The Lost Girls (21 page)

“It won't hurt if you don't fall,” Maurie said in a jaunty voice. Again she pulled Melanie to her feet. This time Melanie grabbed her around the ribs. They were both gasping in the frigid air. Maurie managed to push Melanie away, and Melanie fell again, the skates shooting forward so she landed flat on her back.

“Melanie!” Justine cried. Her mother needed to stop, but she knew she wouldn't. Because it wasn't about the skating anymore. When Justine was nine, Maurie had taken her on a roller coaster at the Six Flags outside St. Louis, and Justine had been so terrified she'd thrown up. Maurie made her ride it again and again until she'd convinced her mother she loved it; loved the upside-down part; loved the speed.
That's my brave girl,
Maurie had said. Now Justine couldn't move. Her feet were immobile in their boots, as though they'd become part of the snow. On the ice, her daughter struggled to sit up.

Maurie flapped her arms in exasperation. “For God's sake! You're not even trying!”

“Stop it!” Melanie shrieked. “Stop it!” She lifted one foot and pounded the back of the skate blade into the ice. Maurie started toward her again, but Melanie backed away, skittering like a crab. Her mouth was a gaping red hole in her face.

“Get up!” Maurie told her. “Evans girls never quit!”

Justine let go of Angela's hand. Melanie wasn't going to get up. She wasn't like Justine. In Colorado Springs, when Justine was twelve, Maurie's boyfriend had a small ranch and a big bay horse. The horse's back had spread Justine's legs wide, and the world spun upside down, and the dirt tasted like horse shit, again and again and again.
Get up, Justine. Evans girls never quit.
She wrenched one foot forward. “Mom, leave her alone! She doesn't want to do it.”

The sky had faded to pearl, edged with rose along the tops of the western trees. Maurie's face was in shadow as she turned to Justine. “I'm not going to let her be a quitter!”

Matthew walked onto the frozen lake. Justine jumped as he passed her; she'd forgotten he was there. His boots with their deep treads navigated the ice as though it were gravel. Melanie scooted away from him, but she was no match for his long strides. When he got to her he squatted. Justine couldn't hear what he said, but she could see her daughter's face crumple, and she put her arms around his neck. Then Matthew carried her back to shore and toward the road.

Maurie rushed after them. “Matthew, no! She has to learn—”

Matthew turned to her. His face was so black with warning that Maurie actually stepped back. He scowled at her for a moment more, then walked away, carrying Melanie through the snow to the front porch of Lucy's house while Maurie watched with the outrage of a child whose favorite toy has been stolen.

Justine pushed past her. When she reached the porch steps Matthew came down them. He neither spoke to her nor slowed down.
She opened the screen door to find Melanie on a porch chair unlacing one of the skates. Melanie shook her head without looking up. “Go away.”

Justine stopped, fidgeting with the zipper on her coat. I'm sorry, she wanted to say. I couldn't stop her. I've never been able to stop her. Then the door opened again and Maurie and Angela came in. Melanie kicked off the skate, sending it clattering to the floor at Maurie's feet. Her face as she looked at her grandmother was chiseled and forbidding. Maurie just smiled. “Angie, what do you say we get you some skates and you can give it a whirl?”

Melanie looked away, working on the laces of the second skate. Angela watched her for a moment. Then she nodded.

“That's my brave girl,” Maurie said, and Justine flinched. Melanie kept her eyes on the laces.

After Independence Day, Lilith behaved with impeccable modesty when Father was at the lake. During the week, she still went to the lodge in borrowed clothes and makeup, but on the weekends she wore her own, demure dresses and kept her face clean. Father scrutinized her as though looking for Charlie's fingerprints, but he found nothing that made him take her back to Williamsburg, and I was glad, for her sake and mine. Though we spent our days and evenings apart, I still loved having her with me at night.

During this time, though, I began to notice a change in Father. I'd always known, from the way he breathed here, that he loved the lake the way I loved it, as a balm for the spirit. He came directly from the pharmacy on Fridays, still in his white coat, and within hours the stress of the week melted from his shoulders, so by family time he was relaxed, ready to consider and impart the tenets of his faith and philosophy. Lately, though, the tension that followed him from town never left him. He was snappish with Mother, terse even with Emily. His sermons were less about family, personal responsibility, or the need for us children to remain innocent, and more about charity, the forgiveness of debts, and the terrible wages of usury—lessons I could not understand. He grew thinner, too, which deepened the hollows of his cheeks. I worried about him. I began to spend more time at the house when he was there, so I could watch him.

“You should go play outside,” Mother told me one such afternoon. I was on the porch swing, reading. Father was on the far side of the porch, reading also. Emily was playing a game of jacks
on the floor by my feet. She'd taken to following me around when I was in the house, but I'd decided I didn't mind. Now she looked up, waiting to see what I would do. For the first time, I thought about taking her to the woods to play. It was a sunny day, not too hot, and the woods would smell of peat and clover.

Father looked over, distracted by our conversation. “What are you reading, Lucy?”

