Shelter

by Frances Greenslade

  Another song started. “The album was Wheels of Fire, if you’re interested,” she said. “Kind of a bluesy feel to it. Before I left his house, I took a candle and melted patches in the vinyl. Then I put it back in the sleeve. Should give him a nice surprise next time he listens to it.” He raped her for the length of time it took to play the whole album. “Slapping and punching, that’s what gets him off. You don’t even want to know the details.” I think I really don’t. She said nothing was so disgusting as the smell of him. “I’ve tried to name it, I don’t know why,” she said. “Beer breath and fish that’s gone off. But then there’s something that’s only itself, as rank and rotten as he is.”

  I didn’t want to believe her, but I could tell she wasn’t lying. Some girls here do lie, which you can also tell, but I don’t blame them. Everybody has their reasons. I think maybe if I was Ginger, I would lie. She says everybody’s afraid of her uncle, but she’s not anymore. He’s a pathetic lowlife pig, she said, and then we chanted it, pathetic lowlife pig, pathetic lowlife pig.

  She doesn’t know where her mom is right now, if she’s still living there or if she’s found another place. And she doesn’t know where her mom was the whole time that night, which obviously really bothers her.

  But here’s the weirdo part. She wants to keep the baby. She said she once had a kitten and her mom wouldn’t let her keep it in the house because it scratched the furniture, and she had to put the kitten outside and it got sick and died. I don’t know what that has to do with anything, but she says no one is going to take the baby away from her. She’s not a stupid girl at all—she’s really intelligent—but I don’t see how she plans to take care of it.

  Also, she hasn’t told the social worker or the nuns about the uncle. She says they suspect something, partly because she came in here looking like she’d been run over. But she doesn’t want to tell because she thinks they might take the baby away if they know. And, she said she can just picture her uncle waiting for the axe to fall. “He’ll never know when I might strike and ruin his pitiful excuse for a life. It seems like a kind of justice.”

  Well, sorry for the el-depressing story, but I wanted you to know that even though I make the nuns sound strict, they’re actually more like angels. They call Mother Mary “Our Lady” and they say, “Our Lady was once a mother in trouble, too.” Kind of beautiful when you think about it.

  What kind of person spends her days feeding pregnant girls chicken for supper and putting pretty little soaps in the bathroom and ceramic ballerina lamps in the bedroom to make a lonely girl feel better? I would never say anything too snarky about that kind of person. It’s not their fault I ended up here.

  Love xxxooo Jenny

  Bea must have heard the talk around town. She had begun to speak to me, with a ridiculous courtesy that she had never used before.

  “I’m making tea. Would you like a cup?” was the first thing she said. I was so startled I turned her down before I even thought about it, then realized I did want some. I made myself wait about an hour, then went and made my own cup. I wanted her to think that nothing she did could rattle me.

  “Your dinner’s still warm in the oven,” she said another night when I got home from the gas station and was brushing snow from my gasoline-scented jacket. She had asked me to leave my jacket at the back door by the basement, so it didn’t stink up the front closet, and that night she took it from me and carried it out there herself, as if it was something she always did, and as if keeping my dinner warm in the oven was our usual routine. It was spaghetti, an exotic food to Bea and usually when we’d had it, it was Jenny who had made it. Bea had even made meatballs and, as I ate in silence at the table while Bea watched Mary Tyler Moore, I knew that she had spent a portion of her day mixing up the ground beef and egg and breadcrumbs.

  When a letter from Jenny came, she left it at the end of my bed. One afternoon, I found my clothes from the dryer all neatly folded, too, along with another strawberry-scented envelope from Jenny.

