Lacy's End

by Victoria Schwimley

  Angela jotted something on a notepad, trying to be discreet so she wouldn’t frighten Brenda away.

  “Are you going to write down everything I say?” Brenda asked. “If so, I can just write out our meeting and save you the trouble.”

  Angela blushed at the retort. “I’m sorry.” She set aside the pen.

  Brenda shook her head. “I guess it doesn’t really matter.”

  A waitress came and set a cup of coffee down in front of Brenda. Brenda thanked her but waved away a menu.

  Angela eyed the woman sitting across from her. There were fresh bruises on her face.

  “A week,” Brenda said.

  Angela shook her head. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “The bruises, they’re a week old. That is what you were trying to figure out, isn’t it?”

  Angela smiled to put her at ease, but couldn’t help but glance at Brenda’s bruised face and stitched-up neck. She wasn’t a stupid woman by any means. Why then, would she allow herself to remain in an abusive relationship?

  Brenda began to speak as if reading her mind again. “My mother died when I was young. For years, it was just my father and me. I learned at the hand of a firm disciplinarian not to talk back. There was nobody to protect me then, and nobody to protect me now.”

  “I can help you, Brenda.”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t call you for me. I made my bed, now I have to lie in it. I called you for Lacy’s sake.” She paused for an instant, remembering the day Lacy had forced the card on her. She looked down. “Lacy shouldn’t have to live like this.”

  “I can help you both.” She put her hand over Brenda’s hand. Brenda pulled it back sharply, looking around to see if anyone was watching.

  “He’s nowhere around here,” Angela said.

  Brenda started to protest, knew it was pointless and remained silent.

  “What would you like me to do for Lacy?”

  “Get her out of my house before he does something irreversible.”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to do, Brenda. But I have a lot of red tape to cut through. You could just leave with her.”

  Brenda laughed angrily. “Do you have any idea what it is like being the wife of a small-town sheriff?” When no answer was apparent, she said, “I didn’t think so. Well, let me tell you what it’s like. I have deputies stopping by my house on a regular basis, just to see what I’m doing. Always in the guise of, ‘I was running an errand and thought I’d stop by and say hi.’ Or, ‘the sheriff said you made one of your over-the-top apple pies last night, so I thought I’d stop by and see if I could get me a piece.’ Nearly every business owner in this town is afraid of him.” She leaned forward, punctuating her next comment. “I can’t trust anyone!”

  “He’s not a god, Brenda. He’s just—”

  “Shit,” Brenda swore. She looked around with panicked eyes. “I’d hoped I was safe here.” Her face went white, and in one well-practiced maneuver, she swept out of the booth and disappeared into the bathroom.

  A man, who had been sitting at the counter with his back to them, slid into her vacant spot.

  Angela pulled back, caught off guard for a moment. Suddenly, she recognized him. “Allen. Petoro! What are you doing here?”

  “Be quiet and play along.”

  The door opened and Sheriff Waldrip sauntered in. He looked around, spotted the two of them, and approached their table. “Morning, Doc, Ms. Martin.”

  They both looked at him. “Good morning, Sheriff Waldrip,” Angela said, her tongue sharp.

  “I’m looking for my wife. Have either of you seen her?”

  They both shook their heads.

  “Her car’s here.”

  “Is it?” Angela asked. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never seen her car before.”

  “Peter.”

  Sheriff Waldrip spun around to face his wife. “There you are. What are you doing here?”

  She held up a little white take-out bag. “I completely forgot about Christie Arnett being in the hospital. I’m going to take her a little goodie bag to cheer her up.”

  She held open the bag for inspection. Peter obligingly looked inside to find a half-dozen delectable, chocolate brownies staring at him. He reached in and took out one, stuffing it into his mouth.

  “Why didn’t you just bake her some?”

  She shook her head as if to say, You don’t know a thing, Peter. What she said, instead, was, “I didn’t have time, Peter. You know Wednesday is laundry day.” She smoothed down his collar. “Got to have my man looking his best, now, don’t I?” she crooned.

