by Vickie Hall
She touched his cheek and smiled. “It’s been a privilege to help. You’re more like my son than a nephew, Glen. I couldn’t let you go through this alone.”
Alone. He’d never felt more alone in his entire life. He tried to smile, but somehow he couldn’t. He walked her to the door. She paused and gave him a sympathetic look. “I’ll be by in the morning to make breakfast before you leave for work.”
“They can eat cereal,” he said in a half-hearted attempt to argue with her.
“They’re not going to eat cereal,” she said firmly. “They get that on Saturdays when you’re home.”
“Do you miss Kirkendall’s?” he asked with a flash of guilt.
“Not really,” she said. “I thought I would, but it’s been nice to have a change of pace.”
Glen attempted a laugh. “A two-year-old and a four-year-old are more than a change of pace.”
“I love taking care of them.” Irene raised her hand and cupped his chin. “You look tired. It’s been a long day. Why don’t you turn in?”
“I will,” he said, walking her to the car. “I’ll just finish the dishes and tidy up.”
Irene turned from the car and looked thoughtful. She hesitated before speaking, but peered at him. “Glen, I know I have no right to tell you what to do, but if you’d just talk to her, just give her a chance—”
His jaw tightened. He pressed a hand against the car and stared at the curb. When he turned his gaze to her again, she appeared almost tearful. “I don’t want to talk about this,” he said, opening the car door.
Irene got inside, then placed her hand on his through the open window. “Write to her, Glen. Go see her. Do something.”
Glen felt himself close off from her, desperate to keep the pain at bay. “Drive safe. See you tomorrow.”
“Think about it, Glen.” Irene started the engine and pulled away.
He waved as she drove down the street. When he went inside, he let out a long, painful sigh. How could he think about it? How could he ever allow himself to feel anything again? Bonnie’s betrayal had torn every precious thing from his soul, had ravaged the depths of his being and ripped him into pieces. He tried to work through the pain, tried to push it to the back of his mind. He had to. He had to earn a living, put food on the table for his children, take care of them, be there for them when he would rather run to some far corner of the earth to die.
Yet for all the pain and anguish Bonnie had caused, he couldn’t bring himself to do the one thing he had every right to do—hate her. No matter how often he told himself he should, no matter how he argued the reasons, he couldn’t hate her. In fact, he could scarcely comprehend how the Bonnie he knew could have done the things she’d admitted to doing in California. He couldn’t see any trace of behavior that would have led her to such conduct. Perhaps that was more confounding than anything. And that was the crux of what caused him so much doubt—that if she could so completely deceive those other men, she could deceive him as well.
Glen sank into the sofa and held his head in his hands. The constant conflict he battled every day wore him thin of patience and restraint. He felt as if he might explode at times, as if he might attack something or someone and unleash the rage that brewed inside him. Maybe then he could stop feeling. Maybe then he could hate her.
His eyes strayed to Bonnie’s picture, the one he somehow couldn’t put away or destroy. Her smile evoked such pain in him, to see her there so happy and full of life. He remembered the day the picture had been taken—the day they’d brought Jeannie home from the hospital. How brimming with joy they’d both been, new parents, unexpected parents. It seemed their world had revolved to some unspeakable fulfillment, as if all the happy days before their daughter’s birth had been wonderful, but now they would be even more so. And then, when Charlie had been born, they’d been amazed and overcome with gratitude and love.
Tears welled in his tired eyes. The past five years had been the happiest of his life, happy because of Bonnie. How could he so easily throw it all away when everything in him still loved her? He almost hated himself for his weakness—that he couldn’t cut her from his heart, couldn’t sever his soul from hers. But how could he ever trust her again? How could he ever believe she was telling him the truth about anything?
A wailing cry pierced the air. Glen shot up from the sofa and hurried down the hall to Jeannie’s room. He could see by the dim glow of the nightlight he’d had to put in her room since Bonnie’s absence that she was sobbing, her little arms reaching for him. “It’s all right,” he said, sitting on the edge of her bed to scoop her into his arms. “Daddy’s here now.”