  Dear Maggie,

  Today Ginger and I put on wedding rings and went out walking. Believe it or not, there is a box of fake wedding rings in the TV room, and when you go out, you slip one on, kind of like a charm to protect your dignity. I chose a tasteful gold band, but Ginger went for a glass rock the size of a pea, nestled between two red rubies. There is also a closet full of maternity clothes. I’m not that desperate yet, but you should see my boobs. I know, Mom would say that’s crude. It’s what twelve year-old boys say, etc, etc. So tits then, I mean breasts, whatever you want to call them! The girls here trade bras all the time, because their tits are always changing size, and I now have a hot pink C-cup. In the peach top I got for my birthday, I actually have cleavage. And with my white Wranglers (I can’t do up the zipper, so I safety pin it and hide it under my shirt) I look killer diller, if I do say so myself. But I wore a raincoat to hide my shapely figure when I went out, since the nuns get on our case if we dress “provocatively.” Ginger is showing but she manages to look killer even pregnant. She wore black leotards and a tartan dress that is actually a blouse but is long enough on her—barely. Did you know that when you’re pregnant you feel very—shall we say?—amorous. Or at least I do. Don’t tell anyone, because I’m probably a sicko to say so.

  The sun came out while we were walking down Granville Street and everything shone. The streets and sidewalks started to steam. There are stores here that have flowers and vegetables out on tables on the sidewalks. This might be a nice place to live if the sun came out a little more often and if I hadn’t made a BAD DECISION.

  Ginger and I stopped at one store to look at the flowers. A man came out—Italian, I think. In his elegant accent he said, “Did you two lovely girls bring this sunshine?” Then he said, “It must be my lucky day, two beautiful redheads at my store at the same time. You wait here, I have something for you.” He went inside and came back with two big bouquets of flowers. “I usually keep these for my wife, but today they’re for you.”

  So now I have a vase of flowers in my room. There are some white roses and something yellow that smells fantastic. This room is painted soft pink with white trim. I actually like it. There’s a green homemade quilt on the bed and the little bedside lamp with a ceramic ballerina for the base. I think I told you.

  The rest of the house is nice, but a little dark, with a lot of polished wood and blue carpets and then there’s the rain. I’m trying to be optimistic, but to tell you the truth, when you go out, the light is grey, the pavement’s grey, the buildings are grey, the pigeons, even, are grey—it’s kind of a downer. I wash out my socks and underwear and hang them to dry on the radiator, but they’re still damp the next morning. There is a leak in the English classroom ceiling and during the whole class we hear the drip-drop-drip-drop into a pan on the floor. Sister Anne says this must be symbolic, though she’s not sure of what, and that the person who comes up with the most convincing symbol gets bonus marks. I say it’s the passage of time. It sounds like a clock, and there we sit, waiting.

  The most depressing thing, though, is all these girls sitting around playing cards, listening to Tony Orlando and Dawn, discussing due dates and eating snacks, which they buy with their “pocket money.” The nuns have all these funny expressions. “Pocket money” can be earned by doing chores—folding sheets, polishing floors, cutting vegetables for dinner. The girls buy cheezies, pretzels and hickory sticks, my personal favourite. I think I’m addicted. I wander down to the laundry room to fold sheets, but I’m really thinking of hickory sticks.

  Some of the girls are waiting for their boyfriends to show up, marry them, and carry them off to a four-bedroom house in the suburbs where their days will be spent blissfully Ajaxing the bathtub. Speaking of symbolism, “Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Ole Oak Tree,” which I’ve now heard about fifty million times, no guff—listen to the lyrics, except it’s the girls who are in prison. That’s not exactly true. Sometimes this place feels like a hideout.

  I’m always
chilled from the rain. Luckily there is a bathtub down the hall. I soak in there every night after supper. I’m probably going to get fat. I know what you’re thinking. Don’t even say it.

  Sister Anne had us writing poems today. We had to start with the words “something changed.” Everybody was teasing her: “Subtle, Sister.” I was surprised, though, by what came out. Sister read it over my shoulder when it was done and gave me a little thumbs up. She was actually kind of choked up, I could see it. Well, I shouldn’t get your hopes up too much. It’s just a poem. (which doesn’t have to rhyme, by the way)

  Something changed

  When night after night

  I tried to sleep

  But waited

  Maybe I would hear your car door slam

  Maybe your footsteps in the hall

  Maybe you would wake me up

  Singing Sweet Caroline

  Like you did when we were little

  And thunderstorms were the scariest thing

  Something changed

  When night after night

  You didn’t come.

