Isabel's Daughter

by Judith Ryan Hendricks

  Well, fuck that. It was the first time I’d ever said the F word. Even in my mind. I liked it. The cold flatness, the hard edge of it, like a karate chop. When I said it out loud, it left a metallic taste in my mouth.

  I would never ask where she went. I didn’t care.

  I hid downstairs in the laundry room listening to everyone leaving for class, the older ones going out to the bus. I’d be going with them next year. Not that I gave a shit. When it got quiet, I knew Ridley and her henchmen were having their morning meeting, so I crept back up the stairs and into the kitchen.

  Esperanza was sitting in that wobbly chair husking corn. “Niña, what’s the matter you not dressed? You don’t go to escuela?”

  I sat down on the floor by her feet, picked up some cornsilk she’d dropped, and began tying it in knots.

  “Señor Ridley, she not happy to find you here.”

  It was an old joke between us to call Ridley Señor, but I didn’t laugh.

  Esperanza sighed, wiped her hands on a towel, and touched the top of my head. “Pobrecita. You friend, she go. So sad.”

  “I don’t care,” I said. But I laid my head against her knee.

  “Come, you help Esperanza make posole.” Just as we started to get up, the door to the dining room flew open.

  “Miss James, will you come with me please?”

  I followed Ridley down to her office, curiously relaxed. Nothing she could do to me would make any difference. I was somewhere beyond all that. She shut the door behind us, shut the door to the conference room where Lee-Ann and I used to read books. Then she sat down in the big brown leather chair that rolled around on wheels behind her desk. She leaned back, pressing her fingertips together, looking at me.

  I waited. She was going to give me hell for being in the kitchen, for skipping class, for not living up to my potential, for letting all the people down who were trying to help me. She would assign me extra Bible study, more verses to copy, confine me to the house after school for a few weeks, maybe put me on bathroom detail.

  Instead, she scooted forward, leaned over her desk. “It’s quite natural to feel sad when a friend goes away,” she said.

  I was noticing the way the light from the window behind her lit up the fuzz on her face, making her look like she had whiskers.

  “However, Miss Davisen has gone and will not be back. It does no good to mope around and miss class. In fact, being in class is the very thing you need. If you keep your mind occupied, you’ll have less time to feel sorry for yourself. And I think this would be a good time for you to renew your acquaintance with Jesus. The power of prayer cannot be underestimated as a way to—”

  “Please, can I go now?” I said it very politely, inching up from the edge of my chair.

  She raised one black eyebrow. There was a gray hair in it that curled up like a horn. “No, you may not. Sit down.” She straightened her back. “I said, sit down, young lady.”

  I sat. She talked. And talked. I thought about making tortillas. The smell of the masa hitting the hot griddle. How they stuck to your wet palm just long enough to flip over.

  Her tone changed abruptly and I tuned back in. “…left this for you,” she said. She held something out to me. A blue envelope. My whole name Avery James was written in Lee-Ann’s neat handwriting. I picked it up, letting it rest on my open hand. The tissue-thin, crinkly paper smelled like cinnamon.

  Ridley was watching me, waiting for me to smile or cry or something stupid. Fuck her. Fuck Lee-Ann. Fuck everybody. The letter felt brittle as a dead leaf when I crumpled it. I dropped it on the desk.

  “Can I leave now?”

  Her gray eyes showed surprise, but all she said was, “Get dressed and go to class.”

  That spring when it became clear that my attitude wasn’t improving, Ridley decided I needed closer monitoring or more individual attention or something, so I got farmed out to a foster home.

  The house was old and painted a dark, yucky green. It sat in the middle of a field by a little dry streambed, and there was a huge old cottonwood tree shading the front porch. It was way out from town, which meant you couldn’t walk to a movie or the store. Except for occasional “family outings,” the only place I went was down to the end of the long gravel driveway to get on the bus for school. It felt the way I imagined prison would be.

  There were four of us. I had to share a bedroom with Marla, who was five years old and had a permanent runny nose. Boyd Stiles was a stocky boy with bland features and dark little pig-eyes, a trashy mind and a mouth to go with it. He shared a room with Jeff, who was about eight and so shy that for several days I thought he couldn’t talk.

