Getting Somewhere (3 page)

The bed is real though. She presses her body down, tries to feel her weight sinking in, as if wanting to be absorbed. She imagines dirty imprints on the sheets from the bottom of her feet and stretches her legs out so that just her heels are resting on the mattress. It was just last night that she took a shower at the detention center, she realizes. She only feels dirty because that's what it feels like to be her in a place like this.

She can hear little sounds on the other side of the walls, house sounds, or maybe the other girls moving around, getting into their own beds. Strange to feel lonely, wonder what is going on in the other rooms, if that Jenna ever smiles, if Cassie ever talks, how Lauren is going to feel when her makeup runs out and the roots of her natural hair color start to show. Now, she's like an antenna or one of those dishes, rotating to pick up all the signals all across the universe, messages from distant planets. She'd probably just pick up commercials, advertisements for Coke or Nike or a Ford Expedition that she could never buy. That would be just her luck; satellite junk food.

Sarah starts to giggle and snuggles down deeper in the bed, pulls the blanket high under her chin. Her internal clock is all messed up. Now she's all jittery when she was ready to relax just a minute ago. It's too dark. She thinks about getting up to turn the light back on. She opens her eyes wide to help them get used to the dark faster. She used to do that to Shannon, scare the shit out of her by pretending to stare off into space, acting like she could see shit there that nobody else could see. The thought of Shannon makes her shake harder.

He was looking at both of them but picked Shannon. How many times has she gone over that scene in her head? That girl just never had the sense to scoot if things got too rough. That's what everybody said, and Sarah wants to believe it, has to believe it had to be Shannon and couldn't have been anyone else. Sarah can't always remember the face, and yet for some reason, right now she can see her perfectly, but only after, not before. She can see exactly how her skull looked, bashed in on one side, the blood. Sarah had never seen her naked before, didn't realize how tiny she was under her layers of clothes. Shannon was always cold, shivered a lot even in the summer, any little breeze or the shadow of the dark side of the street.

Sarah doesn't know why she's thinking about Shannon, is mad at herself because of it. Shannon is the side of things she doesn't look at. It made her reckless, after, on the street at all hours by herself, desperate to end the thought of it however she could. Moving, moving to protect the secret place in her mind that she'd always pretended wasn't there, a thought stash that made her see a kitchen table with a bright light above it, hear the humming of the refrigerator, the running of water in the sink, the television talking to nobody in another room. She had to get away, got away, and now she's away but she doesn't know where away is.

She sees Ty now with Shannon, that day the two of them came up the stairs with his arm draped over her shoulder, a big grin on his face, saying, “Look what I found huddled by the dryer vents over on Cleveland,” like a little kid with a new kitten. Shannon, with her eyes all big and watery, shimmering out from under her hood, her ridiculous bright red coat, shivering. When Saucy first saw Shannon, she shook her head, clucked her tongue like an old lady. “Ty always likes 'em small,” she said. “The younger the better.” Sarah told the people at the Center she didn't have a pimp, that they just pimped each other, scored whatever and whenever they could. She wasn't sure when she said it if it was true or not. She thought it was wise or loyal or necessary to protect him. She'd never thought about Ty as a pimp. He just seemed like one of them, maybe a little older, more experienced. Thinking about Ty that way made her scared, made her wonder if there were other things about him, about all of it, that weren't how they appeared.

But she's not going to worry about that. She's got to stay sharp. Ty will be mad she got caught, but he'll forgive her when he knows for sure she didn't say anything, didn't give anybody else away. She's no snitch. It's okay if, just for now, she lets them feed her, give her a warm bed. And it does feel good, so good. Why not? It's just for now. . . .

MONDAY, MAY 14

CASSIE DOESN'T KNOW HOW IT HAS HAPPENED, BUT THE
other girls are all on the opposite side of the row and she is standing on this side with the adults. There is something that attracts them to each other, something she doesn't have. They seem to even be able to communicate without talking, looks and gestures making a secret language that Cassie doesn't know. All day, she has felt them drawing together, moving like a school of fish, pulling away from her. She wants to throw a net around them and rein them in before they get away.

Cassie is wondering how someone, a girl, goes about making friends with other girls. Not that she should expect that. She has tried to punch the longing away like a helium-filled balloon, but it just keeps bouncing back. She is sure she is doing something terribly wrong, can't figure out how she'll determine what it is. Cassie can hardly stand to look at herself now, her own awful clothes, the prints garish, the styles square and baggy. It didn't matter to her before that she was wearing clothes Gram wore thirty or more years ago or pants and blouses that Gordon picked out for her at Discount World without knowing her size or anything about what she might like. She flinches with humiliation to think how thrilled she had been when he brought them to her, how much she loved the colors, how childish her response to their newness, and how ridiculous they look in comparison to what she has now seen other girls her age wearing. But there's nothing, absolutely nothing, she can do about it now.

