Keeping Lucy (ARC)

by T. Greenwood

  “Do you think I should call Ab once we get there? Let him at least know we’re okay?” she asked.

  Marsha took a deep breath and sighed. “We don’t have to do this,” she said. “You can call Ab and just have him come get you.”

  Ginny felt a ping in her chest at the thought of Ab coming, of his bringing her home.

  “But if he comes for you, Lucy will go right back to Willowridge. You know that, right?”

  As much as Ginny would like to protest, to argue that Ab was a good man, a rational, kindhearted man, she knew that when it came to Lucy, there was something in him that was proving immovable. He was a good father to Peyton, the best. But to Lucy, he was nothing. Nor she to him.

  After a roadside picnic lunch, as they crossed the George Washington Bridge, Lucy got carsick. It came without warning. No crying or moaning in anticipation, just the animal-like sound of her vomiting and then the awful, sour stench.

  “It’s okay,” Ginny soothed Lucy, who seemed unaffected by the whole incident. She was wide-eyed but silent.

  Peyton had pulled his T-shirt up over his nose. “She stinks, Mama,” his muffled voice said.

  Ginny grabbed a handful of napkins she’d stashed in her purse earlier and turned around to assess the damage. They were at a standstill, stuck between, behind, and in front of several semis, and so she climbed into the backseat, which was a tricky maneuver given the tiny confines of the car. Situated between the kids, she pulled Lucy’s soiled shirt over her head. She’d have tossed the whole thing out the window if they’d had more than a couple of clean shirts remaining. She patted at Lucy’s neck and hair with the dry napkins, but what Lucy really needed was another bath. Ginny brushed a wet strand of Lucy’s hair from her cheek. Poor little thing.

  “How bad is it?” Marsha asked.

  “Pretty bad. I think we’ll need to stop somewhere to get her cleaned up as soon as we’re out of the city.”

  Ginny turned to the backseat, searching for something to sop up the mess. Finally, she located a beach towel shoved beneath the passenger seat.

  “I’m sorry,” Ginny said to the front seat. “I had to use one of your towels. Maybe we can find a Laundromat in Atlantic City so I can wash all this stuff. Maybe a car wash, too.”

  She wrapped Lucy’s soiled T-shirt into the beach towel and rolled it tightly before shoving the whole horrible bundle back under the seat. As she bent down, she felt something tickling her neck. It startled her, until she realized it was Lucy. Her tiny fingers were stroking Ginny’s hair the same gentle way Ginny had just touched hers. She felt her heart swell, and tears filled her eyes.

  She sat back up and took that tiny hand in her own and kissed her fat, sweet palm. “It’s okay,” she said, though she wasn’t sure if she was talking to Lucy or to herself. “Everything is going to be okay.”

  The traffic snaked the entire length of the Jersey Turnpike, and it was nearly twilight when they finally reached Atlantic City. They’d all gotten accustomed to the sour smell of the car, but they were also tired and hungry, and Ginny wanted nothing more than to simply be clean. For her children to be clean. For this godforsaken car to be clean.

  “Oh, my God! I can smell the ocean!” Marsha said excitedly, leaning her head out the open window. “Can you grab the map? I need you to navigate.”

  Ginny reached for the glove box, but it was locked.

  “Oh, the atlas is under the seat,” Marsha said.

  Ginny reached under the long bench seat and found a road atlas along with some fast food bags, a tube of lipstick, and a single foil-wrapped condom. She left everything but the atlas under the seat. She located the New Jersey page and the Atlantic City insert.

  “Turn here,” Ginny said. “That’ll take us close to the boardwalk. That’s probably where the motels are, right?”

  They found the blinking neon lights of a motel not far from the beach, and Marsha pulled into the parking lot. It was in a well-lit area and seemed safe. The motel was pink and white, almost cheerful. Welcoming.

  “I’ll go check us in,” Marsha said. “Should I maybe use a different name?”

  Ginny shrugged. Her mother had insisted she wouldn’t tell Ab where they’d gone, only that Ginny needed some time to think. He would never guess they’d have gone to Atlantic City, of all places, but it couldn’t hurt to be cautious. She was still nervous the school might find out she’d taken Lucy across state lines, though given how lax they’d been about handing her over to somebody whose identity was based on an envelope in her purse, she doubted they’d care. “Yeah, that’s a good idea.”