The little girl clung to him, wetting his shoulder with her tears. “Where’s Mommy? I want Mommy…”
Something inside Glen seized with regret. How many more times could he tell his children that their mother had gone away for a long visit? They couldn’t comprehend it, couldn’t know what had taken her from them. “I know, baby,” he whispered. “I know you miss her.”
Jeannie placed her tiny hands on either side of his face as if to capture his full attention. She peered into his eyes with soulful yearning. “Can you find her, Daddy, and bring her home?”
Pain shot through him. How he wished it were that simple. “Oh, baby…”
She sniffed and her chin began to quiver. “Doesn’t she love us anymore?”
Glen smoothed back the pale blonde hair from her forehead. “Of course she loves you. She loves you and Charlie very much. And I know she misses you too.”
“Then why can’t she come home?”
The sound in her wounded voice tied his stomach in knots. He fluffed her pillow and urged her back down. “It’s not that easy. You’re too young to understand—” He stopped himself and leaned over to kiss her. “Tell you what. How about tomorrow I take the day off and we go to the zoo? Would you like that?”
Jeannie’s smile was tentative. “Can we see the elephants?”
Glen nodded and prayed he could skate past this episode of his daughter’s misery. “Sure. And we can feed them peanuts too. Would you like that?”
Jeannie gave him a solemn nod. Glen pulled the covers up to her chin and leaned in close. “Okay then, you get to sleep, and when you wake up in the morning we’ll go to the zoo.”
She reached up and laced her spindly arms around his neck. “I love you, Daddy.”
Glen kissed her forehead and tapped the end of her nose with his finger. “I love you too, Jeannie-beanie. Now go to sleep.”
With one last kiss, Glen got up and backed toward the door. “Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
Glen went to his own room, dark and filled with aching memories. He lay on the bedspread without getting undressed, draped an arm over his eyes, and heard himself sigh out Bonnie’s name. This was when it seemed hardest for him—at night when she wasn’t beside him, cradled in his embrace. This was when he hated what had happened to change their lives, hated what she had done to capsize their happiness, hated that he had gone to the authorities. But what else could he have done? He might have turned a blind eye to the secrets of the red box, might have attempted to forget or pretend he’d never seen the damaging evidence against her. But how long would it be before it ate him alive, drove him mad until he destroyed every ounce of their happiness?
If only he hadn’t discovered the box, he might have lived out his entire life in blissful ignorance. If he could undo it all, he knew he would. He’d be here right now, holding Bonnie in his arms, happy and content.
For the first time, he allowed himself to think of Bonnie alone in a prison cell. Was she afraid? Was she lonely? Was she hurting at all for that she’d done? He didn’t know, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Thinking of her behind bars brought his sympathies to the surface. Imagining her in a stark, desolate cell filled him with dread. And yet she deserved to be punished for breaking the law—for breaking his heart.
Glen rolled and heaved himself off the bed. He couldn’t take anot
her minute of the quiet darkness, his roiling thoughts. Sweeping into the living room, he turned on the radio, kept the volume low and tuned the dial until he found some program droning on about the effects of radiation poisoning. He dropped onto the sofa with a sigh of disgust. After what felt like endless hours, he fell asleep and dreamed of Bonnie.
///////
Bonnie hated visiting day. The eleven other women in the cell block received visitors on a regular basis, but Bonnie knew there was no one left who cared about her. Rolling on her side, she stared at the blank cinderblock wall, her eyes tracing the cracks in the mortar between bricks. She didn’t have to report for kitchen duty until much later in the day. There she worked long hours cleaning up after the cooks, scouring pots and pans and every inch of the facility until it sparkled. She remembered the time she’d spent scrubbing the floors on her hands and knees in Long Beach and found some twist of irony in it now. She’d been in a sort of prison even back then. It seemed only fitting to be in one now.
She wondered if she might smuggle some utensil out of the kitchen, something she could sharpen against the concrete, something she could use to end her pain. But then every physical discomfort, every disagreeable thing that happened to her here was welcomed as deserved punishment. There was nothing she wouldn’t bear with gratitude for the suffering and destruction she had caused. She remained as aloof as possible, kept to herself and spoke little. That, too, had become penance for her.
