The Girl from Charnelle (35 page)

L
aura knew that she would have to be the one to end it. He wouldn't do it. Knowing that the end was near made her want to hold on to and protect this time even more, but another part of her just wanted to get it over with. They had not met much in the two weeks following the election, and the sense of failure from that evening still clung to her. She did not want to see him, did not want to have the conversation that she knew they needed to have. So she made excuses. She would show up late at the warehouse on their scheduled days, pretending to be tired, and would hurriedly tell him she had to go, she couldn't get away this night or the next night, and no, she couldn't keep the boys on Friday. She had a cold, she'd say, wiping her nose, pretending to sound sniffly and congested. She had to cook supper. It was Marlene's birthday, and she was having a party. Even with the legitimate excuses, she felt like a phony, and though he accepted her excuses without question and kissed her quickly on the lips, she could tell, by the way he shifted his eyes, that he didn't believe her. She realized that it was easy for her
to lie now, even to him, and it began to make her sick. She knew that she was avoiding the inevitable, and finally, after two weeks, she resolved that it had to be over. Why continue with it if it seemed like a senseless duty?

But the end did not happen as she imagined or planned.

Her period was late. Two days. Three days. She was pretty regular, unlike Gloria, who always said she never knew when it was going to hit. So she began to panic, even though she knew they had been careful. She didn't know what to do. Should she say something to him?

And then it was four days, and then five.

Mrs. Letig called, asked if Laura would watch Jack for her the next afternoon. She had to take Willie to the doctor; she would drop Jack off after Laura got home from school. John would pick him up when he got off work.

“Of course,” Laura said.

 

She worried all day about whether or not she should tell him. She felt on the verge of tears, her eyes brimming every few minutes, and she was sick to her stomach but didn't know if it was an indicator of pregnancy or just nervousness. She stared out the windows at school, ignoring her teachers. She skipped her choir class, spent the first few minutes in the bathroom vomiting, and then walked outside and sat in the stands at the south end of the football field. It was cold, the temperature dropping rapidly, the sky dark and turbulent. The wind kicked up and blew off her wool cap so that she had to chase it down the bleachers and felt sick again. It began to snow, and she sat there shivering, with her hat pulled low over her forehead, her hands thrust into her pockets. The snow just lightly spit at first, but the wind blew harder and the snow grew heavier, coming down at an angle. It had been warm just yesterday, a sunny autumn day in the mid-forties, but that was the way the weather was here, turning suddenly and violently. She thought she should go back inside, on to Mr. Sparling's class. They were discussing
The Scarlet Letter
now, but she'd struggled with this story about a woman branded with shame, raising her daughter on the outskirts of town while the woman's lover continued to deceive everyone. She had started it several times and had only just last night been able to get through it all, though it pained her to do so. She believed it was, on some level, an evil book. She didn't want to discuss Mr. Sparling's theories about Hester the martyr, stoically keeping her secret, proudly wearing her shameful brand, a
heroine for the simple fact that she got pregnant and kept her mouth shut about the father.

The snow fell harder now, and it was sticking, starting to collect on the bleachers. She fled from the field and grabbed her bicycle from the racks, wiped off the seat, and then headed for home, moving as carefully as she could over the back streets, slick with falling snow, hard to navigate. By the time she arrived home, she was soaked, chilled to the bone. She took a hot bath, staring down at her stomach, which didn't seem any different. She ran her fingers over her taut abdomen, wondered if there was life there, wondered what she could do.

She had heard a rumor that Mrs. Aguilar, who operated the Mexican restaurant on the west end of town with her husband, helped girls in trouble. What exactly she did, Laura didn't quite know, the rumors never specific, and she had no idea how you solved this kind of problem. She had heard, too, about a home in Amarillo and another one in Dalhart, where girls were sometimes sent. Debbie Carlson's cousin, who lived in Borger, had been sent away to the home in Amarillo for several months, and then she'd returned to school like nothing happened. And one of Gloria's friends, Janet Cornwall, had disappeared for months as well—supposedly to visit her sick aunt in Brownsville, but Gloria had hinted that she was really in Dalhart. She missed half her senior year, returned skinnier, and then never graduated, apparently too ashamed to go back to school.

