“I woke up the next morning and lay in bed with my eyes closed for as long as I could stand, repeating over and over that it was just a dream. A really, really bad dream. I’d almost convinced myself too, but when I saw the blood in my panties, the illusion shattered.”
She ground out her cigarette.
“I was so ashamed that morning, looking at that blood. It was like the death of everything I knew. My trust, my belief, innocence and a whole bunch of promises that I’d made to myself. I vowed right then not to cry or ever tell anyone what happened that night.”
She poked at the corner of her eye with her finger. There were no tears there.
There would be, but for the moment she was in control.
“And, until now, I never have. Seeing the fat lot of good that did me over the next seven years, I’ve decided to try something else.” She shrugged. “I mean, it can’t hurt me any worse, can it?”
I shook my head. I had no words.
Hilda, her face wet and shiny, leaned over and enfolded Lucy in her arms. She didn’t resist the gesture but her body was locked and rigid.
As I watched, doing my best to ignore my nerves, I could see Lucy relax. She let go muscle by muscle, limb by limb, until she was nestled in Hilda’s arms.
Calm. Open. Empty.
The tears came.
All of them.
Chapter 19
Lucy didn’t care whether any of the Rush patrons saw her blubbering, while Hilda stroked her hair and held her tight. Given the story she’d told, I figured this wouldn’t even threaten her top ten most humiliating moments.
I needed to move so I left the girls in the booth and walked outside. The clouds were low, air cold and threatening rain. I stalked back and forth across the front of the diner parking lot hoping to be mugged.
I wanted to hit something, or better yet, someone. You can probably guess who.
Hard and repeatedly.
Hilda and Lucy were visible through the long windows of the diner. Lucy sat upright, face red and wet, rubbing her nose with the back of her hand and moving her lips soundlessly. I could only see the back of Hilda’s head so I assumed she was also doing her share of talking. Lucy nodded, twice, then her face crumpled into tears and she fell forward into Hilda’s arms again. More hair stroking followed.
I stopped my prowling, wrapped a cage around my anger, sat on the Mustang’s hood and smoked another pipe. A few more rounds of the diner “sit up … talk … pause … and hug” routine followed as I pondered my next move.
There was only one.
Get to Lincoln. I just hoped Dariell was there to greet me.
When I looked up there were two faces grinning through tears at me. That was a good sign. Hilda turned her head, gestured at me and said something.
Lucy laughed with raised eyebrows. Really?
Hilda nodded and Lucy laughed again.
I gave them my fiercest scowl, bashed the dead pipe ashes out against my boot and walked back inside. Lisa followed me to the table with a couple of menus.
“Y’all look ready for lunch, I reckon,” she said.
Lucy swallowed and nodded. “I’m starving.”
We ordered a mess of sandwiches and chips with a Bud for me and more coffee for the girls.
“What was that about?” I said.
“What?” Hilda said, innocence personified.
“The pointing and laughing. It’s enough to make a man feel self-conscious.”
“Oh that,” Lucy said, following Hilda’s lead. “Nothing.” She winked at Hilda who grinned in return.
“There are things a lady never tells, Rafferty,” Hilda said. “You should know that.” Lucy nodded and grinned too.
It was like lunching with the Cheshire Cat sisters.
“It’s like that?” They nodded.
I knew when I was beat, so I changed the topic.
“I don’t want to bring the mood down,” I said. Lucy gulped and reached for Hilda’s hand. “But you said something about ‘a lot of the girls’. I can draw a conclusion, but I’d rather hear it from you.”
I caught Hilda’s look. “If you can,” I added.
Lucy looked at me, then at Hilda. Hilda squeezed her hand. “It’s okay.”
“Okay,” Lucy said, as much to herself as to us. “I think I can.”
She looked to the ceiling and started again.
“You can guess that Dariell insisted on continuing our prayer sessions,” Lucy said.
She blew out a breath, continued to grip Hilda’s hand, and kept her voice firm.
“They were all the same as that first time. Dariell convinced my parents that we needed to meet every few weeks. Later, it would become more than that but, in the beginning, I didn’t have to put up with it too often.”
Hilda opened her mouth and it was my turn to flick her a glance—It’s okay. Don’t stop her now.
“At the same time, Dariell began to change too. I can’t tell you exactly what it was, but I know that everyone noticed it too. It was almost like he became … oh, less ordinary, if that makes any sense. It even appeared like he was taller.” She shrugged. “I have no idea how that’s possible, but that’s what it seemed like.”
I felt us being watched and I half turned my head. Lisa stood behind the counter with a tray of food in front of her, eyebrows raised.
Lucy seemed to be gathering her thoughts and words, so I nodded. Lisa did a quick job (what else?) of serving the baskets of sandwiches and drinks and we all dived into the food.
Around a mouthful of tuna fish, Lucy continued.
“The church grew with Dariell’s stature. More people joined the congregation each week, he announced that he had organized for us to be officially recognized as a church, The People’s Church, blah de blah de blah, and he continued to get money from everyone. I was horrified when Mom and Dad told me that they had changed their wills to leave everything to the church.
