The Roanoke Girls

by Amy Engel

  I use my forearm to listlessly shove the junk on Allegra’s vanity to the opposite side. I’ve lost interest in the task already, anxious to go downstairs, where at least the temperature is set to bake, not broil. The freshly uncovered top of the vanity reveals all manner of beauty product stains: spots of spilled perfume, cloudy swatches of hairspray residue, a sweep of sparkling champagne eye shadow streaked across the wood. I run my fingers over the eye shadow, golden glitter sticking to my skin, and like a blind person reading braille, I feel the bumps and ridges of letters under my fingertips. I swipe the rest of the eye shadow away from the vanity top with the flat of my hand, lifting up from the stool to get a closer look.

  The breath freezes in my chest, goose bumps pinpricking my neck and the backs of my arms despite the stifling heat. My knees give out, and I sit back down hard on the stool, my jaws clacking together at the impact. . It’s impossible to know when the words were written. It could have been a decade ago. Or in the days before Allegra disappeared, hands frantic to leave this message, hoping that if I somehow ended up back here, I wouldn’t be dumb enough to stay.

  I look up, catch my own pale, eyes-too-big reflection in Allegra’s mirror. Run Lane. As if I needed Allegra to tell me that.

  —

  After a shower, I eat a late lunch on the screened porch—a limp tuna sandwich from a platter Sharon left in the fridge. I wash it down with a couple of beers and watch my granddad loading hay into the barn with Charlie, who is so stooped over with age I’m surprised he’s not laid up in a nursing home somewhere. Sweat pours off both of them, and my granddad works with a kind of single-minded ferocity, like the hay is responsible for everything that’s gone wrong.

  When I’m done, I carry my plate and empty beer bottles back into the kitchen and pull up short in the doorway at the sight of Sharon. I’ve eaten her food, seen evidence of her in the kitchen, but haven’t come face-to-face with her yet.

  “What’s for dinner?” I ask. She’s peering into the fridge and rears up, almost smacking her head on the freezer door, at the sound of my voice. “I’m hoping not salmon patties.”

  “You scared me!” she says. She’s thicker through the middle, her hair completely gray now, cut in an unflattering bowl around her head. Her dark eyes accuse me of all manner of sins. She tosses a bag of green peppers and a package of hamburger onto the counter. Oh goodie, stuffed peppers.

  I lean against the doorjamb and watch her grab a knife from the butcher block, go to work on a pepper. “I bet you’re loving this, right? Allegra gone.”

  Sharon’s mouth thins. “I’m not going to pretend I miss that little bitch.”

  “Nice,” I say. “Maybe the police should be talking to you.” I cross to the sink and set my plate and beer bottles inside with a clatter.

  Sharon shakes her head. “Wherever Allegra’s gotten to, she did it on her own.” She pauses in her slicing to glance over at me. “I hope you’re here to help your gran, not stir up trouble.”

  “Meaning what, exactly?”

  “Not one of you girls have ever done right by your gran. Everything that woman’s done for you all, put up with…” She shakes her head. “Shameful.”

  My cheeks burn, although why I feel chastened is a question I’m sure a good therapist would love to get ahold of. Sharon laughs, a hoarse little cackle, when she sees my face. “What? Did I hurt your feelings? Are you going to tell on me? Tattle to your granddad and get me fired?”

  “No,” I say. “We both know you’re not going anywhere, no matter what I say. You know too much, right?”

  Sharon gives me a disapproving cluck, goes back to the peppers. The longer I stand there, the stiffer her shoulders get. I linger before drifting even closer, let my fingers riffle through the various papers stuck to the fridge with plain silver magnets. Sharon’s grocery lists, Gran’s volunteer schedule, a take-out menu from The Eat. And peeking out from the edge of the menu, I spy the curly loops of Allegra’s handwriting. Her actual writing is bigger and bubblier than the carvings she leaves on solid surfaces, but still instantly recognizable to me.

