Cruel Beautiful World

by Caroline Leavitt

  AFTER THAT, LUCY could tell that William no longer trusted her. Every day he came home and he sniffed around the house as if he were checking whether anything was amiss. Once again, when he was working and she was alone, she heard footsteps outside. “William?” she called. There was no answer, but in the backyard, where they didn’t mow, some of the grass was newly mashed down, as if someone had stepped on it. Another afternoon, William came home unexpectedly, and she saw the relief washing over him when he saw she was there. “I forgot something,” he said, but she knew it was a lie, because he turned around and got in the car and went back to the school. That night, while he was sleeping, she got up and wrote a story about a girl who leaves her boyfriend after he hits her, and then her life opens like a blossom. She bore down on the pen so hard it tore the page.

  She shut the journal, her heart jackrabbiting in her chest. The only difference between her and the girl in her story was that the story girl had money, a cache from being a waitress. The money Lucy had from working at Patrick’s was nothing. She thought about calling the police, but could she trust the cops? Everyone called them pigs. What if they didn’t believe her? Could she be sent to prison for running away? And wasn’t she culpable, too? She hadn’t been kidnapped or coerced by anything but love. And that love was gone.

  She hid the journal again, pacing as quietly as she could so William wouldn’t wake and want to know what she was up to. She thought of the Realtor woman again, Nell Wilson, how motherly she was. And then she thought of Iris. Maybe she could call her. Iris might scold and maybe even yell, but that would be so much easier than dealing with William. She could go back to school and have friends. She could see Charlotte. If Iris questioned her black eye, she’d tell Iris someone had attacked her while she was hitching. Feeling better, as if she had a plan, she went back to sleep.

  The next morning, she was silent at breakfast. “I ate already,” she told him. She felt his breath on her neck when he leaned down to kiss her, and she made herself into stone, thinking, Go. Please go. As soon as she heard the engine sputtering, she went into the bathroom and saw her face, black and blue and yellow around her eye, the tissues so swollen that when she touched her skin she winced. She had a little bit of makeup left and she daubed it on, but it made things worse. She went to get sunglasses so she wouldn’t have to look at herself.

  She dialed, her hands shaking. It was seven in the morning, and Iris would probably be in the kitchen now, making breakfast. Lucy pressed the receiver to her ear, and then there was a strange click. “The number you dialed is no longer in service,” a voice said.

  Lucy stared at the phone. She must have dialed wrong. She tried again, and this time when the same recording came on, she called information, but the operator told her the number was no longer valid and there was no forwarding number. “There has to be!” she cried, and the operator hung up, and Lucy dropped the receiver, so that it clattered against the counter. There had to be an explanation for this. Something simple. Nothing could have happened to Iris. She just knew it. She called the operator again, this time asking for the number of Brandeis University. At least she could find Charlotte.

  After she got the general number, she dialed and was then connected to Charlotte’s dorm. The phone rang two times and then three, and then she was sobbing so hard she wasn’t sure she would be able to speak. A young-sounding girl answered. “Oh, yeah, I know Char,” she said, and she gave Lucy a number. But when she called it, no one answered, so she called Brandeis back again, panicked. The same girl answered. “Let me think,” she said. “Wait. I know. She’s working someplace—I can get you the name—”

  “No, no!” Lucy cried. “Can you get me the number, too?”

  There was a beat of silence. “Sure, why not,” the girl said.

  As soon as Lucy had the number, she dialed. She pinched her thigh, the way Charlotte had taught her to do, to distract herself. A bored female voice got on the line. “Fur Friends,” she said, and Lucy sobbed Charlotte’s name. “Hang on,” the voice said. Lucy twisted the cord around her wrist, and then she heard Charlotte’s voice.

  “Charlotte! It’s me! It’s Lucy!”

  At first there was no sound at all, and Lucy was terrified that Charlotte had hung up on her. “Charlotte!” she said again.

  “Lucy?” Charlotte’s voice was a train speeding. “Oh my God, Lucy.” Lucy could hear Charlotte crying, which made her cry, too. “Are you okay? Are you hurt? Where are you?” Charlotte asked.