  She looked past him, smiling at Dr. Petoro and Angela. “Come on, Peter. Why are you bothering these people? Since we’re here, why don’t we have coffee together?”

  Angela raised a coffee cup, hiding a smile. She had to admit, Brenda was good. She didn’t know how the woman managed to get from the bathroom to the counter without being seen, but she had to applaud her. She only hoped Christie Arnett really was in the hospital.

  When Peter and Brenda left the table, Angela asked Allen, “Are you following her?”

  Allen shrugged. “I’m looking after her.”

  She grinned. “You’re smitten.”

  “I’ll admit she’s beautiful—under all those bruises.”

  Angela grew serious. “Be careful, Allen. He’s trouble.”

  “That doesn’t mean I should turn my back on her.”

  “You wouldn’t be turning your back on her if you stepped back and let the authorities take charge.”

  He stood to leave. He looked down at her, all playfulness having left his face. “That’s the problem. He is the authority.” He began to walk away but turned back. “And another thing.” She stared up at him, waiting for him to continue, “Just because he planted a seed in her mother’s belly, that doesn’t give him the right to turn Lacy into a punching bag. It’s easy to turn the other way when we don’t like what we see.” He hesitated for a moment and added, “Maybe that’s how this world got so screwed up.”

  Chapter Ten

  On Sunday morning, Lacy stretched in her bed. She did not want to get up, definitely did not wish to sit in a boring old church sanctuary next to her hypocritical father. They would sing the same old boring songs, and say the same old boring prayers. Her father would sit next to her in his Sunday best, following along in his Bible as the pastor read the scriptures. He would make sure she paid attention, but she knew his mind wouldn’t be on the sermon.

  When the service was over, Mrs. Thompson, the youth leader, would pull Lacy aside and ask her why she hadn’t seen her at youth group lately.

  What Lacy wanted to say was, Because all the kids in your sacred youth group think I’m an object of their pity. They talk about me behind my back and then sardonically smile when I enter the room. To them, I’m their latest charity case. What she would actually say, though is, “I’m sorry Mrs. Thompson. School is hectic lately, and I can’t seem to get a handle on the homework thing. I’ll try to come next week.”

  On the ride home, her father would make her recite the message behind the sermon. Just once she would like to fabricate the sermon topic to see if he even knew if she was correct or not. But no, she wasn’t willing to risk the beating on the off chance he had been paying attention.

  Then he would make her recite the Ten Commandments, just to make sure her spiritual life was on track. Too bad there wasn’t a commandment that said, ‘Thou shalt not beat thy wife and child.’ This image of the Bible rewritten made Lacy laugh.

  A sharp knock sounded on the door. Lacy jumped. “Get your lazy ass out of bed,” her father shouted from the other side of the door.

  “I’m getting up,” Lacy replied. She groaned as she turned on her side. It was still sore from the latest beating.

  The pounding came again. Lacy took a deep breath and counted to ten. The door flew open, and her father stood there, dressed for church. “I said to get up.”

  Lacy knew better than to argue. She pr
epared herself for the onslaught by raising her arm to protect her face. Surprised when nothing came, she looked up from the crook of her elbow. Her father stared down at her. “Get dressed. You overslept.” He turned and left.

  Lacy managed to pull herself up, despite the sharp pain that ripped across her lower back.

  She wandered over to her dresser and pulled out a bra, panties, and an undershirt. There wouldn’t be time to shower this morning. As she started to pull off her nightgown, she caught sight of her side. Stretching from her mid-hip on her right side, all the way across her back—nearly to the other side—was a dark, ugly bruise. It was swollen, too. She ran her hand over the tender area, feeling the rise as her hand passed over the swollen muscle. Then she pressed lightly and winced from the pain.

  She sighed. She had stopped counting the bruises over her lifetime, but none had been as dark and ugly as this. Funny thing, though, she didn’t even remember being kicked in the last assault. Or had his fists rendered the damage?

  She flew to the closet and selected a dress to wear. She always had to wear a dress—her father’s rule. This was another reason she didn’t fit in with the other kids at church. They all wore jeans and tee shirts or blouses.

