The Girl Before (12 page)

Mr. Q's face breaks into a grin that doesn't reach his eyes. “She is stunning, Glen,” he says, taking a step toward me. “May I?”

Papa sweeps his arm in my direction, gesturing Mr. Q forward. Mama hurries to close the door. The click of the lock causes me to jump. Mr. Q chuckles at the movement.

“How old is she?” he asks.

“Twelve,” Papa replies. “But she is one of our most mature girls.
Already helping out with lessons for the other girls and taking advanced tutoring sessions on her own. Quite bright. Obedient.”

Mr. Q nods, bringing a hand to his chin. “Turn around, child, slowly.”

I do as he asks, pivoting on my toes. I wish I had worn a nicer dress, but Mr. Q doesn't seem to mind what I am wearing. He walks around me, lifting a strand of my hair and running it through his fingers.

“I have many business dealings with those in other countries,” Mr. Q says. “She will need to be well-versed in at least three languages, preferably more.”

“That will be no problem,” Papa says, his tone proud. “Clara is a fast learner. She already knows Spanish fluently, and has a basic knowledge of French and Italian. Another language or two will be no problem by the time she is sixteen.”

Sixteen? This man is planning for me to join him in four years. I have never heard of someone planning so far in advance. There have been murmurs of more long-term clients, but I thought they were just rumors. My fingers tremble, and I clasp my hands in front of me to hide the shaking. If the adults notice, they do not mention it, and move back to the desk.

“You may return to your chores, Clara,” Mama says.

Mr. Q stops and turns back. He strides across the room until he is in front of me again. His long fingers caress my cheek and his muddy brown eyes are intense as they drink in my features. “I look forward to getting to know you better, beautiful Clara,” he says, and leans down to place his lips against my cheek. My face grows warm, and he smiles as the blush creeps across the skin he just kissed. “Much better.” He returns to the desk and I know I am dismissed.

“Of course you will have the option to use the Treehouse at any time during your wait for Clara,” Papa is saying as I unlatch the door. Once again I make as little noise as possible, hoping to learn more. I am not sure what the Treehouse is, only that other girls live there. I
have only seen them in passing. Girls who do not earn clients get moved to the Treehouse. Or those who are disobedient.

“Clara,” Mama snaps. “Quickly now. Don't leave Macy to finish the laundry on her own.”

“Yes, ma'am,” I say, glancing back to see Mr. Q watching in amusement, a contrast to the stormy look that has overtaken Mama's face. I slip out the door and hurry down the hall, eager to find Macy to share my news.

Macy will be excited for me. I am the first of us to have a client. My future is set. As I climb the stairs, I ignore the doubts tickling the corners of my mind and focus instead on my growing excitement. After all, why wouldn't I be excited? Mr. Q is handsome and powerful. The perfect client from all appearances. I couldn't have done better. Certainty settles in my stomach like a rock. He is my future, and I will be happy.

My letter to Passion is three pages long, and the one I receive back from her the next day is just a few paragraphs. They are taking good care of her. She has a nice roommate. She misses me. My tears smudge the ink on the paper.

“Do you trust me now?” Connor asks, his face smug at accomplishing his task.

“No,” I say, and his face falls. “I don't trust anyone.”

He thinks for a moment. “Fair enough. But you know I will keep my word.”

“So far.”

“Everyone has to start somewhere.”

“True.”

Connor opens the folder in front of him. “Are you ready for some more questions?”

I make a face.

He pulls out a glossy photo and puts it in front of me. Vomit bubbles in my throat as Joel's face glares up at me.

“I think she's going to throw up,” Jay says. Connor runs to grab the garbage can, and soon my breakfast joins the bits of paper and empty takeout containers in the receptacle. Connor knocks on the door and hands the trash bin to a disgruntled-looking guard.

“Can we get some water?” he calls, and someone hands him a bottle. He walks back to the table and opens the bottle before handing it to me. I take grateful gulps of the liquid and place my forehead in my trembling hands.

“So you recognize him, I take it?” he says.

