Getting Somewhere (31 page)

Finally, Ellie says, “No, I suppose not.” She sounds a little sad, but anxious, too, as if she expects Jenna to criticize or complain. Jenna shuffles uncomfortably, fingers the cigarette butt in her pocket. She hasn't said what she meant to say at all.

“I mean, it's a good thing. It's a good thing you're doing here.”

Jenna can hardly hear Ellie when she mutters, “Thank you,” still clearly expecting the conversation to take a nasty turn. It suddenly occurs to Jenna to wonder why Ellie has come out here, if she knew Jenna was sitting on the porch before she passed through the door, or if she comes out here a lot to smoke and is annoyed to have found Jenna in her space.

Jenna is just ready to go inside, pictures her backpack already lying open on her bed, the last few items waiting to be inserted, when Ellie clears her throat.

“Um, I guess I just wondered if there is anything you want to tell me. Anything you think I should know.”

The unspoken accusation hits Jenna like a sock in the stomach. She shouldn't really be surprised but she didn't expect to hear Ellie air her suspicions so directly. But why shouldn't she? Ellie is simply expressing what Jenna already knows—that she has messed it up again, has hurt other people as well as herself, has become that person who can never be anywhere or do anything that doesn't cause a problem for someone else. Grace would still be here if Jenna wasn't. That is the only solid ground, the only incontrovertible truth.

Even without Jenna's knowing exactly the nature of Lauren's complaint, Grace's absence is reason enough for Jenna to convince herself that she has done something horribly wrong, that her feelings, however successful she may have thought she was at hiding them, are responsible for incalculable harm. Even if she hadn't been the one to mail the letter, hadn't failed so miserably to predict Lauren's intentions, to report what little she knew, Jenna knows this is her fault. Her only hope now is that somehow the harm can be contained if she does the one thing she still has control over.

She has no answer for Ellie, kind of doubts Ellie is even expecting one. She turns toward the door, her head down, when she sees something white in the space between herself and Ellie. She looks down to see that Ellie is holding a folded piece of paper between two fingers, extending toward Jenna.

She says simply, “This is for you.”

Jenna takes a step forward and guardedly transfers the slip of paper into her own fingers. She stares at it for a moment then looks toward Ellie, but she is looking away. Jenna stands there another moment longer but can think of nothing more to say, fully aware that she has missed a chance that she may forever regret.

J
ENNA IS PERCHED
on the edge of her bed, the zipper closed as well as it can be on her pack, her jacket tied around her waist, when she unfolds the slip of paper. At first she stares at the handwriting—an odd combination of printing and cursive, familiar to Jenna from various notes left on tables in the packing shed, signs at the market, handwritten reminders at the bottom of the CSA member list—without really seeing the words. She then reads them quickly, then again, more slowly.

 

I just can't do this. Having this happen all over again is just not something I can deal with. I've tried to live up to your expectations, and I guess I'm just nowhere near as close to that as you think I am. It took this to finally remind me that this town and the farm are not where I am meant to be. I wish it—I—could be different. I love you.

 

Please tell Jenna I'm sorry.

 

Jenna refolds the note and then opens it again, reads it for the third time. She rubs her fingertips over the surface as if the words could speak to her through her skin. They say, in essence, exactly what Jenna herself is feeling. She can't deal with it, with whatever is going to happen. She can't live up to these expectations. She wishes she could be different. Everybody is sorry. Everybody is always so goddamn sorry. Jenna reminds herself of her own mantra, almost forgotten but still fresh: nobody is what they seem. She turns to her pack and begins to unzip the front pocket, changes her mind, and slips the paper into her back pocket beside another larger piece already folded there. She's ready.

WEDNESDAY, JULY 25

DONNA IS SPOONING BROWN SUGAR AND RAISINS INTO
her oatmeal when she asks casually, “Where's Jenna this morning?” For some reason, all eyes turn to Ellie, including Lauren's, but Ellie has no answer, sits motionless for a brief moment, then hurtles from her chair and up the stairs. Though the others are seated at the table, no one eats, all motion suspended while they wait for Ellie's return.

Lauren is sure there's nothing to worry about. Jenna often goes to the garden before breakfast, though it is kind of a weird thing to do today since the social workers are scheduled to be here at ten.

But then she looks across the table at Donna's face, turns to see Ellie standing in the doorway, tears coursing down her cheeks. Donna jumps up and dashes around the table, puts her arm around Ellie who buries her face in Donna's shoulder. “This can't be happening,” Ellie mutters. “She's gone. She took her backpack and most of her stuff is gone. God, Donna. What in the world are we going to do?”

The two women move across the foyer, and Lauren can hear the front door open. Sarah and Cassie exchange a look, and then they abandon the table as well. Lauren has little choice but to follow.