“As for me …” Lucy ate a handful of chips and sipped her coffee. “Dariell put me on a pedestal. He announced to the church one night, from his place on the stage, that I was the first Youth Leader. I was as surprised as anyone, ’cause he’d never said a thing to me. It was my mission to help him save the souls of the children and teens within our community. ‘A fight we must win,’ he told everyone. To symbolize how important this task was, he called me up onto the stage and draped a white scarf with the church’s new insignia around my shoulders, gave me a hug and whispered, ‘Congratulations. We’ll be good together.’”
Lucy body shuddered with memory and she rolled her shoulders, fighting to relax. She held her head high and said, “I still remember looking out to the group and seeing my Mom crying huge tears. Dad pumped a fist at me. He was so proud.
“Dariell went on about how the white scarf symbolized purity, honesty and openness, attributes that we should all strive for. He said a bunch of other things that I didn’t hear. I was busy trying not to throw up. There was another prayer session that night.”
Hilda realized she’d forgotten about lunch and started eating her turkey club with a look on her face like it was spoiled. I’d already finished my patty melt and was now concentrating on the beer.
“That’s the story of the next few months. Him growing the church, asking for money, being loved by more people and … and raping me. Firstly, every couple of weeks, then more often until it was two or three times a week. I shut myself off in my head and tried not to think about it. Mom and Dad were getting deeper into the church and forbade me from seeing my friends outside school. ‘They can’t relate to your path, and they’ll only distract you,’ my Mom said.” Lucy laughed. “What I would have given for that, but I couldn’t tell anyone what I was going through. No-one would have believed me.
“I didn’t know what the future would be. I did know the only way I could survive was to retreat inwards. And that’s what I did. I tried being the best leader I could to the young people in the church, but I felt like I was only ever giving half of myse
lf.”
Lucy picked up her cup and held it in both hands, looked past Hilda and out to the parking lot. A garbage truck rumbled past trailing a cloud of flies, turned the corner and disappeared.
“It was six, seven, maybe eight months later when Dariell stood on the stage and announced that there would be another Youth Leader, a fifteen-year-old named Bethany. She had told me she’d not been feeling good for a few weeks and, at the time, I hadn’t thought anything of it. That night though, I knew she’d been lying. The same as I had.
“He called her on stage and went through the same charade. Everyone was smiling and clapping. From where I was sitting in the front all I could see was Bethany’s dead eyes and how much she wanted to throw up. Seeing that, my stomach lurched and I had to excuse myself to go the bathroom, where I did throw up.”
Her hands were shaking now, cold coffee rippling in her cup.
“I remember being on my knees, vomiting into the bowl, and identifying two powerful feelings. I was horrified that he would do this again, knowing the impact that it would have on Bethany’s life.”
She fell silent. Tears dripped.
“And you know the other feeling?”
She looked up.
“Jealousy!” she spat.
She slammed her cup down and coffee splashed across the Formica.
“I was jealous that I wasn’t special any more.”
She lanced me with her glare.
“How fucking sick is that?”
Lucy couldn’t be judged for her feelings.
She had been drugged—whether booze or a more potent concoction wasn’t clear yet—brainwashed and raped by a dominating psycho, ignored by her parents, and separated from her friends. It’s confusing enough being a teenager when the only worries are the zit that popped up overnight and wondering whether Johnny even knows you exist. Given all this I was surprised at how together Lucy seemed to be.
Telling her this didn’t seem to be making any difference.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Rafferty. Shut. Up,” Hilda hissed as Lucy sobbed away in her arms again.
I’m not kidding, she enunciated at me. I didn’t know you could get away with that in public.
Live and learn.
I knew I wouldn’t be doing much good sitting there and trying to mind my p’s and q’s, so I slid out of the bench and walked to the other end of the diner.
Lisa had worked hard over the years to keep the vintage feel of the whole place. The shiny aluminum exterior, the candy-apple-red leather stools at the long, chrome edged counter and black and white linoleum checkerboard flooring.
My favorite part, without a doubt, is the phone booth in the back corner.
Once you’ve closed the folding door and taken a seat on the wooden bench, you’re in your own little world. The dark wood, shimmery glass, yellowed dome light and ancient wall-mounted phone. The aroma of that booth is unique: a mixture of aged wood, old cigarette smoke, and the aura of a thousand conversations. Graffiti whispered from the walls. Kilroy had been here, Susie professed her “4ever” love for Robby, and anyone looking for a good time could call Jenny on 867-5309.
Sitting there took me back to a time when men wore hats and opened doors for women. When jazz music was edgy and a long distance phone call was new technology. Long before I knew that young, pretty cheerleaders were being raped by self-professed holy men.
I blew out a breath and wondered whether I could sit there for the rest of the day.
Or forever.
But I refocused, fished some change out of my pocket, dropped it into the slot and dialed.
“Howdy.”
The voice on the other end of the phone was deep and smooth.
“Hey, Cowboy.”
“Been a while, Rafferty.” He pronounced it bin. “How y’all doing?”
“Hilda and I are fine. Getting older. You and Mimi?” I asked.
