Page 14 of Welcome to Gothic
“Must have been early in the Depression.”
“Um, yeah.”You have no idea.“I was put into a foster home, one with a lot of kids.”
“An orphanage?”
“In a private home.”Explain this, Wendy.“They have those where I come from. There were about thirty of us kids who were without family. The people who owned the home got paid a stipend for each one of us, but not a lot, and we were sleeping all over in bunk beds and sleeping bags.”
He nodded, so she hadn’t used too many modern terms he didn’t understand.
“There was a girl my age. Sandra. She’d been in the system for a while. She looked me over and said, ‘Girl, you got to get some training.’”
“Training?”
“She said I was going to get passed on to a household with fewer kids and maybe a father, and I needed to know how to fight. She said I had to be able to defend myself against... a grown man who would try to, um...”
“Molest you.”
“Yes.” Molest: the 1940 word for rape.
“Sandra sounds like a smart girl.” Hugh did not seem shocked; he seemed admiring.
“The system allowed me to take self-defense.”
He glanced at her blankly.
“Karate? Judo? Tae kwon do?” Why was she even trying? “You know, like where Asian people defend themselves against knife-wielding thugs using only their hands and feet?”
“I’m from San Francisco. In Chinatown, there are some shops that claim to teach such arts, but I never saw any proof.”
“It’s real. I learned.” She waited for him to argue further, but he drove, listening as if he wanted to hear about her and her past. “Thank God I did, because the first foster home they moved me to... the father locked me in the closet. When he finally opened the door, he grabbed my hair and dragged me out. His pants were around his ankles, so I grabbed his balls, ripped them up around his ears and, I swear, he’s never going to produce a son in his own image.”
“Ripped them up around his ears!” Hugh laughed and winced and laughed. “Good for you! I know he deserved it. But that description still makes me want to curl up and protect myself.”
“You asked.”
“I know. I want to know. I’m glad you can take care of yourself. I really am because... this thing with Hazel reminds me of all the reasons I never want to be involved with another living, breathing person.”
“Whoa. Okay, fine. It’s your turn. Maeve... Miss Lindholm mentioned you had a tragedy in your past. I told you mine. Can you tell me yours?”
“You don’t know?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t. I assume whatever happened was in the newspapers?”
“And inPhotoplaymagazine and on Winchell’s radio program. Everywhere. I was assaulted by... sympathy. Awash in sympathy. Drowning in sympathy.”
“It sounds awful.”
“Yes. It was. It’s been six years, but...”
“Loss never gets easier.”
He glanced at her. “Right. You know. You understand. My wife was a good woman. I worked in the movies. She stayed home with our son and cared for him herself. She went to all the right parties, lunched with the right women, wore the right clothes.” His voice developed a warmth, a timbre that spoke of love and sex. “She wasn’t the brightest girl, but she was mine, the mother of my son.”
“And your son?”
Hugh’s tone changed from whimsical to adoring. “Eddy was so smart. Outgoing, charming. Hazel reminds me of him. When I would come back from a shoot, he would run to me, lift up his arms and—” Hugh’s voice broke.
Wendy put her hand on his thigh. “I am so sorry.”