  Jim Humber, the father, had an insurance agency in Alamitos. The mother, Sharon, was tall and plain, with really big front teeth that stuck out over her lower lip, which made her look goofy, but she was okay. She hated cooking, so I did most of it. When I was chopping vegetables or making cornbread in the kitchen, she’d sit at the yellow dinette drinking iced tea out of a can and telling me Bible stories. But she talked so quietly I could hardly hear, which was fine.

  At least when I was cooking, I didn’t have to put up with the rest of them. Marla was forever wanting me to pick her up, even though she was big for five. Jeff just stared at me. And Boyd pissed me off because he kept “accidentally” brushing up against me. Why, I can’t imagine. I had weird eyes and wasn’t much to look at, and I sure didn’t have anything you could call tits. But whenever it was time to go cook dinner, he wanted to take Marla out of my arms so he could cop a quick feel.

  The first time it happened I called him on it. He said it was an accident. The second time, I told Sharon. Big mistake. She sat us all down together and told us that we were all children of God, and as such, should consider ourselves brothers and sisters, treating each other with respect. Even more so, since we were sharing a house.

  The third time, I was bending over, setting Marla down on the floor in front of the TV, when Boyd sidled over and stuck his hand between my legs from the back. I shot up reflexively, the top of my head catching him under the chin on my way up. The dumb shit almost bit his tongue off. I told him it was an accident.

  May was really too early for thunderstorms, but the morning that Sharon had to take Jeff to the doctor in Alamitos started off hot and hazy, with the smell of weather coming. Sharon was running around trying to get herself and Jeff ready, packing snacks—she was one of those people who can’t go to the grocery store without a plastic bag full of animal crackers “just in case.”

  “Okay, people,” she hollered. She had one arm in her sweater, purse on her shoulder, keys in her teeth, clutching Jeff’s hand like he was going to bolt, a bottle of spring water tucked under her chin. “All of you mind Avery. She’s in charge.” That was supposed to make me feel important. “Boyd, you are not to wear that horrible shirt out of the house.” The shirt in question was a relic of some Metallica concert, which Boyd insisted he’d been to see.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He smiled and we all knew he’d do exactly that as soon as her car was out of sight.

  “Marla, you be a good girl for Avery.” Marla was playing with paper dolls, and barely looked up.

  I was reading my English assignment when Boyd clomped through the living room and out the front door, wearing the ripped T-shirt that Sharon told him not to wear, jeans that were too small, and black high-tops. He’d tried to slick his hair down straight, but it stood up stubbornly on the sides like little fins. I assumed he was headed for the river to hang out and smoke with his idiot friends, and I was glad.

  As the sun got higher, the living room got hot and stuffy. I opened all the windows. I made cheese quesadillas for me and Marla, and right after that, she fell asleep in front of the television watching Vanna White spin the Wheel of Fortune.

  I kept looking up from the book, watching her sleep, blond wisps plastered damp against her forehead, tiny drops of sweat like a fine mist on her nose and upper lip. She looked angelic, but she snored because her nose
was plugged up. It was pretty funny. Shit. Why did people ever want to have kids? So much trouble. I made up my mind right then that I never would. The world was fucked up enough as it was.

  I went outside and sat in a white plastic chair and watched the dark thunderheads pile up over the San Juans. The air was dry and still and felt like very thin glass.

  I must’ve dozed off. When I woke up, the sky all around was black like nighttime, and the wind whipped leaves and papers past the corner of the house. I stretched, sticking my feet out and arching my back, and started to get up, when I suddenly felt the hair rise on my arms and neck. There was a funny smell.

  And then a flash and a noise like a shotgun. Pieces of wood flying around me, tongues of blue flame. I was on my hands and knees, breathing hard, head ringing. I looked up at the cottonwood tree, smoking and shattered. A sharp, burnt smell filled my nostrils as I pushed myself up and stumbled into the house. Marla sat on the floor, mouth open in a soundless wail.

  “Are you all right?” I yelled at her. “Lightning hit the tree!”