“Just fine, thank ya kindly.” Jes’ fahn. “You not bein’ one for social calls, I ’spect you’re calling ’bout a work matter.”
“Yeah. Feel like a little tracking work?”
“I’m up for that, boss-man. City or country?” he asked.
“The boonies. A little town called Lincoln. You heard of it?”
“Maybe.” I pictured him tipping his enormous Stetson back and scratching his knobby fingers through his hair. “Out west?”
I told him where I’d found Lincoln and everything I knew about the town. It didn’t take long. Four or five seconds, max.
“Yup, thought so. What we lookin’ for?”
“A missing girl, but it’s not gonna be that easy.”
“It never is, Rafferty. Thas why she needs people like us.”
“When you care enough to send the very best.”
“Thas true, we be the best, whether they care or not. You want me to boost a car?”
“Nope. Just sniffing around for now. Later, if it comes to it, we might need wheels to pull the girl out.”
I gave him the run-down on Dariell and The People’s Church of the Reformed Temple.
Cowboy whistled down the line. “I knowed there were some nutty god-botherers out there, but this guy sounds like he’s the whole nine yards.”
I couldn’t disagree with that.
“It might take us a while to find this place. You available for the next two days?”
“Two days is okay. It don’ sound like the town’s gonna be fat for places to stay, so I’ll throw a couple bedrolls in the truck.”
We agreed to make tracks for Lincoln at dawn, to give us a fair chance of finding what we were looking for before the end of the day.
“Say hi to Mimi, Cowboy. See you tomorrow.”
“Surely will do.” Shorely.
Finally, I was moving.
Dariell.
I’m coming.
I sat there for a while and watched Lucy and Hilda with their heads close together, talking and crying.
Everyone else in the diner was ignoring them, preferring instead to focus on the food, coffee or newspaper in front of them.
A room full of society’s flawed fabric. A patchwork quilt of different shapes, sizes, thicknesses and qualities. Separate pieces, invisibly intertwined.
I wanted to rip open the door and rage at these disconnected strangers.
These people who spent their existence going about their lives, ever careful to make certain they didn’t stray beyond the borders. Cocooned in their own little world, and blissfully unaware of the horrors in front of their smug little faces.
Oblivious to the difference they could make.
Lucy had needed someone to stand up for her.
To listen to her.
To let her know she wasn’t crazy.
It would have only taken one person to shatter the illusion that Dariell had taken great pains to construct. One voice of dissent leads to another, to the next and the house of cards soon tumbles. No-one, not one single person, had done that.
Why not?
Was it easier to say silent? Did all those people, who professed to love their neighbor, not have the balls to speak out when they saw something wrong? Or did they really believe the PR bullshit of their charismatic leader?
Whatever the reason, here I was again. Left to pick up the pieces; trying to find a life lost for little girls who didn’t deserve what happened to them at the hands of a person they should have been able to trust.
I punched Kilroy. Right in the nose. My knuckles hurt and when I looked up, a herd of faces were staring my way. I scowled, and the gazes dropped to their tables one by one, like a family of startled meerkats.
Fuck ’em.
I stayed sitting on the scratched, wooden bench in that time-transcending phone booth; I wasn’t ready to re-join the modern world outside.
I didn’t like the way it looked right then, so I closed my eyes to block it out.
Kimberly lying on her cot.
Looking up through a tiny window. Empty sky beyond.
A singl
e star.
Rolls onto her side. Pulls a blanket around her shoulders. Tucks her knees. Creeps her bare feet under the thin cover.
“I want to come home, Mom.”
Small room. Prison. Bare walls. Concrete floor.
Metal door locked from outside. Steel pipe bed.
Small chest of drawers. Sink.
No light. No heat.
“Is Mr Rafferty coming, Mom?”
Tear rolls down Kimberly’s cheek.
“I don’t know how long I can hold on, Mom.
Tell him to hurry.”
She wipes her cheek.
“Please.” Barely audible.
Voice behind.
“You don’t belong here.”
Turn face to face with a man.
Short. Round face. Soft chin. Too-large nose.
Slumped shoulders.
Average. Ordinary.
Unremarkable.
Oswald-like. Small in all ways.
Believes he is bigger than reality.
Non-threatening man. Easily dismissed.
“You shouldn’t have come.” He smiles.
I think he means it to be a smile, but it looks like he’s projecting confidence and self-loathing onto his face at the same time, so it comes out more like a creepy grimace. Maybe he has gas.
“She can’t hear you. You can’t help her. You shouldn’t have come.” His face creeps again.
Why not?
“Because I am the Father.”
I don’t give a fuck who you think you are. To me you’re a slimy shit who needs to be taken down.
The third creepy smile. “I am the Way.”
So fucking wh—
He clicks his fingers and the world explodes in flames.
My body must have jerked.
It’s the only reason I can think of for why I banged my head against the back wall of the phone booth. The metal cornered signboard there—with posters for a New Romantic band playing a local club on Saturday—was poorly placed for my height and I thought I felt stickiness in my hair.
I blinked out of my cerebral exile when I saw Hilda waving to me, looking like she’d been doing so for a few minutes.
False Gods Page 13
