Stained

by Jennifer Richard Jacobson

  STAINED

  Atheneum Books for Young Readers

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2005 by Jennifer Richard Jacobson

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Book design by Kristin Smith

  The text for this book is set in Arrus and BlurLight.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Jacobson, Jennifer Richard, 1958-

  Stained / Jennifer Richard Jacobson.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  “A Richard Jackson book.”

  Summary: In Weaver Falls, New Hampshire, in 1975, seventeen-year-old Jocelyn looks for answers when her lifelong neighbor and friend, Gabe, turns up missing and she learns that, while her boyfriend has been telling everything to a priest, Gabe has been keeping terrible secrets.

  ISBN 0-689-86745-X

  ISBN: 978-0-6898-6745-3

  eISBN: 978-1-4391-1644-9

  [1. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 2. Catholics—Fiction. 3. Priests—Fiction. 4. Child abuse—Fiction. 5. Homosexuality—Fiction. 6. New Hampshire—History—20th century—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.J1529St 2005

  [Fic]—dc22

  2003026670

  For Jake, for everything

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I am deeply grateful to the following: Franny Billingsley, fellow writer, teacher, and friend, who is the godmother of this book. The High Test Girls, who expressed belief in this novel, nudged periodically, and gave wise and timely advise. The Froggers for their astute insights. Sandy Asher, who pointed out my propensity to view the world in black and white. Toni Buzzeo, Betts Gorsky and Meg LePage, who were willing to listen to me talk about my characters as if they were real people and helped me to see the story through. Lynn Evarts, Brian Salzar, and readers from DeForest, Wisconsin, for their valuable feedback. Barry Goldblatt, my agent extraordinaire, who accepted me on faith, offered fabulous feedback (on a wacky time schedule), and helped make it happen. My editor, Richard Jackson, for his brilliance, warmth, and ability to ask the right questions at the right moment. And finally, my parents, who have always been there to lend support.

  ONE

  I’m the first to arrive again. I lock my bike out back and plunk down on the chipped cement steps that lead into the kitchen. Joe’s the only one with a key.

  I don’t mind sitting here. The sun’s spreading warmth on my bare legs. I lean back so it can reach my face.

  “What are you smiling about?” asks Linda, Joe’s wife, as she jumps down from the van. She doesn’t expect an answer, and I don’t give her one. I follow Joe and Linda into Joe’s Grill, punch myself in, and go directly to the coffee station. I try to put my hair up in an elastic, but I’m still holding my dinky white apron, so the attempt is rather sad.

  “There’s a hairnet in the storeroom,” Joe says. I wonder if he’s really going to make me wear it this time.

  I have no sooner torn open the coffee packet and poured the contents into a filter when the regulars start to stream in. The Bourgoine family piles into the back booth, and I decide to wait on them before the counter crowd, who are busy dividing the morning paper according to habit.

  An hour into my shift I see Benny coming in the door. I take another order—steak and eggs, scrambled eggs and bacon, poached eggs and toast—but my mind is on Benny. Benny pulling me close, close enough to put his hands in my back pockets. I smile and my insides run. Run like the yoke of a soft-boiled egg.

  When I turn to place the order, one of the regulars thinks the smile is for him and smiles back.

  I walk over to Benny in the corner booth. He has the menu open, but he’s not reading it. He’s looking out the window instead. Sunlight bounces off his chin-length hair.

  “Coffee’s ready!” Joe shouts.

  I know he hates it when my friends hang out here. I decide to do my waitress act, thinking that might appease Joe and make Benny laugh. “What can I get you, sir?”

  Benny raises his eyebrows. The effort almost seems too much. He’s not playing along.

  So I lower my voice. “You’re up early, given how little sleep you got last night.” I expect a joke about keeping him up with my talk of weird things, like, what if the whole world is an illusion? What if death is just a skip from one dream into another? At the very least I expect the memory of my touch to move across his face. Nothing.