Mother retreated to the kitchen. I held the book so Father could see. “
Huckleberry Finn
.” I was reading it for the second time; it was one of my favorites from Matthew's collection.

He closed his book and set it on his lap. “And what do you think of young Mr. Finn?”

I tried desperately to gauge him. What did he think of Huck? Huck was a disobedient rascal, uninterested in the book-learning Father so prized, and he was a petty thief to boot. But he had strong morals for all that, and he was appalled by the self-interested manipulations of Tom Sawyer, as was I. Then there was the matter of Jim. Jim was actually my favorite character, because of the unfailing loyalty he showed to his new friend. It was a quality I thought I had, too, and one that, like Jim's, I felt wasn't sufficiently appreciated.

Father rattled the ice in his glass, waiting.

“I like him.” When Father raised one eyebrow, I added, “He's good to Jim.”

He smiled, which made him look more like his pre-Independence Day self. “Yes, he is. He's one of my favorite characters in all of literature. He does what he knows is right, despite what the so-called Christians tell him.” He gave me an appraising look while I tried to project my Huck-like moral center through every pore of my skin. When he turned back to his book, I felt light-headed. Emily, who'd been watching us intently, resumed her game. The whump-swish of the ball and her hand sweeping up the jacks echoed the blood pounding in my ears.

Later that afternoon, as he sometimes did, Father went to the lodge to play pool with Mr. Williams, Dr. Pugh, and Mayor Lloyd. I followed him. I was consumed by a new notion, ignited when he questioned me about Huck Finn but still inchoate, and I couldn't let him leave my sight while I turned it around in my head. So I ordered a pop and sat at a table on the other side of the room while they played.

As usual, they talked about politics and business, and the others called Father Tommy, his schoolboy name. I loved to watch him with the other men, because I could tell they respected him. They admired him as a man who'd taken over his father's shop and kept it running even in hard times, which counted for a lot in those days, but it wasn't just that. They were churchgoers, and you might think they would look askance at a man who stayed home on Sunday mornings, but at Father's memorial service, Mayor Lloyd would say the most prominent men in town often came to him for moral guidance. He'd say this was because of Father's character, but I suspect it was also because, except for Mr. Williams, his childhood friend, he had no favorites among them, and was beholden to none of them. He was the closest to an impartial arbiter they had, like a priest in a confessional.

They were beginning their second game when Lilith came in with Jeannette and Betty. Lilith wore a modest smock dress and no makeup, which made her look much younger than the other two, but they didn't treat her any differently for it. They sat at a table with their pops, giggling and talking. She didn't even glance at me. Father looked her up and down, but when he found nothing troubling in her demeanor he turned back to his game. He hadn't noticed me at all. The small notion that had taken root in my mind shriveled, and I decided to go.

As I stood up, a panicked wail came from the kitchen, and Abe carried little Amanda Davies through the back door. Amanda was about Emily's age, a pert, towheaded tomboy with a sassy
mouth—she would be the first woman to sit on Williamsburg's town council—but now she was in hysterics, with a bloody gash across her forearm. The men exclaimed in alarm, and Dr. Pugh rushed forward. He took Amanda from Abe, set her on a chair, and began to examine her wound.

Matthew had followed Abe and Amanda into the room, and Dr. Pugh said to him, “You, boy. Bring some towels.” When Matthew obeyed, Dr. Pugh folded a towel and laid it on the cut, applying pressure. Amanda's crying subsided, and once she was calmer Dr. Pugh looked at Abe. “What happened?”

“It was a hacksaw, sir.” Abe shuffled his feet and looked at the floor. “She fell and cut herself on it.”

“Where the devil did she find a hacksaw?”

“In the shed.”

“Is that what happened, Amanda?” Dr. Pugh asked.

Amanda's voice shook. “We were playing.”

“You and Abe? In the shed?”

Amanda nodded. Dr. Pugh and Mayor Lloyd shared a look. Even from fifteen feet away I could feel Matthew tense.

Dr. Pugh ran the hand that wasn't applying pressure to Amanda's wound down each of her legs to her ankles. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

Amanda looked at Abe. She pulled her lower lip with her teeth.

Abe said in his thick voice, “She's not hurt anywhere else.”

Mayor Lloyd set down his pool cue and took a step toward Abe. Abe's face darkened, and to my surprise, his hands curled into fists. I'd never seen him angry. He was so gentle most of the time that, even after that summer, his anger would always take me unawares.

Matthew put a hand on Abe's arm. Mr. Miller moved from behind the bar and stood in front of his sons. Mayor Lloyd put his thumbs in his belt. He'd been an amateur boxer, and though he'd gone to fat he looked like he hadn't forgotten how to knock people down.

“I'm going to need to talk to your boy,” he said.

Mr. Miller crossed his arms. “You can talk to me.” He was a big-shouldered man and his arms were muscular from the labor it took to run his business. Matthew's thin arm slid across his brother's chest. He looked young and afraid, and I was afraid, too. Lilith, Betty, and Jeannette watched from their table, all of us braced for violence.

