

Jackson Sugar

Crazy Red

### A Novel

### by

# Kaley Craig

## Art & Illustrations by Victoria Skye Cleveland

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it to your favorite eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Jackson Sugar CRAZY RED

By Kaley Craig

Smashwords Edition

This book is available in print at most online retailers.

Discover other titles by Kaley Craig

Jackson Sugar WANTED DEAD

Copyright © 2014 Kaley Craig

All rights reserved.

ISBN-13 978-1311032033

For

Bianca, Jessica, Victoria,

Reg, Marilyn,

& Michael

Forever and always, and no matter what

Jackson Sugar Crazy Red is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, businesses, places, events, organizations, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

### Contents

A Calling From Jesus

A Way With Women

Taking in Strays

As Seen On TV

Leprosy AND Bad Breath

Naked Wrestling

Exit Stage Right

Whores and Dopers

The Blood of the Lamb

Sardines For Breakfast

Cheerleaders and Majorettes

Immortalized in marble

Sissy Men and Poets

Other Books by Kaley Craig

About The Author

Connect

A Calling From Jesus

1

Margaret sighed, frustrated with her attempt to find the edge of the tape as she ran her fingernail repeatedly along its smooth surface. The task would have been particularly vexing if she had closely clipped nails, but hers were a good length, rather exceptional for a child her age. She used Leon's clippers, along with the emery board she'd appropriated from Sybil, to keep them that way. But while her nails were clean, her feet hadn't been washed since Saturday, and it was now Wednesday. Her offer to wash them before climbing onto the cream-colored cushion of the chair had been dismissed with a flip of her mother's magazine page. Sybil hadn't even looked up.

Imagining she was standing on one hand while taping closed the blinds with the other—a feat surely worthy of an appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show—made Margaret smile. It could have been worse. Sybil could have yelled at her in front of the mailman instead of waiting for him to leave.

"He done seen you in your panties, Margaret Rose!" her mother had screeched. "Is that what you want? Do you want strange men to see you in your panties?"

"No, Momma," Margaret answered truthfully, her face flushing at Momma's lewd suggestion. She'd have never opened the blinds normally if she hadn't been fully dressed, but she'd heard the clap of thunder, and because she loved the excitement of thunderstorms, she'd simply had to open the blinds then and there to have a look. But there'd been no lightning or rain or fiercely blowing wind outside her window. There had only been the mailman, halfway up the steps of the deeply shadowed front porch, and he'd smiled at her and lifted his hand and waved.

Margaret smiled and waved back, and it had been such a friendly, unexpected event that it was almost worth it when Sybil began yelling.

"You been standin' in that window every day in your drawers waitin' on him come?"

"No, Momma."

"I think you have. And if I hadn't been waitin' myself I never would have known it."

"But there's nothing to know," Margaret offered. "I only opened the blinds to see if it was raining."

"What do you care if it rains?" Sybil demanded as she left Margaret's room and began rummaging through the hall closet. "You got to drive to the store or hang out wash?" A moment later, a gigantic roll of tape left over from their move was flung through the doorway into her room. Reaching low, Margaret caught it.

"You cover that window up all the way," Sybil told her. "Or I'll make your daddy board it shut when he gets home."

Margaret wasn't sure that Daddy would. "We could cut the pullers off instead," she offered. "I couldn't open it then. Or put curtains up like everywhere else in the house."

Sybil glared at her daughter. "The only reason you're not getting a whipping is because I blame myself. Now do what I said, and do it quick."

"Yes, ma'am."

And so Sybil settled down with her coffee and magazines in the living room, and Margaret, having finally found and lifted the edge of the too-sticky tape, climbed on and off the chair continually until she'd finished taping closed her room's only window. That had been in the morning. The storm had never come, and it was now early afternoon and she lay on her bed reading.

The wide yellow tape had been placed in neatly overlapping strips across the tightly closed blinds, giving the appearance that a large, flat, cheaply wrapped, softly glowing, dusty gift that had been attached to the wall. The only real light now came from the unshaded bulb overhead, which was too bright for such a small space, and cast deep shadows on the bare wooden floor and unpainted plaster walls. And it was from the shadow of the narrow space between the wall and her bed that they appeared—two antennae, several inches long and exquisitely thin—easing slowly ahead and twitching. Had Margaret not lowered her book to scratch the still-itching chigger bites on her ankle, she might never have seen them. But she did.

Bolting up, her feet hit the floor as she slammed her book closed, her body rigid with fear as she watched the head appear, close enough to touch. She held her breath as her right leg began involuntarily bouncing up and down, and the pulse in her thumb, pinned between the heavy pages of the World Book, Volume M, began to throb.

Run!

"It's just a yard bug. For goodness sakes, Margaret Rose! Stop actin' like a little baby!"

That was what Momma said. That's what she called them—yard bugs. But since their return to Georgia, Margaret had yet to see one of the monster bugs in the yard. Just yesterday, one had flown at her as she stood eating sugar out of the bowl in the pantry, and Momma had yelled at her when she ran outside screaming and slapping at her hair. And last night, when she'd gotten up after everyone else had gone to bed to use the bathroom, another monster had squeezed out from beneath the dirty clothes door. She'd yanked her feet up so fast she'd nearly fell off the toilet, and she'd wanted more than anything to scream. But the door was locked, and if she'd screamed Daddy might have come with a butter knife and unlocked the door, and she couldn't let Daddy see her sitting on the toilet, especially not with Momma sure to come in behind him. So with a thumping, racing heart, Margaret had planted her feet against the side of the tub as the monster raced across the grimy orange and yellow tile and directly beneath her outstretched legs, like in a nightmarish game of London Bridge. When it reached the wall and disappeared into a crack above the baseboard, she'd remained still for a long time, fully expecting another monster would come, or that the first would reappear. But after a while, her bottom began to fall asleep, and knowing she'd be trapped indefinitely if that happened, she'd cleaned herself quickly, knocking the toilet paper to the floor in her haste to leave. She didn't stop to pick it up, nor did she consider washing her hands, but raced back to bed, swearing she would never again go to the bathroom after dark.

And now even her bed wasn't safe. The monsters were in here. She'd seen the commercials. She knew if she saw one flying bug, there were at least a dozen others hiding under her bed. This was but the scout; the others waited in the dark for its signal. And when it came, they'd all come running up the wall and fly at her, landing on her face, and in her hair, and crawling into her mouth and nose and ears. Stop it! Michael says the bugs can smell it if you're scared. All creatures can.

Margaret's brother, Michael, was smart, and he always told the truth, and he'd said they weren't yard bugs at all, but cockroaches—giant, filthy, flying cockroaches. And Michael knew a lot about everything, and definitely a whole lot more than Momma. So Margaret didn't run, because Michael had told her not to. He said running could provoke them, like running from a mad dog would make it chase you down.

So Margaret sat as still as she could, even as she counted off three inches of the cockroach without counting its antennae, and its back legs weren't even showing yet. Still, she would have screamed if there'd been anyone in the house to save her. Michael would have come and killed the monster with his shoe, not because he liked killing things, but because he was a boy, and that's what boys do. But he wasn't there. It was summer, and he'd beaten on her door early so she could call Momma to unlock it like she did every morning, and he was out mowing lawns to earn money for school clothes. If Daddy had been home, he'd have come if she'd screamed. And he'd have killed it and cleaned it off the wall. But he was also working this August afternoon, leaving before seven every weekday for the accounting job he'd had since leaving the Army and bringing the family back home.

Returning home had sounded so exciting. Margaret hadn't yet started school when the Army transferred Daddy, and she remembered little about the big brick house with the huge, beautiful yard Momma always talked about. They'd lived in Louisiana when Daddy first went overseas. Michael had to sleep on the couch there, because there were only two bedrooms, and Momma said it wasn't proper for them to share a room. In second grade, Daddy came home, and they moved to Mississippi. Michael got his own room there, but the house was on a busy road, and Momma would never let them play out front. And the back yard backed up to the woods, so Margaret wasn't allowed to really play there either. She could use the old swing-set, with its rusty legs that pulled out of the ground if she swung too high, or she could sit at the splintered old picnic table. But she was forbidden to set foot past the clothesline. Only Michael was allowed in the woods.

"Why can Michael go in and I can't?" she'd pleaded.

"Because he's not a girl," Sybil said. "You're a girl."

"But they're girls!" she'd begged, pointing at them, many younger and smaller than she was, laughing as they darted in and out of the trees in a happy game of hide and seek.

"They sure are," Sybil mumbled past the clothespins in her mouth. "And their mothers' ought to be whipped for letting them girls run wild like that. You mark my words, Margaret Rose. Those girls are headin' for trouble with a capital T. But I don't blame the girl. I blame the mother."

Since their return to Georgia, Margaret had begun to blame the mother, too. Her mother. For the thing that had sustained her day after day as she watched the others play was the promise of life back home in the big, glorious house, with the huge, wonderful yard that Momma said was the best and biggest in the neighborhood. She'd had a thousand daydreams about that yard, about how all the neighbor kids would come and play, and how she'd be up to her neck in friends. But it had all been a lie. A big, fat, horrible lie.

"This is our house?" she asked in alarm on the day of their arrival in Columbia. Michael punched her leg and shushed her, and either Momma hadn't heard her, or pretended not to. Once inside, she sat quietly in a corner of the living room after looking around. It didn't take long. This was not the house Momma had so eloquently described as long as Margaret could remember. It was not at all like the houses she'd seen on TV, or along the main streets of the towns they'd driven through on their way home. The big brick house of her mother's imagination was actually smaller than the wooden one they'd left behind. And her room was not only the smallest, but it was the only way to get to her brother's room without going outside. And there was only one bathroom, and no air conditioning, and the furnace was huge and in the middle of the hall floor. And the floors were dirty—everything was dirty. And dark. For with the exception of the window above the kitchen sink, which was well above the ground, there were blinds on all the windows, and Momma had gone around closing them first thing. Even before they'd unpacked, she made Daddy get the curtains from the attic and put them on all the windows, and then Margaret was given a bag of clothespins and told to pin the panels together.

"Where do you want to put the clothespins when we open the curtains, Momma?" Margaret asked. "Do you want me to put a shoebox on the television to keep them, so they won't get mixed up with the ones you use on the clothesline?"

"We're not openin' the curtains, Margaret Rose," Momma replied, sounding exasperated. "The curtains stay shut."

Margaret thought she knew the problem. Momma hated cleaning anything, and she'd surely never seen Momma clean a window. "What if we get some Windex with Ammonia D?" she asked. "I can stand on a chair and clean the windows. It'd be fun."

"I'm not studyin' cleanin' windows, Margaret Rose!" Sybil snapped. "Decent folks keep their curtains shut so the whole neighborhood don't know their business. Now get it done and get out in the yard. You're givin' me a sick headache."

Michael found his sister on the front porch steps a short time later.

"It's worse than I remember," he said, sitting on the step behind her.

"Why didn't you tell me she was lying?" Margaret demanded. "This house is awful. It looks more like the place the Clampetts lived before Jed struck oil. Momma made it sound more like it was in Beverly Hills."

Michael laughed. "She did do that. From the way she was talking, I thought maybe they had it fixed it up while we were gone. People do that sometimes, you know. Anyway, the Clampetts might have lived in a shack before they got rich, but at least they had Granny to cook and keep the house clean. Our momma's no Granny Clampett."

"But why did she lie? Why did she make this house sound so nice when she knew it wasn't?"

"Maybe she doesn't know it, Margaret. Maybe Momma really thinks this house is fine and wonderful, like some people think their babies are cute when they're not."

Margaret turned and looked at Michael before dropping her voice. "Do you think our momma has insanity?"

"You don't have insanity, Margaret. A person is either sane or insane."

"Don't be so smart, Michael. You know what I mean."

"You mean is Momma crazy?" he asked. "I don't know. Maybe. But I know that she's peculiar."

"What do you mean?"

"Peculiar. Weird, you know. Odd. Strange. Our momma's definitely peculiar. Shutting up the windows, drinking coffee day and night, reading nothing but those magazines, dying her hair black like she does—why would anybody with good sense do that to perfectly good hair?"

"Maybe she got tired of being teased about it," Margaret said, pulling a strand of her own deep auburn hair forward. "People make fun of my red hair all the time."

"Well, that must be a girl thing cause no one ever makes fun of mine," he replied. "Besides, everybody knows redheads are smarter than everybody else. And Lucy has red hair, and everybody loves Lucy."

At least Momma had told the truth about the yard, which was twice the size of any of their neighbors', and on a corner lot with a red fire hydrant and a stop sign. And there were huge sugar gum, and magnolia, and pecan, and pine trees that looked as if they'd been there a thousand years, and camellia and rose and azalea bushes that lined the backyard fence, filled the beds, and grew along the foundation. In a few weeks, when Daddy and Michael had mowed the tall grass, cleaned the beds, and trimmed up the trees, the yard was really pretty, and Margaret was glad that was what the neighbors saw, and not the dark, dusty inside of their house.

If it were a yard bug like Momma said, it would be in the yard and not in here. Only a stupid cockroach would rather be in this house.

"Margaret Rose! Get in here! Someone's coming!"

Margaret jumped, dropping the World Book on the floor and sprinting from the room. Moments later, the creature took flight, landing on Margaret's pillow to savor a single strand of oily red hair.

Paulk Road Baptist Church, which sat on a rise above the neighborhood where Margaret lived, was somewhat of an anomaly for a neighborhood church. It was large in both size and numbers, rivaled only by the First Baptist downtown, and counted among its members some of Columbia's most prominent citizens. The Paulk's, whose family had farmed the area for generations, had donated five acres for the building of a church on the site after their only son was murdered, and the house robbed, by itinerants one Sunday morning while the rest of the family attended services several miles away. That was in 1939, but it wasn't until after the war that construction began. Paulk Road's steeple, which old Mr. Paulk had stipulated must be the tallest in town, could be seen for a mile or more. Margaret could see the top of it above the treetops from the window in the kitchen, and on those rare days when Sybil opened the doors, she could sometimes hear the church bells announcing the hour.

Sybil had the doors open today, and had just enough time to slip on the shoes Margaret found for her when a knock sounded at the front screen door.

"Get to your room now," Sybil whispered sternly, as if it was Margaret's fault people were there. "And don't you even think about comin' out."

Sybil wouldn't have answered the door at all if she'd thought she could get away with it. But Leon had the sprinkler on to water, and she'd agreed to move it hourly, and as she'd been going in and out the doors all day, she'd gone ahead and opened them, and between the sprinkler running and the open doors, she could hardly pretend not to be home.

Margaret's bedroom opened into the hall, and the hall joined the living room. From her hiding place behind the door she watched Momma smooth her hair and check her lipstick in the mantle mirror. In the reflection she could also see the screen door and the women waiting there, holding books and wearing hats, and one with something covered in foil.

"Good morning," the woman standing nearest said cheerfully as Sybil approached. "I'm Marilyn Hall from Paulk Road Baptist. We've come to welcome you."

"Well, I'm so glad you did!" Sybil said, smiling as she held open the door. "Do come in, and please forgive the mess! I've been workin' day and night trying to clean this house after the mess our renters left. We rented it out, you know, while we were away. It's a shame folks don't do like they're supposed to when they're privileged to live in someone else's home. Why, I haven't even got back to my bakin' yet, so I can't offer you a thing." And on she went in her deep, silky voice, inventing one lie after another to explain why the house looked more like they'd moved in yesterday instead of several weeks ago.

It would be years before Margaret came to appreciate her mother's talent for spinning lies. It wasn't just that she was good. Sybil was way beyond good, having pretty much elevated lying to an art form. And though the ladies of the church had caught her by surprise, it was mere moments before Sybil's lies began to fly fast and thick, yet with such subtlety and grace that not one of her guests suspected they were in the clutches of a master.

"I was just tellin' my husband I hoped y'all would come by." Lie.

"Seems all I do these days is cook and clean." Lie. Lie.

"I do wish you could meet my lovely children, but they're off with their little friends this mornin'." Lie. Lie. Lie!

Margaret was thrilled to learn the foil-covered plate now resting on the dining room table was a homemade peach cobbler. Momma never made a desert, Margaret had never tasted cobbler, and this woman was saying the peaches came from her own tree.

### "Mrs. Head—"

"Please, dear. Do call me Sybil."

"Of course, Sybil. We're all friends now, aren't we?" Mrs. Hall said. "Sybil, are y'all Baptists? Because I know most of your neighbors around here attend the Methodist church."

"Oh, no, no. This family is Baptist to the bone," Sybil assured her.

### "And are you attending somewhere else now?"

"Oh, yes. We've been goin' with my oldest, dearest friend to her church every Sunday since we go back. They live out a ways, and I'm ashamed to say I don't remember the name of that little church just now. And of course we always read the Bible after supper, and watch the preachin' on TV."

"Well that's wonderful. But we'd like to invite your family to consider making Paulk Road your church home since we're right up the road," Mrs. Hall said, patting Sybil's knee. "You and your husband would be in the Adult Married Sunday School with all of us. We have such a good group, and we'd love to have you come and help with Wednesday Night Supper after Prayer Meeting. And how old are your children?"

"Well, my Michael's just turned thirteen, and Margaret Rose will be eleven in December."

"What a pretty name for a little girl," one of the women said.

"Thank you," Sybil said proudly. "It's an old family name."

This was news, or likely just another lie. Sybil had never said her name meant anything.

"The children have just missed Vacation Bible School. Mrs. Day here—Elizabeth—is in charge of the children's Sunday School," she said, nodding at the slim, red-haired woman who'd made the cobbler. "The children love her. We all do, because of how she teaches them to love and serve the Lord, and to keep their hands and minds busy and away from Satan's temptations, which seem to grow worse every day."

Collectively they nodded agreement, as did Margaret, who knew that temptation was definitely something to be avoided. She just wasn't sure exactly what it was.

"Mrs. Head—Sybil. When were the children baptized?" Mrs. Day asked.

Baptized?

Sybil sighed loudly and dramatically. "Well, now, they ain't been. I wanted them baptized at our last church," she lied, shaking her head. "But my husband insisted we wait, so they could be baptized at home. I wasn't happy about it, but he is their father. I hope y'all don't blame me for that," she added sheepishly.

"Oh, no, we understand," Mrs. Hall replied, patting Sybil's knee again. "The Lord tells us to obey our husbands, now doesn't he?" More nodding. "But now you're home, I'm sure he'll want to see them baptized right away."

"Yes, he will," Sybil replied enthusiastically. "He most surely will. Leon loves God. And the children love God. We all love God, and we all love goin' to church."

Margaret had never been to church, and Michael had only been a few times with friends. When they'd asked to go—Michael had asked—Sybil said there was no need to "start all that" until they got home. But now they were home, and the nuisance and expense of having her children attend church was surpassed only by Sybil's gnawing fear that the Lord would hold her to account should something happen to them before they were baptized. They were getting old enough now that they risked going to Hell if something were to happen, and she didn't want that. Both she and Leon had been baptized as children. They were covered. It was time the children were covered, too. Thus, on the Sunday following the church ladies visit, Sybil dropped Margaret and Michael at the curb in front of Paulk Road Baptist, admonishing them not to waste time becoming candidates for baptism. She had begrudgingly bought them the proper clothes and shoes, made sure their faces looked clean, and given each a dollar for the offering plate. She would attend with them, she said, as soon as she had the proper shoes.

Michael and Margaret were directed upstairs to the children's Sunday School. The interrogation began the moment they stepped through the door.

"Who are y'all? Y'all don't go here."

"Where's your folks?"

"Are y'all orphans or somethin'?"

The questions arose because new families joining the church customarily did so together at the end of Sunday services, and were introduced by name to everyone in attendance. Then, the church bulletin, which was mailed, printed their names as new members, welcoming them again. Unknown children didn't just walk in off the street without their parents, at least not until today.

Mrs. Day came to their rescue, leading them to the front of the room. "This is Michael and Margaret Rose Head," she said, smiling at each in turn. "They've just moved here."

"Are they orphans?" the boy asked again.

"No, David," Mrs. Day replied. "They have a momma and daddy just like you. But not everyone is as fortunate as you are. Some folks are in the hospital and can't come to church. Some folks even live in the hospital."

"Do their folks live in a hospital?" another boy asked.

Michael fidgeted as Margaret clasped her hands anxiously. She had no idea where this was going.

"No, their parents don't," Mrs. Day continued. "But their grandmother does. And Mr. and Mrs. Head give up their Sunday mornings so they can spend time with her, and with all the other folks at the hospital who don't have a family to visit them. Now, spending your Sundays at the hospital spreading cheer and the word of God is every bit as much about doing the Lord's work as any missionary does in the deepest, darkest heart of Africa. Don't you think so?"

They did. And while their new peer group murmured approvingly of the selfless good deeds of the Head parents, no one was more pleased than Margaret to have Mrs. Day take up her mother's big lie and swear to it. Momma must have called her. And while it was true that Granny Lura was in the nursing home, Momma only went to visit on Sunday afternoons. Margaret always went with her, they never stayed more than an hour, and waving while walking rapidly past anyone they encountered was all the joy spreading Momma allowed—and even this was not encouraged. Other than waving, Margaret's hands were to remain at her sides or in her lap at all times while they were there. She wasn't even allowed to kiss Granny Lura.

"You might catch it," Sybil warned her. Sybil also avoided touching her mother.

"But Granny Lura had a stroke, Momma. Strokes aren't contagious." She knew this because Michael told her.

"Now, how do you know that, Miss Smarty Pants? Are you a doctor?"

"No, ma'am."

"Then hush up."

"Yes, ma'am."

Margaret was glad her mother wasn't a missionary in darkest Africa. From what she'd heard, the people there had enough to worry about without having to deal with Momma.

Margaret and Michael were saved from the fires of Hell in late November during a Sunday morning revival service. Margaret had been under a lot of pressure to get on with it, from both Momma and the girls in her Sunday School, none of whom were very nice. But Margaret wasn't about to seek salvation all by herself, and had been patiently waiting for Michael to make the first move. Her fear of dropping dead before asking God into her heart was nothing compared to her fear of walking down that long aisle in the great sanctuary alone. Thus, when Michael, seated a few rows ahead of her in the boys' section, rose from his seat in answer to the visiting preacher's invitation, Margaret moved quickly from her own pew and ran to his side.

"What are you doing?" he whispered in annoyance. "Go sit back down."

"I won't," she whispered back. "And you can't make me." She was well aware that people were watching, curious eyes that should have been closed in prayer.

"This is serious, Margaret. I've had a calling from Jesus."

"So?" Margaret said. "He just called me, too."

Michael, though nearly two and a half years her senior, was nonetheless more impressionable, at least where church was concerned. Listening to the humble pleas and fiery proclamations of the colorful, young revival preacher that morning, he had viscerally felt the unique combination of guilt, fear, and longing that the people of her church called the Holy Spirit. Michael was sincere, therefore, as he stood before the congregation with tears in his eyes and surrendered his soul to God. Margaret, on the other hand, had felt nothing, other than relief at not doing it alone.

"And what is your name, child?" Brother Bevill asked when he'd finished with Michael and turned to Margaret, thrusting a large, black microphone in her face. It smelled strongly of sweat, as did Brother Bevill.

Unnerved at having all eyes on her, she made a grab for Michael's hand. But having God in his heart wasn't reason enough to make him hold her hand in front of his friends, and he deftly jerked it away.

Margaret fidgeted and clasped her hands behind her. "My name is Margaret Rose Head," she squeaked nervously, clearing her throat as she searched for an appropriate statement. "And I want to be washed in the blood of the lamb." This she'd taken from the hymn the choir was scheduled to sing that night, having read the bulletin while Brother Bevill was preaching, and then looked in the hymnal for the song. She hadn't liked it much, though. Blood was disgusting, and she had no desire whatsoever to bathe in it.

"Praise God!" Brother Bevill exclaimed, grabbing Margaret to him for a sweaty hug. "Did you hear that, folks? Suffer the little children to come unto me! Say praise God and Hallelujah!"

A few polite Hallelujahs were voiced, though quietly. Paulk Roaders were a conservative bunch, and shouted Hallelujahs not their style.

"Will the parents of these two precious children please join us?"

Now Michael's hand, wrenched away moments earlier, grabbed Margaret's so tightly it was as if the Devil himself had hold of it. Many of the assembled began murmuring and looking around, and Margaret knew she had to do something. Grabbing for the microphone, she pulled it close to her mouth. "My momma and daddy couldn't come today, preacher, because our daddy got real sick last night, and Momma sat up with him. She asked if we could say a prayer about it."

It wasn't a complete lie. Like all good lies, it carried an element of truth. Leon did have a dizzy spell the night before. He tended to dizzy spells after consuming a great deal of bourbon, which he always did on Saturday nights. Only last night he'd fallen, making enough racket to wake Margaret, who, rushing into the bathroom just ahead of her mother, found him sprawled awkwardly, half in and half out of the cast iron tub, in only his underwear, a bottle of Jim Beam open on the floor. As Margaret stood scanning for creatures, Momma pushed past her, and then roughly pushed her out, slamming the door. Margaret could hear her put the whisky bottle in the dirty clothes closet before wetting a rag and trying to wake him. In the end, Margaret was sent to wake Michael—who was already awake and waiting anxiously on his side of the locked door—to help move their daddy, whom they carried by his arms and legs to bed. There was a big lump on his head by then, and Momma mumbled something about how his nerve medicine needed changing before swearing them both to silence and sending them back to bed. Margaret was still awake when Sybil came to relock the door later, but she feigned sleep, watching as Sybil went in and out without even giving her a glance, and listening as she went to the kitchen to put on coffee. She'd tried to stay awake, too, to keep vigil for her father like Momma was doing, but in an instant it was morning, and Margaret bolted from her bed to find Leon reading the Sunday paper at the kitchen table like he always did, and Sybil snoring peacefully among her magazines on the couch.

As the preacher closed the service with prayer, in which he remembered Leon by name, it occurred to Margaret she'd inherited her mother's aptitude for lying with grace and a straight face. She'd told a whopper of a lie, in church, and in front of God and everybody, with practically the same breath she'd used to ask him into her heart. That couldn't have gone over very well in heaven, what with her name being written in the book of life and the book of judgment at practically the very same time. But what choice did she have? All her life Momma had said a person's reputation was more important than anything, so she'd done what Momma would have wanted her to do. She could only hope God would understand.

With few exceptions, Margaret's life over the next few years was painfully uneventful. While Michael played baseball and basketball and football, his above-average height, good looks, and intellect making him popular with coaches, girls and teachers, Margaret found herself with little to occupy her time. She went to church Sunday mornings, but Momma wouldn't let her join the Paulk Road Sunbeams or go to Prayer Meeting, saying it wasn't necessary for her to be in church every time the doors were open, especially not at night. Requests for piano lessons and dance were also denied, as was her desire to join the Girl Scouts.

"I don't know how you expect I'm gonna run your brother to his ball games every day and get your daddy's supper on the table if I'm havin' to run you, too," Sybil explained.

"Ball games are stupid."

"Ball games are what boys do, Margaret Rose. It wears them out, and that keeps them from thinkin' about things they got no business thinkin' about. Now get on out and play."

She would have loved nothing better than to play. But there was no one to play with. Although she was allowed to go in the yard, she wasn't allowed to cross the street for any reason, not even over to the empty lot where Michael played ball with his friends. But even if she had been allowed, there weren't any girls over there, and she was forbidden to play with boys.

When they'd first moved back, Margaret had sat on the front porch and waited for the neighbor girls to walk past carrying their dolls or pushing them in strollers. Then she'd run to the edge of the road and invite them to play. But she wasn't allowed to ask them inside, not even to use the bathroom, or the phone, or even to offer a glass of water.

"Can't we play inside? It's hot."

"Momma's waxing the floor."

"You said she did that yesterday."

"She's doing it again. Momma likes a shiny floor."

It didn't take too many such conversations before the girls lost interest in playing on Margaret's carport or beneath the trees, not when they could pee or get a drink of water anytime they wanted most anywhere else. And though she was invited to play at their houses, Sybil wouldn't let her.

"You've got a big, beautiful yard of your own to play in, Margaret Rose. I won't have you shut up in one of them stranger's little houses with God knows what going on inside there."

"What, Momma?" she demanded. "What's going on inside there? And why can't anyone come in our house?"

"You want the whole world to know our business? Do you? Now take that fresh mouth in the yard or I'll see you don't sit for a week! Now get!"

It wasn't long before the girls no longer stopped. At first Margaret tried enticing them, pretending to engage in a particularly spirited game of House whenever she saw any of them approaching. But their mothers had grown wary of the house on the hill with the too frequently waxed floors and the curtains that never opened. Some had gone with cakes or pies to welcome Mrs. Head when the family first arrived, but all had been met with an unanswered door, despite her car being in the drive. And while most pitied Margaret, it was nonetheless decided they would no longer let their daughters play with her. Something was wrong in that house, some secret being hidden inside, and they loved their daughters too much to risk what might happen were they ever actually allowed in. After a time, Margaret put her dolls away, and began spending her days in her room, reading the World Book, the Almanac, the newspaper, or losing herself in endless hours of television.

It was because of television that Margaret knew what a family was supposed to be like. Her family wasn't like that at all, even with something as simple as dinner. On TV, everyone came to the table for dinner. Their places were set and the table filled with many different foods. There'd be meat, vegetables, bread, and even dessert. There was always a lot of food and always a blessing—the daddy usually said it—and then the food was passed and everyone started talking. Of course it wasn't always like that. Sometimes the mom burned the pot roast, or the biscuits were hard as rocks, or the new recipe the Mom worked so hard on turned out awful. No one would tell her, of course, as that would have been rude. The mom would only realize she'd used salt instead of sugar when she took a bite herself, but then everyone would laugh. Sometimes there was a disagreement and a child was sent to bed without supper. But a plate would always go up to their room later—television families almost always had an upstairs—and apologies would then be followed by hugs, and the kid getting to eat their dinner in bed, and, most likely, an extra helping of their favorite dessert.

Other than on Thanksgiving, which was always eaten out, and Christmas Day, when Sybil baked a ham, the Head family didn't eat together. At breakfast, the children had cereal at the kitchen table, Leon having already left for work, and Sybil staying in the living room with her coffee. She'd call the kids to dinner around five, which was either a sandwich with soup, a pan-fried frozen burger, or the occasional TV dinner of Salisbury Steak or Chicken. They'd eat on trays in front of the living room TV while Sybil stayed elsewhere in the house—only not at the stove. When Leon was overseas, she rarely cooked at all, as Sybil hated cooking, and wasn't very good at it. So, for her dinner and Leon's, who came home around six, she cooked on Mondays only—frying a chicken, making a roast, pork chops, and maybe spaghetti, which she would warm up and serve with a can of vegetables and rice or potatoes the remainder of the week. If Leon wanted anything else he made it, and Margaret would sometimes hear the new electric can opener, or the abrupt thunk of canned biscuits being slammed against the counter. There was a time when Sybil had cooked for all of them, but when Michael complained two days running about the gristly chunks of boiled, unseasoned meat and soggy chicken legs his mother had dished up, she lost her temper, and neither of the children was offered any of "her" dinner again.

Michael was fine with it. He ate at the Owens as often as he was invited, and with his ball team on the days they won. Margaret found herself alone in front of the TV on those days with only a bowl of soup for dinner. Sybil said it wasn't worth messing up a frying pan just for one.

There'd been a time when Sybil had made biscuits, or a biscuit, rather, because she'd make one really big one, and then cut it into squares. They were good with butter, though, and Margaret asked her to make them again.

"I'm too busy to be makin' biscuits," she was told. "Anyway, eatin' biscuits will make you fat."

There didn't seem to be much danger of that. She and Michael were both pretty thin, or, as she'd heard her teachers say, nothing but skin and bones.

Margaret's favorite TV shows were the ones where the family went on vacation, especially to the beach. The Heads had been to the beach as a family once, though Margaret didn't remember. Granny Lura had shown her a photograph one Sunday when Sybil had gone to the nurse's station, enraged because Granny's new roommate kept passing gas. In the black and white picture, Leon was smiling, holding a string of fish in one hand and a beer in the other. A younger-looking, smiling Lura stood next to him holding Michael's hand, and baby Margaret was in the crook of her arm.

"Did Momma take this?" Margaret whispered.

"No, child. Your momma wouldn't even come outside."

"Why not?"

"She was mad. Mad from when we left home to when we got home."

"Why?"

"Your Momma never much liked people having fun, Maggie darlin'," she said. "Ain't you ever noticed?"

A prolonged explosion of escaping gas that sounded a bit like the rapid fire of a TV machine gun began, and both Lura and Margaret covered their mouths and laughed.

"But how could anybody be mad while they're at the beach?"

"That's your momma, darlin'. She said if she ever got home, wild horses couldn't make her go again." Sybil had spoken the truth, too, for the Heads had never gone anywhere ever again on vacation.

"But then why did she go in the first place?" Margaret continued, trying to understand.

"It was a long time ago," Lura said, slipping the photo back between the pages of her Bible before Margaret returned it to the drawer. "She had a lot weighin' on her mind, and your daddy and me talked her into goin', hopin' it might make her better. But some folks can't let nothin' go, and your momma's one of 'em. I say what's done is done, and if there ain't no helpin' it, then leave it behind and get on with your life. You remember that, Maggie darlin'. Don't you live your life like your momma's done, worryin' night and day over things you can't change or fix. I want you to promise me that."

She wanted to ask what momma wouldn't let go of, but Margaret could hear Sybil's high heels clicking towards the door.

"I won't ever do that, Granny," she said quickly. "I promise."

TV parents were always sitting down with their children for long, meaningful talks about life. A lot of the TV kids didn't have moms because they'd died, though the specifics of their deaths were never discussed. But all of them had fathers or father surrogates, and they were always teaching the kids things like how to deal with bullies, or the importance of telling the truth. And the kids always listened, and learned valuable life lessons.

Sometimes Margaret would lie in bed wishing Sybil had non-specifically died, and that Leon was sitting beside her, talking and teaching as she nodded along thoughtfully while enjoying a second helping of dessert. But in reality, she'd never had a real conversation with him.

"Are you doing all right in school, Chicken?" Daddy had affectionately called her Chicken for as long as she could remember, but she'd never thought to ask why.

"Yes, sir. I won the spelling bee." And the geography bee, and the penmanship award; they'd given her a pen with her name on it for that one.

"That's great, Margaret. I'm real proud. You leaving for church now?"

"Yes, sir. I've read my lesson twice and looked up all the verses." And then she'd read the whole chapter, and sometimes the whole book, unless there were begets. Other than all the begets, Margaret had read the Bible from cover to cover three and a half times.

"Well, Chicken, keep up the good work. I'll see you later."

That was about it. There were no life lessons, no words of wisdom, and no bedtime stories or lullabies. Up until they returned to Georgia, Margaret's bedtime had been at six-thirty. For years she'd fallen asleep listening to the strong, steady voice of Walter Cronkite reading the CBS evening news. She didn't understand everything he said, but she loved hearing him say it, and she'd made a game out of staying awake until he said "and that's the way it is." And then he'd say goodnight, and she'd say goodnight, and sometimes she'd pretend that momma and daddy were both non-specifically dead, and it was Walter Cronkite sitting on her bed, teaching life's lessons, kissing her good night, and bringing up an extra slice of pie.

When they'd come to Georgia, Momma bought a small black and white TV set for Margaret's room and one for Michael's, with the understanding that they were to stay in their rooms once daddy got home from work. At Sybil's bedtime, she'd come in and lock the door between them, making sure Michael had a milk carton should he need to pee before morning. And although he was strictly forbidden to open the exterior door to his room unless the house was on fire—his room having once been a carport, it had an outside door—Margaret had heard him go outside plenty of times, presumably to pee in the yard.

At first Margaret thought it was wonderful, watching whatever she wanted on TV, and staying up as late as she wanted without anyone coming in to change the channel or shut it off. But no one came in to kiss her goodnight either, or to check to see if she was breathing. Michael used to knock on the wall in the beginning to have her turn his light off, as the switch was in her room, and then he'd always say goodnight. But then Momma got him a lamp, and after that he didn't always remember to say it.

TV mothers and daughters talked about clothes and got their hair done together and went shopping and had lunch at restaurants and drugstore counters. Between her and momma, there had never been any girl talk, and she'd never been to the beauty shop, although Sybil went at least once a month to get her hair curled and dyed. The only shopping they'd done together was at the drug store, or the five and dime, or the Piggly Wiggly, and even then momma was busy with her list, and never talked with her or let her push the cart.

Margaret knew that when she was a baby her mother must have rocked her to sleep, and sang to her, and taught her rhymes about her toes, and tickled her, despite the fact that it was supposed to make kids stutter. But she had no proof of it, and there were no pictures, and Michael said he didn't remember.

Momma had brothers and sisters that lived in Columbia, but Margaret and Michael had never met them, and as far as she knew her momma never saw them. When Margaret asked why, Momma said they were busy living their own with lives, and there wasn't time for such things. But Granny Lura had told her, when Momma wasn't listening, of Christmas dinners, and birthday parties, and picnics in the country where all the cousins came, and there would be forty or fifty people altogether. Michael said they didn't go to any of these things because their momma was ashamed of daddy's drinking, which was also why they had TVs in their rooms, and got dropped off at church, and couldn't have anyone over to play or spend the night, and that this was just the way it was in their family, and she needed to get used to it.

"But aren't our cousins a part of our family?" she asked, particularly distressed about missing the birthday parties. Neither of them had ever had a real birthday party, and Margaret had never been to one. On their birthdays there would be a store-bought cake, either Angel Food or Pound, with no thought given to adding candles, making wishes, or singing the birthday song. Gifts were purchased at the dime or drug store, and given in the sack they came home in—never wrapped—and were typically coloring books and crayons, or small toys, when Michael and Margaret were little. As they grew, Sybil eventually switched over to connect-the-dots and crossword puzzle books. Sybil didn't like birthdays, she didn't celebrate her own, and neither of her children could tell you when it was.

"The cousins are part of our family, Margaret," Michael said. "Because we have the same blood. But they're not in our family, because Momma doesn't want them to be. And if Momma doesn't want something, it's not going to happen. You ought to know that by now."

"But it's not fair."

"Lots of things in life aren't fair. They just are. And that's the way it is."

Michael was a Cronkite fan, too.

A Way With Women

1968-1969

### 2

Once Michael left for Auburn, a heavy silence fell over the Head house. Margaret knew he was their parents' favorite, because he was her favorite, too. And while there had been much pride and even a semblance of celebration when he'd graduated—not one, but two years early, and with honors—it evaporated as soon as he was gone. And Michael was truly gone, not returning for weekends, Thanksgiving, or Christmas break, citing his sports and tutoring obligations. Margaret missed him greatly.

She stayed in her room with the door closed much of the time after he left, and Sybil made a point of avoiding her, especially now that Margaret had begun referring to her as Mother. She knew it hurt her—it was intended to hurt her. But replacing the childhood endearment of Momma with this common, functional noun, seemed the only tool Margaret had to register her displeasure with life in general, and of living in their silent, unhappy home.

This silent standoff might have continued indefinitely had Margaret not gotten her period just before her fourteenth birthday in December 1968. But the infusion of hormones into the hostile atmosphere permeating the Head house seemed to accelerate Sybil's long-held fear that her only daughter was destined for whoredom. Practically overnight, Sybil went from looking past her daughter to actively seeking her out, bombarding her at every opportunity with one woman's accumulated wisdom on the myriad evils of sex.

"Margaret Rose! Come quick!" It was strange enough for Sybil to sound excited, but to find her standing on the front porch must mean Jesus himself was descending from the sky. Margaret rushed to join her.

"What?"

"Look there," Sybil directed. In Mr. Owens' yard, two dogs were entangled. "Do you know what they're doing?"

She did. And as Margaret's cheeks turned scarlet she moved to go inside, but Sybil grabbed her arm, holding her.

"They're in heat," Sybil said knowingly. "With dogs the girl gets heat, but with folks, it's always the man. That's called fuckin', Margaret Rose."

Margaret had heard the vulgarity many times at school, but from her mother's mouth it sounded a hundred times more obscene. "Don't say that word!" she cried, pulling away. "That's nasty!"

"It is nasty," Sybil agreed, still watching. "All sex is nasty. And it's all men want from you. I want you to remember that, Margaret Rose."

Sybil's next lesson was even more disturbing. As Margaret was leaving for school one morning, Sybil sprang from her spot on the couch, pulled Margaret's skirt open at the waist, and plunged her hand in, grabbing Margaret's crotch.

"Stop it!" Margaret screamed, pushing her away in shock and anger.

"See how quick it can happen? Do you?" Sybil cried, her eyes wild. "All a man wants is to get in your pants. That's all any of them want. Every last one of 'em!"

Margaret shook with rage. "Don't you ever touch me again!" she screamed, her eyes filling with tears.

Sybil slapped her face so hard she stumbled against the wall. "I'm your momma, and you don't tell me what I'm gonna do," Sybil warned, punching her finger in Margaret's chest. "And you better listen up and listen good to what I'm sayin', girl, 'cause I ain't havin' no whore livin' under my roof. I'll put you out so quick you won't even know what hit you."

The episode had left Margaret badly shaken, and for weeks she lived in fear of her mother molesting her again. But while that didn't happen, Sybil found more subtle ways to make Margaret's life miserable. Once, she held her hand to the cold marble top of the coffee table. "That's how you feel when you're dead," she began. "Hard and cold, cause it's the blood that makes you warm. When you die they drain it out—"

"Stop!" Margaret protested, pulling her hands away. "I don't want to hear that!"

"You don't want to know nothin', do you?"

"I don't want to know that!" she cried, bursting into tears. "Why can't you teach me something motherly? Like how to sew something, or fry up a chicken, or bake a cake?"

"Oh, grow up, Margaret Rose," Sybil said, turning away in disgust. "You might be lookin' grown, but you still act like a stupid little baby."

Another time, at the nursing home visiting Granny Lura, Sybil had slipped up behind her and lifted her blouse.

"Mother!" Margaret hissed, snatching down her shirt.

"I just wanted Momma to see how big your bosoms have got," Sybil laughed harshly. "But you ain't got nothin' special, girl, so don't go thinkin' you have. Them ain't nothin' special at all."

Granny Lura had smiled at her sympathetically, and for the ten-thousandth time Margaret found herself questioning why Sybil had been blessed with such an endearing mother, and she most certainly had not.

In January of 1969, Margaret and all the others who'd turned fourteen the previous fall were promoted to the Young Adult Christians. No more shifting uncomfortably through Mrs. Day's Sunday School lessons, where the unconditional love bonding parent and child, something she'd never experienced, was too often prominently featured, and no more standing for Bible Bees. She'd easily won first place every week in the Bees until it occurred to her the others might like her better if she didn't. So she'd purposely started losing, but they still didn't like her. The boys never talked to any of the girls much anyway, so that was no big deal. But the girls who could have been her friends never made any effort to include her. Part of it had to do with school. None of the other girls had started high school yet and were still in junior high. This seemed to generate a great deal of resentment, although it was hardly her fault that Sybil had managed to start her in Kindergarten three months before her fifth birthday.

While her new Sunday School classes remained segregated by gender and age, keeping her primarily with her previous group, Margaret found reason to be hopeful when the Minister of Music announced tryouts for the Young Adult Choir. The choir was open to anyone over fourteen who was still in school and not married. And she'd always liked singing in church, and in music lessons at school, and along with TV theme songs and commercials. She didn't own any records, as she had neither the money nor the opportunity to buy them, or a record player, but she did have a transistor radio, which she listened to before sleeping. The most exciting thing about the choir, however, was the idea of being in a new group where she might be able to make friends. Most everyone in the choir was older, and she liked that. Some of them even had cars, and on the nights the choir performed they'd go to Shoney's or to someone's house after church to socialize. Not that Sybil would ever agree to let her do that—she'd be amazed if she agreed to even let her join the choir. But there was nothing to lose by asking.

By the following Sunday, Margaret had settled on a plan she hoped would convince Sybil to let her join. "It's a special service tonight, and we're all supposed to be there by six," she told Sybil that Sunday afternoon. It wasn't a total lie. The youth choir from Greenbrier Baptist was putting on a musical at Paulk Road that night, and if the congregation liked it, Brother Bevill had announced they would do one, too.

Sybil sat on the corner of the couch with her coffee and magazines, answering without looking up. "You know I don't like to drive at night."

"I know," Margaret began sweetly. "I wouldn't even ask, except when Brother Whitehead shook my hand this morning, he said he'd really like it if I could come tonight, because all the other kids would be there. Before I could tell him no, Miss Christine—you remember the woman you met at the Piggly Wiggly?"

"That crazy woman that was prayin' in the produce?"

"That's her," Margaret nodded in agreement, though she wouldn't give anything for the look on Sybil's face when Miss Christine, who really was a little crazy, introduced herself to Sybil last week at the Piggly Wiggly, and insisted on an impromptu prayer circle for Granny Lura right there by the Idaho potatoes. "Anyway," Margaret continued. "She said to tell you she's coming by to see you in the morning, because she's had you on her mind ever since that day."

"Oh, good Lord," Sybil rose in disgust. "I don't want that crazy woman in my house!"

"I told her no," Margaret said quickly. "I said you had your hands full and it wasn't a good time. And the preacher said it sure was a blessing Granny Lura had you to look after her, and me to stand in for you at church, especially on special nights like tonight." Margaret cleared her throat. "And I can walk there and back. It's not that far, and I'm not scared of the dark."

Sybil wasn't a fool. She knew Margaret asked the way she did because it made it hard for her to say no. All the same, if saying yes would encourage the girl to keep those church people out of her hair and her house, it was a small price to pay. "Decent girls don't walk the streets at night. You know that. So I'll take you this one time. Just keep those folks away from me. I got enough on me without worryin' about crazy people beatin' on my door."

"Yes, ma'am. I will."

Sybil dropped her off at a six.

"You be back here at nine, girl," she said. "Don't keep me waitin'."

"But church isn't even over until nine," she argued. "And with it being a special service, it might run late."

"I can't help that. You be back here at nine if you don't want me comin' in after you."

"You could come, you know," Margaret offered. "The service starts at seven and I could—"

"Oh, good grief, girl. Get out on my car!" Sybil screamed.

Margaret got out, making an effort not to slam the door. Sybil peeled off, making an illegal U-turn onto the busy road. Horns blared as Margaret hurried down the sidewalk towards the door on the covered porch. Entering the foyer, she was shocked to hear raucous laughter funneling down the Great Hall from the choir room on the opposite side of the building. She'd never heard laughter like that at church, and the sound of it filled her with uncertainty. The choir kids had known each other all their lives. They had relationships and inside jokes she knew nothing about. Why had she thought this group would be any better, or any different? They wouldn't. It was a mistake to think she'd fit in. She probably didn't sing well enough, anyway. And she didn't know any good jokes. And Sybil wasn't going to let her join the choir even if they did let her in, so what was the point? It was better to just leave things alone. Margaret's stomach rumbled nervously, tearing up. She'd just hide out in the bathroom until evening services started.

Paulk Road only had two bathrooms, and the ladies room was across from the smoked glass choir room door. Margaret hurried down the long hallway and turned the corner. The choir room was straight ahead, and the bathroom just past the stairs on the left. She slipped off her flats and was about to round the corner when the shrill, unmistakable voice of Pamela Ritch, shouting, made her stop. Ever since their promotion, Pamela had gone from ignoring Margaret to openly disliking her, and she knew very well that Pamela's friends would do the same, following her like a herd of mindless sheep. She'd made the right decision. The whole point of joining choir had been to make friends, not to give Pamela yet another venue in which to taunt her.

Taking a deep breath, Margaret turned the corner just as the ladies room door flew open, and out came Brother Bevill, tall and lean enough to remind her of Ichabod Crane. She stopped dead, immediately dropping her shoes and stepping into them.

"You'd think this was the back room of a bar listening to those guys, wouldn't you?" he asked, moving towards her. "You've come to try out for the choir?"

"No, sir," Margaret stammered. "I just got here early for church, and was going to use the bathroom."

"Trust me when I tell you that's not a good idea right now," he said easily. "Wait a few minutes. And there's no need to be nervous about auditioning," he continued, putting his hand on her shoulder as he reached past her to open the choir room door. "The first step is always the hardest."

"Look! It's Margaret the Red!" Pamela Ritch yelled and pointed upon seeing her. The room went quiet, and Margaret's face grew hot. She would have turned and ran had Brother Bevill not had his hand on her back.

"Everyone be quiet. And put your hand down and be seated, Miss Ritch," he said to Pamela with a frown. "That is far from a proper Christian welcome. I take it you're Margaret?" he asked, looking down at her. "I'm Anthony. And let me just say you have lovely hair."

"Thank you, Brother Bevill," she laughed. "I'm Margaret. Margaret Head. I was promoted last month."

"I remember you," he said, making a fist and knocking it against his slender chest, burping. "Pardon me, I love scrambled dogs, but six was one too many." He lowered his voice. "That's why I didn't make it to the men's room, and I'd appreciate it if you kept that between the two of us."

Margaret smiled. She liked this man. "I won't tell anyone. I promise."

"You like to sing?"

"Yes, sir, but I've never sang anywhere outside of music class at school, so I'm really not good enough to sing in the choir."

"Ha!" he laughed as he steered her towards the piano. "If a good voice was the standard, this choir would be awfully small. It's the spirit that counts. You a soprano or alto?"

"I'm not sure, sir," she answered, speaking over the voices that were starting up again. "Soprano, I think."

"This isn't the Army, Margaret. Call me Anthony. Now let's run some scales and see where you'll fit in." He sat at the piano, motioning Margaret to sit beside him. For the next few minutes, she sang along as he led her through a series of warm-ups.

"Impressive," he said at last. "You have a great range. I can put you just about anywhere."

"Thanks," Margaret said, standing, and hoping just about anywhere would not be next to Pamela.

"Not so fast," Anthony said. "Sit. Sing 'Amazing Grace'," he said. "I'll get you started."

He began to play and sing, and Margaret joined in, singing softly until Anthony bent his ear very near her mouth, making her laugh. By the time they neared the end, she was singing alone. Anthony nodded to indicate she should begin again, and having memorized all the verses, she began the second. Again he nodded as the verse was ending, and Margaret skipped to the fourth and final verse. It was then she realized the room had grown silent listening to her, and, self-conscious, her voice began to falter. Suddenly there were hands on her shoulders, and then a voice—an amazing, beautiful man's voice—joined with hers, and together they finished the song. At first there was silence, and then suddenly there was clapping and cheering and whistles, something Margaret had never before heard following a hymn.

Anthony was beaming. "Wow. Where have you been hiding?" he asked. Margaret's cheeks reddened as he stood and drew her up for a hug. Everyone seemed to be smiling, except for Pamela and her cronies, who wore looks of either boredom or disgust on their faces.

"She's been with the kids."

The hands on her shoulders were gone, and now Margaret turned and saw William Marshall standing directly behind her, his face lit with a huge smile. At over six foot, with white blond hair and deep blue eyes, William Michael Marshall was extremely popular at church, and everywhere else he went. All the girls had crushes, understandably, for he was easily the most attractive boy she'd ever seen in person, though she'd never before seen him this close. Yet there he was, and he was smiling directly at her.

"You've been blessed with an amazing voice, Maggie," he said. "It's beautiful, and I'm really glad you're joining the choir."

William Marshall is talking to me? And he knows my name and he's calling me Maggie? No one had ever called her Maggie other than her Granny Lura, but now that he'd called her Maggie, it seemed unimaginable she could be called anything else. She wanted to say thank you, but was so excited her mind went blank, and she looked away, her face burning.

"I'm sorry," he said, touching her arm. "I've embarrassed you and you don't even really know me. I'm William Marshall," he said, offering his hand. She took it awkwardly, acutely aware of how strong and warm it was.

"I'm Margaret—Maggie Head," she stammered. "How did you know my name?"

"I've noticed you," he said, keeping her hand in his as he dropped to the bench. "So I asked."

Noticed me? Why would William Marshall notice me?

"Here's a thought," Anthony said, interrupting. "Why not drop the choir altogether and the two of you sing the Invitation on Sunday nights while I'm gone? It would make everything easier all around."

"That's a great idea," William said, dropping Maggie's hand to address Anthony. "I'd already been thinking we won't have enough people to have the choir sit, now that Culpepper and Lesh are going, too."

"That makes how many, seven?"

"Eight with Ripley, who's trying to make it happen," William said. "So, how about it, Maggie? Are you game? Will you sing with me?"

What? Too much was happening too fast. "Wait. You want me to sing with you? In front of everybody? In church?" she asked both of them incredulously.

"Well," Anthony teased. "I don't think having you two dance would be received very well." Taking her arm, he again steered her down to the bench, sandwiching her between him and William. "Here's the thing. I've got to play Army for two weeks, and eight of our seniors are going on a class trip and won't be here, either. These are our best singers, or at least they were before you showed up, and the rest of these guys aren't disciplined enough to not distract from the service. You see how disciplined they are," he said, nodding towards the group, half of which were out of their seats and all of whom were talking.

"Brother Whitehead has no problem with not fielding a choir on Sunday nights, but he insists on having someone lead the Invitation. So you and William can do it." He looked past her. "You should play the guitar," he said to William. "You know how he loves it. But if you decide to have Miss Fralinger play piano, let the office know so Suzanne can get it in the bulletin."

Margaret was stunned. Here she was sitting thigh-to-thigh with William Marshall and they were making plans for them to sing together in front of God and everybody. Not in her wildest dreams had she conceived of anything like this happening. It wasn't what she'd signed up for, having changed her mind about signing up at all.

She began shaking her head. "I'm sorry, but I could never stand up in front of all those people and sing. It's hard enough doing it here, but in front of a whole congregation? I can't do that."

"Sure you can, Maggie," William said easily, putting his arm around her. "You've sung in front of your family, right? And we're your church family. Nobody here's going to bite you, even if you mess up, as I've done dozens of times. Besides," he continued, "God expects us to use the gifts we've been given, and he gave you a really great voice. It'd be a sin not to share it."

"Also," Anthony added. "There's rarely more than two hundred people in the pews on Sunday night, and a lot of them are asleep."

Singing was a rare event in the Head house. Like touching. And compliments. And encouraging words were all but non-existent. Yet here, in the course of a few short minutes, Margaret was being touched, hugged, and praised. William still had his arm around her, he smelled just as heaven must, and he was asking her to sing with him. But the thought of it was terrifying.

"Pamela said she'll do it with William." It was the girl seated next to Pamela who spoke, her choice of words drawing snickers from the boys. Margaret looked over at Pamela, who raised her eyebrows and smirked. And in that smirk, Margaret found her courage.

"All right," she said, still looking at Pamela. "I'll do it."

"That's my Maggie," William said, squeezing her to him.

His Maggie?

"But I'll have to ask my mother," she added quickly. "She doesn't like to drive at night. That's why I didn't try out before, and I don't know—"

"Not a problem," William said. "I'll drive you home. And I'll take care of convincing your mother. I've got a way with women," he said with a laugh. "Well, with mothers anyway. So no worries, Maggie, we are going to sing."

Margaret smiled but said nothing. She wanted to tell him it wasn't that simple, to warn him that nothing with Sybil was ever simple. If William thought he was going to charm Sybil into letting him drive her home, especially at night—he was mistaken. It was much more likely she'd decide Margaret couldn't attend church any longer at all. But she had to let him try. For now that this unforeseen miracle had happened—now that she was being presented with a chance to do something special and be someone special for the first time in her life—if Sybil wouldn't let her, there was little point in even returning to church. If she took this away, there was little point in doing anything anymore.

That evening after church, and all through the school day Monday, Maggie's mood bounced between fits of nervous giddiness and thoughts of matricide. If Sybil was dead, she wouldn't have to worry about getting her permission to join the choir, or sing with William, or go in her own backyard without asking. Nothing so wonderful had ever happened to her before, and wouldn't happen again. Being so close to William Marshall, having him sit beside her and touch her, and smile that incredible smile, and call her Maggie—if she never saw him again, if Sybil stomped her foot and forbade her to join the choir, at least she had a memory Sybil couldn't take away. It was a given she would say no, and by the time she came in the door Monday afternoon, she'd already resigned herself to it.

"The preacher called," Sybil said, not looking up as Maggie headed for her room.

Maggie's heart was suddenly racing. "Really?" she asked, trying her best to sound casual.

"I wasn't sure he was callin' the right house at first. He asked for me, but then called you Maggie, as if you was a crow or somethin'—but I corrected him. You would think your preacher would know better than that." She looked up. "Your name is Margaret Rose."

Not anymore. Margaret Rose had been Sybil's name for her. But Maggie? It was all hers. "Brother Whitehead said he had an Aunt Margaret he always called Maggie," she lied spontaneously. "That's where he got it. What did he say?"

"Well, he wants you to sing with the choir, and he particularly wants you and another child to sing on Sunday nights 'til the choir man gets back from his trainin'."

William got Brother Whitehead to call?

"He said you sing real nice, Margaret Rose, and that he knew right away on hearin' my voice where you got it." Sybil cleared her throat. "We talked quite a bit, and I told him I'd think about singin' in the choir myself—the real adult choir—if I ever got time to come up there."

Maggie nearly shuddered at the thought of Sybil front and center of the choir loft at Paulk Road in a golden robe. But truth be told, she had no idea if her mother could sing, as she'd never heard her do it.

"Anyway," Sybil continued, "I told him I was willin' to drop you off, but I couldn't be drivin' so late to pick you up after. But he said either he or one of the old married deacons could bring you home, so I told him I guessed that would be all right."

Maggie struggled to maintain her composure as Sybil moved past her, headed for the hall, and pointed to a number she'd scribbled on a torn out piece of the yellow pages. "He's not at church right now, but he wants you to call him and let him know you'll be there so they can print it up in the bulletin."

Maggie felt as if she was dreaming as she dialed the number. Sybil stood in the doorway listening.

"Baptist Student Union."

Huh? "Is Reverend Whitehead there?"

The voice became deeper. "This is Reverend Whitehead."

But it wasn't. It was William.

"This is Margaret Rose Head," she said somberly, looking at her mother. "My mom said I should call?"

"Are you on the line, Mrs. Head?" he asked.

"No, sir," Maggie answered after a moment.

"It's just me and you then?" William said, his voice now undisguised.

"Yes," she answered quickly.

"I keep thinking about your eyes, Maggie," he said. "You have such pretty blue eyes."

"Thank you," she said, keeping her voice serious.

Sybil waved her arms. "Thank you, sir."

"Thank you, sir," Maggie said quickly.

"Is your mother standing there listening?"

"Yes, sir."

"And she's going to let you sing?"

"Yes, sir."

"I told you I had a way with women," he teased.

"With God's help, of course," she returned smartly.

"Of course," William said without missing a beat. "That goes without saying. Well, as much as I like talking to you, I guess we better hang up. I'll see you in the choir room Sunday at six sharp. We'll do 'Just As I Am', and I've decided to play the guitar. That okay?"

"Yes, sir," she replied hesitantly, unsure about the guitar.

"Relax, Maggie. You and I will be great together. I promise."

She liked the sound of that. She liked it a lot. "Thank you, sir."

"Better throw away this number."

"Yes, sir. I will."

"Maggie?"

"Yes, sir?"

"I think you're really special."

"Thank you, sir," she said, quickly hanging up.

"That man sure likes to talk," Sybil said. "What did he say?"

"He said you were really nice," Maggie lied. "And that he enjoyed talking to you, and that it was hard to tell us apart on the phone because you sound so young." Now that's a good one.

"Really? Well, he sort of does, too. But he looks old enough to be my daddy," she said. "I've seen his picture in the bulletins."

"He's pretty old," Maggie agreed, smiling as she crumpled the phone number into a tiny ball and put it in her pocket.

"What was that you said about God's help?"

"Oh. He said we'd have it, and do a good job singing."

"Oh." Sybil was disappointed, hoping he'd said something else about her. "Well, anyway, if you're goin' to do this, you best get to practicin'."

"Will you come?" Maggie didn't know what made her ask, the words seemed to simply fly from her mouth. Maybe it was because this exchange with her mother, despite it being based on a lie, was the most pleasant she'd had with her in a long time.

"Don't be stupid! You know I can't do that!" Sybil yelled. "Now get to practicin'. You don't want to make a fool of yourself."

On Sunday, the church was quiet when Sybil dropped her. There were cars in the parking lot and some sort of meeting in the Fellowship Hall, but no one was in the choir room. Maggie sat at the piano, picking out the scales with one finger and singing along absent-mindedly as she thought about how she'd turn and smile when William came in. After a while, she began singing softly while trying to hit the proper keys on the piano. She didn't want to be heard by anyone else, or have William come in and catch her singing. But he never came.

At a quarter of seven, Reverend Whitehead stuck his head in.

"Hello, Margaret. How are you?"

"Not real good, sir," she answered anxiously. "Church starts in a few minutes and William and I are supposed to sing, but he's not here."

"He called. He's running late with car trouble."

"Is he coming?" she asked anxiously.

"Oh, I suspect he'll be along in time," he said. "But if he doesn't make it, you can manage alone, right?"

"No!" Maggie all but screamed. "I mean, no sir. I'm not nearly good enough to sing all by myself. Please don't make me," she begged. She'd spent the past half hour fearing this very suggestion.

"I was only teasing you, child," he said, coming into the room. "I know it takes a while to grow accustomed to performing alone in front of an audience. Heck, I still get nervous when the church is packed full of strangers on Easter, and whenever my brother visits and watches my every move from the front pew."

"So I don't have to sing?"

"Tell you what," he said, patting her shoulder. "If William doesn't make it, though I suspect he will, I'll let the congregation sing. But you understand why I don't like doing that. Folks tend to pay less attention to the needs of their souls when their mouths are busy."

Maggie sighed gratefully. "Thank you, Brother Whitehead."

When he left, Maggie went to the ladies room, locking herself into the stall and trying not to cry. She'd spent all week thinking about tonight and had sung the hymn at least a hundred times. But William hadn't been at church this morning, and he wasn't here now. Maybe it wasn't his car at all. Maybe he changed his mind.

At five of seven, she went outside and walked around to the front of the sanctuary, sitting alone near the entrance on the back row of the girls section. Pamela and her cronies were in the pew just ahead.

"So where's William?" Pamela asked, turning with raised eyebrows to glare at her.

"He's not here," Maggie replied.

"Well I can see that, Margaret," Pamela sneered. "Isn't it strange? This is the first time William's missed church in forever, and on the very night he's supposed to sing with you." She laughed, tossing her thick black hair as she turned away, and as all her friends began to laugh, Maggie grabbed a hymnal, hiding her face behind it.

The service was miserable. She was miserable. Pamela kept looking back at her and smirking and Maggie kept wondering if what she'd said was true. She wanted to leave, to slip out during one of the prayers, but that would have given Pamela too much satisfaction. She would stay, but as soon as the service was over, she planned to be the first one out the door. Maybe Sybil would already be asleep and not realize she'd walked home alone in the dark, risking the perils of whoredom. But it didn't really matter. After tonight, she wasn't sure if she ever wanted to come back.

Maggie's head was bowed for the post-sermon prayer when his hand touched her shoulder. William stood in the aisle, one hand grasping the neck of his guitar, the other held out to her. Maggie looked away, wiping the tears that stood in her eyes. William leaned into the pew.

"Maggie," he whispered, his lips brushing her ear. "I'm sorry I'm late, and I'll make it up to you. But right now I need you to come sing with me. Will you come? Please?"

Her heart pounding like a hammer, Maggie gave him her hand. He wove his fingers through hers, pulling her from the pew, and leading her down the aisle. She kept her head down, not wishing to see the rows of bowed heads they were passing. Despite her nervousness, she felt as if she was dreaming, for having William hold her hand, and touch his lips to her ear, were among the happiest moments of her life.

When they reached the front and mounted the steps to the podium, Reverend Whitehead looked over and smiled. William pulled the worn, red leather guitar strap around his neck just as the preacher said "Amen", and then crossed to descend the steps. Maggie felt the weight of the congregation's eyes upon her as they lifted their heads, and she closed her own tightly, clasping her hands behind her back.

"You've got this," William whispered. Maggie nodded but said nothing, squeezing her eyes more tightly closed.

He began strumming his guitar as Reverend Whitehead opened his arms to begin the call for sinners. "Open your eyes, Maggie," William said softly, moving so close to her their shoulders touched.

She opened her eyes just as a loud slap rang out, followed immediately by a child's scream. Turning her head, a reflection caught her eye, and as a woman hurried down the aisle towards the foyer doors with the shrieking, red-faced toddler, Reverend Whitehead nodded. Maggie shifted her body, her gaze remaining on a shiny spot she'd found, and as she tentatively began to sing the most familiar of Baptist hymns, her eyes never moved from it.

Within moments she began to relax, raising her chin and dropping her hands loosely to her sides. It felt so easy and natural to be singing before the assembled crowd, with William at her side, it was as if she'd done it a thousand times. Between pauses for the preacher's calls, they ran through all the verses, with William following her lead in surprise that she knew them. But Maggie never once looked at him. Her eyes remained fixed on the reflection of the overhead lights on the bald spot atop Reverend Whitehead's head.

No one answered his call for salvation or redemption, but as always, he was reluctant to quit. Sometimes, during morning services, this very hymn was sung through three times, but now, as they reached the end of the last verse, he signaled for them to stop.

When all heads bowed once again for the closing prayer, Maggie sighed with relief, and William bent down to her ear. "That was perfect," he whispered. "I told you we'd be great together."

"But no one was saved," she returned.

"Sunday nights can be tough," William replied with a grin.

When the prayer ended, Reverend Whitehead looked up at them. "That was some good singing. I thought for sure we'd get at least one."

"I saw some definite wavering," William offered.

"Did you?" Reverend Whitehead asked happily. "Good. We'll get 'em next week. You are going to be on time next week?"

"Yes, sir. Sorry about that."

"I'm not the one who was worried," he laughed, motioning them down to stand beside him. And so, with William on her right and the preacher on her left, Maggie stood smiling as those congregants who wished to do so, began to file by.

"Hello, Maggie." At the end of the line the woman who'd just kissed William now stood smiling before her. "William said you sang like an angel, and I do believe he was right."

"Maggie, this is my Mom, Dolly," William said.

He told his mom I sing like an angel? "It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Marshall," Maggie said, taking her hand.

"And this is Burt, William's father," Dolly said, releasing Maggie's hand so he might take it.

"Hello, Maggie," Burt gently squeezed rather than shook her hand. "You two did a fine job tonight. Fine job."

"Thank you, sir."

"William told us he was looking forward to singing with you," Burt said, stepping closer. "Of course, I expect your being so pretty had a little something to do with it."

