Page 60 of Good Days Bad Days
Charlotte, still as a statue, doesn’t respond at first. Betty repeats her question, even more tenderly this time.
“Since right after Lulu was born.”
“But I was here after Lulu. How ...?”
“He stayed in the shed. Made me promise not to say a word. You know how he is. I wanted to tell you, Bets, I swear.”
Betty flattens her sister’s hair under the pink and white scarf and kisses her forehead and cheek. Charlotte melts into her sister’s arms, tucking her head under Betty’s chin.
“Don’t tell him I was here, OK? I’ll keep sending you what I can.”
Charlotte nods and sniffles. Betty came home for the comfort and safety she’s now giving to her sister and nieces and nephew.
“Thank you, Bets,” Charlotte says, pulling away and wiping her nose with her sleeve. “He’s better now. I’ll leave him if I’m wrong. I promise.”
Betty smooths the tears off her sister’s face, puts on her audience-pleasing smile, and proclaims everything will be all right. A creak upstairs makes both women freeze, and then Betty takes my hand again. She leads me out at double speed. We end up sprinting across the frontyard shoeless, the dew soaking into my socks and clinging to the cuffs of my jeans.
“Go. Go,” she says breathlessly once we’re in the car. Turning the key, I slam on the gas, making the wheels spin in the dirt loudly enough to wake anyone.
“I’m sorry,” I say, out of breath, my head spinning. “Her husband sounds terrible.”
“Her husband?” Betty asks, craning her neck to look out the back window.
“Bill. Her husband. He sounds like a bad man.”
“Oh, he is a bad man. Very bad. But he’s not her husband.”
“He’s not?”
“No.” She slams on the armrest, tears in her eyes. “Damn it.” She drags her arm across her face, breathing heavy. “Bill’s our stepdad.”
I shudder, and nausea hits me as I reanalyze the sisters’ conversation with the new perspective applied. “And those are his kids?”
“Yup. It’s a real fairy tale, isn’t it?” she says bitterly, settling into her seat once we’re back on the paved road.
“Your mom—you said something about your mom ...”
“They called it involuntary manslaughter, but I doubt there was anything involuntary about it.” She digs through her bag, taking out tissues. The story I’m piecing together about Betty’s past is starting to make my head spin. Poverty, abusive stepfather, loss of her mother, sister victimized by the same man.
“She lets him live there?”
“Apparently. I thought she’d never let him back in once he got out of county this last time, but ...” She tosses her hand up and slaps her leg so hard I flinch.
“And your brother?” I think back to our discussion on the emptyClassy Homemakerset. Her mother passed away, her little sister, too. All she had left were her two remaining siblings.
“Moved away at fifteen. Last I heard he joined the army. So, who the hell knows where he is now. Maybe dead for all I know.” A memoryof a red, white, and blue triangle folded on my brother’s coffin flashes through my mind. I push it away as we fly through the small town, headed toward the highway.
“So you feel responsible for her, for Charlotte?” I ask, overwhelmed by the image of Betty Wilkens that has zoomed into uncomfortably detailed focus since her call last night.
“For all of them. Not dickhead Bill. But the rest of them. And if I don’t give them money, I’m pretty sure he’ll get her to cut me out entirely.” She rummages through her macramé bag again, this time pulling out a collection of beauty supplies.
“She might leave. Doesn’t hurt to hope.”
“Actually,” she says, no longer crying, “sometimes it hurts a ton.”
Uncapping a silver tube, she spins up a column of red lipstick, which she applies while looking in a silver compact. She caps the tube and clicks the mirror closed.
She’s right. Not many people would admit it, but hope hurts a whole lot if the situation is actually hopeless. I stop before the highway, tapping the steering wheel with my thumbs.