  “I called the house and no one was there! There was no forwarding number—”

  “Wait—you called the house? They didn’t give you a forwarding number? Where are you?”

  Lucy wrapped the phone cord around her wrist. What was the point of lying anymore? “I’m in Pennsylvania with William.”

  “William? William who? Lucy, I don’t understand.”

  “The teacher. William the teacher. From the high school. I’m leaving him—”

  There was a moment of silence. “What? Lucy, no—tell me this isn’t true. It has to be a joke. You’re with William?”

  “Can you come get me? Right away?”

  “Lucy, I—”

  “Please, you have to! Right away!” She recited her address. Maybe Charlotte could even get there before William came home. He couldn’t stop her from leaving. He knew what he had done, and he wouldn’t want to be arrested.

  “Do you realize how terrified we were? How worried?” Charlotte said. Her voice was rising now, changing, and Lucy pulled the phone away from her ear. “How could you do such a thing?”

  “You’re angry with me. You have a right to be—I know it—”

  “We were so scared. Why didn’t you call? Why didn’t you let us know where you were? Do you know what’s been going on here? What happened to Iris? Do you even care?”

  “I did let you know! I sent a postcard. Charlotte, please come now. Please—I need you—”

  “A postcard!” Charlotte said. “We didn’t get it until April!”

  “What? How can that be?” Lucy remembered setting it on the counter the day of her birthday. Maybe it had gotten lost or hidden. Maybe someone had taken a while to mail it, but at least it had gotten there.

  “You think a postcard is enough? What about a phone call?” And then the line went dead, and Lucy stared at the phone. She called Charlotte again, but the line was busy. Maybe Charlotte was calling to rent a car, or to borrow Iris’s. Charlotte couldn’t get Lucy’s number because it was unlisted, but she had the address. Lucy knew her; Charlotte would have written it down. And what had happened to Iris? Lucy couldn’t bear the thought that something was wrong. She tried to call the two numbers she’d been given, but no one answered. She had to rush to get things ready. She’d find out everything soon enough. Her sister would come for her.

  LUCY FIGURED CHARLOTTE would be there in five hours, at the latest, and that would still be a few hours before William got home. Lucy felt a flush of emotion. She couldn’t wait to see her sister—and Iris. She wanted Iris to hold her, to stroke her hair, to breathe against her, to find the words to forgive her for all she had done.

  She dug out her old knapsack, the same one she had taken to run away with William, and stuffed it with a few things, her mind rolling. A pair of jeans. A sweater. Underwear. Socks.

  By twelve, Charlotte still wasn’t there, and when Lucy called her, there was no answer. By two, Lucy began to think that she wasn’t coming. That this silence was a message, crashing against her. Charlotte didn’t believe Lucy, or maybe she was just fed up.

  Lucy walked through the house, her arms wrapped around her chest. What would she do now? How could she manage? Had Charlotte called the police? Were they on their way here? She went and found all the money she had saved from working. Surely eighty dollars was enough for a bus ticket home. But what if it wasn’t? Then what would she do?

  There was only one other person who might help her. She grabbed her pack and got her bike from the woods and started to
pedal.

  PATRICK WAS AT the register, counting change, talking to a customer, a middle-aged woman with her hair in a wide headband. Lucy bided her time, waiting for him to see her, walking her bike toward him. When he finally looked up, his face was unreadable. She took her sunglasses off, and he flinched. She knew what she looked like, the bruising still splashed across her face, as if someone had thrown a pot of paints at her. He called someone else in to work the register and then came over to her. “Park your bike and come with me,” he said, nodding to the side of the house, and then he led her into his kitchen and sat her down.

  “You might want to tell me the truth,” he said. “About your eye. About everything.”

  “I’m seventeen,” she said, but he didn’t react.

  “Go on,” he said.

  She told him that she wasn’t married, that she had run away from home with William, who was her high school teacher, and everything had turned out wrong.