"Is she pretty?" William asked, looking Maggie over from head to toe. "I hadn't noticed."

Maggie blushed and looked at her feet.

"Y'all cut it out, you're embarrassing her," Dolly said. "Don't pay them any mind, dear. I'm sure you know a lot about how silly men can be around a pretty girl."

Not really But before she could reply, Reverend Whitehead took Dolly's hand, leading her away, Burt followed, and William had walked off to speak with one of his friends. Does he really think I'm pretty? But as she stood there alone she soon began to feel ridiculous, and the nervous smile faded from her face. He was just being polite like his parents were. It didn't mean anything.

Unnoticed, Maggie walked up the aisle to the pew where she'd left her things. Quite a few people remained in the sanctuary and were standing about chatting, though Pamela and her cronies were long gone, having not come through the line. She wished she had thought to turn and smile at Pamela when William was holding her hand, or to at least glance at her while singing the Invitation. I bet she really hates me now, and probably William, too.

She sat and opened her Bible, pretending to read as she let her hair hang forward, shielding her face. William was driving her home in a few minutes, and her stomach was flipping about in excitement at the thought of it. She'd never been alone in a car with any boy, and William Marshall was definitely not just any boy.

"You haven't had enough church for today, Maggie?" William asked, his hands gripping the pew in front of her. "I had no idea you were so pious."

She looked up. "I'm not pious," she said honestly. "I'm just waiting for my ride."

"I didn't mean to embarrass you in front of my folks. Mom just gave me the devil about it."

"You didn't embarrass me," she lied. "I knew you were teasing."

"You're a terrible liar, Maggie Head," he said, leaning towards her. "And not only are you lying, but you're sitting in God's house doing it, aren't you?"

It was not a rhetorical question. William was waiting for her answer. "I—yes," she stammered. "I did. I'm sorry."

"You can't do that, Maggie. Especially not in church and with an open Bible in your lap," he chastised, reaching over to close it. "Some people believe a person could go to Hell for a sin like that."

He was so serious, and that's what made her laugh, as she'd never been able to take the idea of a real, literal Hell, seriously.

"I'm sorry," she said, quickly straightening her face. "I don't mean to laugh, and you're right. It's a sin to lie, and it's a worse sin to lie in God's house. And it's got to be a million times worse than that to lie while you're reading the Bible in God's house. I won't do it again."

"Good," he said, pushing a stray hair back from her face. "It's easy to forget how young you are, Maggie. But just so you know, I wasn't teasing earlier. I did tell my folks you were pretty."

Their eyes met for a long moment, and then he stood. "Come on. I better get you home."

Maggie knew William's car. It was a big, loud, shiny black Charger, and totally different from all the other cars in the parking lot. It was a car you noticed even if you didn't notice cars. And as they crossed to where it sat, she wondered what he'd think if he knew she'd never been in a car with anyone but her folks. He'd think I was a baby. No. He already does.

William stepped ahead to open her door while she did her best to look unimpressed. But once inside, it became all but impossible to maintain her composure. This was a sports car—a two-door-bucket-seated-shift-on-the-floor-sports-car like the ones she'd seen on TV. And the feel of it, even the smell, was unlike anything she'd ever experienced.

"Is it all yours?" she asked as he got in, turning in her seat to lay her cheek against the cool black leather.

"It's a she," he said proudly. "Her name is Barbara Ann, and she's all mine. Dad got her, at less than thirty-thousand miles and totaled, for my seventeenth birthday in December '67. I've spent every spare dime and most of my free time fixing her up ever since, but it's been a labor of love. You like her?"

"She's beautiful. Really. And the seats are leather, right?" she asked, burying her nose deep and breathing in. "I've never really smelled this much leather before. Who knew dead cows could smell this good?"

"You're a trip, Maggie," he laughed. "You really are." And then he turned the key and the car came to life with a roar of its powerful engine.

"I don't live very far. Just go left out of the parking lot and—"

"I know where you live," he said, interrupting.

"How?" Maggie asked, surprised.

"Because I'm incredibly smart," he grinned. "Don't forget that."

Paulk Road Baptist was only about ten blocks from Maggie's house, and a few blocks less to his own. William knew the Head house not only because it was in the same neighborhood as his, but because they both were among the few older homes there, built by their fathers after the war when the streets were still made of dirt and the water still came from wells. Most of the other houses, none of them brick, had come only in the past few years, taking with them most of the neighborhood's woods where he'd walked so often with his father.

"Why do you call me Maggie?"

"Because to me, that's who you are."

"And not Margaret?"

"No," he said. "No way. You're definitely Maggie."

"Then is it all right if I call you Will?"

### "Sure," he smiled. "Why?"

"Because to me that's who you are," she said. "Will. You're definitely Will."

"Fair enough," he said. "Will and Maggie. I like the sound of it."

She liked it, too.

"Will," she asked after a few moments. "When exactly in December is your birthday?"

"It's exactly December eleventh."

"No, it's not," she laughed.

"Yes, it is. My birthday is exactly December eleventh. You don't like the date?"

"No, I like it fine. Because December eleventh is my birthday, too."

He had slowed as he approached her driveway, but now shifted into second and roared up the hill. "Now you're kidding."

"No!" Maggie laughed, shaking her head. "Really, Will. It's December eleventh."

"Are you serious? What are the chances of that?"

"Well, Mr. Roberts says—"

"Jerry Roberts? At Oglethorpe?"

"Yes. Did you have him?

"Senior year. Great guy. Loves football. What did he say?"

"Just that it's not at all that statistically surprising when people have the same birthday. We had two just in our class."

"Oh, yeah," Will said, nodding his head. "I remember him teaching that. He must be using the same notes he used with us. So he teaches freshman math now?

"He might. But I have him for Trig."

"You're taking Trig?"

"I'm still in Geometry with Mr. Walker. He's new," Maggie explained. "But I'm taking Trig as an elective with Mr. Roberts."

"You chose Trig as an elective?" Will asked, surprised.

"Yes," Maggie said, feeling defensive. Her classmates, all juniors and seniors, didn't like the idea much, either. "They didn't have anything else I wanted, so I asked him, and he let me in. Plus, it got me out of having to take Home Ec."

Will drove slowly, circling the block. "You really are full of surprises," he said. "Smart, pretty—you sing like an angel, and we share the same birthday."

"We're both Sagittarius," she added.

"You don't believe in that astrology nonsense?" he sked critically.

"Of course not," she said truthfully, though she read the newspaper horoscopes every day. But she read most of the newspaper every day.

"I thought not," Will said. "Smart girl."

"And I'm going to be a late girl," she said, wishing she didn't have to, but as they neared her house, it looked as if Will was going to circle the block again. "Can you pull in front?" Sybil was less likely to see him in the front driveway if she waiting.

"Right," he said, slowing to pull in. "I need to get going myself."

"Late date?" she asked as she reached for the door.

"Sort of. Jesse's waiting."

Of course she was waiting. Pamela's older sister, Jesse, was as sweet as Pamela was nasty. And she was in college like Will. And she had been a Miss Georgia contestant so she was incredibly attractive like Will. Of course she was waiting. Why wouldn't she be?

"Thanks for the ride," Maggie said through the open window. "And if you could back out without making too much noise, I'd really appreciate it. My parents are probably asleep."

"Will do. And thanks for being so great, Maggie," he said. "I'll see you in church." And shifting into neutral, he rolled silently into the street.

She didn't hear the engine roar until he reached the bottom of the hill a half-block away, and she stood watching his taillights until they disappeared. There was no need to hurry as she walked through the damp grass. All the lights were off, and either Sybil was waiting to pounce on her in the darkness, or she'd already gone to bed. Either way, she could wait another moment before finding out. She could wait another moment and spend it remembering how strange and wonderful the night had been, and how it felt to sing with Will, and to have his lips touch her ear, and to hold his hand. She already knew that if she lived to be a hundred, the smell of leather would always make her think of him.

She gazed up at the cloudy sky. There should be stars out for wishing, so I could wish for another night just like this one.

The back door was unlocked, the only light was coming through the uncovered window above the sink, and the sound of snoring from behind her parents' door was welcome. As Maggie made her way to her room, she found herself wishing that Sybil was like the moms on TV—the kind that woke cheerfully from a dead sleep to listen to the details of their daughter's evening. Hers had been a most amazing evening, and June Cleaver or Margaret Andersen would have warmed milk and offered freshly baked cookies as they listened to each tantalizing detail. But not Sybil. Even if Sybil had wanted to hear, Maggie wouldn't have said a thing about Will. Her feelings for him were a special secret.

In late January, Paulk Road Baptist hired a Youth Minister. His name was Jerry Mitchell, a college junior who'd worked as a missionary and planned to become a preacher when he finished school. Jerry was handsome, clean cut, and clear-eyed, yet soft-spoken to the point of being shy. His job was to increase youth membership in the church, and to serve as a role model and counselor to the Paulk Road youth.

Reverend Whitehead and the board of deacons saw hiring Jerry as an absolute necessity. Bad things were happening in the world, in their city, and even on the grounds of their church. Last Thanksgiving, a dead man had been found on the front portico. He was an itinerant from somewhere up north, had reportedly died of a drug overdose, and was said to have had a pocket-sized copy of the New Testament in his hands. The groundskeeper had been so upset at finding a dead, dirty hippie on the freshly washed marble, that he'd dragged the body to the parking lot before calling police. The newspaper said the body was found along the curb a block away; the paper's editor was also a Paulk Road deacon.

The episode had disturbed the church leaders greatly. Drug use, hippies, bra-burning, rock-and-roll, long hair, the peace movement—all were seen as evidence of a sinful nation turning further away from God. And the dead man—a boy, really, as he was only nineteen—could have done God knows what to their magnificent sanctuary had he gotten inside. This was too close to home, and they needed to do something, other than changing the locks, to keep their young people safe from the growing menace. So they hired Jerry, and quickly seized upon his suggestion of holding a Saturday Social. It would be a haven from the world of sin for the young people, at least on Saturday nights between six and ten, where the future leaders of their church could fellowship with God and one another under the watchful eyes of the adult chaperones.

The old shotgun house next door to the church had been purchased years before with the intention of tearing it down and building an expansion one day. Now it was decided that the house would be renovated instead, and used as the Youth Center. They could hardly hold the Saturday Social inside the church itself; the carpets and other furnishings being too valuable to risk with a large number of sneaker-shod, high-spirited teens, and there were too many dark rooms where a young person might be tempted to sneak off to and engage in sins of the flesh. It was agreed that the church proper would stay locked.

Having decided on their course of action, a call went out from the pulpit the following Sunday. The need for a Youth Center was now, and plates were passed in a special offering for the refurbishing. It wasn't going to be overly expensive; the men of the church would provide the labor, and most materials would be donated. Work would begin right away, and prayers were lifted up for a swift and sure completion.

God was listening. In less than a month, the old house was swept clean, rotten boards replaced, steps and roof repaired, new toilets, sinks, and large, bright lights installed. The three fireplaces were sealed, and space heaters placed in each room, with plans made to buy air conditioners for summer. The inside walls were primed and painted, cracked windows replaced, and carpet was laid. It was determined the exterior painting, and clearing the attic, could wait until later.

In early March, an exultant Brother Whitehead led the Sunday morning congregants through the empty building and then onto the lawn in back, where the Youth Center was blessed and offered up for the glory of God. Jerry announced opening night would be on Saturday, and the entire church was invited. It was only then that someone mentioned that in order to be successful, the building needed far more furnishings than the few straight chairs and tables it contained.

Throughout the afternoon cars and trucks arrived at the back door of the Youth Center. There were two old television sets, two record players, an avocado-colored refrigerator, a new Ping-Pong table, and an old Coca-Cola machine. There were board games and coffee tables and upholstered chairs and couches, all ripped from their basement or attic homes. And someone knew someone who had an old piano they could have, and a truck full of men was dispatched to get it. And there was such abundance delivered to the church that afternoon that nothing more was required, and Reverend Whitehead announced at evening services that the Lord had smiled on their endeavor, and that he must be truly pleased.

Over the course of the following week, the grounds in back of the church, where the Homecoming Picnic and Easter Sunrise Service was held, were partially transformed into a softball field and a volleyball or badminton court. And though some of the older members believed this was a bit over the top, they said nothing, and when Saturday afternoon arrived so did they, cheering at the inaugural softball game between Young Adult and Young Married, and at the deacons playing volleyball. At suppertime, the ladies of the church filled the tables with their finest offerings, and after the food was gone, those who remained gathered around the donated piano—which was only slightly out of tune—and sang their favorite songs when not gossiping over who had donated what. At ten the lights flickered, and the evening ended with prayer. A good time was had by all, many signed up to be chaperones, and the opening of the Youth Center was judged a tremendous success.

The success continued the following Saturday, when the Youth Center opened strictly for the youth, and on the Saturdays that followed, those old enough to drive filled the parking lot, and those driven by their parents were dropped off in droves. Here was an opportunity to engage in activities of which their parents strongly approved; no money was required, and there was much to do, both in and out of doors. And while Jerry's good looks,, and the fact that he was single, was never given as a reason to get dolled up and go, many of the girls came for that very reason, and they brought their friends. And the boys came because the girls did, and also to play ball.

Maggie saw Saturday Social as a gift straight from God, providing her with another evening's escape from home. She was speechless when Sybil, having read about it in the bulletin, said she could go, especially considering that nothing further had been said regarding her church attendance on Sunday nights. All Maggie could figure was that Sybil had decided she liked having her out of the house as much as she did seeing her daughter's name in the bulletin.

There had been a few questions.

"Who's this William Marshall you're singin' with? How old is he?"

"I don't know," Maggie lied casually. "I think Brother Bevill picked him because he can play the guitar."

"You're singin' with a guitar?" Sybil frowned. "What kind of church singin' is that?"

"The preacher wants us to. He likes it. Says it's a nice change of pace from the regular music."

"I don't know about that," Sybil mumbled critically. "We never had guitars in church when I was comin' up. Sounds like a bunch of hippie stuff to me."

But she'd left it at that. It seemed to Maggie that all the fight had gone out of her mother lately. Since Michael had gone off to school, even though he was only an hour's drive from home, he still hadn't been back, and he'd only called a handful of times. Sybil didn't blame her son for this, of course, but blamed it on the girl he was seeing, Donna, who lived with her family on a farm just outside of Auburn. From what Maggie had picked up from hearing them speak on the phone, Donna was even doing Michael's laundry. And not only did he spend weekends with her and her family, he ate dinner with them as often as possible during the week.

The last time he'd called, Sybil had angrily told Michael that she knew what "that girl" and her mother were up to, and if he wasn't careful, he'd find himself married with kids to support and living on a farm. Michael had hung up. And he hadn't called back.

Sybil was tired. With her momma being sent back and forth between the nursing home and the hospital three times in the past few months for one thing or another, she was compelled to visit her constantly. Visiting the nursing home weekly was one thing, but people would talk if she didn't go to the hospital every day. And Margaret Rose kept her running, too, driving her up to that church every time she turned around. And there was Leon's drinking to worry about, which he was doing more than ever now that Michael was gone, and caught up with that girl and her family to the point he'd forgotten his own. The only good thing about Leon's drinking was that he usually fell asleep long before she went to bed, so she didn't have to worry about him wanting what men were always wanting, although it had been a long time since he'd wanted it. As far as Sybil was concerned all that business was finished. She'd performed her wifely duties, and given him two children to boot, and that was more than enough. What she really wanted now was to turn Michael's room into a bedroom of her own. If Mrs. Jackie Kennedy had a room all to herself when she was at the White House, there was no reason Sybil shouldn't have one, too. Except that this would mean Margaret Rose was sleeping in between her and Leon, and that wasn't proper. I could put the girl in Michael's room and take hers, but then she'd be bothering me wanting to come through at all hours. And then there's the problem of that outside door. I could nail it shut, but what if there was a fire? And then she'd still have the big room and that ain't right.

She needed to think on it some more.

Sybil sighed, rising for another cup of coffee. It was hard raising a daughter, and trying to teach her about men's evil ways, but knowing there was only so much even a good mother could do. But the girl was going to church and even singing there, and they wouldn't let her be standing up front doing the Invitation if she wasn't a good girl. Having Margaret's name printed in the bulletin was validation to everyone that she was a good mother and raising her right. This Saturday night thing was a good idea, too. She'd even sent a five-dollar check for the offering plate, a small price to get Margaret Rose out of the house and away from Leon on Saturdays. Since Michael left, the two of them had taken to sitting on the front porch Saturdays until way past dark, talking about everything from astronauts to zebras, requiring Sybil to stand right up next to the wall to hear what they were saying, and she'd quickly tired of that. They had invited her to join them, but she had better things to do, and wasn't about to be put on display for anyone who happened by. Still, there was no telling what they talked about when she wasn't listening, and that wasn't good. No man had any business spending that much time alone with his daughter, especially now that her bosoms were as large as hers. It was wrong, and God knew it was wrong, too, because he'd found a way to put a stop to it with the Saturday Social.

Maggie had started high school in the fall of 1968 with high hopes she might find friends among all the new girls there. But it didn't happen. Most were nice enough, occasionally smiling or saying hello, and speaking to her when required in class, but that was as far as it went. She was never passed a note, never had a seat saved for her at lunch, never had any of them call out her name in the hall or the gym. For just as everywhere else, these girls had friends they'd known all their lives, or met at camp, or at Scouts, or at dance or music lessons. They already had friends to swim with, to bike with, to go to the movies with or spend the night with. They didn't need her.

Among the girls' mothers, many had been friends since childhood as well, or they'd met at the PTA, or church, or as Scout leaders, or in car pools. As Sybil did none of these things, most didn't know she existed. Those who did know Sybil, or rather, knew of her, didn't want her as a friend, and thus did little more than nod in passing if they saw her at the store, or at the ball field, where she never sat in the bleachers with the rest of the mothers, but remained in her car. And while many took pity on the pale, thin girl who was often at her side, these women had long since reached a consensus. Whatever secrets the Heads were hiding, they wanted no part. Thus, had one of their daughters asked to invite Maggie for a sleepover, or birthday party, or even a backyard barbeque, they would have found a tactful way to say no. But none of their daughters ever asked.

If someone had asked these girls what they thought of Maggie, they'd have said she was smart, always on the honor roll, and never absent. And she was quiet, never speaking unless spoken to, and always eating lunch alone. And she was tall, and with her red hair and pale skin, it was surprising she didn't have freckles. And all of them would tell you about her raincoat.

The Heads weren't poor. Between Leon's military retirement and his pay at his civil service job, they had a good income, and their expenses were few. Michael's scholarship paid his tuition, and his part-time job paid for his food and board at the dorm, as well as providing a small amount of pocket money. Leon had paid cash to buy Michael a used car when he'd left for college, and would pay his insurance until he finished school. The two late model Fords he and Sybil drove had also been bought for cash. Leon didn't believe in credit. Their mortgage, with insurance and taxes, was seventy-five dollars a month, and the house would soon be paid for. And while Leon did spend money on the upkeep of the yard and gardens, none went to improving the house. That was in Sybil's budget, as per an agreement made years before. Leon took his allowance, including enough to buy whiskey, and Sybil took hers, which went towards household purchases and items needed by her and the children. The remainder of the month's income went in the bank.

It was only two weeks before she was to begin high school, and Maggie was looking through the J. C. Penney catalog. Despite repeated requests, she'd never been allowed to accompany her mother when she shopped for Maggie's clothes, saying that having her along would "complicate" things. Maggie knew what the complication was. Sybil's dresses, as well as her purses, hats and shoes, all came from Kaiser's, a fancy dress shop downtown. Sybil owned at least twenty well-made dresses in a variety of colors and styles, each with matching shoes, and whether she was going out or staying in, she wore one every day. Maggie had never seen Sybil in pants or shorts, and rarely in her nightgown, or without her face on. It was important to Sybil that she project the proper image of herself, even if no one saw her. The complication was that she didn't feel the same compulsion about dressing her daughter.

"I found some dresses I like for school," Maggie said as she entered the living room.

"How much they want for 'em?" Sybil asked without looking up.

"Around forty-five dollars."

"Forty-five dollars?" Sybil laughed. "For school clothes? Did they make 'em with gold thread?"

"It's for five dresses," Maggie said, showing her the open catalog where she'd circled her selections with Magic Marker. "One for every day of the week. It is my first year in high school, Mother, and nothing I've got fits anymore."

Sybil glanced at the catalog and then looked at Maggie. "I've already spent a fortune on your dresses for church this year, Margaret Rose. You can't squeeze blood from a turnip."

Without a word, Maggie returned to her room, turning over the bloodless turnip analogy in her mind. Sybil had bought her three Sunday dresses this year. They were simple and far too long, covering her knees unfashionably, but they did fit. Everyone knew church wasn't supposed to be about what you wore, anyway. It was, but it wasn't supposed to be. School, especially high school, was an altogether different story.

Maggie had always worn dresses or skirts to school. All the girls did, as they weren't allowed to wear pants. But unlike her church dresses, which Sybil bought at Penney's and hand-washed in the sink along with her own, her school clothes had always come from Woolworth's or Gaylord's. They were cheap to begin with, and after a few machine washings, with Sybil washing everything she wore to school in hot water and Tide to kill any germs she might have picked up, they looked ready for the Goodwill bag. She'd never given her clothes much thought until she'd begun to get a figure, but now that she had, she was acutely aware of how yellow her only bra had become, as well as her slips, socks and panties. In fact, the only thing left among her school clothes from last year that wasn't too tight, short, worn out, or yellowed, was the brown cloth raincoat Sybil had brought home from a clearance in the spring. She'd never worn it, as it was far too long, and several sizes too large.

"Margaret Rose! Get in here!" Sybil called from the kitchen two days later. She'd gone out earlier, leaving Maggie reading about tuberculosis in Volume T-U-V of the World Book while struggling to stay awake in the heat. They'd gone for groceries yesterday. Could Sybil have been shopping for school clothes?

"Look at what I got you!" she'd exclaim, and the Penney's sack would be torn open, and her beautiful, new school clothes would tumble out. There'd be plaid skirts with big gold pins and turtleneck sweaters to match, just like in the catalog. And a corduroy jumper, and frilly cuff blouses with gold buttons, and dresses with flower prints and empire waists. And everything would fit and fall well above her knees. And maybe, just maybe, there would be boots.

Well, that wasn't going to happen, but Maggie jumped up anyway and flew from her room, holding onto hope a few sweet seconds longer before being confronted by a strange sight indeed. On the kitchen table was a sewing machine.

"I'm gonna make you some skirts today, Margaret Rose," Sybil announced as she beamed at the machine. "Ain't it nice? They used it for demonstrations at the Singer store, and it only cost fifty dollars."

Maggie, still in the doorway, was staring in disbelief. "I didn't know you could sew."

"I imagine there's a lot you don't know," Sybil said smugly. "Do you think my momma had money for dresses out of a catalog? She most certainly did not. She made what we wore, and I learned how to sew when I was a lot younger than you are. Course Momma didn't have nothin' nice like this," she said, patting the machine fondly before sitting and pulling out the chair beside her. "Come sit down here, darlin'," she continued with a smile. "Let your momma show you how it's done."

Darlin'? Maggie pinched herself to see if she was asleep, like people did on TV. She wasn't. If I'm not dreaming, I must have entered The Twilight Zone. Maybe that isn't Sybil at all, but a Martian who's taken over her body and doesn't know not to smile at me or call me darlin'.

## "Margaret Rose? You asleep, girl?" Sybil asked as she bent over to plug in the machine.

"I'm sorry," Maggie mumbled. "I got sleepy reading. I guess I need to wash my face."

"Well, hurry up. I'll show you how to thread the bobbin."

"Yes, ma'am." This was too weird. She'd never seen Sybil sew so much as a hem—ever. She didn't even own a sewing basket. A few years back she'd put safety pins in one of Maggie's torn hems with a promise to fix it when she had time. Eventually the pins had rusted, and an open one stuck deeply into the tender skin behind her knee, resulting in Sybil having to come to school and Maggie receiving a tetanus booster.

In the bathroom, she splashed cold water on her face. What if Sybil really could sew? In Sunday School there was a girl whose mother made all her clothes, even put her initials on them. She was a friend of Pamela's, and Maggie didn't like her at all, but she always dressed real nice. Wouldn't it be something if she could dress like that, and start school with cute little outfits with MRH stitched on the collar? The girls might like her then.

She dried her face and turned to look in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door.

Where did you get that beautiful outfit?

Oh, this? My mother made it.

Your Mom? Really? Wow. You sure are lucky.

I wish my Mom could sew like that!

You're so fashionable!

Filled with new hope and a great deal of apprehension, Maggie went to join her mother.

On the table lay an empty Woolworth's sack and a scattering of sewing supplies. There were silver bobbins, a package of needles, a package of elastic bands, a large spool of white thread, a large, shiny-bright pair of scissors, and a pincushion that looked like a tomato. But what really drew Maggie's eye was the fabric. There were five folded pieces, all with wide multi-colored stripes on a white background, the piece on top striped in red and black. And on this piece was pinned a receipt. The total cost was $1.25, meaning each piece of fabric had cost just twenty-five cents. Twenty-five cents? Is she kidding? After spending fifty dollars for a sewing machine?

With growing anger, Maggie took the seat next to her mother, her eyes fixed on the offending fabric. Sybil smelled of sweat and gardenias, and it was surreal to be sitting so close.

"May I see the patterns?" Maggie asked, looking around for them. She knew one sewed with patterns.

"I don't need no pattern," Sybil clucked confidently as she stuck a few straight pins into the tomato. "Besides, those McCall's patterns would have cost more than the material."

Of course they would have. A box of Kleenex costs more than that material.

Sybil took the first piece of material from the stack, unfolding it. "All you have to do," she explained as she smoothed it onto the table top, "is run a stitch to put the sides together. Then you run another one at the top and put in the elastic, then sew the hem and you're done."

Maggie nodded, her eyes moving to the next piece of material, its stripes of orange and blue. The one beneath was green and purple. They were all different, yet they were all the same. Ugly.

"Don't you think the stripes are a little loud?" she asked carefully. Sybil didn't like loud.

"Well, I wouldn't wear 'em," Sybil assured her. "But the girl that measured them out said all the girls are wearin' stripes."

Not these stripes. Not ugly twenty-five cents stripes.

"I didn't see anyone wearing stripes in the Penney's catalog," Maggie offered. "Are they wearing stripes in your magazines?" Sybil bought a ladies magazine practically every time she left the house—the corner of the living room was stacked with them—but they were off limits to Maggie.

"My magazines are for women, Margaret Rose, not girls," Sybil replied. "For little girls, stripes are fine."

I'm not a little girl! I'm starting high school in a few days! And these stripes are not fine! These stripes are cheap, God-awful ugly, bottom-of-the-clearance-bin-reject-stripes that no one else wanted!

But she said nothing. What could she say? Wasn't it enough to have her mother being nice, talking, and sitting beside her, and trying to teach her something? She'd never done that before. The closest she'd ever come was when she once demonstrated how a lady is supposed to spit gristle into a napkin without other people noticing.

And there was nothing to do about it anyway. It's not as if she could refuse to wear the skirts once they were made. And there was a slim chance they wouldn't look as ugly once she had them on. Besides, now that they had a sewing machine, she could learn how to use it and make some things herself. So there was no need to panic. There was still time.

"I guess I'm just not used to the colors," she said contritely. "I'm sure they'll be fine."

"That's all right," Sybil said. "They are a little loud."

"Are you measuring me?" Maggie saw no tape measure on the table.

"Don't need to. I got enough to make five skirts, and I'll make 'em plenty big so you'll have room to grow."

It quickly became apparent that Sybil had no idea what she was doing. The machine, being a demonstrator, had been pretty much ready to go, already equipped with a needle and a light and such. It needed only thread. But once Sybil removed the bobbin that was already in the machine, it was a frustrating half hour before she figured out how to replace it. It took another half hour—not counting her two coffee breaks—before she got the spindle thread through the proper guides and determined how to work the take-up lever and thread the needle.

Maggie kept her mouth shut throughout, her thoughts occupied with listing words she could form from sewing machine—like hew, wince, and mean.

Eventually, Sybil began work on the first piece of material, lining up the stripes before she began stitching. But her stitches were too far from the edge. She stopped, adjusting the fabric but not removing the error, and began again. Now the stitches were edging off the cloth. Again she adjusted the fabric, and managed to run a stitch the length of the side seam, the white thread showing boldly against the dark stripes.

"Mother," Maggie observed. "I think you might be working on the wrong side."

"What?" Sybil asked before realizing her mistake. "Well, I'm tired, Margaret Rose. And I don't think it matters that much anyway because you can still see the stripes."

Maggie looked at her mother in disbelief. Sighing, Sybil yanked the material from the machine and stood, walking to the kitchen window for light as she began ripping at the stitches with her scissors, leaving clearly visible holes in the knit fabric. When she sat to begin again, she either didn't remember, or didn't bother to, line up the stripes at all, and Maggie started to say something but decided against it, hoping Sybil would become so frustrated she'd quit. They'd been at the table two hours.

Now the thread broke—due to Maggie having moved the tension dial when her mother got up—and the machine was cursed as Sybil rethreaded the needle again and again without thinking to check the tension. Each time the fabric was removed, it was returned to a slightly different spot, causing stitches to run on top of and parallel to one another, and seldom in a straight line. This caused puckers in some spots and gaps in others where there was no thread at all. It hadn't been Maggie's intention to completely sabotage Sybil's efforts, but as it seemed to be working out that way, she began to view the entire episode worthy of a script on The Lucy Show, where Lucy and Ethel would decide to save money by making their own clothes. Lots of silly shenanigans would ensue, and in the end, of course, they'd give up and go shopping. And as she continued to watch Sybil rage against the machine, she was crossing her fingers for a similar outcome.

"Did you mess with this thing?" Sybil accused suddenly, now adjusting the tension dial as if she'd read Maggie's mind.

"No, ma'am," Maggie lied. "What does the dial do?"

Sybil rolled her eyes, grunted, and went back to work.

If the side seam had been poorly done, the waist was worse, as the stitches there would really show. But they were wretchedly crooked. How hard was it to sew a straight line? And the width of the seam alternated from about half an inch at one end to nearly two at the other. Maggie thought she'd surely quit now, but instead, Sybil removed the piece and handed it to her, along with the elastic and a safety pin. "I'll let you figure this part out by yourself," Sybil said, heading for the bathroom.

Pinned elastic in hand, Maggie pushed the inch wide band into the half inch opening, causing it to curl up within the seam. It looked so ridiculously bad she couldn't help but laugh, though she did so quietly. When finished, Maggie cut the band and used the pin to attach the ends together. Hearing the toilet flush, she held the monstrous creation up, ready for Sybil to see when she came in. It looked ridiculous. Surely her mother would see just how ridiculous it looked, and that would be that.

"Stand up," Sybil said brusquely upon entering

Maggie stood. Sybil pressed the skirt in place against Maggie's body, telling her to hold still as she pulled pins from the tomato and inserted them in a fold just beneath her knees.

"Sit down."

"Mother?"

"What?" Sybil barked.

"Nothing." Her mother's mood was becoming dangerous now, and Maggie didn't want to begin high school with switch marks on her legs, even if no one would see them. As Sybil began sewing a hem, whose length was more suitable to the fashions of yore, Maggie realized this wasn't a comedy at all, but a tragedy in which she playing the lead.

"Can I make you a sandwich or something?" Maggie asked, hoping to alleviate the tension.

"Have you ever in your life fixed me a sandwich?" Sybil asked.

"No, ma'am."

"That's right, Margaret Rose, and you ain't fixin' me one now, either. You're gonna sit right here and do your part 'til this is done."

"Yes, ma'am."

And so she sat, daydreaming of catalog clothes, or even the ones at the five and dime, as she assisted Sybil with the ongoing massacre. The room grew hot and sticky as the afternoon wore on, and Maggie prayed the thunder in the distance would move directly overhead and God would send lightning to kill the power. Or Mother. Or me. If I die I won't have to wear these skirts unless she buries me in one of them.

When the third skirt was finished, Sybil snatched it from the machine and pushed away from the table. "That's enough. Three skirts is two more than I had at your age."

"Yes, ma'am."

Maggie said nothing as she began picking up the debris from the floor. Sybil had succeeded in creating the three ugliest skirts on the planet. It was foolish to think mother was a Martian. Any Martian in his right mind would be afraid to come within a mile of Sybil.

"Do you want me to try them on?"

"You can if you want to," Sybil said. "But I don't want to see 'em."

"Why not?" You created these monsters!

"I reckon I know what they look like by now," Sybil snapped.

"Yes, ma'am."

Maggie took the skirts into the bathroom, dropping her shorts to try on the last one first, as she expected it was the best of the three. But her image in the mirror was even worse than she'd expected. The shirt she was wearing was far too tight, but all her shirts were now. It was the skirt that made her want to cry. It fell a good inch below her knees, the stripes didn't meet, and the waist was so big it fell closer to her hips than her middle. She tried rolling it under at the top, the way she'd done with her other skirts, but it was so loose it wouldn't stay up unless she rolled it halfway to her bottom, resulting in a huge roll of fabric around her middle, and a skirt that barely covered her behind. She pushed it off, grabbing the towel from the rack and sitting on the edge of the tub, burying her face in it. I can't wear this Frankenskirt to school! Its fine if they don't notice me at all, but I can't let them see me like this! Please, God! Please don't make me have to wear it!

Sybil wasn't stupid. As Maggie was pleading her case before God, Sybil was thinking about how bad the skirts looked. She knew there was a chance the folks at school would think she made them. But they were so bad the teachers would probably think Margaret had made them herself, and it's not like they would ask her about it. The kids might ask, but she didn't give a whit what they thought. It was a chance she'd just have to take. After all, she'd just spent a fortune on that damn sewing machine and all the other stuff, so she could hardly admit she'd made a mistake. The worse thing a mother can do is admit she's wrong. The girl would see that as weakness, and she won't respect me if she thinks I'm weak. Sybil settled onto the couch with her coffee and reached for a magazine, realizing as she did that she could hear Margaret Rose sobbing in the bathroom. She got up and turned on the TV.

If Sybil had admitted she was wrong, Maggie would know the aliens really had taken her brain. So after her tears and prayers were done, she decided her best course was to be patient and say nothing. Sybil's pride was in the way right now, but by tomorrow she'd have a fresh perspective and realize how ghastly Maggie looked in the skirts. Once she did, there was no way she was going to risk her precious reputation to save a few dollars. She'd make up some fabulous lie instead about how the washing machine had eaten the skirts, or perhaps how some poor soul had stolen them from the clothesline. Maggie would just have to have faith it would all work out, but she planned on spending the remainder of the day reading her Bible and praying about it, anyway, just to be sure.

God must have been busy with more important things that day than the self-serving prayers of a poorly dressed girl. Maggie's prayers went unanswered; her plan came to naught. For when Sybil saw her in the worst of the Frankenskirts the following morning, she said nothing. But the sewing machine was put away in the attic, never to be seen again.

It was rainy and unusually cool on the first day of school, and Maggie may have been the only student in the city glad of it as she buttoned her raincoat closed over her clothes, and kept it on, buttoned to the top, throughout the entire day. No one said anything the first day. But on the second day, which was sunny and hot, people began to notice.

"You got clothes on underneath that coat?"

"What's with the coat? It must be ninety in here."

"Are you dying or something? Is that why you're so white?"

Although the idea of a fatal disease was dramatically appealing, Maggie told all who asked that she was just cold-natured. She looked silly, she knew, but she'd decided it was better to endure ridicule than pity; better to have others think her strange than to see her dressed in clearance table droppings that had been crafted into unparalleled ugliness by Sybil's talentless hands. And after the first few days, no one asked again, anyway. By then the novelty had faded, as she had, into the background, and Maggie became nothing other than a strange, pale girl in an oversized cloth coat, whose only value seemed to be in making those around her feel better about their own appearance.

Only once in late November, when an especially intense thunderstorm blackened the morning sky and caused everyone to come to school in their raincoats, had she again been openly mocked. The girls in her homeroom had kept on their coats, buttoning them up to their necks and stealing glances at Maggie, laughing. She'd laughed as well, not knowing what else to do. Her dreams of high school fun and friendship had long been abandoned, and this incident at least proved she wasn't completely invisible. Later that day there'd been an assembly, and Maggie was called to the front to receive a certificate, as she and only one other freshman at Oglethorpe had finished among the top students in the entire country on an academic achievement test. She wished she had been invisible then, listening to the whispers and snickers as she made her way down the long auditorium aisle. Walking back, her head down, she promised herself she would focus even harder on her studies. There was, after all, a whole world of things to learn, and hours upon hours of free time each and every day in which to learn them. She might be a freak—no, she was a freak. But no one could say she was stupid. Thus went the autumn of Maggie's freshman year.

In December she'd turned fourteen, and soon after, her church promotion, the choir, and Will. And as 1969 progressed, Maggie felt that for the first time in her life, at least at church, she was gaining a certain stature. Some of the girls there spoke to her now, and even some of Pamela's cronies sometimes included her in casual conversation, though never Pamela never did. Of course, Maggie knew this had nothing to do with her at all, but was because of her friendship with Will, which made it socially unacceptable to completely ignore her anymore.

The second time she sang the Invitation with Will, eleven people—two entire families—had joined the church, including four children who were candidates for baptism. Reverend Whitehead was extremely pleased, and he asked Brother Anthony to have them continue for a time. Maggie would have agreed to do it forever. Singing before the congregation with Will was the most fun she'd ever had, but it was rehearsing with him, as well as the painfully brief rides home, that were the sweetest moments of her life. She lived for their time alone together, and replayed each moment in her mind every night before sleep. And in her dreams, Will would pull her to him as they sat at the piano, or as she moved to leave his car, and he'd kiss her right on her mouth.

"I love you, Maggie," he'd say.

"I love you, too, Will."

And she did love Will. Not just in the way that a fourteen-year-old girl loves a handsome eighteen-year-old boy, but also in the way a child loves the one who nourishes them. She was someone when she was with Will, someone who felt they mattered. No one other than Granny Lura and her brother had ever made her feel that way. Yet Will did it routinely, without even knowing.

And his attentions to her were not limited to Sunday nights. On Sunday mornings, he'd begun seeking her out, talking to her before and after Sunday School, and drawing her into discussions and conversations. And at Saturday Social, although he sometimes came with Jesse, he would choose Maggie first to be on his team, save her a seat for movies, and he always stood beside her if there was singing. Maggie found it strange that, even during the closing prayer circle, Will would often be holding her hand on one side, and Jesse's on the other. She supposed it would have been natural for her to hate Jesse, but instead she envied her. She was the one who received Will's real kisses.

As winter turned to spring, and spring to early summer, Maggie was content, even happy, with the way her life was going. She had A's in all her classes, she and Will were singing the Invitation at least twice a month, and Sybil wasn't actively bothering her. But along with her happiness, Maggie maintained a sense of caution, well aware that her happy world could change in an instant.

It did.

On a Sunday night in early May, Jerry announced he would spend the summer doing missionary work in Appalachia, and that Will and Jesse, and a few others in the college crowd, would go with him. Her first thought was that Will might have told her this news himself, but her second thought was one of relief. After so many years of nothing, she'd finally had something with Will Marshall. She loved him, deeply and profoundly loved him, and always would, but she knew he would never feel that way about her. Now that their time together was to be over, now that Saturday Social was postponed until fall, and the Young Adult Choir would be performing at evening services, she could return to the life she'd had before—a life where little was expected of her, and even less received. She'd had her time with Will, and would always be grateful for it—but she'd known it wouldn't last, as nothing that good ever did. And having it end this way, before she became overly attached, was a blessing. The summer would give her time to adjust, to get ready, as Will and Jesse would surely be engaged by the time they returned from their summer in the mountains, and she would likely be invited to their wedding. She would need to be stoic for that, and she would, because she owed it to Will. She owed everything to Will.

At choir rehearsal on the last Sunday before he left, Anthony said he was penciling the two of them in for the sweethearts duet, from the musical the choir would begin rehearsing in September.

"Sweethearts duet? Which song is that?" Maggie had seen the musical performed the same night she'd first met Will, and as a consequence, hadn't paid close attention.

"It's the one where he goes off to war and they pine for one another," Anthony said.

### "Does he come back?" Maggie asked.

"No, I'm afraid he doesn't," Anthony said, adjusting his glasses. "So you'll both do it?"

"Sure," Will said to Anthony before turning to Maggie. "You'd pine for me, wouldn't you, Maggie?"

"Of course I would," she replied. She was already pining for him.

Of course she'd agreed to do the part, for how could she not? Jesse was the one who should be singing with Will, but she wasn't in the choir (rumor had it she was tone deaf), and was seldom in attendance at evening services due to her shifts as a telephone operator. Besides, it didn't really matter what she agreed to now, as September, and Will's return, was a lifetime away.

On their final ride home, Maggie turned away from Will, laying her cheek against the smooth leather and breathing deeply, refreshing the memory in her heart. Neither spoke until he cut the engine and coasted silently into the rear drive.

"I kind of wish I wasn't going, 'cause I don't know what I'll do without you all summer," he said, turning to her. "I've gotten so used to us being together, I don't know how I'm supposed to go a week without seeing you, much less three months."

Then don't go. Stay with me. But she couldn't say that, and even if she did, he couldn't stay. People were depending on him going. People a lot more important than she was.

From the corner of her eye, Maggie saw the lamp come on in her parents' room. Is she up? Why is she up? Why right now?

"I wish you could come with us," he continued, squeezing her hand. "Are you listening, Maggie? Look at me."

"I'm sorry," she said quickly. Maybe it's nothing. Maybe it's Daddy, or maybe she's just going to the bathroom. "I wish I could come, too. Have you been there before?"

"No. Not where we're going. But I've been to the North Carolina mountains every year with my folks since I was kid. Have you been?"

"No," she replied, shaking her head. I've never been anywhere.

He pushed the hair away from her eyes. "I'll take you, Maggie," he said. "There's a bench near the top of Mount Mitchell that looks out over the valley, and I think it's the prettiest place on God's earth. We'll go there together, and we'll sit on that bench and talk and sing and watch the sunset—maybe stay all night and watch it rise again, and sing every song we know. How about it?" he smiled sweetly. "Would you go with me?"

He doesn't mean to be cruel. He doesn't. She sat up straight, looking from him to the light. "You'll be married long before I'm old enough to go to the mountains with you, Will Marshall," she said quickly. The light was now visible from the kitchen window, meaning the bedroom door was open. Oh, God, why? Please don't let her come out here!

"What are you talking about?" Will asked, looking genuinely surprised. "Is that what you think?"

Maggie wasn't sure what she thought about anything, as it was hard to think at all for worrying that Sybil was about to come blasting out the door.

"Maggie, look at me," he said, turning her face to his. "I'm not getting married," he said. "Do you understand me? I'm not. Not until you're old enough, anyway."

She stared at Will in stunned silence as his hand went to the back of her head, and he was pulling her to him. But from the corner of her eye she saw movement on the windowpanes of the back door, and knew it was opening.

"Oh, God, Will, go! Go now!" she yelled, jumping from the car and running towards the back door in the hope of intercepting the monster before it emerged. At the foot of the back steps she saw Sybil's silhouette behind the screen door in the darkness. But she was between them now, and she would not let her pass.

"Mother, what are you doing here in the dark?" she asked, trying to keep her voice natural as her heart pounded.

"What does it look like I'm doing, Margaret Rose? I'm lookin' for my keys!"

"In the dark?" Maggie asked, reaching back her for the light switch. Nothing happened. "Were you coming after me?"

"Now why would I do that?" Sybil returned irritably. "You're here, aren't you? Ain't that your ride leavin'?" Will's engine remained silent, but the headlights moved across the glass of the door as the car rolled into the street.

"Then why do you need your keys, Momma?" Maggie continued, reaching to open the door of the refrigerator so she could see. "Where are you going?"

"My Momma's had a heart attack, Margaret Rose!" Sybil screamed. "She's already dead for all I know! And they won't tell you nothin' on that damn phone!"

"Oh, God!" Maggie gasped. "Granny—"

"Just find my car keys!" Sybil yelled, thrusting her purse at Maggie.

It was nearly eleven before a man appeared at the doorway to the waiting room and motioned to them.

"I am Dr. Miller," he said as they approached. "Are you Lura Lee's family?"

"Yes," Maggie responded quickly.

"It appears Mrs. Lee may have suffered a heart attack."

"What do you mean it appears? You don't know?" Sybil demanded of the dark, diminutive man with an accent, whom she instantly disliked. "We been waitin' almost two hours and you still don't know nothin'? Momma's real doctor is Dr. Fink. Dr. Joseph Fink, and I want you to call him right this minute."

"We have her records and have called Dr. Fink," he said. "And we are still running tests to determine an exact diagnosis. Your mother was in a nursing home, yes?" he asked, looking squarely at Sybil. "It is often some time before such cases are discovered, and prompt medical attention is therefore delayed."

Sybil felt her face flush with anger. "You tell Doctor Fink I want to see him. He'll know what's wrong with my Momma, and he'll know how to fix her." And with that, she turned and went back to her chair.

"I'm sorry," Maggie said quietly. "She's just scared. We both are. Do you think my granny's going to be all right? I know you don't know yet, but—"

"You must understand that your grandmother is very ill," he said gently. "It is too soon to know if she will make a recovery."

"I understand," Maggie answered, blinking back tears. "And I know you'll do everything you can. When can we see her?"

"Someone will come for you, but it may be some time."

As he turned to go, Maggie grabbed his sleeve. "Will you do something for me? Will you please tell my Granny I love her?" she sobbed. "Tell her Maggie loves her, and that I'll be waiting right here."

"Margaret Rose!" Sybil shouted. "Leave that man alone."

"I will tell her, Maggie," Dr. Miller replied with a sympathetic smile, which had as much to do with Sybil as it did with Granny Lura.

"I thought I'd raised you better than that," Sybil began as soon as Maggie returned, launching into a tirade on foreign men. "He's probably got a wife or two about your age already at home, and he's likely lookin' for another one."

But Sybil's heart wasn't really in it, and with Maggie's lack of response, she soon grew silent, losing herself in an old copy of Life magazine. Maggie sat in silence beside her, her conscience wrestling with her heart for possession of her thoughts. She knew she should be thinking exclusively of Granny Lura, and she was thinking of her. But her mind kept going back to Will, as did her prayers.

Dear God, please don't let him think I didn't want him to kiss me. Was he going to kiss me? I think he was. We were so close. Did he really say he wasn't marrying Jesse? Did he propose to me? Was he teasing?

Maggie's head was spinning as she tried to remember exactly what he'd said, and sort it through, word for word. If only she had someone she could tell to help her sort it out. Sybil was right there, and yet she'd sooner confide in the woman who'd just come in to mop the floor. She'd been so preoccupied with visions of Sybil storming the car that she hadn't listened properly, but even if she'd heard what she thought she'd heard, Will was surely teasing, though he hadn't seemed to be teasing. I promise I won't marry until you're old enough? Was that what he said? As if Will would ever marry me. But he was going to kiss me. I know he was. He was, and Sybil ruined that the way she's always ruined everything. God, I wish it was Momma instead of Granny Lura who'd had a heart attack. But no. I'm sorry. It's not right to wish that, even for Momma. I didn't mean it, God. That wasn't a prayer. I take it back.

But Maggie had meant it. She'd meant every word of it. And she wasn't the least bit sorry.

Taking In Strays

1969

### 3

"I want to go to Saturday Social," Maggie said. "It starts in half an hour."

Sybil closed her magazine and stood, ignoring her.

"I want to go," Maggie insisted. "They're having it again. The bulletin said so."

Leon emerged from the bedroom just as Sybil entered the kitchen, forcing her to squeeze past him at the stove. "Sorry, Syb—Sybil," he slurred, leaning against the refrigerator. He saw Maggie and smiled. "Hey, Chicken."

"Hey, Daddy," she replied. It was obvious he'd already been drinking.

"What are you up to?"

"Nothing, I guess," she answered as an idea popped into her head. "Do you want to do something? Play some cards maybe?" she asked with a forced smile. "There's some in Michael's drawer." Sybil hated cards.

"Sure, why not?" he said, straightening up. "You go get 'em, and I'll be right back."

"No," Sybil said harshly. "You're not playing anything with her. Margaret Rose has to get ready for church."

"Church?" Leon asked, ignoring Sybil and looking at Maggie with a bright smile. "You going back? Now that's a good idea."

Sybil slammed the coffee pot onto the burner.

"I don't have to go," she offered half-heartedly. "I'll stay home if you really want to play."

Sybil glared at her.

"No, Chicken. You go on up to church. Maybe I'll get your momma to play with me," he said, smiling at Sybil.

Sybil's response to him was unintelligible. "Go get dressed," she barked at Maggie.

"Yes, ma'am," Maggie said. "Thanks, Daddy. We can play later."

Leon smiled. "Okay, honey."

"I said go get dressed, girl," Sybil snarled.

"Yes, ma'am."

Maggie knew it was wrong to use Leon to bamboozle Sybil like that, but she also knew he understood. Besides, if she stayed home Sybil would either make sure they didn't play cards, probably with the scissors, or would lurk just out of sight the entire time, listening to their every word.

Maggie brushed her hair before removing the tags from her new shorts and sandals. She'd begun her sophomore year of high school nearly a month ago, and in her closet hung five new skirt and blouse sets Sybil had bought for her at J. C. Penney. The simple A-line skirts, in a variety of solid colors, were too large for her thin frame, and all the blouses were beige or white, but she was thrilled to have them, and to know their purchase represented some expression of Sybil's sentiment and understanding. But the subject of what had happened had not been broached since it happened, and Maggie was certain it never would be.

Pulling on her new shorts and shirt, Maggie was pleased by how well they fit. And the matching yellow sandals with sunflowers at their center were easily the prettiest shoes she'd ever owned. Smiling, she leaned into the mirror, applying clear lip-gloss and dabbing a bit of the Chantilly Michael had given her behind each ear. She was ready. She was wearing pretty clothes and pretty shoes, and her reflection in the mirror gave her confidence. And she needed all the confidence she could muster for her return to Paulk Road.

It had been difficult enough returning to school, but at least there she remained anonymous, fading with her faithful raincoat into the background of her second year as easily as she had her first. She'd thought she could go back without it, given her nice new clothes, but the very thought of not wearing the coat made her feel exposed, as she knew she would attract more notice if she didn't wear it now. Certainly some at school knew about what had happened, but as it had nothing to do with sex, and she wasn't the least bit popular, the high school rumor mill chiefly ignored it.

Church should have been different. She shouldn't have been ignored there. She was a member of their flock, a Lamb of God, as it were, who'd simply gone astray. At least that's how Maggie saw it, based on her years of reading scripture, and listening to Sunday School lessons and sermons. As a consequence, she'd fully expected someone to call inquiring as to why she wasn't there—to bring back the stray. But the weeks had passed, and there were no calls, or visits, or plates of peach cobbler. So much for being thy brother's keeper. It seemed the good Christians at Paulk Road knew what had happened, and as a flock, had chosen to move on without her, giving this particular lamb—or rather this black sheep, who had never really been wanted by the flock anyway—up for lost. Maggie tried not to care. She wasn't going back to church to beg forgiveness. She was going to see Will.

It was after six when Sybil pulled to the curb at Paulk Road, and with the heavy overcast, it was nearly dark. The parking lot held a dozens of cars, but she didn't recognize Will's.

"Don't go tellin' people your private business," Sybil said. "Just smile and go on if they ask you about it, and they'll learn to stop askin'. And I ain't comin' back out tonight, so you see one of the teachers has you home by ten, and I don't mean maybe."

Maggie had always gotten a ride from one of the chaperones in the past, refusing Will's offer to drive her whenever Jesse was with him, as she usually was. All her fears of Sybil waiting and watching for her return had never materialized, making it seem to Maggie that Sybil's obsession with her virtue was not as great as her desire to maintain a routine bedtime. She was almost always snoring when Maggie got home.

"You're only comin' tonight 'cause I don't want trouble with your daddy. So don't go thinkin' you pulled somethin' smart, 'cause you didn't."

Leon's weekend drinking had grown worse in the past month, and he'd taken to knocking on Maggie's door with offers to take her bowling, or play Putt-Putt, or some other unprecedented father-daughter activity. Sybil would yell at him, insist he get away from her door, and in the ensuing rant, blame Leon for everything that had happened. Maggie would stay in her room listening, wanting to intervene on his behalf—wanting to play Putt-Putt or anything else to spend time with her dad—but knowing it was never going to happen. And knowing that to take his side would only make things worse.

Then, last Saturday, he'd waited until Sybil was in the bathroom, and without knocking at all, had opened Maggie's door, grabbing her up to declare how much he loved her. When Sybil stormed in, all hell broke loose, including Maggie getting yelled at for being in bed and having her lights off, regardless of her being sound asleep at the time. Sybil had pushed her into Michael's room immediately, bolting the door, and gone on to accuse Leon of all manner of disgusting and lascivious behavior. When things finally quieted down, Sybil yelled that Maggie was to sleep in Michael's bed, as she was sleeping in hers. That had been a week ago, and tonight was the first time she'd seen her father since.

"I'll be home on time," she told her mother, exiting the car. "Thanks for letting me come."

There was a warm breeze blowing as Maggie crossed to the dark front of the Youth Center, smoothing her hair and steeling her courage. As she mounted the steps, she saw a man and woman standing on the edge of the unlit porch with their heads close; they parted upon seeing her, the woman hiding a cigarette. Both looked at her in genuine surprise, and Maggie forced a smile in return, but said nothing. She entered the foyer quickly, closing the door behind her, and crossed quietly to the open doorway of the gathering room. Inside was Jerry, laughing along with four of the younger girls. Maggie breathed a sigh of relief. She liked Jerry.

She wore a genuine smile as she entered the room, but upon seeing her, the small gathering went silent, and Jerry's carefree expression changed instantly into one of discomfort and confusion. Maggie stopped, ignoring the stares of the girls, and looking only at Jerry as he slowly crossed to her.

"Hi," she said softly, clasping her hands behind her back. He'd stopped several feet away, not close enough to hug or even shake hands. His expression had not changed.

"You remember me, right?" she prompted. "Maggie? Maggie Head?"

Jerry searched her eyes for a moment before dropping his head, and mumbling quietly, abruptly turned and walked off, waving to the girls to follow as he made his way across the otherwise deserted room and out the back door.

Maggie stood in place as the girls quickly followed him, her eyes filling with tears. Jerry acted as if she were a leper—an unclean, diseased outcast whom people feared, though Christ had not feared them, and Saint Francis had even embraced one. If Jerry, just back from mission work and seminary-bound, couldn't find it in his heart to be Christ-like to Maggie, she could expect nothing better from any of the good Christians at Paulk Road. But I didn't come here for that. I don't care about that. I only came to see Will.

The sound of a cracking bat and ensuing cheers came through the open back door. Maggie clasped her hands to still them. If Will were here, he'd be playing ball. She crossed unsteadily towards the back door, but seeing a group of people on the steps of the porch, turned back and entered the kitchen, taking a napkin from the table and leaning against the sink to dry her eyes. And as she was doing so, Pamela Ritch came bursting through the door.

### "It is you!" she exclaimed breathlessly.

On her heels was Pamela's entourage, the entire group sweaty and breathing hard, having obviously run towards the encounter. They said nothing, but simply stood in the doorway and stared. Maggie felt like a cornered fox surrounded by hungry hounds.

"We've got pizza," one of the girls said, breaking the silence. There were a half dozen pizza boxes on the kitchen table.

"She's not blind," Pamela said as she stepped towards Maggie. "Are you stuffing your bra now, Margaret Head?" she asked, her eyes fixed on Maggie's breasts. "You went a little overboard with the Kleenex there, don't you think?"

Maggie flushed as the girls squealed with laughter. Pamela, whose lanky body was basically shapeless, pulled out a chair and sat, using her foot to push a chair towards Maggie, who also sat, not knowing what else to do.

"So, Margaret Head," Pamela said, leaning towards her with her chin on her fist. "How are you doing? I thought I'd seen the last of you around here."

"I'm fine, Pamela," Maggie answered in an attempt to sound casual. But her voice cracked, and as the girls began to laugh anew, Maggie shifted uncomfortably in her chair, her hands together in her lap.

"Sure you are," Pamela said. "I can see that."

"You coming to the musical?" the pizza-offering girl asked.

"Margaret doesn't want to talk about that," Pamela said, although her tone made it clear that she did.

"Pamela's going to sing the sweetheart song with William," the same girl blurted.

"You are?" Maggie asked, genuinely surprised. It was the part Anthony had asked her to sing so long ago.

"Don't sound so surprised," Pamela said, leaning back. "Anthony would have picked me to sing with Will in the first place if he hadn't felt sorry for you all along."

"That's not true," Maggie said flatly.

"Are you're calling me a liar?" Pamela challenged.

"It is a lie, and everyone here knows it," Maggie replied angrily.

"Whoa! Watch out everybody!" Pamela exclaimed, feigning fright. "She's crazy enough to try to kill us this time instead of herself." And then she leaned close to Maggie, and began singing to the tune of "Jesus Loves Me", and the six girls gathered by the door joined in.

"Crazy red Margaret Head,

Slit her wrist but she's not dead.

Jesus loves her, this I doubt,

If she'd made it to heaven, he'd have kicked her out!"

As the girls exploded with laughter, Maggie came red-faced to her feet, preparing to run them down to escape.

"Better watch those stitches," Pamela taunted, standing to point at Maggie's bandaged hand. "I'd just hate it if you got blood all over the place."

"What's going on?"

The laughter ended abruptly as Will appeared in the doorway behind them, his face red, his hair and shirt soaked in sweat.

"Maggie?" Will exclaimed, his shock apparent at seeing her. "Oh dear God—you're here. You're really here."

Her smile was instantaneous. She was here, and Will was here, and nothing else in the whole world mattered.

"Stay right there!" he commanded. "Don't move from that spot! I need two minutes to wash!" And Will bounded from sight before she could reply.

A flood of relief swept over her. Will! Oh, God! She drew her hands to her face to cover her tears and burst into nervous laughter.

Pamela snorted. "What have you got to be so happy about? William's not your boyfriend."

Feeling light-headed, Maggie crossed to the Coke machine and fished change from her pocket. "I guess," she said, excited laughter still in her voice, "that I'm just really, really happy not to be you, Pamela."

Pamela stood with her mouth open, glaring as Maggie deposited her coins, not just for one drink, but two. "You're not buying him a Coke?" she asked as Maggie withdrew the second Coke and deposited change for a third. "You really don't know anything, do you? You don't buy things for a boy unless he's your boyfriend, Margaret Head. And William Marshall is definitely not your boyfriend. He loves my sister."

"I heard you, Pamela," Maggie said as she took the last little Coke from the machine.

"Have you even talked to him?" she continued. "I mean—since you tried to kill yourself?"

Maggie said nothing, her focus on removing the bottle caps.

### "Did he even visit you at the hospital?" Pamela persisted.

"I wasn't in the hospital," Maggie said quietly.

"Why not? I heard they have a special wacky ward for crazy people like you," Pamela laughed, looking to her followers for approval. "You know, the only reason William was ever nice to you is because he felt sorry for you, too, what with your folks being atheists and all. Slitting your wrists just gives him another reason."

Ignoring her, Maggie stood looking down at the three small bottles of Coke, cold and damp on the table before her. Has it been two minutes?

"Listen," Pamela said, lowering her voice. "I'm only trying to help, because I'd really hate it if you tried to kill yourself again. I know William a lot better than you do, and I know he likes taking in strays. And that's all you are to him, Margaret, and all you'll ever be. Just another stray."

Maggie raised her eyes to the doorway. Please come back.

"Of course, I could be wrong," Pamela continued. "It could be that William's not a nice guy at all, and that overstuffed bra is the reason he'd bother with a crazy, white trash whore like you. If they're real, which I seriously doubt."

"I'm no whore," Maggie said quietly, her ears straining for his footsteps as her eyes stayed on the door. "Will knows I'm not, and what you think you think doesn't matter to me, Pamela. It doesn't matter at all."

It was then that Will appeared in the doorway, his eyes locked on hers as he pushed through the girls and brushed past Pamela. "Maggie," he said breathlessly, brushing back the hair from her face before taking her by the waist and lifting her gently into his arms. "Thank God you're here."

She wrapped her arms around Will's neck and clung to him tightly. "I'm sorry," she whispered in his ear. "I had to see you. I had to come."

"Don't be sorry. Never be sorry," he replied, moving his head back to look in her eyes. For a moment he seemed about to kiss her, but then his lips brushed her forehead before he lowered her back to her feet.

None of the girls had moved a muscle; they stood silently, staring. But the look on Pamela's face was as angry as any she'd seen on Sybil's.

"I got you some Cokes," Maggie stammered as he released her. He'd washed his face, combed back his wet hair, and put on a fresh shirt, a blue one that matched his eyes. She reached for a Coke and handed it to him, watching as he drank it down, then quickly handed him another.

"Thanks," he said when he'd finished. "I can't believe you're here."

"Neither can I," she said, taking the empty bottle from his hand and replacing it with another.

"Don't you want it?" he asked.

"No," she said. "They're little ones and I got them for you. Drink."

Will downed the Cokes, and when she went to take the last empty bottle, he grabbed her hand and held it. They stood looking at one another in silence, and for a moment the only sound was the humming of the Coke machine.

"Jesse says the student union is having a big blowout next Saturday," Pamela said, breaking the silence. "Are you two—you and my sister, I mean, going?"

"The BSU doesn't have blowouts, Pamela," Will replied, keeping his eyes on Maggie. "Baptists and blowouts don't really mix."

"Still, you and Jesse are going, right?" she continued, undeterred. "I mean, Saturdays are date night, and my sister is your girlfriend."

Will turned to Pamela, clearly annoyed. "I don't know, Pamela. And at the moment I don't really care, and have no idea why you would."

Pamela looked at Will reproachfully, but he'd already turned his eyes back to Maggie. "Come on," he said, putting the empty bottles in the rack. "We have to talk." And taking her hand, he led Maggie from the room.

"Where are you going with her?" Pamela yelled at his back. "I'm going to tell my sister!"

"Tell her about your hateful song while you're at it," Will called back. "She needs to know what kind of person you really are."

The chaperones didn't ask where they were going as Will led Maggie through the crowd of sweaty youths that had gathered out back, anxious for a sight of her. Everyone knew she was there, as Jerry had stopped the game and told them so they could pray about it. Will hadn't prayed, but ran directly inside to find her. They understood, as he was the only one who had spent any time with Maggie and could claim to really know her at all. And now, they assumed he was taking her off to let her know that she would need to get right with God before she'd be welcomed back to Saturday Social. Not that she wasn't welcome at church proper—almost anyone except hippies were welcome on Sunday mornings—but the whole point of the Youth Center was to keep the kids away from the clutches of Satan, and the girl's demons would need to be cast out, and she would need to repent, before she could be allowed to associate with the young people.

Maggie kept her eyes on the ground as they passed through the crowd, too happy to care what anyone thought, or where they were going, as long as Will was holding her hand. They walked around the back of the church, passing the deserted ball fields, following the drive that circled the main building. Reaching the far side, Will left her beneath the porch while he retrieved the key, hidden in an old tin of peppermint snuff and nestled deep within the prickly interior of a holly. Unlocking the large, heavy door, Maggie held it ajar as the tin was replaced, and they went inside, waiting as the door whooshed silently shut to leave them in the total darkness and quiet of the sanctuary foyer.

"You're not afraid of the dark, are you?" he asked.

"No," she answered quietly. Not when I'm with you. He took her hand as he led her down the steps and opened the sanctuary door.

Maggie had never seen the sanctuary like this—still as a painting and completely deserted. It was beautiful always, but nothing compared to the way it looked now. The twelve stained glass windows that reached some forty feet up to the white domed ceiling were softly lit by reflected light from the street and Youth Center, as was the dark, waxed wood of the pews. As Will led her up the nearest aisle, their steps were soundless on the thick carpeting, and he continued until stopping at a pew beneath the balcony a few rows from the back. Moving to the center, they sat. Will lifted her hands to his mouth, kissing her palms before pressing his lips to the wrapped bandage that covered her left hand and wrist. Even a month after the fact, Sybil refused to let Maggie leave the house without wearing it.

"I thought I'd lost you, Maggie," he said, pressing her wrist to his cheek.

The dreamlike quality of their surroundings threatened to make Maggie's thoughts as hazy as the soft light that surrounded them, but some of Pamela's rant had held truths. While this very moment was indeed one she had only dared dream of, she was acutely aware that she and Will would not be here now if Maggie had not come looking for him.

She pulled her hands from him reluctantly, placing them in her lap. "How could you lose me, Will?" she asked. "When I was never yours to lose?" She could hardly believe what she was saying, yet she felt compelled to say it.

He sat back, looking as if she'd kicked him in the stomach. "Is that really how you feel?" he asked. "Is that why you've avoided me?"

"Avoided you?" she asked irritably. "How did I avoid you? I've been in the exact same place I was when you left me. Besides, you've got Jesse, so why would you possibly care anything about seeing me?"

Will bent his head and rubbed his face with his hands. "I went to your house the morning before I left, but no one answered the door," he said, his voice flat. "I must have called a dozen times the first week I was gone, but you were never there. I even ate breakfast and lunch that first Saturday at the store in the valley waiting for you to call me back."

"My mother never told me you called," Maggie interrupted, shocked. "I never knew. The phone rang a lot, but she said it was a prank caller."

"And I wrote you every week," he continued, his tone almost accusatory. "Postcards. I didn't want to put anything in a letter your mom might read, but I said when I'd be calling. And every time I'd call, your mother said you weren't home."

"But I was home," Maggie said. "If my mother was there, I was there."

### "And yet you never once answered the phone?"

Maggie swallowed. "I'm not allowed."

"What do you mean you're not allowed?"

She looked down. "I've never been allowed to answer the phone, Will."

"That's crazy, Maggie," he said, incredulous.

"My mother's crazy," she said. "You have no idea how crazy. You can't possibly understand the way we live in that house."

"You're right," he all but shouted. "I don't understand any of this!" Will's voice rebounded off the walls of the sanctuary, and in the silence that followed, he and Maggie sat very still.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I'm not angry at you, Maggie. I could never be angry with you. It's just that when I couldn't talk to you, and you didn't answer my cards, or calls, and then when I heard what happened—" Will's voice broke, and he pulled her into his arms. "Make me understand it, Maggie. I need to understand why you wanted to die."

She clung to him. Will had wanted her after all. He'd wanted her, and he'd come to her house, and written, and called, and she'd never known. If she'd known, if she'd gotten even one call or card, it would have changed everything. But she didn't. Sybil had seen to that.