And plenty of girls from Charnelle got married right after graduation, and sometimes, she knew, their wedding dresses couldn't hide their growing stomachs. Gloria herself was one of those girls. Julie had come into the world only seven months after her parents eloped.

Gloria had cautioned Laura to be careful. And they had been, hadn't they? Evidently not careful enough.

 

At three-thirty, Laura retrieved Rich from Mrs. Ambling. The snow had turned to sleet for a while, and the path between their houses was slick and treacherous. Mrs. Letig showed up a few minutes later and brought Jack inside.

“Man, oh, man, is it getting bad out there,” she said, stamping on the welcome mat, taking off Jack's coat. “John's going to try to get off work a little early. He should be here about five.”

“How's Willie?” Laura asked. He was sitting in the Letigs' snow-covered car, which was still running.

“Oh, he'll be fine. Another earache, but he seems better today. This is more a checkup than anything.”

Mrs. Letig wore a thick black overcoat and a red wool scarf over her head. Laura felt suddenly angry at her, felt that somehow this whole mess was Mrs. Letig's fault—everything, all of it. If she'd been a better wife, maybe her husband would not have seduced the sixteen-year-old daughter of his friend. Would have knocked up his wife again instead. Laura looked at the woman's face, her eyes lined darkly with mascara, her lips glossed with lipstick the color of her scarf, her dark red hair pinned neatly under the scarf to protect it from the elements. Made up, painted, a phony. Underneath her coat, she was no doubt wearing one of her expensive dresses. Laura felt the urge to slap her.

“I better get going. We're late,” Mrs. Letig said, backing out the door, waving. “You be good, Jack.” And then to Laura, “Thanks, honey.”

So this was how it would end, she thought.
Messy.

 

When John showed up that afternoon, a little after five, before her father got home, she couldn't contain herself. Manny and Gene were gone. Rich and Jack were in the kitchen playing checkers.

“Hello,” John said, knocking on the door, his collar up, a wool cap pulled over his head.

She burst into tears.

“Hey,” he said, grabbing her by the arms, bending down to see her face. “What's the matter?”

“I'm late,” she whispered.

“What?”

“My period hasn't come.”

Jack and Rich appeared at the kitchen door. “Go get in the truck, son,” John said.

“What's the matter?” Jack asked.

Rich frowned at her. “Why are you crying?”

“It's nothing,” she said, but then she ran to the bathroom, put her face into a towel to muffle the sound.

“What's the matter?” she heard Rich ask John.

“I don't know,” John said. “Rich, why don't you walk out to the truck with Jack?”

“Laura wouldn't let us go out because it was snowing.”

“You can get in the truck with him for a few minutes. Are your brothers home?”

“No, sir,” Rich said.

“Get your boots,” John said. “Bundle up, boys.” And a few minutes later she heard the front door open.

He rapped the bathroom door lightly. “Laura,” he said.

She didn't answer. She ran cold water and splashed it on her face.

He knocked again. “Laura, where are Manny and Gene?”

“Manny's at work. Gene's at the library. My father's picking him up on his way home.”

“Come on out. Your dad will be here soon, then.”

She opened the door and stepped into the hallway. He leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. There was a layer of snow on the side of his wool cap. His jacket was wet, his face flushed red. She didn't know whether to reach out to him or to stay where she was. She crossed her arms as well, stared at him.

“How late are you?”

“Five days.”

“Shit,” he said, shaking his head. “Did you count right? Maybe you messed up the math. Anne did that a few months back.”

The mention of Mrs. Letig made her stomach flip, and the “few months back” reference made her feel even sicker. “Yeah, I counted right. I counted a hundred times. That's all I've been doing.”

