That Night (16 page)

In the front seat of the truck we changed into jeans and tank tops and I let my hair down, then we headed out to the lake. I tried to get into things at the party, tried to enjoy the roaring fire, getting high with our friends, drinking beer after beer, but I had a hard time catching a buzz, my fear pulling me down, making me edgy and tense. I could tell Ryan was getting annoyed, he kept telling me to relax. But I couldn’t because Shauna had also come out there with the girls and their dates. This time, though, Shauna didn’t even glance in my direction as she laughed with her friends and danced to the stereo someone had set on the hood of a truck. But I couldn’t forget she was there, couldn’t stop wondering what she had planned, couldn’t stop waiting for the hammer to fall.

Around two in the morning, parents were picking kids up, and some of them, who were supposedly sober, were driving off. Finally Shauna and her date, and Rachel and her date, got in a car. They were leaving. I took what felt like my first breath of the night. But then I saw the window rolling down as they drove past Ryan and me. I flinched, waiting for something to be thrown at me. Ryan tried to pull me behind him. Shauna, her head out the back window, said, “Hope you had a nice night, loser.” Then she collapsed back inside, everyone laughing.

Ryan threw his bottle at the back tire rim and the glass exploded. The car stopped, like the driver might get out and fight, but Ryan picked up another bottle as if he were going to throw it, and the car took off. Ryan gave me a hug.

“I’m sorry, baby. At least she didn’t screw up our whole night.”

But then I realized she had—or actually I had. Just like she wanted.

*   *   *

Ryan drove up to the highest cliff at the lake and we sat in the truck, looking out over the water, smoking another joint. We had music playing softly, our hands entwined, my head on Ryan’s shoulder. We could see headlights from other trucks and cars in the distance, the glow of campfires.

Ryan said, “Do you want to join them again?”

“Not really, but we can if you want to.”

He pulled me closer and whispered in my ear, “You’re the only person I want to be with.”

I closed my eyes, smelling his cologne, feeling the heat of his body, the solidness of his shoulder under my cheek, and let the music wash away Shauna and Nicole and my parents and everything that had happened that year. We had graduated. It was over. Shauna was over.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

E
CHO
B
EACH
H
ALFWAY
H
OUSE
, V
ICTORIA

M
ARCH
2012

The halfway house was on a quiet tree-lined street two blocks from the ocean. Whenever there was a crime in the neighborhood, the police came knocking on our door first. The house was old and drafty but big enough—three stories high—to house twenty-five parolees. The staff had offices on the main floor, and we had to sign in and out at the front desk. The kitchen was also on the main floor and we were responsible for our own food. Everyone had a set of dishes and cutlery, and a small cupboard. Until I found a job I’d get a minimum allowance of $77 per week. Once I was working, I’d have to pay a small rent.

I’d arrived in the afternoon, feeling exhausted and messy. The first thing I did was take a shower. It had been years since I’d had one to myself, since I could actually lock the door and blast the hot water. I didn’t have to watch everyone around me, my body tense. Even now, I still caught my breath when I heard a movement out in the hall. I paused, listened. It was nothing, just someone walking to her room. I lathered my body again and again, face up to the water, eyes closed, glorying in the moment, the strong water pressure that hadn’t turned to a freezing cold trickle after five minutes. Last year, when I was still on temporary absences, I’d never been able to relax long enough to have a shower, just took sponge baths in the sink—I could hear easier without the water running.

My skin, pale from lack of sun, was getting red and splotchy, so I turned off the shower now and stepped out, taking my time as I toweled dry, savoring even this moment: a decent towel, peace and quiet, a feeling of what it might be like once I had full parole and a place of my own. I thought about what to do that day. I had to start looking for work soon—that’s where most of the other parolees were, the house was empty—and there were some programs in the community I needed to attend. But for now I thought I might go to the beach, or maybe a coffee shop.

I’d found one on my last UTA, had stood in line and stared at the people ordering their lattes, mochas, and cappuccinos with such ease while I studied the chalkboard and all its offerings in a panic. I settled on a black coffee, only to be thrown again when the clerk asked which size: tall, grande, venti. I muttered, “Large,” but then, feeling trapped by a man standing too close behind me, pushed my way out of the line, stumbled to the bathroom, and hid in a stall until my heart rate settled down. I left without getting my coffee. Today I wanted to try again, wanted to order one of the drinks with the whipped cream on top.

