The Belief in Angels (42 page)

Howard gives me about ten minutes in front of the fire before he demands his dinner. I make the chicken and vegetables I’ve defrosted and kept chilled in an ice bucket in the refrigerator. I split the chicken breasts and season them before I grill them on the fire.

As I’m bending over the grill, Howard says, “You’ve got your mother’s figure, I see.”

His tone is not complimentary. I decide to ignore the comment. Somewhere in there is his acknowledgment of my physical maturity. Somewhere in there is my dread at the belief that he hates women and now counts me as “one of them.”

“This is good,” Howard says between large bites a bit later. “I know you didn’t learn to cook from your mother. She’s a lousy cook. Who taught you?”

“No one. I read cookbooks and follow recipes. It’s not rocket science.”

He laughs. “You would think a genius could figure it out, but everything your mother made ended up burnt or not fit for humans.”

“She never gave us salad with grub garnishes.” I’m instantly sorry for the crack, but fortunately Howard takes it lightly.

“Christ! I forgot about her cooking. The woman was such an idiot. At least your mother could hold a conversation.”

I decide to change the subject and see if his happiness with my cooking might buy me a bit of freedom. “So, do you think it would be all right if I went over to Leigh’s tomorrow? We have a project we’re working on.”

He considers it.

“I’ll tell you what? If you clean out all the shit in the cabinets and wipe them down, you can go when you finish.”

It’s pointless busywork, since we rarely have food in the cabinets and our glassware, dish, and pan collections are measly, but I know it won’t take me long to finish the chore. I agree.

In the morning he sleeps in while I work in the kitchen. By eleven o’clock I’ve fed him breakfast and finished the dishes. I start to bundle up to go out. “Be back by four. I don’t want you walking around in the dark.”

It didn’t bother him the day before when I hauled wood for him, but I’m glad to be getting away from him and I don’t argue. I practically run out. It’s already been too many days of Howard Hell, and I’m stir-crazy.

I stop at Timothy’s, stepping inside for lunch with his family, before we leave
for Leigh’s. I haven’t mentioned that Timothy will join us or that Ms. Westerfield will be leaving for work later. We will be,
gasp,
un-chaperoned, but I don’t think I owe Howard an explanation. His demands are ridiculous. I’m a sixteen-year-old girl with a social life.

After lunch, Timothy and I walk down the hill to Leigh’s. When we arrive we’re invited to go into Boston with Ms. Westerfield while she works for a bit in her travel agency office. She says she’ll drop us at the Boston Commons—one of our favorite places to hang out. I think it will be fun to make snowmen on the Commons. It also sounds great to bust out of Withensea.

I try calling Howard to let him know I’m going, but he isn’t there. By the time we make it into Boston, an hour later, it’s starting to snow again.

Two hours after we’ve been hanging out in the Commons in the light snow, it starts to snow harder. Ms. Westerfield picks us up and tells us she’s booked a room for us in a hotel. Her treat. We’ll have to spend the night because it isn’t safe to drive in the weather.

When we check in at about four o’clock and Ms. Westerfield goes to her room, I call Howard to let him know where I am and what our plans are. He answers on the first ring.

“Hello,” he growls into the phone.

“Hi. It’s Jules.”

“Where the hell are you? Come home. There’s gonna be another blizzard!”

“I know. I heard it on the radio. Hey, I’m in Boston.”

I keep my voice light and try to ignore the menace I hear in his.

“Get your ass back here. What the hell are you doing in Boston?”

“I tried to call you earlier to let you know that Leigh’s mom had to come in for work. She works here. She … she’s a travel agent.” I start to ramble with nervousness.

“I don’t care what the fuck she is. Haul your ass back home.”

“I-I can’t … the snow … she can’t drive us back in this. We … we’re going to stay at a hotel. Leigh … Leigh’s mom, Ms. Westerfield, can …”

Howard interrupts, “I don’t give a shit. You’d better find a way to take yourself back here right now. You’re not staying at a hotel. Are you there with your boyfriend?”

Leigh and Timothy sit on the two beds and can hear every word of what Howard screams into the phone. The heat in my face and body makes me start to sweat. I hesitate for a moment, thinking how easily I can lie and deny that Timothy, my “boyfriend,” is there with us, but I decide to be honest and hope that somewhere in Howard’s pebble heart he can hear the truth and trust me.

“Yes. He’s here with Leigh and me, but he’s not my boyfriend. I’m telling you the truth, and we’re going to spend the night here and drive back tomorrow.”

Big mistake.

“What? Listen to me, you whore! You’re nothing but a slut! You’re going to stay in a hotel with him? Do you think I’m an idiot? Do you think I’m an
idiot?”

He’s had a
lot
to drink. Howard can handle his liquor to a point, but beyond that, his fury, which typically remains somewhat tempered, becomes a slurry hurricane of screaming swears.

Timothy walks over to me. I’m trembling.

“Do you want me to talk to him?”

I shake my head at him. I know I’ve made an awful mistake and I don’t want him to suffer for it.

Howard goes on. “If you don’t get your slutty ass back here tonight, don’t bother coming back or I’ll take the ax and chop you into little pieces when you do! Do you hear me? Do you
hear me?”