She'd told Lauren that she liked her sweater. It had taken her all morning to get the courage to speak and, when she did, her voice came out thin and croaking. Lauren had raised her eyebrows, hadn't answered for a second too long, finally said, “Oh yeah?” Cassie had nodded. Then Lauren told her she'd stolen it. “Two hundred and sixty bucks, the tag said.” Lauren was smiling like it was something Cassie would know all about, complicit with that sort of thing. Lauren had leaned close, acting like she was sharing a secret, said, “I just buy something else and then take a whole bunch of clothes into the dressing room and stuff whatever I want in my store bag. Easy. You have to avoid the places with those screaming tags though, know what I mean?”

Cassie had no idea, thought the word “tags” might be some kind of slang for store police or for someone who tells on you if they see you stealing. Cassie doesn't understand about the $260, either. Gram's whole Social Security check for the month was $538. How would anyone eat and pay rent and keep the electricity on if they spent nearly half their money on just one sweater?

Grace is talking about the soil now, and Cassie tries to listen. A marsh, Grace is saying, thousands of years ago, and Cassie closes her eyes, imagines it. She has already noticed the tiny spiraled shells scattered over the ground, used her toes to dislodge a few, furtively placed them in her pocket. She can feel them in there now, mostly white or grayish but a couple with streaks or spots of pink and brown. She sees herself walking down the hall from her room to the bathroom, rinsing the shells under a stream of water, then shivers with the thought that someone could catch her, ask her what she is doing, and she wouldn't know what to say.

She can't decide which is worse, being up there, alone in that room, or out here, alone in the group. She likes the garden, the rows of growing things, the colors and textures, greens and lighter greens and burgundies in constrast with the black, black soil. She has no trouble remembering everything Grace has shown them. Absorbing information is something she does well. In fact, she now realizes, it's the only thing she does at all, her brain crammed with facts and statistics, data and information all gleaned from the odd assortment of reading material found in Gram's house and the books she begged Gordon to bring her from the library. That was her whole world, and now she suspects that none of it means anything. It's like realizing that the language you've learned is the wrong one for the country you're visiting, that not only will no one understand you but they will immediately recognize you as foreign, see right away that you are nothing at all but a girl dressed in someone else's clothes.

Cassie realizes with a start that the group has moved forward and she hurries to catch up. She stands just a little bit apart so that there is no chance someone will feel like they have to move away from her. Grace is still talking about the history of the place, and Cassie notices that Lauren is absorbed with fingering a loose thread on that stolen sweater. Cassie almost smiles to herself at the thought that she and Lauren have something in common. Cassie has stolen something, too.

It's a book. Stolen—or at least not taken back—from the Davis Township Library. Cassie knows it was checked out in Gordon's name, knows he will get in trouble when it is not returned. She imagines he will probably have to pay for it, doesn't know what else the punishment might be. She is pretty sure people don't go to jail for failing to return a library book. She sees Gordon differently now and doesn't care even if he has to go to jail. They will not let him pick a farm instead.

Cassie doesn't know what Gram liked so much about the book on Greece. She never figured out if it was the sounds of particular words or just the last kind of memory that was still available to her when all the other parts of her brain had fizzled out. Though Cassie had the entire book memorized, eventually the only section Gram would let Cassie read was the one about Corfu. Cassie can recite it easily.
The beautiful island of Corfu is large enough to contain something for everyone, small enough to be seen in its entirety in just a few wonderful days. . . .
Gram always wanted to hear about the Cavalieri Hotel with its “English-style wood-paneled bar” and the Hotel Bella Venezia with “small but tastefully furnished rooms replete with telephones and televisions.” Gram didn't have a television herself, and it amuses Cassie to imagine traveling to Corfu to watch one. There had been a television, but when the lines got too wavy, Gordon took it away and never replaced it.

She won't think of Gordon, fights away the sudden sick feeling in her stomach, the spinning sensation in her head. She realizes that her hands are on her abdomen, probing the skin and muscle there, checking for the emptiness the way an older woman might check her breasts for lumps, and she drops them away quickly to her sides. She forces her body to turn toward the group, her expression to appear attentive while she recites in her head,
Just outside of Corfu town is the location of the island's former capital, set on a hilly peak that affords a view of two neighboring islets.
 . . .

L
AUREN CAN'T SLEEP.
Or she would be able to sleep if the women weren't talking right below her open window on the porch. The only voice she can hear is Ellie's, rising and falling with the same kind of frenzied excitement as the disgusting sparrow that was caught in one of the greenhouses today, swooping over their heads and then fluttering desperately against the windows from the inside. Grace had to herd them all out and then drive the thing toward the door with a broom.

It's not really a decision, more of a force, that pulls Lauren out of her bed and down the stairs. She creeps into the living room and crouches beside one of the tall windows, finds that, with the light on out there and the darkness in here, she is virtually invisible while she can see and hear everything outside.