  “I went to Mass this morning, Jocelyn.” His tone is serious and cautionary—a tone I respect. I like it that Benny can get heavy from time to time. The wording next to his yearbook picture will not read: Likes honkin’ chicks, stompin’ parties, and goin’ fast; it will likely have a quote from Kingsley or Thoreau instead.

  “Is your mother okay?”

  “She, um, she …” He sighs, lowers his head, and pinches the top of his nose. It takes him a moment to regain composure. Then he lifts his head and smiles—the kind of painful smile you offer someone when the only other alternative is crying.

  “Well enough to tell me to comb my hair,” he jokes.

  I place my hand on his arm. “Oh, Benny.”

  He pulls away. “We’ve got to talk, Jocelyn. What time do you get off today?”

  “Four. I’ll get you juice and an omelet.” I move away quickly, and as I’m handing the order to Joe, I let Benny’s abrupt manner play in my brain. He didn’t go to Mass just to pray for his sick mother, he went because of me.

  I place a knife down in front of him. “You talked to Father Warren this morning, didn’t you?”

  Benny just nods. His dark eyes lock onto mine. Sometimes I feel like the only place I exist is in those eyes. “Let’s talk about it, Jocelyn,” he says in a loud whisper. “I can’t help what I believe.”

  “I gotta work.” I take my order pad and greet the couple at the next table. He knows that I know he’s breaking up with me.

  “I’ll meet you outside at four,” he says, leaving before his food arrives.

  I can’t think. The Grill starts to fill up. I take an order and put the slip in my pocket. I don’t remember it until I hear a woman say, “I could have served the whole place French toast by now.” I clip the order to the wheel, but I’m too shaky to ask Joe to rush it.

  I hand a man some salt, and he says, “This don’t look like the pepper I asked for, sweetie.” Damn Benny.

  If Gabe were here, I could duck out long enough to swear, to cry, to pull myself together. I grab a bucket and begin clearing syrupy plates off a table. I toss the plates, coffee mugs, silverware, and juice glasses in with as much clatter as I can make. When Joe turns around to see what’s going on, I glance up at the clock.

  Joe knows that Gabe will never make it in at seven on a Saturday morning, so he gives him a later punch-in time. Then Gabe’s late only half as often.

  Today Gabe doesn’t show up at all. Joe calls his house and talks to Margo, Gabe’s mother. Joe sounds friendly, a little concerned, like he might have gotten Gabe’s schedule mixed up, like Joe could be at fault. But that tone is for Gabe’s parents. Here at the Grill, Joe is seething. He feels betrayed. He can’t wait until Gabe walks in the door. He’s gonna pop his head off.

  The a
ngrier Joe gets at Gabe, the better I look. Mistakes are forgiven. I set places, suggest Joe’s homemade hash, clear plates on route to picking up orders. Looks like I’m on an even keel. Only I know better.

  TWO

  We are four years old. Our mothers are having coffee and smoking cigarettes on the back deck. Gabe’s mother doesn’t have a cigarette in her hand. She says that Mike would kill her before the cigarettes do. Mike is her husband and Gabe’s daddy. But she takes the cigarette out of my mother’s fingers and sucks on it when she thinks Gabe and I aren’t watching. My mother is divorced and doesn’t care what Mike or anyone else thinks about smoking.

  Gabe and I put our feet on the bottom rail and look out at the river that flows by our side-by-side backyards. Gabe steps up to the middle rail and leans over. I do the same, careful to keep my bum in the air so I don’t topple headfirst onto the lawn that rolls down to the sudsy water

  “Get down from there, you two,” my mother says. “Go wash that grime off your hands and I’ll give you cookies.”

  I go into the bathroom, pull down my shorts, and scootch up onto the toilet. Gabe follows me in and begins to wash his hands. He makes a big ball of foam with the soap and then wipes it on a towel. He looks at me looking at him. Then he shuts the bathroom door from the inside and slides down in front of it. He puts his arms around his folded knees and bends his head. I can see the blond stripes on top. I’m counting them when he lifts his head back up.