“Joel,” I croak.

“Yes, Joel DeSanto, age twenty-five when his body was found in a ravine about fifty miles from your acreage. He was badly beaten and someone shot his genitals off.” Connor says it as if he is commenting on the weather.

I close my eyes, willing the flashes of memory to disappear, longing for the healing of Glen's touch. Many nights I woke up screaming, long after I knew Joel was dead. I never stayed alone with the girls overnight again.

“How does Joel fit into your story, Clara?” Connor asks. He seems more put together today and is more like the gentler version of himself that he was when we first met. This is a Connor I can come closer to trusting. I push my emotions back, making them as tiny as possible, and I recount my dealings with Joel, general information at first, that he was second in command to Glen, that he headed up a lot of the training in the boys' camp. He was trusted by Glen. Never by me, but I left that part out.

“And how did Joel end up in a ravine, minus his balls?”

Taking one more deep breath, I tell them, detail by detail, what happened the night I found Joel trying to soil Grace. I remain emotionless, but I can tell the story affects them. I had hoped it would. They need to know just how far Glen will go to protect me, protect his family. Surely they can't find fault in that.

“He raped you, so you shot his junk?” Jay mutters. His fists are clenching and unclenching on the table.

Connor is sitting next to me, a comforting hand on my arm. “I think we're done for today,” he says after a pause.

The mood is somber as we enter the small country chapel. There are not many people who have come to celebrate the life and mourn the death of Papa G. He was a man with few friends, and those who are in attendance are here more out of obligation than connection. Many check their watches, estimating the time until they can leave without being rude, while others use the opportunity to network. All eyes are on Glen, no matter the chosen distraction. He is being watched, assessed.

Glen has been running the business for the past year, since Papa got very ill, but even though Papa was technically “retired,” he was still at the helm. Even from his deathbed, he was able to strike fear into the hearts of those who would dare come up against him. Now that he is gone, Glen will have to prove that he is every bit the leader Papa was. Papa always called him soft, but I don't doubt Glen. I know what he is willing to do for things that are important to him. I am not worried.

We walk to the front of the small room, where the casket is set up,
lid open. Inside, Papa sleeps, the hard lines of his face softened in death as they never were in life. The skin is loose and translucent. Even a skilled makeup artist could not cover up the evidence of the wasted man he became in his last days. Glen squeezes my fingers so hard, I cannot feel the tips. I brush my other hand over the top of our joined hands, and he relaxes. We turn to make room for others to pay their respects.

Mama Mae sits in the front row, staring at the large portrait of Papa G set up next to the casket. He is several years younger, his face filled in, his hair thick with no hint of the wispiness it developed near the end of his life. There are no tears from Mama. Glen takes the seat next to her, patting her hand as he sits. She glances at him, nods, and moves her hand away from his. Mama is not comfortable with displays of affection, and she has refused any comfort since Papa died three days ago.

A man in a long black robe steps to the front, and the hum of conversation hushes. It is a generic proceeding. We did not know this man before he was commissioned for this service, and we will never see him again after today. He reads a few Bible verses, extols the imaginary virtues we fed to him before the service, and within fifteen minutes we are part of the procession walking to the small cemetery situated behind the church. The burial is more of the same. We each toss a handful of dirt as Papa is lowered into the ground, and it is over.

The small crowd disperses, a few of the men stopping to murmur condolences and to inquire about setting up a meeting with Glen. He handles the condolences and the business requests with equal class. After all, Papa would not consider a funeral to be an excuse to alienate business partners. We are the last to leave.

I sit in the backseat while Glen drives Mama Mae back to the big empty house she will now live in alone. Glen has not discussed whether she will stay, but I know she will. She refused our offer to
move in with us for a short time. She is a strong woman, never as dependent on Papa G as she pretended to be.

Their relationship was always a mystery to me. They never touched, and rarely interacted outside of stilted conversations, at least in front of us. She did not cry at all when Papa died, but I have caught her staring at nothing several times over the past few days, her eyes far away, expression empty. Emotions overwhelm me as I try to imagine losing Glen. Just the thought of being without him squeezes at my lungs, and I wrap my arms around myself. Glen glances at me in the mirror, his forehead creased, and I give him a watery smile. He has enough to worry about without dealing with my anxiety.