  Then I realized she was crying, but I couldn’t hear her. Outside, lightning was striking all around, and a solid gray curtain of rain lashed the house. The white plastic chair flew silently past the front window like some strange bird. Marla kept crying and talking and she looked so funny making all these weird faces, mouth opening and closing without any sound.

  A cold gust pushed the door open, and three sopping boys shot in, pale and hollow-eyed. I’d completely forgotten about Boyd and his buddies. They stood there dripping all over the rug, all talking at once, but of course I couldn’t hear them. One of them pointed at me and said something. For the first time I looked down at myself. I was covered with quills, like a porcupine. On closer inspection, they turned out to be splinters of wood sticking out of my bare arms and legs. At the base of some were little drops of blood.

  The three pushed past me and ran down the hall into Boyd’s room, closing the door behind them. I started shutting the windows, but then I remembered something about if there was a tornado and all the windows were shut, the house would explode, so I left them all open a couple inches at the bottom.

  I took Marla into the kitchen, set her at the table, and gave her some grape juice while I went hunting for Sharon’s eyebrow tweezers and the plastic bottle of rubbing alcohol. Eventually she stopped crying and sat there drinking her juice, huge eyes fixed on the window over the sink. Meanwhile I plucked splinters out of myself and doused burning alcohol on all the red welts. I felt like I was on fire.

  By the time I finished, the ringing in my head had stopped and so had the storm. I was even glad to hear Marla’s sniffling again. Then I looked up and saw Boyd and his buddies standing in the doorway watching me.

  I glared back at them. “What do you want?”

  Boyd seemed to suddenly remember that he was supposed to be the bad ass here, not me. He threw his shoulders back. “We’re getting something to drink.”

  “Well, hurry up,” I snapped. “Then take it back to your room. And don’t make a mess.” I picked up my book.

  He turned to the other two. “Don’t worry about her. She’s just a bossy bitch.”

  “Boyd, get out of here. Sharon doesn’t want Marla picking up your potty mouth.”

  “If Sharon doesn’t like it she can blow it out her ass.” He was clearly warming to his role, and the other two made a perfect audience. One of them was taller than Boyd, but skinny. He had brown hair down to his shoulders and a thin, cold mouth. The other one looked a lot younger and seemed to find whatever the other two said absolutely hilarious. He laughed like a donkey.

  “Fine. I’ll let you tell her that.” I tugged Marla’s hand and led her into the living room. My idea was that we could watch TV, but of course there was no electricity. In a few minutes the three boys joined us, sprawling on the sofa, sloshing their sodas everywhere. I didn’t like where the afternoon was heading.

  “Avery, read a story.” Back in our room Marla was holding out her book of Bible stories. We arranged ourselves on her bed, propped up with pillows. “Read Noazark.”

  I opened the book to the story of Noah and the ark, holding it at different angles to get better light. That’s when I realized it would be getting dark soon, and there were no lights to turn on.

  I read “Noah,” I read “The Tower of Babel,” I read “Jonah and the Whale.” By that time, it was too dark to read anymore. Surely there were candles in the pantry. But I was reluctant to go back out there. I kept thinking of this thing I heard one of the counselors at Carson say once. “You have one boy, you have one brain. You have two boys together, each one has half a brain. You get three boys together, you got a problem.” Where the hell was Sharon? Better yet, Jim?

  “Avery, turn on the light.”

  “I can’t. It doesn’t work. The storm took out the power.”

  “I’m scared of the dark.”

  “That’s silly. The dark won’t hurt you.”

  Then, “Avery, I’m hungry.”

  “Me, too. But I can’t cook anything because the stove’s not working. Why don’t we just take a little nap and when we wake up Sharon and Jim will come home and we’ll all go out and get a hamburger.”

  “I’m not sleepy. I’m hungry.”

  “Marla, there’s nothing I can do. We just have to wait.”

  “Can I have a cookie?”

  I threw the book on the floor. “No! Will you please shut up?” Marla began to cry. I slid off the bed and looked out the window. The sky was washed clean, studded with stars. It had been quiet for a while, and I wondered hopefully if Boyd’s friends had left. Marla was getting really wound up, rocking back and forth, hugging her pillow. It wasn’t even really crying anymore, it was like a siren.