  Ginny watched Marsha walk toward the motel lobby, admired how she held her head so high, her confidence, as if two women going to get a motel room for a weekend vacation was the most normal thing in the world. After she disappeared inside, Ginny observed the people walking up and down the neighboring streets, mesmerized by the colorful crowd. Like Marsha, most of the women wore short skirts and tall boots. The men’s pants were tight and their hair was long. There were black men and women, nearly in equal proportion to the white people in the crowd. Since she and Ab moved to Dover, she’d yet to see a single black person other than the men and women who worked in the restaurant kitchens and kept houses. Several of Sylvia’s friends had Negro maids, women who silently and stoically went about their business of cleaning and cooking and caring for her neighbors’ children. Ab had suggested exactly once that they hire a girl to come in and help with the housework, and Ginny had politely said, “That won’t be necessary.” The whole business of it made her feel uncomfortable.

  Ginny rolled the window down farther and stuck her face out. The air did indeed smell of the ocean, and she could even hear the roar of the surf, though they weren’t close enough to the beach to see it. Perhaps this was exactly what she needed to clear her head, to come up with a plan. Clean, salty air. The calming sea.

  Marsha emerged from the motel office and made her way back to the car, shoulders slumped now, sighing.

  “No room at the inn,” she said. “Don’t worry, though. There’s a whole strip of motels just a couple blocks away.”

  But as they drove down Pacific Avenue, every one of the motels’ signs was blinking NO VACANCY.

  When Marsha came out of the last motel on the strip, she said, “The clerk told me to go to Pleasantville. That we should find a room there. It’s just a quick drive from there to the shore. It’s the holiday. Everything close to the beach is booked.”

  As promised, there were plenty of motels along Black Horse Pike, most of them advertising either weekly or hourly rates.

  Finally, at a small, squat motel, Marsha came out of the office dangling a key ring from one finger, waving it like she’d won a prize.

  They drove the car around to the other side of the L-shaped motel and pulled into the parking space right in front of their door. Number 111. That had to be lucky, Ginny thought, and, like a child, made a wish.

  Marsha unlocked the room door as Ginny got the kids unbuckled, discovering as she did a missed pool of vomit underneath poor Lucy. While she got her out of the car, Peyton ran straight into the motel room and jumped onto one of the double beds. Lucy, however, clung like a monkey to Ginny’s neck and did not want to be put down.

  “I’ll go get the car cleaned out and pick up some food,” Marsha said. “Why don’t you give Lucy a bath, and once she’s cleaned up, then we can eat.”

  The motel was shabby but clean, with a rust-ringed toilet and sink, a yellowed popcorn ceiling, and faded drapes. The distinct scent of cigarettes permeated everything.

  The water was blessedly hot at first, but after the pale pink tub was filled only about halfway, it began to run cold. She’d need to put both kids in at once. Who knew how long it would take for the water to heat up again.

  She undressed Lucy first; her little dimpled bottom already looked a thousand times better than it had just yesterday. She’d seen no sign of the awful tiny worms she’d seen in her diaper at the amusement park. Sh
e’d be sure to give her another dose of the castor oil concoction before bed, though, just to make sure.

  “Peyton,” she hollered, leaning toward the open bathroom door.

  When he didn’t answer, she stood up from the bathtub’s edge where she’d been perched and poked her head out of the bathroom.

  “I’m watching Bewitched,” he said, his eyes not leaving the TV.

  “Come have a bath,” Ginny said, motioning for him to come to her when he finally looked away from the screen.

  “That baby is in there,” he said.

  “That’s all right. You can both be in the bathtub.”

  He shook his head. “She’s a girl.”

  “She’s your sister.”

  He stubbornly crossed his arms and shook his head again.

  Normally Ab dealt with Peyton when he was being like this. When Peyton was cross, Ab was silly, and could coax him out of his willful defiance with tickles or playfulness. Ginny lacked the requisite patience and good humor, however, and felt herself growing from impatient to angry.