"Maggie, please," Will said, holding her closer. "I need to know what happened to you. I need to know everything."

As Seen on TV

4

Granny Lura was transferred to the ICU sometime in the early morning. Sybil saw her briefly before being directed to the Family Room, a place where people spoke softly and glanced anxiously at the door each time a nurse appeared. ICU visiting times were irregular and brief, requiring those wishing access to remain nearby. There were twelve people in the room when they arrived, most of them stretched out sleeping, and Sybil clutched her purse as she led the way to a red vinyl couch near the pay phone on the back wall.

"Bring me back two cups of black coffee," she told Maggie, opening her purse as she sat. "And get me the new McCall's if they got it. The coffee shop's open all night, up at the front door."

"But I might miss seeing Granny if I go," Maggie said anxiously.

"You're not seeing her at all, Margaret Rose. Children ain't allowed."

Sybil was granted a brief visit later that morning, announcing when she returned that they would remain at the hospital as long as Lura was in ICU. Maggie was fine with staying, especially once the Pink Ladies came by with soft cotton blankets for them to use, as the room was cold. Sybil never once suggested Maggie might go home; she wasn't about to leave her unsupervised during the day, and certainly not alone with Leon at night. They ate sandwiches from the coffee shop for lunch, and Leon came by at six each day with McDonald's or Kentucky Fried for supper.

At night they slept, with Maggie curling up under her blanket and Sybil sleeping erect with her head against the wall. During the day, Maggie sat on the couch with her mother, doing crossword puzzles, or reading the newspaper, or one of the many condensed novels left in the room. She made frequent trips to the coffee shop, stopped in the hospital chapel to pray when it wasn't occupied, and thought constantly about Will.

Sybil went home for a few hours at noon every day, citing her need to change clothes. As the hospital was only ten minutes away by car, Maggie suspected it was also to keep up with her stories. Maggie was forbidden to leave the Family Room when Sybil was gone, and she always made sure Maggie had change for the phone, although the nurses were instructed to call her at home if she was needed. "They know to call me," she told Maggie. "And you see that they do."

But on the eleventh day of their vigil, and only a few minutes after Sybil left, a nurse appeared at the door, beckoning to her.

"You're Maggie, right?" she asked, waving her into the hall. "I'm Victoria."

"I'm Maggie," she said. "Is Granny worse? Mother just left."

"I know," Victoria said with a smile. "Your grandmother wants to see you, not your mother. Come with me."

"But I'm not sixteen," Maggie confessed, fearing she'd be stopped at the door.

"Well, you're eighteen if anyone asks, but they won't."

Inside the doors to the ICU there was a ward with some twenty occupied beds, and Maggie was shocked to see how young many of the patients were. Somehow she'd assumed they'd all be her grandmother's age, like in the nursing home. But this wasn't like the nursing home at all. There was a monitor beside every bed, and IV's with bags of blood or medicine, and the whole room was dimly lit, save for the beds where an overhead light was on.

She followed Victoria to the last bed of the row, where Granny Lura was asleep beneath tightly tucked sheets. An IV bag dripped a clear liquid into her arm, and wires running from a monitor were taped to her chest. Maggie took a deep breath, willing herself not to cry.

"Your grandmother has been asking to see you since she got here," Victoria said. "We told your mom we could make an exception, but she said no. She's been trying to protect you, I guess."

"I don't need protecting," she said. "At least not from my grandmother."

"We didn't think so either," Victoria continued. "And since our responsibility is to your grandmother, rather than your mom, we decided to take a chance and sneak you in for her. I hope you can keep a secret."

"I can," Maggie said gratefully. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Victoria said, squeezing Maggie's arm before moving to Lura's bedside. "Mrs. Lee? Wake up, honey. I brought your granddaughter Maggie to see you," she said, stroking Lura's hand.

Lura licked her lips and slowly opened her eyes. "Oh!" she said in surprise, raising her arms slowly for a hug. "My sweet Maggie."

"Hey, Granny," Maggie said, hugging her. "I've missed you so much."

"But you ain't been to see me," Lura said.

"I've been here every day, Granny," Maggie explained. "Mother wouldn't let me come back here."

"I know, child," Lura smiled. "I got spies."

"Are you feeling better?" Maggie asked, perching carefully on the bed. "Are you eating?"

"I'm as better as I'm gonna get," she replied. "And I don't want no food. Are you all right? Are you still singin' at the church?"

"No, ma'am," Maggie said. "Will—I told you about him—is doing missionary work right now," she said. "He'll be gone all summer."

"They won't put you with another one meantime?" Lura asked.

"I don't want another one," Maggie replied honestly.

Lura raised her eyebrows. "He your sweetheart now? Mr. Will?"

Maggie smiled. "Oh, he's mine. I'm just not sure if I'm his."

"I'll bet he's writin' you a letter right now." Lura said with a smile. "He gonna make a preacher? Is that why he's on a mission?"

Maggie shrugged. "Maybe. But Will won't be nineteen 'til December—we have the same birthday so it's easy to remember—so he's got plenty of time to decide. But that would be all right, wouldn't it, Granny?" she asked. "If Will and I got married, and there was a preacher in the family?" Wishful thinking was easy to do out loud with Granny Lura, as Maggie knew nothing she said would ever be repeated to Sybil. "Because I'd marry him tomorrow if I could. Will Marshall is the best person I've ever known."

Victoria came walking up rapidly. "I'm so sorry, but your mother's back, and she's looking for you."

"No," Lura protested. "I got things to say."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Lee," Victoria said. "I'll bring her back when I can."

As Maggie bent to kiss her, Lura took hold of her sleeve. "I'm goin' home today, Maggie darlin'," she whispered. "He's got a place for me."

"What? No!" Maggie replied fearfully, aware of the biblical reference. "Don't go anywhere. I'll be back as soon as Mother leaves again and we'll talk, all right? Don't go anywhere now. I love you, Granny."

"I love you, too, sweet Maggie," Lura replied.

Victoria rushed her through the locker room that opened into the hall, where Maggie ducked into the bathroom to splash her face and dry her eyes. Why did she come back? Has she developed X-Ray vision or something?

"Your mother done locked her keys in the car," offered the woman who kept vigil nearest the Family Room door. "I heard her tell it on the phone."

"Does she know where I went?" Maggie asked, knowing she'd been seen leaving with the nurse.

"Not from me," the woman said, giving Maggie a knowing look. "I wouldn't tell her nothin'," she added, nodding to indicate Sybil coming down the hall.

"Where have you been?" Sybil demanded as Maggie rushed over.

"I got stuck in the bathroom," Maggie whispered, her hand on her stomach. "I'm really constipated." This was a lie Maggie had long held in reserve, aware of Sybil's obsession with regular bowel movements.

"Oh," Sybil said, somewhat deflated. "All right. It must be from eatin' this hospital food. I'll bring you some Milk of Magnesia."

Leon came from work an hour later to see about the car keys, but by then, Sybil had decided to stay. There'd been no visits to the ICU allowed since Maggie's surreptitious one, and Victoria had returned twice within that same hour to nod at those whose vigils were now ending. Maggie guessed this was why Sybil had chosen to remain. She may be missing her stories, but the tragedy playing out before her was every bit as dramatic.

"They must be makin' room for some new folks back there," Sybil whispered after the second death. "They say bad things come three at a time, Margaret Rose, just so you know that."

And now the evening nurse had arrived at the door, and she was nodding at Sybil.

"No," Maggie said, tears springing instantly to her eyes.

Sybil stood, her purse clutched to her chest.

"I want to go with you, Momma," Maggie said, touching her arm.

"No!" Sybil spat so loudly that everyone in the room jumped. "That's my Momma back there—she ain't yours!" And shaking off Maggie's hand, she hurried out the door.

The woman by the door laid aside her needlepoint and moved to sit with Maggie, taking her hand for a prayer. She was still holding it when Sybil reappeared some twenty minutes later, her carefully applied mascara having run in long streaks down her face. Without a word said, Maggie knew Granny Lura was dead. She gathered their things, hugged the woman goodbye, and ran after Sybil, who was already halfway down the hall. It was the first time she'd seen her mother cry.

They drove home without a word being spoken.

It was to be a graveside service. This much Maggie read in the paper, along with the names of all the aunts and uncles she'd never met.

"Why can't I go?" Maggie asked again as Sybil walked to the mirror with her hat.

"Because I said so," Sybil answered quietly. Sybil had also said she'd called Michael but been unable to get him. Maggie hadn't heard her call, and wasn't at all sure it happened.

### "But it's not right, Mother," Maggie said defiantly. "I have to go."

"You don't have to do nothin' but what I tell you, Margaret Rose."

"But she was my grandmother," Maggie cried. "I loved her."

Sybil turned and looked at her. "A person can't help the family they're born in," she said calmly. "And there's folks in my family I wish weren't. And as long as there's a breath in my body, you ain't goin' near 'em."

"I don't care about them." This was a lie. She did care. She wanted to know if they looked like her, and what kind of people they were, and how their voices sounded. She wanted to know everything.

"Well, it's good you don't care, because they sure don't care nothin' about you, or me, and they didn't care about Momma none, either. Did you see any of them at the hospital, Margaret Rose? Did you? Did any of them come and offer to stay the night so I could sleep in my own bed? That ought to tell you somethin' about the kind of folks they are." Satisfied with her hat, Sybil went to check that the front door was locked. "Now you listen careful. You stay in this house and keep the doors locked, and you are not to be answerin' the door or the telephone. Someone's been calling here hangin' up, and I don't want no one knowin' you're here by yourself. You hear me?"

"Yes, ma'am," Maggie answered miserably.

"Go on to your room. We won't be gone no longer than we have to."

Maggie heard the doors to her parents' bedroom being locked, and then the back door as well. When she heard Leon's car start, Maggie took off all her clothes and walked naked to the bathroom, turning on the cold water before stepping beneath the spray, and wishing it were a waterfall she could drown herself in. Granny Lura's cold like this now. As cold and hard as Momma's marble. And a stranger drained the blood from her and filled her with formaldehyde so people who don't even love her can look at her and say how fine she looks before they put her in the ground.

Shaking with grief and cold, Maggie covered her mouth and screamed. Why did she have to tell me that? I could never do that to someone I love. Not even to Momma. I'm so sorry they did that to you, Granny, I'm so sorry! I wish it was Momma who was dead instead of you. And I don't care if God knows it. He's the one who made it happen.

When Michael knocked, Maggie was dressed and on her knees with a butter knife, trying to open the lock on her parents' bedroom door. The Owens' had seen the obituary and called to make sure he knew about it. He didn't. Against her mother's warning, Maggie opened the door to her brother, who, after embracing her, led her out to the front steps, where Maggie's hair could dry and she could warm up in the afternoon sun.

"I have an idea," Michael said, after Maggie's rundown of all the troublesome happenings at home since his departure. "Go to summer school like I did, load up on your credits this fall, and graduate early."

"Okay," she said, not sure why he was talking about school now.

"And if you're short on credits," he continued, "you can always do summer school next year and graduate then. But you need the grades."

"I've got the grades," she said. "I don't know about credits." Her grades had always been as good as her brother's, though Maggie would always consider him the smarter of the two.

"Go see Miss Woodsy and find out," Michael said. "I want you to finish school as quick as you can and come to Auburn. We'll get an apartment—with both of us working part time we might get a pretty nice one."

"I can get into Auburn?" she asked.

"There's plenty of smart girls there, Margaret. There's even some studying Meteorology like me, but none of them are any smarter than you," he said. "Even if you can't get in right away, you can work. Either way, I want you out of here as soon as school's over."

"You'd really let me live with you?" she asked skeptically. She knew her brother loved her, but to offer to share an apartment with her was beyond anything she'd expected.

"Look, Margaret, you're the only sister I've got, all right?" he said, standing up and staring off into the yard. "If you were old enough, I'd get you out of here right now."

"But what if she won't let me go to summer school?"

"She'll let you," Michael said confidently. "Why wouldn't she?"

Over the next few days Maggie thought of little else, having found the summer school packet among the end of school papers in her notebook. Classes didn't start for another week, and they had the classes she needed. It was a perfect plan. No long, boring summer under Sybil's watchful eye, a chance to meet new people, and a distraction both from Lura's death and waiting for Will's return. All she needed was for Sybil to agree.

She approached her the next morning, handing her the completed application. "I want to go to summer school like Michael did so I can graduate early. It starts next week."

Sybil looked at the paper and scoffed. "That's a hundred dollars and driving you back and forth every day. I ain't doin' it."

"I'll walk," Maggie offered. "It's at Oglethorpe so you don't need to drive me." She'd been walking back and forth to school since junior high.

"You ain't goin'. Drop it."

"Michael went," Maggie continued. "I want to finish school early like he did."

"We paid that money so your brother could get on to college," Sybil said as she stood. "You ain't goin' to college."

"Why wouldn't I?" Maggie asked angrily, having moved within inches of her mother's face. "Of course I'm going! I'm in the Honor Society, and my grades are as good as Michael's!"

Sybil's hand came to Maggie's chest, roughly pushing her back. "Nothing you've done, and nothing you'll ever do, will be as good as your brother!" she spat, backing Maggie against the front door. "Gettin' good grades don't matter two cents for a girl. Girls are either whores, or they get married and keep house and have babies, and they don't need no college education to do neither one!" And with that, Sybil ripped up the application and stormed from the room.

Maggie had missed the first two Sundays at church after Will left because of Granny Lura's illness and death, and when the next Sunday came, she was too depressed to even ask. And on the fourth Sunday, when Maggie woke up depressed and sick, it was while retching that she made her decision.

Why should she waste another breath praising God, who had taken away everything and everyone she loved, and left her alone in this torment? There was no Granny Lura, no summer school, no early graduation, no college, no living with Michael, and no Will. There'd been not a single postcard or phone call, though he'd managed to call her before and fool Sybil easily enough. The fact that he'd been in the mountains with Jesse a month now and she'd had no word was clear evidence of Will's intentions. He didn't have any—at least not towards her. His words their last night together had been a joke.

Summer meant no escape from Stalag Sybil, with one day exactly like another in the prison that was her small, dark house. It was too hot to spend much time outdoors, except for the shady front steps, but she wasn't allowed to sit there due to Sybil's ongoing suspicion that she was having an illicit relationship with the mailman.

She began sleeping late and eating little. Sybil didn't cook for her, and as she wasn't allowed to cook for herself, she ate cereal from the box, spoons of peanut butter, or raided the sugar bowl when hungry. Nothing but soaps and game shows were on TV during the day, and at night most everything was reruns she'd seen a dozen times. She was bored to tears of the encyclopedia and almanac, and all requests to visit the library were denied. Leon had snuck her some paperback mysteries, and while she'd read them, they weren't very good. The stories were too simple, the characters too shallow, and the dialog forced.

But you need the key, Nancy.

I'll find the key, Tom.

But the house is haunted, Nancy.

Ghosts don't scare me, Tom.

Her own conversations weren't much better, consisting of little more than the mandatory "good morning" and "good night" she exchanged with Sybil, whom she'd seen many times in the weeks since Granny died simply staring off into space. She rarely left the house anymore, and didn't invite Maggie along when she did. Since the summary judgment regarding summer school, and the denial of Maggie's receiving a college education, the only time Sybil had sought her out was to show her a magazine story about a woman whose daughter was raped and killed in the woods behind their home.

"Why are you showing me this?" she'd asked Sybil flatly, handing it back after scanning it. "You did notice she had just graduated from college when this horrible thing happened?"

"Exactly," Sybil said smugly. "You see what good a college education did for her. She still ended up raped and dead."

It was on the last Saturday morning in August that Maggie woke with one all-consuming thought. Like Granny Lura, she too, was ready to go home, wherever that might be, and she meant to go today. It's not that she hadn't considered dying before. The thought of dying had been with her all summer, and she'd imagined everything from a house fire to a plane crash—they lived in the airport's flight path—taking her out. But it hadn't occurred to her before now that she could take her own life, she could make it happen. But once it did, her decision was made.

She would not abide another day of the nothingness that was her life. Another day of endless, silent hours, lit only by dim, dusty lights and the suggestion of sunshine behind closed curtains and taped shut blinds. This was a house of indifference and pain, one completely bereft of joy, and nothing was ever going to change it. School would start again next week, but she was nothing there but a freak in a raincoat whose academic accomplishments only made her a target of ridicule and humiliation.

And then there was Will, the one person she'd been stupid enough to believe cared for her. But he didn't. He had proved it with his silence.

The night had been particularly warm, and the morning's humidity was so high the bed sheets clung to her bare legs. The fan was on, the big attic fan that pulled air through the house, but as Maggie's window was permanently closed, there was no breeze for her. When Michael was at home, the windows in his room were opened on such a night; the air would suck through beneath the locked door that separated them, and if she slept with her head at the foot of her bed she could feel it. But Michael wasn't there anymore, and his windows were never opened, as she didn't merit a breeze.

Maggie didn't need to look to know that Sybil was on the couch with her magazines, and Leon was either working, or in the bedroom with both doors closed, doing whatever he did to fill the hours until he started drinking. It was one day much like another for both of them, too, she supposed. But not for me. Not anymore.

She dressed and made her bed before going into the living room. "May I ask something?" Sybil had moved from her usual spot to one nearer the open front door, folding her magazine pages to keep them from rippling in the breeze.

"Did I hear you say 'good mornin'?"

"Good morning, mother." Why am I bothering with her at all? Oh. I'm hoping again. Sowing the last seeds of hope.

"Good mornin'. Now what do you want" Sybil asked, her eyes still fixed to her page.

"Do people who kill themselves go to Hell even if they're baptized?"

This made her look up. "What in tarnation did they teach you at that church?" she asked, incredulous. "Of course they go to Hell. There ain't no askin' for forgiveness once you're dead. I know about that."

"So being baptized doesn't make a difference?" Maggie continued.

"Nobody baptized would do somethin' like that, girl," Sybil replied. "Unless they wasn't right in the head. It ain't like those crazy folks overseas, pourin' gasoline and settin' themself on fire. They ain't got a real God in them countries no way, and don't want one, and we got no business sendin' missionaries over there at all. It's just a waste of good money." She sat back, looking satisfied. "Do you understand all that now?"

"Sure," Maggie replied, suppressing a laugh. "Thanks, mother."

She went to the kitchen and stood looking through the screen door at Leon, who had the lawnmower upside down on the carport.

"Is it broken, Daddy?" she called.

"Hey, Chicken," Leon said. "No. I just need to sharpen the blade."

Leon was a kind man, or at least he'd always been kind to her when he had the chance. So completely unlike Sybil he was, without a mean bone in his body, and she had no desire to hurt him. Being married to Sybil, he had already suffered enough.

"I have a silly question."

"Sure, Chicken. Shoot."

Maggie drew a deep breath. "Do you believe in Hell?" she asked. "Do you think it's a real place somewhere under the ground?"

Leon sat back on his heels. "I don't know," he said thoughtfully. "But I do know if there's a Hell, there's got to be a Heaven, too. There's a balance in life—good and bad, light and dark—you can't have one without the other." He stood and wiped his hands. "Why are you asking, Margaret?"

"Margaret Rose!" Sybil yelled from the kitchen doorway, startling Maggie, who was already startled by the depth of her father's answer. "Get away from that door and leave your daddy be!"

"Is she all right?" Maggie heard him ask as Sybil pushed her aside.

"Can't think of no reason why she wouldn't be," Sybil replied.

When the tornado siren sounded at noon, as it did for testing every Saturday, Maggie went to the kitchen, opened a can of her father's sardines, and doused them with Tabasco. She ate in her room, turning on American Bandstand and sitting cross-legged on the floor. Maggie tried to imagine her and Will dancing together there, but the idea was as absurd as her choice for a last meal. Will didn't want her, Baptists weren't supposed to dance, and she wouldn't have had anything but her raincoat to wear, anyway.

When she finished eating, she went to the kitchen and threw the sardine can away. Leon's car was gone from the driveway, and Sybil was down for her nap. Going into the bathroom, she opened the medicine cabinet, took out Leon's razor, and removed the blade. Then she wiped her fingerprints from the razor the way she'd seen it done on TV, and put it back. At the mirrored door she stopped to study her reflection, wondering what lie Sybil would come up with to explain her death. It would be a doozy of course—probably her best lie ever. Of this, Maggie was certain.

She raised the blade to her eyes and studied it—it smelled soapy like the brush in the shaving cup—and wondered how such a small thing could kill a person. She'd have liked something bigger—much bigger—like a pirate's sword, but that wasn't available. Maggie touched her reflection in the mirror. She would know soon enough if there really was a Heaven and Hell, and it was both exciting and scary to think about, but mostly scary, and she braced her hand against the mirror and dropped to her knees on the floor.

"God," she whispered. "I don't know if I believe in you, but if you're real you already know that. And if you are real and Heaven is real, I know my Granny Lura is with you. So please take care of her, and watch over Daddy and Michael, too, because I love them all a lot." Maggie reached back for the towel, pulling it down. "And watch over Will," she said, beginning to sob. "Let him be happy, and let him be loved, and let him live to be very old if you can. And if he could think about me, maybe when he sings, I'd really like that, too, God, so he won't forget about me completely."

"You wanted me to be happy even though you thought I'd abandoned you?" Will asked.

"You always made me happy," she said. "You noticed me. You talked to me. You hugged me and held my hand, and you always looked me straight in the eye just like you're doing now. How could I not want you to be happy?"

Maggie stood and dried her eyes, taking the towel with her as she crept to her parents' bedroom door, listening for Sybil's snores. Hearing them, she went to her room and closed the door, locking it, then sat on her bed and once again examined the two-edged blade. If there had been a gun in the house she would have used it. Or sleeping pills. But her parents kept neither. This was the only way she knew to kill herself other than jumping in front of a school bus, an idea she'd briefly considered and dismissed. It would not only require waiting a few more days for school to start, and she didn't want to wait, but there was a chance she wouldn't die right away, or not at all, and if she didn't die instantly, she'd hear the kids laughing at her. And she knew they would laugh. And she didn't want to die with them laughing.

There was no point leaving a note, as there was no one to write it to except Michael, and Sybil would be the one to find it, anyway, and would only tear it up. Removing the bottom drawer from her dresser, Maggie retrieved the 1921 silver dollar Granny Lura had slipped her years before, and scribbling a note with school paper, went into Michael's room and felt beneath his bed. Some of his magazines were still there, hidden within a tear in the box spring, and Maggie added the coin, and her note, to the centerfold of February, 1968. She knew he would eventually find it.

Michael,

You're the best brother anyone ever had. Stay far away from here, and please have a happy life. My decision has made me happier than I've been in a long time, so don't feel bad for me. You did all you could. I love you forever.

Margaret

Returning to her room, she glanced at the blade she'd left on her pillow, then turned to her dresser, brushing the hair that now fell halfway down her back. Until junior high, Sybil had always cut her hair the week before school started, using a salad bowl as her guide, and the results had been abysmal. Sybil was as adept a barber as she was a seamstress and a mother.

She listened at her door again before opening her closet and removing a sack she'd secured with tape to the interior wall above the door. Inside was a pleated miniskirt with dappled watercolor flowers on a background of rose pink, the field of multi-colored flowers as pretty as if Monet had painted them. With it was a satiny white blouse with ruffles at the high neck, cuffs, and front. The package had arrived months ago, having been sent by Mrs. DeLucchi, a neighbor who'd stayed with Maggie and Michael in Louisiana when Sybil had gone to the hospital with lady problems.

Fate had smiled on Maggie the day it arrived. School was cancelled due to a gas leak, and Sybil had a dentist appointment for a toothache. She couldn't take Maggie, as she'd never been to the dentist, and showing up with her daughter now would look bad. So, after issuing the standard warnings, Maggie was left home alone. When the mailman knocked, something he rarely did, she answered, giving him her brightest smile when she saw the package addressed to her. She quickly tore it open, and just as quickly, fell in love. Mrs. DeLucchi had been out shopping, the card said, and seeing the outfit on a red-headed mannequin, had immediately thought of her. Maggie was beside herself, quickly stripping down to try it on in the bathroom mirror before securing its hiding place. She'd wondered many times since if she'd ever get to wear it, but now she need wonder no more.

She put on a pair of fresh panties—she was wearing her only bra—and skipped her slip, as it was too long. The Frankenskirts hung in her closet—nothing had been said about her getting new school clothes, and she hadn't asked—and she'd planned to wear her raincoat every day again this year. Until today. But I won't have to wear it now, and Mother won't bury me in it. She smiled at this, imagining herself in a coffin with her raincoat on, and people saying things like, "She really does wear that thing all the time".

But her smile faded as the thought occurred to her that Sybil would bury her in one of the Frankenskirts, guaranteeing she would be the worst dressed person in eternity. Thus, clad only in her underwear, and without any hesitation, Maggie began pulling the Frankenskirts from their hangers, ripping each apart at their barely-sewn seams, and tossing them onto the dusty floor of her closet. Only then did she pull on the pretty ruffled blouse, fastening each tiny button before gathering the cuffs and buttoning them as well. It felt wonderful to be wearing something so pretty—strange and wonderful—and as she pulled on the skirt and vest, she admired the perfectly straight stitching of each. Everything fit as if it had been made for her, as if it had been made for this very day. She closed the closet door and looked in her dresser mirror.

"I was pretty, Will," she said with a smile. "I really was for the first time in my life. I wish you could have seen me."

"I can see you," he said. "Standing in your drawers ripping up those ugly skirts, then wearing those fine new clothes and feeling proud. But I've always thought you were pretty, Maggie. I told my folks, and told you that time we talked on the phone. You just didn't believe it."

"Am I as pretty as you, Momma?"

"You're a child, Margaret Rose. You can't compare to a woman."

"Momma, do you think I'm even a little bit pretty?"

"Pretty is as pretty does. Now sit up."

"Do you think I'll be as pretty as you when I grow up?"

"Don't go wishin' your life away, Margret Rose."

Maggie had been asking these questions all her life. Sybil, who lived for looking at fashion magazines with beautiful ladies on the cover, and buying expensive clothes and makeup, and having her hair dyed and done—obviously believed being beautiful was important. So why didn't she realize it was important to Maggie, too, and simply tell her she was pretty? Why wouldn't she, when she'd lied so easily, and so often, about everything else?

It was time.

Her room lit only by the soft, yellow light of the taped window, Maggie sat in the middle of her bed on the white spread, which was threadbare from age and Sybil's indiscriminate use of bleach. Looking at her bare feet, she briefly considered painting her toenails. But she'd delayed long enough.

She positioned the edge of the blade on the inside of her left wrist and quickly pulled it across. The pain of this mostly superficial cut was anticipated, but the stinging was not, and as she instinctively brought her wrist up to blow, the blood flowed down her arm, seeping into the white cuff and sleeve she'd intended to keep clean.

Laying aside the blade, Maggie unbuttoned the cuff, pushing it up to her elbow. In doing so she spilled more blood onto the ruffles of her blouse, her skirt, and the bedspread. For a moment, she imagined Sybil angrily pouring bleach into the washer, hoping to salvage the bedspread after she was gone.

Her intention had been to keep everything simple. To make one quick, deep cut, lie back, and die. She had wanted to look pretty when Sybil found her, as pale and still as Sleeping Beauty with every hair in place. She wanted Sybil to admit, at least to herself, that her daughter had looked pretty on the day she died. But it was clear now this wasn't going to happen. Blood was messy, it moved quickly, and there was nothing to be done about it.

She now sat cross-legged on the bed and laid her arm out before her. Holding her breath, she put the corner of the blade within the first cut, and bearing down, ripped it across. Biting her lip to stifle her cry, Maggie drew her hands up again, her right hand clutching her left as she pressed it to her chest and began rocking back and forth. It hurts too much. But I can't stop. She'll see the blood, and she'll see what I did to the skirts. And her spread. I can't stop now even if I wanted to.

She couldn't stop—couldn't turn back. Back to what? To nothing? To no one? This hurt so much—oh God it hurts so much—but not nearly as much as a lifetime of nothing. Not as much as another moment of nothing.

"Wait. Maggie."

"I'm sorry," she said. "I've said too much."

"No," he said hurriedly. "I want to know everything. I have to know. It's just that I can hardly stand to think of you going through that," he said, closing his eyes. "I know the Bible says we're not given more than we can bear. But I also know things would have been different if I'd stayed."

"No," Maggie said, taking his hand. "If you'd stayed, or if Granny Lura hadn't died, or if I'd been allowed to go to her funeral, or answer the phone, or sit on the porch, don't you see, Will? There's a hundred things that might have happened that could have changed everything else. But they didn't, and I guess they just weren't supposed to."

She wiped her eyes with bloody fingertips. Her hands were shaking violently—she'd begun shaking all over—and as she intertwined her fingers to still them, she noticed the veins on the back of her hands, large and blue beneath the surface. She could cut there. It shouldn't hurt as much to cut there, as the veins were closer. She could cut there and be finished.

She again stretched out her left arm, palm down this time, and wiped the blade dry against her skirt. Her violent shaking resulted in only cutting her knuckles at first pass, and she began again, holding her breath as she punched the blade into her flesh and ripped. The searing pain was familiar now, but she still gasped as the wound opened, remaining clear for the briefest moment before filling with blood.

The toilet flushed. Her bedroom shared a wall with the bathroom, and she knew when the toilet flushed. Maggie jumped to her feet, her adrenaline pumping, her right hand braced against the wall to ease the continuous shaking as she strained to hear over the attic fan. And then she heard the sneeze, Leon's sneeze. She'd never heard anyone who could sneeze with as much enthusiasm as her daddy.

Oh, Daddy! I'm sorry! She could picture throwing open the door and running to him. He would hold her, comfort her, love her. But in a moment Sybil would be on them, pulling her away, screaming and shouting, and probably hitting. And Leon would be helpless before Sybil—as helpless as the both of them always were.

Maggie's sobs now became out of control, and as she reached blindly to turn on the TV for noise, she stepped on the edge of razor blade, which had fallen from the bed and settled sideways into a space between the floorboards. The scream that followed was involuntary, and loud, and not even the sound of Tag Team Wrestling Live from the Arena was sufficient to drown it out.

"Margaret Rose!"

Maggie dropped to the floor, grabbing a corner of the bedspread to grip the slippery blade which was partially embedded in the ball of her foot. The bleeding was profuse as she yanked it out.

"It's okay," she yelled in a trembling voice. "I just saw a yard bug!"

"Open this door and I mean now!" Sybil demanded, slamming her hand against it repeatedly.

"Wait!" Maggie screamed. Her head was spinning, her heart beating so rapidly she feared she would pass out as she watched the doorknob twist shake beneath her mother's determined hand.

Run!

Sybil didn't go to the kitchen for a butter knife to work the lock. A knife lay on a saucer on the telephone table. It was Leon's big pocketknife, left lying open beside the remnants of an apple he'd eaten earlier. Grabbing it, Sybil jammed the point into the lock and burst into the room.

Maggie froze with her back to Sybil, her hand on Michael's doorknob. Her room was lit primarily by the flickering light of the little black and white TV now, and in that light, Sybil saw the pool of darkness on the bleached white bedspread first. Her next thought was that the girl must be hemorrhaging—badly, and a wave of fear washed over her.

"Margaret Rose?" Sybil asked in a gentle voice. "Baby?"

Baby? There was a tenderness in Sybil's voice that Maggie had never heard before, or else couldn't remember hearing. It was the voice of a mother who loves her child, and Maggie's fragile heart was suddenly filled with an unexpected rush of hope. She turned, holding her arms out to be held, and dropped the wet blade.

Sybil screamed upon seeing her, stumbling back into the door.

"Oh, God!" Maggie sobbed, watching her mother's eyes as they took in her bloody hands and blouse. "I'm sorry, Momma," she sobbed, stepping towards her.

"Is that all blood?" she asked, horrified. "How did you—" Sybil's eyes now went to the dropped blade, and in seeing it, came comprehension. The knife still open in her hand, she held it out, pointing it at Maggie. "You did this to yourself?" she asked in disbelief. "You cut yourself?"

Maggie crossed her arms over her chest to stop the shaking and leaned against Michael's door. "I'm sorry, Momma. I—"

"You stupid little idiot!" Sybil hissed. "How dare you do this to me?"

"I didn't do it to you," Maggie sobbed.

"You damn sure did," Sybil continued, drawing herself up to her full height. "And what if you'd died? What if you'd died and they'd came here and found you dressed up like a two-dollar whore?" she continued, wild-eyed. "Is that what this is? You been whorin' and got yourself pregnant?"

"No," Maggie said, wearily shaking her head. "Why would you even think something like that?"

But Sybil wasn't listening. "I ain't havin' no whore, and no bastard, in my house!" she growled, suddenly closing the small space between them. She raised her hand to strike, then hesitated, seeming confused by the open knife in her hand. In that instant Maggie spun, hitting her with Michael's door as it flew open, then yanking it shut behind her and throwing the bolt. Within moments she was out the side door and running, leaving the sound of her mother's screams, and splintering wood, far behind.

"Where was your dad?" Will asked. "You'd only just heard him."

"I asked Michael the same thing. He said Daddy went to get his lawnmower blade sharpened, but the man wasn't there, so he decided to do it himself. He told Michael he was in the shed during all of it, and didn't hear anything. Do you think that's true?" she asked anxiously.

"Yeah," Will replied. "If he was running a grinder, it's really loud, Maggie. He wouldn't have heard anything."

She nodded, satisfied. "It's strange. Daddy talking about sharpening his blade had to be what put the idea in my head to use his razor blade."

"What's strange is your mother coming in is what stopped you. But then she might have killed you herself if she'd hit you with that knife, another blade that belonged to your father. Three blades, and all of them your Dad's."

The neighborhood took no notice of her initially. It was Labor Day weekend. Many families had gone to the beach or the river, or gathered to watch baseball, or for a picnic or barbeque, all commemorating the end of another summer, and for the kids, the last weekend before school. Thus, no one noticed the barefoot girl running along the hot asphalt street, her blouse drenched with blood, the soles of her feet burning with every step. The afternoon sun shone brilliant and hot in a sky peppered with thunderheads, a stiff breeze cooling the wetness of her face and chest.

There was a block of undeveloped property across from the street from where Will lived. Thick with brush and brambles along its perimeter, its interior was dark, the towering trees there overrun with kudzu. She'd passed it a thousand times in the car with Sybil, who'd often called it "snaky", but now the heavily shaded wood beckoned to Maggie as a place to hide, and she needed to hide, and to rest. She sprinted from the road, crashing through a thicket of wild holly whose pointed leaves tore at her legs as she struggled towards the interior. The sound of a car sent her diving head first to the ground, and as she rolled over, bile rose in her throat, leaving the foul taste of partially digested sardines and Tabasco in her mouth. She came quickly to her knees and spat, remaining there until her breathing slowed.

It was like twilight beneath the trees, and she rubbed her eyes as they adjusted. There were multitudes of creatures here for sure, though she couldn't see any. The cicadas alone must number in the thousands, their piercing song rising in chorus all around her. And there would be spiders, of course, and snakes. She'd never seen a snake up close and had no desire to do so today. Still, she knew Sybil wouldn't find her in here, and she was unlikely to encounter anything as frightening as the monster from whom she'd run.

Stepping cautiously, Maggie continued moving away from the road. Sybil would be in the car by now, desperate to find her before any of the neighbors did, which would result in irreparable harm to her supposed good reputation. The thought of it made Maggie laugh, though she realized it was odd to be laughing, and anyone coming across her would think she was crazy. But she didn't feel crazy, or sad, just now. She felt free, as if she'd run far enough and fast enough to leave all the crazy and sad behind.

She came upon a drainage ditch, its steep sides overrun with growth, its bottom hosting a wide, shallow stream, and scrambled down the side, stepping into the cool water to soothe her injured feet, and sending chills along her spine. She leaned over to let the water wash her bloody hand, but this made her dizzy, and she sat down hard on the sand. Her hand ached in protest of its hasty bath, and she raised it to her face for inspection. The multiple cuts were angry and open, with the deepest ones looking unhappiest of all, and the entirety of her wrist and hand was swollen and ugly. She knew she needed Mercurochrome and bandages, and Aunt Bea or Mr. French to tend to her and tuck her into bed, but she didn't have any of that.

Exhausted, she lay back, dropping her hand once more into the cool water, and consciously disregarding the need to check for creatures. There were creatures here, but gazing through the treetops at the bits of blue sky, Maggie resolved they wouldn't bother her right now. This was a peaceful place, a place of rest, and she needed to rest.

It might have been any number of things that woke her—the strong rush of wind through the trees, the deep rolling boom of thunder, the civil defense siren screaming in competition with the cicadas—or perhaps it was a subconscious awareness that something was seriously wrong. She'd been dreaming she was on the floor of her room dying, and the quantity of her spilled blood was so immense that waves of it were lapping against her arm. Confusion turned to terror, as, with her first waking thought, Maggie realized her arm was soaking wet. She jumped up, screaming, though her cry was barely audible in the cacophony of surrounding sounds, but then realized the wetness wasn't blood, but only water from where the stream had swollen, widening enough to soak the sleeve of her once precious blouse.

Maggie raised her right hand to hold back her hair, which the wind was whipping in her face. Her left hand remained at her side, numb, heavy, and cold, the once fair skin mottled purple-blue, and each black-blood-clotted cut swollen and ugly. It looked as if her hand had—drowned. It felt as heavy and cold and dead as Sybil's marble tabletop.

Dizzy, she sat again, hearing a booming roll of thunder as she began pulling the blood-soaked blouse away from her skin. She'd bled profusely, from her hand, wrist and foot, but the blood was mostly dry now, and she wasn't bleeding anymore. And though she realized she must look like something out of a Vincent Price movie—something in a ditch, bloody and dirty, its legs covered in bramble scratches—it occurred to Maggie that she no longer wanted to die. I tried. But the same monster who won't let me live won't let me die, either. And I don't want to die now. Not anymore. So maybe by busting in my room, and not being quick enough to stab me, Sybil did something right for a change. Just this once. Maggie smiled, closing her eyes to listen to the siren and the thunder and the running water and the creatures. If whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger, then maybe the same is true when you survive trying to kill yourself.

The rain began a deluge, and then just as suddenly stopped. She stood uncertainly, aware of the continuing siren, but also aware that Columbia hadn't had a big tornado since August 9, 1900. She learned this from Michael, as August 9 was his birthday. And she also knew that the siren was as ubiquitous during a Columbia summer as houseflies, mosquitoes and gnats.

She was still standing, considering what she would do—run away? Where? I'll need clothes, and money—when then large hail began falling, bouncing through the overhead branches and ricocheting off the trees. It was when a hailstone hit her forehead that Maggie shielded her head and began running, splashing through the stream towards the far side of the property.

The ditch ended in a drainage pipe channeling the water beneath the street, which was more of an alley that separated the neighborhood from the businesses that ran along Paulk Road. Maggie struggled up and out of the ditch just as the hail stopped, as suddenly as the rain had minutes before. The alley was littered with windblown debris and hail, as was the rear of the dry cleaner's where Sybil took Leon's shirts. There were no people about and no cars moving, and as she stepped cautiously from cover, the wind gusted fiercely, whipping at her hair and clothes, and flattening the grass by the road. She began to run, wincing and stumbling as the blistered soles of her feet hit the hard asphalt and hailstones, the dry cleaner's delivery van, parked beside the store's back door, her immediate destination. If the van was open she would get inside, if locked, she would crawl beneath. Either way, she would wait there for the storm to pass. It was mid-afternoon now, and even if they weren't closed, it was unlikely they would be making deliveries this late on a Saturday, or in this weather.

The metal door to the cleaner's flew open, the wind slamming it against the exterior wall and holding it there just as she reached the van. In the doorway a woman was yelling and waving, and in a moment a man appeared beside her with raincoats. They were leaving. When the woman turned to pull on her coat, Maggie did an about-face and ran as fast as she could across the lot, running near to the building and crossing through a strip of brush before spying a narrow gap in the chain-link fence that surrounded the construction site next door.

In a few months there'd be a building there, but today there was no structure, only a large, muddy lot with pushed up piles of upturned earth and mound after mound of new sand, all of it covered in hailstones and debris. And near the middle, its shovel filled with earth and left standing in the air as though abruptly abandoned, sat an enormous yellow bulldozer. Struggling against the increasing force of the wind, and fearful of the sound of it, Maggie ran towards the it, keeping her head down to shield it from the blowing sand that felt like needle-sticks across her face and body.

She reached the bulldozer just as the air seemed to explode around her, filling with sand. Closing her eyes tightly, she grabbed blindly, feeling for the edge of the hard steel tracks and dropping to her knees to crawl beneath. She could no longer hear the siren over the tremendous roar, and fear flooded her body as she fell to her back, grabbing for handholds and bracing her feet as the great machine began to shudder.

She awoke slowly and without panic this time, and though groggy, Maggie knew where she was, and that the storm had passed, and that the heaviness she felt was due to lying half-buried in sand. The last thing she remembered seeing was blowing sand, so to be covered with it made perfect sense. She did not—could not—open her eyes because of it, and her entire body was heavy with it, the weight reminding her of the time Sybil had piled every blanket in the house on her bed in an attempt to break a fever. But then, as now, it felt oddly comforting to be so completely confined.

With some effort, Maggie extracted her right arm, slowly flexing her elbow and fingers to ease the stiffness before carefully brushing the rough sand from her eyes and digging it from her nostrils. Her ears were ringing loudly, and they also contained sand, but she could hear the sounds of chainsaws and police sirens, and vaguely wondered where they were. Pushing the hair away from her face, she felt a tender, bloody, cut at her hairline, and simultaneously became aware of her left hand and right foot experiencing a painful sting, presumably from the sand embedded in her wounds. But as she hurt all over, and as there was no or aspirin or a cold rag for her forehead beneath the bulldozer, there was no helping it. She had no place to go, and she lacked the strength to get there if she did, but the one thing she could do was sleep. She needed to sleep.

The pain woke her, pain like that of a hot match to Maggie's fingertip, and she instinctively drew her hand to her mouth to blow, which is when she became aware of the fire ants swarming on her left hand. It's unlikely that even a swarm of flying cockroaches could have elicited a stronger response, as southern children—even those with monsters for mothers—are taught from an early age how dangerous and deadly a fire ant attack can be. It was in a true panicked frenzy that Maggie kicked and pulled her arms and legs free of the binding sand, slapping wildly at her arms and hand, and also at her throat, and chest, as she saw the ants moving within the blouse's bloody ruffles. And there was screaming—shrill, prolonged, repetitive, and earsplitting screaming—entirely appropriate for one who fears they are being eaten alive.

She never heard him call her name, and it was only when the strong hands grabbed powerfully at her ankles that Maggie realized she was being pulled from beneath the machine. She was still screaming as he lifted her to her feet, holding her up with one hand grasping the waist of her skirt as he used the other to slap away the ants on her arms and legs, even as Maggie continued beating at her chest and throat.

He yanked off her vest, then spoke with urgency. "This shirt's got to be comin' off now, child." And grabbing it at the throat, he tore it open, buttons flying, then yanked again to pull it from her left arm. Throwing it aside, he swept at her throat, chest, and stomach, then turned her. "Bend over, child," he said. "I need to do your back."

Her screams turned to sobs as she stumbled forward in the attempt to bend at the waist, but he steadied her, and then his hands were grasping and releasing her long hair, his fingers searching her scalp. When they touched the lump she cried out, and he cleared his throat before brushing again at her back, and running his fingers beneath the back of her bra. His hands now went to her shoulders to help her stand. "That's all I can see," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "But I'm gonna turn around now, and I want you to take off that skirt and check it good, and check your underthings to make sure there's none left. Can you do that, Margaret?"

"Yes, sir," she said hoarsely, glancing at his back while wiping gritty tears from her eyes. She stumbled behind the bulldozer and removed her skirt, laying it on the machine as she peeked into her panties, infinitely grateful not to see any ants, and also, that she wasn't having her period. After carefully checking her ruined skirt, she pulled it back on, then turned around to remove and examine her blood soaked bra. She hated putting it on again, but did, crossing her arms across her chest afterwards in an attempt at modesty, before turning to find he had removed his shirt and was holding it out for her.

"Thank you, Mr. Owens," she said, reaching for it. She had never spoken to him before today, but she knew him, having seen him for years in his yard, or on his porch, and the few times he'd come to their door as neighbors sometimes do.

"You're mighty welcome," he said as she slowly pulled on his shirt, managing to fasten just two buttons near the middle. "And don't worry about it being clean. Virginia took it off the line just this morning." That he wanted her to know the shirt was clean struck Maggie as both ridiculous and incredibly sweet, and she smiled.

"You can turn around now, Mr. Owens," she said, wrapping her arms again around her chest.

Sybil had followed her, running out the front door and to the edge of the yard to yell her name before remembering that Leon had been working outside. She hurried furtively towards the back of the house, peering around the corner just as he left the shed, the mower blade in his hand. The wind was picking up and there was a baseball game on the portable radio, and she listened to both, waiting until she was certain he'd reached the carport before slipping back into the house through Michael's room. She'd intended to take the car to look for Margaret Rose, but how could she? Leon obviously hadn't seen or heard anything, and if the girl would just come back soon, he would never have to. But what if she don't? What do I to tell him? What can I say that he won't make it all my fault? She needed time to think it through, but upon opening the door to her daughter's bloody room, Sybil found she couldn't think clearly. What had happened was unthinkable, and no matter the reason for it, or the outcome of it, she was the mother, and she'd be blamed. She leaned against Michael's door, standing where Margaret Rose had last stood, and fixed her gaze on the room's bare, dusty bulb.

It was a loud rumble of thunder that eventually broke Sybil's reverie and moved her to action. Working quickly, she stripped the bed and threw the spread on the floor, moving it back and forth with bare feet to wipe up the blood before bundling the bedding and stuffing it into the bottom of the hall closet. She'd have to buy new now, as these were the bed's only covers.

She could hear the mower running as she entered the kitchen; it had become so dark outdoors that she flipped on the light before grabbing the Pine Sol and rags. Returning, she quickly wiped the floor, wall, doorknobs, the TV screen, and everywhere else she saw blood, though it was hard to see well in the poorly lit room. The razor blade she picked up in a rag, pushing it and the other rags down deeply into the kitchen garbage, then washed and dried Leon's knife before returning it to the plate in the hall. An impulse sent her to the china cabinet, where she removed the one good plate she had kept of her mother's. Folding it into a tablecloth, Sybil knocked the plate against the floor until it shattered, then stowed the bundle in a buffet drawer. She then washed her hands, combed her hair, and was putting an old quilt onto Margaret's flipped mattress when she heard Leon come in the house yelling. She quickly turned the lights off and left her daughter's room.

"Looks like this is a bad one," he said as he walked into the living room. "It's like a black curtain just west of here. Black as night. Where's Margaret?"

"She turned her light off," Sybil said as the siren started wailing.

"Okay. I'm going out on the porch," he said. "I'll holler if we need to get under a mattress."

It was only after the storm passed, when Leon came in to report he was sure there'd been a tornado nearby, that Sybil offered her version of events. Margaret Rose had broken Lura's plate, accidentally cut herself, tried to hide it, then run off when Sybil found out. That was all she knew, except that she must have gone to a friend's house to wait out the storm.

"Wait a minute," Leon said, caught completely off guard. "When did she leave?"

"I don't know exactly—"

"But it was before the storm? You knew she wasn't here when you told me she was in her room?"

"It's ain't my fault!" she screamed. "She should have enough common sense to—"

"Hush!" he barked. "How bad was Margaret hurt?"

Uncharacteristically, Sybil looked at her hands. "I don't know," she said nervously. "There was a good bit of blood."

"And you just let her go?" he roared.

"I couldn't stop the girl," she protested. "I tried!"

"And you have no idea where she went?"

"No."

"I'm going to look for her. You get on the phone to the Owens and get me some help," he ordered, heading for the door. "Do it right now, Sybil."

The Owens were the only neighbors Sybil was on speaking terms with, and this only because of Michael's friendship with their son. She told Virginia that Margaret Rose had broken a plate that belonged to her grandmother, cutting herself badly, and being so upset about it, had become hysterical and run away. "She's hidin' somewhere, I reckon. These young girls can act so silly sometimes. Leon's out lookin' for her, but could you look in your shed and around your place? It was just a stupid old plate. I don't know why she wants to carry on like this."

Sybil was frightened. She was frightened at how Leon had looked at her and how he'd spoken to her. She was frightened by what the neighbors would say if they saw Margaret with all that blood on her, not to mention being dressed like a whore in that short skirt. And she was frightened by what Margaret might say to the neighbors. She was so completely frightened that when Michael called after hearing of the storm on the radio—they were saying it was a tornado—that she told him the same story she'd told Virginia, and asked him to come home.

Mr. Owens stood in his undershirt and khakis, deeply disturbed by Maggie's appearance and demeanor, which didn't agree at all with the story as related by his wife. From the looks of her—disoriented, cold, pale, her left hand and wrist swollen and discolored with numerous deep cuts, the bloody cut on her head, and her body covered in dried blood, ant stings, and dozens of bramble scratches—she was lucky to be alive. He'd gone out searching two hours before, but she looked as if she'd been lost for days. "Your folks are worried sick," he said, thinking it would help if she knew that. "Let's get you home so they can tend to you."

Maggie stood staring at the ground. Home was the last place she wanted to be—except for beneath the bulldozer with the ants. "Yes, sir," she said, wishing there was some place else, any place else, for her to go. But she couldn't tell Mr. Owens that. She was so weak it was difficult to think straight, and trying to explain what had happened, and why she was afraid to go home, was beyond her.

"Someone must have been looking out for you," he said as he put his arm around her waist and began to help her, limping, from the site. "The radio said that tornado bounced all up the road. There's a car up in a building, some trees uprooted, and the roof came off the Super Burger and it's blocking the street. You were a smart girl to get up under that Caterpillar, Margaret."

"Me and the ants were," she mumbled, mostly to herself.

When they reached the fence, most of which was now flattened, Maggie could see the dry cleaner's shop. The back door was gone, as was much of the exterior wall and the delivery van. She wondered if the couple had gotten away, or if they and the van were in a building somewhere. But she didn't ask. It was better not to know.

Michael had just arrived when Mr. Owens pulled into the back drive. He lifted Maggie from the cab of the truck, mumbling thanks as he carried her inside. Sybil was in the kitchen, and as they passed, Maggie clung to her brother, burying her face in his neck.

"Put her on her bed," Sybil directed, setting aside her coffee as she hurried out to speak to Mr. Owens. "I'll be back in a minute." Ignoring her, Michael carried Maggie to the bathroom, kicking the door closed and helping her to sit on the toilet lid.

"There was a tornado," she said, looking up at him. "And ants."

"I know. I was at Donna's when I heard," Michael replied, getting a washcloth and wetting it. "I called, and Mom was acting even more peculiar than usual, telling me a story about you cutting yourself with a plate and running off, and then asking me to come home. Mrs. Owens called before I could get out the door and told me the same story." He wrung out the cloth and kneeled in front of his sister. "I know it's not the real story, Margaret. I can see that. Did Mother do this to you?" he asked, pressing the cloth to the wound on her head."

Maggie looked in his eyes. "Was it a really big tornado like the one on your birthday?" she asked, leaning forward onto his shoulder. Her scalp was crusty with sand and dried blood, and he held her a long moment before pulling away.

"Did Momma do this, Margaret?" he asked again, searching her eyes.

She shook her head. "I did most of it. But she came in and said I was a whore," Maggie continued quietly. "And I've never even kissed anybody, Michael. I almost did. But then she said I was a pregnant whore and she was going to hit me, and Daddy's big knife was in her hand, and it was open, and she was so mad I thought she was going to kill me so I had to run away."

Michael swallowed past the lump in his throat, then took her hands, examining them. "Is that what you used? Dad's knife?"

"No," she said, "I took a blade out of his shaver."

"Thank God for that," Michael said with a heavy sigh. He stood, opening the medicine cabinet before reaching above it and taking down a tiny box of blades. "These cheap blades are only good for one decent shave before they lose their edge," he said, wiping his eyes as he put the box in his pants pocket. "Mom's cheapness finally paid off."

Maggie laughed. "You can put those back," she said. "I don't want to die anymore. I had an epiphany in the ditch, and I know I can endure her now until I'm old enough to get out. I just forgot today. Seeing you makes me remember."

There was shouting, and then Leon burst into the bathroom, dropping to his knees before Maggie and pulling her into his arms. "Margaret, honey," he cried. "Thank God you're safe."

"There was a tornado. I crawled under a bulldozer, and so did the ants."

"You're a smart girl," Leon said, hugging her tighter.

"She needs stitches, Dad," Michael said. "And she could have a concussion. We need to get her to the hospital."

"She ain't got no concussion," Sybil announced from the doorway. "If she did she wouldn't be talkin' clear, and she's talkin' fine. All she needs is to go to bed. Y'all take her to the hospital and they'll put her on the fifth floor." It was common knowledge this was the psychiatric floor at the main local hospital, and reputedly not a very nice place.

"We could go on post," Michael said, looking at Leon.

"We could," Leon agreed.

"Are y'all both crazy?" Sybil interjected. "What do you think the Army is gonna do seein' a child cut up like that? Do you want that on your record, Leon? She don't need no hospital, but she sure don't need to go there."

"She's right," Maggie said emphatically. "I'm not going to the hospital."

Michael looked from Maggie's determined face to Sybil's smug one before putting his hand on Leon's shoulder. "Then I need you to go to the store, Dad. Get some hydrogen peroxide, some Bactine or something like it, calamine lotion, and some roll bandages. And aspirin," he added. "And rubbing alcohol. That ought to do."

"We got bakin' soda," Sybil said.

Michael cut his eyes at her. "No. Not for this, Mom." Sybil had a long history of slapping a sloppy slurry of baking soda on insect bites, cuts, and abrasions, a messy affair with questionable results.

"I'll run then," Leon said, kissing Maggie's forehead. "I love you, Chicken. I'll be quick."

"And get Gatorade," Michael said, "and some Cokes. I'll get her in the shower while you're gone." Michael followed Leon to the door, and when Sybil moved to let him pass, he closed and locked it.

"Unlock this door right now!" Sybil yelled, twisting the knob. "She can't get no shower with you in there! And she don't need no shower."

"Go with Dad, Mom," Michael replied through the door. "Or make some soup. I'm the ROTC medic, and that's the closest to a doctor we've got." He turned back to Maggie, who rewarded him with a weak smile. "And I'll keep my eyes closed, Margaret. I promise."

Her shower was short, and exhausting to the point that Maggie had to sit down in the tub to finish, and let Michael towel-dry her hair. Clad in Leon's housecoat, he then helped her to his room, locking the door before putting her in the middle of his double bed and wrapping the spread around her. She fell asleep immediately, and when Leon returned from the store, Michael tasked him with treating Maggie's bites and scrapes while he saw to the wounds on her head, hands, and feet. When they finished, Michael gathered her up and held her while Leon turned down the bed.

"Don't leave," she murmured sleepily.

"I won't," he answered, signaling for Leon to get the aspirin and Gatorade. "Take these and go back to sleep. I'll stay right here."

"There's a dollar in the bed," she said as he pulled up the covers.

"You think she'll be all right?" Leon asked when they stepped away.

"I'm not in medical school, Dad," Michael said in frustration. "But I think so. That deep cut is the one I'm most worried about, and I'm going to call around and see if anyone has an antibiotic. We just need to watch for infection, and she's probably going to run a fever from all those bites."

Leon crossed to the side door, momentarily confused about the profusion of dark spots on the carpet before realizing they were made by his daughter's blood. "Did she tell you anything?" he asked shakily.

"A little," Michael said as he dropped into his desk chair. "But you know what happened, Dad. It's damn obvious what happened."

"Yes, son," Leon said, looking away. "It is."

"Where's Mom?"

"She was on the porch when I came in. There's soup on the stove. She did that," he replied, wiping his eyes. "I better go check on her."

Michael was asleep with his head on the desk when Sybil came in with Maggie's bedspread in her arms. "You need to see this," she said loudly, opening up the bloody blanket.

"Have you lost your mind?" he asked, jumping up and grabbing Sybil's arm to lead her from the room.

"My mind?" Sybil asked as Michael closed the door and led her to the hall. "There's not a damn thing wrong with my mind. It's your sister that's got the mind problems. What did she tell you happened?"

He took the covers from her and walked towards the kitchen. "Why don't you tell me what happened, Mom? And try telling the truth this time."

"I told you the truth on the phone. She cut her hand," Sybil said, following after him. "I got Momma's broken plate if you don't believe me. And then she got all crazy and took off runnin' before I could stop her."

Michael stopped when he reached the back door, turning to glare at his mother. "Margaret didn't accidentally cut herself. She tried to kill herself. She was so unhappy she wanted to die. And you saw what she did, you saw her suffering, and not only did you do nothing to help her, you called her a whore, and you threatened her with a knife. What kind of monster are you?"

Sybil was shaking with anger. "Is that what she told you? 'Cause all that's flat out lies—and it's the stupidest thing I ever heard come out of your mouth. You just need to go—right now," she said, grabbing his arm and trying to turn him towards the door. "Just go on back to your girlfriend and her momma. I don't want you here anymore."

"What you want isn't important," Michael said, holding his ground. "And I'm staying until I'm sure Margaret's all right."

Sybil dropped her hands and glared. "Well, you stay, then, if that's what you wanna do. But I'm puttin' Margaret Rose back in her bed."

"No," Michael returned. "She's staying where she is for now, and you have no say in it."

"This is my house!" Sybil said through clenched teeth. "You done seen your sister naked in there, and I'd bet your daddy did, too. And now she's layin' up in your bed? I'm not in shock anymore, boy, I know what's goin' on—and I won't have that indecency in my house!"

He opened the back door and tossed the bloody bedspread into the yard. "The only indecent thing in this house is you, Mother," he said, coldly brushing past her. A moment later he heard the screen door slam as Sybil rushed out to the yard.

"Do you know what Mr. Owens said when he was driving me home, Will? He said he always thought if he'd had a daughter, he'd want her to be just like me. And I said 'even now'?"

Maggie stopped. It was the first time in the story that she'd been too choked up to speak, and she swallowed hard, clearing her throat. "He said that when you really love someone, it means you love them always and forever and no matter what. And that when bad things happen, it only means you have to love them more." Her voice grew soft as a whisper. "He said if I was his daughter, he would love me even more now, and that nothing I could ever do would make him stop. Do you know that's the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me? Ever?" she asked. "And I think I would go through all of it again, as bad as it was, just to hear him say that."

Will pulled Maggie close as her body shook with sobs. "We got home from the mountains late on Friday night, and I drove by your house Saturday morning hoping you'd be outside," he said, stroking her hair. "After the storm hit, me and Dad got the driveway cleared, then went to check on the church. We'd just gotten back when Mom told us Mrs. Owens had called. We each took a car out to look for you, and mother started making calls."

"You went out looking for me?" Maggie asked.

"Why do you sound so surprised? Of course I was looking for you."

She released him, pulling away. "Did you go after me because I'm one of your strays, like Pamela said I was?"

"Damn Pamela Ritch!" Will exclaimed, startling her. "Grief, Maggie. Don't you get it yet?"

"What exactly is it you want me to get, Will?" she asked. "I know you care about me, but you're with Jesse."

"No," he said, shaking his head. "Jesse is a sweet girl, but I was never in love with her, Maggie. I broke it off the second week we were away."

"You broke up?" Maggie asked in surprise. "But Pamela said—"

"Pamela doesn't know anything," Will interrupted. "Jesse started going with an Indian exchange student who was there with just us a few days after we split. It's gotten serious, but Jesse still hasn't worked up the nerve to tell her parents about him, and she darn sure wouldn't tell Pamela."

"So," Maggie said after a moment, his words settling in and making her feel both hopeful and foolish. "What is it I don't get?"

Will smiled. "I think you know, Maggie. If you didn't know before tonight, you have to know now." He took her face in his hands. "I'm crazy about you. I've always been crazy about you. I just never said anything because of our age difference, but I don't care about that anymore, and it won't matter in a few years, anyway. There's something here, something really special between us, that I've never come close to feeling with anyone else. You're the one I want to be with, Maggie, the only one. And I pray with all my heart that you feel the same way."

"I do," Maggie said with no hesitation. "You know that I do."

She would never forget their first kiss. It would stand for all time as the best kiss of her life. She became lost in it, totally and completely lost, oblivious to anything but the feeling of bliss that came with having Will's mouth on hers.

It was wrong, Will supposed, to be kissing her in church—it was wrong to be kissing her at all. But it didn't feel wrong. He loved Maggie, and kissing her felt absolutely right. When he stopped, at length and reluctantly, he held her tightly in his arms. "I want you to promise me something," he said.

"Anything," she said.

"No, Maggie. Some promises are sacred. Like the ones we make to God. This is that kind of promise. One you can never break, or forget about, or throw away because it doesn't suit you anymore."

"Okay," she answered seriously.

"You have to promise me that no matter what happens—no matter what, Maggie, forever and always and no matter what—that you'll never try to take your life again."

She smiled, her pale face seeming to flush with color. To Will's eyes she had never looked as beautiful. "You have my promise, Will. Forever and always and no matter what. It won't ever happen again."

"This is God's house," he continued. "I want you to promise him, too."

"I will," she nodded solemnly. "I do. I promise."

"Now promise me one thing more," he said as he pulled her closer. "Promise me you'll never fall in love with anyone else."

Leprosy and Bad Breath

5

It was easy for Maggie to keep her promise, as the escape of death had lost any lingering attraction the moment Will first kissed her. Her long-held belief that she'd been missing out—that there was far more to life than the endless days of sadness and boredom that had been her constant companions—was proven true with that kiss. And Will's insistence on her promise to him, and to God, to never make an attempt on her life again, was vindication that her life mattered. She mattered. Maggie knew now that Heaven was real, and she knew exactly where it was. She'd found it in Will.

When they finally left the sanctuary on Saturday, joining the others as they were forming the closing prayer circle, Jerry and the chaperones looked at one another knowingly. The look of joy and serenity evident on both their faces was proof that William had been successful in his talk with Maggie, and as a result, she could once again be welcomed into the fold. He wouldn't have brought her back with him otherwise, for Will was seen as an especially virtuous and God-fearing young man. If someone of his faith and conviction believed Maggie had repented, and was worthy to once again be among them, there was no need to question it.

The following Saturday was again oppressively humid, with the air as sticky and wet as a curtain of sweat and the gnats in full attack mode. Saturday Social was in full gear by the time Sybil dropped her, and this time it was Will who stood with his guitar in the main room, singing with a group of the junior boys. They exchanged smiles when she entered, and Maggie dropped happily into the nearest chair, eager to see Will sing again, and just as eager not be seen by Pamela, whose voice she could hear bellowing from the kitchen. After a while Jerry came in, calling everyone together to watch a film on the deadliness of heroin and other illicit drugs. After setting up the projector, Will sat beside Maggie, taking her hand in the darkened room.

"Did you miss me this week?" he whispered.

"Every second," she replied happily.

When they adjourned to go outside, Will took her hand, falling back behind the others with the intention of stealing her away. But seeing them, Pamela called for a game of volleyball, boys versus girls, and together with her friends, grabbed Maggie and pulled her off to their side of the court.

Thwarted in his efforts to get Maggie alone, at least for now, Will quickly joined the boy's team. But after the third game, the girls being soundly defeated in each, Pamela declared the bugs and heat to be more than she could bear, and promptly sat down on the field of play, fanning herself. One of the boys responded to Pamela's theatrics by grabbing his chest and falling dramatically onto the grass. Soon the entire group, including most of the chaperones, were gasping and falling, clutching their stomachs or hearts or putting imaginary guns to their heads, each trying to outdo the other as they fell. Maggie stood watching and laughing until Will shouted her name, and drawing an imaginary bow and arrow, took aim and shot at what she assumed was her heart. She dropped happily to the grass, delighted to be the only murder victim there. Will had been compelled to kill her, after all, as Maggie had made a promise not to kill herself.

Why Sybil chose to drive through the parking lot and around to the back of Paulk Road at that particular moment—something she had never done before—was anyone's guess. Perhaps she'd been parked covertly watching all along, curious about what or who was responsible for her daughter's dramatic change in attitude since the previous Saturday. Or perhaps someone from the church—someone who didn't want Maggie there and whose initials were PR—had someone slip over to the pay phone next door and call her. Whatever the reason, Sybil seemed to appear from nowhere, turning the corner sharply at the rear of the church and braking to a screeching stop before slamming the Ford into park, throwing open her door, and jumping from the car. It was like a scene from a movie inexplicably being played out before the stunned crowd, and everyone began sitting up or standing to get a better look. Maggie wasn't initially aware anything was happening, her focus being only on Will as they made funny faces at one another from across the court. It was only when he stopped, coming to his feet with a look of shock, that she followed his gaze, and saw Sybil storming towards her.

"Whores and whoremongers!" Sybil screamed as she came, her finger pointing indiscriminately as she made for Maggie, who turned to look at Will, watching his expression change to one of horror as Sybil reached her, snatching the wrist of her damaged hand and jerking her to her feet.

"I don't send you or my money here so you can lay around in the grass like a filthy hippie whore!" Sybil's nails pressed past the edge of her bandage and dug into the tender skin, causing Maggie to cry out. "What kind of place is this?" she shouted towards the chaperones, who had all come to their feet. "'Cause it damn sure ain't no Christian church!"

Dressed in gym shorts and a dirty jersey, his hair soaked with sweat and his handsome brow lined with worry, Jerry ran up to them. "I'm Jerry Mitchell, the youth director," he said, his youthful voice nervous and high. "And I can promise you—"

"Promise me?" Sybil yelled, leaning in close to his face. "I can promise you, Mister Hot Pants, that this is the last time you'll get your filthy hands on my daughter! Whoremonger!"

Maggie watched in horror as Sybil knocked Jerry to the ground with a sudden push to his slim chest. Then, digging her nails in deeper, Sybil began pulling her towards the car.

"Let her go." Will had run up, and now stood in front of Sybil, blocking their way to the car, a look of determination on his face.

"You gonna try and stop me from takin' my daughter home?" Sybil asked, her voice less threatening and not as confident as it had been with Jerry. Perhaps it was Will's height, or his manner, or the way he was looking at her that made Sybil more cautious.

"Let her go, Mrs. Head," Will said firmly. "You're hurting her."

Sybil took a deep breath and then released her grip. Her manicured nails had left four crescent-shaped, deep puncture wounds in Maggie's wrist, and blood was standing in each.

"Get out of my way now," Sybil then said menacingly, looking up at Will. "My daughter ain't none of your business."