Timothy leans back on his heels and whips his head back like he’s been slapped. Leigh rocks upright on the bed, stunned. Neither of them has probably heard people talk to their kids like this.

“I-I’m so-sorry. I shou-shouldn’t have co-come into Boston, I know. Bu-but I’m stuck he-here now, a-and I ca-can’t come back. I have to wait for Le-Leigh’s mom to drive us back in the morning. Do you want to talk to Ms. Westerfield? I-I can tell her to call you?”

My ears start to have a strange sensation. I hear every word we’re saying with crystal clarity, but the blood is pounding in my ears, giving everything an ominous echo.

“You’re a fucking liar! Don’t fucking lie to me. Who are you gonna put on the phone? Some friend? Listen to me. Come home now”—here he softens his voice and lowers his volume almost instantly, which scares me more—”and you won’t be in trouble. But if you stay there, I swear to you, you’re going to …”

Leigh shoots forward from where she’s been frozen on the bed, pries the phone out of my hand, and places it in the cradle. I stand stunned and silent, still trembling.

She holds her hand on the phone. I think she expects it to ring again, and she guards it as though I might try to grab it away from her. She breathes hard, and I realize that she, having never dealt with Howard’s fury, probably feels more scared than I do.

“H-he won’t call back. He doesn’t even know wh-what hotel we’re a-at.”

The enormity of this fact and the increased rage it will create for him hit me.

Leigh nods and moves her hand away from the phone. She steps closer to put
her arms around me. I stand still, my arms by my sides, tolerating the embrace. I don’t like to be touched. It’s almost painful to experience. Timothy leans forward and puts his hand on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze.

This is the part where my father calls me a slut and a whore.

Leigh says, “I’m so sorry, Jules. We never should have come here. I thought we’d be back early. I didn’t mean to make trouble. I guess I shouldn’t have hung up on him, either, but I couldn’t listen to it anymore. I guess I got you into more trouble though, didn’t I?”

I move away from them and go to the other side of the bed, putting it between us.

“No Leigh. You did the right thing,” Timothy says. “No one deserves to be talked to the way he talked to you, Jules. No one should have to take that. I don’t care if it’s your father or Joe Shmoe. That was …”—he searches for the right word—“shitty. Is he always like this? I thought maybe the other day he might be upset about the blizzard and all, but … is he like this all the time?”

I have never heard Timothy swear. The sound of the word,
shitty,
coming from his mouth sounds wrong, as though he’s repeating a line from a school play.

I smile at him, and he immediately grins and blushes. “Yeah, it’s shitty. He’s a shitty person.”

“I’m gonna ask my mom to call him and explain what happened. She’ll be able to tell him so he understands it’s not your fault.” Leigh reaches her hand forward and picks up the phone before I can stop her. She dials the hotel operator.

“Hello. Can you connect me with Bridget Westerfield’s room?”

“Don’t. I don’t think it’s a good idea. You heard him. He’s gonna think I set it up with a friend of mine posing as your mom. You …”

“My mom’ll fix it. Don’t worry. She’ll explain it to him in a way he’ll be able to understa …” She breaks off. “Hi Mom, it’s me. Hey, can you call Jules’s Dad? He’s real mad about us staying here. He thinks Jules lied to him and we’re gonna have a party or something.”

“Of course I’ll call him,” I hear Ms. Westerfield say on the other end. I’m sure Leigh told her about Howard’s rough behavior toward us the other day.

“I’ve got her number in my address book, but give it to me and I won’t have to fish it out.”

I nod to Leigh and gesture for her to give me the phone. She hands it over.

“Hi, Ms. Westerfield. It’s Jules. Hey, my father is strict, and I wasn’t supposed to leave Withensea or anything. I … I messed up, he’s really, really mad at me. He doesn’t trust me, and he might think you’re a friend of mine calling. So he might be rude to you. You don’t have to do this. I’ll deal with this when I go back tomorrow.
I’m sure he’ll settle down by then.”

“Don’t worry, Jules. I’ll talk to him. I’m sure when we speak he’ll recognize the fact I’m another adult and we’ll work this out.”

I’m skeptical, but I know Ms. Westerfield isn’t going to back down.

“I don’t know, I’m worried he’s going to be a … jerk.” This is the worst word I can muster for her.

I don’t have the right words to prepare her for what I fear he might say.

“I don’t want you to worry, Jules. I’ll make sure he understands. Are you going to be okay if I call him?”

I think about that.

Leigh grabs the phone away from me.

“Call him, Mom. She’s never gonna say she’s okay with it. She’s afraid of him. He’s said lots of awful things to her, Mom, about what he’s going to do to her … about how he’s going to punish her. He’s an ogre, Mom.”

“Okay, done,” Ms. Westerfield says before she hangs up.

At first I stare at the phone in its cradle on the hotel desk. I’m distracted watching small drops of water collect on the felt pad on the desk’s surface. The pad, a mint green color, becomes mossy with the liquid, which spreads like ink blots in the porous material. I stand in an almost hypnotic state trying to sort the shapes into something recognizable. My eyes fill with liquid, and I realize I am the source of the watery creation. I turn away, not wanting Leigh or Timothy, who now sit a few feet away on one of the beds, to see me crying.