps they
had
called around. They knew she was lying, but her father was waiting until she felt better to bring the subject up, so she could be properly punished.

And then she wondered if she was dying. All those pitiful looks on their faces, even Manny's. She couldn't remember the last time she ate. The hot dog, maybe. Her bed felt damp all the time from sweat. That was it. She was dying, and the fact that she'd lied no longer mattered.

Whenever the phone rang, she jumped, alarmed, convinced it would be John or Mrs. Letig. There would be confessions and accusations.

What the hell is going on? Laura and John did what? Where? I'll kill the bastard.

She knew that her father kept a shotgun in the closet, and she had seen him pull it down from the shelf in one long, sweeping motion.

And then suddenly her mother was there at the edge of the bed. The tattered brown suitcase sat upright by Laura's nightstand. Her mother wore a blue dress with dark red flowers splashed all over it. She had a sheer red scarf tied around her neck. Her hair ringed her face prettily, and her skin seemed softer, the wrinkles etched at the corner of her eyes and around her lips smoother, as if she'd gotten younger. Her mother appeared serene. She stared at Laura without smiling.

“Please don't leave,” Laura whispered.

Her mother simply shook her head.

“Please,” Laura said and began to weep.

“I'm sorry, honey. It's nature's way.”

Her mother reached down and gently brushed away Laura's tears.

“Just nature's way. That's how it has to be, Laura.”

And then her mother leaned down and cupped her face and then kissed her on the mouth and held the kiss almost like a lover, her hair falling around both their faces so it seemed like they were in a cave. Then she pulled away and stared at Laura curiously.

“Please don't disappear,” Laura pleaded.

Her mother just picked up her suitcase and walked through a series of cobwebs, and then she was gone, the webs tattered and dangling behind her.

 

Mrs. Ambling watched after her for a couple of days, soaking her in the bathtub with ice in it, changing her sheets. “Maybe she's got pneumonia,” Laura heard her tell her father.

There was talk of the hospital.

“No,” Laura mumbled, frightened. “I'm fine,” she said. “Really, I am.”

But Dr. Phelps, who'd delivered all five of the kids, came to the house. He must have been in his sixties by now and had gotten fatter, a bullfrog gullet where his neck should have been. His long gray handlebar mustache hid his lips. He fingered her neck. He thumped her chest and back and felt under her armpits. He pried her eyes open and shone a penlight in them. He shoved a thermometer in her mouth. He asked questions.

“Is she vomiting?”

“Not anymore.”

“How long has she been like this?”

“Since Sunday,” her father said, his hands crossed tightly against his chest. “What is it? What do you think?”

“Well, it's not pneumonia.”

“That's good,” her father said, urging him on.

“Probably the flu. It's going around now.”

“How long does it usually last?”

“Depends,” Dr. Phelps said. “A week, sometimes two.”

“What can we do?”

“Keep the boys away. Force liquids. Make her eat, if you can.”

He put his stethoscope and penlight back in his bag and then turned to her father and stroked one side of his long mustache and then the other.

“Zeeke, I don't mean to pry, but do you have a sister…or aunt or somebody who could come help out around here?”

“Why?”

“It just might be good to have a woman in the house, to help you all out while Laura's sick.”

Her father looked as if he'd been punched in the face, then scowled. “Sarah Ambling lives next door. She helps.”

“I apologize, Zeeke. I suppose it's not my place. No offense—”

Her father cut him off. “None taken.”

“I just thought—”

“How much do I owe you, Doc?”

 

By Thursday evening, the fever had broken. She ate macaroni and cheese and applesauce and drank some milk, but she was exhausted. Finally she slept soundly, and the dreams didn't wake her in alarm or confusion.

Friday she was better. She got up during the day, while her father and brothers were gone, and walked through the house. It was a wreck: Dirty socks and underwear and various undershirts and pants scattered about, Rich and Gene's toys and her father's newspapers littering the floor. Some greasy engine part propped by the front window. The dishes piled high in the kitchen, a loaf of bread untied, the bag wide open, growing stale. An open jar of plum jelly with a peanut-buttery knife stuck in it. No milk or eggs or butter in the icebox or much of anything in the pantry. She hoped that they would take care of this mess before she fully recovered. She hoped they weren't just waiting for her to get well. Her spirits suddenly flagged. She was reminded of how much she did around here, how much they depended on her to keep things in order. Maybe this is what Dr. Phelps had been referring to. She wondered if this mess was her penance for all her deception. Perhaps it's what she deserved.

She took a bath, changed her sheets, and fell back into bed. She'd missed a week of school, and she'd tried to catch up on the homework that Manny had gathered from her teachers. Exams would begin next week, and she was woefully behind.

When her father and the boys arrived home, around five-thirty, her father came in to check on her. “How ya doing?” he asked, a little edgy. She could tell that he was ready for this ordeal to be over.

“Better,” she said. “I think I should get up and do some cleaning.”

“Nonsense!” he said, shaking his head. “It ain't your fault you're sick.” He kissed her forehead. “Need anything?”