  “Did William do that?” he said, and she nodded. Then she told him everything—about Charlotte and Iris, her loneliness, the chickens—and when she got to the part about the gun, Patrick frowned. “Lucy—”

  “I know I lied to you. But I’m not lying now.” She grabbed for his arm again. “You have to help me, Patrick. Please. I want to take a bus home. I have some money but I don’t know if it’s enough. If you can loan me money, I can get a bus ticket to somewhere. I can get a job and I’ll pay you back. I promise.”

  “Listen to me. This is serious stuff. I think we need to go to the cops.”

  Her panic was wild, beating against her like wings. The police. She could just imagine it, coming into the station with her black eye, trying to tell them about William. What if they didn’t believe her? “Please. You have to help me get home.”

  “Lucy, you’re a minor. I think you really want the authorities to handle this,” he said.

  “I have to go to the bathroom,” she said, and she flew into the other room.

  She knew Patrick kept a strongbox with extra money in the kitchen. She could just borrow something. She could pay him back with interest. She found the box, and to her surprise, it was unlocked. She opened it and began stuffing money into her jeans.

  “Hey!”

  She turned and Patrick was standing there. “What are you doing?” he said. “You don’t have to steal from me!”

  She clenched the money in her hand. She heard herself panting.

  He moved toward her, and she didn’t know what else to do, so she grabbed the rest of the money, jamming it into her pockets. “You won’t help me!” she cried. Then she ran out to her bike and started pedaling furiously.

  She couldn’t tell whether he was following her, so she pumped the pedals faster, skimming the road, not stopping until she hit a patch with no cars. Then she pulled over, dug the money out, and counted it. Ninety bucks. Definitely enough to get home now. Then she noticed her blue journal was missing. It had her best stories in it, plus the start of her novel. She glanced at her watch. She still had time before William came back. She could run home, grab it, and go.

  BACK AT THE HOUSE, she grabbed her journal and was stuffing it into her pack when she heard the door open. She froze. It was too early for William. She had timed everything perfectly. But then she heard a stamping of feet and William’s whistling, and she was about to fly out the back when William came around the corner and spotted her. For a moment they just looked at each other. “I know I’m home early.” He had wildflowers in his hand. His eyes slid over her knapsack. “Where are you going?” he said quietly, and she swallowed.

  “Luce?” he said. He took a step closer to her and she stepped back. She couldn’t outrun him, and he could chase her in the car.

  “I’m leaving you,” she said. Her voice hung in the air.

  He put the flowers down. “No,” he said. “No, you’re not. That will never happen.” He stood there, between her and the front door.

  “Are you listening to me?” Lucy cried. “I’m leaving. You can’t stop me.”

  He was faster than she was and stronger. If she turned and ran to the back door, he’d still be able to grab her. And then what would she do? There was no air left in her lungs, but she took a step forward. He grabbed her by the wrist and she scratched him, drawing blood.

  “I’ll put the bag away,” she said, as if she were staying. She went into the bedroom, deliberately slowing her movements, as if she were defeated, and dropped the pack on the ground with a thud loud enough for him to hear. Her hands were shaking and she had trouble opening the drawer. There was the gun. It was never loaded. She had made William promise her that it never would be, but he didn’t have to know that she hadn’t slid bullets in.

  She plucked up her pack and then strode out, holding the gun the way he had taught her, forming her stance, staring down the sight, remembering every detail. She motioned with the gun. “Get away from the door,” she said. “It’s loaded.” He wouldn’t risk not believing her. She’d brandish the gun and he’d get out of the way, and when she got to the bus station she’d toss it into a trash can and never think of it or him again. He’d know what she was capable of. He’d never come after her after this.

  He didn’t move. “Lucy,” he said. His voice sounded funny, as if it were burbling underwater. “I love you. You know that. I love you. I love you so fucking much. I don’t know how to be in the world without you.”

  And then he took a step toward her and she lifted the gun.