Back in my room, I walked around, still in my towel, and put away my things. The rooms were just large enough for two single beds, with bedding in a pale blue and beige checked pattern that looked like it had been washed a thousand times, and two chests of drawers. In a corner of the room there were lockers for our personal stuff. My new roommate was out, probably working. We hadn’t met yet and I was nervous—a bad roommate could make your life hell. I tried to focus on the goal: one more year and I could apply for full parole. I just had to stay out of trouble.

*   *   *

I had pulled on a pair of jeans and was standing in my prison-issue sports bra—I was going to have to go shopping for clothes soon—when my door was flung open. Instinctively, I grabbed one of my shoes from the floor in case I needed a weapon. A woman came rushing into the room, heading toward the dresser on the other side. She looked about my age but was probably a few years younger. Bleach-blond hair, too much makeup, scarred skin, like she’d been a druggie. She glanced at me, her eyes surprised, then started frantically searching through her top drawer. She kept looking back at the open doorway, saying, “Shit, shit, shit.”

“Are you okay?” I said.

She glanced at me again and looked like she was about to say something, then I heard heavy footsteps in the hall outside our room. The woman froze, her hand still in the drawer. We both turned toward the door.

A large woman was standing in the hallway, her face angry and mean. Wide-shouldered, with huge breasts that hung low under her black T-shirt, salt-and-pepper hair in a crew cut, a jagged pale pink scar running down the side of her head, almost to her ear. She was wearing men’s jeans with a wallet chain, and tattoos covered most of her throat, forming a collar. My body tense, I studied the tattoos up and down her meaty arms—prison style. Was she from Rockland?

One of the tattoos was a name,
HELEN
, with a knife through the
H
and a rose wrapped around the handle. Her eyes flicked to me. Now I remembered. Helen Rosanboch. She’d been at Rockland last year, but we’d been housed in different cell blocks, so we hadn’t had much contact. She had a violent reputation, and I’d heard she was a doper. But she got along well with the guards, knew how to play the game, and had friends on the inside. I didn’t know why Helen was at my door, but it couldn’t be for anything good. I gripped the shoe tighter.

“Where’s my fucking money?” she said to the blond woman.

So that was it. A beef over a bad debt.

“I’ve got some—and I’ll get the rest by the end of the week.” The woman’s voice was scared, her body almost cringing into the corner.

Helen took a few steps into the room. “We had a deal, Angie.” Helen glanced at me again. This time it was a challenge, daring me to interfere.

I turned back to my suitcase, but I could still see them both from the corner of my eye. I dropped the shoe onto the bed, where I could reach it. I was worried about a fight starting in our room. It was the last thing I needed.

Angie said, “I’ll get it—real soon, okay?” She grabbed a sock from the drawer, pulled out a handful of crumpled bills.

“You’ve been holding out on me?” Helen came all the way into the room, snatched the money from Angie’s hands, and started unfolding the bills. She mouthed the numbers as she counted, then tucked them into her bra.

“No! I was just waiting until I had it all. Can you give me a break, Helen? Just a few more days. You know my kids—”

“I don’t give a fuck about your kids. I’ve got kids too. What about my fucking kids, Angie?” Helen’s voice was enraged, her face beet-red. She gave Angie a shove. She fell against the side of the dresser, slid down to the floor with a thump. Helen leaned over her. “You think you can play me like that?”

Angie was cowering, one arm over her face. “I’m not. I swear!”

I turned back toward them, my pulse racing. Should I do something?

“I told you—you don’t pay me back on time, I’ll fuck you up.” Helen smacked Angie hard in the face, bouncing the back of Angie’s head against the side of the dresser with a hard crack. Angie let out a gasp.

I stepped forward. “Hey, that’s enough.”

“Stay out of this,” Helen said over her shoulder, giving Angie another slap. Angie was trying to curl into a ball, her arms covering her face and head.

“Stop, please. I’m sorry.” Angie’s muffled voice sounded terrified.