For a moment, Maggie thought Will would make it his business, but then Jerry, having returned to his feet, touched his arm. "Better let her go, William. She is her mother."

Reluctantly, Will stepped back, and without another word, Sybil took Maggie's arm and steered her to the open door of the car, pushing her in and waiting as she crawled across the seat. As Sybil got in, Maggie saw Will standing with his hands folded prayerfully at his mouth, and their eyes met before Sybil shifted into gear and screeched from the driveway.

"Layin' up in the grass like a bunch of damn whorin' hippies right there at church . . . I never thought I'd live to see the day . . . those adults not doin' a damn thing to stop it...."

Maggie said nothing. To argue with Sybil would be pointless.

The short drive home was made in record time and at alarming speeds as Sybil's condemnations continued unabated. It was not until she neared their driveway that she slowed and lowered her voice to a normal level. And at the back door, her voice dropped to a whisper. "Your daddy ain't been to bed long, and I don't want him woke up. You get on to bed and we'll finish this business in the mornin'."

Maggie walked ahead of her into the house, stopping to drink a glass of water and take some aspirin before heading to her room.

"Who are you calling?" she whispered, surprised to find Sybil seated at the telephone desk in the hall looking through the phone book.

"Never you mind who I'm callin'. Just get to bed."

"You're not calling the preacher?" Maggie asked a bit more loudly, knowing that was exactly what Sybil intended to do.

"I'm shuttin' it down," Sybil said, without looking up. "I helped pay for it, and I ain't havin' it. I bet the preacher don't even know what kind of monkey business is goin' on behind his back and his church."

"You can't do that," Maggie said defiantly and in full voice, pulling the phone book from Sybil's hands. Jerry and Will had stood up for her, and it was time she started standing up for herself. "If you don't want me to go anymore I won't go, but I won't let you ruin it for everybody else." It wasn't as if she could ever go back now, anyway.

"Since when does a whore tell me what I'm gonna do?" Sybil returned in a voice even louder than the one Maggie had used. She began dialing the number for information. Maggie grabbed for the receiver, but Sybil clutched it to her head and pulled the phone into her lap. Desperate, Maggie reached for the phone line, pulling until the outlet popped from the wall.

"You stupid whore!" Sybil yelled, slapping Maggie's face hard enough to knock her to the floor just as the bedroom door flew open. Leon lunged across the hall, grabbing Maggie and yanking her up.

"Let her go!" Sybil yelled, struggling to get up from the desk.

"Shut up!" Leon shouted in Sybil's face, his voice angry and slurred with alcohol as he propelled Maggie into her room, slamming the door behind him with his foot. At the edge of her bed, he pushed her to her knees, gripping the back of her neck and forcing her face into the mattress.

"Daddy!" Maggie cried, terrified. He'd never laid angry hands on her.

"Why do you do this? Why do you make her hurt you?" he yelled.

"You're hurting me!" Maggie sobbed. "Stop, Daddy. Please."

Keeping hold of her neck, he loosened his grip. "I'm sorry, Chicken, but you've got to listen to me," he said, leaning down to her face. "Your momma don't care about you. Can't you see she never has? You'd likely have died if it hadn't been for Lura."

"What?" Maggie asked, suddenly more interested in Leon's slurred words than her precarious situation.

"Turn the girl loose!" Sybil screamed as the door flew open and she was on him, armed with a cheap aluminum pan.

"Daddy!" Maggie cried as Sybil began beating at his back. "What are you saying?"

"He's drunk, girl! He ain't sayin' nothin'!" Sybil yelled.

"I am drunk!" Leon yelled back at Sybil. "But it's time she knew the truth. Quit hurtin' her and tell her the truth!"

"You're the one trying to kill her!" Sybil bellowed back.

But in truth he wasn't. Though his grip was firm and her face was still in the mattress, Maggie's fear had evaporated, for it seemed that Leon was actually trying to help her for once—albeit in a highly unorthodox fashion, like when Perry Mason did something crazy to force a courtroom confession.

"Let go of her!"

Michael stood at the bedroom door, his fists clenched at his sides. Leon immediately released her, but for once, Maggie had mixed feelings about seeing her brother. Whatever Leon was trying to make Sybil tell, she wanted to hear it.

"Daddy, I'm sorry," Maggie began as she came to her feet.

Leon's hands shot up and grabbed her roughly by the throat. "Don't ever say that! Nothing's your fault! It's your momma's fault. And mine."

Sybil began screaming again as Michael grabbed Leon around the neck with the crook of his arm. At over six feet, Michael matched his father in height, if not in weight, but he was all lean muscle. Maggie gasped for breath as her father's hands were pulled away from her throat, and Michael brought Leon to his knees.

"Get her out of here, Momma!" Michael yelled.

Sybil grabbed Maggie's shoulders and pushed her from the room, steering her into the bathroom and locking the door before grabbing her in an unprecedented display of affection. Maggie did not return the embrace.

"You're all right now," Sybil began, patting her back. "And you don't pay a minute's mind to nothin' he said, Margaret Rose. Just put it out of your mind. It's those nerve pills." Leon didn't take any pills to Maggie's knowledge, though Sybil had often claimed he did. "They make him get out of his right mind when he's takin' 'em, and he says all sorts of crazy things, and all of it lies. One night not too long back, he even thought I was Jackie Kennedy and we was goin' out on a big old boat."

"He'll go to sleep soon," Maggie offered flatly, disengaging from her mother, whose lies tonight were not up to their usual standards.

"You don't know nothin'," Sybil replied. "He don't sleep when he's like this. Never has. You just ain't never seen it 'cause I protected you from it all your life. I don't know why your brother came home tonight, but I'm glad he did, so he can see it, too."

Maggie turned to look in the mirror at her neck. Leon's fingers had left angry, red marks on her pale skin, but this didn't hurt as badly as Sybil's slap and the new wounds she'd made on her wrist.

"You can't stay here tonight," Sybil said. "I want you to go stay with those nice new Methodist girls. What's their name? Their momma said you were welcome anytime." Sybil's voice was unnaturally gay, as if she were suggesting a trip to the fair rather than the ridiculous notion that Maggie go knocking on their new neighbor's door late at night with choke marks on her neck, asking to sleep over.

The only reason Sybil knew them at all was because she'd rear-ended Mrs. Johnson in front of their house—they'd bought the house next door to the Owens—the same day they moved in, and had bent over backwards being nice ever since so she wouldn't file for insurance. The girls looked nice enough, having only seen them in their yard, and maybe Maggie could whip up some plausible explanation for the choke marks on her throat, and the handprint on her cheek, and the puncture wounds on her wrists, but she didn't want to. She wanted to be alone and think about what Leon had said.

If he'd spoken the truth, and she had no reason to doubt he had, then a lot of the questions she'd spent half her life asking had been answered in his drunken ramblings. Sybil had never wanted her, never loved her, and had spent her entire life punishing her for just being born. And she wanted Maggie out of the house before Daddy had a chance to say more.

"Their name's Johnson, like the President," she told Sybil tersely, trying to weigh what she should do. "That's what you told me, anyway."

"Right. That's it," Sybil said happily.

The sound of angry voices could be heard clearly in the tiny house, but they weren't yelling now, and Maggie couldn't make out their words. And while Leon's drinking, combined with him seeing Sybil slap her to the floor, had given him the courage to speak, now that Michael and Sybil were both underfoot, he wasn't going to be able to tell her anything more tonight.

"I'll tell Mrs. Johnson that Michael came home sick from school, and you and daddy might need to take him to the hospital," she offered. "You think maybe it's Appendicitis."

"That's perfect," Sybil replied, smiling. "That's a perfect thing to say. That's good, Margaret Rose, you came up with that real fast."

Of course I did. I learned how to lie from the master.

"Now," she continued, "just how are we goin' to get you out?"

Maggie turned away from her and began removing the assortment of toiletries from the window ledge before pulling up the blinds that had hung, undusted and scarcely opened, since they'd moved in. Unlocking the window, she pushed up; it opened reluctantly, the rusty springs creaking all the way to the top.

"It's not too far off the ground?" Sybil asked solicitously.

"It's fine. I'll be fine," Maggie said dismissively, finding Sybil's supposed concern for her meaningless. But the worried look on her face was genuine, and Maggie knew what she was afraid of. "I won't tell anyone about tonight, Mother. I'll say the boys were roughhousing at church and it got out of hand if anyone asks—their parents were called at home and everything. I'll make it good. They'll believe it."

"Thank you," Sybil said, looking relieved.

"But you've got to do something for me in return, Mother," she continued seriously. "You've got to promise you won't call the preacher or anyone else at the church—not tonight or ever. Just forget about it. Just put it out of your mind like it never happened. Will you promise to do that?"

"All right," Sybil replied reluctantly.

"No," Maggie said, shaking her head. "That's not good enough. If you want me to keep this secret, you have to swear to God."

Sybil's expression took on a hard edge, and Maggie knew she wanted to hit her again. "I don't swear to God, Margaret Rose. You can go to Hell for that. But I give you my word. And you best keep your mouth shut, too."

Sybil's eyes were a little too bright, and she looked old in the harsh yellow light of the naked bulb—old and worried—and Maggie realized with a start that she was now taller than her mother by several inches. The whole thing felt like something out of a warped fairy tale, with Sybil playing the part of the evil queen who is so busy fighting to keep her throne, she doesn't realize that nobody else wants it. Maggie knew she shouldn't feel sorry for her, but at least for the moment, she did.

"I'll keep it shut," she said, brushing back a strand of hair that had strayed onto her mother's face. "If we both do, everything will work out."

"Of course it will," Sybil replied confidently. "It's gonna be fine. This is one of those things everybody goes through, but most have the good sense not to talk about. The important thing is that I've been a good mother to you all along, and I proved that tonight."

Maggie felt an anger begin to rise that would not be cured with tears. Not this time. And Leon must have been feeling the same anger, for she could hear his enraged voice clearly now as it moved into the hall, and he was yelling for her. She turned to the open window.

"I'll be home when they leave for church. Can you give me a boost?"

Sybil cupped her hands, and stepping onto them, Maggie leaned with her elbows on the window ledge and pushed out the screen. It was then that Leon hit the door, sending it crashing open, the hook and eye latch breaking and the mirror shattering, its glass falling in large, jagged pieces onto the floor. Maggie turned to look, but as she did Sybil pushed up on her feet, propelling her through the open window and onto the lawn below. She landed awkwardly but unhurt, and scrambling up, ran for the darkness of the yard as Leon yelled her name and the window was slammed closed.

She could still hear their voices, but chose not to look back as she considered her next move. If this were a movie, in the next scene I'd be throwing rocks at my best friend's window, and she'd let me in, and we'd talk, and cry, and soon everything would be better. But in reality, there was no best friend to turn to, or talk to, and there was no way she was knocking at the Kennedys'. Why even make the effort when nothing could come of it? They would have heard of her suicide attempt by now, anyway, and likely not even answered the door. Between neighborhood gossip and Sybil's hysterics at church tonight, she'd have to have leprosy and bad breath to be any less popular. But lack of a best friend didn't really upset her. Let the other girls have their best friends and pizza parties, their manicures and pedicures and up-all-night talks about boys and love and sex and shoes. She had something they would never have—permission to stay out all night. And this night could become the most wonderful night ever if she could only find a way to spend it with Will.

Maggie saw the porch light flash, then heard the back door open and close again quickly. She made her way back towards the house, her neck aching, whether from the fall or the throttling, she wasn't sure. On the walkway lay a rolled up paper sack which held a bleached out pair of panties, a box of raisins, and a twenty-dollar bill.

Maggie laughed as she took the money and threw the sack into the garbage can beneath the carport. Michael's car was in the driveway behind Sybil's, and she placed the twenty beneath his windshield wiper. Twice now he'd come to her rescue, appearing from nowhere like a guardian angel. Maybe someday he would need her and she could return the favor, but this was the best she could do tonight. Leaving the driveway, she looked up at the uncovered kitchen window and saw her mother's dark head at the sink. She would have to remember to tell Sybil to cover up that window, just like she'd covered up everything else.

She sat near the back of the sanctuary on the same pew where she'd sat with Will exactly one week ago. She'd found the same key, come in through the same door, and walked the same few steps. But it wasn't the same. It was different being here alone. It was still beautiful, still possessed of the same hazy, dreamlike glow, and it was still quiet, the sound of her bright yellow sandals on the thickly carpeted aisles inaudible. Not that anyone was listening. Everyone who'd been at the social was gone. She had come here in part because it was the only place she knew to go other than the patch of woods she'd escaped to before, and Sybil would have to be hot on her heels with a knife again before she'd go in there at night. She'd hoped, wished rather, that Will might be here, waiting. But there was no way he could know where she was. She'd thought of going by his house and throwing rocks at his window, but had no idea which window was his.

And so she sat, unwilling to think about the events of the night. She preferred to think of last Saturday, to relive every moment as if watching a favorite movie. She'd seen it a hundred times already, every breath and nuance carefully recorded, from the look on Pamela's face when Will first called her name, to the way he'd taken her hand at closing prayer. She would have liked to write it down, to make it a detailed story she'd remember fifty years from now. But she'd never dared to keep a diary.

Maggie had always loved the coolness of the sanctuary, the only part of the church that was air-conditioned. But it was cold with her arms and legs bare, dressed as she was in the same shorts and sleeveless blouse she'd worn to the social, and she'd come in from the hot and humid night, wet with sweat from her walk. That had been some time ago. She'd listened for the church bells to judge the time before remembering they didn't chime anymore. Not since the tornado.

Maggie removed her ponytail, slipped off her sandals, and tucking her feet beneath her, rubbed her arms for warmth. Her neck ached and she wanted to sleep, but it was too cold to sleep without covers. Even on the hottest nights she'd always slept with something, and just now, the scratchy new dime-store sheets and bedspread that graced her bed at home would be welcomed. Or better yet, the covers at the Owens' house, which were surely as soft and clean as Mr. Owens' shirt had been.

She hadn't been cold last Saturday, not when she was here with Will, but he wasn't here now and he wasn't coming, and there was no reason to stay in the sanctuary without him. There were cozier spots to spend the night. Scanning the church's rooms in her mind, she smiled when she thought of the nursery. There must be blankets there, and the floor was carpeted. She kissed her hand and pressed it against the pew, then went down the aisle, easing open the swinging door and stepping with bare feet onto the smooth hardwood of the foyer.

Maggie had never thought about being afraid of the dark, as most of her life it had been daylight when she'd fallen asleep. There were times since when she'd awakened in the middle of the night, but the bathroom light was always on, and could be seen beneath her door. But once the door to the sanctuary closed, she was in total darkness, a darkness that held neither a hint nor a glimmer of light. There were no windows in the Great Hall, no doors to the outside. She thought briefly of turning back and going around the other way—she'd left her new sandals, she now realized, on the pew. But that was silly. She knew where the nursery was. The hall was long and straight, then a turn by the stairway, another by the choir room, and there you were. She could do it with her eyes closed, she mused, and trying it, found there was no difference. Besides, as Will had said, this was God's house, so nothing bad could happen here. Maggie laid her hand on the wall and began slowly walking.

She soon began to realize it wasn't just the darkness that was making her so uncomfortable. It was the silence. There was neither the ticking of a clock, nor the whir of a fan, nor any of the normal sounds one hears everywhere, every day. The only thing she could hear was the incessant high-pitched ringing in her ears, which had been a constant presence since the tornado. Now, in this dark, silent place, it seemed to grow much louder, as if unseen hands had turned up the volume control.

Maybe God's doing it. Maybe he's punishing me for being here. It is his house. What if he's here? What if he goes around at night from church to church to check up on things? What if he's here, somewhere ahead where I can't see? What if I bump into him? Don't be stupid. If God were here, it wouldn't be dark. There would be a blinding, golden light, and choirs of angels singing, and seraphim's flying around his head, and lots of heavenly hosts such as that. God would never hang out alone in the dark. If anyone was going to do that, it would be the Devil. He likes the dark. He's the Prince of Darkness.

Maggie immediately regretted allowing thoughts of the Devil into her head. It was scary enough thinking about God. But the Devil? He'd been after her a long time. Whenever she went out to sharpen her pencil at night—the pencil sharpener inexplicably mounted outside on the door of the shed—she'd felt him there, creeping up behind her. And she'd always felt he was just a step behind as she made her panicked retreat back inside.

Then there'd been the dream. In it, she was standing in the living room looking out the window. The curtains and blinds are open, and Sybil comes in yelling for her to close them. But it's too late. The camellia tree in front of the window shoots up, and its branches break through the glass and grab her, pulling her down through the ground until they reach Hell, where the Devil stands waiting and laughing. She's paralyzed with fear, unable to move or scream. She's trapped. Trapped with the Devil in the darkness.

Oh, God! It's Maggie. And it's dark and I'm scared and my throat hurts and I know I shouldn't be in your house and I'm sorry, but I didn't have anywhere else to go. So please, please, please, don't let the Devil get me!

If it had not been so completely dark, Maggie would never have noticed the faintest, most infinitesimal bit of light that very briefly appeared, then disappeared, at the far end of the Great Hall. But she did notice it, and she absolutely heard the footsteps, faint though they were. As a hot rush of adrenaline shot through her veins, she froze, the only thing moving being the fast, hard, thump of her heart.

The footsteps came nearer and then stopped. "Maggie? Please tell me it's you I hear breathing."

The Devil can take many forms. They'd taught her that. But as frightened as she was, she also knew that deep down inside, she didn't believe in the Devil. For as often as she'd felt the Devil behind her, she'd never seen or heard him, and he'd certainly never called her name. And as many times as she'd sat in quiet meditation and tried to hear the voice of God in her heart, the way the preacher said she was supposed to, she'd never heard God's voice either. Not even a tiny voice. Not even once. So why would she hear either of those voices now? The voice was Will's.

"How do I know it's really you?" she asked. "Can you prove it?"

"You like to bury your nose in the leather seats of my car," he began, "so I wear English Leather just for you. You think you hate asparagus and carrot cake, though you've never tasted either one, but you eat sugar right from the bowl. And, if Walter Cronkite was standing here, you'd ignore me and go straight to him without making him answer any questions. And also, I have your flower shoes."

"Oh, God," Maggie exhaled, nervous laughter spilling from her mouth as he made his way to her along the dark corridor and hugged her fiercely. It was her Will. She knew him by the smell of his neck.

"Are you hurt?" he asked. "Did she hurt you?"

"No," she answered lightly. "I'm fine. Now I'm fine," she said, holding him closer. "How did you know I was here?"

"I knew you were here because the key was gone."

"How'd you get in?" she asked.

"I helped replace the new front door and locks and had an extra key made," he replied mischievously, "just for occasions like this. And you left your shoes on the pew."

"It was so cold in there alone," she said. "I was going to the nursery to get a blanket."

"You'd have wasted a trip. The nursery's kept locked," he told her, pressing her to his chest and rocking her gently. "Did she kick you out?"

"She told me to go spend the night with the new neighbors I've never met, but they weren't home," she lied, not caring to go into it. "My Dad was drinking when we got back, and there was a little trouble "

"I'm sorry. And I'm sorry I didn't stand up to her more. I didn't know what I should do, and I didn't want to make things any worse."

She laughed. "You were great, Will. I think you scared her a little bit."

"She didn't look scared," Will said. "Me and Jerry got in the car and followed to make sure you got home. Then I brought him back here and, anyway, I parked up the street and snuck down and knocked on your window."

"You what?"

"It's the front porch window, right?"

"Yes," Maggie said, imagining him standing there.

"The lights were off in your room, but I knew you couldn't be asleep with everyone yelling. I could hear your brother, and your Mom and Dad, but I never heard you."

"I can't believe you did that," Maggie said, thrilled that he had done it. "What would you have done if she'd seen you, Will? Did you even think about it?"

"Actually, I did," he said. "My plan was to run."

"That's a great plan," she teased. "Are all college men that smart?"

"You don't think I'm smart?" he asked.

"You're smart. But maybe just a little crazy."

Taking her hands, Will leaned back against the wall, pulling her to him and spreading his feet until they stood nose to nose in the darkness. "I'm smart enough to get my girl all alone in the dark."

"I'm your girl?" she asked, wanting to hear him say it again.

"Of course you're my girl. I told you I never wanted you to be with anyone else, didn't I?" he asked. "What did you think I meant?"

"I don't know," she replied shyly. "I wasn't sure."

"But you do know, Maggie," he said, his hands pressing on her shoulders. "And you can be sure. You're my girl. And I never want you to be with anyone else. Not like this. Not in the way I want us to be together."

"I want that, too," she said. And she did. She wanted it more than anything.

"Maggie?"

"Will?"

"Do you love me?" he asked, wrapping his arms around her neck. "Do you love me the way I love you?"

Though she had imagined him saying those words a thousand times, now, alone with him in the darkness of the Great Hall, it was hard to believe that the thing she wanted most in the world was actually happening, and she needed clarification.

"Are you saying you love me the way God loves me, Will?" she asked. Oh, please don't say yes.

"No, Maggie," he said tenderly. "I love you the way a guy loves a girl. I think I've loved you from the very first day."

He kissed her, and when their lips met and his mouth opened onto hers, he wrapped his arms tightly around her and leaned her into him. Last week, Will's kisses had been sweet, comforting kisses—as if he feared she would break. These kisses weren't like that. These kisses left her breathless, creating feelings she'd never had before. She wanted him to hold her closer, to hold her so close they'd become part of one another. But Will soon began to pull away. She tried to pull him back, leaning against his chest and wrapping her hands around his neck, but he continued to pull away.

"What is it?" she asked. "Do I have bad breath or something?"

"No," he laughed. "We just have to stop, Maggie."

Her response was immediate. "Why? Why do we have to stop?" She didn't want to stop. She wanted to stay here in the dark, the exquisitely wonderful, magical dark, and hold him and kiss him forever.

"Maggie," Will said, taking her hands as she tried to hold him again. "I don't want to stop. You can't possibly know how much I don't want to stop. But this is God's house. And while I know he understands what we're feeling for one another, I don't think he'd appreciate it if Brother Whitehead had to step over our naked bodies in the morning. We have to go."

Naked bodies? Will's words made her both anxious and excited. She wasn't thinking about being naked with Will, but now that he'd said it, it was impossible to think of anything else.

"Go where?" she asked.

"I'm taking you home with me," he said. "My folks went to be with my Aunt Ruby, Dad's sister, in Memphis. She's a great lady, and not even 50, but she's got cancer, and not a lot of time left."

"I'm so sorry," Maggie said, the idea of naked kissing being usurped with the unhappy memories of loss. "But why aren't you with them? Don't you need to go?"

"No. I spent a weekend with her in July, and we said our goodbyes then. She wanted me to remember her before she got too sick. I wish you could have known her, Maggie. I told her about you, and she was disappointed I didn't have a picture. We need to take some," he said. "I wish I'd had one this summer." He stood up straight. "Okay. We can go now. Better put on your shoes. And just so you know, the light switch is just inside the door to the baptismal pool."

After again hiding the key, they walked swiftly along the darkened sidewalk by the church. He'd parked his car beside the small shopping center across the street, afraid it would draw suspicion were someone to see it at the church so late. It was cooler out now; the wind was blowing and the clouds had broken up. There was very little traffic as they ran hand in hand across Paulk Road and down the alley that led to his car.

"It's been a long time since we were in Barbara Ann together," he said, starting the engine and placing Maggie's hand on the shift to cover with his own. The clock on the dashboard read twelve-twenty. It was Sunday morning.

Will pulled into the tree-lined, gravel driveway that ran beside his house and wound through the yard before stopping beneath a three car, tin-roofed shelter. Shutting off the engine, he turned and looked at Maggie, who sat smiling at him with her face pressed against the leather seat. He was leaning in to kiss her when a long, high-pitched whine sounded from her stomach. Will burst out laughing, forgetting about the kiss.

"That's romantic," Maggie said, embarrassed.

"It's all right," he said, laughing as he pulled her head to his chest for a hug. "I guess you're hungry?"

"I'm always hungry."

"Good. So am I."

They left the car and she followed him along the brick path that led to the house. She'd never seen the back of Will's house; from the street the pines in the yard and the evergreen shrubs that grew along the fence were too thick. Now she saw it for the first time in the soft glow of the light from the kitchen window. There was a wide porch with dozens of clay pots and hanging baskets of ferns and flowering plants, two rocking chairs, and a porch swing attached to the ceiling. It was lovely, clean, and uncluttered, and she knew it would be even prettier in the daytime. They went up three steps to the two doors that stood side by side.

"This is my room," he said, turning the knob to the door on the left and leading her inside. The room was twice the size of Michael's, and her own little room would have fit inside it half a dozen times. The honey-colored pinewood planks on the floor and walls reflected the light, reminding Maggie of the pews in the sanctuary. Two brass lamps were in the room; both covered in navy blue shades, one on the desk, and the other beside a deep red, corduroy recliner. The two colors were seen again in the blue and red-checkered curtains at each of the windows, and on the quilt that graced the incredibly tall four-poster bed. This room was wonderful. It was the most wonderful room she'd ever seen.

"It's beautiful, Will," she said. "And I've never seen such a big bed."

"My great-grandfather made it as a wedding gift for my grandfather. They both died in that bed, and my dad and his brother were born in it."

"He made it?" She'd never thought about someone making something as wonderful as a family bed that people were born and died in.

"It used to have a trundle beneath," Will said. "Dad and my Uncle Hart slept there."

Maggie laid her hand on the highly polished wood of the post. The little bed she slept in had been bought at a used furniture store when they'd moved home. The bed in her brother's room was old, and it used to have posts, but Sybil had made Leon saw them off when they were kids. She didn't remember it, but Michael had told her.

"Did someone make this quilt, too?" she asked, touching it.

"My grandmother and my mom mostly. It was a gift for my twelfth birthday. My grandmother died before it was finished," he said, lifting the corner to show a faded pink and yellow gingham patch. "This piece is from my grandmother's favorite housedress. Mom added it after she died."

Maggie found herself blinking back tears. "I need to use the bathroom," she said quietly.

"It's through there," he said, squeezing her shoulders. "I'll go fix us something to eat."

Maggie was shocked at her reflection in the well-lit, well-decorated, scrupulously clean bathroom that was all Will's own. She looked exactly like the white trash Pamela said she was. There was grass in her hair, and grass stains on her shorts, and she'd somehow managed to bite her lip—unless Will had done that. Her face was dirty, the new wounds on her wrist looked deep enough to stick around for a while, and the blood from them had stained her bandage. At least Sybil's handprint was gone, and the choke marks on her throat looked worse than they felt.

She wound her hair back and leaned over the sink to wash her face. Pamela's right. Will should be with a Miss Georgia contestant. He's just with me because he wants sex. Naked bodies on the floor sex. He only said he loved me to get sex, because that's what boys want. That's all they ever want. And girls aren't supposed to give it to them unless they're married.

She dried her face and squeezed toothpaste onto her finger and ran it across her teeth. I should go. Just slip out the door. I don't have to stay. But I want to stay. I want him to kiss me some more. And I want him to say he loves me again, even if it's not true. And if Will wants to have sex, I can do that, too. Because I love him. And if I leave, I might not ever see him again. So I can't leave. I love him too much to leave.

Maggie released her hair, combing through it with her fingers and bringing it forward to help cover the marks on her throat. She knew she wanted to be with Will even if it was only for tonight. It didn't matter if he didn't love her. She loved him, and that was enough, having someone to love and be close to. Having Will to love, and to be alone with in the dark. Sybil already thinks I'm a whore. I might as well be one. It'll be one less thing for her to lie about. She slapped at her pale cheeks, smoothed her clothes, and went out to be with him.

The smell of food made her remember she was hungry, and Maggie followed her nose to the kitchen. Will was at the table lighting a single candle, and two tall glasses of milk were set beside their plates, which sat on placemats, along with a napkin and fork. It was a real table setting, just like on TV.

"It smells good," she said from the doorway.

"It always does when you're hungry. Come sit," he said, pulling back a chair. "I just threw together some scrambled eggs with cheese."

"I've never had that." And I've never eaten by candlelight. Or had anyone pull out my chair. Or had naked sex. Or any sex.

"Well," he said as he turned off the stove light, "Then it really is a night of firsts." On the table was a basket of cold biscuits. "My mother's biscuits are better cold than mine are hot. I hope you don't mind leftovers."

"I don't mind." Maggie bent her head and ate quickly with her elbows on the table and her head down. She knew it was rude, but that, and the candlelight, allowed her to hide her neck, and it was only for a little while. Soon they would be in the dark again and it wouldn't matter.

"That was great. Thank you," she said as she reached for her milk.

"I can make more eggs," Will offered, taking her plate. "Or maybe some pancakes?"

"No. Thank you, though," she said. "Did your Mom teach you how to cook?"

"Mom made sure I knew how to cook," he said. "It was a big help when she was working, and she said I'd be thankful one day if I married someone who didn't know how."

Maggie had an image of Will cooking dinner for Miss Georgia while she sat at the table in her bathing suit, crown, and sash, waving.

"Can you cook, Maggie?" he asked, sitting down again.

"No," she said curtly, rising. "I'm not even allowed to turn on the stove." She walked to the sink and rinsed her glass. It hurt to have him tease her this way. He had no idea how much.

Will stood and crossed to her. "I didn't mean to upset you," he said, laying his hands on her shoulders. "I don't care if you can cook. You'll learn. Me and Mom can teach you. And we've got plenty of time. It's years before we can marry." He wrapped his arms around her and spoke into her ear. "I do like the sound of Mrs. Maggie Marshall. Don't you?"

"Stop it," she said, pushing his arms away.

"Maggie, what?" He tried to turn her around but she resisted, holding onto the sink.

"I think I should go," she said. "Thank you for the food and for coming to the church and rescuing me, but I'm not a whore, Will. I might look like a white trash whore like Pamela said—and tonight I almost wish I was, but I'm not, and I won't be one—not even for you."

"Maggie," he said, grabbing her hand and turning her to face him. "What in God's name are you talking about?"

"You said you loved me!" she exclaimed. "And now you're talking about us getting married? It's not right to say those things when you know they're not true, and you know they're never going to happen. You're not going to marry me, Will. I'm not good enough for you and we both know I'm not!"

"What's this?" he asked suddenly, having seen her throat while she was yelling and now pushing her hair away from her neck.

Her hand shot up to cover her throat. "It's nothing. It's dirt."

"No, it's not," he said, switching on the light above the sink. "Jesus! Did she try to choke you?" he asked. The hurt in his voice and the look of disbelief on his face broke her heart. Despite all she'd told him, he still couldn't believe.

"It was an accident—"

"Maggie, don't," he said, shaking his head. "Don't try and protect her. Not while I'm looking at choke marks." He swallowed hard. "How could she do this to you? How could a mother ever do this to her child?" His voice broke as he took her in his arms. "I can't even begin to comprehend what your life has been like. I lie in bed at night and play it over and over in my head, and it breaks my heart. If I had the power to do something, anything right now to change it, I would. But all I can do now is love you, Maggie, and be here for you. And if I could marry you tomorrow and make sure you'd never, ever, be hurt again, I would. I believe us getting married is what the Lord wants, and I know it's what I want. I know it's hard for you to trust me, when you can't trust your own mother, but I'm asking you to. I've never lied to you, Maggie, and I never will."

She looked up at him. "You don't have to say those things, Will," she said quietly. "You can lie to me. I'd love you, anyway."

"Maggie," he said. "You gave me a sacred promise. Now this is mine. I love you, and I will marry you. You and me, always and forever and no matter what, like Mr. Owens said. That's my sacred promise, and you can have faith I'll keep it."

"Faith is hard," she said. "I've not any good at it."

"You have a lot of good reasons to feel that way," he replied. "And God knows them. But if you desire faith, Maggie, then you already have faith enough. You've got to give it time. Give us time. We'll get there together no matter how long it takes. I know we will."

"It wasn't my mother," she said, sitting back in her chair. Will had turned on the overhead light and was filling a bag with ice for her neck.

"Your dad did this?"

Maggie didn't answer. He pressed the bag to her throat, bringing up her hand to hold it. "If it wasn't your mom or dad, that just leaves Michael, and I know it wasn't him." He opened a cabinet and removed a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, then took a dishtowel from a drawer.

"Have you had all your shots? Your tetanus?" he asked, sitting down and beginning to remove the metal fasteners from her bandage.

She jerked her hand back. "Don't, Will. It's ugly."

He smiled. "You're talking to a guy who would think you were beautiful if you had cabbages for ears, so relax. I just want to clean these punctures so they won't get infected. I wish I had a new bandage."

She allowed him to unwrap her bandage, though she turned her head so as not to see his reaction. He laid the dishtowel under her hand, and then slowly poured on the peroxide. She was surprised when it didn't hurt. Sybil had seemed to make a point of using things that hurt.

"It was my dad," she said then, looking back at him when he finished rewrapping. "He didn't mean to hurt me. He just had too much to drink. He was actually trying to help me."

"Help you? He could have killed you."

"I guess. But he didn't. I'm right here," she smiled, before covering her mouth in a yawn. "This is another first. We're playing doctor."

He smiled, both amazed and disturbed by her ability to make light of it all. "How did you get away? From your father, I mean?"

"Michael swooped in like Superman," Maggie said, stifling a second yawn. "It really was kind of a miracle," she continued. "Showing up out of the blue like he did. Did you pray for me? Have God send down a guardian angel to whisper in his ear or something?"

"Excuse me a minute." Will went out the back door, leaving Maggie in the kitchen. When he didn't come back immediately, she wiped off the table, blew out the candle, and switched off the overhead light. Then she went out after him.

He was on the porch in one of the rocking chairs. "This is my dad's chair," he said as she came out. "He started work on it the same day he found out about me. He said he made his chair first because the most important thing a father can do is spend time with his children, and every day when he came home from work, he'd bring me out and rock me in it. I've been on this porch with my dad nearly every day of my life."

"You're an only child, right?" she asked.

"Yeah," he nodded. "Dad's been in business for himself since he left the Army, and they couldn't afford to adopt two kids. They were afraid there might not be enough money to go around."

Maggie was shocked. "I didn't know you were adopted."

"You didn't?" he asked, surprised. "I thought everyone knew. It's never been a secret."

"Oh," Maggie said. "Excuse me for a minute."

She crossed the porch and went through Will's bedroom into the bathroom. He followed her, standing in the open doorway as she reached for the toothpaste and began applying it to her finger. Reaching over her head, he opened the medicine cabinet, grabbed a new toothbrush, and handed it to her before grabbing his own.

"Does it bother you that I'm adopted?" he asked.

"No," she said, addressing his reflection. "It just threw me when you said it because—Will, don't you see how bizarre all of this is? It feels like we're in a parallel universe or something."

"Like in the comic books?"

"Exactly. Just like that."

It was a storyline in one of her brother's comic books, read long ago, that she was remembering, where there was another Earth with identical people, but their lives were very different from the way they were here.

They brushed their teeth together, and Will made funny faces at her in the mirror, and insisted she spit first.

"So, how does my being adopted fit into the parallel universe?" he asked as they went into the bedroom.

"What I'm saying is, it's like we've on some sort of a parallel course, but still managing to live very different lives." Maggie looked at the big bed and considered climbing up on it, then reconsidered and sat cross-legged on the braided rug. Will sat down in front of her. "Look at the similarities," she continued. "We share the same birthday. We live in the same neighborhood. We went to the same schools. The same church. Both our dads were in the Army, both our moms—well, both our moms are women," she laughed.

"So your parents adopt you. They don't know anything about who you are, or who you'll become, yet they bring you home to this beautiful house with homemade family beds, and quilts, and rocking chairs, and biscuits, and they love you. They didn't have to love you, they chose to love you. And you turn out to be this great, smart, wonderful person that everyone likes, and any parent would be proud to have as a son."

Will raised his hand to protest, but she cut him off. "It's the truth and you know it, so don't go getting modest on me. Anyway, over here in the universe where I live, things couldn't be more different. Our house is not anything like yours. I don't have any friends. People either ignore me, or hate me, and some think I'm nuts. And tonight my dad, with whom I've seldom had a conversation lasting more than a minute, attacks me in a drunken rage, and while he's doing it, tells me my mother never wanted me. Not even when I was a baby—a baby she gave birth to. And then," she continued, starting to laugh, "Sybil pushes me head first out a window."

"She what?"

"Don't look so serious," Maggie smiled, touching his hand. "She was giving me a boost so I could get out of the bathroom when Dad busted in the door. She's really freakishly strong, my mother. I kind of flew out that window," she laughed, waving her arms.

Will didn't want to laugh, as he found nothing about Maggie's story funny, but he did. Her laughter was contagious, and lovely to hear.

"I see what you mean," he said at last. "On paper, our lives look basically the same, but they're not at all the same. I've had a great life. For whatever reason I got to play the prince, and you got Cinderella, except I don't think her stepmother was a tenth as mean as your mom. Compared to how you've lived, I've never had a day of real trouble."

"Do you think I'm cursed?" Maggie asked, only partially kidding.

"No," Will said confidently. "Things are going to change—they are changing," he said, taking her hands. "You're a wonderful person with a beautiful heart and a wonderful brain—who else could I have this conversation with? Can you imagine any of the girls at church making a metaphysical reference to a comic book?" he asked, laughing. "Only you, Maggie. I don't know why your life has been so difficult, but don't forget that Cinderella has a happy ending. I believe the prince found her shoes," he teased.

"And he only found the one," she replied. "You got them both."

The clock in the house chimed the hour. It was two a.m. Maggie covered her mouth and yawned.

"How'd it get to be so late?" he said, standing. "We've got to get to bed." Will crossed the room and opened a dresser drawer, pulling out a neatly folded, white football jersey with his name and the number one on it. He tossed it to her, then crossed back, taking her hands and pulling her up from the floor.

"Your neck is really bruised."

"I bruise easy. Maybe my real mom is a banana."

"Get in bed. I'll get the ice."

"I'm not taking your bed," she said. "I'll sleep on the floor."

"You really think I'd let you sleep on the floor?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

"No," she relented. "How 'bout the couch?"

"You're sleeping in my bed."

"Then I have to get a shower. I won't get in that wonderful bed unless I'm as squeaky clean as Mr. Bubble."

Will laughed, then put his hands on her shoulders and guided her to the edge of the bed. "Listen, Maggie. I know you think I'm Mr. Perfect, and I hate to disillusion you, but. I've fallen asleep plenty of nights without a shower. Sheets wash, and Mom takes the quilt to the cleaners every month whether it's dirty or not. So you can take your shower in the morning, 'cause right now you're going to bed. Get changed. I'll be back in a minute."

Will took some things from his drawer and went into the bathroom. Maggie turned off the overhead light and quickly stripped down to her panties, wishing she'd kept the ones in the sack, before pulling on his jersey and laying her clothes and shoes neatly on the floor by the bed. She had just turned on the bedside lamp when Will emerged from the bathroom. He wore a pair of dark blue pajama bottoms that stopped above his ankles, and his chest was bare.

"I thought these old pajamas would fit, but the pants are too short and the top won't even button," he said. "See? Not perfect."

Maggie smiled, then looked at her feet. Seeing Will like this was making her face hot. "What do you normally sleep in?" she asked.

"Nothing," he answered matter-of-factly.

"Oh."

"Maggie?"

"Yes, Will?"

"You're not in bed yet. You need some help?" Before she could answer he sprinted across the room, jumping and landing in the middle of the bed. She burst into laughter. "Do you do that every night?"

"Sure," he answered, turning on his side to look at her. "You can either run and jump, you can climb up, which I did when I was about your height, or you can pull out the steps underneath and come up the way my grandfather intended."

Maggie looked under the bed, began to pull out the steps, and then changed her mind. With a quick sprint to the bathroom door, she turned and ran, landing on her stomach on the bed beside him. "That's my girl," Will said as she turned to him, laughing and tugging the jersey over her thighs. She'd never been on a bed with anyone, yet here she was, lying next to Will.

He pushed her hair back, leaving his hand on her shoulder. "I've imagined the two of us together like this more times than you'd believe."

"I'm still not sure I'm here," she answered, acutely aware of how close he was, and the smooth, bare skin of his chest, and his hand caressing her shoulder. "It feels like a dream."

"It's not a dream," he whispered, leaning in to kiss her. "Not this time." As their lips met, Will pushed her back onto the pillow, quickly moving to sit astride her, his mouth never leaving hers.

This is Heaven. Maggie was all but overwhelmed with happiness with his closeness and his kiss, and her hands went immediately to touch his bare skin, eager to feel a part of him she'd never seen before tonight. And then he took her hands, joining them with his on either side of her pillow, and as he bent his face to hers once more, his expression changed to one she'd not seen on him before—a serious, perhaps even dangerous expression that thrilled her—and she wondered if he'd looked at her the same way in the darkness of the Great Hall. She closed her eyes as he began to kiss her deeply, opening them only when his mouth moved to kiss her neck and throat. His hands moved also, abandoning hers to travel slowly down the length of her arms, and Maggie gasped with delight as his fingers brushed the sides of her breasts.

"I love you," he whispered at her mouth. "You'll never know how much." And then he was up and off the bed.

"What are you doing?" she asked, dazed. "Come back."

Will looked at her a long moment before going to the dresser and pulling out an undershirt. "I can't, Maggie," he said hoarsely. "That's twice tonight I've let things go too far. And it's wrong."

"No, you didn't, and it's not," Maggie argued, sitting up. "This isn't wrong. How could something that feels so wonderful ever be wrong? We love each other, Will. There's no reason not to show it. And it's between us. Will and Maggie. No one else will know."

"God will know," he said quietly. "His eyes are on the sparrow, Maggie, and I know he watches me."

She sat in stunned silence before laying back on the pillows in frustration. This was not the man her mother warned her about, this wonderful, bare-chested man, quoting the lyrics of a gospel song while she lay frustrated in his bed. Sybil wouldn't believe it in a million years.

"I'm sorry," he said, pulling on the shirt. "I shouldn't have started it. Shouldn't have come in here half-dressed, shouldn't have come in here at all with you half-dressed. I know better, but I did it anyway because I want to be with you—really be with you. But it's wrong, and I'm going to have to do better. I'm sorry it happened, Maggie."

"I'm not sorry," she said. And she wasn't.

"You have nothing to be sorry for. It was all me. Now go to sleep. We'll talk in the morning."

"No kiss goodnight?" she asked softly. She knew he was struggling, and she understood, but she still wanted to change his mind.

"No," he said apologetically. "I'll be on the couch. Say your prayers." And he left quickly, closing the door.

After Will put away the dishes and read his Sunday School lesson, which he always read on Saturday night, whether he was attending church the next morning or not, he returned to his bedroom. Maggie was beneath the covers, asleep on her side, and lying very near the edge. Wanting to move her, but fearing the consequences should she wake, he laid a pillow on the floor beneath her head. Then he dropped to his knees beside the bed, as he'd done every night since he was a child, and prayed silently.

He prayed for forgiveness for having envisioned the horrible deaths of Maggie's parents more than once this night, and he prayed for the strength to keep his love for Maggie pure. And, he prayed for the protection of the precious girl in his bed that he so dearly loved.

Naked Wrestling

6

Sybil was frightened. She knew Leon's drunken rage might have ended badly had Michael not intervened, yet that too had ended badly after he'd finally gotten Leon to bed.

"What did you do?" Michael demanded after closing the door to his father's room and approaching Sybil at the sink. "What caused this?"

"I don't know what you mean, son," she said, rinsing a glass. "I ain't done nothin'."

"You did something to cause what happened tonight," Michael continued. "Daddy didn't go off on Margaret like that without you causing it, Mother."

"You don't know what you're talkin' about," Sybil said, turning to face him. "I been tellin' you kids all your life to watch out for him, and if the girl had listened, none of this would have happened, and that damn sure ain't my fault! You think you know everything—you always have—but I'm tellin' you, son, you don't know nothin'."

"I know if I hadn't taken a friend to the airport, and if I hadn't decided to stop in and check on my sister," he returned angrily, "that Margaret might be dead now."

"Dead?" Sybil laughed uneasily. "Where in God's name are you gettin' that from?"

"From what I saw!" Michael exploded. "She survived what happened over Labor Day, just barely, and now I come home to find you all trying to kill her again? Is that what you want? Do you want her to die?"

"What happened back then was an accident. And what happened tonight was just a little yellin' that got out of hand. Nobody was goin' to die—you been watchin' too much TV. Your daddy will have forgotten all about it by in the mornin', and so will Margaret Rose, and you just need to forget about it, too."

"Now," she said, offering him her brightest smile. "Can I fix you a cup of coffee? You're old enough now to have coffee with your mother."

Michael stood staring in disbelief. There was no use trying to talk to her; his mother lived in her own little world where everything wrong could be put right with another cup of coffee.

"Where is she?" he asked. "Locked in the shed? Tied up with a chain in the yard?"

"Margaret's gone to spend the night with her girlfriends," Sybil answered, getting two cups from the cabinet. "You want sugar?"

"What girlfriends? Who?"

"They're Methodists," Sybil replied, as if the word tasted bad.

"Give me the number. I want to talk to her."

"Well, I reckon I might have it somewhere," Sybil said as she poured the coffee. "But your sister pulled the phone right out of the wall tonight—that bein' the reason for the argument—and it ain't workin', so you might as well just sit down now and let's drink our coffee."

Michael turned and left without another word.

Sybil stood holding the milk container, then returned it to the refrigerator, locked the back door, and listened as Michael's car roared from the drive. Biting her lip, she got the phone book from the hall and found the number Mrs. Johnson had given her the day of their wreck. She wasn't sure if the phone in her bedroom would even work, and she wasn't going in there to check. Not now. It was too late to call, anyway. She sat down at the table, sipping her coffee and staring at Michael's untouched cup. It was too late for a lot of things.

In the morning, after Leon ate and went outside, having never mentioned the previous night, Sybil found the bedroom phone was working and called the Johnsons. When there was no answer, she went on the porch and saw their car was gone. It was too early for church, so someone might have gone for doughnuts. She drank three more cups of coffee, checking their driveway and the clock between each, until Leon came in to read the paper. Then she walked past him without saying a word, and grabbing her purse, headed for the door.

The room was bright with Sunday morning light when Maggie woke. She opened her eyes and lay still, not wanting to lose the peace she felt just being in Will's bed. Her pillow, the sheets on which she lay, and the covers that surrounded her, were soft and smelled as if they'd just been washed. She immediately thought of Mrs. Owens, and wondered if she and Will's mom used the same detergent.

The morning sun was peeking through the curtains, giving a warm glow to the floor and walls. No particles of dust could be seen floating in the shafts of light that landed there, no corner cobwebs or peeling paint exposed in the light of day. All was as it should be. All was as it had never been before. All was perfection.

The clock on the wall read five before nine. She still had two hours before she had to get back—two lovely hours. From the kitchen came the sound of Will singing along with the gospel music on the radio, and the smell of something burning on the stove. Maggie laughed. If the hum of the air conditioner hadn't been so loud, she just knew she'd hear birds singing outside. She did feel like Cinderella, freshly rescued and with her prince. And the best was yet to come. She was sure of it.

She closed her eyes when she heard him approaching, lying still until his lips brushed her forehead. "Good morning, my Maggie."

She spoke without opening her eyes. "I've had a revelation. I know what we can do."

"Great," he laughed. "What?"

"We'll get your parents to adopt me."

Will laughed again. "Excellent idea. You and I could fight over the car keys and the inheritance, and which one of us gets to name our firstborn after Dad." He pulled himself onto the bed beside her and drew her against his chest. "The only problem with your idea is that I'm pretty sure it's against the law to do this with your sister." He bent his head and kissed her hard on the mouth. "Well, maybe not that, but I'm willing to bet that this is illegal— "

"Will, stop!" Maggie laughed, pushing him away and throwing her hand over her mouth. "You said last night we have to behave ourselves," she said, rolling her eyes. "And while I completely disagree, I can't try to persuade you until I brush my teeth. And I really need to pee."

"You see?" he said. "You've been my little sister for ten seconds and you're already giving me a hard time and hogging the bathroom. I'll tell you what. You get your shower. Your clothes are in the dryer. I'll bring them in when they're done."

"You washed my clothes?" she asked, horrified he'd seen her bra.

"Sure. I couldn't let you put on dirty clothes after your bath. You're my girl."

Maggie shook her head. "Why are you so good to me? Really, Will. I want to know."

Will looked into her eyes. "Seriously? I don't know if I can explain it. There's something special about you—about us—when we're together. I don't think anyone else even sees the same girl that I do when I look at you. We've got some sort of a special connection, like we've known one another a million years. Maybe this is how everyone feels when they're in love. I've never been in love, so I don't know, Maggie. It just seems like more than love somehow."

"More than love?" she asked.

"Yeah. Maybe we met in that parallel universe, or it's God's design for us. Or it could just be your huge, beautiful boobs that make me feel this way," he teased. "Yeah, that's definitely it. It's your boobs." He laughed as he stood from the bed. "Now go get your shower and you better sing for me. It's been too long since I heard you sing. I'm gonna take another crack at the pancakes. I guess you already smelled my first effort," he said, crinkling his nose. "I love you, Maggie, and I'm glad you're here," he said as he left the room.

It was not Maggie's custom to sing in the shower, and until a few years ago, it had not been her custom to bathe. Sybil didn't believe in baths, which she said required a person to sit in their own filth. Neither was she a fan of showers, claiming them to be unnecessary when one could get as clean as they needed to be with a washcloth at the sink. Her hair had always been washed in the sink, though not often, and seldom rinsed properly. A teacher had once given Maggie a box of Mr. Bubble for Christmas, which sent Sybil off on a tirade about germs and tubs and private parts, and she'd emptied the box and given it to Maggie as a keepsake for her dresser.

This lack of cleanliness was accepted without question until Michael hit puberty, when he finally won for himself and Maggie the right to bathe properly. On that momentous day, he'd returned from a steamy afternoon of mowing lawns with a large sack from the drugstore.

"What'd you buy?" Maggie asked as he came through her room whistling.

"It's for both of us," he said. "Just get ready for the fireworks." And he'd gone into the bathroom and closed the door.

Michael had bought shampoo, cream rinse, two bars of Palmolive—so they could each have their own—as well as cologne for himself and a bottle of perfume and pink dusting powder for Maggie. He sat these on the windowsill in the bathroom, and then took from his back pocket a smaller bag from the hardware store. It was a hook and eye latch, an additional lock that couldn't be opened with a butter knife. Maggie had never loved her brother as much as she did that afternoon when she heard the shower start running, and she turned off her TV and listened as Sybil came into the hall and knocked on the bathroom door, telling him to turn the shower off and stop wasting water. He didn't. He didn't acknowledge her at all, and when Sybil stomped off for a knife to pick the lock, he started singing.

"I'm giving you five dollars a month towards the water bill, Mother," he announced twenty minutes later, exiting the bathroom in an aromatic fog of Palmolive and Prell to find her waiting in the hall. "That goes for me and Margaret. We refuse to stink anymore." Sybil didn't say a word, and, later, when she returned to her magazines, Maggie went for her shower, double locking the door and standing naked in front of the mirror. Privacy. She could dance naked in front of the mirror now if she wanted to. She never did, but knowing she could was enough.

But as thrilled as she'd been to acquire bathing privileges, Maggie had never sung in the shower. The dim lighting, scummy curtain, buckled wallboard, and sucker-backed plastic mat beneath her feet—one she was certain had never been cleaned, and of which she was actually a little afraid—coupled with her fear of the monsters she knew lingered just out of sight, made her feel vulnerable being naked beneath the water, and she'd never lingered.

Will's shower, though, beckoned her to stay as long as she wished. The white ceramic tile that lined the tub was so spotless it sparkled in the light. The curtain was soft, clean, and navy blue, matching the small rug before the sink and the curtains on the window. There was no mat on the bottom of the tub, but little yellow flowers instead. Shampoo, cream rinse, soap, and scrub brushes were on a metal shelf within the shower, and the showerhead itself provided a powerful spray, not at all like the one at home. Maggie found she was singing before she'd even gotten her backside wet.

Had Maggie not been singing, she still wouldn't have heard the knocking at the front door; the water was loud and the bathroom door closed. She would have needed to be at least as close as the kitchen to hear it. Had she been in the kitchen, she would have smiled at the sight of Will, still in his short-legged pajama bottoms, patiently measuring flour for the second time that morning. She would have seen him look up upon hearing the knock, casually wiping his hands on a dishtowel as he walked to the door. He was expecting Jason to stop by for his lesson notes for Sunday School, having called and asked him to teach his class. But he wondered why he'd come to the front door.

Had she followed Will to the door, Maggie would have seen the astonished look on his face when he opened it to find Sybil there, and in her hand, Maggie's shoes. He'd seen one of the sunflowers was loose when he'd taken her clothes to wash last night, and first thing this morning he'd glued and clamped both flowers securely in place before setting them on the sunny front steps to dry.

No one had been home at the Johnsons, and Sybil had driven all over the neighborhood looking for Margaret, realizing she had little chance of finding her. But then she'd seen the shoes, and now William, standing bare-chested and barefoot in the doorway.

"Where's the girl?" she demanded through clenched teeth, pushing past him into the house.

Had Maggie been watching, she would have seen the horror on Will's face as Sybil went first to his parents' bedroom, then their bathroom, then on to every other door, completing her search of the front of the house just as the gospel music stopped for a word from their sponsors. And had she been watching, instead of shampooing, she would have seen them both standing for the briefest moment, eyes locked and absolutely still, when, upon reaching the last line of her hymn, Maggie sang out so loudly she might have been heard through the open front door by anyone passing on the street.

But Maggie knew none of this. So perfect was the morning that it was impossible not to sing out, and Will had asked her to sing. It was "Amazing Grace" she sang, the first hymn they'd ever sang together. It was appropriate, this ballad of redemption, for she had been lost and now was found. Will had found her. He'd even found her in the darkest dark. He'd saved her. But as she lifted her voice, she couldn't know that it would draw her mother to her like an eagle set on its prey, or that, for the rest of her life, hearing the song would take her back to the moment the lovely shower curtain was ripped aside, and she was confronted with the sight of Sybil's face, twisted with rage.

"Whore!" Sybil shrieked, and, grabbing Maggie's wounded wrist, yanked her from the tub, sending her skidding across the floor and into the open door. Her hands absorbed much of the impact as she hit, but then she fell on the now wet, slippery floor, landing on her knees. Sobbing in fright and pain, Maggie grabbed for the towel by the sink to cover herself, but Sybil yanked it away.

"He just let me sleep here!" Maggie wailed. "Nothing happened!"

"Liar!" Sybil shouted, grabbing her hair.

"Stop!" Maggie screamed as Sybil pulled her by the hair into the bedroom, forcing her to crawl on her knees.

"Let her go!" Will bellowed. "You're hurting her!"

"I'm hurting her?" Sybil yelled, yanking on Maggie's hair to make her scream again. "You fucked her! You ruined her!"

"No!" Maggie shouted, horrified that Will was seeing her like this. "Get out!" she screamed at him, closing her eyes tightly.

Will was shaking. Had she been anyone but Maggie's mother, he wouldn't have hesitated, but this vulgar, violent, horrible woman attacking Maggie was her mother, and he wasn't sure what to do. "In the name of God, let her go, Mrs. Head!" he begged. "Nothing wrong happened here! I swear it!"

Sybil released her grip, advancing on Will as Maggie bent over to hide herself, holding her head and sobbing. "Why?" Sybil screamed. "With all the girls in the entire country runnin' around wild, why did it have to be her?"

"Nothing happened," Will repeated. "Nothing. If you'd stop and listen for just a minute—"

"No!" Sybil shrieked. "You listen! I'm not believin' nothin' you say. You think you're so damned smart, but you're nothin' but a bastard!"

"He's not! Don't you dare say that!" Maggie cried, raising her head. "Will loves me, and he takes care of me. You don't love me! And you never did!"

Sybil turned and struck with a closed fist, hitting the side of Maggie's head and knocking her into the bookcase, the impact making a cracking sound. She collapsed, her body splayed indecently.

Will ran, grabbing the afghan from the recliner as he fell to his knees, covering her. Her eyes were open and staring, and if not for the rise and fall of her chest, he'd have thought she was dead. "Maggie?" he asked desperately. "Can you hear me?"

Sybil pushed him aside to look. "Oh, Lord!" she gasped, raising her hands to cover her mouth and standing back.

Maggie was dazed, both from the blow to her head, which had risen the ringing in her ears to a crescendo, and from the horror of having Will witness her shame. To go from the sanctuary of Will's shower, singing of God's amazing grace, to being dragged naked on her knees by her hair was just too much. There'd been no time to mentally prepare. In the churchyard, she'd seen Sybil coming, just as she had that day in her room. But not today—today Sybil had come out of nowhere, and Maggie couldn't understand why God had let it happen, again, and why he would allow her mother to destroy everything that was good—again. Over and over again. There was no escape from her, as if like God, Sybil was all seeing, all knowing, and all-powerful. How else did she find me? Why did you let her find me? Why won't you let me be loved?

Maggie wanted to die now. Will would understand. He would forgive her broken promise, for he'd just had a ringside seat to Sybil's madness, watching as she'd been drug around, humiliated, and hit, like the wrestlers on TV. Only naked. Naked wrestling. And now the image of Will getting into the ring with her, and the two of them stripping Sybil of her clothing and her dignity, while she yelled and screamed as they beat her to a bloody pulp before the cheering crowd, brought a smile to Maggie's face, and she closed her eyes.

Will saw the odd smile and was at once reassured and disturbed, and he drew his face so close their noses touched, and she felt his tears.

"Maggie," he urged. "Open your eyes. Look at me."

"I didn't hit her that hard. It was that thing," Sybil said anxiously, pointing at the bookcase.

"There's an ice bag in the freezer," Will ordered. "Go get it. And get a wet cloth for her face."

Sybil quickly left the room.

"Maggie, look at me. Maggie, open your eyes," he begged, his hands cradling her head. "Please open your eyes. God, please let her open her eyes. Please."

Will's pain—his fear and sorrow and supplication on her behalf—was too painful to be ignored. She had to face him, at least once more, at least to say goodbye. She owed him that. He was the reason for every good feeling she'd ever had.

Maggie pulled the afghan up to cover her face and turned away from him before opening her eyes. Across the room, beneath Will's bed, remarkably devoid of dust, was an open cardboard box filled with what appeared to be a lifetime of the books they used in Sunday School. And on the side of the box, scrawled in crayon, was Jesus Loves Me. She laughed. "He does," she said bitterly through her laughter. "He loves you. But not me. Somehow he's never loved me."

The thrill of seeing her move was dampened by the inappropriate laughter, and what to Will were nonsensical words. "Maggie?" he asked, leaning in. "Are you all right?"

She met his eyes. "No," she said." She'll never let me out of her sight again, and even if she does it wouldn't matter now. Everything's ruined."

"Nothing's ruined," he said reassuringly. "Not as long as you're all right, and not as long as you can forgive me for letting this happen."

"Don't say that," she said, hating the pain in his voice. "None of this is your fault. It's all her. You can't fight her. No one can. She always wins."

"No," he insisted. "She hasn't won. She can keep us apart, but she can never change the way we feel. No one can. You've got to remember that, and believe that God will provide a way for us to be together."

Sybil held on to the kitchen sink, stilling her shaking hands at the sound of the girl's laughter and breathing a heavy sigh. She had hit her too hard, and Sybil shuddered at the memory of the girl looking for all the world like she was dead. But it was clear now that she was all right. And if she was laughing, she probably wasn't hurt much at all. Probably just pretended she was. But that was all right. If she'd been real hurt people would have found out. They would have found out everything. She wet the cloth and slowly wrung it out, making her mind up about the best thing to do. Then crossing to the bedroom door, she smoothed her skirt, cleared her throat, and went in.

"You ain't comin' home lookin' like that," Sybil said, handing the cloth and bag to Will as she addressed Maggie, who was staring at the floor. "You get that soap out of your hair and get dressed. I expect you home by the time church is out." Another hour or two would hardly matter now. What was done was done, there was no taking it back, and the girl needed time to make herself presentable in case anyone was to see her.

"She needs to go to the Emergency Room," Will said as he laid the cloth on Maggie's forehead.

"She ain't goin' nowhere but to home," Sybil said. "I heard y'all laughin'. She's all right. Aren't you, girl?"

Will started to protest, but Maggie cut him off. "I'm fine," she said, her voice flat. "I'll be home at noon."

"See that you are. You come let me out now," she said to Will as she walked away. He laid the ice bag down and stood, following Sybil from the room.

"You say goodbye to the girl, boy," Sybil said, picking up her purse and keys from where she'd thrown them on the sofa. "I'm only lettin' you do it 'cause the girl needs to hear it from you, and not me, that what y'all been doin' is over, and you can't see her no more."

"Her name is Maggie," Will replied angrily. "And I swear to you that nothing inappropriate has ever happened between us. And I won't break it off with her, or stop seeing her, Mrs. Head. I love your daughter, and it wouldn't have been necessary for her to come here at all last night if she hadn't been attacked, and forced to leave home."

"Her name is Margaret Rose, and she's fourteen years old," Sybil interrupted, glaring up at him. "And you're gonna tell Margaret Rose it's over between you two, and that you're not ever gonna see her again, boy. 'Cause if you don't, I'm callin the police, and it'll be your word against mine about how she got hurt—maybe while you was rapin' her—and you don't want that, boy. But that's exactly what's gonna happen if you ever see the girl again." And slamming the door behind her, Sybil left.

Maggie was in the bathroom when Will returned. "Maggie," he said, knocking softly. "She's gone."

"The shower curtain is—some of the holes are ripped," she said through the door. "I can try and put some tape on it—do you have any tape?"

"I don't care about the curtain," Will said. "Let me in."

"No," she replied. "I have to fix my hair. And I need my clothes."

"I have your clothes, and fresh towels. And I can help you with your hair—we can rinse it in the sink if you want." Will knew there were razor blades and scissors in the medicine cabinet.

The lock turned and Maggie opened the door, the afghan wrapped tightly around her. "I'm not going to hurt myself, Will," she said, looking at him earnestly as she took the clothes and towels. "I made a promise, remember? You're going to have to trust me to keep it."

"I will, Maggie," he replied. "I do."

"I can do my hair. I'll be out in a few minutes." Closing the door, she turned on the overhead fan and the faucet before sitting down on the wet floor and burying her face in one of the soft, fluffy towels. Will sat just outside, his head against the door, listening to her cry.

Will was dressed and at the stove making fresh coffee when she came into the kitchen. She sat at the table, which had been set, her eyes drawn to her sandals on the floor by the back door.

"What's that on my shoe?" she asked quietly, startling him.

"It's a clamp," he said. "What do you take in your coffee?"

"I don't—I've never drank coffee," she said. "That's Sybil's drink."

The toaster popped. In silence, Will poured Maggie a glass of milk, then carried it, the toast, and the butter dish to the table. "Do you want jelly?" he asked, going back to the cabinet. "Mom put up some peaches, but there's also muscadine—"

"Will, stop," she said. "I'm fine. You don't need to fuss over me. Just come and sit. Please. Drink your coffee."

Will poured a cup and came to sit beside her. "I'm sorry, Maggie," he said, reaching for her hand. "I'm so sorry."

"It's not your fault," she said. "There's nothing to be sorry for."

Will sighed, looking over at her shoes. "The sunflower was loose when I went to clean your shoes this morning. I put some rubber cement on it and clamped it, then put them on the front steps for the morning sun to dry." He rubbed his hand over his face. "I may as well have stood out front and flagged her down putting your shoes out there. I don't know what I was thinking. I wasn't thinking."

"You fixed the sunflower?" she asked, her face breaking into a smile. "You cleaned my shoes? How could you possibly blame yourself for doing something so sweet?" she asked, squeezing his hand. "You're not to blame for this. It's all Sybil. She's a horrible person who does horrible things, and this is no one's fault but hers."

"And talk about irony," he said, his voice unsteady. "I found you because of those shoes, and now I've been threatened with losing you because of them. I definitely have ambivalent feelings about those shoes."

"What did she say to you?" Maggie asked. "I can't figure out why she left me here."

Will sat back in his chair. "Your mother is peculiar, Maggie—in a lot of ways. She said she was leaving you here so I could break it off with you. But I think she left you here because she was afraid of a scene with your dad if she took you home like you—like you were. This way she can act like nothing ever happened."

"Of course," Maggie said. "Now who's not thinking? If Sybil had drug me home this morning after what happened last night, all of that would have come up—I would have brought it up—and the last thing she wants is for daddy to be getting in her business again."

"Maybe that's what we need to do," Will said emphatically. "We'll go talk to your dad. He's not drinking this time of day, right? And since he's sober, he might listen."

"Tell him what?" Maggie asked, shaking her head. "That we spent the night together? That Sybil found me naked and tried to kill me again—but that it was all his fault because he tried to kill me last night—which he may not even remember? He can't help us, Will. He won't do anything to stand up to her, or for me. It's just not in him. And telling him we spent the night together wouldn't be good. He might even call the police."

"Which is what your mother said she'd do if I see you again," he confessed. "She even threatened to tell them it was me who hurt you, and that I—I can't even say what she said."

"You don't have to," Maggie said miserably. "I can imagine. She's capable of saying just about anything."

They sat for a long time at the table, their beverages and food untouched, each trying to think of a way to escape the trap Sybil had set. But there was no simple way out, and they knew it. She'd won for now.

When the clock chimed eleven, Maggie slipped on her shoes and they went out on the back porch, sitting side by side on the steps.

"I want to know something," Maggie said. "If you'd known—if we'd known that last night was the last night we'd be together," she said, her voice breaking. "Would you have stayed in bed with me?"

Will pulled her head to his chest, wrapping his arms around her. "It wasn't our last night, and this isn't the end. Love doesn't end. It finds a way, and we'll find it. We just have to be patient. And you can't give her any reason to want to hurt you again."

"You didn't answer me," she pressed. "She already believes we've slept together, Will. And this could be our last chance."

Will kneeled on the steps in front of her. "When we sleep together it's going to be because it's right for us, Maggie, not to make the lies your mother told real."

"But it's right for us now!" Maggie protested, standing up. "And it's not about us having sex. I mean, it is, but that's only because I want to be close to you, and love you as much as I can now, because I don't know what's going to happen tomorrow. I might not ever see you again. I'm terrified that I'm going to say goodbye to you in an hour and that's it. It's done. And that awful image of me, and my mother humiliating me, is all that's going to be left in your head."

"No, Maggie, it's not. You've got to have faith—"

"I want to have faith, Will. I do," she said, almost frantically. "But what if you're wrong? What if God wants us to be together now because it's the last chance we'll ever have?"