  Chapter 18

  As soon as Charlotte hung up on Lucy, her whole body began shaking. Lucy had called her. Lucy was coming home. Charlotte wiped her eyes, torn with grief, gratitude, and anger, too. Lucy had demanded that Charlotte pick her up, as if it were a done deal, as if Charlotte would just drop everything to come and get her, make things right the way she always had. Lucy hadn’t asked about Iris, and Charlotte had gotten so agitated she had slammed down the phone, and as soon as she did, she was horrified.

  Of course she tried to call back, but she didn’t have the number. She called the operator, who told her there was no listing for Lucy or for William. “Charlotte, please don’t use the office phone for personal calls,” Dr. Bronstein said as he whisked past her, carrying an iguana in both hands. Charlotte hung up the phone. Lucy would call back. And in any case, Charlotte had scribbled down the address. She would go as soon as she could.

  She glanced at her watch. She thought about calling Iris and telling her but then decided against it. Better to just bring Lucy home, the prodigal daughter, the happy surprise.

  She couldn’t leave early—they were short staffed that day. She had already seen Dr. Bronstein fire someone because he came in half an hour late. He was not a man who tolerated excuses. She couldn’t risk losing her internship, not after her professor had pulled strings for her, not when her grade depended on her doing a good job, not when it was her income. She told herself that it was only a matter of a few hours before she could drive to get Lucy. Lucy could wait just a few more hours.

  WHEN THE DAY was over, after watching an operation on a dog who had swallowed six pairs of socks and a whistle, she rushed out and got into the car, glancing at herself if the rearview mirror. Her eyes were red rimmed, her clothes rumpled, and her bangs had grown out now, so that she had to tuck them behind her ears to keep them out of her eyes. She knew she’d be driving all night, but at least it was Friday and she didn’t work weekends, so she’d have time to recuperate. Pennsylvania was the last place she’d ever expected to find her sister. Who would want to live there? She had figured Lucy had run off to San Francisco, seduced by all that Summer of Love stuff. Instead, Lucy was with William. A teacher. What was she thinking? And what was he?

  Oh, she remembered him. Everyone at Waltham High used to talk about William. How he was the coolest teacher on the planet. You could learn things that were really important from him, things other teachers wouldn’t tell you. How to make yourself grilled cheese by wrapping the sandwich in aluminum foil and
ironing it. How the boys could resist the draft by burning their draft cards. Plus, even though he was old, there was still something sexy about him. The way he strode the corridors, his sleeves pushed up, his hair falling nearly to his collar. The way he looked at you when you asked him a question, moving closer to you, making you feel that there was no one else in the world at that moment but you.

  Charlotte had been so thrilled when she had gotten into his advanced class. She sat in the front, like all the other swoony girls. Every day, he wore a tie that was like a painting, a shirt that was drenched in color. Sometimes he wore a purple T-shirt that poked out under his collar. “I’m here to challenge you,” he said, and her heart did a shimmy. One day, when the principal came in to tell William he couldn’t show a film on the war, Charlotte had blurted out, “Why not? Isn’t there such a thing as free speech?” The principal had stopped talking and turned to her. “Your name is?” he said.

  “Charlotte Gold.”

  “I see,” he said. He walked out without answering her, but Charlotte had felt William looking at her, and when she looked up, he was smiling at her. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said to the class, “a shining example from Miss Charlotte Gold of civil disobedience and free speech.” Charlotte’s cheeks flushed. She was so happy she couldn’t even concentrate on the movie he showed.

  After that, William made a point to talk to her either before or after class. She liked that, at first. He wanted to know what she was reading, what movies she liked. He agreed with her that Truffaut was a master of French New Wave cinema, that Simon and Garfunkel were poets as well as songwriters. He gave her a list of other films she should see, Godard and Bresson, and music she should listen to, especially jazz.

  She definitely had a crush on him. She saw him at the supermarket buying ice cream and she was too nervous to go talk to him. She spotted him coming out of the movies, but she was rooted in place. Whenever he appeared, she weakened with desire. She told no one how she felt, but in class she’d daydream about how it would feel to walk up to him and kiss him. How his hand might feel on her waist, her breast.