While the rest of them stand stupidly watching from the porch, Donna runs across the yard to the barn, slides open the door just enough to let the light in and look around the corner. She comes right back out and slides the door shut behind her. She is talking before she gets back, but Lauren can't seem to hear her over what has now become a roaring sound in her ears, instead reads the words on her lips.
Jenna's not here. The bike is gone.

When Lauren turns, Ellie is stepping off the porch, walking away from Donna, away from the girls clustered there, and they all know without saying a word that she is going to the river. It doesn't make sense, and yet it is exactly the right thing to do, because that's where you go when you think of Jenna. By the time Ellie has reached the edge of the garden, she is running. Ellie disappears into the clearing by the sycamore, is gone a few moments, long enough to circle the area briefly, then they see her emerge, cross the bridge over the creek, and disappear again into the woods.

There is no hint of a breeze. Nothing stirs. Lauren cannot stand here watching this anymore. She has to sit down, her legs shaking so hard she's afraid someone will hear her knees knocking together. It wasn't supposed to be like this. It's like the tentacles of her anger and power are curling back to grab her around her neck. The looks on their faces, that terror, it's like a goddamn plague, infecting everyone who's even nearby. Lauren should have been gone by now. She shouldn't have to see this, to be any part of it. But she just can't allow herself to be afraid. That's how you get hurt, how you end up alone with no one to care about you.

Lauren blinks her eyes tightly shut for just a moment to quench the burning saltiness. She needs to check her hair, the front of her blouse for stains, get ready, get away. Suddenly, she hears it, the faint crunch of gravel, the car easing around the turn into the driveway, just like she'd dreamed about. But with it comes thundering unimpeded into her thoughts a wish, just for an instant, that she could ask for the ability to go to the woman who is returning breathless, her search fruitless—the woman who has just now stepped up beside her and, despite everything, clutched her hand with a gentle squeeze—and beg her to send them away.

T
HE OFFICE IS
stifling. Both windows are wide open and there is a fan running in one of them, but it only makes the heat feel like it is being stirred, not cooled. The faces of everyone in the room are bright red and dark crescents of moisture are growing under each person's arms. Cassie notices, but not with any attendant sympathy. Well past any rationality, Cassie is allowing herself to blame the five women sitting here, sweating. She feels a tiny surge of superiority in the face of their discomfort and, with it, an equally tiny wave of confidence.

They finally decided to conduct the individual interviews here in the office, but only after Ellie strongly encouraged them to just meet all together in the living room, to ask their questions in the presence of the whole group, and to share whatever information they have with everyone at once. They seemed almost shocked at Ellie's insinuation that they were making this even more stressful than necessary, and though they continued to insist that the original interviews be conducted privately, they did agree to meet together afterward to inform everyone of any findings and to discuss next steps, if required.

They have tried to set the chairs up in a circle but the room is too small so Cassie's chair is almost in the middle, her back to the caseworkers Maureen Detweiller and Tracy Hughes. The investigator, whose name is Nancy Bobbitt (making Cassie think of her grandmother's old Nancy Drew and Bobbsey Twins books, which Cassie devoured as a child) is sitting sideways at the desk, paperwork spread out at her elbow. She has to turn her head nearly 180 degrees from her files to where Cassie sits, which adds to the impression that her long neck is rubbery and rather ostrich-like. She is wearing a dark green polyester blouse with large, conspicuous shoulder pads, making her wobbling head appear as if it is too small for her body.

Beside Nancy and almost behind her is Sandra Preston, the department supervisor, who greets Cassie with a pained smile and then refuses to meet her eyes. The recorder, to whom Cassie has not been introduced, is crammed into the corner beside the window, receiving none of the lame benefits of the fan. She has placed her laptop on a chair in front of her and has to lean uncomfortably forward to tap on the keys. Two long cords snake out of the back of it, taking divergent paths behind Sandra's chair, one toward the outlet under the window and the other to disappear somewhere behind the desk. Cassie wants to smile at her, share some expression of commiseration, but the woman never looks up.

Cassie has absolutely no idea what to expect. She asked to be the first of the girls because she was afraid she would panic if she had too much time to think. She has not for a single second of this short morning been able to stop wondering about Jenna—where she is, if she is okay—and for that, she is oddly grateful, not only for the distraction but because it has made her feel that Jenna is with her here. Since her greatest fear has been that this complaint has something to do with Jenna, her presence in Cassie's mind is like a way to remember her job here, which she unhesitatingly identifies as protecting her friend.

Cassie is suddenly aware that she must appear very frightened and concentrates on relaxing. She loosely clasps her hands in her lap, keeping them far from the end of her ponytail, which has a way of jumping into her fingers and twisting around them when she is nervous. Enough time has gone by that she wonders when they are going to start, if Nancy Bobbitt already decided what questions to ask before she came here or if she is just now figuring them out.