“We've been careful, though,” he said.

“I know.”

There was a long pause, and then he grimaced. “Is there somebody else?”

“What?” she shouted and then shoved him. “No!”

“I just meant—”

She punched him on the chest with her fist, hard. “Why would you say that?”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way.”

He reached out for her, but she backed into the bathroom. “
Why
would you
say
that?”

“I'm sorry.”

Then they heard the front door open. Her father. She slammed the bathroom door shut. She leaned against the wall and slid down, her head in her hands.

“Where's Laura?” her father asked.

“In the bathroom.”

“The boys said she was crying.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I don't know. When I came in to get Jack, she was crying and then ran to the bathroom. I sent the boys on to the truck so I could try to find out what was wrong.”

He sounded bad, she thought, nervous.

“She won't talk to me, though,” he said. “Maybe something happened at school today.” His voice seemed more in control now, more convincing.

“I thought I heard a door slam,” her father said.

“Yeah, she opened the bathroom door and then slammed it shut again. I don't know, Zeeke. I'm no expert with teenage girls. Thank God I have boys….”

She hated that he said “teenage.”

John continued, “I'm glad you're here. I'm sure she'd rather talk to her dad. Besides, I gotta get home and check on Willie. Anne took him to the doctor today. Can't seem to get rid of that earache.”

Silence. She could imagine the look on her father's face, the corners of his mouth twitching of their own accord. He never knew what to do when she was upset. Laura wondered if that's when he most wished his wife were still here, to deal with situations like this. Though
this
was too complicated for any of them, and she wasn't sure she would have wanted her mother here anyway. The blood pounded in her temples. She breathed deeply, and then she unwound some toilet paper from the roll, wiped her nose, and listened.

A knock. She didn't say anything. What could she say? She wanted them both to go away now.

“Laura?”

“I gotta go, Zeeke,” John said, trying to make his getaway.

Good. Get out of here.

“Bye, Laura.”

She started to answer. What could she say, though?

“Good-bye, Zeeke,” he called.

“See ya, Letig. Careful out there. It's coming down hard now.”

“Hope everything's okay,” John said.

And then he was gone. She turned on the water to let her father know she was fine. She heard his footsteps as he walked into the living room, where he told Rich, “Take your boots off and go wash up in the kitchen.”

“I gotta go to the bathroom.”

“You'll have to wait.”

“Why?” he whined.

“You want a spanking, son? Just do what I said.” Footsteps again. Her father rapped on the door. “Laura,” he said, irritation in his voice.

“Yes, sir.”

“Laura, what's the matter?” he asked.

She kept the water running. “Nothing.”

“Doesn't sound like nothing.”

“I didn't do very well on my history test,” she said. “But it doesn't really matter, Dad. I just don't feel good…. I'm sorry, I just…don't want to talk right now.”

“Well, okay, honey,” he said, more gently. “You can tell me about it later if you want, though. You know that, right?”

“I'm fine, Dad. Please. It's okay. Really. It's nothing.”

“I'm just saying that—”

“I don't want to talk!” Her voice sounded too sharp. It echoed in the bathroom. “Please,” she added softly.

“Okay, okay. Later, then. You let me know.”

“Yes, sir.”

 

After a few minutes, when she heard him in the kitchen, she went to her bedroom, shut the door, and locked it. She could hear her father telling Manny and Gene, in whispered tones, about her behavior.

“Give her some room,” he said.

“Is she on the rag?” Manny asked.

“Keep your voice down. I don't know.”

She got out her calendar and counted the days again. And then again. Yes, five. And then she curled up on the bed and tried to calm down. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. It would be okay, she told herself. She shouldn't worry yet. Not yet. And she definitely should not have told John.
Stupid, stupid thing to do. She looked out the window at the snow, mixed with sleet and ice, the sky metallic and gloomy. It was ten till six. She closed her eyes. She heard the clattering of pans as her father prepared supper.