She heard one of the inmates returning from the visitors’ room, talking to the matron about her daughter and how much she’d grown. Bonnie clamped her hands over her ears and hummed to herself, trying to drown out the painful reminder. She wanted to scream at the woman, to tell her to shut up. Instead, she got up from her cot and pulled a book from the small shelf suspended against the wall.
Bonnie knew that what she was about to do would cause her pain, but she couldn’t help it. She couldn’t stop herself from opening the book to expose two tiny photographs she’d asked for from her wallet the day she’d arrived—one of Charlie and Jeannie sitting together on the sofa, and one of Glen standing in front of the house after they’d first moved in. Tears shimmered in her eyes, and a wrenching agony twisted her heart. How she ached to see them, touch them, to hear their voices. The pain was almost unbearable. Bonnie put forth a trembling finger to touch the photograph of her children as tears streamed down her cheeks. She whispered their names, then brought the book to her lips and kissed each picture. Closing it, she returned the book to its shelf and stared at the floor.
“Taggart!” the matron barked. “You’ve got a visitor.”
Bonnie spun toward the cell door, her eyes wide with disbelief. “Ido? Are you sure?” The matron jabbed a key into the lock and pried the door open. “Yeah, I’m sure. Come on.”
Bonnie smoothed the front of her drab gray prison dress and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. She supposed it must be her attorney. Maybe he’d located the last of the men she’d married in San Diego to obtain his signature on the annulment. Maybe he had other news.
The matron nodded to a guard, who opened the door to the visitors’ room and let Bonnie in. The walls were painted dove gray, a perfect match to the colorless life she lived now. “Fifteen minutes,” the matron said.
Bonnie shuffled forward in her canvas shoes, scanning the tables of inmates and visitors. She didn’t see her lawyer and turned back to the door. It had been a mistake.
“Bonnie!”
She pivoted toward the sound of her name and saw Irene standing behind a table, motioning. Fresh tears filled Bonnie’s eyes. She could hardly believe Irene had come to see her.
The width of the table was meant to keep them apart. They were not allowed to touch. Irene eased back into her chair as Bonnie sat across from her. Irene smiled and kept her hands clasped over her purse as it rested in her lap.
Bonnie sniffed back her tears. “Irene…you look so good to me.”
Her friend’s expression was a mix of pity and sorrow. Bonnie self-consciously smoothed back her hair and remembered she hadn’t brushed it that day. And then the thought struck her—Irene had come with bad news. “Is there something the matter? Are the children—”
Irene held up a gloved hand. “No. Nothing’s wrong. Everyone is fine. I just wanted to see you.”
Bonnie searched Irene’s face. She appeared older than Bonnie remembered. A blossom of renewed shame rose in Bonnie’s throat. She looked away. “You shouldn’t have come.”
Irene extended her hand, but withdrew it as a guard stepped forward with a warning look. “I wanted to,” Irene said softly. “I wanted to come sooner, but—”
Bonnie shook her head. “I don’t deserve—” She stopped and let out a heavy sigh. “You shouldn’t come again, Irene. It’s a long drive, and—”
Irene’s voice grew firm. “Bonnie, why haven’t you written? You’re allowed to write letters, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but—”
“Don’t you think your children would like to hear from you? To know that you’re all right?”
Bonnie covered her face and shook her head. How could she? She had no right to anything. “I can’t do it,” she said, slowly raising her gaze to Irene’s. “It’s best if they forget me.”
Irene’s eyes fired with indignation. “How can you say that, Bonnie? They’re your children.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” she charged. “What I’ve done is killing me—I couldn’t bear it if it killed them too. They’re better off with Glen. We’re not legally married—he’ll find someone else and—” She couldn’t complete the torturous thought.
“No, Bonnie. Listen to me,” Irene urged. “I can’t pretend to understand what you did or why you did it. And I don’t need to know. What I do know is that you’re a wonderful, loving mother. Charlie and Jeannie couldn’t ask for better. And as for Glen—he fell in love with a sweet, caring girl who brought him more happiness than anyone else ever will. What you did before you met Glen is water under the bridge, Bonnie. It can’t be undone. I know that. But I also know you’re not the same woman you were before you moved here.”