  I realized something the other day. I used to cry when I thought about Mom. I kind of even liked it, the crying I mean. I always had this idea that Mom could see me, and she would feel bad for breaking my heart and she would come. Now I can’t even cry, which is probably for the best, because if I did, I don’t know what would happen. I’m starting to show, which makes it feel more real. I guess this is my real third thing.

  Dear Maggie,

  I now have a psychiatrist, as well as a social worker. I went to see Miss Bug Eyes today and a man was sitting there with her. Bug Eyes said, “Jennifer, I’m concerned.” Apparently she’s concerned that I don’t seem to understand the serious situation I’m in (translation: I haven’t bawled in her office and used up her Kleenexes). So she brought in the big guns, as Ted used to say. Dr. Ruskins.

  Before I go any further I have to tell you about Robert. That’s right, Robert Ruskins is his name. Cute, eh? And I’m supposed to call him Robert, not Dr. Ruskins. Speaking of cute … He has this soft blonde curly hair and killer green eyes, like a cat, and a voice like the guy in the band America, the one who sings “A Horse with No Name.” I asked him if he’s American, but he’s not, he’s from Ontario. I guess that explains the accent. How do I know his hair is soft, you ask? I don’t, but I can imagine.

  Once Bug Eyes had left the room, he told me he wasn’t interested in judging me. He doesn’t believe in God, doesn’t even believe in marriage and thinks “sex is a normal healthy part of an adult life.” Ha! I couldn’t help telling him that everyone blames the boy. That’s what I said. I just blurted it out, then I wasn’t sure I really wanted to continue the thought. He said, “You mean you had sex willingly. You wanted to.” He said it like a statement, not a question.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “And you’re feeling guilty about that.”

  I said, “I guess I am, now that you mention it.” And he laughed. Nice laugh. I continued, “Some of the girls here have been attacked or raped. One girl even told me that she didn’t actually have sex at all.”

  Swear to God, Maggie, this is true. She claims she’s still a virgin. I think she thinks the sperm just sort of crawled up her leg.

  The doctor, I mean Robert, smiled at me and said, “You’re a perfectly normal, healthy young woman and healthy young women like sex just like healthy young men do. People will say all sorts of things to alleviate their guilt. Only some of it is true. As good as these dear Sisters are here, they serve their mercy with a heavy helping of guilt.”

  I liked the way he said that. He could be a writer. That line could be from a Bob Dylan song: They serve their mercy with a heavy helping, a heavy, heavy helping … of guilt.

  Anyways, he kept saying “sex” as if it was no big deal. Then he offered me a cup of coffee, and I don’t even like coffee, but I said yes because it made it like two adults having a normal conversation. I know. I’m not an idiot. He’s probably just really good at his job, that’s what you’re thinking, but I couldn’t see the harm in it. And did I mention he’s cute? Did I mention I noticed his eyes lingering on my hot pink C-cup running over when I leaned to put my coffee cup down? Maybe he’s bored, too. Maybe he daydreams about long-legged pregnant gals who have a normal appreciation of sex. And what else do I have to do all day, besides sit around talking about my due date and knitting booties? (No! I will not knit booties!)

  As relaxed as I felt with him, I’m not going to tell him the father’s name. I see Robert again on Friday.

  Love xxoo Jenny

  P.S. I told you about The Girl who got Pregnant Without Having Sex. Now I will tell you the story of the Prettiest Babies Get Sold to Rich People. This is true, too. I know because all the girls say it’s true. But I’ll let you be the judge.

  The story goes that if you see someone taking Polaroid snaps of your baby, you should be worried. I didn’t even know that we get to see our babies after they’re born, but apparently we do. Anyhow, if you have a cute baby, especially a blonde one, especially a boy, or one with blue eyes, and you want to keep it, dream on. Even if you already decided to keep it and signed the papers, etc. They will tell you that the baby is sick. Then they’ll tell you it died. But really it got Sold to Rich People who can’t have their own baby. And that’s how the nuns keep this place going. How else could they afford to keep this big mansion and feed all these girls year after year? Not to mention the nice fresh soaps in the bathroom all the time. They don’t have jobs. Makes you think.