I glanced at the door. Where the hell was the house staff? Couldn’t anyone hear this? No cameras in the room either. Shit, I really didn’t want to get involved but I couldn’t stand by while this woman got her ass kicked.

Helen bent over and grabbed the top of Angie’s hair, lifting her off the floor. Angie cried out and scrabbled at Helen’s hand. Helen spun her around, threw her facedown onto the bed. Her knee in the middle of her back, she pressed Angie’s face into the pillow. Angie was crying hard now, making muffled pleas.

“Come on, Helen. Cool it,” I said.

She turned, her knee still on Angie’s back. “What did you just say?”

I had to be smart now, had to try to head this off without a fight. “If you fuck her up, she’s not going to be able to pay you back, right?” I smiled, trying to show we were all good, I was on her side. But I sat on the edge of my bed and gripped my shoe as if I were loosening the laces to put it on. If she rushed me, I could rear up and smash my head into the bottom of her chin.

“This isn’t your problem,” Helen said.

I loosened a lace. “When it’s in my room, you make it my problem.”

Helen’s hand lifted from the back of Angie’s head. Angie turned her face to the side, gasped for air. Her eyes met mine.

“You want to take me on?” Helen said.

“I just want to unpack my shit and have a nice day.” I kept my voice calm. “First day out of the joint, you know how it is.” I gave her another easy smile.

Helen got off Angie. Took a step toward me. Her face was calculating, like she was trying to figure me out. Close up she was even taller and bigger than I’d thought, and I had a feeling that if I tried to jam my head into her chin, I’d be blocked before I made it halfway up her body. I got to my feet so I’d have a better chance of fighting. The shoe was still in my hand.

She walked over, until we were barely a foot apart. Her gaze roved over my body, my small breasts, my tattoos. It wasn’t sexual—it was intimidation.

“I remember you.” She smiled, and it wasn’t friendly. “You hung with Margaret and her girls, thinking your shit don’t stink, thinking you’re all that. Here I run the house, and my bitches don’t run around causing problems. Got it?”

“Got it.” I was trying to keep my cool, but her trash talk about my girls, disrespecting Margaret, pissed me off. She was so close I could smell her—onions and something muskier, sweat covered by perfume.

Her lips curled. “What, you don’t like me talking about your bitches? One of them your girlfriend or something?” She lingered on the word
girlfriend
, trying to make it sound dirty.

A voice in the back of my head was saying,
Toni, let it go, she’s not worth it.
But something about the way she was standing there, so confident, like she could get away with anything, made me want to take her down a peg.

“You need to back the fuck off,” I said.

The second the words were out of my mouth and the mean smile spread across her face, I regretted saying anything. I’d just given her exactly what she wanted—an opening. I felt her step closer and braced. Was she going for it?

“I don’t like your attitude,” she said.

“That makes two of us.”

“You fucking stupid?” Helen said. She gave me a hard push.

I stumbled back a few paces, almost hitting the edge of my bed. “Touch me again and I’ll break your hand.”

She rushed me, trying to grab me in a bear hug. I put my hands up to my forehead, my arms tight to my body, then pushed out fast with all my strength, breaking her hold. I reached up and clapped the shoe hard against her ear. Her eyes were stunned, but she shook off the pain like a dog shaking off water and punched me hard in the gut, making me double over. She came in for another blow. I jabbed my elbows into her lower ribs, forcing her breath out in a whoosh, then kneed her hard in the inner leg, then the outer leg, then her groin. Quick hard blows. She grunted but she was still coming at me, her face red and sweaty, striking me in the kidneys, ribs, thighs, anywhere it wouldn’t make a mark. I reached up and dug my fingers deep into the notch below her trachea, into the tender spot. She gasped and fell to her knees. I pressed down harder.

A noise behind me, the door opening, another woman’s voice.

“What the hell are you doing?”

It startled me, and my hand loosened for a moment. Helen reared up, slammed her shoulder into my gut, grabbed me around my knees, and knocked me onto my back. I hit the floor with a thud. She flipped me onto my stomach and sprawled her massive body over me, pinning my arm behind my back.

I squirmed, gasped for air, tried to kick up at her, but she had to weigh well over two hundred pounds.