  I lean closer, shift the menu aside, and run my fingers over the words written in blue ink on a wrinkled piece of white paper. Turkey, bananas, saltine crackers, cornflakes. And last on the list, vodka, underlined twice. My heart twists along with my lips. I blink back the sting of tears.

  “When did Allegra leave this grocery list?” I ask Sharon.

  She barely glances at me, waves her knife through the air. “Not long before she flitted off. Didn’t see much point in buying things for someone not around to eat them.”

  I ease the list out from underneath its magnet without really knowing why. It feels like the closest I’ve gotten to Allegra since I’ve been back, as if her essence is embedded in this forgotten scrap of paper, and I don’t trust Sharon to keep it safe. I flip the paper over, hoping, maybe, for some more personal message. But it’s just a drugstore receipt from Parsons, a larger town about forty-five minutes from Osage Flats. I’m about to stuff the list in my pocket, when I notice the date. A month ago, not all that long before Allegra disappeared. What was she doing in Parsons? What did she buy? The receipt doesn’t list the item, only the price: $14.99. I fold the receipt carefully and put it in my pocket.

  —

  I call Tommy and tell him I’ll drop the receipt off at the police station, more from a need to get out of the house than any pressing desire to go back into Osage Flats. By the time I arrive, he’s gone out somewhere. I leave the receipt at the front desk in an envelope marked with his name and URGENT in all caps.

  Last night I only got as far as Ronnie Joe’s, didn’t venture any farther down Main Street, so today I creep along the main drag. I’ve been away for almost eleven years. A lifetime anywhere else, in this world that moves forward at lightning speed. But Osage Flats is one of those places that never appears to change, at least not in any way that counts. Driving down Main Street I still recognize every face I see, even if I’ve never met the person wearing it before in my life: the overworked mother with too many kids and not enough money, her hand itching to slap; the bar regular heading to Ronnie Joe’s for his first drink of the day, figuring it has to be five o’clock somewhere; the gaggle of high school girls sauntering along hoping for trouble, with skirts too short and expectations too low. It’s the type of place where you can easily believe Obama was never elected, women never earned the right to vote, and gays still hide in the closet. That nothing has ever moved forward and nothing ever will.

  I pull into a parking slot in front of the secondhand clothing shop. The outfits in the front window are at least ten years out of date. But I didn’t bring much with me when I left L.A., foolishly hoping I wouldn’t be here long, and I need some additional clothes.

  The bell above the door makes a sad little chime when I push inside. Like every secondhand store the world over, this one smells of other people’s sweat, the scent overlaid with a heavy dose of lavender air freshener, which only makes it worse.

  Too late, I notice Sarah Kenning thumbing through the rack to my right. She spots me before I can sneak out. “Hi, Lane,” she says. Her smile is so painfully polite it might as well be outlined in frosting.

  “Hi, Sarah. Thought I’d check out what’s new uptown.”

  “Not much, unfortunately. We lose businesses right and left.”

  “Hmmm…” I say, my gaze running over the half-empty racks of clothes. Everything looks tired and worn. The thought of wearing any of it depresses me. The only other person in the store is the elderly woman behind the counter, who eyes me suspiciously over her glasses. As if I’d want to steal any of this crap.

  “I guess this isn’t what you’re used to,” Sarah says. She’s holding a floral print dress I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing. “I mean”—she flushes—“being a Roanoke and all.”

  I shake my head. “That was another lifetime.”

  “You know, it’s thanks to your grandparents we have even these stores
left.”

  “How’s that?”

  “They’re very generous, always doing what they can,” Sarah explains. “The whole town relies on them.”

  “Oh, yes,” I say with a roll of my eyes, “they’re quite the philanthropists.”

  Sarah’s unsure what to do with my statement. Her smile blinks on, then off, then on again, like a malfunctioning string of holiday lights. I walk deeper into the store, flick halfheartedly through the racks. From the selection, it appears ninety percent of Osage Flats’s female population weighs more than three hundred pounds. No wonder Sarah snagged that dress when she saw it.

  “Aren’t these adorable?” Sarah asks, and I turn to see her holding up a pair of tiny pink overalls.