  I couldn’t stand it. “Marla, come on, stop. I’ll get you a cookie, okay? You want to come with me?”

  “No.” She pulled the bedspread up around her chin.

  I stood in the hall for a minute, willing my eyes to penetrate the darkness, feeling the worn carpeting under my bare feet. I felt around for the phone that sat on the wicker table outside Jim and Sharon’s bedroom and held it to my ear. Nothing. When I could make out the dim shapes of the doorways, the jut of the corner where the hall veered into the living room, I took a step. As soon as I did, I heard their voices. Low, laughing. Probably in the kitchen. I walked loudly so they’d hear me coming.

  They’d found a flashlight and it was in the middle of the table. They were taking turns spinning it, making weird moving slashes of light and shadow on the walls and on each other’s faces.

  “Wow, she came to join the party.” Thin Lips.

  “I need to find Marla a cookie. Let me use that for a minute.” As I leaned across the table, he grabbed up the flashlight, holding it out of my reach.

  “Say please.”

  I folded my arms impatiently. “Give me the goddam flashlight. I just want to find a cookie for Marla and some candles.”

  “You heard the man. Say please.” Boyd’s smile showed every tooth in his head.

  “Please,” I said through gritted teeth. I held out my hand. The two of them looked at each other and shook their heads.

  “You have to say it nice. Like you mean it,” said Boyd.

  “You know what? I’m really tired. Marla’s in there crying because she’s hungry—”

  “Awww, pore little thing,” Donkey-Boy piped up.

  I wheeled on him. “Shut up! I’m not talking to you.” I looked at Thin Lips again. “Come on, give me a break. Let me use the flashlight. I’ll get the cookies and then you guys can go back to your games.”

  “My name’s Shawn,” Thin Lips said.

  I sighed. “I really don’t give a shit. Give me the goddam flashlight.”

  “You forgot the magic word,” Boyd taunted.

  “Oh fuck you, Boyd.” I lunged for the flashlight and Shawn handed it off to Donkey-Boy. Him I could handle. I stepped toward him, but somebody’s foot shot out i
n the dark and I went down hard on my left hip. Two hands appeared in my face.

  “Get away from me, you bastards.” As I got to my knees I heard the scrape of chairs on linoleum, and by the time I was on my feet, the three of them were around me, pressing my back against the refrigerator door handle. I caught a whiff of Shawn’s sour breath.

  “You still want the flashlight?” he said.

  My mouth was so dry that I nearly gagged when I tried to swallow. “Get away from me.” The sudden cold of the flashlight on my thigh made me jump. I tried to swallow the thudding of my heart.

  “You can have it if you want it.” Now it was Boyd looming over me, his face like some comic book monster in the light shining up from below. I batted out with my hand and the flashlight clattered to the floor. The light disappeared like a match down a well.

  A hand tightened on my arm, I could tell it was Donkey-Boy, so I leaned hard, squeezing his knuckles against the refrigerator.

  “Ow! Fucking bitch.”

  I shoved in the direction of the voice and broke away from them, stumbling toward the living room, and suddenly the lights flickered on. In that moment of distraction, Shawn somehow got ahead of me, blocking the hallway.

  “Get out of my way.” I tried to sound like I was in control, at least of myself. Boyd shifted his weight from one foot to the other, uncertain how far he wanted to go. But Shawn smiled.

  “We won’t hurt you. We just want to look at your tits.”

  “In your dreams, butthead.”

  “Avery…” Marla’s reedy voice floated down the hall. “Where’s my cookie?”

  He was taking small steps in my general direction.

  “Stay away from me. Don’t you know Sharon and Jim are on their way? They’re probably going to be here any second. Your ass is going to be in a sling if you lay one finger on me.”

  Years later I’d discover that you can’t talk sense to a guy with a hard-on, but at that point, I still thought reason would work.

  “Avery, where’s my cookie?” Marla stood in the doorway, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. I could have kissed her.