  She opened the door just as her father was about to pound again. “It’s about time,” he said. She crossed the threshold and stepped in front of her father. “Your mother’s putting the eggs on the table. They’re going to be cold by the time we eat.”

  Of course, they weren’t cold—lukewarm perhaps, but not cold. Peter, however, had to make a big deal out of it. “Damn it, Lacy. I told you to hurry. Now the eggs are cold.”

  Lacy, in a defiant mood, stuck her chin out and said, “They aren’t cold.”

  Brenda gasped, and Peter’s hand drew back. Lacy’s hands went up in defense, catching the brunt of the blow. Peter got up from the table, looming over Lacy, ready to strike again. “Today is Sunday, Daddy, remember?”

  Peter’s hand dropped to his side, and he fell back into his chair. He never rendered a beating on Sundays. Sunday was the “Lord’s day” and apparently, Peter didn’t want to disappoint the Lord on a Sunday. Was it possible that somewhere in the Bible there was an eleventh commandment? Might that commandment say, ‘Thou shalt not inflict pain upon your family on a Sunday?’ Lacy smiled at the suggestion.

  “What are you laughing at?” Peter demanded.

  “I’m not laughing, Daddy.”

  Peter, seeming to ignore his daughter’s comeback, shoveled eggs into his mouth, grabbed a third piece of toast, slathered it with butter and jelly, and crammed half the piece into his mouth.

  Lacy shook her head, slightly. The move went unnoticed. “May I be excused?”

  Peter looked at her barely touched plate and shook his head. “No. Finish your breakfast.”

  Lacy sighed, picked up her fork and took a small bite of eggs. She hated eggs and wished longingly for her protein cereal she was allowed on the weekday mornings.

  They finished in silence. Lacy was forced to endure the eggs and the hostile looks from her father. Her mother spent most of the breakfast period looking down at her plate. She caught Lacy’s eyes once, and the faintest smile touched her lips. Secretly, she admired her daughter for standing up to Peter but, at the same time, she cringed with dread at the trouble it would likely cause.

  Finally, Peter stood, which signaled an end to breakfast. Lacy and Brenda followed his example. As she stood, the pain in Lacy’s right side flared, causing her to cry out in pain. “Ouch!” she exclaimed.

  Peter spun around. “What are you whining about?”

  Lacy shook her head. “Nothing.”

  He eyed her for a moment, trying to decide whether he should pursue the question.

  Lacy took a deep breath, letting it out when he turned and walked from the table. They heard the bathroom door slam and knew he would be in there awhile.

  Brenda ran to her side. “Are you okay?”

  She waved her off. “I’m fine, Mom.”

  Brenda lowered her voice. “I did it, Lacy. I called her.”

  “Called who?”

  “Angela, the social worker.”

  Lacy’s eyes grew wide.

  “And…?”

  “I think he followed me there. I had to cut the meeting short.”

  Lacy held her mother at arm’s length, checking her over. “He followed you? Are you okay?”

  She gently pushed her daughter’s arms away. “He followed me, but he didn’t catch me.”

  If Lacy didn’t know better, she’d swear her mother was grinning. And was that a sparkle in her eye. “Mom—are you smirking?” She narrowed her eyes. “Is there something going on I should know about?”

  “Don’t be silly,” Brenda said, turning away to hide her smile.

  Lacy reached out and grabbed her mother’s arm. For a moment, Brenda flinched but then relaxed. “I’m sorry,” Lacy said, “I shouldn’t have done that.”

  They heard the toilet flush and, quickly collecting plates, they began clearing the table. Then Peter emerged, grabbed his coat. “Let’s go. I want to get good seats.”

  Lacy shook her head but obliged. They didn’t need to worry about getting a good seat. There was an unspoken rule in the church. You claimed your pew early on in your religious life. If someone dared sit in your pew—say a newcomer—you eagle-eyed him until he moved. In a town this size, everyone knew where the sheriff and his family sat, and who would be dumb enough to sit in the sheriff’s pew?