Bonnie’s gut twisted, and the back of her throat ached with emotion. She sighed and rested her forehead in her hand. “I’ve ruined everything, Irene. There is nothing I can do to fix this. And I don’t expect otherwise. I betrayed Glen…” Her chin began to quiver and her eyes welled with tears. “Please…Irene, just leave—”
Irene pressed her palms together and brought the tips of her forefingers to her lips. She looked at Bonnie for several seconds before she spoke. “Write to Glen.”
Bonnie’s mouth fell open. “And say what?” She was surprised at how harsh her voice sounded.
“He still loves you.”
“No, he doesn’t—he can’t,” Bonnie spat bitterly. “I took his love and his trust and ground them into the dirt.”
Irene folded her arms and angled her head. “I suppose that’s why he sits in the living room at night and stares at your picture,” she replied. “Or why he won’t let me wash your pillow case—”
“Stop it, Irene. I’ve done more than just hurt him, and what I’ve done is unforgivable. He could barely stand to be at the sentencing. I saw the way he looked at me.”
“But you’ve never talked to him, Bonnie. You’ve never said a word since your arrest—”
“What was there to say?” Her hands spread in front of her. “It was all there in the box. Everything he needed to condemn me—everything I’d done to condemn myself. I can never explain or justify what I did.”
Irene’s face registered with heartfelt concern. “That may be, but he thinks that everything between you two was a lie. I know it wasn’t. It couldn’t have been. You loved each other, and any fool could see that just by looking at you. Your love for him—that wasn’t a lie.”
Bonnie raised her gaze to the ceiling and felt a sharp pain explode in her chest. She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her fingers to her temples. “It�
�s too late, Irene…”
Irene shook her head slowly. “Oh, Bonnie,” she sighed. “Of course he’s hurt. He’s devastated. But time can do miraculous things. All you have to do is make the first move.”
Bonnie gritted her teeth and interlaced her fingers until her knuckles turned white. “I can’t do that. I don’t deserve him, and he sure as hell doesn’t deserve me.” She bolted up from the table and stared down at Irene. “Thank you for coming. I’m sorry you wasted your time.”
Irene reached out. “Bonnie, wait.”
Bonnie stopped, but didn’t turn to face her.
“Think about what I’ve said,” Irene said softly. “He loves you. I know he does. Write to him, Bonnie.”
She turned now, her eyes narrowed. “Without his forgiveness, any love he has left for me will die soon enough. I will have to live with that for the rest of my life.”
With steeled emotions, Bonnie walked away from the table. She didn’t look back, or hesitate as the guard opened the door.
///////
Bonnie took out the letter she’d started the day before and pressed open the pages. As she reviewed what she had written, it suddenly felt foolish and pointless to continue. How could she make Glen understand when she couldn’t even understand it herself? As she stared at the letter, she submerged herself in the memory of who she was in the autumn of 1942. Who had she really bee n? What had made her marry Luther Shold?
She was eighteen years old when she ended up in San Diego, a runaway at the age of sixteen. She’d done waitress work for the first few months, had slept in parks, alleyways, and bus stations, and when the money was a little better, she’d rented a room in some flophouse. It was rough going, no life for a young girl. She began to make her way down the coast, searching for what—she didn’t know. It just seemed there might be something better in the next town or the town after that.
After leaving Long Beach, Bonnie stayed in Laguna Beach for a couple of months, then on to San Clemente and Oceanside, finally landing in San Diego. When she found a job as a live -in maid, she thought she’d found a little stability, but the work was unfulfilling and the money barely adequate. To occupy her free hours, she’d begun to volunteer at the USO canteen, enjoying the attention she got from the servicemen. And then she learned about their allotment pay, how it doubled once they went into battle, learned about the life insurance policy benefit should a soldier be killed in action, and the idea came to her—she could marry one of those men and live off his pay. She wouldn’t have to work anymore, wouldn’t have to worry about money. She’d been poor all her life, dirt poor. It would be so nice to have something for once.