  I asked Ginger if she believes it and she said these girls have too much time on their hands. But … she didn’t say no. Believe it or not …

  P.P.S. (this means post-post, in case you didn’t know) Do you think I could call you collect at the gas station? You work by yourself on Saturday afternoon, right? We (which actually means you, sorry) could pay Bob back. But you know I’ll repay you someday when I’m a rich poet. Ha ha.

  [ TWENTY-TWO ]

  ON SATURDAY AFTERNOON Jenny called the gas station collect.

  “Holy shit, Mag, I can’t believe how glad I am to talk to you. You’re not going to get into trouble, are you?”

  “No, I’ll pay for it. Bob likes me. He thinks Bea’s a hag for sending you away.”

  “He knows?”

  “I didn’t tell him. It seems like half the town knows. I never even knew so many people around here knew our names. Vern told me Uncle Leslie heard some ladies in the grocery store talking about it. They think Bea went too far.”

  Jenny didn’t say anything.

  “Are you there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “It’s kind of ironic, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “What isn’t? I guess I just don’t like the idea of it. Everybody talking about me.”

  “Well, not everybody. I exaggerated. I just thought you’d be glad that Bea’s plan backfired.”

  “Yeah, score one for pathetic me. I really just want this to be over. Sorry, Mag. I don’t mean to be such a downer.”

  “I guess you’ve got a right, Jenny.”

  “You’re not mad at me, are you?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s been bugging me. I screwed up your plan. I know how you worry and now you’ve got this to worry about.”

  “But you’ll be back in a few months.”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  She was quiet. I tried to think of something to say. “It snowed here.”

  “Yeah? It’s raining here. Do you have a minute or two? I mean, there’s no one waiting for gas or pickle chips or something.”

  “No. It’s dead today.”

  “Do you think I should tell John? This will sound weird. Promise me you won’t tell anyone.”

  “I won’t,” I said but I felt my stomach flip.

  “I don’t know why I say that. Who are you going to tell?�
�

  “What is it?”

  “It’s about John. The reason he left town. It wasn’t because he wanted to see the world. In that letter that he wrote to me? The one I burned?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He told me he left because he’s homosexual. Weird, eh? I mean you wouldn’t think it somehow. I don’t know a lot about sex or anything, but it sure seemed to me like he liked it. But maybe I forced him.”

  “You didn’t force him, Jenny. You can’t force a guy to have sex.”

  “But are you shocked?”

  “I’m kind of shocked, yeah. He didn’t seem homosexual to me.”

  There were about five seconds of silence on the phone and then Jenny and I both broke down laughing.

  When she could catch her breath, she said, “Because you’re the expert. You should meet Dr. Robert. But it’s not funny, really. John said he didn’t think he could ever be himself in Williams Lake. So even if I wanted him to come to my rescue and marry me, which I don’t, that probably wouldn’t work out too well.”

  “It’s not—it hasn’t crossed your mind, has it? In your letters you sounded pretty sure.”

  “I’ve got to go, Maggie—my time’s up. No, don’t worry, I’m fine. I just have way too much time on my hands. I’ll write to you tonight. DON’T worry, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  She hung up.

  But I think we both knew how pointless it was for her to tell me not to worry. As soon as I put the phone down I felt the heaviness in my stomach rising up and tightening around my chest. Her letters had sounded like the Jenny I knew, always sunny, always righting herself, like a good canoe riding rough water. But on the phone I could hear some dark thing crouched on its haunches, calling her. She was having a hard time hanging on.

  The bell rang for the gas pumps. I looked out and saw Uncle Leslie’s green truck in the falling snow. The afternoon light was almost gone. He waved at me and as I went towards him, I wanted to say, “Help.”