  Peter was silent on the way to the church, much to Lacy’s pleasure. Each time he hit a dip in the road, Lacy felt a jolting pain race up her back. Not only that, but she was feeling somewhat achy and flushed. Not to mention she might lose her breakfast at any moment.

  Peter pulled the car to a screeching stop as a kid ran out in front of him. “Asshole,” he shouted.

  “He’s just a kid,” Brenda said.

  “You’re right,” Peter said. “I should be yelling at his parents for not teaching him the proper use of the crosswalk. I swear I don’t know what’s wrong with parents today. They have no control over their children. Maybe I should write him a ticket. That would get his attention. Better yet, I should write his parents a ticket for faulty parenting.”

  “It’s Sunday, Peter.” Her voice took on a mocking tone. “After all, we wouldn’t want the Lord to be displeased on a Sunday, would we?”

  Lacy brought her hand to her mouth, trying to stifle her giggle.

  Peter looked at her in the rearview mirror, which was enough to set her straight. He pulled the car into a parking spot and, just for show, opened Lacy’s and Brenda’s doors. He plastered on his best Sunday smile and led both of his women into the narthex.

  “Good morning,” one of the ushers said, holding his hand out for a welcoming shake.

  Peter grabbed the hand and shook it firmly. “Morning, Walter. A glorious Sunday morning it is.”

  Walter smiled and nodded. “Yes, it is Peter. Are you and your family staying for the potluck?”

  “Of course,” Peter said. “We’ve got the wife’s famous potato salad here.” He pointed out the bowl Brenda was carrying. Brenda held it up, proof they hadn’t come empty-handed.

  “Glad to hear it,” Walter said, urging them on, as the welcome line was stacking up, and people were giving him irritated stares.

  “Did you see how fast Walter moved us through the line?” He turned back, staring at him.

  He knows you beat your wife and kid, Brenda thought, but she said, “He has a lot of people to greet, Peter. We’ll see him at the potluck.”

  They took their usual pew in the sanctuary. As Brenda took her seat, people turned to stare at her latest facial art. She smiled politely, pretending not to notice.

  The service was short. Pastor Reynolds preached on acceptance and tolerance. A fitting title, given the way their morning had started.

  After the final hymn, they filed back out of the sanctuary in the reverse order of which they enter
ed.

  Peter said, “You go on without me. I’m going to find Walter. I want to have it out with him about why he gave us the cold shoulder.”

  Brenda shook her head and walked away, following the trail of people across the courtyard and into Fellowship Hall where the potluck would take place.

  She looked to her left and smiled. “Hi, Polly.”

  Polly Ackerman looked at her. A huge grin broke out on her face. “Oh, hey, Brenda, we missed you at Bible study Wednesday morning.”

  “I’m volunteering at the hospital on Wednesday mornings. I just started the other day.”

  “Good for you,” Polly said. She lowered her voice when she said, “And Peter doesn’t care?”

  Brenda shook her head and tightened her jaw. “That’s right, Polly. Peter doesn’t care. He knows the importance of helping the community.”

  “I just thought…well, you know. With all your accidents and all…” She trailed off, looking at Brenda’s latest masterpiece. The bruising had begun to heal, leaving it a beautiful purple color. “Well, never mind. Hey, where’s Lacy? I want to ask her about babysitting Saturday night. Chad’s taking me to the theater in Laurel Flats. They have that little theater group over there. Have you been? I always have a marvelous time.”

  Brenda shook her head. “Peter’s pretty busy most of the time.”

  Polly shook a sympathetic head at her. “You should ask him to take you sometime.”

  Brenda smiled. “I’ll try.”

  They had come to the front of the line. Polly’s attention suddenly became occupied with filling plates for her three hungry boys. She struggled to balance the plates.

  “Here, let me help,” Brenda said.

  “You’re a doll.” She handed two plates to Brenda, filled the one she had, passed it to her oldest son. “Carry this, love.” The boy thanked his mother and traipsed off to find some of his friends to sit with while Polly filled another plate.

  She looked at Brenda and laughed. “I tell you, girl. I didn’t go to college, but I can strategize better than most.”