She took his hands, pulling him up and kissing him hungrily, wishing with all her heart that they were lying in the big bed together, and that he was looking at her, and touching her, just as he'd done last night. "Please, Will," she said at his neck. "We can't let it end like this."

Will pulled away. "We have to, Maggie, for now," he said somberly. "You know I want to be with you. But it's wrong. It's not what God wants. Our bodies are a temple. His temple."

"I don't care what God wants!" she exclaimed. "Why should I? Where was he when Sybil knocked me senseless? Or when Leon was choking me? When was he ever there for me, Will? Ever?"

"We met at his house," Will said, his quiet words in sharp contrast to her own. "We sang for him there, we fell in love there, our first kiss was there, and in a few short years I'm going to marry you there. He's always been there, Maggie, and he always will be. And so will I. You've just got to believe it. You've got to have faith."

Maggie dropped her head. It hurt to want something so badly, something that would have given her a memory not even Sybil could take away, a memory that would be with her forever. But it wasn't what Will wanted. Or at least not as much as he wanted to please God.

It was with an odd mix of resentment and heartbreak that she walked with him to the car a few minutes later, sitting in silence as he placed his hand over hers on the stick and drove the few blocks to her house, stopping just up the street.

"I'm sorry about the pancakes," she said, turning to him in a sudden panic. "And I'm sorry I yelled, and for the bad things I said. Please don't hate me."

"I could never hate you. I love you," he said, touching her cheek. "And I understand your impatience and anger. I'm impatient and angry. But I know it's going to work out, Maggie. We just have to not lose faith. And you, my sweet Maggie, can never forget your promise. That's what's going to get me through this."

"I won't forget," she said, her eyes filling with tears. And then he kissed her softly on the mouth, and Maggie stepped from the car.

She wasn't surprised to find Sybil in her room, but she was surprised to see her bed turned down with a second pillow on it. A breeze was coming from beneath Michael's door, and on the dresser there was a bottle of Coke and a bacon sandwich. Shouting, hitting, and accusations she'd expected upon arriving home, but the bacon was a surprise.

"Is that yours?" she asked, wishing she wasn't hungry, wishing she was like the women on TV who refused to eat after being kidnapped, and who'd rather starve than take food from their captors. But this was bacon.

"I fixed it for you," Sybil replied on her way into Michael's room. "There's enough for another one if you're still hungry. Then you need to lay down."

This is a new twist. She's poisoned the bacon. She's poisoning me and wants to make it look like I died in my sleep. But Maggie gobbled down the sandwich anyway, and drank the little Coke.

She didn't even consider removing the shorts and shirt that Will had washed for her, and when she finished eating, she got into bed with them on, arranging her sandals on the floor. Sybil returned with a pair of gym socks, laying them on her bed.

"In case your feet get cold," she smiled. "Sure you don't want another sandwich?" she asked as she picked up the empty bottle and plate. "Won't take but a minute to fix it."

"I don't know what you're up to," Maggie said, clutching the second pillow and turning to face the wall. "And I don't care. I came home like I said I would, so just leave me alone."

"I sent your daddy for Kentucky Fried. I'll bring you some later."

When Sybil left, Maggie hugged the pillow to her chest, remembering the feel of Will holding her, and trying to replay every word, every smile, and every touch that had passed between them. She loved Will just as he was, yet at the same time she hated God for making him that way. Why did he have to be so righteous? Why couldn't he just be, and let himself love her the way they both wanted? But he couldn't, because that wasn't Will, and now they would never be together, because it was over. And she was here, and he was there, and Sybil stood like a mighty ocean between them. And without any thought of prayer, Maggie closed her eyes and slept.

Exit Stage Right

7

Sybil had two ways of waking her children. The first was to turn up the TV volume on her favorite morning show—all the way up. Maggie would be sleeping soundly, and all at once the tiny house would resound with instructions on how to bake the perfect peach pie, or the local news, or worse. There were frequent appearances by an opera singer whose voice was like nails on a blackboard to Maggie, and this, combined with the woman's fondness for singing children's songs, would occasionally integrate into her dreams. Maggie knew it should be funny to have, as a result, Walter Cronkite sitting on the edge of her bed singing of tiskets and taskets, but it wasn't. It was disturbing.

Even so, this method of waking was preferable to the alternative, which was more direct. It involved Sybil slipping quietly into the room and banging the lids of two pots together, directly over the sleeper's head. Michael and Maggie never knew which of them was next in line to be banged, as they came to call it, as Sybil didn't take turns, but rather banged with no discernible pattern. (As a result of these rude awakenings, neither of them was ever known to flinch at the sound of an engine backfire, and couldn't be startled as a cure for hiccups).

On Monday morning, there was no question that Sybil's chosen sleeper would be. Maggie. It would have to be, as Michael didn't live there anymore.

"I'm up!" Maggie said irritably as Sybil stopped banging and switched on the light.

"It's almost eight. I let you sleep in 'cause I'm drivin' you to school. There's popped tarts in the kitchen."

"Is it raining that hard?" Maggie asked, wishing she could open her blinds and see for herself. Sybil only drove her if it was a real downpour.

"It ain't rainin' at all," she said. "I'm just gonna be drivin' you from now on."

Maggie didn't need to ask why. She already knew. Sybil's silence, sandwiches, and sympathy on Sunday hadn't fooled her for a minute, and neither had the chicken—both breast and wing—with a side of potatoes and gravy that she'd brought in to her for supper. She knew Sybil too well. This was all part of her evil plan.

On Wednesday, the telephone man came to repair the hall phone. Sybil told her on the way home from school about how he'd put a new thingy in the wall, and left her with a phone you plug in like a toaster.

"So where is the phone?" Maggie asked when they arrived home, seeing the plug but no phone attached to it.

"We're just keeping the one in our room for now," she replied. "I've got the other one put up for emergencies."

After she finished her homework, Maggie went to the kitchen, looking through the open bedroom door at Leon's desk. Her plan was to make a quick phone call whenever Sybil went to the bathroom. But she didn't see it.

"So where's the phone in your room?" she asked casually.

"Why? You need to call somebody?"

"April. She's a girl in my Latin class," Maggie lied. "We're working on a research project together."

"Oh," Sybil said. "You workin' on that right now?"

"I'd like to," Maggie replied with growing irritation. "But I have to talk to April."

"Go ahead on to my room then. I'm comin'," Sybil said, getting up. Maggie went into her parents' bedroom, and Sybil followed a moment later, carrying a key tied to a shoestring. Going over to Leon's desk, she unlocked the bottom drawer. Maggie stood staring as Sybil removed the phone, and then bent to plug it into the wall.

"Why was it in the drawer? You can't just leave it unplugged," Maggie said. "What if someone's trying to call?"

"Who would call?" Sybil asked casually. "Are you expecting a call?"

"No," Maggie said, flustered. "But what if there's an emergency?"

"If I'm expectin' an emergency I'll plug it in," Sybil said smartly. "Otherwise, I've lived a lot of my life without a phone, and I ain't missin' a thing. Now give me the number and I'll get your April on the line."

"Are you kidding me?" Maggie asked in disbelief.

"No," Sybil replied, leaning against the wall and crossing her arms.

Maggie stormed out, going to her room and slamming the door. Sybil came in behind her.

"You can't stop me from even talking to him!" Maggie yelled.

Sybil sat on the edge of Maggie's bed, smoothing her skirt. Her voice remained calm. "I want you to listen now, girl, 'cause I ain't sayin' any of this again."

Maggie crossed her arms and stared at the floor.

"If you try to see that boy again," Sybil said in an even, well-rehearsed voice. "If I even think you've seen him, or talked to him, I'm gonna have him arrested. And you can tell me 'til the cows come home that you ain't been in his bed, but he'll go to jail on your momma's word of what I saw, and he'll have to explain to the Judge what he was doin' with a fourteen-year-old girl at his house all night."

"And I'd tell the Judge nothing happened," Maggie said defiantly. "And so would Will."

"It won't matter if you do," Sybil said confidently. "After that boy's sat up in the Jail for a few months, and y'all both have your names in the newspaper, and everyone in town is talkin' behind your backs. Y'all can get up there and swear on the Bible that you was playin' Go Fish all night, and the judge might even let him go, but his name will done be ruint—and his momma's and daddy's names, too. Won't nobody hire him then, and he sure won't be allowed back in that church, and his folks won't either. I expect all they'll be able to do is leave town. I know that's what we'll have to do if you bring that shame on this house. We'll have to leave our home," she said, looking around. "Your daddy will have to find another job—"

"That's insane," Maggie interrupted. "Over what? Over nothing!"

"Nothing?" Sybil said. "You lose your good name in this life and you've lost everything, Margaret Rose. I been tellin' you that all your life. 'Cause whether it's nothin' or it ain't, and whether you and that boy fornicated or not—and I know you did 'cause I can see it in your eyes—it don't matter. It's what people think you done that matters."

Maggie looked in the dusty mirror at Sybil's reflection. "I don't care what you say," she said quietly. "You can't keep us apart forever. I'll be fifteen in three months, and there's places where we can get married then."

Sybil laughed. "You think that boy's gonna marry you, Margaret Rose? 'Cause he ain't."

"He already asked me," Maggie said.

"How stupid are you? A boy will say anything to get in your pants. And he ain't gonna buy no cow when the milk is free."

"He hasn't been in my pants!" Maggie yelled. "No one's touched me there but you! And I'm not a cow, Mother!"

"You best listen to me, girl! You ain't gonna ruin this family's name I've spent the best years of my life protectin' by chasin' some boy who's done got what he wants!" she hissed. "And if you can't mind me, there's places I can have you put where they'll make you mind, and I'll do it if that's what it takes. I'll have you both locked up. You just try me and see!"

At times it seemed that fate did side with the darker forces in the universe, parallel or not. It certainly seemed that way to Will, who'd spent much of the time since last seeing Maggie on his knees, praying for guidance. It seemed everything reminded him of her—his room, his shower, his car, the church. He'd spoken to Anthony the following Sunday night; he wasn't going to do the musical, and in fact, was dropping out of the choir altogether. He had too much going on, he said. He needed a break. He lost interest in his new classes, skipping them altogether when Jason was available during the day, as he was the only person in whom Will had confided.

"God only knows what's happening in that house," Will told him in angry frustration. "I've got to get Maggie out of there, but I don't know how, short of kidnapping her, which I've considered more than once."

"She's fourteen, William. You pull a stunt like that they'll put you under the jail," Jason said. "I hate to say it, because I know you don't want to hear it, but I think all you can do is wait this out. Keep yourself busy. If her mother is as crazy as you say, you can't afford to take any chances."

"We need to talk," Burt said as he opened the screen door onto the porch. Will was sitting alone on the steps.

"Sure, Dad," Will responded, standing. "Everything all right?"

"Let me get the coffee," Dolly said from the doorway. "Don't start talking 'til I get back."

Upon their return from Memphis, she and Burt believed it was Ruby's death that had Will so troubled, but then they heard what happened at Saturday Social, and how he'd stood up for Maggie against her mother, and how Maggie hadn't been seen since. And though most of the folks at Paulk Road seemed to think it was best if she were gone for good, they knew William didn't feel that way. He really liked Maggie, and had said so many times, but they'd never considered it was anything more than friendship, as she was a bit young for him to be romantically involved with, until today.

The letter had arrived in the afternoon mail. Dolly read it several times, and then set it aside, busying herself with preparing supper. Burt had known something was wrong by the look on her face when he came home, as well as her lack of appetite, and he'd steered her into the bedroom after supper. She'd taken the handwritten note from her dresser drawer, passing it to him with a trembling hand. And now Burt passed it to Will.

He opened the envelope reluctantly, having a sense of what it was—what it had to be. The still damp tearstains on the bottom of the page, he knew, belonged to his mother.

To the boys father and mother

I will not use names in case someone was to see this but you know who you are. Your son took my daughter and she is 14 and they spent the night their in your house and when I found them and she was naked. I have forbid them too see each other again but I seen his car come around and I cann't watch all the time and she could be pregnat with his basterd. I talked to a lawyer and he said your boy is guilty of statury rape and he will go to jail. I do not want or reputaton to be ruint so if he will go in the ARMY and if he leavess by the end of October and I see it in the buletin I will not tell her father or press charges but tell him if he don't go I will take the girl to the state mental hospital if he don't GO and they will see where she hurt herself and keep her thier. He had better make the right deceson so all our reputatons which are now anonamous do not get drug through the mud. And I will see in the bulletin that he went in the ARMY. That is all but I mean busness I have to potect my daughter.

Her mother

Clutching the note in his hand, Will stepped down to the yard, as angry as he'd ever been in his life. How dare Sybil write such lies to his parents? She could have called, or come to the house and made her threats directly. And to threaten to have Maggie sent to the state mental hospital? He'd been to the state hospital. They went every year with the church, and he knew—oh God, he knew—what a wretched, horrible place it was. Maggie would die in a place like that.

Will closed his eyes, raised his face, and prayed. Lord, you know I've tried to make peace with all of this, to let go of the hate. To forgive. To love my enemy. But I don't know if I can do it anymore. Help me, Lord. Help me to not hate. And watch over my sweet Maggie. And when his prayers were finished, he returned to the porch.

"There is some truth in this," he said, holding the offensive letter out and looking beseechingly at his parents. "I love Maggie, I've known that since before I left for mission, and I will marry her one day. No, that's not right. I'd marry her today if I could. But the rest of it," he said, coming up the steps and dropping the letter onto the rail. "I hardly know where to start, except to tell you that Maggie and I are both virgins," he said, somewhat embarrassed. "We haven't done anything more than kiss. All these accusations are lies, and the whole thing is just sordid. I wanted to talk to you, I needed to talk to you about it, but with Ruby dying, I didn't want to cause you any more pain."

Dolly stood and embraced her son. "We're all right, William. I'm just sorry you're having to go through all this."

"I'm fine, Mom," William said. "But Maggie's not, and I don't know what to do about it." His voice broke. "You taught me to take the good with the bad, but Maggie's had nothing but bad practically her whole life. She's living in Hell over there in that house. And her mother? Sybil? It's hard for me to even call her a mother that after what I've seen. She's out of her mind, really out of her mind, and she's violent. She's hit Maggie, threatened her with a knife, she's capable of anything—including killing her—and certainly of all of the threats she makes in her letter."

Burt stood up and laid his hand on Will's back. "You better come sit down and tell us everything, son," he said. "I'll warm up your coffee."

They sat in the gathering darkness and talked. They already knew of Maggie's suicide attempt, as the neighborhood, and all the folks at church, and likely most of Columbia, had heard at least something about that. But Dolly cried when she heard the entire story.

"Maggie knows people think she's crazy, and if she was, she'd have every right to be after what she's been through. But she's not," he smiled, thinking of her. "Nowhere near. She's really smart, and sweet, and good. She just reached a breaking point. If I'd suffered half of what she has, I'd have tried to find a way out, too."

He told them about the night of the social, and how Jerry had gone to the Head house three times in the week that followed, but no one would come to the door and phone calls went unanswered. He told them how he'd found Maggie at church that night, and how he'd brought her home because she had nowhere else to go, and the incident at her house, and the choking, and how Maggie had learned her mother never wanted her. Dolly began crying when she heard this, and continued crying as Will went on to tell what happened the next morning.

"I don't understand the why of any of this. I've prayed about it non-stop, and I still don't understand. Maggie is so innocent, and so special. She's nothing like any girl I've ever known," he said, shaking his head. "Maybe she is who she is because she's suffered—she's so grateful and surprised by the smallest acts of kindness. There's nothing I wouldn't do for her, nothing her mother can do to make me give her up. We're meant to be together," he said, "and we're going to be. I'm as sure of that as I've been about anything in my life. We'll be together. We have to be. I just don't know when, or how."

Will's decision to join the Army wasn't an especially difficult one. His father and grandfather had served, and he'd always intended to do the same. But the war had grown increasingly unpopular—neither he nor his parents believed it was a good war—and thus, he'd changed his mind during senior year, opting to begin college first. His birth date currently had him low on the draft lottery, and Will had suffered some guilt over this, as many of his friends had already been called up, even Jason, who'd been deferred due to asthma.

"Nobody's suggested we get a lawyer and fight her," Dolly offered. "We have got the truth on our side."

"I don't know how much the truth would matter, Mom," Will said. "She was right when she said the rumors would do their damage even if we proved them wrong, hiring a lawyer will cost money we don't have, and anything we do will only make things worse for Maggie."

"William's right," Burt said. "Don't none of us want this, but it seems to me his going in the Army now might be the smart thing, and even smarter if he goes on his own terms. William gets his service done, and when he gets back little Maggie will be about old enough to marry—even if they have to go out of state. And he'll have his G.I. Bill to help him finish school, and get a house. And," he said, smiling at Will, "it'll keep him from doing something stupid, 'cause loving a woman can make a man really stupid. I know myself about that."

Will grinned. "You mean like my plan to kidnap Maggie and take her to South America? I've got enough in savings for the tickets, and to live for a few months until I find a job. I just can't figure out how to get her a passport."

"You're teasing, right?" Dolly asked anxiously. "You haven't really considered doing that?"

Will shrugged his shoulders. "I have. I've been to the travel agency and the library. We could afford to live there, and all those Spanish classes I took would finally pay off."

"William," she said, shaking her head in disbelief. "That's crazy."

Burt laughed, putting his hand on Dolly's knee. "With Miss Maggie being within a stone's throw like she is, William wouldn't be a real man if he hadn't thought of doing something crazy like that. Best he gets on out of here 'til this mess blows over."

"I guess you're right," Dolly said reluctantly. "I've got half a mind to go rescue that little girl myself, and I hardly know her. But I reckon she's pretty strong to have made it all this time, and with God's help, she'll make it a while longer. But we've got to figure a way to let her know what you're doing, son. You can't just up and leave 'til she knows you're coming back for her."

They didn't talk about the possibility that Will wouldn't come back.

On the first Saturday of Maggie's house arrest, Sybil came in with a stern warning that she was to remain in her room with the door closed while she ran to the store. "Your daddy's working outside, and I don't want him in here, so keep your door closed."

Leon knocked a few minutes later, and Maggie opened her door to find him holding a clock radio and a shoebox. "You can't read and watch TV all the time," he said, getting on his knees to plug the radio in behind her headboard and leaving it beneath the bed. He waved her down beside him. "Here's the volume, and this moves it from AM to FM," he said, showing her. "And this," he said, reaching for the shoe box and covering the radio with it, "keeps your momma from knowing it's here. Don't turn it up too loud and she'll never be the wiser."

"Thanks, Daddy," she said as they stood. She didn't tell him the gift was unnecessary, as she still had her transistor radio.

"You've got to mix things up or you'll go crazy stuck in here, Chicken," he said. "I know, because I've been hiding out from your mother most of our married life.

"And, I need to say I'm sorry, Chicken. Sorry about everything," he continued, holding on to her. "I don't remember too much about what happened that night, at least I didn't 'til your brother called me. Anyway, I want you to know I've decided it's time for me to try and stop drinking. I don't know if I can, but I'm gonna try, Margaret. I would never hurt you intentionally, not for all the world. But I guess I did, and I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Daddy," Margaret said. "I know you love me." She wanted to ask him to explain everything, to give her details and events, but stopped herself. It didn't feel right to ask him without easing into it, and if he was really trying to stop drinking, the last thing she wanted was to upset him.

"Margaret, I want to tell you something," he said. "Don't argue with your mother. Don't give her any excuse to make matters worse for you. Just stay out of her way. I can't be here all the time, and I don't do a very good job protecting you when I am, and I don't want you hurt again. Will you do that for me, honey? Will you try?

"I will, Daddy. I'll try."

"Good," he said, kissing her forehead. "Now keep that thing turned down now."

It was October 31, three long weeks since she'd seen or spoken to Will, and Maggie was in Calculus, her head down working, when she heard his voice. She looked up, as did most of the class, eager for any distraction—and there he was in the doorway, shaking hands with Mr. Roberts, his smile lighting up the room. She felt such a rush of excitement as he looked over and caught her eye, that her pencil somehow flew from her hand, landing on the floor several rows ahead.

"Everyone look up," Mr. Roberts said. "This is William Marshall. Some of you may know him from the football field, but he's also one of my best former students, and proof that you can survive this class."

Most of the students laughed. Maggie's smile was so big it made her face hurt, as she hadn't smiled that way in three weeks.

"So how's college?" Mr. Roberts asked.

"It's different," Will said, forcing his eyes away from Maggie. "Most of the professors don't seem to care if you learn anything, or even if you show up. Whoever thought I'd miss sitting in these desks?"

"Feeling nostalgic?"

"Little bit," Will said.

"Let him stay, Mr. R!" one of the boys shouted.

"You can sit over here," said one of the girls, a pretty blonde who was patting the desk beside her.

"Is it all right?" Will asked innocently.

"Sure. Sit and stay a while. In fact, would you watch these guys half a minute?"

"Sure, Mr. R.," Will replied. "Happy to."

Maggie looked down at her hands as Will made his way down her row, casually picking up her pencil as he came, and slipping into the vacant desk in front of her. He sat down hard, bumping her desk intentionally.

"I'm sorry," he said amidst snickers as he turned to face her. "Is this yours?" he asked with a smile, holding up the pencil.

"Yes," she said, her face flushing. "Thank you."

Handing her the pencil, he deftly pressed a small piece of paper between her fingers. Maggie closed her hand and dropped it into her lap.

"Hey, William," one of the boys said, nodding at the blonde sitting beside him. "Stephanie wants to go out with you."

The blonde quickly looked at her hands.

Will smiled. "If that's true, then I really lost out, 'cause I've already got a girl. In fact, we're going to get married." And then he roughly bumped Maggie's desk again.

"I'm sorry," he said, obviously not sorry at all as he turned to look at her. "I don't mean to keep disturbing you."

"I don't mind," she said, entranced by his nearness and the sound of his voice. She wanted to open the note—she wanted to grab his hand and escape with him—but everyone was looking.

Mr. Roberts returned. Will stood, and with a quick glance at Maggie, ambled slowly up the aisle. "You know," he said, turning to the class, "I'd give almost anything to be back in that desk every day. Back here with you." His eyes rested on Maggie a moment, then he shook Mr. Robert's hand, said goodbye, and left. She opened the paper in her lap. "Backstage at the bell" was scribbled in pencil, and as Maggie blinked away tears, she realized she'd never seen his handwriting before.

When the bell rang twenty minutes later, Maggie ran to her Literature class, threw her books on her desk, and told Mrs. Preudhomme she had severe diarrhea. Seeing Maggie's flushed face and sweaty brow, she had no reason to doubt her claim, and hastily wrote a hall pass. Maggie made her way quickly through the crowded hall and down the stairs, slipping through the double doors to the empty auditorium just as the bell rang.

She ascended to the steps to the stage and pushed aside the heavy curtain. Here all was silent and dark, save a bit of light where the curtains failed to meet. Maggie stood quietly, waiting for her eyes to adjust, and hoping she had not misunderstood.

"Never doubt I love you, Maggie. I've spent half the day hiding in a bathroom stall and looking for you between classes." Will's voice was barely above a whisper, but the acoustics carried his words. She looked up to see him sitting on a small platform suspended above the stage, his long legs draped over the edge.

"Come down here," she whispered urgently. "You could fall!"

"I've been up here a dozen times," he said, standing. "Jason and I did the drops for most of the shows. It was great for seeing down girls' shirts."

"Oh, is that why you came?" she asked teasingly, unbuttoning her raincoat as she crossed the stage. "Where do you want me to stand?"

"I didn't come to just look," he answered playfully, crossing to the stage right and beginning a rapid descent. Maggie felt as if they were starring in their own private play as she crossed to him, her heart racing as he dropped to the floor and took her in his arms.

"Maggie," he whispered, lifting her as he hugged her. "I've missed you so much. Good Lord, you feel good. And you're okay? They haven't hurt you again?"

"No," she answered, hugging him tightly. "She watches me day and night, but otherwise leaves me alone. I was afraid you'd given up on me."

"I never will," he said, setting her down. "Never in a thousand years. I love you, Maggie, and I always will."

"I love you, too," she answered, just barely getting the words out before he kissed her. And there, on the darkness of the stage, behind the heavy curtain, and blanketed in the deep silence that inhabits such settings, Maggie and Will were in a world all their own, and nothing, and no one else mattered. After a time he took her hand, leading her to the back of the stage. Pushing aside the rear curtain, Will leaned against the wall, and pulling Maggie to him, pushed the raincoat from her shoulders.

Maggie was ecstatic. "I think about you every day," she whispered. "Every moment of every day."

"And all I've been able to think about is holding you again, kissing you, and touching you," he said, and on Will's face she recognized the same look she'd seen in his bed, and it thrilled her. He pulled her blouse from the waist of her skirt and swiftly undid the buttons, and then his mouth was on hers as his hands found her breasts, caressing them through the soft cotton of her bra. It was like every dream she'd had since they'd been apart, and as Will pressed more closely against her, Maggie realized why he'd backed away from her before. But he wasn't backing away now.

The auditorium door slammed shut, startling them, and they stood still and silent as they listened to the sound of women's voices, quickly followed by footsteps on the stage stairs.

"Take off your shoes," Will whispered. "And keep hold of my hand."

Maggie pulled her blouse together as Will reached for her coat, and together they moved swiftly and silently to stage right, past the curtain and around the stacked choir risers to the wide ramp that led to the band room. They could hear instruments being tuned inside, and the light from a small window in the band room door cast just enough light to see.

"Will they come back here?" Maggie asked, buttoning her shirt as he led her beneath the ramp. Her heart was pounding with excitement and fear as she tucked in her shirt and sat on the concrete floor.

"No reason they should," Will replied, still on his feet. "But if they do, they'll only see me, and you can stay here 'til you hear us leave. Worst case, you can get out through the band room when school's out."

"What if the door's locked?"

Will disappeared, returning moments later. "There's a key still on the ledge above the door," he said. "And I don't think we need to worry about it, anyway. Looks like a couple of the women gym teachers just sitting on the front of the stage talking. No reason they'd come back here."

"Do you have keys hidden everywhere?" Maggie asked as he sat beside her.

"Not everywhere," he said, taking her hand. "I wish I did. I wish I had a key to your room."

"I wish you did, too," she said, not telling him the lock hadn't worked since Labor Day. "But I wish even more we were still behind the curtain."

Will kissed her, a long, sweet kiss, and when he stopped, his voice was heavy with emotion. "I've done a lot of soul searching since our last day together, and I've made peace with needing to be with you, Maggie, needing to make love to you, despite what God or the law says. And I would have, I swear I would have, behind those curtains, if those teachers hadn't shown up. But they did. And while losing our virginity on the school stage would have made a great story we could never tell our grandchildren, I think their showing up was a sign it wasn't supposed to happen, no matter how much we want it. Not here anyway, and not now."

What? He was going to make love to her? He said as much—that he wouldn't have stopped if they hadn't been interrupted—and for whatever reason, that scared her a little. Will had been so God-fearing before. What happened to that? Had he lost his faith in the last few weeks? That was troubling. And while it had never occurred to her that Will was also a virgin, it made sense, given his faith. These two revelations, taken together, made her feel uncomfortable, as if she was responsible, or was almost responsible, for taking two very precious things away from him.

"I really wish they'd taken you for stitches," he said, interrupting her thoughts as he took her left hand, examining it closely. Sybil had finally relented on making her wear a bandage, and her hand and wrist held numerous, and obvious, thin white scars.

"Do they bother you a lot?"

Will kissed her hand. "Only that they remind me I wasn't there to protect you, just like I can't protect you now. But then again," he said, forcing a smile. "They might help keep some of the guys away if you'll make a point of showing them off. Maybe wave them around."

"Funny," Maggie said, smiling. It was the first time he'd joked about it, and while she didn't mind, this also seemed out of character.

"So, what's happening at home?"

"She locked the phone in a drawer, and I can't use it unless she dials. I can't go anywhere but here, and she drops me off and picks me up. I can't walk anymore."

"I knew about the walking," he said. "I've looked for you."

"She said if I ever talked to you or saw you again, she'd have you put in jail. I was afraid she'd do it anyway," Maggie said. "And she could still decide to, so I'm being as careful as I can not to make her mad. But I could look at her the wrong way and you'd find the police at your door, Will. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," he said, pulling her head onto his shoulder. "I'd go through it all again to be with you, Maggie. And I've told my folks everything now. Well, almost everything," he added with a smile.

'What did they say?"

"A lot. But the bottom line is that they know how I feel about you, and they're on our side," he said, lacing his fingers through hers. "They know I love you. They know how much I need to be with you."

"Be with me here," Maggie said, suddenly excited. "Every day, or anytime you want. I can skip study hall or lunch, or anything else, really, and there must be a dozen places you know where we could meet secretly, or even in your car if we're careful. We can be together here, Will."

Will wanted to look away, but he didn't. There were soon to be more tears falling, so there was no point. He'd made the decision not to tell Maggie of Sybil's letter. It was going to be difficult enough to tell her he was leaving, and she didn't need to know that Sybil's threat to have them both locked up was the real reason why.

Maggie saw the tears fill Will's eyes, and she sat back. "What? What's wrong, Will?"

"I need you to let me talk now, okay?" he asked.

"Okay," she said, pulling his hand into her lap.

"I've had a lot of time to think, and I've decided that's exactly what we need. Time. Time for you to finish school and get a little older, and time for me to make some changes, too." He took a deep breath before continuing, as he was unaccustomed to lying. "I've got reason to believe I could be drafted soon." He counted on Maggie not knowing the particulars of the birthday lottery, and thankfully, she didn't. "And you know I was planning on joining anyway after graduation—"

"You've joined the Army," she said quietly.

"I have," Will replied solemnly. "Infantry. Same as our dads."

She felt as if she'd been reading a story where two sweethearts, determined to be together, confronted and overcame one obstacle after another. Yet she feared all along that despite their love, the story wasn't going to end well, so she kept laying the book aside to put it off. But now, Will held the book open in his hands, and he was reading the final pages out loud.

Maggie knew about the Army, and the war, as well as anyone her age. Walter Cronkite remained a beloved constant in her life, and she watched him every weeknight, though she seldom looked at the disturbing war images. But she did listen as Walter's warm, resonating voice remained calm, even as he read the weekly casualty figures.

"When are you leaving?" she asked without tears, finding strength in some hidden place, some grown-up place in her head that she hadn't realized was there. Will's news hadn't shocked her. She was accustomed to disappointment and heartbreak, and of life falling far short of her expectations. And though she would never say it out loud, she believed that having Will at a distance, far away and completely unobtainable, would be easier to bear than now, when she was achingly aware of how near he was, especially at night, when she thought of him lying alone in the big bed.

Maggie also knew she would waste no time in worries that he wouldn't come back. People died everywhere, every day—on ski lifts, and escalators, and falling from camels—these incidents had been in the paper just this week. Will wouldn't die in Vietnam. He couldn't. It would be the end of everything if he did. For both of them.

Will cleared his throat. "I go tonight," he said in a small voice. "My plane leaves at nine."

Maggie's acceptance and reason vanished in an instant. "No!" she protested. "No!" she repeated, wrapping her arms around his neck. "You can't go now. It's too soon."

"I don't have a choice," he said. "I'm sorry I couldn't tell you before."

"But you could have told me. You could have told me backstage."

"No way," he said, releasing her. "I wanted the happy Maggie first—and I got it," he smiled. "I'll be thinking about being backstage with you every minute of the next two years." He kissed her again, cradling her face in his hands. It was a gentle kiss, the time having passed for urgent, wanting, kisses.

"You might not even go to Vietnam," Maggie offered past the lump in her throat. "They could send you to Germany, or Korea or Guam. They still need soldiers other places."

"That's right," Will agreed, relieved, yet not surprised that she was acting with so much maturity. Maggie was in many ways older than her years. Suffering did that to a person. "So there's no reason to watch the war news while I'm gone, or try and keep up with it. You won't know where I am, and there's no need to put yourself through that. And even if I do go to the war, I won't go right away, and I might not see any action if I do. Not everyone does."

"I know," she said. "But I know you. I'll bet if there's a beach to be stormed, or a flag that needs raising—"

The bell rang. The school day was over, Sybil was in the parking lot, and they were running out of time.

"Maggie," Will said with a new sense of urgency. "Two years is a long time."

"Don't ask me not to wait," she replied instantly. "You can't ask me that, Will, and it won't make any difference if you do."

"Just listen. Here's what we're going to do. First, you're going to pray for me every night before you go to sleep. I know your faith is shaky, but I also know you'll do this for me. Will you promise?"

"Yes," she said, fighting tears.

"And I'm going to pray for you every night, too," he said, taking her hands. "But I'll be gone a long time. And we can't even write—not yet, anyway." Will had talked with his parents and Jason about this, and decided it was best not to get into the letter-smuggling business right away, not with Sybil's threats so new.

"I want you to promise that if you're ever in trouble, you'll go to my parents. They'll help you, Maggie. They'll do anything they can to help. They'll be there for you. Will you promise?"

"Yes," Maggie answered.

"And now I want you to promise me that you won't wait."

She started to protest, but Will held up his hand. "Let me talk," he insisted. "You've spent your whole life waiting for your life to start. If your mother lets up on you, and I hope she will once I'm gone, and you're able to go and do things, I want you to go do them. Get out of that damn house." He wiped a tear from his face. "And I want you to go on dates, if he's a decent guy. You need to know with certainty that I'm the one you want, and dating is the only way to find out. I'm not asking you to forget me, Maggie, and I pray you never will. I just want you to push me to the back of your mind while I'm gone. I've dated other girls. I know who I want to spend my life with. When I get back, I want you to be just as sure."

"May I speak?" she asked impatiently.

"Not yet." Will pulled her to her feet, and dropping to one knee, reached into his pocket.

"This is the ring my grandfather gave to my grandmother when they got married," Will said, slipping a silver ring onto her finger. "And now I'm giving it to you, Maggie, with the promise that when I get back, if you still want me—" Will stopped, his voice breaking.

"I'll still want you," Maggie said through her tears as she dropped down before him. "I will always want you, Will Marshall," she said, her heart breaking as she looked into his eyes for what she feared would be the final time. "I'll love you always and forever, and no matter what."

Near nine, Maggie lingered in the kitchen, easing open the back door and listening for the sound of his plane. Planes were a familiar sound at home, with the airport less than a mile away. When she heard it, she slipped out, a freshly broken pencil in her hand as way of an excuse, and walked barefoot through the damp grass, looking up as Will's plane appeared and began lifting west into the sky. There were lights in the windows, and she imagined she could see him, and he could see her. And she lifted his ring from its hiding place in her bra, kissed it, and blew the kiss up to him, whispering her first promised prayer for his safe return. Then she tucked the ring away, dried her eyes, and went back into the house.

The waiting had begun.

Whores and Dopers

8

Will was right. It was better that Maggie had only a vague idea of where he was and what he was doing, better not to know how long he would train, or the date and time he would be sent overseas. For what good would it do to have that horrible day circled in red on her calendar? Would she pray any harder that day—any longer? Would she spend it entirely on her knees? Probably. Maggie would have crawled through glass on her knees if she believed it would help Will return safely from wherever he was going.

But the prayers meant little to her. Whether she prayed for things to happen that didn't, or for things not to happen that did, it had never made any difference that she could see. If prayer truly had the power to change things, Will would have never gone away at all, as there would have been no war to go to. And Sybil would be a kind and loving mother, and Granny Lura would still be alive, and she and Will would be together today, and every day. Prayers held no more power than wishes made on birthday candles. But she'd promised Will she'd pray, and she did.

December eleventh was their shared birthday, his nineteenth and her fifteenth. She hoped that he'd managed some sort of celebration. Maggie's, as always, came and went with little notice. Sybil gave her twenty dollars in quarters inside a purse she no longer wanted, and Leon slipped her a fifty-dollar bill along with a warning not to tell her mother about it. There was no cake at all, and no candles for wishes. The Paulk Road bulletin had wished them both a happy birthday, but Maggie didn't see it. Since the announcement the first week of November of Will's departure for the Army, which Sybil had circled in red and laid on her bed, she'd stopped looking at the bulletins. She would not return to Paulk Road unless she returned with Will, and had no interest in keeping up with the happenings there in the meantime.

When tenth grade ended, Maggie began summer school in order to earn the credits that would allow her to graduate early. In a complete turnaround from the year before, Sybil not only suggested she attend, but agreed to let her catch a ride with Marilyn Hall, a senior who needed help with gas money. Maggie assumed Sybil was allowing this because she was as tired of watching Maggie as Maggie was of being watched. She hadn't left the house unaccompanied by her mother the entire school year. And though Sybil had made it clear to Marilyn on the first day that Maggie could only go back and forth to school, and nowhere else, she felt as though she'd been released from the prison that would have been another long, suffocating, summer cloistered in her room.

Both the summer classes and teachers were easy, and the entire atmosphere radically different from that of regular school. There was little gossip; the teachers and most of the students were strangers to one another, and everyone seemed content to keep it that way. And since it was summer, everyone could dress as they pleased. When Marilyn gave Maggie some of her jeans—after reeling in shock that Maggie didn't own any—Sybil allowed it. Overall, it was the first time since elementary that she'd completely enjoyed attending school, and when the session ended in mid-August, Maggie had earned the credits to begin the fall as a senior.

"Here's some money," Sybil said the week before her senior year started, handing her an envelope with cash. "Get you some pantsuits for school. And I don't mean blue jeans."

"We can't wear pants. That was just in summer school," Maggie said.

"You see what I'm talkin' about?" Sybil asked with raised eyebrows. "You just think you know everything, but you don't. They done changed the rules, Margaret Rose. It was in the paper."

"What?" Maggie didn't read any of the paper anymore. She'd tried skipping over the war news, but it was everywhere. On the front pages, in the opinion pages, in letters to Dear Abby, and especially on the Obituary page, where grainy photographs of young men in uniform accompanied the particulars of their final rites.

"It's on the refrigerator," Sybil said impatiently. "You can wear pant suits as long as the top part covers your bottom."

Maggie went to look for it. In the past few months, Sybil had all but covered the side of the refrigerator with newspaper clippings—a Dear Abby letter from a remorseful, pregnant teenager, a man arrested for raping a girl who was walking to church, an article about the scourge of venereal disease—there was a definite pattern to Sybil's postings, and she'd soon stopped reading them.

"About time they put their thinkin' caps on," Sybil continued, standing behind her as Maggie read the story. "It'll keep those boys from lookin' up your skirts."

Thus, Maggie began her final year of school wearing a bright yellow double-knit pantsuit from J. C. Penney's that she—for the first time in her life—had picked out and purchased by herself. There had been an astounding sixty dollars in the envelope, and while Sybil was down the street getting her hair done, Maggie shopped carefully, buying everything on summer clearance. And while she knew she would never be the best-dressed girl at school, she was ready to retire the raincoat.

During summer school, she'd been asked out by five different boys, all of them graduating seniors from schools other than Oglethorpe. While Maggie had appreciated the novelty of having boys speak to her, she'd turned all the invitations down without a second thought. "I'm engaged," she'd told each in turn, "to a soldier." For the two who doubted her claim, she provided proof, pulling Will's ring from its resting place by her heart.

Those were the only times she'd shown the ring, or told anyone of her engagement. She took great pains to keep the ring, and the lace that held it, hidden, especially from Sybil. She never wore a ponytail at home, she always put the ring in its hiding place in her room upon returning home, and she didn't wear it at all on the weekends. The sterling silver ring, with its small center diamond set within a pattern of intricate filigree, was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen, and it was tangible proof of Will's love. And she was ready for a fight to the death if Sybil were to discover it and try to take it away.

Those first days back at school, the first days of Maggie's senior year, were different. People actually spoke to her, smiled at her. But that was because she was now in the senior class, and in the beginning, many didn't know who she was. When they found out, the whispers quickly rose to a crescendo, and she was targeted with ridicule and resentment.

"Where's your raincoat? Did the bum take it back?"

"You shouldn't be up with us. We don't want you with us."

"Crazy albino bitch. You should go kill yourself again."

Things were different all right. They very quickly became worse. Maggie didn't have to fake being ill to stay home the last two days of her first week, her nerves providing her with near constant vomiting and diarrhea. But quitting school was not an option. Good grades were important to Maggie, academics being the one thing she excelled at, and what would giving up accomplish? Staying home with Sybil—if she'd let her remain as a dropout, or getting a job at the car wash? No. As hard as it was, she had to go back.

Armed with a pack of red Marlboro's purchased with her lunch money, Maggie walked into the girl's bathroom in the basement of the old building on the following Monday and lit up. Marilyn smoked, and Maggie had smoked with her over the summer. But it wasn't the smoking, but the quest for allies that had made her seek out the "bad" girls that gathered in that bathroom. Whores and dopers, she'd heard them called—girls that carried knives and got into fights and wrote all the obscene graffiti in the toilet stalls. But Maggie didn't care about that. Even if the rumors were true, she saw these girls as a chance to help her get through her last year at school. If they would have her, the other kids could talk all they wanted and it wouldn't matter. She didn't need them, but she did need somebody.

"We got the Ivory Princess in the dungeon."

"It's Crazy Red! That's what they call you, you know."

"You're really smart, right? What the hell is a square root?"

No one ever asked why she gave up her lunch hour to be there, or rolled their eyes, or looked at her in disapproval, or in any way made her feel unwanted. They just accepted her, from that very first day, and the best part of Maggie's senior year was the time she spent in that bathroom, every morning before first bell and again during lunch. They weren't friends exactly, at least not the kind that called on the phone or invited her to sleep over, but they were the closest to it she'd ever had. They nodded or spoke when they passed her in the hall, and because they did, she was able to hold her head up among the others. She finally had a place at school where she was accepted and belonged.

She'd helped with the square root that first day, and many times after—the girl going on to earn a B, and Maggie a hug. She proofread essays, went along to the library at lunch to help with research papers, and was always available to help with homework. She loved helping, and began thinking of herself as a kind of bathroom missionary. And it wasn't that she was that much smarter—she had better grades to be sure, and she tested well, but that was mostly because she had nothing else to do but study. These girls had boyfriends, and siblings to watch, or jobs after school. A lot of them seemed to be responsible for everything at home—the kids, the house, the supper. And then there were the weekends, where they told of fights at the skating rink, downing six-packs at the drive-in, doing most every kind of drug, and having lots and lots of sex. Maggie listened, certain that much of what she heard were lies, as it seemed these weekend antics were as much a competition as anything else, to see who could be the most outrageous. She was sometimes tempted to spin an outrageous lie of her own, just to keep her skills honed. But she never did. The only true story she could have offered was that of almost having sex with Will, but the girls would have found that laughable. And that memory was far too precious to elicit laughter, or to share.

Maggie graduated with over six hundred students on the first Friday of June, 1971, or so the program said. She wasn't there. During the last hour of the last day of school, she'd been summoned to the principal's office. The Medical Center had called; her mother had arrived by ambulance, and Maggie needed to come right away. Of course it wasn't true, the call had been made by her "square root" friend, who'd not only thought of this way to get around the policy that required students to attend graduation, she'd skipped school in order to make the call. Oglethorpe seemed to believe the lie quickly enough, wishing her mother a speedy recovery and telling Maggie she could pick up her diploma later. What Maggie didn't know was that the principal knew it was a scam when he allowed her to leave—one that had been tried many times in the past.

Margaret Rose Head had been a frequent topic of conversation between the principal and his staff since she'd been at Oglethorpe. They'd all heard—and repeated many times—the rumors about this pale, red headed girl that once wore only a raincoat, and she was the only graduating senior who had bought neither a yearbook, class ring, pictures, or the required cap and gown. Yet she'd always been an exceptional student, one recognized for outstanding academic achievement many times throughout her school career. But oddly, she hadn't taken her college boards, or spoken to her counselor about college, and no one had ever met her parents. And though she had shed that awful raincoat, she'd turned right around and taken up with the whores who held court in the basement, erasing any lingering doubts about her virtue. And while it was true that every school had such girls, how many had to recognize one of them with honors at graduation? They'd been scratching their heads over that for a month, so Maggie's last-minute scheme to not participate in the ceremonies was a welcome relief. Showering accolades on a girl like that at a public ceremony would have been a terrible embarrassment.

Thus, Maggie left her final day of high school early, waiting at the bus stop across from school and riding most of the circuit before getting off and walking home. Graduation night was like any other Friday night, spent in her room watching television alone. Michael had sent a funny card from Florida, where he was attending a hurricane conference, and Sybil acknowledged the momentous day by taping the news article to the fridge and circling her name. She never asked why Maggie hadn't wanted to go to her graduation. She knew why. Sybil had balked at the unnecessary expenses of her daughter's senior year, and had refused to pay for any of them. Maggie had thought of asking Leon to do it, but in truth, she really didn't care about annuals, class rings, or a cap and gown. All she wanted was for school to be over, as it meant she was one step closer to Will coming home.

The following morning, Leon knocked on her door, and Maggie was mystified as he led her past a silent Sybil and outside, where in the driveway was a 1963 black Volkswagen Beetle, her graduation gift from him. Maggie's initial speechlessness soon turned to joyful screams at the idea of owning her own car.

"It's bought and paid for," Leon told her proudly. "The title's in your name, and I'll carry your insurance 'til you're twenty-one, just like I'm doing for your brother. Your momma's got no rights at all to this car, though I wouldn't go throwing that up in her face." He then spent the better part of Saturday and Sunday teaching Maggie to drive, and even with a clutch and stick to master, she proved to be a quick learner.

Sybil wasn't happy. When Leon first told her he was buying Maggie a car, she'd fumed and fussed, and done her best to talk him out of it. But he held his ground, saying he'd bought one for his son and nothing was going to stop him from buying one for his daughter. On Monday morning, he took her to get her license, with Maggie passing on the first try.

"All right, Margaret Rose," Sybil snorted when Maggie returned at lunchtime, keys in hand. "You sweet-talked your daddy into gettin' you a car, and I reckon you been schemin' that up for some time. But it don't change anything. You don't leave this house without my permission, car or not. And you have my permission right now to take that car and go find yourself a job first thing in the mornin'."

"Okay," Maggie replied happily. "Whatever you want."

"And stay away from your daddy," she warned. "You done got all you're gonna get from him and then some, I reckon, goin' off together all alone. He's my husband, Margaret Rose, not yours. You leave him alone."

Maggie bit her tongue, wishing she had a dollar for every time she'd bitten it. She'd have plenty of money then, enough to just get out and be done with Sybil. How dare she make daddy teaching me to drive into something dirty! He'd bought Michael a car when he graduated, and she'd never said a word. But Michael had driven off to college in his car, and Maggie wasn't going anywhere. Not yet. She would stay right where Will could find her, get a job, save some cash, and be ready to go the moment he came.

She'd imagined a hundred different ways it would happen. Maybe he'd wear a disguise, and knock on the door in the early evening when Leon was having supper so Sybil would be compelled to answer it. Or maybe he'd just throw rocks at her window—that happened a lot on TV—and she'd sneak out. One of her favorite imaginings was that early on a Saturday morning she'd be dressing, and suddenly she'd hear the unmistakable sound of his Charger pulling into the seldom used, mostly grassed over driveway in front of the house. She'd rip away the ugly, dried up tape that still covered her blinds, and through the window she'd see him—her Will—bounding up the steps to get her with a determined look and a smile as bright as the sun. She'd grab her ring, and the cash she'd hidden, and her coat and purse and keys, and race for the door that he was already beating on. Then, Will would be standing in front of her. And he'd take her in his arms, and even as Sybil appeared and started jumping up and down, and threatening to kill or jail them both, he would kiss her, right there on the porch. And Sybil's threats wouldn't matter anymore, because Will was home and they were at long last together, and the life she'd wanted and waited for could finally begin.

Only five more months of waiting for that precious life, however Will chose to start it, and that was no time at all. Having survived a lifetime of Sybil's crazy, a few more weeks would be nothing.

The next morning, Maggie answered an ad for a waitress at Bianca's Bistro, an Italian restaurant downtown, and was hired on the spot. Her pay would be a dollar and a quarter an hour, and her work week a split shift of both the lunch and dinner crowd every Tuesday through Saturday. With tips, she should make about a hundred a week.

Sybil had a fit when Maggie told her late that afternoon, arguing that, as a high school graduate, she could have gotten a decent job typing or answering phones instead of waiting tables.

"I wish I could have, Mother," Maggie told her. "But the four offices I went to had already hired girls for the summer. But three of them told me to come back early in September," she said. "I only went in the restaurant to get a Coke, but there was a 'Help Wanted' sign—and Bianca—she's the owner—said it was hard for her to keep a waitress, because they kept marrying the attorneys that ate there. She's lost three girls that way—it's real close to the courthouse."

Her lie not only stifled Sybil's objections, it actually put a smile on her face, as Maggie knew it would. If lawyers who ate at Bianca's did occasionally marry the help, that was all fine and good, but of no consequence to her. She'd taken the job because it was a quick fulfillment of Sybil's edict. She only planned to work until Will returned, and a waitressing job would be easier to leave with no notice than a secretarial position. Meantime, Bianca was really friendly and nice, as were the other family members who worked there. It would be good to spend time with a nice, friendly family while she counted down the days to starting a family of her own.

It was after ten on the first Saturday in August when Maggie's Volkswagen quit on her way home from work, forcing her to pull to the side of the busy expressway. She got out and opened the rear hood, wishing as she did that she'd been allowed to take shop classes, for she had no idea what was wrong. The only thing to do was call home and have Sybil fetch her, assuming she would answer the phone, and the nearest pay phone was a good mile away. Grabbing her purse and locking her car, Maggie began walking.

She'd gone only a short distance when she heard a whistle, and looked over to see two men standing in the sunroof of a long, black limousine that was passing. Maggie dropped her head, hiding her smile as she continued on. She'd never been whistled at before, had never seen a limousine other than on TV, and one of the men had been extremely handsome. A few moments later, the limousine, which had circled, pulled into the emergency lane ahead of her, its lights flashing. She stopped.

"May I offer you my assistance?" It was the same attractive man, still standing in the sunroof, mere feet away now, and well illuminated by the streetlight. Maggie was struck by his accent, the darkness of his skin, and his long black hair, which was tied back in a ponytail. None of the guys she knew looked anything like this.

"No," she called, grinning nervously. "Thank you, though. My car broke down back there," she said, pointing behind her. "I'm just going to a phone."

He dropped from sight, and then the rear door of the long car opened and he got out, adjusting his sleeves as he approached. He was tall, well dressed, and very handsome, and Maggie was acutely aware of how she looked in her dirty work clothes, with no makeup and her hair pulled back.

He stretched out his hand. "My name is Edmond Jackson."

"I'm Maggie," she replied, giving him her hand, "Maggie Head."

"This is short for Margaret?" he asked, holding onto her hand.

"Yes," she replied. "But I prefer Maggie."

He raised her right hand to his mouth, brushing his lips gently against it. "I'd prefer to call you Marguerite, as this was my mother's name. She was also a beautiful woman."

Maggie blushed and looked at her shoes.

"There is danger being alone on the streets at night," Edmond said. "You could be accosted here, Marguerite, or mistaken for a prostitute."

Maggie pulled her hand away. It sounded like something Sybil would say. "No, I wouldn't," she said. "Who would think that? Anyone can see I've been at work." And smell it. I must smell like garlic and pepperoni.

"People see what they wish to see, Marguerite," Edmond said. "And a beautiful woman, vulnerable and alone, is precisely what any number of men wish for—especially at this hour. Do you not read the newspaper?"

"Of course I do," she said, flustered. "But that doesn't mean—you're not the police and you're not my father," she said, folding her arms across her chest. "Thanks, but I can take care of myself."

Edmond smiled, seeing she was uncomfortable. "Forgive me. I only wish to prevent you coming to harm."

"I appreciate it," she said. "I really do. It was kind of you to stop. But I'm sure you're an important man with much more important things to do."

"No," Edmond laughed easily, as if he heard this all the time. "It is only my manner you are unaccustomed to. The car is hired. And the only thing of importance is that today is my birthday."

"Oh," she said, thinking he must be very rich to hire a limousine. "Happy birthday."

"Thank you," Edmond said. "But if you truly wish me to be happy, you will allow me to see you home. I cannot simply drive off and leave you here.""

"Oh. No," Maggie said, shaking her head. "That's very sweet, but my mother would kill me—multiple times—if I took a ride with a stranger. She'd kill me over and over again."

"Eddman!" A man appeared in the sunroof holding a whiskey bottle, but with a sharp look from Edmond, he quickly dropped from sight.

"My friends have poor manners," he said. "I apologize."

"Oh, no, it's all right," she said. "And it's very sweet of you to offer to take me home, but my mother really is very strict—that's an understatement, trust me. And she'd disown me if I got in a car with a man she hasn't previously approved of."

"You are serious?" Edmond asked, looking at her curiously.

"Yes," Maggie nodded. "Dead serious. She thinks all men are wicked and depraved. No offense," she added quickly.

"Alex! Mike!" Edmond yelled, turning. Two men rose immediately from the sunroof. "Have the women sit together and tell them to mind their manners." They instantly disappeared.

"You have women in there?" Maggie asked, seeing a loophole.

"There are always women," Edmond said. "But one who is obedient to her mother and protective of her virtue? You are a lady, Marguerite, and I am extremely honored to know you." He held out his arm for her, but Maggie stood fast. "Surely your mother would agree," Edmond said, "were she were here, that allowing me to see you home, with my sworn word you will not be molested, is preferable to leaving you on the street?"

Maggie tried to imagine Sybil mulling over this situation. It was late. And here was a handsome, well-dressed man offering to rescue her in his limousine. And there were women inside, and a driver, making the chances of her being raped and left for dead practically nil. And it was blocks and blocks to the phone at the Dairy Queen, which may not even be working. And then what? Did she really think Sybil—even if she answered the phone—was going to cheerfully jump out of bed and come after her? She'd more than likely tell her to keep walking! So she really had no choice but to go with Edmond, who had called her a lady. Maggie liked that. And if Will was here, he'd like it too.

"I guess you're right," she said finally, putting her hand on Edmond's arm. "Thank you." She hated that he would see where she lived, but at least it would be dark. And it wasn't like she'd ever see him again.

Alex and Mike were seated directly across from the door, and as she stepped inside the car, both raised their eyebrows and smiled. She smiled back. The women sat across from them. They didn't smile, but looked at her intently as she stepped past them at Edmond's direction to sit at their head. They were dressed in evening clothes, and were all made up and smelled fabulous, making Maggie once again aware that she smelled of garlic, and that her work clothes—a black skirt, white shirt, black tights and heels—was anything but attractive. Reaching her seat, she could see the driver in profile through the partially open glass.

Edmond sat across from her. "This is Marguerite," he announced, closing the window to the driver, who eased into traffic. Edmond took a glass from the rack overhead, handing it to Maggie as he reached for an open bottle. "It is an excellent champagne," he said, beginning to pour. "I believe you will like it."

Maggie held the glass awkwardly. Champagne? "Thank you," she said, trying to sound casual. "Should I tell the driver my address?"

"Is your hurry so great?" Edmond said, looking terribly offended

"No," Maggie said. "It's—it's not. I have until eleven." It was embarrassing, admitting a curfew, and she quickly sat back, watching the golden bubbles rise and trying to look sophisticated.

"Do you not like champagne?" Edmond asked, seeing she hadn't tasted it.

"Oh. I'm sure it's wonderful," she replied. "It's just that I've never had alcohol." Why did I say that? But she dared not risk Sybil smelling it on her breath.

Edmond smiled. "I fear we have nothing else but whiskey," he said as he took the glass from her hand amidst subdued snickers. "Would you like a soda? Shall we stop?"

"Oh, no," Maggie said, embarrassed. "I don't need anything."

"Do you smoke?" It was the girl beside her that asked. She was the prettiest of the three women, with short black hair and extremely long red fingernails.

"Yes," Maggie answered quickly, eager to prove she wasn't a complete baby. Reaching into her purse for a pack of Marlboro's, she offered them up. But Red Nails shook her head, causing her earrings to jingle. Maggie took one for herself.

"She meant grass, Marguerite," Edmond said, leaning forward to light her cigarette.

"What?" Maggie asked, confused. And then Edmond turned to Red Nails with his lighter, and she saw the hand-rolled cigarette she held to her lips, and Maggie knew what he meant. She looked at her feet, trying to be casual, but in a moment Red Nails was tapping her hand.

"Marguerite?" Edmond said, prompting. "Do you want some?"

"Sure," she said, making up her mind instantly. It wasn't a big deal. Sybil knew that she smoked cigarettes, and thus was unlikely to smell it on her. Besides, her bathroom friends had gotten high all the time. Everyone did. She'd just never been asked. Hoping she didn't look like a complete idiot, Maggie put the tightly rolled joint to her lips and inhaled before passing it to Edmond, who didn't smoke, but passed it along.

"Marguerite," Edmond said, motioning with his finger, and when she leaned towards him he put his hands on her shoulders and bent her head, snapping the band that held her hair, and running his fingers through it as it fell. She couldn't believe he'd done that, or that having him do it could feel so exciting.

"You are beautiful," he said, lifting her chin.

Maggie looked at her feet, feeling her face grow hot.

Red Nails tapped Maggie's hand again, handing her the joint. "How many boxes do you use to color all this hair?" she asked, stroking it. "It's a good color job."

"I don't color it," Maggie said, laughing as she took another hit. "What idiot would color their hair red?"

Red Nails snorted laughter in agreement.

They rode for a time in silence as the joint went around, coming to her so frequently that, after a while, it occurred to Maggie there must be more than one in circulation. Edmond didn't smoke, and seldom took his eyes off Maggie, whom he appeared to be studying. And under his gaze, Maggie felt something she seldom had. She felt pretty. Edmond thinks I'm pretty.

Edmond took the burning stub from Maggie's fingers and replaced it with a glass of champagne.

"Your mouth is dry," he said, amused at way she was moving her tongue within her mouth. "Drink."

"It is dry," she said, wondering how he knew as she took a sip of the golden liquid and coughed as the bubbles went up her nose.

"You really don't drink," Red Nails snorted. "You a saint or something?"

"I'm a saint and a lady," Maggie announced. Edmond's attentions, combined with the weed, emboldening her. "Queen Saint Marguerite." And smiling demurely, Maggie downed the champagne.

Edmond laughed, quickly refilling her glass.

"You know," Maggie said, drinking the second glass down before leaning towards Edmond and lowering her voice. "She's right. I haven't done any of this before. I've never done anything at all."

"What else haven't you done, Marguerite?" Edmond asked.

"I've never been in a car like this," she said, considering. "Or been swimming, or dancing, or to a play, or an amusement park, or to a real restaurant, but that's okay because I work in one now. And a million other things, but some of it's secret."

"Tell me your secrets," he urged, smiling. "I want to hear them."

Maggie smiled. Edmond is so handsome—and even though his girlfriend is right here, he's talking to me. And if he wanted to kiss me, that would be all right, because I haven't been kissed in almost two years and it is his birthday. And it would almost be like being on a date, and Will wanted me to date if they were nice guys. And he's an awfully nice guy.

"Marguerite? Open your eyes. Tell me your secrets."

"What?" she asked, Edmond's voice drawing her back.

"Maybe she only tells her secrets to her boyfriend, Edmond," Red Nails offered cattily.

Edmond threw Red Nails a scathing look. "Do you have a boyfriend, Marguerite?" he asked, turning his gaze back to her.

"Yes," Maggie replied. "But he's not my boyfriend. We're engaged."

"Engaged?" he asked, sitting forward to lift her left hand. "But where is your ring?"

"I can't wear it," she explained. "My mother would kill me."

"Your mother does not approve of this man?"

"Oh, God, no," Maggie said. "Sybil doesn't really approve of anyone, including me. But she seriously hates Will."

"And why is that?"

"She thought we were—you know," Maggie said, dropping her eyes from Edmond's. "She thought we had been together."

"And haven't you?" Edmond asked quickly.

Maggie felt her face grow hot amid the snickers.

"You have had sex with the man you are to marry?" he asked.

The snickers turned to all out laughter.

"Be quiet," Edmond ordered, looking around the car.

Maggie swallowed hard as the company turned silent. "That's none of your business, Edmond Jackson," she said, feeling defensive, and confused at the speed with which the conversation had turned.

"Are you still a virgin, Marguerite?" Edmond asked intently.

Maggie shut her eyes, covered them with her hand, and leaned back in the seat, suddenly very tired. "I just want to go home," she said.

"Tell me," he repeated. "Are you still a virgin?"

"I said it's none of your business," she repeated, reaching for the glass that separated them from the driver.

"I want to know," Edmond said, stopping her hand with his.

"I want to go home," she countered. "I'm going to get in trouble."

"Answer me, Marguerite," he demanded. "Are you a virgin or not?"

Maggie held his gaze for as long as she could, trying to think of something more interesting than the truth. But she was tired, tipsy, and more than a little stoned. "I'm a virgin, all right?" she admitted. "You can laugh. It's pretty funny stuff—Saint Marguerite the Virgin Queen."

A fierce, quick look from Edmond ensured there was no laughter, and then he turned back to her, looking at her closely. "Where is your fiancée? Why would you not call him to rescue you tonight?"

"Will's in the war," she said. "For almost two years now. He's rescuing democracy."

"And all this time you have not known another man?" he asked, as if the concept was something completely incomprehensible.

"Known?" she laughed. "Like in the Bible? No," she said. "I'd never do that. I love him." She leaned her head back then, hearing Edmond say something in Spanish to his friends, and then the sound of another champagne bottle opening, and she knew she needed to sit up and tell him her address, but she needed to rest first. Only for a minute.

She was running down the streets of the neighborhood barefoot, wearing the ruffled shirt and skirt, both soaked in blood. Something unseen was chasing her, something that was evil, but she didn't dare look back, but ran as fast as she could, passing by the porch where she'd sat with Will. Raising her hand, she tried to reach for it, to pull herself onto it, but when she did, the unseen evil grabbed her wrist, and when she wrenched it away she saw her hand was cut open, wide open, and she knew she was going to die. She stopped running then, and the evil thing grabbed her, squeezing her so tightly that her blood began to spurt from her hand, shooting up with a sound like Leon's sprinkler. And then she saw Sybil was there, sitting on the porch swing dressed up like Jackie Kennedy, and she was drinking coffee and laughing.

Maggie woke in a panic. Oh God! Oh no! She wiped at the tears that had sprung to her eyes and looked around the room, her stomach lurching when she saw the clock. Eight-twenty. Almost eight-thirty in the morning. Sunday morning. Oh, God! A wave of panic and lies began rushing through her mind. I'll say the car broke down and I fell asleep waiting for the police or—no—I was really tired and fell asleep. Oh, God!

There was a phone by the bed; Maggie reached for it but hearing the dial tone, hung up. She couldn't call. She'd not only spent the night out, but she didn't even know where she was. Maybe Red Nail's place, but looking around, the room seemed too nice to be a place where she would live. It's Edmond's, then. I must be at Edmond's. Hello, Mom? I got in the car with a strange, handsome man and drank champagne and smoked weed, and I don't really know where I am right now, but I'll be home later. Right. There really was no reason to call. It was over. Life as she knew it had ended the moment she'd stepped into that limousine.

She sat up, trying to concentrate and remember, and was able to work her way up to, but not beyond, the strange argument she'd had with Edmond about her virginity. After that there was nothing, just like the nothing she'd have when she did go home and find Sybil had thrown her belongings in the street. But she did have some money, between what she'd saved and the paycheck in her pocket, and it should be enough to live somewhere for a while. And then it occurred to her if she could get a place, she could also exchange letters with Will, and he could come straight there when he got home. There'll be a knock on the door and he'll be standing there! It was wonderful imagining the two of them alone in their own place after all this time, and far better than having him come to her parents' house. She had looked forward to Sybil's reaction that day, but it wasn't worth it. Will had already faced the enemy overseas, he shouldn't have to do it again at home, or look at, or listen to, her evil witch of a mother ever again. And neither would she now. It was done and there was no helping it. Getting stoned and passing out was a good thing. She should thank Edmond for not keeping his word.

Climbing out of bed, Maggie was taken aback to see her stockings and shoes and purse on a chair by the bathroom door, and quickly checked herself to ascertain nothing else had been removed. It hadn't. She'd not been molested—so much for Sybil's rape 'em and ditch 'em theory. Edmond must have carried me to bed. I know Red Nails didn't. Her face reddened at the idea that Edmond may have removed her pantyhose, but people were always undressing drunks and putting them to bed in the movies, although she'd never understood why. But they always did, so there must be a reason they shouldn't sleep in their clothes. And the thought that Edmond may have undressed her was kind of sexy, and certainly preferable to being raped and left for dead.

The adjoining bathroom was lovely, modern, and clean, and Maggie used it quickly, then grabbed her purse and brushed her hair before walking barefoot across the carpeted floor and opening the bedroom door. The bedroom had been dark, the drapes over the many windows shut tight, but as she crossed the hall to the foyer, she found the living area flooded with sunshine that streamed in through ceiling-to-floor windows. She crossed the long room to them, surprised to discover not only was she on an upper floor, but on the river, its muddy waters not a hundred yards beyond. She was on Emerald Isle, a wealthy neighborhood she had long heard of but never visited. Sybil would give anything to live in a place like this, except she would want them to move the river.

To her right, there was a wall made entirely of brick with a long mantle and fireplace at its center. And beside and above the mantle, there were cuckoo clocks, ticking steadily. Each was slightly different, and as Maggie approached for a closer look, a bird popped out and cuckooed, and in the next moment, the entire wall began erupting in a riot of sound and motion, with the bird popping out followed by a group of its little ones doing a circular dance. Maggie stood entranced. Maybe this wasn't Edmond's place, for why would he have something as whimsical as cuckoo clocks, and in such a large number?

Past the foyer the hall continued, opening into a large kitchen before continuing around the corner. This section of the hall held two doors, and at the end of the hall was a third, whose door was slightly open. Maggie went to it, listening, and hearing nothing, pushed it open a bit more. This bedroom was even darker than her own, yet the light from the hall was sufficient for her to see Red Nails, lying alone and naked in a large, black bed, sprawled above the dark covers with her legs spread. She'd never seen anyone completely naked before—other than in her brother's magazines—and Maggie was shocked at the dark, dense covering of hair on the woman's privates. Biting her lip, she quickly pulled back the door. Red-Nails-Black-and-Hairy was definitely Edmond's girlfriend then, although he hadn't much acted like it last night. But why would he have a girlfriend with such scary looking private parts? Stop it. Why do you even care? You have Will. And Will was every bit as handsome as Edmond, though in a completely different way. As different as night and day.