Then Father said, in a mild voice, “Let's hear what the girl has to say.” Everyone turned to him, standing at ease by the pool table. When he had everyone's attention he knelt by Amanda. “Amanda, tell me what you and Abe were doing.” Every eye was on Amanda now, and she, who always did like it when people's eyes were on her, sat up despite her pain and trepidation.

“We were playing king and queen.”

“What sort of game is that?” Father asked.

“It's where I get to be the queen,” she said, as though that should be obvious.

“And how did you cut your arm?”

Again Amanda looked at Abe. Abe's face was still flushed, and I could tell from the rapid movements of his eyes that he was afraid of what she might say next. Amanda said, “I fell. There was a sharp thing on the wall, and it cut me.”

I looked at the men, expecting to see them relax, but they remained tense. “Did Abe do anything to hurt you when you were playing?” Father asked.

“No.” Her voice was suddenly so quiet I could hardly hear her.

“Anything at all?”

Her eyes flicked again to Abe. The room was quiet except for the faint buzz of the ceiling fan high in the rafters. A small movement caught my eye, and I saw Lilith had leaned forward in her chair.

Amanda shook her head.

Father patted her knee. “Good girl.” He walked to Mayor Lloyd and led him away from Mr. Miller and Abe. Mr. Williams came, too. Father was slight and a little stooped; to anyone else he would have been an insignificant figure beside these larger men, but to me there seemed to be a light that fell only on him from the ceiling lamps. I edged closer so I could hear them.

“I don't like it, Tom,” Mayor Lloyd said. “The two of them, alone in that shed.”

“Playing,” Father said.

“But he always plays with the girls. Never the boys. I saw him come out from under the lodge with your youngest not two weeks ago. What do you think they were up to under there?”

Playing with the kittens, I wanted to say, but I didn't have the nerve.

“You know what he's like,” Father said. “He may be nearly grown, but he's still a child in his heart. He doesn't think like that. And God doesn't judge us on the things we do, but on the intentions of our hearts.” As always when he invoked God, his voice rang with authority. He smiled at Mr. Williams and, by the faintest glance, at me, which sent a small delighted shock tingling through my fingertips. “Mens rea, isn't that the term you shysters use?”

Mr. Williams smiled, too, and shook his head. “You should have studied law, not religion.”

Mayor Lloyd ran one hand over the top of his balding head. His hand trembled a little, with relief, I thought. “Maybe so. But it's not right.” He turned to Mr. Miller, who still stood with his sons by the bar. He pointed a finger at him, belligerent again. “You tell him. We can't have it. Not anymore.”

Mr. Miller's eyes wavered for the smallest instant, and he gave a curt nod. He said to Abe, “Get back to the kitchen,” and Abe disappeared through the door. Matthew followed. Mr. Miller returned to the bar, turned his back to us, and began wiping the glasses in
the drying rack. Soon Dr. Pugh and Mr. Davies took Amanda to town to stitch up her arm, Lilith and her friends left, and everyone else carried on as though nothing had happened.

But later, as I was looking through the books on the lending shelf, I heard Mr. Miller's voice, raised in anger, through the back door. The lodge was empty save for me; it was that dead time between the afternoon and the early supper crowd. I went to the door and stood with my ear close to it.

“It's got to stop,” I heard him say. “You can't play with them anymore. Not with the girls.”

“I didn't mean to hurt her.”

“That's not what I mean. You're grown now. It doesn't look right, you playing with the girls. It's going to bring trouble on us. Play with the boys all you want, but if I catch you with one of the girls again, I'll strap you, so help me God.”

That was all he said on the matter, at least within my hearing. But for the rest of that summer, and for all the summers after, Abe stayed away from the lake children, girls and boys alike. Even when the town folk stopped coming and the summer people became vacationers from distant cities, Abe worked in the back of the lodge, out of sight. None of the mothers had minded Abe's attentions to their daughters; in fact, Abe with his gentle ways was the only Miller they liked. The fathers, though; that was something else. The fathers didn't like their little girls playing with older boys. Especially older half-breed boys.

Which is why it was interesting that, of all the men in the lodge that day, it was Father who wasn't bothered by what happened. Father, who couldn't abide Lilith sitting next to Charlie Lloyd at a bonfire, had no trouble with Abe and Amanda playing in the Millers' shed, or with Abe and Emily playing under the lodge. The difference, I decided after giving it much thought, must lie in that thing he'd said to Mr. Williams.
Mens rea
. It wasn't until years later I learned what that was: a legal term meaning “guilty mind.”
Some acts, no matter how dire the results, aren't considered crimes without proof of an intent to do harm. To Father, Charlie Lloyd had mens rea; Abe did not; and that was all that mattered.

He was right, of course. About Charlie, about Abe, and even, to some extent, about himself. Charlie had had lustful thoughts about Lilith for years, and would until the day he died. Abe was not incorruptible, as I later learned, but I'm certain he never meant to hurt anyone. As for Father, no matter what you think of him when my story is done—and I expect you will judge him harshly indeed—I will say only this. I believe he tried, as best he could, to keep his intentions pure in the eyes of his God. And when he saw that he had failed, he imposed upon himself without complaint the harsh punishment his God demanded.