  “You can’t get out,” he says.

  I don’t say anything.

  “You can’t get out, you know.”

  I don’t know this game. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I slide off the toilet and pull up my shorts.

  “I can see your underpants,” he says.

  I tuck in the elastic so he can’t see any part of them.

  He tries again. “You can’t get out.”

  “I can too,” I say. I try to take his arm to pull him away from the door. But he has one hand locked around the other wrist, and I can’t pull them apart. His sneakers stick to the linoleum floor. He doesn’t budge, but his eyes do a little sparkle dance.

  Sometimes I like it when his eyes smile. Sometimes they scare me. I back up and look out the window screen.

  Gabe gets up to see if I can escape this way. I try to run to the door.

  He runs back and stands in front of it.

  “You can’t get out.”

  I think of yelling, but I don’t.

  I never do.

  He’s right. I can’t get out. I sit down on the floor. I wonder how long someone can stay in a bathroom. After a few more moments I lean my face against the cold porcelain of the toilet bowl. I wait.

  Eventually, Gabe gets bored and leaves.

  I can’t believe that I’m free. So I just sit a while longer. Finally, I get brave. I leave the bathroom and get a vanilla wafer. The mothers don’t talk to me. They don’t know I was missing.

  I go outside and look for Gabe. A fisherman’s dog tries to get my cookie. I hold it in the air. Gabe comes barreling out of nowhere. He knocks me down and sits on my stomach. He pins my hands up by my head.

  I don’t mind it so much when Gabe traps me this way. Maybe my eyes smile too.

  THREE

  It’s 3:52. Joe sees Benny waiting on the front steps of the Grill.

  “Get out of here,” Joe says to me. Benny’s making him nervous.

  I take my apron off, fold it into a square, and put it in my pocket. I open the door and stand on the top step.

  “Come on,” Benny says. He walks to the back of the Grill, where there’s a trash house and a few crummy picnic tables. I follow, dragging my feet. The very first time Benny came by to pick me up at the Grill, he stepped down from the steps, stopped, and stared at me. He just stared and smiled.

  “What?” I asked. “What is it?”

  “You.”

  That’s all he said. “You.” Like that was all he ever asked for—all he ever needed.

  Now Benny sits on a table that has a broken leg. The table wobbles. Flies hover.

  “Let’s go down to the river,” I suggest. I want to take his hand and pull him down the bank, through the tall grass. I want to sit underneath the rushing falls.

  “I can’t, Jocelyn,” he says.

  “Why not?” My voice is that of Evil Soap Opera Girl. Evil Girl pretends to be sweet and innocent while deviously luring Boy away from goodness. Viewers know that Evil Girl is a manipulative bitch. But Boy doesn’t figure it out. He wants to be lured.

  Not Benny, though. Not this time.

  “You know what will happen if we go down to the river.”

  I know. I know that if I draw lines on Benny’s fingers or pictures on his strong forearms, he’ll sigh. And he’ll pull me close, and he’ll listen, or at least pretend to listen to my reasoning about love while his fingers find the softer parts of my body. I will tell him that wanting to touch each other is instinctive, that we are only expressing our God-given feelings.

  But, Benny will say, the Church says it’s wrong. Father Warren says it’s wrong. I gotta listen to what The Man says. He’ll raise his eyes toward heaven as if I have just slithered up from the bowels of the earth and have no idea who “The Man” is.

  Truth is, I don’t know if what Benny and I do is wrong. I just know that it makes me feel wanted. Like someone is so very pleased that I am here on this earth.

  “I made a deal, Jocelyn.” Benny’s voice is far away. Another town. Another universe. He fingers the silver Saint Christopher’s medal around his neck, a medal for protection. Protection from me. “In church this morning I made a deal.”

  “For your mother?” I ask. But I already know the answer. Benny swapped being with me for his mother’s life.