She knocked softly at the middle door, and turning the knob, found it locked. At the final door, she did the same, and this one opened onto a cozy screened porch with wicker chairs and a ceiling fan. Stepping out, she heard the unmistakable putt-putt of a Volkswagen. It was her car coming up the driveway below, and there was Edmond, walking towards it. He fixed my car! Maggie was all smiles, grateful that on top of everything else, she wouldn't have to find a way home. Edmond had taken the time and expense to fix her car, which now pulled into a parking space beside a gleaming white Corvette. The driver got out, and Maggie watched as Edmond spoke with him. He was just as handsome in the daylight as he'd been last night, his long, blue-black hair, pulled back into a ponytail, glimmered in the morning sun.

As the man who'd brought the car turned to leave, Edmond took his newspaper from its box and turned towards the stairs. Maggie ran back to her bedroom, grabbing her shoes and going into the bathroom. She was putting her hair into a ponytail when he knocked, and upon opening the door, clasped one hand over her mouth, as she hadn't brushed her teeth.

Edmond looked at her a moment, then came in and opened a drawer containing toiletries. "Use whatever you need," he said brusquely. "I will be in the kitchen."

"Thank you," Maggie said as he left.

Is he angry? He sounds angry. Probably because I'm still here. After all, his girlfriend was open for business as it were, and here he was handing out toothbrushes. Maggie tried to imagine it—Edmond in that dark room having sex with Red Nails. But she really wasn't very attractive, and as Maggie brushed her teeth she found herself hoping that if Edmond and Red Nails ever had kids, they would take after their father.

He was at the kitchen counter when she entered, but didn't look up.

"Hey," she said. "I saw you outside. You got my car running."

"It required a new battery," Edmond said, closing the folder on his paperwork. "That was all."

"Oh? That's great," Maggie said stupidly, wondering how much it had cost. "Thank you. I'll have to cash my check to pay you back."

"Did you sleep well?" Edmond asked.

"Yes," Maggie answered, wondering if having passed out for the night really counted as sleep. "So, I wanted to ask you something."

"You blacked out rather suddenly," he said, looking up at her now. "And even if I had knowledge of your address, I felt certain it would have been unwise to deliver you in such a state to your mother."

"Yes," Maggie agreed, imagining it. "Thank you. It was probably for the best. Did you carry me up all those stairs?"

"Yes. I put you to bed."

"Oh," Maggie said, blushing now that her suspicions were confirmed. "I thought maybe Red—your girlfriend, I mean. I thought maybe she did, uh—didn't carry me up the stairs—but maybe took off my hose?" Maggie stammered.

"Girlfriend?" Edmond asked. "Do you mean Tish?"

She meant Red-Nails-Black-and-Hairy, but she could hardly say that. "The one with the dark hair and red nails from the car." And your bed.

Edmond laughed. "She is only a whore," he said matter-of-factly. "All of the women last night were whores."

"What?" Maggie asked, shocked. "They were prostitutes?"

"No," Edmond said, smiling as he carried his glass to the sink. "They are whores. They fuck for pleasure, not money."

Her face turning scarlet, Maggie looked at her feet.

"I have embarrassed you again?" Edmond asked, coming to her. "One would think you really are as innocent as you claimed, especially this morning. You look much like a child."

"Well, I'm not," Maggie said defensively. "I just don't have any makeup on."

He laid his hand on her cheek. "You are as soft as a child, and as fair," he said, lifting her chin to look into her eyes. "Tell me, Marguerite. Why is it that someone who appears to be so innocent is such a liar?"

She was confused, both by his words and his closeness. "I haven't lied to you," she said, looking him in the eyes. At least I don't think I did.

"Ah, Marguerite," he sighed, releasing her chin and turning back to the bar. "But that it were true."

"What? But that what were true?" she asked, both troubled and amused. Edmond's speech was so proper. She'd yet to hear him use a contraction, and he enunciated every word so carefully. This, coupled with his accent, which was far less pronounced than Ricky Ricardo's, made him sound both extremely sophisticated and a little ridiculous. "I told you last night I'd never smoked weed or drank. I remember that," she insisted.

"I speak of your claim to be a virgin," he said, opening the newspaper.

"But I am a virgin," she said, incredulous that he was still pursuing this conversation. "You made me admit it, and now you don't believe me?

"No," he answered. "Having slept on it, I do not."

"Well, I don't care if you believe me or not," Maggie said, flustered, wondering how much time Edmond had actually spent sleeping with a whore in his bed. "But it's still true."

"No," he repeated confidently, shaking his head. "A virtuous woman would not have compromised herself or her reputation as you did, Marguerite," Edmond stated with surety. "And had I not been so foolish as to allow you to charm me into giving my word to protect you, well, suffice it to say, my companions and I would have enjoyed getting to know you much better."

"What?" Maggie asked, not completely certain what he meant, and unable to believe he may have meant what it sounded like he meant.

Edmond leaned closer. "In truth, I am pleased it turned out as it did," he smiled. "It has been too long since I have bedded a woman that at least appeared to be innocent." And taking her hand, Edmond pressed it onto the bulge in his pants.

Maggie jumped back, sending a bar stool tumbling. "What the heck are you doing?" she yelled. "I'm engaged, and you've got a girl in your bed! And even if you don't believe I'm a virgin, what kind of girl do you think would do that with someone they hardly know?"

"A girl who went with strangers," Edmond replied boldly. "A girl who drank and got high with strangers and slept in a stranger's bed. There are only two types of women, Marguerite, whores and ladies. And I must assume you are a whore, judging by your actions."

"You know something?" Maggie asked, feeling both ashamed and disgusted. "You're right. I did do that. For the first time in my life I let my hair down—well, you did that—and I did something I thought was fun. I rode in a fancy car, drank a little champagne, smoked some weed, and I only worked up the courage to do it because you seemed like such a nice guy. But boy, did I get that wrong. And now I'm supposed to be grateful I wasn't passed around like the weed was? Let me tell you something, Edmond Jackson. Going off with you might make me a poor judge of character, but it doesn't make me a whore. You're the whore. And you wouldn't know a decent lady if she slapped that stupid look off your face, which I would really love to do, but I don't hit people." Maggie was shaking as she finished, and lowering her eyes from him, she stepped past him for her purse.

"Will you swear it?" he said, grabbing her hand. "If you will swear your innocence, I may believe you."

"I already told you I was innocent," she said angrily. "Why would I lie about something like that? You only lie when you need to gain something or hide something, and I don't even know you. Now let me go."

Edmond's grip tightened. "What will she do when you arrive home? Your mother?"

"She'll throw me out," Maggie answered. "Knowing Sybil, my stuff's probably already out the door. But I don't care anymore. There's nothing to be done about it, and when Will comes home, it'll just make it easier for us to be together."

"You love this man?"

"Yes. Of course I love him. I'm going to marry him."

"Yet you never lay with him?"

"Why is that so important to you?" she asked. "Is it that strange to find a girl who stops with kissing and waits for rest 'til marriage? You saw and touched more of me than Will ever has when you put me to bed last night. Does that make me some sort of freak to you?" It was a huge, colossal lie that Maggie had wanted to wait to sleep with Will. But telling it to Edmond, whose dark hand still held tightly to her own, made her feel really good.

"You must be quite skilled at kissing," he said, "If that alone satisfies this man."

"Probably more than you," Maggie said. "I've heard that men don't kiss whores."

Edmond's free hand moved to the small of her back, pulling her into him, and the next moment he was kissing her, with lips that were full and soft—and closed. His fingers snapped the band that held her hair, and as it fell he pressed her even closer, and she felt the heat, and the hardness, of his body, and while she knew she should, she didn't pull away. The smell of him, and the feel of him, was intoxicating, and if having him this close was wrong, she was content to be wrong a little longer. "I will kiss you properly if I am convinced of your virtue, Marguerite," he whispered at her mouth. "Let me take you to bed. If you prove to be a virgin, I will truly kiss every part of you."

His kiss was thrilling. He was thrilling, and there was no chance, none at all, that this man, this experienced, confident man, would hesitate to carry her off to bed—again—were she to say yes. And she had the feeling that neither gym teachers, nor Sybil, nor God himself, would stop him from doing it. And all she had to do was say yes. I could say yes. I could let him take me to bed right now and prove it to him. Will said he wanted me to be sure. But sure with a decent man. And Edmond is not a decent man. And I must still be high to even be thinking about it.

Maggie made herself pull away. "I'm not proving anything to you, Edmond," she said quietly. "I've just been alone too long. I shouldn't have let you kiss me. I don't know why I did."

"You allowed it, you responded to it, because you desire me, Marguerite," he said confidently. "Deny it if you will, but I can see it clearly in your eyes."

She looked at him a long moment. Against all reason, he was right. "Maybe I do," she said finally, grabbing her purse and heading towards the door. "Maybe it's been so long since anyone has touched me that—anyway—it's not going to happen. Nothing is going to happen between us. And maybe that's the real difference between ladies and whores. Ladies know how to say no."

"Stay," Edmond said quietly. "I would like it if you would stay."

It was strange. This man she barely knew, this man who had spoken to her so horribly and assumed she was a whore—she was attracted to him in a way she hadn't thought possible. Since Will left, there had been no one she'd felt anything for, and had Will been invisible and standing by her side throughout his absence, he would have found nothing wrong with anything she'd said or done. Until now. And I meet Edmond and a part of me wants him to carry me off to bed. It's all kinds of wrong but it's true. I want to feel the way I know he'd make me feel. I want to feel that close. And it would be so easy to say yes. Just turn around and say yes. And then I'd never see him again, and then I'd really be sure Will was the one I wanted to be with forever, just like he asked me to do.

Red Nails appeared in the kitchen doorway just as Maggie reached it, dressed only in an unbuttoned satin jacket and small, sheer panties through which Maggie could see the dark mass of her hair. She cocked her head to the side, and smiling directly at Maggie, moved her hands to her hips, pushing back her jacket to reveal her naked breasts.

Edmond glanced at her, and then at Maggie, who stood between them. "Stay," he said again. "She is nothing."

Red Nails continued smiling at her, seemingly oblivious to Edmond's appraisal of her worth. It made Maggie feel like throwing up. "Where are my keys?" she asked angrily.

Edmond hesitated, and then crooked his finger at the whore, who pushed past Maggie to go to him.

"Where are they?" Maggie demanded.

Reaching Edmond, Red Nails dropped to her knees before him, turning back to smile at Maggie before laying both hands on his crotch. Maggie glared at them both.

"We both know this is not over, Marguerite. Run away now if you must, but know that I am not a patient man. The keys are in your car."

Maggie turned and ran, slamming the door behind her.

It was nearly an hour before she got home, having stopped for a Coke and the newspaper, which she read in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot while smoking one cigarette after another. Her nerves were shot, whether more from the scene she'd had with Edmond or the one she was about to have with Sybil, it was impossible to decide. Red Nails smiling like a moron after he said she was nothing! And Edmond—how dare he try to sweet talk me with that whore on her knees! Maggie shook her head, trying to forget the way she'd felt in his arms. Maybe that's how Red Nails feels. Maybe she's so lonely she doesn't care how she's treated as long as she has someone to be with and feel close to.

She turned to the classifieds, looking at apartments. There were several apartments listed for under fifty dollars a month, and though the ads didn't say where they were, it didn't matter. The less she spent on a place, the more she'd have to spend on other things, like pretty panties.

Leon's car was gone when Maggie pulled into the yard and reluctantly stepped from her car. Through the screen door she could see Sybil at the kitchen table with her newspaper and coffee, which was foreboding—Sybil never sat with the door open, where just anyone could walk up and look in.

"Hey, mother," Maggie called, attempting to sound casual.

Sybil didn't look up.

"The car quit on the expressway on my way home," Maggie began, talking rapidly and making it up as she went along. "I was walking to the phone, but these boys kept driving past in a red station wagon, and hollering all sorts of nasty things, and I got scared and ran back to the car and locked the door, and—and then I fell asleep. The—the cops woke me up this morning, and I tried to get them to bring me home, but they said I couldn't leave the car there and they had to call a wrecker. And we had to wait on it forever, because there'd been two wrecks, and then when they did come, I had to buy a new battery and sign over my check."

As the lie unfolded, Maggie realized how important it was that Sybil believe her. Getting her own place should be done on her terms, not Sybil's, and not today. She needed time to make a plan and to think it through, just as she should have done with this lie. She should have rehearsed it, instead of wasting time thinking about Edmond. "It would be nice if we had shoe phones like Maxwell Smart," Maggie added with what she hoped was a casual laugh. "I could have called you then, and you wouldn't have worried."

"I wasn't worried, girl," Sybil said nonchalantly.

"Oh," Maggie replied, feeling the sting of Sybil's indifference. "Good." She reached to open the screen door and found it locked. "The door's locked," she announced, shaking the handle.

"That's 'cause you ain't comin' in," Sybil said, looking up.

Maggie met eyes with her. "I'm sorry. I guess I should have just ignored those boys, but I was afraid they'd stop —"

"Looks to me like they did," Sybil countered.

"For God sakes, Mother! I slept in my car!" Maggie exploded, realizing she'd not looked in the mirror since Edmond took down her hair and ran his hands through it. "I'm sorry," she said then, shaking her head. "I'm tired. And I need to use the bathroom. Please let me in."

"I done told you a long time ago, Margaret Rose. I ain't livin' with no whore," Sybil said matter-of-factly, pushing away from the table and standing up. "You done made your bed. Or backseat, or wherever it was you laid last night. You just go on back and lay in it."

"Why won't you believe me, Mother?" Maggie cried. "I haven't done anything wrong."

"You got a receipt for that battery you say you bought?" Sybil asked, coming to the door.

"No," Maggie said hurriedly. "He didn't give me one."

"How much they charge to tow you?"

"Twenty dollars."

"You got that ticket?"

"He didn't give me anything."

"That's what I thought," Sybil said smugly.

"I didn't know," Maggie said, looking up at her. "If I'd known you were supposed to get a receipt I'd have asked them for one. And I can go back and get one now if that's what you want." I can buy a battery.

"You can do whatever you want," Sybil said dismissively, her hand on the doorknob.

"I want to come in and go to my room," Maggie pleaded.

"Except that," Sybil said, starting to close the door.

"Mother, please!" Maggie cried. "If you're going to kick me out, I can't stop you, but I need to get my money and stuff!"

Sybil leaned forward with a twisted, ugly face. "What you need is to leave this minute, Margaret Rose, else I'll be callin' the police to tell them you done gone crazy again and tryin' to break down my door. Is that what you want?" she hissed. "To get locked up with the crazies? Is it? 'Cause if it ain't, you best get your lyin', whorin' self gone from here right now, and I don't mean maybe." And with that, she stepped back, slamming the door and locking it.

Maggie was shaking with disbelief and rage. It had never crossed her mind that Sybil wouldn't even let her in the house. She began beating and kicking at the frame of the door, yelling to be let in, thinking Sybil might relent for fear the whole neighborhood would hear. But maybe that was just what she wanted. Witnesses. Maybe having Maggie out meant even more than the loss of her precious reputation. Sybil had probably stayed up all night thinking this moment through and rehearsing just how it would go. It was what she did best, Maggie knew. And she also knew her chances of beating Sybil at her own game were next to nil.

"I hate you!" Maggie screamed finally. "Do you hear me? I hate you and I wish you would die!" She ran to her car and screeched from the driveway. There was no point in waiting for Leon to come home—his presence wouldn't make any difference. It never had. Edmond. I could go back to Edmond's. But wouldn't he love that? Oh? Back already? I knew you would return. Now take off your clothes and prove you're a virgin. Bastard! Damn him! I'd rather starve!

Pulling over behind the drug store on Paulk Road, Maggie made a quick assessment. She had around thirty dollars in cash from tips, her paycheck, almost a full tank of gas, and the work clothes she was wearing. Besides the odd change that always found its way to the floorboard of her car, that was it. She drove to Gaylord's, one of the few department stores open on Sunday, and, taking a cart, began pushing it through the aisles, trying to decide what she absolutely needed—a pair of jeans, a shirt, sneakers, and a package of panties.

They cashed her check, leaving her with less than twenty dollars. But as she walked to her car, Maggie realized she needed another pair of pantyhose for work, and a toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, and lotion. So she went back in, and seeing a blanket on sale, she bought that, too, as tonight she would be doing exactly what she'd told Sybil she'd done last night—sleeping in her car. And August heat or not, she couldn't sleep without covers.

She had five dollars left from her check when she drove to the Bay station, asking the attendant to top off her tank before getting the bathroom key and changing into her jeans. Then she drove to the 7-11, buying a box of saltines, a Coke, and a bar of Ivory soap before going in search of a laundry to wash her smelly uniform. She was down to her tip money now, and she was wondering whether to buy the small detergent box from the vending machine or go back to the store for a large one when she spied some spilled detergent on the floor. She scraped it into her hand, threw it into the machine, and pushed in her quarters.

It felt as if the past few hours were not her own, like she'd been acting out a script from the Twilight Zone that she hadn't had the chance to read first. With each new page there was a crisis to face or a decision to make, and she was adapting to each the best she could because she had to, yet hoping all the while the unseen director would call cut and it would be over. But he didn't. Instead, she was left sitting in her car, waiting for her clothes to wash and smoking as the camera panned away and 'to be continued' appeared on the screen.

Stay, Marguerite. I want you to stay. We both know this is not over. Edmond's words and the memory of the way she'd felt when they kissed rushed over her, but on its heels came Red Nails on her knees. And I'd be just as big a whore as she is if I went back there.

When her clothes had washed and dried, Maggie realized she had no hanger, or polish for her shoes, or elastic bands for the ponytail required for work—or shampoo, or Kotex. There were so many things she needed, and so little money to buy them. She drove to the library and began searching the card catalog for guidance. But there was nothing. So she went to the reading room, where she remained, her stomach rumbling, for the rest of the afternoon, losing herself in a biography of Eleanor Roosevelt, and glad of her library card. At least she had access to books.

It was nearly ten when Maggie returned to Paulk Road Baptist for the first time in nearly two years, parking her car in the lot behind the youth center long after the last of the evening worshippers had left. She hadn't planned on coming here—she'd driven past her parent's house, which was completely dark, and then by Will's parents a half dozen times, wishing she had the nerve to go to their door. But what would she say? That she'd failed to come home last night and Sybil had kicked her out, but it was all completely innocent? No–because it wasn't completely innocent. She'd let Edmond kiss her, and she'd kissed him back. So while she could lie to his parents, even end up spending the night in Will's big bed, the thought made her feel dirty, and she couldn't go to Will's parents feeling that way.

Maggie was exhausted, and taking the blanket from the bag, she tucked it around herself as best she could, then rolled down the window to the night, laying her head on her arms and staring at the spot where Will used to park. In her mind, she could see them together—getting into his car after church, coming down the back steps of the youth center, standing with the others in prayer circle. If she turned her head just a bit, she could see the spot where he'd shot her dead on the volleyball court, and as far as the corner where they'd turned on their first walk into the darkened church on the night of their first kiss. She'd thought about looking for the key and letting herself in, but quickly decided against it. She had no desire to be in the church without Will. Were this a movie, she would enter the sanctuary hopeless and alone and frightened, but then Will would appear and take her in his arms, and all would be right with the world again. But it wasn't a movie, so she'd stay in her car and wait.

She'd been waiting now for almost two years. Two years. She'd had to hide Will's ring permanently shortly after the beginning of senior year. Sybil had seen it around her neck, forcing Maggie to quickly invent a story of how she'd found it that very day on the sidewalk leaving school, now that she was being allowed to walk again, and was turning it in to lost and found in the morning.

"It's a pretty thing," she'd said. "Maybe no one will claim it and they'll let you keep it, but likely someone's sure missin' that." Maggie sealed it in an envelope and taped it beneath her dresser drawer the same day, where it could stay a hundred years without anyone knowing it was there, and where it would remain safe, even if she were gone.

If only Will were here now. If only he'd come driving up in his black Charger and rescue her—but he wasn't. She didn't know where he was or when he was goin to come back, and the only way to know would be to go to his parents and ask. But since she'd gotten her car, and the freedom it afforded her, knowing that she could just make a phone call, or go to his parent's house and knock—she'd been afraid. For what if everything she believed to be true wasn't true at all? What if Will had changed his mind about her? Or something had happened to him? But Maggie knew that if something had happened, it would be in the bulletin, and Sybil would have red-circled it and taped it on the refrigerator, as she still got the bulletins every Thursday. They had never quit coming, as Sybil once claimed, and Maggie had long since found the ones from that terrible summer, bound with rubber bands, and stuffed beneath the tablecloths in the buffet drawer.

And now, with what she had felt today with Edmond, she had to wonder. What if Will had felt the same way with another girl? She hadn't believed it could ever happen—that she could feel that way kissing someone else. But she had. And while she never intended to do it again, she would have to understand if Will did. Especially if the girl was right there in front of him, and beautiful. Men had needs, and Will had prayed his away for so long that, when he'd left, he was about to bust with the needing. And if those needs were being met by someone else, perhaps one of those pretty German girls with blonde hair, like so many men had brought home from the last war, could she blame him? After she had considered—albeit briefly—how good it would have felt to say yes to Edmond today, when she'd only known him a few hours?

Stop! I didn't do anything wrong. At least not so wrong I should make myself miserable thinking Will's run off with a girl. He told me to do what I did. And if he does it too, it won't mean he isn't coming back.

Maggie's world had revolved around Will's return for so long, she didn't think she could survive it if she learned it wasn't going to happen. It was better not to ask any questions. Not to knock on any doors. She would know when Will came back, because he would come to Paulk Road and park right where he always did. Of this, Maggie was certain.

The Blood of the Lamb

1971

9

People can adapt to most any situation given time; in many ways, Maggie found she was happier living in her car than she'd ever been at home. The sun's rays woke her silently each morning—this in sharp contrast to the violence of Sybil's clanging pans and the harsh voice of the aging contralto. There was fresh air available at the crank of a handle, and the ceaseless songs of the crickets and cicadas lulled her to sleep each night. And while she missed the convenience and comfort of accessible plumbing and refrigeration, she found living apart from Sybil—even in her car—gave her such a feeling of freedom and peace, that the inconveniences seemed almost trivial—at least in the beginning.

Maggie wanted desperately to get back in the house for her things, especially Will's ring. She'd never had a house key, and as far as she knew, none were hidden. She'd thought about breaking in when Sybil wasn't home, but the only windows accessible without a ladder were those to her room, and any number of the neighbors—most especially the Owens—might hear or see her breaking out windows, and she had no desire to add burglar to her less than stellar reputation, which was sure to reach the ears of Will's parents. As for Leon, Maggie had spent a great deal of time thinking of her father, wondering if she should try and find his work number, or drive to the gates of the post and ask someone to tell her where he was. She did love him, but other than her car, she had little to show for it. Leon was weak. He was as weak as Sybil was mean. Had he not been, had he been strong enough to stand up to Sybil, theirs might have been a happy family. There were no fathers like Leon on TV—no programs where Mom ruled the roost and Dad cowered quietly in the corner. But none of the Dads on TV were drunks, either, and it was the drinking that made Leon the way he was. Maggie knew he must be sitting alone in his room drinking even now, wishing this and that had been different. But he'd made his choice, and now she made hers. Leon really didn't deserve to hear from her, to have the worry she knew he felt for her put at ease. She wasn't at ease, so why should he be? So Maggie pushed Leon to the back of her mind for now, at least until Will came home, when she could go to her father as an adult, married woman.

Maggie told no one of her situation. There was no one to tell, except her employer, to whom she lied. The story was that she'd gone to stay with an aunt and uncle who didn't have a phone, as her mother was suffering from a nervous condition that required absolute quiet. Bianca was sympathetic, having already noted that Maggie, while still a prompt and dependable employee, wasn't quite as together as she'd been previously. But she was still together.

Every morning, Maggie went to the coin-op to wash her work clothes, passing the time by eating whatever she had for breakfast and reading. Afterwards she would window shop, or visit the park, or sit by the banks of the river. On Wednesday and Friday afternoons, Maggie paid fifty cents for admission to one of the city pools, using their showers to bathe, shave, and wash her hair. She would have loved to swim, but didn't have money for a suit, and didn't know how. She went to the library on Tuesdays and Thursdays, sometimes napping in one of the large overstuffed chairs by the window in the reading room. And on her days off—she hated her days off—Maggie would go for a drive out of town if she had enough gas, or return to the library to spend the day, or to the park to feed the ducks with old pizza crusts she'd collected at work before sitting beneath a shady tree to read. Having books to read were her greatest happiness, and she'd even bought a flashlight so she could read before sleeping, but this burned through batteries too quickly, and she had to give it up.

She had driven to Auburn early on to look for Michael. But having no idea where he lived, or where he attended classes, she settled on trying to find his car—and had no luck with that. She finally admitted to herself that she wasn't sure she wanted him to know her situation. He was living his life—all on his own and with a steady girl—and despite all he'd said, having his baby sister move in with him would only complicate things. It was good enough to know she could go to him if things were to get really bad, but there was no reason to do it now.

Living in a small, black car in August, in Georgia, meant dealing with frequent thunderstorms, tornado warnings, excessive heat and humidity, gnats, flies, and mosquitoes. But these things had always been a fact of Maggie's life, and she dealt with them. What she hadn't dealt with before was food poisoning. At work, she could eat for half-price but seldom did, though she occasionally would sneak a slice of a customer's uneaten pizza. The rest of the time she ate saltines, peanut butter, or Cheerios, which she kept a supply of in the back seat of her car. Occasionally, on the nights when her tips were really good, she'd stop at 7-11 after work for a hot sandwich and a pint of cold milk. She'd only bought the tuna sandwich on Saturday night because she'd never eaten tuna, as Sybil hated tuna, and it was marked at half price. And it might have been fine had she eaten it immediately, but she didn't. She'd tossed it into the back seat and forgotten about it until lunchtime Sunday. When she unwrapped it, she didn't like the smell, but fish was supposed to be smelly, and a dollar was a dollar, and it tasted fine.

By dark, Maggie was sick. The stomach cramps she attributed to having gotten her period the day before grew progressively worse, and as the two gas stations she frequented were closed on Sunday nights, she went to the Waffle House, ordering a Coke and running back and forth from her stool at the counter to the bathroom. The waitresses were wonderful, settling her in a booth and bringing dry toast and cold cloths for her extraordinarily pale face. But then the manager came in, and seeing her with her head on the table, ordered her out. Maggie left a dollar apiece for the waitresses who helped her, and as she was getting in her car, one of them came running out, saying she'd call ahead to the Waffle House downtown so they could look out for her, and stuffing the money she'd left back into Maggie's hand.

That night, early morning, and most of the day Monday, Maggie spent in one public restroom after another, and by the time she returned to Paulk Road late Monday night, she was exhausted, dehydrated, and armed with two rolls of toilet paper she'd taken from her last stop. She'd had to take it, as sometime during the past twenty-four hours, she'd lost her wallet. She had no money now, and her driver's license and library card were also gone. But she was too weary tonight to think about it more. She desperately needed to sleep, and to get well enough to be able to work so she could begin to replace what she'd lost. If there was anything left inside her stomach wanting out tonight, she'd just have to leave it beside her car.

As if in answer, Maggie felt her bowels liquefy again, and despite her vow, cranked up her car once more. Tears were streaming down her face as she pulled onto the road in yet another quest for an open public toilet, and it was then she made a decision. Tomorrow she would go to Will's parents. She couldn't do this alone anymore. It was time to ask for help.

He had to knock repeatedly on the window to wake her. Maggie heard the knocking, but in her dream she was trapped with Sybil in Will's bathroom, and the knocking was coming from the bathroom door.

"Margaret Head! Margaret! Wake up!"

She opened her eyes to see Reverend Whitehead's face. Her windows, usually left open, had been closed during the night when she was chilled. Maggie looked at her watch, which read eight-thirty, and she could hear the traffic moving along Paulk Road. But she was still so tired, so it must be a dream. She closed her eyes again.

"Margaret Head! Wake up! Unlock the door!"

Maggie opened her eyes and saw Reverend Whitehead again, looking worried and old. She smiled at him, licking her dry lips, and rolled her window down a few inches. It was an effort.

"Hey," she said with a raspy voice.

"Margaret, what are you doing? Why are you sleeping in this car?"

"Oh," she said, reaching for a satisfactory answer. "I locked myself out of my house."

"You locked yourself out?" he asked skeptically.

"Yes, sir. My parents went out of town to see somebody sick," she lied badly. It was too much of an effort, as she lacked the energy to formulate a proper lie. So she stopped, leaning her head against the glass.

"Unlock the door, Margaret," he said. "Come inside and let's get you some food."

She felt as if she was dreaming, walking down the long hall again, only this time with the lights on and escorted by Reverend Whitehead, who had his hand on her back. When they passed the spot where she imagined she and Will had been that long ago night, she stopped, leaning against the wall and remembering, and he had to take her arm to get her going again.

"I'd ask if you were drunk except I know I'd smell it if you were," he said when they reached the kitchen. "Sit down now and let's talk," he said, pulling out a chair.

"Thanks. You're so nice," Maggie said, smiling as she remembered how Will had pulled out a chair for her. "And I haven't been drinking, sir. I don't drink. I've just been sick."

"I can see that," he replied. "Let me get you some juice."

He took a cardboard box from the cupboard, removing a bottle from the many bottles within, and poured a small glass of juice. It was the blood of the lamb, Maggie knew, that Brother Whitehead placed before her. And though she was thirsty, she was hesitant to drink.

"Do you want some crackers?" he asked, reaching into the same cabinet where the flesh of Christ, apparently, was also kept. "I'm afraid there's not anything else. Suzanne just cleaned out the Frigidaire, and won't go shopping again 'til Wednesday."

"Yes. Thank you," Maggie answered.

"How long have you been sleeping in your car, Margaret?" he asked, shaking the soup crackers into a bowl and sitting beside her.

It was August thirty-first. She'd been living in her car since August eighth, a little more than three weeks.

"Since last night," she lied.

"Margaret," he said, leaning forward. "We may be in the kitchen, but we're still in the house of the Lord."

Maggie lifted the glass and drank, considering her degree of peril as the liquid soothed her parched throat. "My mother kicked me out a month ago," she said, deciding her luck had been bad enough without adding wrath.

"Good Lord," he said compassionately. "Why'd she do that?"

"It's—it's complicated," Maggie answered, finishing her juice,

"Families usually are," he said, rising. "Let's get you some more."

"Thank you."

Now Maggie began gobbling up the crackers, and seeing this, Reverend Whitehead brought the box to the table.

"I might have some soup," he said, going again to the cabinet.

"No," Maggie said. "Thank you, but I don't want to risk seeing soup a second time."

He sighed, taking his seat. "Margaret, are you using drugs?"

Maggie stopped eating and looked at him. "No," she said hurtfully. "Why would you ask that? Can't you see I'm sick?"

"Forgive me, Margaret, but you look bad—pale and skinny and your eyes all sunk in—and your hair," he hesitated, looking at his hands. "And you—you have an odor. You're unclean, child."

Maggie backed away from him, embarrassed to the point of tears. "I shower. I shower every time I can afford to. I've just been sick—that's why I'm like this. And I don't do drugs, preacher," she sniffed. "Drugs are stupid, and I'm not stupid."

"I know you're not stupid, Margaret" he said, handing her his handkerchief. "But sometimes smart people do stupid things when they're in a bad situation, and that's just where you are." He took her hand. "Let's pray for God's guidance, and then I want you to go to your mother and father and ask them to forgive you, and let you come home."

She wanted to tell him he didn't have a clue. But how could she? Reverend Whitehead was a dear old man who believed life really was that simple. Trust in God, say a prayer, and everything would be fine. But Maggie knew better. Even if she showed up at Sybil's door with the preacher in tow, it wouldn't change anything, except that Sybil would get another chance to hone her lying skills.

"I'll think about it," Maggie said, withdrawing her hand and standing to avoid the prayer.

Reverend Whitehead had never experienced anyone refusing to pray with him, much less a young girl. "You need to give this over to God, Margaret," he said. "Just like you did when you were younger, and you and our William would sing on Sunday nights. I still think about those days."

Oh my God! Will! He'll know where Will is!

Maggie all but pounced. "Have you heard from him?" she asked with great excitement. "Do you know where he is? Is he all right?"

"Oh, yes," he answered, taken back by her sudden change in mood. "He's still in the infantry. You do know he went in the Army?"

Do I know? "Yes," she said quickly. "But do you know where he is and when he's coming home?"

"William was in Washington, D.C., when he last wrote to me about a month ago."

His were the sweetest words she'd heard in almost two years. Will was in Washington! Oh God! He's not in the war. He's practically home. Her relief at hearing those words made her absolutely giddy.

"Can I have his address?" she asked quickly, unable and unwilling to contain her excitement. "Is there a phone number? Have you got a pen?"

Reverend Whitehead was old, but he wasn't dead. Maggie was animated and practically breathless, much as his own daughters had been at one time or another when they'd fancied themselves in love. Puppy love. "Margaret," he began. "I know you and our William were friends, and that he was very kind to you when you had so many troubles. I always believed the Lord put him in your path for that very reason."

Maggie nodded anxiously, waiting for his answer.

"How old are you now, child?"

"Sixteen," she replied tersely.

"Is that all?" he asked, stalling as he chose his words. "I knew William was quite a bit older than you. He's finished school, and he's been in the Army some time now, fighting in that war, while you're still just a young school girl," he observed solicitously, patting her hand.

Maggie chose not to correct him, as she was anxious for him to finish.

"What I'm saying is our Will's a grown man, child," he continued, clearing his throat. "It's only natural he would find a grown woman to love and settle down with. God wants that for all his children."

Her mind seemed to abruptly shut down as she stood staring at Reverend Whitehead, and she felt an overwhelming urge to run from the room so as to not hear any more. "What are you talking about?" she asked, her voice little more than a whisper.

"Our William is getting married," he blurted now, eager to rip the bandage and have it done. "He wrote that she was a good Christian girl, and I suppose there are good Christians in Washington, D.C.," he said in an attempt at humor. "He's planning on marrying her right here when he gets back home."

Maggie could feel the blood drain from her face even as the bile rose to her throat. With great effort, she stood and staggered on heavy legs to the kitchen counter as the violent retching began, heaving wave upon wave of the deep purple blood and undigested cracker flesh into the sink. Reverend Whitehead sat open mouthed and uneasy, wanting to fault her illness, rather than his revelation, with hitting the girl like a fist in the stomach. But he knew better.

"Dear Lord," he mourned as he quickly came to her, pulling her hair back and holding it while reaching for a towel. "Forgive me, child. I knew you had feelings for William—all of you young girls did. I shouldn't have said anything. Not in the shape you're in."

Her stomach emptied, Maggie continued to retch in great, dry heaves until the spasms stopped, and then, with trembling hands, she turned on the water, rinsing her mouth and the sink before slowly raising her head and taking the towel. "It's all right," she whispered hoarsely, pressing the cloth to her mouth as she looked at him, disturbed by the pain in his eyes. "It's not your fault. I think it must be why I'm here." She looked around blankly, trying to decide what to do with the vomit-soiled towel, and finding no place suitable to put it, kept it pressed to her mouth as she ran from the room.

She heard him call after her, but her mind was too full to make out his words. A good Christian girl. Of course she's a good Christian girl. That's what he needs. Not me. It was never going to be me. I knew that. I always knew. At the spot where they'd stood that long ago night, she stopped again, reaching out as if to touch the ghosts she knew were there. The ghost of the Will who'd loved her, or at least pretended to for a time, and her ghost—the ghost of the girl who believed him. And now? Now she might as well be a ghost, as the promise of lasting love that had sustained her life so long had died back in the kitchen, and was vomited up and washed away along with the blood and flesh of the lamb.

She'd been on a two-lane highway heading south about half an hour when Maggie pulled into a small Bay station. Her pale, drawn face and filthy appearance seemed natural when she saw it in the bathroom mirror, not startling her as it had the attendant, who pumped gas with the last of her money the Waffle House waitresses returned. She'd had the radio turned up loud, busying her mind with the music and smoking one cigarette after another since leaving the church. But now as Maggie returned to the road the station turned to static and the last of her cigarettes were gone. She could no longer avoid thinking of Will.

He was standing before the altar at Paulk Road, at his side a beautiful girl, as blonde and good and perfect as he was. She'd have to be beautiful. She'd have no scars on her hands, and her family, and even her heart, would be perfect. A perfect Christian heart. Will and Miss Blonde Perfect would vow their love for always and forever and no matter what, because what they had was something more than love. It was perfection. And they would laugh when Will carried her across the threshold to his room afterwards and laid her on his big bed, and loved her in the perfect way he'd refused to love me. But he couldn't love me like that, because I wasn't perfect. Will needs someone perfect, and someone who loves God the way he does. I was never that girl and was never going to be that girl. And he knew it. He always knew.

For the past few miles she'd followed signs leading to Providence Canyon, and now she came upon the turn into a gravel lot. There were no other cars present, and no indication of other visitors on that cloudy Tuesday morning as Maggie parked and walked along the tree-lined, gravel path, following the signs to the overlook. There, at the edge of the cliff, she leaned with both hands against a short wooden fence, looking into the canyon below and wondering how such a beautiful place could exist so close to home, and she'd never known it.

Providence. Destiny. Fate. She closed her eyes to the warm breeze whipping her hair. Maybe in this episode our heroine has lost everything and can't go on. It's just too hard. Maybe this scene is the one where she walks back towards the trees, then turns and runs as fast as she can and jumps the fence, falling with her arms open, eager to embrace the ground.

"You by yourself?"

Maggie jumped, then turned to find a uniformed park policeman standing directly behind her. Why didn't I hear him coming?

"Yes, sir," she answered.

"You high?"

"No, sir," Maggie said, shaking her head. "I don't do drugs."

"You sure?"

"Yes, sir," Maggie insisted.

"You thinking about jumping?"

"No, sir," she lied, looking down as she shook her head.

"How old are you?"

"Eighteen," she lied again.

"You got I.D?"

"Yes, sir," she lied a third time. "It's in my car."

"The black Volkswagen?"

"Yes, sir."

"Are you sick? You look like you're sick."

"Yes, sir."

"What's wrong with you?"

"I ate a bad tuna sandwich."

"When was that?"

"Sunday."

"What day is today?"

"Tuesday?" she asked uncertainly.

"It's Tuesday," he agreed. "Have you eaten anything since the tuna?"

"I ate breakfast with my preacher today," she said, meeting his eyes.

"Your preacher?"

"Well, he was my preacher when I was younger, but not anymore."

"You gave it up?"

"Yes," she replied honestly. "It didn't work out. Not for me."

"I see." He took Maggie's elbow, leading her away from the fence. "You don't smell too good. You need to get a bath and some fresh clothes on. I think there's a real pretty girl underneath there somewhere."

Maggie looked at her feet uncomfortably, and when he reached for his wallet and withdrew a twenty, she backed away.

"Take it," he said, holding out the bill, "I want you to get cleaned up and get something good to eat."

"I don't want your money," she answered nervously.

"Listen," he said, moving closer. "What's your name?"

"Maggie."

"Maggie who?"

"Maggie Jackson," she lied, unsure why she'd used Edmond's name.

"I want you to listen, Maggie Jackson," he said, laying his hand on her shoulder. "This canyon isn't going anywhere. It's been here a long time, and it'll still be here tomorrow, and the day after that, and I can't always be here to stop you if you want to jump. But I'm here now, and it's as clear as the nose on that dirty face that you're lying to me, and I could arrest you for that. But I don't want to arrest you, Maggie. And I don't want you to die here, either. You're young yet. It's not your time."

Maggie stared at the uniformed stranger. He was neither tall nor handsome, and he didn't have great eyes or skin or teeth or anything that would distinguish him from a hundred other men. But his eyes were kind, his voice soothing, and his words made her feel like she mattered.

"How did you know I was thinking about jumping?" she asked past the lump in her throat. "People come here all the time to look over, right? It's an overlook."

He took her hand and closed it over the twenty. "I saw you pull in. I saw your face. And I saw your heart was broken. Thinking you might jump was the logical next step."

Maggie turned away, wiping the tears from her eyes. "You remind me of my brother," she said, turning back. "Swooping in to save me."

He smiled. "We're all our brother's keepers, Maggie."

"Okay, but don't make your showing up a God thing," she said, returning his smile. "You being here I mean. "Cause if there is a God, he's no fan of mine."

"I don't know about that," he said. "But I do know you should get out of here before I change my mind."

"Yes, sir. Thank you."

"Maggie?

"Sir?

"They say whatever doesn't kill us makes us stronger. Prove them right."

She turned and ran down the path, wondering as she reached the empty parking lot where he'd left his car. She hadn't noticed a nametag and he'd never said his name, and she lingered a few moments, waiting to see him appear on the path, but he never did. By the time she roared back onto the highway, she would have thought it was all a dream if not for the twenty-dollar bill she had clutched in her hand.

Just after seven, Maggie pulled into her parents' driveway and knocked on the screen to their bedroom window. Walter Cronkite should have just signed off, and Leon would be in his bedroom recliner, reading.

"Margaret!" he said, holding open the door, "I'm so glad to see you. Thank goodness you're all right."

He wasn't drunk, it being a weekday, and his embrace, though brief, felt wonderful. She loved her father. And while she would never, ever want a father like Leon for her own children, he was her dad, and compared to Sybil, a saint of the highest order.

"Hey, Daddy."

"You've come home?" he asked nervously, searching her pale blue eyes with his own.

"No, Daddy," Maggie said. "You know I can't do that."

"But you're all right?" he asked again, looking her over. "You have someplace to live? Are you getting enough to eat? You're so skinny."

"I have a place to sleep. And I've been sick is all," she said. "But I'm better now. Where is she?"

"In the bathroom. You gonna try and talk to her?"

"No. I just came by to get my stuff."

"Then you best get it quick," he said, closing the door. "She's not gonna be happy you're here."

"I know. I love you, Daddy," she said, hugging him again.

"I love you, too, Chicken," he said, his voice breaking. "I wish there was something I could do."

You could kick her out. You could kick her out and I can learn to cook, and we can eat together and talk about our days, and play cards, and watch TV, and go bowling, and have people over, and open all the curtains and be happy. And when Will comes home, we can all be happy here together. And you won't need to drink anymore.

But Maggie didn't speak her thoughts. "I know, Daddy," she said instead. "It's okay. Don't worry."

Leon went into his room, closing the door, and Maggie headed for hers, surprised to see a new air conditioner in the living room window, still bearing its price tag, the sound and the cool of it giving the tired old house a sense of newness. Still, Sybil's magazines lay stacked as always beside the couch, the shade of her reading lamp remained perpetually askew, and on television, the weatherman was tossing his chalk.

In the hall, the bathroom door was closed, the light visible underneath as Maggie opened the door to her room. The hot, still air hit her in the face immediately, and Maggie came in and closed the door. Save for the furniture and her Bible, her room was bare, having been stripped of the few things that had made it hers. Maggie dropped to her knees immediately and pulled out the bottom dresser drawer, sighing with relief as she felt the envelope that held Will's ring. Always and forever and no matter what hadn't happened, but as she ripped open the envelope and placed the leather shoelace around her neck, Maggie knew one thing would never change. She still loved Will. She would always love him. And he had at least thought he loved her once. His precious ring was her proof.

She had just replaced the drawer when Sybil appeared at the door. For a moment, Maggie imagined she saw sadness in her mother's eyes, and she had a fleeting imagining of Sybil holding out her arms to her. But that wasn't going to happen.

"You sure gone downhill fast," Sybil said as Maggie stood.

"I've been sick." Maggie replied. "Thanks for noticing."

"You sure been somethin'. Looks like you been diddled and left for dead more than a time or two."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Maggie asked, her eyes filling with tears. "It would suit you just fine if someone slit my throat and raped me while I was sleeping in my car."

"You had a bed," Sybil said coldly. "You had it made here, and you just threw it away."

"I had it made?" she returned. "How exactly was that, Mother? When did I ever have it made in this house?"

"I told you not to come back, and I meant it. Now get out."

"I'm going," Maggie said. "I just need my stuff."

"You don't have no stuff," Sybil said, yanking open the closet door.

It was empty except for a sack containing the remains of the Frankenskirts. Maggie stood staring. Even her raincoat was gone. "Did you go completely insane? Where are my clothes?"

"Ain't no daughter of mine gonna whore with clothes I put on her," Sybil said.

"Did you throw away all my things?" Maggie yelled, pulling open one empty drawer after another. Everything was gone, from her underwear to her school papers. "Did you throw my diploma out?"

"I put that on the mantle with your shot record and birth certificate, girl. Everything else went in the garbage or to the Goodwill."

Maggie grabbed her dusty Bible from where it lay on the dresser and quickly rifled through it. "You take the money that was in here, too?"

"You talkin' about that fifty-dollar bill?"

"It was my birthday money from Daddy."

"And just what in the hell did you give your daddy worth fifty dollars?" Sybil demanded. "You ain't got nothin' worth that."

"You're a sick, horrible person," Maggie said, repulsed. This time she sensed the blow coming, and turned her head in time to lessen its impact. Still, her cheek burned with the imprint of Sybil's hand.

"And you're a filthy whore. Now get out of my house!"

There was no reason to stay. Her clothes were gone, her money was gone, and Sybil had gone completely insane. Maggie brushed past her into the hall and went to their bedroom, where Leon lay stretched out on the recliner with his eyes closed, feigning sleep.

"I'm leaving, Daddy," she said as she bent to kiss him.

"I told you to leave him be!" Sybil screamed, grabbing Maggie's hair and pulling.

She twisted and swung, hitting Sybil in the face with her Bible, the hardback King James Version she'd been given upon being baptized. Sybil screamed, releasing Maggie's hair as she dropped to the floor, holding her bloody nose and howling.

Leon jumped up. "Go," he said before bending down to the wailing Sybil. "I love you, Chicken. And I'm sorry."

Maggie watched as he dropped to a crouch in front of her mother, then turned and left. In the living room she took her papers from the mantle, then, eyeing Sybil's three-foot stack of magazines, kicked them over and stomped on their covers. It was nothing. It was childish. But between the stomping and hearing Sybil crying in pain, she felt a tiny bit better. And with her Bible still in her hand, she left.

Sardines for Breakfast

10

Her mother's disgusting accusations had a definite impact on Maggie. She had never felt so dirty or in need of a bath. The pool was closed, so she drove to the nearest of her usual gas stations, getting the bathroom key and asking the attendant to top off her tank. Locking the door, she laid her bag on the floor and stripped. There was no hot water, so she turned on the cold and stuck her head in the sink, wetting it the best she could before pouring on shampoo. She shivered as the cold, sudsy water ran down her body, and gathering the lather onto her washcloth, commenced a quick scrubbing. Sybil was even more sick and twisted now than she'd been before, and Maggie was determined to have no trace of her mother remain.

As she was rinsing, there was a knock at the door. "Just a minute!" she yelled. Maggie squeezed the water from her hair, then dried off and wrapped the towel around her head. The knocking continued as she pulled on fresh panties and the shirt and skirt of her uniform, skipping the hose and bra, which smelled of sick. Her shirt clung to her damp body as she hurriedly towel-dried her hair, and as the knocking became more insistent, Maggie threw her things in her bag and, grabbing her shoes, opened the door.

A pretty girl in a snow white mini-dress and boots stood glaring. "What in the hell are you doing in here?" she demanded. "I've been knocking for five minutes!"

"Sorry," Maggie said. "I had an accident and needed to wash. The floor's wet, so be careful."

"Fucking freak," the girl snarled, and snatching the key from Maggie's hand, pushed past her. Walking away, Maggie heard her scream as she fell, and walked a little faster to her car.

It was busy at work, even for a Friday night, and Maggie was bringing take-out orders to the register when she recognized the man at the counter as one of the guys from Edmond's limousine.

"Hey, you're that redhead girl we picked up," he said loudly.

Maggie immediately scanned the crowd, some of whom were waiting outside. Is he here? "Right. You stopped when my car died," she said, by way of explanation for anyone who might have overheard. Is he outside?

"He's not here," the man laughed, reading her face. "Eddman doesn't make food runs. It's Marguerite, right? That's your name?"

"It's Maggie," she said as she rang up his order.

"If you say so. I'm Alex, remember?" he asked, leaning in. "So Maggie, how about you and me getting together for some fun after you finish tonight? I got some fine smoke. What time do you get off?"

She'd become accustomed to pickup lines, but this one was particularly unappealing. "No, thanks," she said firmly. "I'm engaged, remember?" she said, holding her hand up to show Will's ring. She'd been wearing it since the night of its rescue, and telling those who asked that it was a family heirloom, given to her by her aunt.

"Being engaged didn't stop you from fuckin' Eddman," he whispered coarsely as she handed over his change.

"Did he tell you that?" she demanded.

"He didn't have to," Alex replied with a smile. "I know Edmond." He took a twenty from his open wallet and laid it on the counter, pushing it towards her. "And don't worry, Maggie, I won't tell Eddman or your soldier boy about us. How about eleven out front?"

Maggie shoved the sack containing his order across the counter at him, sending the twenty fluttering onto the floor as she disappeared through the doors into the kitchen, red-faced and angry. When she returned a few minutes later with a new order, Alex was gone, but the twenty-dollar tip lay on the counter. She considered ripping it up on principle, but principle didn't buy food, so she put it in her pocket.

It was after two a.m. when Maggie locked up. Bianca understood about her missing work Tuesday, even nodding along and asking questions as Maggie spun an elaborate tale about being lost in Providence Canyon until a park policeman saw her car and came to the rescue. She didn't even dock her pay. And when she asked if Maggie wanted to earn extra cash waxing the cafe floors after hours, she'd eagerly agreed. But for three nights now she'd been at it, working on her hands and knees for hours before closing up. It was a much harder task than she'd expected, especially given her diet of crackers and Coke, and only yesterday the drugstore scales said she'd lost twelve pounds since leaving home, five of them in the past week. She needed money, and she needed it now. School had begun on Wednesday, which meant the closing of the pools and thus her access to their showers. She'd thought about the YMCA, but the modest membership fee was more than she could afford, so until she found another solution, she'd have to get by with sink baths. Wouldn't Sybil be proud?

Maggie's sleeping situation had also been disrupted. Not only had she gotten less sleep due to her extra work hours, but since Tuesday, she'd overnighted in three different spots—a residential street, the alley behind Piggly Wiggly, and the parking lot behind the Lutheran church. But sleep didn't come easy in these unfamiliar places where she was afraid to leave the window down and awoke at every sound. Even so, Maggie had vowed never to return to Paulk Road. Even if she could avoid Reverend Whitehead, whom she was certain would be watching for her, the church and its grounds held too many memories that she was too fragile to deal with. It would be unwise to go back.

Since her strange encounter at the canyon, Maggie had devised a way to think about Will, as it was impossible not to, without unleashing the pain that had almost sent her headfirst over the cliff. She decided that Will had never been real, that he was a once-upon-a-time fantasy character she'd created in order to make her life better than it was for a while in the same way characters from her favorite books, movies, and television shows had done. In the same way Walter Cronkite had done. It was fantasy, but fantasy was something with which Maggie was intimately familiar. Fantasy had gotten her through hard times before, and it would do the same now. And all it required was for her to believe.

The Volkswagen had been slow to start the past few days, and as it had the new battery Edmond bought, Maggie didn't have a clue what was wrong. She knew she needed to have it looked at, but if she had extra cash, her first obligation would be to find a way to repay Edmond.

Even had she not been so tired and lost in thought, it is unlikely Maggie would have noticed Edmond on the dimly lit street where she'd parked. Dressed in a black shirt and pants, he waited beside his white Corvette, parked a half block up from her Volkswagen, until he heard her approaching. He then concealed himself behind the adjoining cars, making his way behind her as she got in and closed the door. She was taking down her hair when he knocked at her window.

She screamed.

"What have I told you about walking the streets at night?" he demanded at the closed window.

"Are you trying to scare me to death?" she yelled as she rolled the window down. Speak of the devil and here he is. Alex told him.

"What if I had been a rapist?" Edmond asked. His long hair was unbound and shiny as he squatted by the car. "What if I had been waiting for a woman to walk this street alone?"

"Then I'd think you were really smart for picking someone who's too tired to fight," she returned with a laugh.

"Being clever will be of no use to you when your throat is slit, Marguerite," he scolded. "Read the papers. There are some truly terrible things happening in this town."

"You're right," she said, feeling chastised. Even without reading the papers or watching the news, the violence happening in Columbia that summer was a topic of conversation most everywhere.

"It is after two in the morning, and you have no business being out alone," he continued. "And why do you scrub their floors?"

He was watching me? "I don't know, Edmond," she returned sarcastically, angry that he had spied on her. "Maybe because they pay me to do it, and I need the money?" That's why he's here. For his money.

"Such work is highly inappropriate for a young woman," Edmond said. "Why does your father allow it?"

"My father?" she asked in confusion.

"Your father is living?"

"Yes, he's living—but he doesn't make my decisions for me. I've only seen him once all summer," she said indignantly, picking up the scent of Edmond's cologne, and painfully aware that, once again, she reeked, though this time of floor wax and ammonia. "I don't live with them anymore, anyway. My mother threw me out like I told you she would."

"And your father allowed this?"

"Allowed it?" she asked. "My mother runs that house, Edmond. She always has. Dad has no say in anything."

Edmond looked disgusted, dropping his head to mumble in Spanish what Maggie took to be a long string of obscenities.

"And how I support myself is none of your business or my dad's," she continued. "I need the money. I owe you money." She didn't know exactly what he'd spent on the battery, but the guys in the kitchen said it shouldn't be more than thirty dollars. "I get paid tomorrow, so if you want to come back for it you can, or I can leave it in your mailbox or in your door if that would be better. Is thirty dollars enough?"

Edmond raised his head and looked at her as if she'd said something ridiculous. But he said nothing as several long moments passed.

"It's late," she said finally, his silence and refusal to answer making her as uncomfortable as his yelling. Maybe it was more than thirty dollars. "I'll leave the cash, Edmond. I'll do it Sunday."

Maggie turned the ignition key in the hope of making a quick getaway, but nothing happened. The engine didn't make a sound, and the radio was dead, and the lights wouldn't come on. She leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes. "Damn." At least you died here, dear friend. At least I'll be close to work.

"Is it dead?" Edmond asked stoically.

Maggie laid her arm in the open window and sighed. "It's a she. And yes. She's been sick, and now she's dead."

"I see you are wearing the soldier's ring," Edmond said, his touch causing it to move loosely on her finger, and she was going to have to put it back around her neck if she lost any more weight.

"I am," she said, looking at her hand. "But I shouldn't be."

"Yes, the secret engagement," he said quietly.

"Actually," Maggie hesitated. "We're not engaged anymore." She didn't have to tell him this, but found she wanted to.

"Yet you told Alex you were engaged?"

"I lied to Alex," Maggie replied. "He's vulgar, and I don't like him."

"And why did you break the engagement?" Edmond asked.

"I didn't," she said, moving her hand from the door. "He met someone else. He's marrying someone else."

If she didn't tell him, Edmond might simply leave her there, and she'd rather suddenly decided she didn't want him to do that. He had come in the middle of the night to see her, almost immediately after finding out where she was, and had waited, watching her. He hadn't come for his money, or to lecture her on safety. Edmond had come for her.

"This must have been difficult for you," he observed, lighting a cigarette and handing it to her through the window. "Have you found consolation with another?"

Maggie laughed. "If by consolation you mean what Alex wanted, then no, Edmond. I haven't sought consolation. It's only been a few days."

"So you are telling me you are still a virgin?"

"Yes," she said, still laughing. "But give me some time. I haven't really had time for whoring yet, what with waiting tables and waxing floors in the middle of the night. But I'll get right on it as soon as my schedule frees up so you can stop obsessing about it."

Surprisingly, Edmond broke into a wide smile, exposing his perfect teeth. "Come, Marguerite," he said, standing and opening her door. "I have an early appointment and you are clearly tired. I will take you home."

She laughed again. "I'm already home, Edmond. Didn't you hear me say my mother kicked me out? This is where I live now."

"Where?" he asked as Maggie laid her head wearily against the steering wheel. And then, he understood. "In this car?" he asked, outraged.

"There's nothing wrong with this car," she said, looking up at him through the open door. "Until now, anyway. Now I don't know what I'm supposed to do." But she did know. Maggie knew exactly what she was doing by telling Edmond this, though she hadn't thought it through. "At least I'm close to work. I have to open in the morning," she said, stifling a yawn.

Edmond digested her words, then opened her door and helped her from the car. She stumbled into him and he grabbed her waist, holding her only a moment before pushing her back to look at her. "What has happened to you?" he asked, looking alarmed. "Why are you so thin?"

"I ate some bad tuna and got really sick, and then my wallet was stolen so I didn't have any money," she said, talking quickly. "So I've had to wash at the gas station because I can't afford to go the pool anymore, and that's why I'm scrubbing floors, so I can catch up." She turned away, exhausted by her excuses, and laid her forehead on the cool roof of her car.

Edmond stepped behind her, looking at her lifeless hair and seeing how thin her arms had become. Putting his hands on her shoulders, he turned Maggie to face him. "You should have come to me and laid the blame for this at my door. I did not believe you when you said your mother would throw you out. I did not believe anything you told me that morning, Marguerite," he said. "You will come home with me now. I will see that you eat and are made well again."

She knew what it would mean to go home with him. Edmond wasn't going to feed her chicken soup and fluff up her pillows for nothing. She knew it was only her novelty as a virgin, apparently in short supply, that he found appealing, that was making him want her. Once that was gone, she'd be just another whore.

"There is nothing to consider, Marguerite," he said, as if reading her mind. "Not as long as you have been truthful with me."

Sybil's edict that the preservation of her virginity was the most important thing Maggie would accomplish while on this earth had been right on target, at least where Edmond was concerned.

"Do you know how many boys I've kissed?" she asked him. "Two," she said, holding up two fingers. "There's you, though you're not a boy. And there's Will, and I haven't kissed him since I was fourteen."

"Wait a moment," Edmond said, looking at her oddly.

"It's the truth," Maggie said, throwing up her hands in exasperation. "Do you need to see a doctor's note or something? And I've never been on a horse, or a bicycle, or a skateboard, but I can't prove that, either."

"Marguerite," Edmond said, holding out his hand to quiet her and fixing her with a stare. "How old are you?"

"How old are you?" she countered, stalling. His question was unexpected, and she could see her answer was important. "I'm nineteen," she lied, thinking eighteen too passé and twenty too big a stretch.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "It does not add up if you have spoken the truth before."

Maggie sighed. Who knew he paid such close attention?

"I'll be seventeen in December," she admitted.

"You are sixteen?" Edmond asked. "You are still a schoolgirl?"

"I'm not a schoolgirl," she said. "I finished school in June."

"At sixteen?"

"I skipped a grade," she explained. "I'm smart. And I started early."

"I see," Edmond nodded.

Maggie reached into her car, pulling a folder from its place beneath her library books, and then reached in her purse for the temporary license she'd acquired only that afternoon. "I had to use my work address on my license," she said, handing the items over. "And you'll notice on my diploma that I graduated with honors."

Edmond took the papers, examining them in the dim light before handing them back. "This explains much," he said, breaking into a smile. "You are still a child, albeit a clever one."

"I'm not a child," Maggie argued. "I was never a child, at least not in the way you mean." She was tired, but made herself stand up straight as she spoke. "I'm strong, and I work hard, and if my mother hadn't stolen my money and my clothes and kicked me out, I'd probably have my own place by now, but she did, and it's taking time to recover from that."

He pushed a strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. "I admire your strength, Marguerite," he said. "And as you are legal, I will take you home."

"Because I'm a virgin?" she asked bluntly.

"Because I owe a debt to you. It was my foolishness that brought you to this circumstance. But I want you, certainly, because of your innocence. I have made no secret of that," he said.

His honesty made Maggie ashamed, and she dropped her head.

Edmond lifted her chin. "I have not stopped thinking about lying with you since we met, Marguerite. But you are still very much a child, and if this is not what you want, I understand. But I will not leave you impoverished. If you do not wish to come home with me, I will make other arrangements for your welfare. I would not force myself on any woman."

"No," she answered in the barest whisper, shaking her head. "Or yes. Whichever it is. I want to come home with you."

"You are certain?"

Maggie was certain of one thing. Edmond wanted her, and he was the only person on the planet who did. "Yes," she said again. "I'm certain."

Maggie stood back as Edmond removed her things from the Volkswagen, and taking the keys, locked her car. So what if he wanted her because she was a virgin? There were probably girls younger than she was giving it up in the back seat of cars all over the city tonight for free tonight, and what would they have to show for it in the morning? At least Edmond was offering her a home, at least for a time, and she could use that time to save every dollar she made until he sent her packing. That was the problem with the virginity card—you could only play it once. And did it matter that she didn't love him? She did love the way he looked, and the funny yet sophisticated way he talked, and the way he'd made her feel when he'd kissed her. Loving Will had given her nothing but pain in the end, and there would be no pain with Edmond. There would be hot showers and food, and cuckoo clocks, and sex. Losing her virginity in such a situation was hardly the worst thing that could happen. Losing Will would forever hold that distinction.

Maggie stood under the hot water until it ran cool. She'd washed her hair twice and shaved carefully with the razor Edmond had given her. It was the first real shower she'd had since leaving home, but it never occurred to her to sing.

On the hook was the robe he'd given her, his robe, and Maggie was grateful he'd not brought her some obscene negligee left behind by Red Nails, or any of his other whores. As she pulled it on, she smiled at her reflection. The week was ending far, far better than it had begun, and she was grateful. It had been exciting to ride along the deserted streets in Edmond's powerful car, but though the seats were made of leather, she had no desire to bury her nose in them. It was enough to know where she would be spending the night, and to not be spending it alone.

"You are not to get used to this," Edmond said as she entered the kitchen, indicating the steak and eggs sizzling on the stove.

She came to stand beside him. "It smells delicious. You didn't have to do all this. I would have been happy with a sandwich. But thank you," she said, smiling up at him. "I don't know how to cook, but this looks easy enough if you want me to finish."

Edmond bent to smell her hair, then turned off the stove, pushing the pan from the eye. "It is not important that you know how to cook," he said, putting his hands on her shoulders and steering her to the center of the room. Maggie smiled at this, thinking he was leading her to the table, but then he stopped, and untying the belt to her robe, pulled it open.

She stood completely still, her face frozen in a smile and growing hot as Edmond looked at her body a long moment before his gaze returned to her face.

"You are blushing?" he asked. "Do you know how much this pleases me?"

Her breathing had become shallow, and it was hard to know if the thrill she felt was excitement or fear. She remained still as Edmond pushed the robe from her shoulders and let it fall to the floor.

"Turn around, Marguerite"

Letting out her breath, Maggie turned. A moment later, his hands moved her hair aside, and she shivered at his touch.

"You are beautiful," he said, stepping close behind her and putting one arm around her waist, resting his hand on her stomach. "I have never had a woman with skin so fair and pale," he murmured, his lips at her ear. Maggie closed her eyes, savoring his touch as Edmond's hand slid slowly down her left arm, and taking her hand, lifted it. "What happened to your hand, Marguerite?"

Maggie stood naked in Edmond's arms in Edmond's kitchen, looking at the play of light on the diamond in Will's ring. She should have taken it off. "I locked myself out while I was cooking, and I had to break the glass on the back door to get back in." she lied. "It was a long time ago."

"But you never learned to cook," he said.

"It was my first time," she said. "I got in a lot of trouble."

"And you are left-handed?" Edmond asked casually.

"No," Maggie answered, searching. "I used my left hand to break the glass because I'm right-handed. I didn't want to mess it up."

"Of course," he said quietly, and sighing deeply—she could feel the rise and fall of his chest—he released her, stepping across to the counter. Maggie stood rooted to the spot, waiting for his next move.

"Marguerite," he said, looking back at her as he reached for a plate in the cupboard. "Why are you still standing there? Come and eat. And take one of these vitamins. You are far too thin."

She grabbed the robe and hurriedly put it on, moving to sit at the counter. Edmond leaned against it, smoking and studying her in silence as she ate. Maggie knew his odd behavior should have made her uncomfortable, but it didn't. It was becoming clear that Edmond had his own peculiar way of doing things, and he did them. He'd wanted to see her body, and he'd seen it. He'd cooked for her and insisted that she eat, and she was eating. And in a moment, he would want to take her to his bed, and she would go. It may not be romantic, no sweet-talk or seduction like in the movies, but it never occurred to her that it would be. This was reality, not fantasy. It was sex, not love. And it was enough.

"I'm finished," she announced, after swallowing the last bite of meat and egg and drinking every drop of the wine he'd poured. She took the dish to the sink, but when she moved to rinse it Edmond took her hand, leading her down the hall to the same bedroom where she'd spent that first night, standing aside at the door as she entered. Maggie had reached the bed when the door closed. Turning, she was surprised to see he'd gone. She went to the door, opening it narrowly to watch him walk down the hall. He must be going to get ready. Easing the door closed, she went to her bathroom, brushing her teeth and washing her hands before removing the robe and climbing naked into bed. Minutes passed as she lay listening for his footsteps, wondering if he'd be naked when he returned, and pushing away the unbidden yet happy memory of when she'd last laid in bed with a man. A door closed somewhere in the apartment as Maggie fought to stay awake, but the wine, the food, and the comfort of sleeping in a real bed won her surrender.

When she woke, the sun was streaming past the edges of the drapes. She lay still beneath the covers, listening to the silence. Didn't he even try to wake me? Sighing, she rolled over and her eyes fell on the clock. She'd slept eight long, dreamless hours. It was past eleven, and she was already late for work.

Throwing on her robe, Maggie rushed down the hall. Where was he? "Edmond?" she called softly, making her way through the apartment. Reaching his bedroom door, she hesitated. What if he's with her? As she raised her hand to knock, she heard a radio come on, and she followed the sound to the middle door of the hall and went in.

Here was a sizable room with dark walls, and floor to ceiling bookcases that covered all but the tops of the windows. Half the room was a gym, with mats covering the floor, and there was a weight bench, and stacks of weights, and a pair of dumbbells, and a machine mounted on the wall with pulleys and ropes. Edmond sat behind a large desk on the opposite side of the room, his back to her, his finger on a ledger as he punched an adding machine.

"I'm late for work," she exclaimed nervously. "I can be ready in two minutes. Will you take me?"

"You are not to come in my office without an invitation, Marguerite," he said without turning around. "Wait for me in the kitchen. Eat something."

"But I have to let them know when I'll be there."

"I told you to wait in the kitchen," Edmond growled.

"Fine!" she yelled, her face burning with humiliation as she stormed down the hall and into the kitchen. Great! They're serving lunch at work, and I'm clear across town with no car. Maggie looked at the wall phone, then crossed to the refrigerator and opened the door. I can't call unless I can tell them when I'll be there, and he might not even take me.