  My insides clench, swift and sudden, surprising me. “I guess,” I say. “I’m not exactly the maternal type. Do you and Tommy have kids?” Tommy always wanted a family, ever since I first met him. Traditional images filled his vision of the future: a wife, a house, a big family laughing around the kitchen table. Cooper used to tease him about it, told him he was worse than a girl.

  Sarah puts the overalls back on the rack. “No,” she says. “No kids. Not yet. We’re trying, but we’re having a little trouble.” It’s obvious from the look on her face that the trouble is more than little. I can’t help but think of Allegra, the fertile Roanoke girls. If she was Tommy’s wife, they’d probably have a houseful of kids already. And if I’m thinking it, I’m sure Tommy’s thought it, too.

  “So,” Sarah says, pulling a smile onto her face. “Cooper and you used to date, way back when?”

  I give a short, sharp laugh. “I wouldn’t have called it dating, exactly. Less going out to dinner. More end result.” More fucking up against every available surface, if we’re being technical. The truth is actually more complicated, but this is the version I tell myself.

  “Oh…yeah…okay,” Sarah says. “Right.” She’s trying hard to play along, but I can see I’ve shocked her. It’s been a while since I’ve met someone this innocent. I would bet good money she was a virgin the first time Tommy took her to bed. And that was probably on their wedding night.

  We continue to stroll through the racks for a few minutes. Sarah finds a sweater to add to her dress, but I don’t see anything interesting enough to warrant the lifting of a hanger.

  “Any word on your cousin?” Sarah asks, as I’m turning to leave.

  “No, not much. Doesn’t Tommy talk about it?”

  Sarah shakes her head. “Not really. He keeps things pretty close to the vest.” That doesn’t sound like the Tommy I remember. She pauses, looks away. “When it comes to Allegra, at least.”

  “Oh.”

  “I know he still loves her,” she says, her voice barely a whisper, forcing me to move closer to hear. “I know he’ll always love her more than he loves me.” When she looks at me, her eyes are tear-bright and broken.

  This is where a better person would tell her a gentle lie. Say no, he doesn’t love her anymore…you’re everything to him…Allegra was a long time ago. But this is me we’re talking about, and I’ve never been mistaken for a better person. Not even once.

  The water was colder than she expected. The night air was mild, scented with river grass and the faint tang of rotten things decaying on the bank. But the water rushing over the top of her bare foot was frigid. She’d planned on wading in slowly, but now thought she’d have to simply plunge in. She wasn’t sure she could brave the cold by inches.

  In contrast to the water, the tears on her face were warm, salty against her lips. She wondered if Yates had noticed yet that she was gone. She hoped he was worried. She hoped he spent the night traipsing through fields, calling her name, his voice ragged and worn out come morning. She entertained a romantic vision of him weeping over her pale, waterlogged body. She hoped, when all was said and done, that he suffered.

  All her life, from the first moment she could actually remember being alive, he had been there. For so long just the outline of a boy, one she was always trying to catch. Their parents would laugh, talk about how much she idealized Jane, when all the while it was Yates she really wanted. He mesmerized her with his smile, his gaze, his handsome face. She lived for the moments when she earned his undivided attention.

  And for a while, he had actually been hers. Jane gone. Their parents dead in a car crash, buried in the tiny family plot beside the house. Yates and baby Penelope her sun and moon. Her only family in the world. And they were enough. More than enough. Yates thought so, too, at least at first. She knew he did, could remember the exact look on his face when he’d bring the baby in to snuggle between them on cold winter mornings, his hands tangling in her hair across Penelope’s sleeping body.

  But now he had a real wife and his own beautiful, dark-haired daughters. He didn’t need Sophia anymore. He had a whole house full of girls who worshipped him. She’d told him so, in another one of their one-sided fights—she smashing dishes and screaming curses while he spoke in that calm, deep voice she usually loved. He’d denied it, claimed he loved her as much as he loved Lillian, as much as he loved Penelope and Eleanor and Camilla. As much as he’d ever loved Jane. And it may have even been true. But Sophia didn’t want to share. She’d rather have nothing than some tiny, pathetic sliver of him. She wouldn’t live on the sidelines. At least dead, she would be the one he mourned, the one he’d always wonder if he might’ve been able to save. She would have a spot all her own.