When we arrive at Mama's house, Glen and I follow Mama inside. She heads straight for the kitchen and begins clanking pots around. “Clara!” she calls. “Come help me with dinner.” It is as if we are back to normal, having Sunday dinner together, Mama and me in the kitchen while Papa and Glen sit in the study and talk trade. Glen squeezes my hand and pushes me toward the kitchen. I look back and catch him staring at an old family portrait, looking like a lost little boy, a foreign look on him.

As expected, Mama shoos us out the door after dinner is cleaned up. She refuses Glen's offer to stay over, and insists we hurry home to make sure our girls behaved for the men we left behind to watch them. Glen drives home, his mood pensive. Through all the preparations, we have not spoken about what Papa's death means to Glen.

“Glen,” I begin, but he shakes his head, clamping a hand down on my leg.

“No, Clara,” he says, his tone firm. I close my mouth, but his hand remains on my leg, squeezing until my eyes water. I turn to look out the window so he will not see. I know he doesn't do it on purpose.

That night, his lovemaking is rough. I do not comment on the tears in his eyes that I glimpse before he collapses on top of me. In the
morning, he leaves early. I examine the hand-shaped bruises around my upper arms and wrists and choose a long-sleeved shirt before stripping the bloody sheets off the bed.

I do not bring up Papa G again.

I am surprised when the door to my room opens late in the afternoon. I've already gone through my daily questioning, which is getting repetitive, and my session with Dr. Mulligan. Usually I am left alone until they bring me dinner, but it is too early for that.

Jay walks into the room, his hands fidgeting more than normal. I look at him without speaking, my question in my eyes.

“There's someone here to see you,” he says, not meeting my gaze.

“To see me?”

“Yes, in the visitation room. Let's go.”

I stand and follow him from the room. We take a route that is unfamiliar, and outside a windowless door, he stops and turns. His face is apologetic. “I need to put these on you,” he says, holding out a pair of silver handcuffs. They look shiny and new, not scuffed like the ones Connor used when I first arrived. I hold my hands out, and flinch as the locks click in place around my wrists. I take deep breaths to calm my sudden feeling of confinement. I realize I am being irrational since I have been confined all along, but this feels different.

Jay opens the door and motions for me to enter. There are a few tables in the room, but only one is occupied. Mama Mae sits facing the door, her face expressionless as I enter. I feel a smile tug at the corner of my lips, something that I would not have expected with Mama being my first visitor, but she reminds me of happier times. Almost
imperceptibly, Mama shakes her head. She does not let any recognition show in her eyes. She stands, her back straight.

“Clara?” she asks, as if she doesn't know who I am.

“Y-yes.” My answer is hesitant. What game is she playing?

She holds a gloved hand out. Mama and her silly old-fashioned gloves. “My name is Mae Lawson. I am Glen's mother.”

I understand now. Glen told me to pretend I don't know his parents. I have avoided answering questions about my life before Glen and I met. Connor gets frustrated with me for this refusal on a daily basis, but I don't care. And clearly Glen has filled Mama in on the plan, since she's looking at me with the sort of disdain she usually reserves for untrainable girls.

“Hello,” I say, keeping my voice quiet and my eyes downcast as I lift my linked hands to take hers. She grasps them briefly and releases. No comfort there.

“Please, sit.” Mama gestures toward the table. I sit, crossing my legs and staring at the table, waiting for her to speak. When she says nothing, I can handle it no longer.

“How is Glen?” I ask, and immediately regret it. Mama's eyes narrow.

“He's in prison; how do you think he is?”

“I just . . . I just was wondering . . .” My voice trails off and I feel tears pricking my eyes.

“I just wanted to meet the hussy who is trying to send my Glen to prison for things he didn't do.” Mama's voice is loud and accusing, and I stare at her with wide eyes.