The refrigerator held milk, yogurt, eggs, salad fixings, and protein powder. In the large walk-in pantry, there was pasta, cans of beans and vegetables, and then—eureka—a tin of sardines. Sardines for breakfast.

Maggie sat at the counter and inserted the key to roll back the lid, remembering the last time she'd eaten sardines and her promise never to do it again. Fine. Will broke his promise and I'm breaking mine. He gets married and I get canned fish. Great. Her eyes blurred with tears, and she quickly wiped them away.

"I trust you slept well?" Edmond asked, coming in as her fork was poised to spear a sardine. He was dressed in black pants and a starched, white dress shirt. "What is that? Do not eat that."

"How old are you?" Maggie asked angrily, sinking the tines into the oily flesh.

"Put the fork down, Marguerite," he said, taking milk and protein powder from the refrigerator.

"You're not my father," she said dismissively, lifting the forbidden fish to her mouth.

Edmond slammed the milk onto the counter, and grabbing the fork from Maggie's hand, threw it and the sardines into the sink.

"I wanted that!" she yelled as Edmond came around and grabbed the back of her stool, turning her to face him. Pushing Maggie's knees apart, he moved to stand between her legs.

"Listen well to me, Marguerite," he said as his hands slipped beneath her robe. "You will do as I tell you, everything that I tell you, and you will not question me again, or throw a tantrum like a recalcitrant child. Do you understand?"

She wanted to argue. She wanted to slap his face. But his hands were warm and strong on her thighs, and she was distracted. The sardines, and her anger, were instantly forgotten.

"Answer me."

"Yes," she answered meekly.

Edmond withdrew his hands and stepped away, grabbed a glass and spoon, and quickly mixed her milk before setting it in front of her. "Drink this. And take a vitamin."

Maggie raised the glass and gulped the sandy tasting milk and vitamin down. So what if he was something of a bully? He'd brought her home and cooked her steak and eggs and let her sleep in a bed and shower. Demanding certain behavior was just his way, as she'd seen that night in the limousine.

"I need to call and let my boss know I'm coming," she said when she finished. "If you will take me over there."

"You are not going back to work."

"But I have to go, Edmond," she said. "I have to work to get paid."

"How much do they pay you?" he asked, reaching for his wallet and withdrawing a sum of cash. He laid it on the counter, pushing it across to her. The top bill was a hundred. She'd never seen one before.

"I don't want your money," she said. "I'm not one of your whores or prostitutes, in case you've forgotten." Though obviously he hadn't forgotten, or he would have come to her last night.

Edmond returned the items to the refrigerator and placed her empty glass in the sink. "I am patient with you because I choose to be, Marguerite, and because you are young and naïve, though at times you hide this quite well. Still," he said, "you should realize there is a limit to my patience. Now," he said, "I must leave for a few days, and in my absence, I expect you to rest and become healthy, so that upon my return you will be more affable."

Maggie said nothing, only looked at him. She didn't want him to go. She could be more affable now. "You're leaving?"

"Mike's sister, Reg, is my housekeeper, and she will be by later. Do you remember Mike from the limousine?"

Maggie nodded. She'd liked Mike well enough that night. He had a pleasant smile, and seemed to lack the crudeness of Alex.

"Reg has a key and will let herself in. If you need anything let her know, and she will get it for you," he said, leaning across the counter. "Her number is in the drawer by the phone. I also ask that you not leave the apartment while I'm away. Stay in bed, sit on the porch, read, or listen to records. You have full use of my home, other than my office. And do not answer the phone unless it rings twice and then again, as that will mean I am calling. And under no circumstances are you to let anyone inside but Reg. Will you do this?"

"Yes," she answered. "But where are you going?"

"My work requires a good deal of travel, Marguerite, and I am a half day late for a meeting now."

"What do you do?" she asked, realizing she had no idea how Edmond earned a living.

"I do not scrub floors on my hands and knees, Marguerite," he said.

"Is it okay if I call work and tell them I'm not coming in?" she asked. "They'll see my car and be worried."

"Your car has been towed and is being looked at," he said. "And yes. You may phone and tell them you will not be returning. Anything else?"

Maggie came around the counter to stand beside him. "I'm sorry I was argumentative," she said, touching his arm. "I really do appreciate everything you're doing—the car, the food, everything. And I will do everything you asked me to, Edmond. I promise."

"Your apology is accepted, mi pequeña," he said, touching her cheek. "You are special enough that I am willing to make certain allowances. At least for now." And without another word, he left.

Maggie went back to bed, lying peacefully beneath the comfortable covers and thinking about how strange and wonderful it had been to stand naked in the kitchen last night, and hear Edmond say she was beautiful, and to feel his hand on her bare stomach. And she wondered what would happen when he got back, and when, and how. Falling back to sleep, she napped for an hour, and had just come out the shower—she planned to shower as often as possible—when she heard a knock at her bedroom door.

"Marguerite? It's Reg Richards. Mike's sister? I know Edmond told you I was coming, but I wanted to let you know I was here."

Maggie tied her robe and opened the door. Reg was in her late twenties, very pretty, and looked enough like Mike to be his twin.

"Hello," Maggie said, extending her hand. "It's nice to meet you."

Reg shook her hand and smiled. "It's nice to meet you, too, Marguerite. I've got something for you. Hold on." She returned a moment later with two large shopping bags from a department store downtown. "Edmond said you needed some things," she said, handing Maggie the bags. "If the sizes are wrong, it's his fault. And if you don't like anything, or it doesn't fit, I'll exchange them."

The bags were heavy. Leaving the door open, Maggie walked to the bed and emptied their contents. There were four pairs of jeans, a short leather jacket, a leather handbag, a half dozen shirts, two dresses, two very short skirts, an abundance of pretty, lacy underthings, and two pairs of sandals. Maggie stood speechless.

"Are they all right? I got the sandals in an eight and a nine. Edmond seemed pretty sure about everything else but the size of your feet," Reg offered from the doorway. "He wanted me to get you some real shoes and a pair of boots, but I thought I'd check with you on sizes first and go back in the morning."

"I wear a nine," Maggie said quietly, still looking at the clothes. Edmond had spent more on one shopping trip than Sybil had spent in her entire life, and it made her strangely uncomfortable. She sat on the bed and looked at Reg. "Do you shop for his— do you shop like this for him a lot?"

Reg leaned in the doorway, crossing her arms. "No, Marguerite," she said. "Until today, the most personal thing I've bought for Edmond is toilet paper, and those white covers on your bed. Otherwise, it's just household stuff, groceries, and liquor sometimes, if he's having a party."

"My name's Maggie," she said. "Only Edmond calls me Marguerite. And just so you know, Reg. I'm not one of his whores."

"Is that what you think I think?" she asked, surprised. "Because if you want to know what I think, though I don't why you would, I'll tell you."

Maggie nodded.

"I think that when a man like Edmond calls me at eight a.m. with a foot long list of clothes and sizes he wants me to buy, from one of the nicest stores in town, and another list of special groceries, he's not doing it to get laid. He doesn't need to," she laughed. "You have seen him, right? He can get any women he wants without spending a dime. And," Reg continued, "Edmond wouldn't have asked me to pick up tampons and pads. Which he did. Know what I'm saying?"

"I guess," Maggie answered. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to be rude. I appreciate all of it. I'm just not used to people doing things for me."

"You weren't rude, and how you live your life is none of anyone's business. You might do well to adopt that attitude, Maggie, because with that fair skin and hair, you're going to experience a lot of rude behavior when the two of you are out together."

Maggie didn't tell Reg that she and Edmond hadn't been out together, or that she'd only known him a very short time.

Everything fit, she found, after Reg went off to clean, leaving Maggie alone to try on and put away the clothes. She felt amazingly well when she walked into the kitchen wearing a new pair of hip-hugger jeans and a short top. On the kitchen counter, there was a full sack of feminine supplies, and Maggie smiled as she put them away. For now that she'd gotten over the surprise of it all, why wouldn't Edmond have bought these things for her? He knew she didn't have any clothes, except the few cheap things he'd left in her car, and he could hardly take her anywhere dressed like that. If she was a lady, and according to him she had to be if she wasn't a whore, she needed to look like one.

At suppertime, Maggie took a T-Bone from the refrigerator and nervously fried it up. "Medium high with a little butter and salt for about five minutes on each side. You can't really mess it up," Reg had said. Still, she stood over it the entire time, thinking that calling the fire department wouldn't help if she got into trouble, because they couldn't be let inside. She ate at the counter, picking grapes and cherries from a jar of fruit salad for her desert, then poured herself a glass of wine and took another vitamin.

After washing the dishes, she carried a kitchen chair into the living room and began carefully setting, then winding, the many cuckoo clocks, smiling as one by one they came to life. It was odd, having these happy clocks, as Edmond had done nothing to make her think he was a happy cuckoo clock kind of guy. But maybe he wanted to be. Maybe that's why they were here. Maybe that's why I'm here. Maybe he thinks I can make him happy.

When she was finished, she wandered down the hall to Edmond's bedroom, feeling a bit like a trespasser who feared being shot. Even with the lights on it was a dark room. The carpet was an ivory white. But the walls were black, and the bed frame, and the covers, and a heavy black drape covered the windows. On his nightstand was a thick, dog-eared book on the history of Central America, a world atlas, and a recent copy of Newsweek. His reading choices pleased her. The adjoining bath was twice the size of hers, with a stand-alone shower and an oversized tub that sat beneath a large window with a view of the river. She stood considering for some time before working up the nerve to turn on the water. She'd never taken a tub bath, and here was a tub that seemed straight out of Hollywood, the kind where you'd find Marilyn Monroe in, discreetly covered in bubbles, sipping champagne. Looking in the cabinet, she found an assortment of fancy bottles of oils and salts with names she couldn't pronounce. Then, on the back of the top shelf, lying on its side, she found an unopened box of Mr. Bubble. She grabbed it, shook some beneath the running water, and stripped. She tried to imagine Edmond taking a bubble bath, but couldn't. The tub was probably used for entertaining women like Red Nails and her kind. But not tonight.

She stepped into the bubbles, the hot water stinging her bottom as she settled in. Through the open door she could just see Edmond's bed. How many women had he had in there? Dozens? Hundreds? Did he carry them soaking wet from the tub and have his way with them? Maggie turned away from the bed and slipped down until the water covered her head completely. And I'm next.

So much was happening, and life was changing so fast, that the past—her mother, her home, even Will—was rapidly being displaced from her thoughts, and fading into the stores of memory.

She stood at the kitchen window, looking through the trees at the steeple atop the church. Dark clouds were gathering around it, swirling and spinning until they formed a funnel cloud and lifted into the sky, dancing over the trees and heading straight towards her. She held a baby in her arms, tiny and helpless, and as she went out the door running, she wondered whose baby it was, and how it was she could hear the broken church bells so clearly.

Consciousness returned. She'd fallen asleep after her bath, stretching out on the living room couch to watch a thunderstorm, after the lights had gone out, with the curtains completely open. The doorbell was ringing now, the electricity back on. Shaking off the dream, Maggie stood and tightened her robe before running to the peephole. It was Mike Richards, whiskey bottle in hand, in the company of two women. They may have been the same ones from the limousine, but she couldn't be sure. They all appeared drunk.

"Eddman!" Mike yelled, beating on the door. "Open up. It's Mike!"

Maggie put on the chain and cracked open the door.

"Hey!" Mike smiled, recognizing her. "It's Margarita! Let us in."

"Edmond's not here."

"Damn," Mike said, taking a swig from his bottle. "Are you kidding?"

"No," Maggie answered. "He's out of town."

"Well, that's all right," he said, throwing up his hands. "We can visit with you. You're a helluva lot prettier than he is."

She laughed. "Thanks, Mike, but I can't let you in. Edmond told me not to let anyone in."

"Yeah. I get that. But he didn't mean me."

"I'm sorry," she said. "But Edmond said nobody."

Mike smiled as he leaned into the crack of the door. "You remembered my name."

"It's my brother's name," Maggie smiled back at him.

"Well, Margarita, here's how it is," he said, lowering his voice. "If I can't come in, I'm gonna need you to raid the stash. These ladies are expecting to party, and they were expecting to party with me and Eddman. So if I'm gonna keep them both happy all by my lonesome, they're gonna need some help getting in the mood. Can you hook me up?"

"I don't know anything about a stash," she said honestly, wondering if that was why Edmond kept his office locked.

"Aw, come on," he said sweetly. "You and Edmond would have never hooked up if it wasn't for me. It was my idea to fuck up your car."

"What?" she asked.

"I told Eddman if he'd fuck up your car he could make you come back here," he said, smiling broadly. "And it worked, didn't it?"

Maggie nodded in astonishment.

"So, because I thought of fucking up your car, Edmond gets to fuck you, and now you're standing here fucking with me, when I want to be fucking with them." Mike swept his arm to indicate the women, who were now standing together lighting cigarettes, before dropping his head in feigned sadness. "That's not right, sister Maggie."

Edmond messed up my car? Maggie didn't know whether to be flattered or angry, but Mike was cracking her up.

"He didn't—I mean we haven't," she began, feeling the need to plead her virtue. But what was the point? If it were this time next week, he'd be right. "Oh, all right," she said. "Where is it, and what does it look like?"

"Look in the boxes on the mantle. There should be a small envelope."

"Hold on." She closed the door and hurried to the mantle, looking into three of the six decorative boxes there before finding it. She removed one of a dozen small, sealed envelopes, and returned to the door. "Here," she said, handing it over. "But you've got to promise me you won't tell Edmond about this. I don't want him mad at me," she said, immediately regretting her decision.

"Hey, it's our secret, all right?" Mike assured her, putting the envelope in his shirt pocket. "Eddman's got a nasty temper, and I don't want you getting hurt."

"Do you think he'd hurt me?" Maggie asked.

Mike lowered his voice, which suddenly sounded quite sober. "He's not gonna hurt you unless he has a reason to, sis. Just don't give him a reason, and never make him a promise unless you intend to keep it. Trust me," he said, pushing his hair back to show a nickel-sized scar on his forehead that may have been a burn.

"Edmond did that?" she asked worriedly.

"Yeah," he confided, nodding his head. "But it was about money, and I'd done something stupid. Don't be stupid. Okay?"

"Okay," Maggie said.

"Hey," he said, grabbing the door as she began to close it and looking hard into her eyes. "You're swimming with the big fish now, sis, so be careful. I'd hate to see you get eaten. Not in the bad way, anyhow."

"Is there a good way to be eaten?" she asked.

Mike shook his head, laughing. "I better get out of here," he said. "You're all right, sis, you know it?"

Maggie felt a blush spring to her cheeks. "Thanks," she replied shyly. "So are you."

She closed the door. Why did you say that? Stupid! But Mike was all right. He was good-looking in a bearded, forgot-to-brush-my-hair-just-climbed-out-of-bed sort of way—and every bit as crude as Alex—but also funny, and direct. Not at all like Edmond. Oh, God! Now I'm attracted to Mike? She watched them leave through the peephole, any lingering guilt she felt about the girls absolving when one of them bent over to fix her shoe, and Maggie saw she wasn't wearing panties. No wonder Edmond was tired of whores. She'd only met a handful, and she was already tired of them.

Maggie sighed, leaning against the door. It was romantic, really, thinking of Edmond fooling around with her car so he'd have an excuse to bring her home. Not exactly the kind of story you tell your grandchildren, as if that would ever happen, but still. He had gone to some trouble to get her there. And that felt good.

Now wide awake, Maggie poured a second glass of wine and wandered back to Edmond's room, turning on the lamp by his bed. She took a large sip of wine, dropped her robe, and lay naked upon the black satin covers. Oh, Marguerite you are so beautiful. At last I have you in my bed. And then what? Maybe I should have had Mike and his whores come in and give a demonstration.

Suddenly feeling ridiculous, Maggie stood and picked up her robe. I'm too stupid to be sexy. And then, remembering, Maggie returned to Edmond's bathroom, where she had seen a stack of men's magazines in the cabinet. Without hesitation, she grabbed them up and carried them to bed, soon falling asleep with Miss October, who enjoyed baking cupcakes and riding on Merry-Go-Rounds in the nude.

It wasn't until the next morning that Maggie happened across the "letters from readers" section, but once she did, she lost all interest in looking at the pictures. For the letters weren't really letters at all, but first-person stories of the writer's sexual exploits—graphic, detailed accounts that were so patently outrageous (no one has sex while stuck on top of a Ferris Wheel in the pouring rain) she knew they had to be fake. Even so, she devoured the letters, reading some more than once, and thinking she should be taking notes. For it quickly became apparent that the girls in her high school bathroom had limited the discussions of their sexual encounters to generalities. He felt me up or he wanted me to go down—and there had been something said about dogs and missionaries. But there'd never been any details given. And she needed details.

Maggie had a basic understanding of the process. You got naked, kissed, and then you had intercourse. But that was like saying you knew how to play piano when all you knew was chopsticks, or were a mathematician if you could add. Having sex, she was rapidly learning, was a lot more involved than that. More like a symphony than chopsticks, and more like an algebraic equation than one plus one. The act of sex had a lot of different components, and some of them were downright disgusting. Why would anyone ever want to have anal sex? How could something that gross and disgusting feel good? To anyone? Ever? Will would never think of doing that to me in a million, trillion years, and if Edmond tries it, I'll scream bloody murder and run. That sort of perversion must be what men paid prostitutes for, but Maggie couldn't imagine there was enough money in the world for even them to do that. Fortunately, only a handful of the writers seemed to prefer this repulsive act to that of regular sex, with everything put in its proper place, so apparently, it wasn't the norm. But what apparently was, and what all of the letters went on and on about, were the joys of oral sex.

Reading the letters, Maggie felt as if she must be the only person on the planet who didn't know all this was going on. If she believed the letters, and they couldn't all be making this up, women were unzipping men's pants routinely, and performing oral sex on them practically everywhere. While out for a drive, at the movies, going through the car wash, again on the Ferris Wheel, in the bleachers at a ball game. Apparently, it didn't take long, and not only did the men love it, really, really love it, they claimed the women loved doing it every bit as much as they loved having it done, a claim Maggie found hard to swallow. And, though not as conveniently accomplished, the men also claimed (all the letters were from men), that women loved it having it done to them just as much, with screaming and fainting and gnashing of teeth. And some of the writers did the oral thing exclusively, and never had regular sex at all, or what she had thought was regular sex. But apparently, her thinking had been all wrong. Apparently, she didn't know anything. But Edmond did. He'd probably done everything in these letters a hundred times, and Mike was probably doing them right now. Maggie sighed, stacking up the magazines to put them away. Here she'd thought she was so smart, but when it came to sex, she didn't know anything. At least now she had a better idea of what Edmond expected.

The phone had rung twice since Edmond's departure, but she didn't answer it until the third night, when she heard the special ring. It was near midnight, and she'd just stepped from another long, hot, bubble bath when he called, and she dropped her towel and ran naked and wet to his room, grabbing the phone on his bedside table.

"Edmond?" she asked excitedly.

"Marguerite. You are breathless."

"I ran. I was just getting out of your tub."

"You are in my room?"

"Yes," she said nervously. "You said I should make myself at home, and I've been doing it. Mostly in your tub. I've never been able to take a bath before, and it's great." It was the first time they'd spoken on the phone, and she found Edmond's voice as delightful as it was in person.

"Then you have not yet dressed?"

"No," she said, sitting on the edge his bed. "I'm naked. And wet."

There was no response.

"Are you there?"

"If I had never seen you, I would still know you were beautiful by the pleasing sound of your voice. Sleep in my bed tonight, Marguerite," he said. "Do this naked and wet. It pleases me a great deal to imagine it."

"Okay," she sighed, lying back against the covers. "When are you coming home?"

"Tomorrow evening."

"Good. I can't wait."

"Until tomorrow, then. Sleep well, mi pequeña."

Maggie hung up and lay back on the bed, replaying his words in her head. After a while she got up, drained the tub, and then crawled beneath the covers of his big black bed.

Edmond's call had come from the Atlanta airport, and even now he was on his way home. He'd called Mike when he landed in Miami, and he'd told him of having seen Marguerite, just as he'd been asked to do. She'd refused to let him in, Mike said, despite his sweet talk, and had also denied him the drugs he'd asked for, refusing even when he told her where to look for them.

This last bit of news was unwelcome. If Marguerite had willingly handed over the drugs, even this small amount, it might have made it easier for her to accept Edmond's involvement in the drug trade once she learned of it, as it was only a matter of time before she did. The girl was smart, and her gullibility not so great that he could keep her in the dark forever. But it was academic now, whether or not she knew, for Edmond had decided it was time to give it up.

It was in the fall of Edmond's sophomore year of college, when Marcos, having graduated the previous spring with his MBA, began selling drugs. Marcos had known his Hispanic heritage would present some roadblocks to the type of employment he'd studied for, but he also believed times were changing. With his superior grades, clean-cut appearance, and engaging personality, he should be able to overcome any prejudice he might encounter. He was an American citizen, after all, as well as an honors graduate from a prestigious military school and one the finest universities in the country.

But as that summer wore on, Marcos had been methodically denied hire by each of his chosen employers, even those in his home state of Texas. With his resume and academic records in the Americanized name of "Mark", rather than Marcos, he'd booked every interview he wanted. But from the moment they saw him, he never had a chance. His dark skin, hair, and accented speech were deemed unacceptable to the WASP that ruled corporate America, none of his interviews had lasted more than five minutes, and more than one had been openly hostile over his wasting their time. None of the prestigious places Marcos wished to work would hire him, and the jobs he could take were far beneath his education and ability. Consequently, by late September, Marcos had lost all desire to work in the corporate world.

By the time Edmond finished his undergraduate degree two years later, Marcos was making three times the money he would have made as a legitimate businessman, and his earnings were tax-free. Of course, it hadn't been that way in the beginning. He'd not awakened one morning having decided to pursue a life of crime, and come home at the end of the day with a boatload of cash. But as the brothers had bought their share of recreational drugs while in college, they already had some connections, and Marcos began to pursue this avenue of revenue with the same zeal with which he'd pursued his education. Over time, his natural attributes—being particularly tall and powerfully built—along with his business acumen and fluency in Spanish, provided him with advantages the other players didn't have. He could go to the source, as it were, and make his own deals. And though Edmond had been wary of Marcos' ever-deepening involvement, in what was not only a criminal enterprise, but also a dangerous one, in time he came to change his mind. Nothing bad had happened, and Marcos was incredibly happy. He had money, lots of it, earned through his own efforts, and he'd long since shook off any guilt that what he was doing was wrong. It was no different from what bootleggers had done during Prohibition, providing a desired product to willing customers, and just because the government said it was wrong, didn't mean it was. Besides, he was hardly selling drugs in a schoolyard. He wasn't selling them at all. He simply made it possible for others to do so while running a business for profit, just as his expensive education had taught him.

By the time Edmond received his degree, Marcos was ready to move on and up, tapping a market that was less saturated. Edmond could have stayed and gone on to graduate school, but to what end? He knew he would face the same hiring challenges as his brother. And even if he'd been lucky enough to land a dream job, why would he choose to work in a field that had denied entry to his brother? Thus, in January of 1968, after months of discussion, planning, and travel, he and Marcos decided to form a real partnership, and to center their business operations in Columbia. It was both a college and a military town, and its size, location, and large minority population made it an ideal place to fit in and become very, very rich. So far, all had gone according to plan. Their sources remained the same, and their local distributors, Mike and Alex being chief among them, had been painstakingly chosen. Edmond made the source buys, inspected the goods, arranged the pick-ups, and kept the books. Marcos kept up with other suppliers and police activity, collected the money, and made sure their employees stayed honest. Both kept hands off the drugs and away from the street dealers. They were middlemen, hard to find and difficult to bust. In Columbia they'd taken separate homes, more for appearances than any other reason. Edmond loved his older brother, and they had always gotten along exceptionally well, except in regards to their mother's memory.

Marcos had been seven when their father left, and ten when their mother died, and he blamed her insistence on raising her sons in the states for their father's return to Mexico. Edmond held a very different view. He respected his mother's determination to have her sons raised in America, to give them a better life. It was so important to her that she'd sacrificed everything. Leaving her home, eventually sacrificing her marriage, and ultimately, her life. And she'd never complained of hardship. To Edmond, his mother was an ideal woman—single-minded, stubbornly determined, devoted, and selfless. His mother had been the love of his life.

Marcos tended to remember their poverty after their father left, and how they'd been forced to live in the root cellar of the house where their mother worked as a maid. "We lived like animals!" he'd roar after having too much to drink. "Like fucking moles in a hole! That's what our mother did to us, Edmond, when she could have taken us home to our father. You were too young to remember what it was really like. But I remember!"

But Edmond did remember. He remembered his mother blowing kisses from the window of the big house she worked in as he played beneath a tree in the yard, his brother off at school. He remembered eating hot cornbread and beans with her every noonday beneath that same tree, and lying close to her at night, repeating his English lessons before sleep. Marcos had chosen to remember their poverty. Edmond had chosen to remember a love so enormous that their poverty didn't matter.

From the moment he'd met Marguerite, there'd been a quality about her that reminded Edmond of his mother. Perhaps it was the smell of kitchens and cleaning products and sweat—he'd forgotten a beautiful woman could smell like that, but Marguerite did, and she was uniquely beautiful. Her long red hair, deep blue eyes, the near flawless skin. In appearance, Marguerite and his mother could hardly have looked less alike. But Edmond had known many beautiful women, and Marguerite's looks, while important, were only a secondary consideration. It was the allure of her virtue that made her so attractive. Her lack of worldliness, her academic achievement, her willingness to endure hardship, her work ethic, even her loyalty to the soldier, that had given him hope that at last he'd found a woman worthy of his love. He was twenty-six now, and had been looking for just such a woman since becoming a man. And there'd been a handful of times he'd thought he'd found her. But each time he was wrong. Each time their claims of virtue had proven false, twice through their own admission of the lie, and three times—three times—by failing the special test he'd devised with his brother.

After she'd left that first morning, he'd kept turning over in his mind the possibilities Marguerite presented, and while he was under no illusion that she was as virtuous as claimed, he couldn't believe he'd been foolish enough to let her to go without even knowing her last name or where she worked or lived. He'd set Alex and Mike to look for her the same day, but they'd come up empty-handed. And once, he'd even followed an old black Volkswagen himself, only to discover the driver with the beautiful, long, red hair, was a man.

But then fate finally stepped in, and Alex found her, reporting back that she'd arrogantly refused his request for a date. Mike had suggested, and followed through with, disabling her car. And as Edmond waited and watched that evening as Marguerite scrubbed the floors on her knees, he'd struggled to keep his excitement in check. He'd had no reason to believe Marguerite's claims of virginity then. But he did believe now, and it was not her sworn word that had made him believe. Swears and promises were too easily made, and just as easily broken. To him, they meant nothing.

It was the way she trembled beneath his touch, as if being touched was a rare thing. The way she blushed, an involuntary act that could not be faked. And it was her body. Edmond had been with a multitude of women, but never one whose body was as unblemished as Marguerite's, as if she'd been locked away in a tower all her life. Her body was all but perfect, the only flaw being the profusion of long, smooth scars on her left wrist and hand, which only an idiot would believe had been made by broken glass. But he had reasons to overlook that particular lie.

And then there were the intangibles—the look in her eyes, the way she moved and spoke, the way she alternated between fearing and challenging him, even the way she smiled. Taken all together, her claim of purity wasn't a lie—Edmond was all but certain. But now, it was time to put his certainty to the test by having her meet with Marcos. For as much as he didn't want to do it, theirs was a pact made long ago, and he was honor-bound to go through with it.

Edmond arrived at his brother's home around three a.m., letting himself in with his key and bedding down on the couch. Marcos woke him at seven with coffee.

"What brings you here at this hour, brother?" Marcos asked with a big smile from his perch on the coffee table. "Cuff an ugly whore to your bedpost and lose the key?"

Edmond grinned. "That would be unfortunate. Thank you for putting that image in my head first thing."

"No problem. Want to have breakfast?"

"Yes."

Edmond watched as Marcos went to the kitchen to speak to his housekeeper. He'd purchased his home in one of Columbia's wealthier suburbs last year, and he employed both a full time housekeeper/cook and a yardman. He also kept an apartment in town.

"We'll eat on the terrace," Marcos said as Edmond got up to wash.

They ate eggs and chorizo as Edmond filled him in on his trip and Marcos related the latest local happenings. As they saw one another at least weekly, and spoke on the phone more often than that, there wasn't a great deal of catching up to do. And it wasn't the reason he'd come.

"There is a woman," Edmond said when their business was finished.

"There is always a woman, brother."

"Yes," Edmond said, "but this is a special one you need to meet."

"You found another false virgin?" Marcos asked cockily. "How many is that now, brother? I want to call Guinness."

"I have every reason to believe this one is genuine, but I won't be able to confirm it until after you meet with her."

"You're assuming it will still need to be confirmed after I get her alone?" Marcos asked. "Is she so unattractive I'm going to have a problem getting it up?"

"No, brother," Edmond grinned. "You will want her, but I believe she will reject you, and if she does, and then proves to be a virgin in my bed, I intend to marry her."

Marcos stood and took his cigarettes from his pocket. "Who is this woman? Maybe I've already fucked her and she hasn't told you."

"She would not have crossed your path, Marcos," Edmond assured him. "She is quite young, and not at all worldly."

"How young?" Marcos asked.

"She will soon be seventeen."

Marcos' thoughts went immediately to Melanie, his first and only love. She had also been very young. Whores were easily had, and served to slake the desires of a man's flesh, if not his soul. But neither did they hold the power to destroy his soul, as his love for Melanie had nearly done.

"I appreciate the appeal this child holds for you, brother," Marcos said knowingly. "But this is 1971, and even if she proves a virgin, there's no need to marry her."

"I want a family," Edmond replied. "I want sons."

"And what happens when your beautiful young wife gets old and fat and mean, brother, or gives you nothing but daughters?" Marcos asked provocatively. "There's no way to know what might happen."

"I know I've had my fill of whores," Edmond replied. "I want a wife."

"Like the whores you just had in Miami?" Marcos asked. "I know you, brother. And I know Eric brought girls with him, and you didn't pass them up, because you never have. Or did you?"

"No," Edmond admitted. "I didn't pass."

"So even with a fresh piece waiting, you did the whores. What does that tell you, brother?"

"It was expected," Edmond argued. "It would have been awkward to decline. It was good business."

"And when I fuck this girl of yours," Marcos said, his anger rising, "this supposedly innocent child you speak of making your wife, and all this nonsense you're spouting comes to nothing, that'll be good business, too. Good for our business. Because you seem to have lost sight of everything we've worked for in favor of some romantic, ridiculous notion of living happily ever after." Marcos shook his head, a look of disgust on his face. "I don't know where you head is, brother, but you need to man up. You're thinking like a woman."

Edmond stood abruptly, his fists clenched, then turned and walked into the house. Marcos sighed heavily, then went after him.

He stood in the living room, his back turned. Marcos could see the tension in his back and hands. "I know why you did the Miami whores as well as you do," he said, crossing to him. "A good whore never says no, no matter what you want, and they come in an endless variety, so when you tire of one, there's always another to take her place. You can't get that from a wife, and once you tire of fucking the same woman every day, and you will, you'll be hustling to get laid by the housekeeper between running your five daughters back and forth to ballet lessons.

"Look," Marcos continued, his attempt at humor having no effect. "Just live with the girl if it even comes to that. You'll find out soon enough what I'm saying is true. Save marriage and the boring sex that comes with it for when your youth is spent. Forty-five or fifty ought to be soon enough. You can marry and have sons then. Maybe we both will."

"I will not wait," Edmond said resolutely as he turned to face him. "This is what I want, Marcos. I have wanted it a long time, and I intend to have it, with or without your blessing." They stood staring at one another, each aware that with Edmond's words, their relationship was being forever altered. But Edmond felt he had no choice, for he was unwilling any longer to allow his brother to dictate how, or with whom, he would live his life.

"And what about our business?" Marcos asked sarcastically. "Are you planning on teaching a wife how to keep our books, or maybe have her go on the buys while you stay home and babysit?"

"Neither," Edmond said. "I'm quitting."

Marcos shook his head. "Then you have completely lost your mind."

"Perhaps," Edmond returned. "But I will find a legitimate position."

"No," Marcos said, raising his hand. "You won't. Not anything that will allow you to make even a quarter of the income you're accustomed to, brother. I can promise you that," he said. "But let's talk about this another time when you're thinking more clearly."

"There's nothing to talk about. I will not raise my sons with drug money, Marcos," Edmond said, looking him squarely in the eyes. "My sons, or my daughters, will be raised with honor, and pride, and self-respect, the same way our mother raised us. I will not continue in a line of work that would shame them if they learned of it, or live the rest of my life living a lie. Perhaps our ideas of what a real man is, and what he does, and what he needs to be happy, has just become too different."

Outside, the yardman started up the mower. He'd been waiting to begin his task until the brothers went inside. The brothers stood in silence, watching as the machine moved back and forth across the yard.

"I see no reason now for us to test this girl," Marcos said at last. "I have no desire to bed your virgin, or whatever she proves to be, and you seem to have already made you mind up about her, anyway."

"No," Edmond said, turning to face him. "Perhaps I have let my obsession cloud my thinking, and making all these plans and decisions and declarations about what I intend to do is irrational without having all the facts first. So, yes," he said, nodding his head slightly. "The girl must be tested. And if she makes a fool of me, if I have misjudged her, then maybe you are right, Marcos. About everything." He extended his hand. "But may we agree that this will be the final test, brother? One way or the other?"

Marcos took his hand, shaking it. "Agreed. But for both our sakes, brother, I'm going to do my utmost to see that this girl doesn't pass."

Cheerleaders and Majorettes

11

Maggie spent an hour on the porch that morning, the low humidity and a fresh, stiff breeze, compelling her to grab a book and linger there. But it was difficult to care too much about the mating rituals of the indigenous people of Peru, when her mind was racing with thoughts and images of the coming night, and her own first experience at mating. She felt much as she had as a little girl, waiting and wishing for the magic that was supposed to be Christmas, only to find that—at least in her house—it was pretty much like any other day, and she'd been given nothing she'd wished for. But that was then, and this was now, and Edmond wasn't Sybil, so the night could very well end with her wishes coming true. The wishes she was learning to settle for, anyway, in this strange new life.

For if Maggie could have her true wish, her best wish, it would be Will who was coming home to her, and Will who was to share her bed tonight. It would always and forever be Will that she wished for, and not Edmond. It's not that she didn't care for him. She did. How could she not care for this man who was handsome, and rich, and took her into his beautiful home and cared for her, and bought her things, and made her feel so pretty? And tonight, he would certainly make her feel many things she'd never felt before, and she knew it would be amazing and wonderful, but it could never be what she really wanted, because Edmond wasn't Will.

Reg came by at two with a sack of groceries and the most beautiful dress she had ever seen. It was deep emerald green and came from Kaiser's, the store where Sybil shopped.

"It's so beautiful," Maggie said, unzipping it from the hanging bag. "But Edmond's already bought me all those clothes, and where would I wear something like this?" The dress was chiffon, with embroidered beadwork, a sweetheart neckline, halter straps, and a bare back, like something Natalie Wood or Elizabeth Taylor might wear.

"He wants you to wear it tonight," Reg smiled. "Apparently, he's got something special planned. Try it on with the shoes," she said, handing her the box. "You're going to look stunning."

She did. Maggie could hardly believe she was wearing such a well-made, expensive dress, which fit as if it had been created just for her. Edmond was going out of his way to make tonight special, and she owed it to him to put Will out of her mind.

Edmond came in the door at seven, his arrival drowned out and trumpeted by the boisterous clamor of all twenty fully wound cuckoos, as well as the lingering smell of burnt meat, both of which he found appealing, so accustomed was he to returning to a quiet, empty apartment. Smiling, he made his way down the hall to Maggie's open bedroom door. She lay peacefully asleep in the middle of the bed, her long hair gleaming in the light from the bedside lamp. She was wearing his robe and a pair of his socks, one of his anthropology books lying open beside her.

He went to his bathroom to shower and shave, thinking how even as she slept, Maggie had a look of innocence. His whores never slept like that. The last whore he'd had in Miami had been sprawled out asleep with her legs spread when he'd come out of the shower. He'd yelled to wake her and tell her to leave, but as she was dressing, he'd had second thoughts, and given himself to the pleasures of her mouth once more. Indeed, there were some things he would regret in leaving behind this part of his life, for he would never allow his wife to perform such a vile act.

She was singing with Will at Sunday night service, but his back was turned to her, and he was singing gibberish she couldn't understand. And when she tried to tell him he was singing the wrong words, she realized she was naked except for the new green shoes. She tried to hide behind the podium, but Will was there on his knees and slipping his ring on her finger. And for the briefest of moments she was incredibly happy, but then Will became Edmond, and the whole church started laughing. She ran from the sanctuary trying to find him, but in the darkness of the Great Hall, she felt the Devil touching her leg, and she screamed for Will to save her.

Will's name burst from Maggie's lips like a small explosion, waking her to the reality of Edmond beside her bed, his hand on her bare thigh. "Oh, God," she whimpered, covering her face with her hands. Will? Did I call Will? "I dreamed you wanted me go home," she cried, truly frightened as she gathered the lie. "And I was begging you not to make me. Will you make me go back there, Edmond?" she asked frantically. "Will you?"

Edmond sat beside her. "No, mi pequeña," he said gently. "Your home is with me for now. This was only a dream."

He doesn't know. Oh, God, Will. I saw you. You were right there. It was the first time she'd seen Will in her dreams in many months, and it had felt so real.

"I'm sorry, Edmond. I meant to be dressed and waiting when you got home." She wiped her tears away with trembling fingers, realizing as she sat up that that Edmond was not completely dressed. His chest was bare, his hair damp and unbound, and she could smell his scent. His hands went to her shoulders, pressing her back down to her pillow before untying her robe and opening it.

Oh God, not now. I can't do this now with Will's face still in my head.

Edmond looked at her body a long moment, as if he were making a decision, then bent his face to her lower abdomen, pressing his lips to her pale skin and beginning to suck. Maggie caught her breath, all thoughts of Will abruptly vanishing as her hands moved to grasp his head. But within seconds he stopped, his hands never touching her.

"There is work I must attend to," he said, standing.

"Work?" Maggie asked as she sat up again, pulling her robe together.

"Yes," he answered, clearing his throat. "Our evening will begin at nine, and I wish you to take special care with your appearance, for as lovely as you are, Marguerite, I desire to see you in something other than my robe." He went to the door. "I left a sandwich in the kitchen for you. Make sure you eat it."

"Edmond," she said, scrambling off the bed and going to him. "I'm grateful for everything you've done. I hope you think I'm worth it."

"I hope so too, Marguerite."

When Maggie came out of the shower, she stood before the mirror examining the dark bruise Edmond had left on her stomach. She'd seen them routinely in high school, though always on the neck and throat, and knew they signified the girl—as she had never seen one on a guy—was involved romantically. She'd always found the marks to be ugly and crass. Until now. Having Edmond leave a mark on her, in such an intimate place and in such an intimate way, had been wildly exciting, as was seeing him half-dressed. His chest is as smooth as Will's, only darker. And more muscular. Probably because of the weights But I can't compare him to Will, or even think about Will now. It's over. It's been over a long time and I'm Edmond's girl now. And that's the way it is.

He'd left her a roast beef sandwich and a glass of milk. She ate and drank, quickly and alone, at the kitchen counter, listening to the muted sounds of Led Zeppelin coming from the radio in his bedroom. It was after eight-thirty, and Edmond was getting ready for their date.

The emerald dress fell fashionably at mid-thigh. It was lined in green satin, the hem of which carried the same delicate beading that covered the bust. Beneath, she wore lacy white panties, the white garter belt, and her stockings. Slipping on the beautiful shoes, Maggie returned to the bathroom and stood before the mirror. She looked so different from her usual self, and she felt different. Tonight would be a night like no other she'd known, and she was ready, polished and trimmed from head to toe. This is why he waited. So he could dress me up like a pretty package so he could unwrap me. And she did look pretty, even elegant, save for the scars which were impossible to hide.

In the top drawer of her nightstand was Will's ring. Maggie had continued slipping it on her finger every day—knowing she shouldn't, but nonetheless reluctant to put it away. But now? Now, tonight, she was sleeping with Edmond, exchanging her virtue for a home. One with hot food, and showers, one that didn't require a key to use the toilet, or gas to run it. One with vitamins, and books, and cuckoo clocks, and clothes. Such pretty clothes.

Now, the precious ring that Will's grandfather had given to his grandmother, because he loved her and wanted to marry her, deserved a far better fate than being worn on Maggie's wretched finger. A wretch like me. Will should have the ring, as it deserved to be on the finger of the girl he really loved and would marry. Not on the wretched finger of the girl he'd rejected, the wretched girl who was about to sleep with someone she didn't love at all. It was far too precious for that.

Almost mechanically, Maggie removed Will's ring from the drawer, and after wrapping it in tissue, carefully pushed it into an empty perfume box which she hid beneath the dresser in her closet. Maybe someday she would have the opportunity to return it. But for now, she would have to settle for keeping it safe.

The lights were off in the hall, and for a brief moment she feared Edmond was gone. But there was light and music coming from the living room, and as Maggie reached the foyer, she saw Edmond lighting both candles and incense on either side of the long mantle. The many clocks had been stilled, and on the stereo was Dean Martin.

Maggie squared he shoulders, mindful of her posture in the unfamiliar heels, and waited for Edmond to notice her there.

He did.

"Marguerite," he said, a broad smile lighting his face. "Come to me."

Edmond watched her closely as she crossed to him, then raised his hand to her cheek. "I have known all along that you are beautiful, little one," he said. "But tonight you are exquisite, and this makes me very proud." He stepped behind her, moving her hair to the side. The next moment she felt the heavy coolness of a chain as it dropped onto her neck and chest, and the warmth of Edmond's fingers as he closed the clasp. "I found this in an antique shop," he said. "And I knew immediately I wanted it for you."

On her chest lay a heavy, oval, gold locket with a circle of tiny diamonds surrounding a coin bearing a cross. It was engraved with words she couldn't read, and appeared to be very old. She took it in her hands. "It's beautiful," she said, and it was, funky and old and like nothing she'd seen before. "What do the words say? Do you know?"

"The inscription means peace. This is a San Benito coin," he said, taking it into his hands. "They are blessed to bring peace and ward off evil. My mother wore such a coin, though it was not encased with gold or diamonds," he continued, opening it. "Her locket contained photographs of my brother and me, so she could always keep us close to her heart. She was buried wearing it."

Maggie was stunned and struggled for words. "I don't know what to say," she responded. "You've already given me so much."

"You need say nothing. You have already gifted me this evening."

"How?"

Edmond's arms circled her waist, his breath warm and sweet at her ear. "You have removed his ring."

"Oh," she answered, forcing a smile.

"The soldier had no right to promise marriage to a child, and did so only to bed you, Marguerite. You must realize this now. And perhaps now you are ready to confess that he did lure you to his bed with his promise, and you have been too ashamed to tell me?"

"No," Maggie said, pulling away. "It was nothing like that. Will would never—"

"Do _not_ speak his name," Edmond interrupted dangerously.

"I'm sorry." Maggie said quickly. "Please don't be angry. But I've told you everything, Edmond. I swear I have." She couldn't believe they were having this conversation again, especially now.

"Angry?" he said, searching her eyes. "There will never be cause for my anger as long as you understand that you belong to me now, Marguerite, body and soul, and you are not to think of this man, or speak of him, ever again. Do you understand?"

Maggie nodded her head, thinking how absurd it was that Edmond demand she police her thoughts, and speak of her as if she were property.

"Say it," he demanded, as if he'd read her mind."

"I understand," she said, feigning sincerity. "I belong to you."

"Yes," he said, looking down at her. "You do, Marguerite. And I will continue to determine everything from the food you eat to the clothes you wear, and you will be grateful for this, and never disobey or question me. Yes? Do you understand that you are only a woman, and as a man, it is my duty to do this for you?"

"Yes," she said, nodding. He was already doing this, after all, and it was working out fine. She had clothes, and was gaining weight—her fingernails even seemed to be growing out again, probably from all the sandy tasting milk and vitamins.

"And when I desire you," he continued, moving his fingers to her lips, "whenever or wherever I desire you, you will surrender to me without question. Yes?"

"Yes," she whispered, swallowing hard.

So what if Edmond wanted to dress her up like a Barbie and play with her whenever he wanted? As long as he took care of her, what did it matter? For despite his macho talk, Maggie knew he cared. None of his whores were dressed from Kaiser's, or wearing blessed gold lockets that reminded him of his mother. And while she found his demand never to even think of Will patently ridiculous, what could she gain from arguing about it? Edmond had to know this demand was unreasonable. No one can control what another person thinks, or who they're allowed to think of.

Edmond went to the stereo, increasing the volume slightly, and then turned back to her. "Come," he said, holding his arms out. Maggie went. He put one hand on the small of her back, took the other in his, and began to dance with her.

"Keep your eyes on mine," he said as she looked to her feet.

She looked up, and within seconds, stumbled.

Edmond laughed. "Let me guess. You have never danced before?"

"Only alone in my room," she admitted.

"Your innocence is charming, Marguerite. And having so much to teach you pleases me." Keeping her in his arms, he moved to the mantle and took the cover from a box, removing a joint.

"You think that will make me a better dancer?" she asked.

"No," he replied, taking a lighter from his pocket. "But it will make you think that you are."

She put the joint to her lips and inhaled, coughing as she handed it back. Edmond deferred, wishing her to smoke it, and she took several hits. Soon, she became more aware of the music, and the shadows cast by the candlelight, and the way his eyes shone as he looked at her, and the oh-so-wonderful feeling of his fingers as they traced the length of the new gold chain.

"I will open the champagne," he said, stubbing out the joint.

"The last time you gave me weed and champagne, you had to carry me to bed unconscious," Maggie reminded him.

"Yes," Edmond said casually. "But tonight is different. Tonight you are rested and fed, and mine to do with as I wish. And I wish you to be completely conscious when I fuck you, Marguerite, and you will be. At least the first time," he laughed.

She hated the word, and his casual use of it, and the cavalier way he spoke of what, to her, was going to be anything but a casual experience. It made her feel ashamed, and the heat rose to her face. "You're a bad man," she said, not as an accusation, but a statement of fact, one that seemed so obvious now that she was stoned.

"This is true," he replied after a moment. "I am a bad man. And the things I will do to you before this night is over will confirm it. But tell me, Marguerite. Is this, all of this," he asked, looking from her fine dress to their comfortable surroundings, "not preferable to scrubbing floors and living on crackers in your car? There is a price to pay for everything we want, little one, and sometimes, getting it requires us to be bad."

The record ended as if on cue as Maggie stood looking at him in the candlelight. Edmond was bad, but was she really any better? She did have a price to pay, and had agreed to it, and payment was imminent, and now she was finding offense at the word he used to describe it? Would she feel better about what she'd agreed to if he spoke of making love to her, or sleeping with her, or any other of a number of pretty euphemisms that weren't quite as crude? Yes. But why would he? Edmond had already gone to a great deal of trouble to make her feel more comfortable. Perhaps not using the F word was where he chose to draw the line. And if he were to lay her on the rug at their feet right now, and be with, doing everything but the one thing she would never do, would it really matter what he called it?

The doorbell rang, and Maggie immediately thought of Mike, wondering if he had returned to their door with whores.

"It is my brother, Marcos," Edmond said somberly. "He has come to see if you are as special as I said."

Edmond's brother? "You told him I'm special?" she asked.

"Yes," he said. "Very special. Do not make me regret it."

"He thinks I'm special," Maggie said to herself as Edmond crossed the room, turning on the lights.

Maggie heard them exchange greetings, and was smiling when Marcos stepped into view. He was every bit as handsome as Edmond, though he wore his hair short and was several inches taller, and even more powerfully built. At his side was a girl of around twenty-five, a tiny, deeply tanned, bleached blonde, in a short skirt and tight fitting shirt that showed an enormous amount of cleavage. Maggie didn't need Edmond to tell her she was a whore. Blondie the Whore.

Marcos looked across the room at Maggie with raised eyebrows, smiling appreciatively, and Maggie raised her eyebrows in return, unable to make her smile any larger.

"This is the child?" Marcos asked in Spanish. The brothers always conversed in Spanish when they spoke business, or otherwise wished to keep their conversation private. "This woman?" he asked incredulously.

Edmond smiled despite himself. "I told you she was beautiful."

"I assumed you'd exaggerated, but seeing her helps explain why your brain's so addled."

"Go in," Edmond said. "I will make drinks."

"We need to use your office first," Marcos replied, patting his jacket.

"Of course," Edmond said, reverting to English. "Marguerite, pour Marcos and I straight bourbon. You may have champagne."

"I brought some." Marcos handed Blondie the sack he carried, then turned to his brother. "Marguerite? Seriously? This girl's name is also our mother's?" he scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Did you name her that, brother? Like a pet?"

"Her given name is Margaret," Edmond replied. "She is Marguerite."

Maggie was still smiling as the men disappeared down the hall. They'd said her name a number of times, and she was thrilled they were talking about her.

"Those two have no manners," Blondie said. "My name is Joey, not Josephine, and you're really pretty, Marguerite. And tall."

"Thank you," Maggie said, turning her focus on her guest. "I'm Maggie. Only Edmond calls me Marguerite, and you have beautiful eyes, Joey," she said, reaching for a compliment. Blondie was wearing an enormous amount of makeup, including false eyelashes.

"Where can I open this?" Blondie said, indicating the sack.

"Oh," Maggie said. "Let's go in the kitchen."

Maggie opened the cupboard, pulling out champagne and highball glasses from the top shelf as Blondie removed the bottle from the sack. "How does it open?" Maggie asked, looking at the wired cap.

"Not easily, but I'm a pro," Blondie said, grabbing the bottle and placing it between her thighs. "Can't do it on the counter, though. Need the leverage." She turned away from Maggie. "Why don't you get the bourbon?" she said. "I got this."

Maggie heard the cork pop as she returned to the living room, finding the bourbon in a closed cabinet that held an assortment of alcohol. "This I can open," she said, coming into the kitchen and unscrewing the top. "I'll never understand how people can drink this stuff," she mused, pouring the drinks. "Brown alcohol smells awful."

Blondie handed Maggie a glass of champagne, taking one for herself as she sat at the counter. "To drinking champagne and not smelly brown drinks," she toasted, clinking Maggie's glass. They drank, Maggie taking only a small sip as the bubbles tickled her nose.

"Here's what you do," Blondie said as Maggie rubbed her nose. "Pinch your nose and down it. Do it once, and you won't even notice after that." Blondie pinched her nose and drank, making Maggie laugh. "Well, come on," she urged. "You can do it." Maggie pinched her nose and drained her glass.

"Good," Blondie said, smiling as she refilled their glasses. "You're a lot nicer than you look like you'd be."

"What do you mean?" Maggie asked.

"Girls like you are usually bitches, but you're not bitchy at all," she said, clinking Maggie's glass.

"Girls like me?" Maggie asked. "What does that mean?"

"Super pretty and expensive," Blondie said. "Hell, you could be on a magazine in that dress. And that," she said, indicating Maggie's new locket. "That's real nice. I know some stuff about jewelry."

"I get it," Maggie said. "You mean like the cheerleaders and majorettes back in school who only talked to certain people and ignored everyone else?"

"Yeah."

"It's really funny you'd think I was one of them," Maggie said. "You have no idea."

Marcos handed over a large sum of cash for Edmond to lock in the office safe, and then began talking about a friend they'd gone to school with who'd become a federal prosecutor. Neither Marguerite nor their plans for the evening were discussed, and it was nearly twenty minutes before they left the office—just as Marcos had planned.

"It is so pretty out here, Edmond," Maggie exclaimed with a happy smile as he and Marcos appeared in the doorway to the porch. "Look at all the lights." The porch was dark save for a small candle burning by the chair where Blondie sat smoking. The lights were the street lamps below. "They're like little stars, with all the little creatures orbiting around them."

"What did you give her?" Edmond asked as he accepted a glass of bourbon from Blondie.

"Just a little something to make her evening more enjoyable," Marcos answered. "Lighten up, brother. She seems happy enough."

"We can live here," Maggie was saying. "I like the dark and the light being in the same place with the harmony."

Edmond glared at his brother. "This was not part of our agreement."

"It's implied," Marcos said, stepping across to Maggie. "And I don't recall a time when the girl wasn't high, brother. We must stick to tradition, Edmond, especially if this she the final one."

Maggie looked at Marcos as he approached. He was so handsome and graceful, and could pass for Edmond in the dark, or at a distance. He stopped before her, looking her over carefully, as if she was a purchase he was considering. She stood, clasping her hands before her, and smiled up at him. "You're really tall," she said. "My daddy is tall sometimes."

"Give me your hands, Marguerite."

Maggie held out her hands to Marcos, and he raised them to his lips, kissing each slowly. Maggie shivered, closing her eyes to the sensation. "You just might be right about this one," Marcos said as he continued looking at Maggie, who was swaying from side to side. "But right or wrong, this is the finest piece I've seen in a while, so thanks," he said, smiling back at Edmond.

"Gracias," Maggie said, imitating Marcos before dipping down into a curtsey.

Blondie laughed as a wave of guilt swept over Edmond, and he spoke again to his brother. "Do you see how innocent she is? She can hardly tolerate champagne and a few tokes. The MDA is too much."

Marcos looked hard at his brother. "She is only a woman, brother. Does she have you so wound up so tightly by the short hairs you've forgotten you're a man?"

Edmond, stung by this fresh assault on his pride, closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then crossed to Maggie. "Marguerite," he said, looking only at her. "I want you to go with Marcos. I will be along in while."

She covered her mouth with her hand. "Does he think I'm special?" she asked me in a loud whisper.

"Yes," Edmond replied gravely. "Now go with him."

Maggie saw a look of disgust on Blondie's face as Marcos led her from the room. In the hall, as Marcos turned left, Maggie went straight, as that hall led to the living room. He had to retrieve her, taking her hand. When they reached Edmond's bedroom it was dark, and he left her in the open doorway as he went to turn on the bedside lamp.

"Close the door," Marcos said. "Come here."

Maggie stood looking at him. The lamp didn't spread a lot of light in this dark room, really just enough to light up the bedside table, where Edmond's Newsweek had been joined by the latest issue of Time. She saw this clearly. She seemed to be seeing everything particularly clearly tonight, as if she were looking at it all through a View-Master.

From down the hall she heard Edmond's voice raised in anger. He'd been mad about something before they left, and maybe that's why he'd told her to go, but she couldn't imagine he meant for her to go into his bedroom with his brother and close the door.

"Marguerite," Marcos said impatiently, pulling her back from her musings. "Close the door and come here."

Maggie closed the door and crossed the room to him.

He looked her over much as he'd done before. "Edmond thinks you're a virgin. Why does he think that?"

Maggie smiled. Edmond must have put him up to this, having tired of asking her himself. "I told him. He asked me a long time ago. And he just kept asking and asking."

"It's not true?"

"What's not true?"

"That you're a virgin?"

"Of course," she replied. "Ever since I was a little girl. But not anymore." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "Edmond's going to fix it so I won't have to be one anymore and we can stop talking about it."

"You have really never been with a man?" Marcos asked.

"No," Maggie said. "But you're a man. A really tall man. And I never went anywhere until now. Not even dancing before tonight."

"And now you want it?" Marcos asked, amused.

"What do I want?"

"To be fucked."

"No," she answered, shaking her head. "I _hate_ that. I want it to be pretty. That's my mother's word and I don't want that. I'm not a whore."

Marcos laughed. "You wish to make love then? To lay with a man?"

She smiled. "Okay. That's better. And if I'm not a virgin again we can stop talking about it. Only I don't want the bad thing in those letters," she said, adamantly shaking her head. "Nobody should ever do that."

Marcos laughed. "You're a funny girl, Marguerite, and virgin or not, I would have fucked you within five minutes if I'd seen you first."

"You did it again," Maggie said. "You must be bad, too."

Marcos' hand went to her face, his fingertips on her cheek. "I wanted you the moment I saw you," he said, his fingers now on her lips, tracing them lightly, the pleasurable sensation causing Maggie to close her eyes.

"You like being touched," he said, moving closer.

"Yes," she breathed. "It feels good."

"Where are your freckles, Marguerite?" he asked her after a moment. "I thought all redheads had freckles. Or is that not your real hair?"

"It's my hair," she replied, giggling. "It's on my head, isn't it? The freckles are hiding."

"Show them to me," he said, pushing her hair behind her shoulders. "I want to touch them, Marguerite. Imagine how good that will feel."

Maggie was confused. Edmond had told her to come here, hadn't he? And now Marcos was standing very close to her, and his hands were on her shoulders, and his eyes were the same deep brown as Edmond's, and his hair the same deep black, and he even smelled a bit like Edmond, and she wanted to bury her nose in his neck, and have him to touch her.

"Show me," Marcos said again. "Take off your dress and let me see them, Marguerite." His hands moved to the back of her neck, unclasping her halter, and the top of her dress fell open.

Maggie experienced a number of different reactions at the same time. One was excitement as she saw the pleasure on Marcos' face, one was embarrassment, and the third was a combination of confusion and fear. She grabbed her top and pulled it up, crossing her arms to hold it in place as she backed away, her face on fire.

"Are you blushing?" Marcos smiled, stepping towards her. When her shoulders touched the wall behind her, she stopped. He reached for her, lifting her chin. "I'm going to make love to you, Marguerite. Edmond wants it to happen. Why else would he send you away with me?"

His kiss was unexpected, and nothing like the kiss Edmond had given her. This was a real kiss, here against the wall, just like the kisses she'd shared with Will, and it felt so good to be kissed like this that she didn't struggle or make any attempt to stop it, and may have lost herself completely to it, just as she'd wanted to do with Will. But then she heard the softly whispered words, "mi pequeña", at her ear. And on hearing them, Maggie came as wide-awake as when Sybil had clanged her pots.

"No," she said abruptly, pushing Marcos away as she reached to close the back of her dress, which had somehow become unzipped, while holding up the front with her other hand. She was reeling from his kiss, his scent, and his nearness, and though every other part of her body _wanted_ , the words he'd whispered had somehow awakened her brain. These words were Edmond's endearment for her, and Marcos had no right to say them.

"What are you doing?" she asked, panicked. "I'm not doing anything with you. I want Edmond."

"You will have him later," Marcos said, grasping her arm tightly. "But you will have me first."

"Edmond!" Maggie screamed long and loud, releasing the front of her dress to slap Marcos' face. Seconds later, Edmond came rushing in, his eyes going from Maggie, who stood wild-eyed holding onto her dress, to a stunned and angry Marcos.

"Even drugged she would not yield?" Edmond asked, the pride apparent in his voice as he suppressed a laugh.

"She will yield," Marcos replied in a threatening voice. "I may have to force her in the beginning, but she will yield."

Edmond felt a rush of anger. Women were playthings, yes, but only if they wished to play, and Marguerite clearly did not. Marcos' suggestion that he would force her was repulsive.

"Marguerite," he barked, "come to me." Moving both hands to the front of her dress, Maggie ran to his side.

"I'm sorry," she said as she stopped before him, misunderstanding the anger she saw in his eyes.

"Why are you sorry?" he asked, wondering what he'd missed. She was still dressed, though she was having to hold the dress on, and Marcos was clearly agitated. She had not only refused surrender, she had struck Marcos in defense of her virtue. And at this, Edmond couldn't be more pleased. But he hadn't counted on Marcos taking her refusal as an insult, as he clearly had, and insulting his brother could prove dangerous.

"It's the weed," Maggie stammered. "I must be allergic. I can't think straight." If I could think straight, I wouldn't have kissed him, and I wouldn't still be thinking of kissing him. "I want to go to bed. May I go?"

Edmond wanted to let her go, and he would have, but for the fury on his brother's face. He couldn't let her go, not with Marcos looking angry enough to kill her. This entire situation, this stupid game, had turned dangerous with so much at stake. Marcos had clearly not viewed Marguerite as a threat, as his ability to seduce and bed any woman he wanted had long been a fact of life—of both their lives. Even so, he'd stacked the odds in his favor by doping her, and yet had still lost. By clinging stubbornly to her virtue and her dress, Marguerite had bested him, insulting not only his pride, but facilitating the loss of their business partnership. Edmond had to do something to defuse the situation if he meant to keep his brother in his life, which he did. He loved his brother.

Edmond pulled up the chain that held Maggie's locket, taking it in his hands. It was warm from the heat of her body, and their eyes met as he held it. Lowering it to rest on the front of her dress, he then laid his hands on her shoulders and turned her. She continued to clutch her dress with crossed arms as she again faced Marcos, who had moved to stand in front of her.

"Edmond, what are you doing?" she asked in a nervous whisper.

"Did you not swear to be obey me in all things?" he asked quietly.

"Yes," she said reluctantly, her eyes on the floor.

"Then be silent, Marguerite, and obey."

"You are my brother," Edmond said, looking directly at Marcos. "My beloved brother, and no woman will ever be more important to me than the bond the two of us share. So I give this woman to you, Marcos, as proof of this." Edmond knew his was a gamble, but he also knew his brother couldn't be played, and this was the only honorable option.

Maggie stood silently, her eyes fixed on the floor. Marcos studied Edmond's face a long moment, then reached for the locket that lay at Maggie's breasts.

"This is the San Benito," he said, furrowing his brow at Edmond. "The coin our mother wore. Where did you get this?" he asked Maggie. "Look at me, girl."

Maggie raised her eyes to his. "Edmond gave it to me," she replied.

"Did he?" Marcos asked, shaking his head in disbelief. "You wish to make this girl some kind of saint, but she's no saint, brother. She's no more a saint than our mother was," he hissed. He released the locket, and grabbing the hem of Maggie's dress, yanked it to the floor. Maggie raised her hands instantly to cover her breasts, but Edmond's arms came quickly around her, taking her hands and moving them to her sides, squeezing them quickly before letting them go. Although she wasn't certain she hadn't imagined it, his gesture gave her courage, and she lifted her head and looked steadily at Marcos. The room seemed to grow silent with expectation as each wondered what would happen next, and all Maggie could hear was the sound of her own breathing.

"Here you are," Blondie said as she stumbled into the room, and seeing Maggie clad only in her panties, garter and stockings, immediately pulled off her shirt and shoes. "Damn, you're white," she said, coming closer. Barefoot, Blondie was nearly a head shorter than Maggie, putting her mouth directly in line with Maggie's naked breast.

All her life Maggie had heard it said that a person could be shocked into sobriety. Now she knew it was true. For the moment that Blondie attached her mouth to Maggie's nipple, all that had passed since the doorbell rang, all the haze and fog of her high, seemed to vanish with the quickness of a dream.

Maggie screamed.

Marcos grabbed Blondie by one deeply tanned arm, cursing as he lifted her and threw her effortlessly onto the bed. Maggie stood unmoving, initially, overcome at finding herself in such an absurd situation. But then she grabbed the dress at her feet, and, pulling it up, turned to run.

"Marguerite, no," Edmond said, grabbing her arm.

"No?" she whispered angrily. "Why would you do to me? You give me a necklace of protection and then do this? Who's going to protect me from you?"

"You will obey me."

"No!" Maggie sobbed, shaking her head. "I won't." And she moved again to make her way past him.

"You will," Edmond said. "You will do as you promised. Or do promises mean nothing to you, Marguerite?"

"She's got you by the short hairs like I said," Marcos laughed. "My own brother, pussy-whipped by a little girl."

It could have been that she was still high, or maybe it was the look in Edmond's eyes, or the mocking tone of Marcos' voice, or even the lingering, ridiculous desire for him to kiss her again that changed Maggie's mind. But it wasn't. It was the importance of keeping her promise, as she knew too well the pain of broken ones.

Steeling her courage, and giving Edmond the most scathing look she could manage, Maggie turned again to face Marcos, releasing her dress to the floor once more.

"If Edmond wants you to have me," she said with as much calm as she could summon, "you can have me, and I won't fight you. Only please make her go," she said, looking at Blondie.

Marcos was distracted. Maggie stood all but naked in front of him, yielding, yet his eyes kept returning to the San Benito, its diamonds twinkling in the lamplight as it lay nestled between her breasts. He raised his hand as if to touch it, or perhaps her breast, but stopped when Maggie neither moved nor flinched.

"You would really fuck me to please my brother?" he asked her.

"Yes," she replied firmly, holding his eyes. "I promised to obey your brother, and I keep my promises."

"Except the one thing, of course," Marcos said glibly, repeating her earlier words. "And as the one thing is the very thing I find myself wanting, you are of no use to me, Marguerite. Get dressed. I don't want you."

She lifted the dress, covering herself, and Edmond saw the relief on her face as she turned, but she refused to meet his eyes. Then, pulling the locket from her neck, she dropped it at his feet, and ran from the room.

"Bravo," Marcos said, clapping his hands as the door slammed closed behind her. "Your woman may or may not have a hymen, brother, but she's definitely got balls."

Edmond smiled. He couldn't have asked for a better outcome. Marguerite had made him incredibly proud, and Marcos' honor had been salvaged.

"Get the bourbon and met us on the porch," Marcos ordered, looking at Blondie. She jumped from the bed and bounced quickly from the room.

"You know," Marcos said, crossing to Edmond's dresser and opening the cigar box, removing one for each of them. "If I had to lose to a woman, which is something I won't care to discuss again after tonight, I'm glad it was to that one. She has a certain quality. And a killer body."

"She does," Edmond said, biting off the end of his cigar. "And I believe the quality is called virtue."

They lit their cigars and headed down the hall to the porch, settling into the large wicker chairs. Blondie came in a moment later, handing each their drinks and then standing back, pouting.

"Come," Marcos said to her. "See to me before my balls turn blue."

Blondie dropped to her knees, smiling as she reached for his zipper.

"Wait," he said, stilling her hand. "See to Edmond first. It could well be his last time."

Edmond laughed, then nodded at Blondie as she made her way to him on her knees. "It's not that I won't miss the whores, brother. But I am willing to give them up, to give everything up, to get what I really want. Can you understand that?"

"What you want isn't real, brother," Marcos said matter-of-factly. "It's an illusion, brought on by your desire for something more, something you fear you're missing. But there isn't anything more, except the pain when you find that out for yourself."

Blondie unzipped Edmond's trousers and took him into her mouth.

"You saw her body and her fire," Edmond said. "And her willingness to submit. Would you not risk the pain again if you had such a woman?"