  “You need a bath, and there’s no more hot water. Unless you want to soak in a cold tub, you’ll need to share a bath with your sister.” As if logic and reason meant anything to a stubborn six-year-old.

  “No!” he said and reached for the knob on the TV, making it even louder.

  If she had more energy, she would have simply gone and scooped him up. But she was exhausted, her back aching.

  “Fine!” she said. She needed to figure out a way to wash Lucy’s hair. It might be easier without Peyton there anyway.

  She turned back to the bathtub, and there, floating in the water was a turd. A worm-riddled turd.

  “Oh, my God!” she said, feeling like she might throw up.

  Lucy’s face fell, and she started to cry. She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head.

  “Oh, no, no! I’m sorry. I’m not mad at you,” Ginny said and quickly pulled Lucy out of the water—she’d deal with the poop later—and wrapped her in a threadbare but clean towel. She sat on the toilet seat with Lucy on her lap and sighed into her hair.

  Marsha returned just twenty minutes later with a paper bag with four burgers and some greasy fries as well as two frothy chocolate shakes for the kids, which was perfect to help disguise the flavor of the castor oil and thyme. Lucy happily drank it down without any prodding. They sat together on the beds to eat, beach towels spread out beneath them.

  “What’s this, Mama?” Peyton asked, leaning across the bed to a contraption on the nightstand.

  Marsha raised an eyebrow at Ginny, who was mystified.

  “It says two five cents!” he said. “Mama, do you have two five cents?” Ginny had been working with him on his numbers.

  “That means twenty-five cents,” she corrected. “A quarter. I think I have one in my purse.”

  “What is it?” Ginny whispered to Marsha.

  “Your mama ever let you ride one of those rides out in front of the Big Y?” Marsha asked Peyton, jumping up from the bed and pulling a coin out of the tiny pocket in her hip-huggers.

  “I rode the fire truck once!” Peyton exclaimed.

  Marsha handed him the quarter and he clumsily put it in the coin slot. Suddenly the whole bed began to rumble.

  “Oh!” Ginny said, gasping as it rocked beneath her. Lucy squealed, with fear at first and then delight as the bed vibrated. Peyton stood up as the bed tried to buck him off.

  “It’s Magic Fingers!” Marsha said gleefully. She hopped on the bed, too, and they all trembled and shook and laughed.

  When it stopped, Peyton hollered, “Again!” and Lucy’s lip began to quiver, and so Ginny stood up and went to her purse, where she had a stash of quarters for the tolls. After they’d enjoyed three rides on the magic bed, Ginny felt like her teeth had been rattled loose and the burger and fries were unsettled in her stomach.

  “That’s enough for tonight, I think,” she said, breathless.

  She situated both kids in the now still bed, pulling the orange-and-yellow paisley spread up to their chins. A lazy ceiling fan spun overhead, rocking on its mount, making her worry that the whole thing might come tumbling down.

  “Goodnight stars,” she whispered into Peyton’s ear.

  “Goodnight air,” he said, yawning, worn out from his tantrum.

  “Goodnight noises everywhere.”

  “I need a shower,” Marsha said.

  “Shoot,” Ginny said quietly, rummaging through her bag and pulling out Lucy’s last two bottles of milk. “I need some ice to keep Lucy’s bottles cold. I’ll be right back.”

  She grabbed the plastic bucket and locked the door behind her. Outside she saw a group of women congregating in the parking lot. They were dressed in tight miniskirts, breasts spilling out of bikini tops. Chunky heels and fishnet stockings. A car pulled up, and one of the women leaned in to speak to the driver. Ginny felt her face grow hot. Prostitutes. As she watched one woman slip into an open door on the ground floor of the motel, she thought, No wonder they have Magic Fingers in the rooms.

  As she quickly filled the bucket with ice at the machine, Ginny could now see how seedy the motel was. The dimly lit street, the dingy curtains, the carpeted floor gritty with sand. How had she not noticed this before? The realization that her perspective could be so skewed made her feel uneasy, sick, even. If she had been wrong about this, she could be wrong about so many things. Weren’t mothers supposed to have heightened instincts? Apparently, she had none.