“No, sir.”

A few minutes later she heard him call her brothers together in the living room and quietly scold them for the mess, tell them it was inexcusable. He gave orders.

“It ain't my job,” Manny said.

“I don't give a damn whose job it is!” her father whispered fiercely. “You're going to do those dishes.”

“Ain't it about time she was well?” Manny muttered.

“She'll be well when she's good and ready,” her father said definitively.

Then the house vibrated and jangled noisily from their work. She felt guilty, though also relieved, and she returned to her geometry problems, hoping that her brothers would not hold her sickness against her too much.

About seven-thirty, she heard a car pull into the driveway. Then she heard the Letigs in the living room, her father and John exchanging hellos, Mrs. Letig saying they'd heard she was sick, wanted to bring something over for her and the family. Laura felt panicked.

“Anne,” Laura's father said, clearly pleased, “you didn't have to do that.”

“I don't want you all to go hungry. Laura's the only one who cooks around here, I bet.”

“Smells good. What is it?”

“Enchiladas. Half chicken, half beef.”

“Oh, my goodness. Mmmm, smells good. Thank you.”

“Is it all right to see her?” Mrs. Letig asked.

Why does she want to see me?
She'd discovered the truth. Maybe she found some article of clothing that John had failed to put back in her satchel. There would have been an argument, bitter words, tears, accusations, John breaking down, confessing. And the Letigs were here now to tell her father. Her forehead felt suddenly clammy again, her stomach knotted.

No, the woman had brought food. Laura was just delirious—this was foolish panic. She listened as Mrs. Letig gave her father instructions for reheating the enchiladas. She didn't sound anxious or distressed.

No, of course not. She wouldn't know
. John would never have confessed, even if Mrs. Letig did find something. They were just here to be nice.

Laura reached down to the end of her bed and grabbed her housecoat, slipped it on. She looked in the mirror. Her hair was a rat's nest. She seemed sallow-faced, with dark circles under her eyes. She ran her fingers through her hair, but they caught the tangles, so she just patted it down. She licked her lips to cover up the cracks. Her mouth felt filmy. The room still smelled sweaty. Her brothers had moved out to her father's room and the living room, so she could have her privacy and so they wouldn't catch whatever she had. She crawled back under the covers.

Her father poked his head in the room. “Laura, you have visitors.”

“Who?” What a liar she was.

“The Letigs. They want to see you how you're doing. They brought us some dinner. And they've brought you something.”

“I don't know,” she whispered, frowning.

“Just wanted to say hello, Laura,” Mrs. Letig called from the hallway. “We won't be long.”

“I guess,” Laura said and tried to smile.

Her father winked and nodded with an expression that said,
Atta girl.

“You go on, Zeeke. Let me talk to Laura for a minute.” He left, and she felt nervous again. “How you feeling, sweetie?” Mrs. Letig said. She handed Laura a copy of the
Hollywood Star Gazette
. “I know you like these,” she said.

“Thank you.” Laura took the magazine and then began moving some of her books and papers.

“Oh, I can do that,” Mrs. Letig said and neatly stacked the books on the end of the bed and sat beside Laura. She wore a sky-blue cotton dress and a matching scarf in her hair. She smiled. “There's a good article about Deborah Kerr in there, and another one about Desi and Lucy.”

“I appreciate it.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Better.”

Mrs. Letig reached over and put her hand on Laura's forehead. It was strange when you were sick, Laura thought. Everybody seemed to think they could put their hands on your body.

“You don't have a fever anymore. That's good. But you still look pale.”

Laura nodded.

“Are you going back to school next week?”

“Yes, ma'am. I hope so.”

Laura heard her father and John talking in the next room. She tried to make out what they were saying, but their voices seemed muffled, and it was difficult paying attention to both them and Mrs. Letig. At full strength, she would have had less trouble, she believed. She was getting good at doing more than one thing at a time. Lying kept you alert. You could never let your guard down. But the sickness had taken away her powers of concentration.

“That's good,” Mrs. Letig said. Laura forgot what she was referring to, so she just smiled. “Your father said the doctor never could quite figure out what was wrong with you.”

“Flu, he thinks.”

“Well, we won't keep you. Is it okay if John comes in for a minute? He wanted to give you something that he and the boys made. I told him that a young lady doesn't like to have her privacy invaded, especially when she's sick.”

She didn't know if she wanted him to see her like this. But he'd seen her worse, hadn't he?

“I guess,” she said.

“He won't stay long. Men don't really like sickness, honey,” Mrs. Letig said. “They think they can handle it, but they can't. That's why they don't let them in when we have babies. They can't stand to see women in pain. It scares them. They like to think of us in a purer form.”

Mrs. Letig turned and smiled sadly and then looked back at Laura.

“I remember your mother used to say that.”

“What?”

“Oh, the ‘purer form' thing.”

They exchanged glances, a question in Mrs. Letig's face, wondering if she should bring up this subject. The woman turned her head toward the door and listened for a second. John and Laura's father were talking about Charnelle Steel.