Finally, Nancy Bobbitt turns to Cassie with the full effect of her steroidal shoulders and says, “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

Cassie just nods. The woman's voice is high, gratingly so, and hardly intimidating. For some reason, the effect of the voice is to make Cassie forget exactly what she's doing here. An image of Gram passes through her mind, a brief concern that something bad must have happened to her and they are here to tell her about it, and then the face of Gordon, a face she has managed to erase almost completely from her awareness, arises fully formed as if he had just stepped out of the room for a moment. Cassie's hands are now clenched tightly together, and her head has started to throb. She breathes shallowly through her nose, recovers herself slightly.

“I need to start by informing you of the nature of this complaint. That way, you'll be able to tell us whether the complaint seems fair to you, if it is something you maybe observed or experienced yourself. Once you hear what I'm going to say though, I want you to remember that we are not accusing you of anything. In fact, we're not accusing anyone at this point. When a complaint is filed, it means that someone believes a certain kind of violation of standards has occurred and also believes it is serious enough to warrant our attention. That is the stage we are at right now, determining whether anything that has happened within this program warrants our further attention. Does that make sense?”

Cassie nods.

Nancy Bobbitt's face is kind, and she looks almost apologetic when she says, “I know it is hard to speak when you are nervous, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to respond verbally. Out loud. So the recorder can hear what you've said and not be in a position to try to interpret gestures. Okay?”

Cassie nods, then quickly blurts, “Okay.”

Nancy Bobbitt smiles slightly and nods herself.

“Okay. So, just to be certain—you understand that you are to answer the questions honestly and to the best of your ability, that you won't get in trouble for anything you say, and that if you don't know or can't answer a question, all you need to do is say, ‘I don't know.' Is that clear?”

Cassie nods, adds a loud yes.

“Now, I'm going to read the complaint to you, not because I don't think you can read it for yourself, but because I want to be sure nothing gets missed. When you see the names on the paper, sometimes there is a tendency to get distracted by that and fail to digest the rest of the words. So, I hope you won't mind if I read this aloud, and then I'll hand it to you so you can read it over yourself. Okay?”

“Yes. I mean, that's fine.”

Even with the words read aloud, Cassie finds it difficult to concentrate once she hears the names. It is not until she holds the paper in her lap and reads the actual complaint that she understands what it says, that Lauren has accused Grace of sexual harassment. The paper says that Lauren claims to have been subject to the “unwelcome sexual advances” of Grace Van Heusen and that “their intimidating, hostile, and offensive nature have interfered with her working, learning, and living environment and have caused discomfort and humiliation to a degree in which the victim has feared reprisal and threat to personal safety.”

When Cassie looks up, Nancy Bobbitt is watching her but doesn't say anything. Slowly, Cassie's head begins to shake and she looks down at the paper again as if it couldn't possibly say what she thinks it says. “Sexual harassment.” Even after reading the words a second time, Cassie cannot imagine what Lauren means by sexual harassment. Cassie had thought she knew something about sexual harassment. It is Gordon. It is Sarah's stepfather. But, obviously, it means a lot more than that. Or something completely different. Cassie is so confused that she doesn't know how she's going to keep sitting here. She considers asking if she can use the bathroom but isn't sure she'd be able to come back, thinks it better if she just stays glued to her chair, her fingers clutching this mysterious paper.

Nancy Bobbitt is still watching her, waiting, Cassie guesses, for her to finish reading.

She tries to think of a good way to phrase her question, leans forward to hand the paper back to the woman, and merely says, “I don't think I understand.”

“You don't understand . . . what?”

“I guess I don't understand what the words ‘sexual harassment' mean. Does it mean having sex?”

“No, not necessarily. It means that a person feels threatened or uncomfortable due to the sexual interest expressed by another person. It could involve unwelcome requests for sexual interaction or suggestive comments or anything of a sexual nature, either physical or verbal, that a person feels is being used against him or her by someone in a position of authority or power. Harassment could just make you feel unsafe in a particular environment because someone was always acting in a sexual way toward you, maybe commenting on your clothes or wanting you to look at sexy pictures. Like a teacher, for instance, who made a student believe that grades were dependent upon performing certain sexual favors or a boss who would prevent a person from getting a raise or a promotion if they didn't respond to sexual advances. Even having to be around someone who was always touching you when you didn't want them to and wouldn't stop when you asked. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I think I understand, but none of those things ever happened to Lauren. Grace would never do any of the things you've described.”

“Well, I guess you've answered my first question, then. Have you ever observed or experienced the behavior that we're describing as sexual harassment?”

“Here?”

“That's right.”

“No, of course not. That's exactly the sort of thing Ellie and Grace and Donna are trying to prevent.”

“Can you say if it's possible that Lauren may have experienced these things?”

“Here?”

“Yes.”

Cassie is shaking her head. “Yes, I can say. It's not possible.”