  Back in the motel, Marsha was in the shower. Ginny double-bolted the door and strung the chain across, pulled the curtains tight, and put the bottles in the ice bucket. She quickly changed out of her clothes into the only nightgown she’d brought and slipped under the covers next to Lucy, trying not to think about who had last slept (or done whatever) on this mattress.

  She watched Lucy sleep, the barely perceptible rise and fall of her round chest. The little lift of her dimpled chin, her tongue, as always, peeking out between her lips. Her clenched hands. She’d forgotten the simple pleasure of a child’s warm body next to hers. Lately Peyton wanted her affection only on his terms. When he pushed her away, she would ignore the sting and back off. Ab, however pushed harder, wrapping Peyton in a hug and squeezing him until he giggled and relented.

  She leaned over Lucy to kiss Peyton’s sweaty forehead and then pressed her hand against Lucy’s chest, confirming the beating of her heart, her gentle breath. Mine, she thought. This child is mine.

  And before she could begin to worry about what had caused that enormous stain on the ceiling, exhausted, she fell asleep.

  Fifteen

  September 1971

  Ginny awoke the next morning to commotion outside the motel window, rattled from her dreams as though the Magic Fingers were stuck in overdrive.

  “What’s going on?” she asked, bolting upright.

  Marsha was at the window, peering out. “I’m not sure. Looks like some sort of parade?”

  “A parade?” Peyton said sleepily. His favorite book was the Seuss book, And to Think That I Saw It on Mulberry Street. Ab read it to him nearly every night that he got home from work before Peyton was in bed. This year, Ab had promised they’d drive down to New York City and see the Macy’s parade on Thanksgiving. Peyton’s favorite balloon was Underdog.

  Ginny quickly checked on Lucy, who was still sleeping, then scurried out of bed to join Marsha at the window.

  A crowd of women was congregating at the corner. Not hookers this time, thankfully, but women of all ages, carrying signs. They were a bit far away, but Ginny could make out a few. WELCOME TO THE CATTLE AUCTION! and ALL WOMEN ARE BEAUTIFUL. Another had a photo of a bikini-clad woman, her body marked off in parts: LOIN, RUMP, RIB, ROUND.

  Of course, she’d read about the protests. Just last summer, there was the women’s strike for equality. She’d spent the day tending to Peyton, who had been sick with a summer flu, and so she’d propped him up on the couch and given him Popsicles to try to bring
his fever down. She’d caught up on her ironing as he convalesced. She understood the irony of this, but seriously, if she’d gone on “strike,” who would have taken care of her child? Certainly not Ab. Besides, what would she have done with that spare time if not attempt to make a dent in that bottomless basket of wrinkled clothes?

  Marsha went to the door, unlocked the chain and two dead bolts, and swung the door open. A rush of salty air blew into the room. She cupped her hands around her mouth and hollered, “Free our sisters, free ourselves!”

  “Marsha!” Ginny reprimanded, as Lucy stirred.

  Beaming, Marsha came back into the room. “I think they’re here to protest the Miss America Pageant.”

  “The Miss America Pageant? Why?”

  Ginny and her mother used to watch the pageant religiously each year, always rooting for Miss Massachusetts, who never seemed to get a break, though she often got close. Just last year a girl from Foxboro had gotten second runner-up.

  Ginny tried to imagine what it must be like prancing across the stage in a bathing suit and couldn’t. Ginny couldn’t remember the last time she’d even been in public in a bathing suit. Probably not since junior high school. Even then it had been just horrifying. She’d gotten breasts in the fifth grade and had spent the next two years attempting to hide them as the other girls caught up.

  “We should go march with them!” Marsha said.

  Ginny shook her head. Of course, she believed in women’s rights, in equality, but she wasn’t someone who liked to call attention to herself. Crowds made her nervous, and who knew what sort of trouble they might stir up. The last thing she needed was to get hauled off in a paddy wagon. Wouldn’t her father-in-law love that?

  “I promised Peyton we’d go to the beach today. The boardwalk?” Ginny said.

  Marsha’s eyes were wild; she was energized. “Oh, sure. Sure! Of course.”

  Peyton grabbed a quarter from the nightstand and set the bed to rocking again, shaking Lucy awake. When she started to cry, Ginny scooped her up and sighed.

  Peyton was scratching his head. “I’m itchy, Mama.”