  She plunged forward into the river. The current was strong, sucked her into the mud-clogged depths as easily as a slender branch, arms flailing, feet swept out from underneath her. She had only a single moment of blind panic…wait…WAIT!…his name a wet scream in her throat, before the dark water closed over her head.

  “Laney-girl, get down here!” my granddad’s voice boomed. He didn’t sound upset, but I still worried I’d done something wrong. Maybe he’d gotten the credit card bill. I’d waited a week after Allegra told me about the cards before I got up the nerve to use one of them. And then I couldn’t stop, my finger clicking, adding clothes to my shopping cart like a crack addict getting her fix. Spent over a thousand dollars in less than an hour…clothes, makeup, jewelry. All the things I’d ever wanted and never had. When the first shipment of boxes showed up and Charlie stacked them outside my bedroom door, I was so sick to my stomach I had to go lie down. But no one ever said a word beyond Granddad commenting he liked a top I wore one day and Allegra rolling her eyes and muttering fucking finally when she saw me in my new clothes.

  “What?” I called, racing down the main staircase. Already my stomach was braced for a fight, my mind rattling with arguments in my defense.

  Granddad waited at the bottom of the stairs, holding a large box wrapped in shiny silver paper, an elaborate black bow on top. He smiled up at me as I came to a stop a few steps above him. “Know your birthday isn’t for a couple of days yet, but wanted to get you this. I’m a big believer in spoiling.” He winked at me when I didn’t move. “Come on, girl, get on down here.”

  I couldn’t remember the last time anyone bought me a present. With my mother birthdays usually consisted of a card from the kiosk on the corner and a carry-out pizza if we could afford it. A couple of years she didn’t remember at all. I sat down on the bottom step, and Granddad put the box on my lap. He was grinning like he’d won the lottery; he looked so excited I worried he might rip the paper off himself before I could do the job.

  “Pretty bow,” I said, fingering the silky ribbon.

  “Your gran helped with that part,” Granddad said. “I’m not much use at girlie stuff.” He smoothed a hand over my hair. “Go on, then,” he said, voice gentle. “Open it up, honey.”

  I kept my eyes on my task as I unwrapped the box, scared if I didn’t I might do something stupid, like cry. Once I had the ribbon unwound and the paper taken off, I lifted the lid. Nestled inside was a pair of cowboy boots. Expensive medium-brown leather, hand-tooled aqua roses up the side. I lifted one out, spun it in
my hand. The fresh leather scent tickled my nostrils.

  “Told ya you needed farm boots,” Granddad said. “Saw the pattern and thought they looked like my Laney-girl.” He pulled the second boot from the box. “Beautiful and a little unusual. I told ’em the flowers needed to be the same color as your eyes.”

  I looked up at him. “You had them made?”

  He laughed. “Well, hell, girl, course I did. Roanoke girls don’t wear boots from the five-and-dime!” He put the boot back in the box, and I replaced the one I held, too. I slid the box off my lap and stood on the step, not quite sure what to do with myself. My granddad solved the problem by pulling me forward, and after an awkward hesitation I wrapped my arms around his neck. He smelled like hay and sweat and a hint of spicy cologne.

  “Thank you,” I whispered. “I love them.”

  He gave me a tight squeeze, his broad palms warm against my back. When he kissed my cheek, his stubble burned. “Happy birthday, girl. I love you.”

  —

  My actual birthday fell on a Friday, which Allegra said was perfect because we were going to party. But first, she said, we had to get through the family dinner. Sharon grudgingly asked me earlier in the week what I wanted to eat, and Allegra coached me to request brisket and mashed potatoes. When I told Allegra I didn’t even know what brisket was, she said to trust her, it was the one meal even Sharon couldn’t manage to fuck up too bad.