  Benny nods. “You know I want to be with you, Joss. I think you’re fantastic. You—God, this is so hard.”

  “Then don’t do it, Benny. Don’t do this to us.”

  “I have no choice, Joss.” Benny puts his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.

  And I have no answers. We tried being “just friends,” but it didn’t keep. One of us makes a move toward the other, and it’s all over. I turn and head home.

  “Jocelyn. Come back!”

  Benny follows for a ways. I know that he wants this to end well. I can feel him stop and stand in one place, hoping I’ll turn around so he can do something magnanimous, like kissing me on the forehead. Or touching me on the cheek. Somebody taught him sweet. I want to stop, I really do, but I can’t bear to have him tell me good-bye. I don’t look back. I keep walking. It isn’t until the big white town houses with porch swings turn to cabins with multiple additions and hanging tires and the sidewalks bleed into gravel that I buckle over and gasp for air.

  FOUR

  I am playing church in my backyard. I have all my dolls lined up on a picnic bench. The parted mouths of the dolls, fitted for baby bottles, have Necco wafers stuffed inside. I place a white one in my mouth. It feels silky and hot at the same time. In a moment I will dribble water, colored with red food coloring, down my dolls’ fronts. I have never taken Communion, but I know that it means that baby Jesus belongs to you and that seems like a very lucky and special thing.

  Gabe, his brothers Matthew and Timmy and his father are trying to fix their dock. So far it is a five-swear job. All of the swears have come from Mike. If one of the boys said a swear, Mike would cuff him.

  “Matthew, get me a Phillips screwdriver,” he yells.

  Matthew brings him a screwdriver.

  “I said a Phillips! That’s not a Phillips! Haven’t I taught you anything? God, not one of you has an ounce between the ears!”

  Matthew looks at Timmy and makes his eyes roll back. Gabe goes over to the tool bag and pulls out the right screwdriver. But when he reaches his father’s outstretched hand, he doesn’t hand it over. “Let me screw it in,” he says.

  “When you’re older,” says Mike. “Give it here.”

  Gabe do
esn’t budge. “I can do it,” he says.

  Church is over. I’m clutching my favorite doll—and my breath.

  “Gabe!” Mike yells. But then he backs up and says, “Okay, wise guy. You think you’re so big. Screw it in. Go ahead. Do it!”

  Gabe takes the screwdriver and places it into the top of the screw. He starts to turn it, but the screwdriver slips out. He tries again.

  “You’re such a man, Gabe,” says Matthew. Gabe’s brothers and his father laugh. Then they turn away.

  Gabe stays. He locks his jaw and pushes down on the screw. Something budges. Little by little, he makes the screw turn. It digs into the wood.

  “Hey, Dad!” he yells. “Hey, Dad! I’m doing it!” But Gabe’s daddy is working at the end of the dock and pretends not to hear.

  Gabe throws the screwdriver down and starts marching up to the house.

  His father tells Timmy about the last time he had to fix this “gaawram” dock.

  “Gabe,” I call out. “Come see what I’m doing.”

  Gabe keeps walking. He’s going to slam a door, I think. But then he changes his mind and comes over.

  “I’ve never had a brown one,” Gabe says, pulling a wafer out of a Chatty Cathy’s mouth.

  I know he’s lying. And I know he’ll eat every single one of my Necco wafers if I let him. I do.

  FIVE

  As I approach our A-frame house I hear my mother talking inside. Her women’s group? I try to walk directly upstairs to my room, but she calls me through to the front room.

  “Just a minute,” I say, and duck into the bathroom to look in the mirror. My eyes are red but not puffy. I can tell them it’s the smoke from the Grill if they ask. But they don’t, and I immediately see why.

  Margo, Gabe’s mother, is sitting at the kitchen table, crying. Mike is sitting across from her. My mother is standing behind her, her hands on Margo’s shoulders.

  “Gabe didn’t come home last night,” my mother says. Her statement is part declaration, part question.