They are talking about Jenna. Well, Ellie is talking about Jenna. Grace isn't saying a word while Ellie paces back and forth in front of her. Ellie sounds like she is describing the discovery of a winning lottery ticket, but Grace is just sitting there. Lauren can't quite see her face but can tell she is looking down at her lap where her hands are fidgeting with what looks like a ball of string.

“I thought they'd balk with the sign-ups, I really did,” Ellie is saying. “Jenna especially, but it really could have been any of them. Well, you know how I've debated over that, didn't want it to be too complicated but also make the girls feel like they can choose, you know? Concentrate where they feel most comfortable. I should have left the stickers out though. Just the different colors of markers are good enough. Isn't it funny how they each actually ended up with colors that sort of fit them?”

Grace doesn't answer and Lauren thinks she just might gag. Funny. Ha-ha. More like ridiculous. Ellie had drawn lines on poster board to make a grid and headed each column with different tasks for the garden and the household. Some things were already scheduled, like when they'd have to be harvesting for market and for the membership program they run, meal preparation, and their group sessions, but some things could be filled in at random, like weeding or just a general garden shift to do whatever you were told to do. It made Lauren feel like she was in kindergarten and yet, because it was all so silly, it seemed stupid to object. Plus, she has no intention of doing all that work, whether she signs up on the stupid chart or not. Nobody is going to make her slave out there in the hot sun all day.

“And did you notice how none of them held back?” Ellie is saying. “Well, there was a little straggling at first but they were just like little ducklings following you in a line through the greenhouses and around the fields. And did you see their faces at the river? I don't think any of them has ever seen anything like that, the rapids and the swimming hole and the swing and all. They were so quiet. I think they were just mesmerized.”

Lauren has to choke back a laugh. The woman is completely nuts. She personally felt like a goddamn idiot following along in that little line, acting like they were tourists at some tacky roadside attraction. While Ellie was seeing the perfect sunlit May day and the free labor they were going to get for their stupid farm, Lauren was seeing dirt and bugs and heat and envisioning how in the hell she is going to get out of this.

“The first day,” Lauren hears Ellie exclaim. “It's only the first day!” Saying it like that's good thing, like there's actually anything to look forward to in this godforsaken place, a prison parading as a farm.

Then Ellie is standing right in front of Grace, who is still not looking up at her, talking so quietly that Lauren has to lean closer to hear. “You know, you don't always have to predict the worst, Grace. We've gotten this far and nothing awful has happened, and there's no reason why it should. What harm can it possibly do to think that it might turn out good, that we're actually going to make it work?”

Grace still doesn't say anything for awhile and then finally looks at Ellie, who has knelt down in front of her and put her hands on Grace's knees. Her voice sounds tired, maybe a little angry.

“Obviously we're going to make it work. We're doing it, aren't we? I agreed to do it. But the deal is, you have to remember that my priority, and your priority
for
me, has got to be the farm. Look, Ellie. We've already said everything there is to say about it. I said I understood that it needs to be integrated so I'm going to try to do that, but you can't expect me to get involved in the ‘therapeutic progress,' as you call it. That's your department. You seem to be willing to give up our personal lives for this in a big way, and I don't think there's much more I can give up. We've talked this all the way through, and I'm not interested in rehashing it.”

“I didn't mean to rehash. I do understand that this isn't so much your baby, but I still think there's a good chance that you may get more out of it than you realize. That it could be a really good experience for you, too.”

“Whatever, Ellie. What you really want to do is remind me that I said I'd do it. I get it, okay? You don't need me to keep agreeing with you over and over again. Let's just do what we have to do and see how it turns out. You plan out all your stuff and I'll plan out mine and, hopefully, we'll meet somewhere in the middle.”

Lauren can hear in Ellie's voice that she's choking up, maybe even crying a little. “Why do you have to put it that way? You're the one who thinks we have to give up our personal lives, who thinks we have to be so . . . closeted. I don't think we have anything to hide. I think it's a good thing for the girls to see women like us making a go of it, working together, loving each other, supporting each other. It seems like you're making it so it has to be either you or me but not both, my project or yours but not both, the rest of the world against you. There's nobody out there trying to mess up your life now, Grace.”

Lauren has almost pressed her face against the screen to hear what Grace is going to say in response when she sees a movement just off the edge of the porch, and there is Donna climbing the stairs, holding one end of what looks like a leash and, at the other end . . . a cat? Lauren moves back a bit into the shadows until Donna has had a chance to seat herself on the swing just outside the window. She debates going back up to her room but is afraid she'd be heard, still wants to know what else they might talk about. Right now, they are talking about the stupid cat, and Donna is saying something about which one of the barn cats is the mother and why she chose this particular one to bring inside and train to be a house cat. The others actually seem interested in what she is talking about.