Marcos shook his head. "Maybe I should have fucked her," he mused. "Then she would be of no interest to you, and I could marry her."

Edmond laughed, leaning further back in his chair. Marcos might not like his decision, but there was no point in arguing it further. Edmond's dream of having a normal life, and a house filled with sons, was something Marcos couldn't understand now. But maybe he would in time, and perhaps seek out a virtuous woman of his own. This would have made their mother happy, having both her sons living in the way she and God had intended. And the thought of it made Edmond smile with contentment, and a few moments later, so did Blondie.

Maggie paced her room, trying to decide if she should stay or go. It should have been an easy decision, but somehow, it wasn't. She'd been treated horribly, true enough, but the entire episode had also been scandalously exciting, save for Blondie's contribution, and she was still reeling from Marcos' kiss. That wonderful kiss. And what about her and Edmond? This was supposed to have been the night. She'd made peace with it, and even put Will's ring away in sordid anticipation of it, and if Marcos and his whore hadn't stopped by, they might be doing it right now, right there on her bed. But everything was changed now, and she wasn't sure if she even wanted it to happen anymore, not after the way Edmond had treated her. But as the minutes ticked by, and Edmond didn't come, and she didn't hear anyone leaving, Maggie grew increasingly anxious.

Going into her bathroom and locking the door, Maggie undressed and got into the shower, letting the water hit her back as she leaned against the wall. Did he offer me up as some sort of prize just to see if I'd obey him? How sick is that? And what about Marcos? Edmond never kissed me like that. Why did he kiss me like that? It doesn't make sense. She wanted to hate Marcos, yet found she was attracted to him in much the same way she was to Edmond. Maybe I am a whore. Maybe what I really wanted was for Marcos to—no. I didn't want Marcos. Maybe for a minute I did, but I don't even know Marcos. I wanted Edmond, but he could he learn a lot from that park ranger and my brother about what you're supposed to do when you swoop in. But maybe he didn't swoop properly because he didn't really want to save me. Maybe he just wanted me as another whore in his big whore collection. But that didn't make sense, either. None of it did. She'd either been too stoned to understand what happened tonight, or too stupid.

Coming out of the bathroom, Maggie kicked the emerald dress into the closet, pulled out one of her new shirts to sleep in, slipped on a pair of panties, and got into bed, turning off the light. No book tonight. She was too angry, disappointed, confused, and frustrated to read.

She'd been in bed only a few minutes when she heard him come in. She knew it was Edmond because he always gave a single knock before entering, as if that made up for the lack of a lock on her bedroom door.

"I want my car," she said, not moving or looking up. "I'll pay for the repairs when I can, but I need it back. I'm leaving."

"No, Marguerite," he said, turning on the lamp. "You are not."

She covered her face with her pillow. "I won't be one of your whores. Sex may be nothing but a game to you and your brother, but not to me."

"It was not a game," he said, removing the pillow. "It was a test," he said with a sigh. "I had to know you would do anything I asked."

"A test?" she asked sarcastically. "Did I pass? Do I get a gold star?"

"You passed," he said, sitting down and pushing strands of damp hair from her forehead. "Circumstances as they were, you could not have done any better. You made me quite proud, Marguerite."

Maggie sat up, clutching the covers to her chest. "Proud? You're proud? You strip me naked and give me to your brother like I'm the last slice of pizza in the box, and you're proud?" she shouted. "Why stop there? Why not hold a parade and march me down Main Street naked if that sort of thing makes you so proud!"

Edmond stood. "Do not raise your voice to me, Marguerite," he said. "I only allow it now because you have a reason to be upset."

"Upset?" she yelled, kicking off her covers and coming to her feet on the bed. "Do you have any idea what you put me through? Dressing me up to show me off, then stripping me down like I was a Barbie doll for your brother to play with? I trusted you! I thought you cared about me! But all you wanted was to get me high and have a—a sex party! That's what it was supposed to be, right, Edmond? An orgy? Me and Blondie doing God knows what with you and your brother? That's what you want a virgin for?" she shrieked. Maggie's voice had become so shrill her throat hurt, and she jumped off the bed and crossed to the bathroom for water.

Edmond followed.

"It is not what I wanted," he said, standing in the doorway. "And I am sorry it happened."

"Yes. I am, too," she said dismissively.

"Listen to me," he said, turning her to face him. "It's complicated, but I never wanted you to be with my brother, and certainly not with that whore. I swear it to you, Marguerite. And I am truly sorry."

"Then why did it happen?" she asked, tears springing to her eyes. "I mean, you've never even really kissed me. Why would you want Marcos to kiss me like that?"

"He kissed you?" Edmond asked, looking surprised. "A true kiss?"

"If you're asking me if he used his tongue, then yes. He did. Apparently your brother doesn't share your aversion to kissing. And he kissed me for a really long time," Maggie said, remembering how amazing it had been. "I stopped him as soon as I could," she added quickly. "But he had me pinned against the wall, and I wasn't thinking clearly. I'm still not, really. I only had one glass of champagne, so it must have been the weed. I don't like using drugs, Edmond, and I'm not going to use them again, so please don't ask me to."

Edmond experienced both confusion and a surge of pure hate for his brother at this revelation. Marcos didn't kiss, at least he'd not seen him kiss a girl since college—not in the way Marguerite described. But he'd chosen to kiss her, and Edmond hated the thought of it, whether it was used as a tool of seduction or something more. And he wanted to be angry with Marguerite for letting it happen, but the fault was all his.

"It was not the weed," he said. "My brother had his whore put an amphetamine in your champagne. This is what caused your euphoria and confusion, and perhaps even desire. It effects people differently."

Maggie looked at him wide-eyed. "Blondie slipped me a mickey?" It was a term Sybil had used when warning of the evils men do for sex, and also one she'd heard on TV. And now it had happened to her. "Well, that explains a lot," she said, feeling a sense of relief. Her attraction to Marcos had been drug-induced, the kiss they shared had only felt so remarkable because of a drug, and not because of him. She might have had the same feelings if Blondie had kissed her, or the mailman.

"It was a mistake," Edmond said, reaching in his pocket. "All of it. I want you to forget it ever happened, and we will not speak of it again."

The locket glimmered in his palm, and Maggie, feeling an inexplicable sense of relief at his wanting to return it, closed her eyes and leaned her head against his chest. Edmond dropped it over her neck, kissing the top of her head. "Am I forgiven?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "But I still don't understand, Edmond."

"Come," he said, pulling her from the bathroom. "Get dressed—jeans this time," he said with a smile. "And bring a sweater."

"Wait," Maggie said as he turned to go. "Are they gone?"

"Yes, mi pequeña. They are gone."

The top was down on the Corvette, and the wind whipping through Maggie's damp hair was cool as Edmond headed away from town. In a few minutes he pulled off the highway onto a gravel road bordered by a wood of dense, skinny pines that eventually ended in a large clearing. The moon was high and nearly full in a cloudless sky, and Maggie was surprised at how bright everything was.

"Where are we exactly?" she asked as he cut the engine.

"Everything from the highway to the river, which is a half mile further on, belongs to a friend," Edmond said. "He is out of the country."

"It's really beautiful and quiet here," she said. "Is this where you usually bring your virgins to seduce them?"

"Yes," he replied, handing her a beer from the cooler he'd put in the back. "I offer them beer before laying them on the grass beside that rock and claiming their maidenheads," he said, indicating the large boulder that lay a few yards ahead. "A blood sacrifice, as it were. Happens once or twice a week," he said, opening his beer. "So drink up, Marguerite."

"Oh, God," Maggie laughed. "You do have a sense of humor. I knew there was a real person in there somewhere that drank beer and made jokes," she exclaimed, clinking his beer bottle with hers.

"And you like that person?" he asked.

"I do," she said sincerely. "I only wish I knew him better."

"Come," he said, opening his door. "It's time you did."

They leaned against the side of the car and talked as the moon made its way silently across the sky. Edmond was twenty-six, having graduated just over three years ago from the University of Michigan with a Business degree. He'd played golf throughout college, and decided to see if he could make a living at it, hiring on as a seasonal instructor, and playing in tournaments whenever he could. But the field was extremely competitive, and though he'd placed in the top twenty in his last few outings, he'd not played since June due to a shoulder injury.

Maggie knew nothing about golf except the name of a few players, but she knew this meant he wasn't working. "How do you support yourself? Your apartment, your car, and all the money you spend on me?"

"My father—my adopted father—had a favorite aunt who married money. When she died my last year in school, she left him a substantial inheritance, and he gave it to me and my brother. He is a generous man."

He was born Edmondo Javier Aguilar in the village of El Mezquite on Lake Guerrero, three hours south of the Texas border. When he was two, the family left everything behind, settling in Corpus Christi where his father believed he had work. Edmond didn't know the whole story, only that his father disappeared shortly thereafter, and his mother, Marguerite, took work as a domestic in one of the mansions on Nueces Bay.

When Edmond was five, she married a naval officer, George Jackson, having met him when he visited her employer's home. George adopted Edmond and Marcos, and never allowed his mother to work again. He moved them to a home where they had bikes and toys and books, and he remembered being happy. And he remembered how happy his mother had been the day she told them they would have a new baby soon. And he clearly remembered the unhappy day she died.

The boys found her when they came in from school. She was in the bathroom, and they'd called and called before going in and finding her in the tub, naked and cold and blue. Something had gone wrong with her pregnancy—Edmond didn't know the whole story here either—only that she'd complained of headaches on the morning she died.

He was profoundly affected by his mother's death, so much so that George took him to a counselor to help him deal with the nightmares, and moved them to a new home almost immediately, as Edmond refused to use the bathroom where his mother had died, and it was the only one.

George was good to him and Marcos, treating them exactly as if they were his own, until he remarried when Edmond was eleven. His new wife was also widowed with children, twin girls, also eleven, and blonde and blue-eyed like her. And though she appeared eager enough to integrate the two families before their marriage, her entire demeanor changed after she walked in on Marcos one evening, and saw him masturbating in his bed.

Her subsequent fear of having her daughters sleep a room away from such a well-endowed, shameless, adolescent boy was, to her, an insurmountable problem. She took the girls and went to her mother's until George made the decision to pack his sons off to military school. And while George never forgot a birthday, visited in the summer, and continued to support them—paying their way through college and gifting them the money left by his aunt—he was never a real father to them after that. To Edmond, this role had gone to Marcos, three years his senior.

"George was very good to my mother and to Marcos and me. He fell in love with my mother despite her heritage and maid's uniform. He looked past it and saw how beautiful she was, and because he did, we went from living in poverty to living the American dream practically overnight. Even after she died, he made certain we had every opportunity to do well. Military school was an excellent education, and as we achieved there, and Michigan was George's alma mater, we had no problem getting in.

"I followed Marcos to Michigan when I graduated, and after the first year, when I could leave the dorms, we took an apartment together. He met a girl, Melanie, when she moved into an apartment on the floor above us. She was a beautiful, blue-eyed, freshman music major who played violin. It was weeks before she'd agree to go out with him, but once she did, they became inseparable, except that there was no sex. She said she was saving herself for marriage, and he believed her. He was desperately in love with her. They became engaged, and were to be married over Christmas break. Then in November we came back from an away game. She hadn't come, she never came to the games—and Melanie was gone. Her apartment was empty, and there was no note, nothing. Marcos wanted to believe something terrible had happened to her, and he was all over campus talking to everyone she knew, but no one knew anything.

"A week later, she sent back the engagement ring and a note in the mail. She was pregnant. Marcos' virgin was pregnant, and she'd married the father. She'd played him. The lying whore had played him. I found him with her letter and a loaded revolver in his mouth," he said, looking at the ground. "I told him if he was going to do this, I was coming right behind him. And I would have. I knew I wouldn't be able to live with the pain of losing him like that. Not to a lying whore.

Edmond sighed, looking back at her. "That was when we swore a blood oath, after we got blind drunk, that neither of us would end up in such a situation again—that we'd never allow a woman that much power." he said, pointing out the long, thin scar on his palm. "We agreed to not get involved with a supposedly "decent" woman ever again. Only whores. Party girls. And for a time there, only girls our friends had fucked."

"And the test?" Maggie asked quietly.

"Yes. The heart of the oath was the test, in case either of us was to start down that path again, believing we'd found a virtuous woman."

"Like you with me," Maggie said.

"Yes."

"And how many times have you done the test?

"Tonight was the fourth time. And the final time."

"And the others failed? All three had sex with your brother? Or you?"

"Only with my brother. Marcos never asked for the test. It's rare if he keeps the same whore around for more than a week."

"Oh." Learning that Edmond had been involved with three other women surprised Maggie. Did they all break his heart? "What happened to those three girls?" she asked. "After the test, I mean?"

"Who knows? I never saw any of them again. One can hardly feel affection for a whore who lies about being a whore, and then fucks your brother," Edmond flicked his cigarette into the grass. "They were just lying, conniving whores, like Melanie. All the test did was prove it."

Maggie understood now why Edmond and his brother had made such a seemingly bizarre pact. He'd nearly lost Marcos, and his own life, to the devastating pain Melanie's deception caused. Their pact was really a promise to live, and not dissimilar to the one she'd made to Will and God.

"You said you wished you hadn't agreed to test me. Why?"

He reached for her, pulling her to stand before him. "Even when I was speaking to Marcos about testing you, I did not want to go through with it. You have become very special to me, Marguerite. And if you are not the virgin you claim to be, I wish to learn of it myself, privately, not by your being fucked by my brother."

"But, Edmond," she said, shaking her head. "Even if I wasn't a virgin, it wouldn't have happened. I couldn't do that with someone I didn't have feelings for, and I don't even know your brother. He's a stranger to me."

"And you have such feelings for me, Marguerite?" Edmond asked.

"You know I do," she said gently. "Didn't I prove it tonight? I did everything you asked. I did more than you asked. And it wasn't easy. If I didn't care for you, there's no way I could have, and I wouldn't have wanted to."

Edmond smiled. "Your actions tonight were extraordinary, and while this may prove your respect for me, and a certain measure of affection, it is not enough, Marguerite. I need more."

"What?" she asked curiously, searching his eyes. "What do you want me to do?"

"It is really quite simple, mi pequeña," Edmond said softly. "All I want, and all I need now, is for you to love me."

Immortalized in Marble

12

It was after four in the morning when they arrived home, and after walking with her to her bedroom door, Edmond said goodnight. Maggie stepped out of her clothes before climbing wearily into bed. What a strange night—so strange she was no longer sure who Edmond was. Was he the domineering, threatening, manipulative, macho man she'd believed him to be all along, or was that all an act?

After his use of the L word and her ensuing, shocked silence, he'd walked away from her, sitting alone on the boulder with his face turned to the sky. She wanted to follow, to say something—but what could she say? He'd used the magic word. The precious, sacred word, and Maggie could count with fingers left over on one hand the number of people who'd asked for her love. But that was surely not what Edmond wanted from her, and if he did, how could she tell him she couldn't love him, could never love him? Maggie's entire life had been spent yearning for love only to have it denied. How could she do the same to Edmond?

And so, not knowing what to do, she'd done nothing, but remained at the car, smoking cigarettes and watching him in the moonlight, thinking how the rock he sat on reminded her of the story of Abraham and Isaac. Now there was a disturbing love story of someone willing to sacrifice everything to prove the depth of their affection, yet in the end not having to, as being willing to was proof enough.

She'd been willing. She would have sacrificed anything for Will's love. Yet in the end, she'd been left with nothing but pain. And now, she was with Edmond, because he'd wanted her, and she had nowhere else to go. And now, he was asking her to love him, something she knew she wasn't capable of. She was capable of lying. She could lie to him. She could say the words he wanted to hear, and she could make him believe they were true. Saying the words was easy. Will had said them easily enough to her and she had believed them.

Maggie woke at ten from a deep, dreamless sleep, and her conscious mind immediately began racing with the events of the previous night. Putting on her robe, she walked barefoot into the quiet living room, and seeing Edmond's car was gone, breathed a sigh of relief. Again, she needed to decide whether to stay or go, and with Edmond gone, she had a bit more time. Returning to her room, she took a long, hot shower.

When the water began to run cool, she turned it off and pulled back the curtain to find Edmond leaning against the towel rack, holding the San Benito suspended by its chain and watching it twirl. She wanted to cover herself, but as he was blocking the towels—intentionally, she was certain—she took a deep breath and stood as erect as possible. Edmond's long hair was damp and unbound, his body bare save the towel cinched around his waist, and she knew immediately that it was about to happen.

Edmond lifted his eyes to hers, and she let out the breath she'd been holding. "I thought you'd left," she said nervously. "Your car is gone."

"I sent it for service," he said, reaching for her hand. "I don't plan to be driving today. Now come, Marguerite. We have delayed long enough."

"I—I should dry my hair," Maggie offered.

Ignoring this, Edmond led her into the bedroom, stopping to pull open the drapes and flooding the room with bright, morning light. Maggie stood beside him, naked and wet. Her thoughts had been so occupied since waking, that this moment, the one she had been both anticipating and dreading, had taken her by surprise. She'd been ready for it last night before the doorbell rang, and even before last night if truth be told. But now, in the near blinding light of a summer morning, with Edmond's words from last night weighing heavily on her heart, and the lingering memory of Marcos' kiss on her mouth, she wasn't ready at all. She wanted it to be dark, she wanted for there to be music, and wine, and maybe even a tiniest bit of the weed. This moment was far too real.

"Are you worried? Is that what I see playing out on your beautiful face?" he asked. "There is no need to worry if you have been truthful with me, Marguerite. But, if you have lied," he said, looking hard into her eyes, "you will take your possessions, all but the locket, and leave here when I have finished with you. You may keep everything else as payment for your services."

"I'm not worried," she said with as much calm as she could manage. "I'm just nervous, and it's so bright, and—"

Edmond laid a finger on her lips to quiet her and closed his eyes. He was every bit as nervous as she was, though for different reasons. He wanted so much for her virtue to be proven beyond any doubt, but knew that was unlikely.

Edmond had never bedded a virgin, or if he had, he wasn't made aware of it, as no such claims were ever made. His first time was on his sixteenth birthday, while visiting his brother at school. There'd been a big party, and a girl whose face he could not remember had invited him to her van, where they'd done it on a pile of old quilts surrounded by crates of oranges. He didn't recall hearing her name, neither Marcos nor any of his friends had known her, and he'd never seen her again. For years the smell of citrus brought his first time immediately to mind.

Of course, the girl hadn't known he was a virgin, as it had to be the rare man who'd confess to it. And without that confession, there was no way to know. Perhaps it would be better if the same were true of women. For Edmond knew that even if a woman wasn't difficult to penetrate, and didn't bleed, it didn't mean she wasn't a virgin. He knew this, even if Marguerite did not. And if this proved to be the case, he'd have to make a judgment call, and Edmond already knew what that would be.

For if Marguerite was not the woman to bear his sons, who was? Was he prepared to spend the rest of his life searching for a virgin with a near impenetrable hymen, and who would bleed enough to require a transfusion, so he could have the satisfaction of absolute proof? Even if he were to find such a woman, how long would that take, and how slim were the chances that she would be as uniquely beautiful, and bright, and personable, as the one who stood before him now?

"Edmond," Maggie said quietly, moving his finger from her lips. "I want to tell you." She didn't really want to tell him, but she had to tell him, as she was now afraid not to. "It's kind of embarrassing, but I tried to use a tampon once. I couldn't make it work. But I tried to, once, at school, and I don't know if it—it might have changed things."

Edmond wanted to laugh, but she was obviously frightened, and it made him feel strangely uncomfortable. Maybe he'd been wrong to surprise her like this. Maybe it would be better to allow her time to wait for the night, to once again build her anticipation. It was oddly unsettling, having asked for her love last night, only to be met with her silence. And his desire to bed her now, in this moment, was largely fueled by her passive rejection. But if talk of love was not Edmond's forte, the act of love was, and with it, he had little doubt Marguerite would be convinced to love him. But perhaps he shouldn't have rushed it. Perhaps it was better to again make her wait.

"Perhaps this is not the right time," he said after a moment, his voice uncharacteristically uncertain.

Tears sprang to Maggie's eyes on hearing the hesitancy in his voice. He thinks I'm lying, making excuses as to why I might not prove to be what he wants me to be, and what I said I was—and what I am! And if he thinks that, he might be thinking of throwing me out on the street. Maggie didn't want to be thrown out. She'd thought about leaving last night, and again this morning, but it wasn't what she wanted. Not at all. She had no place to go. Edmond had become her home, and she was afraid of being alone on the streets again. She needed to be here, with him, and she needed for them to be lovers, and if she had to lie about how she felt to make it happen, then that must be the price she had to pay.

"Edmond, please," she said, tears falling as she tried to hide the desperation she felt. "I haven't lied to you. I'm just afraid what I did won't let me prove it."

"You did no harm," he said casually. "What you did will make no difference one way or the other." And as her tears continued, he moved to brush them away.

Maggie caught his hand, pressing it to her cheek. "I want to love you, Edmond," she said, saying the words she'd refused to say before. "Really love you. And I want you to love me. And I want to be with you. I want it more than I've ever wanted anything."

He became very still even as his heart suddenly began to beat faster, as if it had awoken from a sleep that began the day his mother died. His plan, his dream of a new, honorable life, and a home with as many sons as it would hold, was dependent on finding a virtuous woman who would love him. But he'd never once considered he might actually love the woman in return. Care for her, yes. Protect her, certainly. Yet Marguerite's words, together with the press of her hand and the determined look on her face, made Edmond come to a sudden realization. Was it possible what he felt for her was love? Did he already love her?

He pressed her against him, inhaling deeply of her hair. Then taking her hands, he dropped to his knees, pulling her down so they were face to face. And then he was kissing her—really kissing her, and the feel of him, and the smell and warmth and taste of him, filled Maggie with such joy that nothing but the moment mattered. And she could hardly breathe with the excitement of feeling his body touching hers, and his hardness pressing against her thigh. His hands were on her breasts, stroking and tugging, and as her excitement mounted, she broke the kiss, grabbing his hair in her hands as she clung to him.

"Open your legs," he breathed at her ear. And when she did, his hands went to her buttocks, caressing it as he again he sought her mouth, kissing her deeply. And then his hand slipped between her legs, his fingers moving deftly, exploring. Again she broke the kiss, breathing hard as she leaned back, her hands grasping his shoulders. She'd never dreamed his touch would hold such intense pleasure, and even a strangely sweet pain.

And then, too soon, he stopped, leaning his forehead against hers. "You spoke the truth," he said. "You are a virgin."

Maggie met his eyes and saw amazement in them, as if he'd found a treasure he'd never believed existed. "You could tell?" she asked, both ecstatic and confused. "I thought you had to—we had to—you could tell?"

Edmond stood, laughing as he pulled her up and led her to the bed. "Lie down, Marguerite," he said. "I will close the drapes a little."

Maggie laid on the bed, propping her head against the headboard and watching as he crossed to the windows. She'd never seen a man naked, other than photographs of Michelangelo's David, and to her eyes, it was Edmond who deserved to be immortalized in marble. His body was amazing—tall and dark and smooth and muscular, and at his groin, a mass of hair, beneath which hung a perfectly symmetrical pair of testicles. And then there was his erection—she had definitely never seen an erection before, or even thought to imagine what one might look like. And to see it now was strange and exciting and splendid, and Maggie had a curious feeling that, in seeing it, somehow everything had changed.

"Does my body please you?" Edmond asked, crossing back to find her staring.

"I'm sorry," she said, feeling the heat rise to her face as she covered it with her hand.

He laughed. "Don't be sorry. Open your eyes, Marguerite. Look at me. We are about to become lovers, and the time for shyness has passed."

She uncovered her eyes, and as Edmond came to the end of the bed in the now heavily shaded room, her surroundings took on a surreal quality, as if she'd passed into a dream.

He took hold of her feet, pulling her down from the headboard, then climbed onto the bed and sat astride her, leaning forward, his face poised over hers. "I may lay with you a thousand times," he whispered, "but this time will be the sweetest, Marguerite, and not soon to be forgotten."

If someone had asked, in later days, what her first time was like, they wouldn't have heard a story of back-seat drive-in passion, or doing it on their parents' sofa, or any such stories like those she'd heard at school. Maggie's first time was so much more than that, as Edmond had vast experience in pleasing women, and he intended for Maggie to be the best-pleased of all.

The letters to Penthouse had prepared her, or so she'd thought. She'd expected a sweat-soaked, frenzied encounter in which body parts were called by their common names, and she'd be jostled from one sexual act or position to another, limbs askew, to eventually culminate in heights of rapture, seldom experienced by mere mortals. All made possible by the all-powerful penis. For this was how the writers—men writers—had described their encounters. But it wasn't like that. For the letters had made no mention of the way it felt to have Edmond sitting astride her, his fingers laced through hers, his mouth kissing and pulling at her lips as he whispered in a language she didn't understand. They'd not spoken of how it felt to have the softness of his hair sweep against her stomach, or the hardness of his penis within the hollow of her breasts. No one had written of the way it felt to have slow, wet kisses begin in the palms of her hands and, coupled with the occasional, exquisitely painful bite, cover most of her body. But most of all, no one had said how she would feel her heart leap each time Edmond looked in her eyes. And it was this, even more than his hands or his mouth, or even his member, which fueled her desire. And when the moment came that he did lie above her, penetrating her ever so gently, his eyes never strayed from hers, and the powerful connection she felt with him seemed to flow through his eyes, and this was something the letters had missed completely.

Edmond was enraptured by his alabaster virgin. Never had his heart felt as full as at the moment of her complete surrender. He wanted to shout his possession of her from the rooftops, ravish her with lusty abandon, and make her scream with pleasure. But he restrained himself, stroking her tenderly and with rapt attention to her every breath as she lay passively beneath him—a worthy and willing receptacle for his seed. Marguerite knew nothing of real pleasure, this woman who had given him so much. But she would. He would give her pleasure in abundance, starting slowly and building a need in her that would require his constant sating. And in doing this, Edmond would be certain that what he now possessed would never be lost. She would need him to please her always, and that need would give him many sons.

They remained naked, primarily in her room, for the next three days. Edmond would make sandwiches, or eggs, and bring the food on trays, always with beer. He brought in the radio from his office and gave her dancing lessons. He told her stories about sports and school. They showered together, with Edmond washing her from tip to toe. But whatever they were doing, he would at some point reach for her, caressing her breast, or her face, or her hand, and if they were not already in bed, he would carry her there, loving her as wonderfully as he had the first time. And when they slept, Maggie lay in Edmond's arms, and her sleep was peaceful and still and dreamless, and when she woke, she was happy. And for the first time in her life she felt responsible for another person's happiness, as Edmond was happy, too. She could see it in his eyes, and the easy laughter and smiles that lit his face so frequently now. But she knew it was not only the sex that was making him happy. For, ever since he'd hung the bloodstained white covers across a chair at the foot of the bed, and pulled her into his arms so they might admire it together, she'd known with certainty that he was in love with her.

It was just after sunrise on the fourth day when Maggie woke to find Edmond gone from her bed, and his car gone from where it had been parked next to her newly returned Volkswagen. She felt anxiety over this departure, and folded her arms across her chest, wandering naked through the apartment, listening to the silence and sniffing for his scent, realizing for the first time that more than her privates ached from his constant attentions. Her entire body was sore, bruised, and bitten, and the pain of it pleased her immensely.

Going into Edmond's room, she turned on the radio, then filled the tub with steaming water and patchouli oil before easing in. They'd been in the tub together yesterday morning, and she laid back with a smile and a sigh, remembering.

"A time may come when I no longer desire you," Edmond had murmured in her ear as she lay between his outstretched legs. "There is a gun in my desk," he said. "You are to shoot me if this ever happens, for it could only mean I have lost my mind."

"No," she'd said. "I'd find some way to make you want me."

And it was true. Maggie couldn't bear the idea that Edmond might soon grow tired of her. The last few days had been more extraordinary than she could have ever imagined, and she couldn't imagine ever giving it up. Sleep she would surrender, even food. But not the way she felt when Edmond lay with her.

"Do you want me now?" he asked, turning her to face him.

"I always want you," she answered, thinking he meant to pull her onto his lap. But Edmond stood, lifting her to sit on the wide ledge of the window that had served him well on many such occasions.

"Edmond, there are people on the river," she said, seeing the pontoon anchored below as he moved her into position. "They can see us."

He held her eyes as he parted her legs. "Do you wish me to stop?" he asked, kissing her as he moved between her thighs.

"No," she answered. "I never want you to stop."

He loved her wildly, and in full view of the fishermen, though he never glimpsed any of them watching. He placed her legs around his back, and she held him like a vise, eagerly taking to this new, more aggressive encounter. Edmond was enormously satisfied, for her response was exactly what he wanted—that she would desire him so much that little else mattered, not even a potentially public exhibition. And when he had taken his pleasure, he laughed as she collapsed against his chest, for all was exactly as it should be.

Maggie sighed, smiling at the smeared oil that remained on the glass. She certainly hadn't wanted anyone to see them, but being seen had become unimportant. Edmond had wanted her, and she would never say no to him. How could she ever say no to feeling like that? It was a feeling she never wanted to be without. Will might have her heart, but her body belonged to Edmond.

He entered the apartment silently, crossing to stand behind her as Maggie stood near the top of the stepladder before the fireplace, rewinding the last of the cuckoo clocks. "You must let Reg do that," he said. "I will not risk you falling."

She turned at the sound of his voice and began to descend the ladder.

"Stay," he said. "I like the view." She was wearing one of her shortest skirts in the hope he would come in and find her there.

"So many bites and bruises," he said, moving his hand beneath her skirt and along her thigh. "You look as though you were ravished by a horde of horny pirates, Marguerite."

Maggie found it difficult to craft a witty response, as she didn't want to talk. What she wanted was for Edmond to make love to her then and there. "I can cover them with makeup," she offered, distracted. "Or wear pants."

"No," Edmond said, continuing to caress her thigh. "I do not want you in pants. I want you accessible, as you are now. It pleases me, and the marks I have left please me, and there is no need to cover them, as I will only mark you again," he said. "Now come."

"Did you miss me in your bed this morning?" he asked, helping her from the ladder and taking her in his arms.

"Yes," Maggie sighed, leaning against him. You know I did."

"I bought something," he said abruptly, pulling away and stepping back to hand her the box. "It is a bluebird clock. They are said to bring happiness."

Maggie smiled, looking from the box to Edmond. "Happy bluebirds," she said. "But I already have so much happiness I'm beginning to feel guilty about it."

He took the box from her hand, setting it aside, and led her to the wall of windows. The late morning sky was clear, and there was no one to be seen on the river.

"I have another gift," Edmond said, "for the one who has brought me so much happiness." He took from his pocket a small box and opened it. Inside was a diamond ring. Stunned, Maggie stood open-mouthed as he dropped to one knee.

"I have waited a long time for you, Marguerite," he said, looking up at her. "I will wait no longer. I want you to be my wife, and the mother of my children." He pushed the ring onto her finger. It was nothing like the simple ring Will had given her. This diamond was large, new, and obviously expensive. Kissing her hand, Edmond pulled her down to face him. "I am blessed," he said, "to have finally found a woman of your virtue and beauty, Marguerite. We will marry in a house of God, and I will honor you always, as will your children."

Maggie was speechless. That Edmond would want to marry her was something she'd never remotely considered. And though the last few days felt, in many ways, like a lifetime, it was only a few days. She wanted to be with Edmond, and already couldn't imagine being without him, as he'd quickly become her entire world. But marriage? Children? She couldn't marry Edmond. Not when what she felt for him wasn't love, but lust. Lust for the sins of the flesh, of debauchery, depravity, and desire.

Wicked sins, these.

If Will were here, he would preach line and verse as to how her body was a temple, and how some would say she would go to Hell for the life she was living. But he wasn't here, having chosen not to be here, having chosen someone else to love. Everything had changed because of Will's choice, and she belonged to Edmond now. And if the sins of the flesh had consequently become her absolute favorite sins on the planet, then that was her choice.

Will, the church, her mother, all had warned her of the hazards of sex outside of marriage. But all Maggie knew, and all she cared to know, was how sex with Edmond made her feel. And she didn't need to be in love to feel that way, and she certainly didn't need to be married, especially when her profession of love for him was a lie. But he wants to marry me. He wants to buy the cow, Mother. But surely he doesn't mean married now. I'm not old enough to get married now. He's just staking his claim, marking me with his ring just as he does with his mouth.

"Edmond, I—"

"Do not speak yet, mi pequeña. I have another special gift for you."

He laid her back on the lambskin rug. "You must dress for me more often," he said, unbuttoning her shirt. "It is like opening a gift with my name on it."

His lips went to her breasts, kissing them through the lacy fabric before unhooking the straps and taking them in his mouth. Then he lifted her skirt, pulling down her panties and touching her until she moaned with pleasure, arching her back in eagerness. Moving to lie between her legs, his mouth now replaced his fingers, and Maggie gasped as the feeling soon became so intense as to be almost unbearable. Her legs were shaking as she grabbed Edmond's head with both hands, and felt her senses flood with a pleasure so immense she was helpless to stop the scream that escaped her. She began to pull at him, desperate to have him inside her.

Edmond came to his knees. "Will you be my wife?" he asked her, holding her eyes steadily as he removed his clothing.

Maggie's heart and head were racing, her sense of reason all but swept away by the rapture he'd caused her to feel. And she wanted more. She wanted it never to stop.

"Edmond, please," she begged, reaching for him. "I need you."

He lifted her bottom, wrapping her legs around his neck "Say you'll be my wife, Marguerite," he said, poised above her, ready to enter her, and on his handsome face, a wicked, knowing grin. "Let us both have what we want from one another."

You are a very bad man. "Yes," she said. "I will marry you."

She would have promised, in that moment, to marry Santa's reindeer and all his elves if it would make Edmond continue. And when he did, she quickly cried out as the same incredible feeling took her again. Her lies didn't matter. Even the promise of marriage didn't matter. All that mattered was now.

"What did you do to me?" she asked as they lay together afterwards, breathless, dazed, yet eager for more.

"It is a husband's duty to give his wife such pleasure. That was only a taste, Marguerite. I will give you so much more."

There's more? More than that? Maybe she'd been wrong. Maybe she could marry Edmond and learn to love him.

Edmond was immensely pleased. He'd waited purposely, priming Marguerite slowly, aware it could take time before she achieved orgasm. Yet she had, twice, in the span of a minute, and now that she had, she would become enslaved, addicted to the feeling, and to the man who allowed her to feel it. Perhaps she already was.

The doorbell woke her. Maggie had fallen into a deep sleep after Edmond loved her a second time, and he'd left her on the floor, covering her with the large mink throw from the couch. She jumped up quickly, initially wondering where Edmond was and who was at the door. Then, seeing her ring, the only thing she was wearing, she began to laugh. In just a few days she'd exchanged one engagement ring for another, lost her virginity, found her love of orgasms, and agreed to marry Edmond. Both her life and her mind were being changed so fast—or perhaps it just felt that way after the long, slow years she'd spent waiting for Will.

Edmond came into the foyer wearing only a towel, and clutching the throw, she slipped quickly into the powder room. She could hear Reg's voice, some quiet chatter and laughter, and then the closing of the door.

"All clear?" she asked from the doorway as he came into the living room holding a garment bag and a sack from Kaiser's.

He was smiling as he crossed to her. "Let me see you," he said, his eyes on the throw. Maggie dropped it instantly, and Edmond's fingers went to the fresh bruise he'd made on her stomach. "Are you happy?" he asked, his eyes slowly returning to hers.

"Yes," she said, giving a contented sigh.

"Come." Taking her hand, he led her to her room. He hung the bag, unzipping it. Inside was a white dress—tea length, sleeveless, simple, and elegant. It was her wedding dress—she knew this even before the bag revealed a pair of white satin pumps and a short, lacy veil, all of which Edmond had directed Reg to buy. It was all lovely, but why was he doing this now? What was the rush?

"You will wear your hair down," he said, turning to her. "And keep the locket at hand. I may wish you to wear it."

"Edmond, why are you telling me this now?" she asked nervously, though she feared she already knew.

"We are to be married at four," he said as he looked at his watch. "You must be dressed by two-thirty, as it is an hour's drive to Eufaula."

Eufaula. Maggie had a vague memory of Leon telling a story about fishing at the big lake there, and alligators being on the banks of the lake, and she knew the river below passed through the lake on its way to the Gulf. But of course, she'd never been. But as she shook these random thoughts and images away, they were replaced with others. He'd planned this—for how long? He certainly knew before today, but it was less than two weeks since she'd come here. Was this a plan made long ago, meant to spring into action as soon as the right virgin came along? Had the dress and veil been on hold in the storeroom at Kaiser's all this time? And as these thoughts crowded her mind, Maggie wished for the first time in days that she wasn't naked. She could surely think better if she were dressed. Only not in the wedding dress.

"But I'm not old enough," she said at last, crossing her arms. "I'd need my parent's permission, Edmond, and they're not going to give it." This was true in Georgia, she knew. But Alabama?

"Your parents," Edmond said, looking at her crossed arms in such a way that Maggie immediately dropped them, "have abandoned any right to make decisions for you, Marguerite. This is my right now, and I have made all the necessary arrangements. All you must do is put on the dress, sign the license, and marry me—unless you now regret your promise."

He stood very close, looking into her eyes. She wanted to be defiant, to argue her promise had been made under a most excruciatingly sweet form of duress. To refuse the marriage, to send the dress back, and to pull him back down to the rug. But she couldn't. She didn't dare. There was a challenge in Edmond's eyes that came very close to frightening her, as if he'd just read her every thought, and making her remember what Mike had said about broken promises.

"I don't regret anything," she said, finally finding her words. "I promised to marry you, and I want to be your wife."

They left at two-thirty, driving with the top down and the radio on to the small Alabama town just fifty miles south. Edmond pulled over at a roadside stand just outside the city limits, buying them Cokes and a bag of roasted peanuts, which he shelled and ate as they waited.

His hair was bound; he wore a dark suit, shiny black shoes, and a starched white shirt with French cuffs, studded silver cufflinks, and a dark blue tie. To Maggie, Edmond looked every inch like an exotic, far-too-handsome movie star who'd been inexplicably plucked up and dropped on this roadside in rural Alabama. She was surprised that he would know people here, and she was more surprised when a new gold Cadillac pulled in beside them, and Edmond walked over to speak to the driver, a well-dressed, handsome man of color he called Mac.

"Do you see them watching us?" Edmond asked as he returned to the Corvette, indicating the middle-aged white couple who ran the stand. "They'd like to lynch me for being with a girl as white as you," he said, roaring onto the highway. "And it would not go much better for yourself."

"Some people are just ignorant," Maggie said dismissively. "Besides, Edmond, they'd have to catch us first."

They roared onto a dirt road after a few miles, following Mac past fields of cotton until they came to a crossroads, where a cotton gin and bait shop each occupied a corner. On down the road were a half dozen unpainted shotgun houses, each with a front porch filled with people who appeared to be dressed in their most colorful Sunday best. Mac began blowing his horn as he passed them, and as he did, the people began spilling onto the street, walking rapidly after their cars.

"What's going on?" Maggie asked, looking back at them as Edmond followed Mac into the yard of a small, wooden building. There was no steeple, and no sign bearing a name, but the obviously well-tended graveyard that surrounded it, and the crude, whitewashed cross above the only door, made it clear this was a place of worship.

"I have no idea," Edmond laughed. "But everyone looks happy."

Leaving her in the car, Edmond got out. In front of the church, seated in rusty metal lawn chairs, was a well-dressed elderly couple, both their faces lit with large smiles. Behind them stood a pig-tailed girl in a pale blue dress, white hat, and black patent leather shoes, laughing as she waved the woman with a fan. Maggie felt as if she'd stepped into the pages of a novel, or perhaps even the parallel universe she'd once imagined. She was in the middle of nowhere—having arrived there in an expensive white car wearing an expensive white dress—and all around her were people of color, all dressed in beautiful colors, and all of them were smiling.

The old man stood and shook Edmond's hand, and in a few moments the woman also stood, and as she did, Edmond motioned for Maggie to join them as they went inside.

It was a simple sanctuary—a podium for the preacher, folding chairs for the choir, and ten backless benches for the congregation. On the benches lay a scattering of paper fans, each bearing an image of Jesus praying at Gethsemane on one side, and a funeral home advertisement on the other. A soft breeze was blowing through the two open windows, and Maggie imagined she smelled roses.

After speaking privately with Mac, Edmond took Maggie's hand, leading her to the podium, where he introduced her to Brother Harris and his wife, Deborah. Then the preacher, his wife, and Edmond signed a paper. "It is time to become my legal wife," Edmond said, handing her his pen. And as they all looked on, Maggie signed.

Mac reentered the church, carrying a bouquet of red roses and her veil. There was no bathroom or mirror, and Maggie bent low as Deborah set the veil in her hair, carefully arranging it over her face.

"Take a photograph of my bride, Mac," Edmond said, stepping back. "I want my sons to know how beautiful their mother was this day."

As Maggie posed, Brother Harris went to the front door, and the people who had walked up the dusty road filed in and began filling the benches. "I hope you don't mind," he said as he returned. "We've had a lot more burying than marrying lately, what with the war, and these folks need a good wedding."

"Welcome," Edmond said, smiling broadly as he took Maggie's hand. "Thank you all for joining us." Then, turning to Maggie, he asked for the locket, which she'd pinned inside her dress. He put it around her neck, then, after raising and kissing the coin, he nodded for the preacher to begin.

The ceremony was over in a matter of minutes, her favorite parts being when he slipped the wedding band on her finger—Edmond wore no ring—and when he lifted her veil to kiss her, as his eyes shone so brightly they may have held tears. For someone who'd never wanted a large, fussy wedding, the simplicity of it suited Maggie perfectly. And now that it was over, she was grateful he'd made it happen.

Their wedding guests, who had remained silent and respectful throughout the ceremony, were anything but quiet once it was over. Edmond and Maggie were congratulated by everyone, given much unsolicited advice, and posed for pictures with all who asked.

"He's a good man, your husband."

It was an old woman who spoke, perhaps the oldest person there, and Maggie bent down to her. "Thank you," she responded. "I think so, too."

"I never thought I'd live to see this be a real church," she said, looking around. "A new brick church, with a rug on the floor, and they say indoor plumbin', too. He's a real good man, your husband."

Before Maggie could respond, Edmond appeared at her side. "Excuse me," he said, smiling at the woman, "but it is time to go, Marguerite."

Maggie bid a hasty goodbye to the woman as Edmond took her arm. "She said you were building them a new church, Edmond," Maggie whispered as they made their way through the crowd. "Is that true?"

"Perhaps," Edmond replied. "But if it were true, it is not something I would feel comfortable with anyone knowing. Do not speak of it again."

Outside, the women began yelling for Maggie to throw her bouquet. As they gathered, Edmond removed a single rose for his pocket, and then Maggie tossed the bouquet into the crowd, delighted to see it caught by the laughing girl in the pale blue dress.

"That was amazing," Edmond said as they gave a final wave before driving off. "It was like being married in the midst of a big, happy family, much like the one we will have one day." He took her hand, kissing it before laying it on the shift and covering it with his own, bringing back to Maggie an almost overwhelming memory of Will.

"How does it feel to be a married woman?" Edmond asked, squeezing her hand. "Are you happy?"

"I just married the most popular man in this part of the world," she laughed. "How do you think I feel?"

It was an evasive answer, and Maggie shamefully promised herself that it would be her last. They were married now. She and Edmond were married. And all the going back and forth in her mind and heart had to end. Edmond cared for her, was likely in love with her, though he'd yet to say the words. And if what she felt for him wasn't what she felt for Will, it didn't mean she didn't love Edmond. She simply loved him in a different way. Besides, she didn't want to feel the way she'd felt for Will—not ever again—as loving that much had proved far too painful. This kind of love was better, for although it was not the kind of thought a bride should think on her wedding day, Maggie knew if Edmond were to leave, she wouldn't be left in the heart-wrenching, suicidal mess that Will's leaving had caused.

And Edmond was a good man. Apparently, he was even building a church.

By sunset, Maggie was standing on the tenth floor balcony of their hotel room, a fabulous honeymoon suite reminding her of those she'd seen in movies, and looking out over the sugar white beaches to the Gulf of Mexico for the first time.

"I don't suppose it would surprise you to learn that I've never seen the ocean before," she said as Edmond came out to join her. He'd removed his jacket and tie, and was rolling up the sleeves of his shirt.

He stood beside her at the railing, removing the tie from his hair so that his, like hers, could blow in the ocean breeze. "How could you live so close and never come here?"

"Well, actually I did come once, but I was too young to remember. My Granny Lura showed me a picture so that's how I know, but that was my family's one and only vacation."

Edmond covered her hand with his. "I am your family now, Marguerite, and I will take you many places more beautiful than this."

"Like Hawaii?" she asked, having seen it on television a hundred times and believing it to be the most beautiful place in the world.

Edmond laughed and pulled her to him. "I will take you to Hawaii on our first anniversary, wife, if you aren't giving birth to my son then. But first, there is an important thing you must know about being at the beach."

His words caused a flurry of different emotions. Happiness with a promised trip to Hawaii, and apprehension and fear over his wanting to start a family so soon. She wasn't using anything to prevent pregnancy, and had never given it much thought, assuming Edmond knew how to keep a girl from getting pregnant, or he'd already have a stadium full of kids.

"So what do I need to know?" she asked, moving the hair from her face. "I hope it's not swimming, because I never learned how."

"Not swimming," he laughed. "It is these clothes. My wife should never be completely dressed when at the beach," he said, reaching for the zipper and pulling it down. Maggie stepped out of it, standing happily before him in her new satin slip.

"This is good," he said, grinning as he removed his belt, unzipped his trousers, and turned Maggie to face the railing. "It makes it so much simpler to have you whenever it pleases me," he said, pushing down her straps to free her breasts.

There were people below, but they were far below, and it was nearly dark. They wouldn't be seen. So she relaxed, leaning back against him, beginning to lose herself in his touch. Then he took her hands and placed them firmly on the railing, and grabbing her hips, scooted her back, pushing her head down to rest on the rail. As she heard Edmond work his zipper, Maggie was suddenly afraid, and began to straighten up. "Be still, my wife," he said firmly, raising her slip and taking her bare buttocks in his hands. "It is time we began our honeymoon."

Maggie closed her eyes, gritting her teeth and fearing she was about to endure the one thing she truly dreaded—for why else would he be behind her? As he spread her legs and began touching her, her body and mind began waging a battle. His touch was thrilling, it was always thrilling, and she wanted him, but never in the horrible, disgusting way he seemed to want her now. But she was trapped, and short of hopping the banister to her death, there was no way out. Is this the price now? Is this what is required to have what I wanted? I never wanted this. She would leave him before she paid the price a second time. Steal away in the night and live in a box on the side of the road before she would suffer the pain and humiliation she was about to endure a second time. Her marriage would be over hours after it had begun.

"Edmond, please," she begged. "Don't do this to me." Regardless of her promise, she tried to twist away, but his hand went to the back of her neck, holding her still, and he was laughing as she felt him position himself and begin to push against her. And then she felt him enter the good place, the warm and welcoming place that wanted him, and Maggie burst into tears, relaxing as his hand left her neck. Within moments she had shifted her body to better receive him, and as the stars appeared, and the sound of the ocean, and the breeze, filled their senses, they were joined for the first time as husband and wife. Idiot. Why did you have to read those damn letters?

"Why did you try to resist me, wife?" he asked her afterwards. "Did you fear in my passion I would push you over the balcony?"

She looked away, embarrassed. "No. I was afraid you wanted to—I'm too embarrassed to say what I was afraid you were trying to do."

Edmond looked at her strangely, then closed his eyes and laughed, hugging her closer. "I told you a man loves his wife in ways he would never love another woman, Marguerite. But there are also many things a man will do to a whore would never do to his wife. What you feared was among them, mi pequeña. I would never defile you in that way."

"That's good to know," Maggie said seriously.

After a long shower together, with Maggie giving her full cooperation this time when Edmond turned her around. He carried her to bed afterwards, and she fell asleep immediately, drained by the excitement of the day. It was quite dark when she awoke later, upon hearing Edmond come through the door.

"Where were you?" she asked, turning on the lamp. "I didn't know you were gone."

"If you expect an itinerary of all my comings and goings, Marguerite," he said, "then I have married the wrong woman."

"Sorry. Did you buy something for me?" she asked, eyeing the sack in his hand.

Edmond laid it on her lap. "You may open it," he said.

Maggie smiled, then reached in the bag and pulled out a tall, heavy box. "Oh my God!" she laughed, removing a large, phallic-shaped glass jar. "What is it? I mean, what's it for?"

Edmond reached in his pocket and pulled out a handful of silver dollars, then dropped two into the slot in the head of the container.

"It's a bank?" Maggie asked incredulously, wondering what could have motivated her tasteful husband to buy such a tasteless thing.

"It is said that if a man drops a coin in each time he makes love to his wife during their first year of marriage, and then removes one each time he makes love to her in the years after, he will never empty the jar." Edmond laid the remaining coins on the bedside table, except one, which he dropped in. "With you as my motivation, I intend to disprove this."

He loved her twice more before his desire was sated, and afterwards, lying blissfully exhausted in his arms as he slept, Maggie smiled at the coins in the jar, as well as those waiting their turn, and decided that marrying Edmond was the smartest thing she'd ever done.

In the morning, Edmond ordered oysters, steak, and eggs from room service, then went alone to the hotel gift shop, returning with a bathing suit, flip-flops, and a floppy hat for her to wear. The summer season was over, the lifeguards and large crowds gone, and there were only a few dozen people on the beach, collecting shells or playing in the surf. They kicked off their shoes and stood barefoot at the edge of the water. Maggie wore one of Edmond's shirts over the two-piece suit he'd bought her.

"Now that we are married," he said, looking out at the water. "All I have ever wanted is possible. A new life is beginning this very day."

He encircled her waist with his arms, pressing her back against his chest. He'd planned to tell her everything now, to truly begin anew, but now hesitated. What good would it do for her to know when it would soon be over? She would only worry, and that would quickly become annoying.

"I have decided to look for another line of work, Marguerite," he said instead. "A regular job, and one that will not require so much travel. I have good reason now to stay close to home."

"But if you go off to work every day you won't be able to stay in bed with me," she teased.

"It will be an adjustment," he replied, "but I will make the time to bed you, Marguerite. At least twice a day until you become pregnant."

"Pregnant?" she asked, laughing nervously. "I'm not ready to even think about being pregnant, Edmond. It's too soon."

"Too soon? No," he said, the smile leaving his face as he lifted her shirt to press warm hands against her stomach. "Any woman can give me pleasure. Your role as my wife is to bear and raise my children, and that cannot happen too soon." He moved his hands up slowly, squeezing her breasts as he bent his mouth to her ear. "The pleasure I take in your body is substantial, Marguerite, but it cannot compare to the joy I will know when your belly swells with my sons."

His words were alarming, and yet his touch was like a powerfully addictive drug, and Maggie closed her eyes and pressed her body against him as his lips moved to her neck.

"Can we go back to the room?" she asked.

He pushed her away, laughing as he removed his shirt. "I am going to need more coins," he said, laying down his wallet and keys. "But I think this time, I shall have you in the water." He lifted her in his arms and carried her into the surf, Maggie clinging to him as the water began to envelope their bodies.

"You know I can't swim," she reminded him nervously.

"There is no need," he said, standing her down when the water was waist deep. "Taste," he said, putting two fingers on her lips.

Holding tightly to his forearms, Maggie licked his salty fingers lovingly, then drew them slowly into her mouth and began to suck. Edmond closed his eyes for a long moment, then lifted her, wrapping her legs around his waist before loosening the bow at her neck of her suit.

He took her breasts in his hands. "Tell me, wife, the man whose ring you once wore—did he do to you what you believed I intended last night? Was the pain of it so great that you now fear it?" Edmond's eyes on hers were suddenly cold, and she winced as he squeezed her breasts roughly.

"No," Maggie answered, dismayed at the question, and disappointed that he would still ask such a thing now that they were married. "I would never do that, Edmond."

"Yet you took him into your mouth," he said, pulling at her nipples so hard that she gasped. "You sucked him much as you just did to me. For you are quite talented at sucking, Marguerite. You have practiced."

"No," she said again. "I've never done that, either. I've never done anything with any man but you. I was just—I was trying to be sexy." Damn those magazines!

He held her steady gaze another long moment, then reached beneath her open shirt and unhooked her top. "The man was crazy," he said, setting her top adrift in the water. "Or else he did not wish to love a woman, or know how. I would have you suck me a hundred times a day if you were not my wife. And if you were not my wife, I would have you every way a man can have a woman, because I know you would enjoy it—all of it, as you are very sexy, Marguerite, and a lover of physical pleasure. But as you are my wife, I will have you in the way a husband does, and I will have you now." He set her own before him, removing her shirt and casting it aside, leaving her breasts completely uncovered. "Take them off," he said, nodding at her bottoms.

Feeling a rush of fear, shame and excitement, and with the keen awareness of the people on the beach, Maggie began pushing down her suit bottom. It was at her knees when Edmond, who had been watching her intently, suddenly shifted his eyes past her.

"Is that a shark?" he asked evenly, his eyes growing wide.

Maggie's screams drew all eyes as she attempted to pull up her bottom and cover her breasts simultaneously while struggling through the water towards shore. Edmond laughed with immense joy as he followed, his hands raised to indicate his innocence and confusion at Maggie's bizarre behavior. He was well-pleased with this new beginning, and with the lovely, compliant woman he'd chosen to be his wife.

He had chosen well.

Sissy Men and Poets

1971

13

On the third Sunday of October, Maggie left the table abruptly with her hands clasped firmly over her mouth. Wiping his mouth, Edmond stood, his public persona of cool indifference undone by the smile that lit his face. Marguerite was pregnant, and this was the proof of it. Her tender breasts and non-existent cycle—he had known her intimately for six weeks now, and there had been no cycle—were not an aberration. She was carrying his child, the first of many, and he was going to be a father.

He moved to an empty table near the ladies room and lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply to calm his excitement. This _was_ his child. It had to be, as he'd had blood proof of Marguerite's virginity the first time he lay with her, he'd not left her alone for more than a few hours since her first bedding, and he'd lain with her no less than twice each day since. He would know if she'd been with another man. He knew her body as well as he did his own, and would recognize the signs if anyone else had fucked her.

A pregnant woman carrying a young boy passed on their way to the toilet, and the toddler smiled at him before they disappeared down the hall. This was a good omen. A year from now, that would be Marguerite, pregnant with his second child and holding his first—and after that another. And then another. He wanted four sons, perhaps more, and a daughter for Marguerite would be acceptable as well. Edmond laughed, realizing in his excitement that he was getting carried away, but he'd known she would conceive quickly. Everything between them had transpired at the speed of light, as if their time together was destined to be short.

He shook his head, stubbing out his cigarette. Such thoughts were more suitable to a woman. Marguerite wasn't going anywhere. She depended on him to meet her needs, especially her need for sex. Indeed, with the frequency of their lovemaking, he would have been concerned had she not conceived by now, as this had been his objective since her first bedding. And, to tilt the odds in favor of his first-born being a son, he'd even taken her from behind with greater frequency, hoping there might be truth in that old wives tale. If the child were to be female, he'd deal with it, certainly. But he would not be content until she bore his sons.

"Coffee?" the server asked as she turned over a cup.

"No," Edmond answered, diverted from his thoughts. "I am just waiting for my wife."

"I know," she said, pouring the coffee. "She's pretty. Pale though. I've seen you in here with her a lot, but when I saw you sitting alone, I thought I'd ask if there was anything else you might want."

It was clear to Edmond what she wanted. Most every whore he'd known had approached him for sex. And while this one appeared to have a fairly good body beneath the pressed white shirt and dark trousers of her uniform, she was far from beautiful. Had he been looking for sex, she would have fared better approaching him with heavy makeup in a dimly lit club—and even then, he'd have probably continued looking. But he would not tell her this, as at the moment, Edmond was feeling unusually benevolent.

"If I need anything," he said, favoring her with a smile, "I will know where to find you."

Grinning as if they'd just arranged a rendezvous, the server laid a folded napkin with her name and number on the table and strutted off. Edmond didn't bother to watch her go. Such women seldom had any special talents, and if he wanted a whore, he'd have one with a full, lush mouth who knew what she was doing. But he didn't.

Despite Marcos' warning, he'd had no desire to seek diversion from Marguerite's bed. For while the physical pleasures he had with her were far less diverse than those he'd enjoyed previously, it was his first experience with intimacy, and the closeness and familiarity of being with his wife was pleasing to his soul.

It was on their honeymoon when Edmond decided to give up using cocaine altogether, having used it with increasing frequency in the last year to sustain his enjoyment of whores. Before Marguerite, it had been the first year of college since he'd lingered over a woman, ensuring that her pleasure was as great as his own. With whores, simply getting off had become the end game, and while the cocaine assisted his motivation, it had done nothing to change the need he had for something more.

The first few days with Marguerite, he'd felt almost like a virgin himself as he lingered over the pleasures of her body, and her eagerness would have been an inspiration to any man. Giving up cocaine had the effect of earlier orgasms, but that was remedied by taking her a second time, even a third—something he had seldom done or cared to do with the whores. And since the morning of their wedding, he'd yet to love his wife without bringing her to climax one way or another, something he'd never cared about with the whores.

The morning in the window, like the night on the hotel balcony, were meant to ensure Marguerite knew her proper place. And it was exciting to see her eyes open wide with panic before they darkened with desire. He'd had her on the beach in full view of the people at the pool the last night of their honeymoon. And on a weekend trip to Atlanta on a rooftop bar, and in the parking lot after a Braves game—this being something he wouldn't care to repeat, at least not in the Corvette. And the following day, when he'd taken her to an amusement park upon discovering she'd never been, he'd pulled her onto his lap when their sky car stalled, doing her not thirty feet from another stalled car containing three G.I.'s who'd watched them unblinkingly. She'd fought him initially each time, just as he'd hoped she would, but always yielded. Her need for sex had become addictive. She had never turned it down, and she always wanted more. And Edmond was quite willing to give it to her.

The woman emerged from the bathroom holding her son, and with her free arm around Maggie, whose face was even paler than usual. "She's really sick," the woman said as she handed Maggie off to Edmond.

"I'm sorry," Maggie sniffed. "But I think we should go home."

Twice he stopped on the short drive home, pulling to the curb so she could retch, and smiling as she did, though he did not let her see. Carrying a strong boy within was taking its toll on his delicate wife already, but this was a price worth paying. Once home, he put her to bed, and after being sick a few more times, she'd slept most of the day before waking to the smell of dinner. She'd wandered into the kitchen, wearing his robe and apologizing that he'd had to cook, before wolfing down two plates of the pasta he'd prepared.

"I'm fine now. It must have been the fish last night," she said. "Or maybe something in the stuffing?" It had been a nice restaurant. Edmond had never taken her anywhere that wasn't nice, but she knew from her own experience that fish could make you very sick.

"No," Edmond said, taking her hand. "It is not the fish making you ill, mi pequeña. It is my son."

Maggie cocked her head, staring at him. She'd never really kept up with her cycle, as it had never been regular. But now, she ran to the yearly calendar that Reg used and kept in the pantry. She'd certainly not had her period since being with Edmond, this she would remember, and they had been together since September fourth. The last time she'd had a period was the weekend she'd been so sick from fish. And that was back in August.

"What's the date?" she asked in a daze.

"October eighteenth," he said, pointing.

She leaned back against him and let out a long breath. "It was here," she said quietly, pointing to August twenty-eighth. "I had my cycle the same weekend I had food poisoning. I'll never forget that."

"Eight weeks yesterday," he said, running his finger along the calendar. "You were prime to conceive the first time I bedded you, wife. The first time!" Edmond pulled open her robe and laid his hands on Maggie's stomach. "I knew it," he said, his voice heavy with emotion. "Something told me, and something also caused me to delay. And now I know it was so I would be blessed with your surrender, and the creation of my firstborn son, on the same day."

His words and his sense of awe brought tears to Maggie's eyes. "Do you really think I'm pregnant?" she asked, turning to face him. "Really?"

"Yes," he said happily. "My son will be born in June."

Edmond had taken Marguerite many times to the field where they'd gone the morning after the incident with his brother. He liked loving her there, alone and out of doors, bending her over the hood of his car and watching the sweat trickle down her back, or lying on a blanket by the boulder, watching Marguerite as the night sky moved slowly above him. Now he took her there again once the nearly full moon had risen, laying out the blanket and undressing her in the warm breeze. But when he laid her down, he did not hasten to love her, but perched himself atop the boulder, watching as she stretched languorously below, accustomed now to these private exhibitions for her husband. Bite marks and deep bruises marked her breasts, stomach, and inner thighs, their infliction being constant and pleasurable to Edmond and branding her as his alone. And there were more on her back and buttocks—he knew well the placement of each even before she turned, sweeping aside her hair so he might see her back. Yet even with the marks, she looked like a goddess as she turned again, her pale skin aglow in the moonlight as she raised her arms above her head and stretched her long, lean legs. The locket lay sheltered between her breasts, and her hipbones stood like sentinels on either side of her stomach, below which the auburn arch of her pubis rose almost imperceptibly. She was exquisite, his wife, and it was with a bittersweet realization that he acknowledged she would not look like this much longer, and would never look quite like this again.

The wind rose as he stood to undress, a scattering of clouds covering the moon as he went to her, suddenly impatient. There were tears in her eyes as he began to love her, and the same soft, yearning look that he'd always seen there, but there was a sense of distance also, as if a part of her mind was thinking of someone else. This caused in him a flood of emotion—anger, jealously, even envy—as he realized the child growing within her had already captured a bit of Marguerite's heart. She would have another love, another mouth hungry for her breasts, and it would come from the joyous place his fingers now stroked. Her body had become more than a receptacle for his pleasure, it was now a sacred vessel safeguarding his descendants, and he must try to love her more tenderly.

It was with slow, gentle hands and mouth that he proceeded, refraining from the biting, pinching, and bruising that provided him with such pleasure. And Marguerite responded to this new tenderness with bright, wet eyes, and a joyful passion that moved Edmond's heart as never before. And when at long last he fell beside her, he pulled her to face him, and said the words he'd never spoken to another.

"I love you, Marguerite. Te amo, mi pequeña. You are my love."

Maggie wept, her body sated from his lovemaking, and her heart full from the rarified words he'd spoken. She knew it was his awe of her pregnancy that caused him to take her in the sweet, gentle way he had, and that had also prompted his declaration. But his words were true. She could see it in his eyes.

"I love you, husband," she said through happy tears.

On the drive home, she slept, and Edmond drove slowly, his mind full. He wouldn't be able to love her in the open field again before spring, as he wouldn't risk her getting chilled. The property was his now, or would be as soon as the paperwork was finalized. Perhaps in the spring he would break ground on a house if he decided to remain here, and sit atop the boulder with his son as the moon traveled across the sky and Marguerite waited eagerly in his bed.

Tonight had been an ending as well as a beginning, as Edmond had come to a difficult decision. He could not risk his son's well-being to his passion for his wife, and thus, he would not fuck her again during her pregnancy. To do so risked miscarriage, as low as the risk might be, but he'd known whores who claimed rough sex had ended their pregnancies, and had even sought it out. And though tonight he had restrained himself, such tenderness with a woman was not something he enjoyed or wished to make a habit of. Such fucking was for sissy men and poets.

His knew his decision would require a tremendous amount of self-control, as, even now, he'd like to stop the car, lean Marguerite against a tree, and fuck her senseless. But the time for that would come again. For now, he would keep her content with his hands and mouth until her desire was replaced by thoughts of the child. As for him, there was always masturbation, a practice he'd abandoned since it's near constant use in military school.

It was a shame really. Marguerite had such a full, lovely mouth, and would doubtlessly take to fellatio as eagerly as she had to everything else he'd taught her. Just the thought of it made him erect, and Edmond wondered what her reaction would be were he to unzip his pants and pull her head into his lap. But such thoughts were indecent, and face-fucking was for whores. He would never defile his wife's mouth in that way. Her mouth was meant for long, deep kisses, and her lips for kissing the foreheads of his sons. Never the other.

Maggie was sick again in the morning, all morning, and when Reg arrived she called her obstetrician, who agreed to see Maggie that afternoon. Edmond was hesitant, preferring to know something about the man who would be viewing his wife so intimately, and concerned as well with the discovery of her marks. But, as Maggie refused to eat, and appeared increasingly weak, he relented, on the condition that she refuse a complete physical.

"We should go," Reg said. "Dr. Swords is working you in."

"I need to make a call first," Edmond said.

"Edmond," Reg laughed. "You really don't want to go with us. There's gonna be a room full of crying babies and pregnant women, and I promise you won't enjoy the conversation or the magazines."

Edmond chose to stay home.

Late the next day the doctor's office called, and when Edmond found Maggie, she was in the bathroom on her knees, retching with no result. He wet a cloth and pressed it to her forehead.

"You shouldn't see me like this," she said weakly.

"Then I will close my eyes."

When her bout with dry heaves was over, he carried her to his shower, stripping down and bathing her as she leaned with closed eyes against the wall. The marks he'd made on her disturbed him greatly now. There were so many, their mottled purple-yellow nastiness a desecration, and Edmond was ashamed. "I am sorry," he said, gently touching the original mark on her stomach that he'd refreshed as often as twice a day. "I should never have done this to you."

Maggie opened her eyes. "You're sorry I'm pregnant?" she asked.

"No, Marguerite," he said. "Do not be stupid. I am sorry I hurt you with these marks."

"I'm not," she said. "I love everything you do to me, every time you do it, and in every way." It had been nearly two days since he'd touched her, and she arched her back to brush against him with her breasts. Edmond felt his need for her rising, and wanted desperately at that moment to forget his vow.

"You are ill," he said, stroking the hollow between her breasts.

"No," Maggie insisted as his hardness pressed against her stomach. "Not when you touch me."

Edmond turned the showerhead out, then moved to the floor, propping his back against the wall and pulling Maggie to lie across his lap. The warm spray rained down on them as he parted her legs, touching her deftly until her body shuddered in release.

She turned to him, waiting for him to pull her onto his lap, or direct her to her hands and knees, or lead her to the bed, or a wall, or the floor, or even the window—so that he might finish what he'd begun. Her need for him was absolute, and Edmond's own need stood clearly in evidence. But she could not ask for sex, nor even reach for him of her own volition, as Edmond had made it clear these actions were the purview of whores. He did allow her to be flirtatious, even provocative, like when he'd come across her on the porch, brushing her hair in the morning sun, dressed only in his boxers, and he'd taken her on the cold stone floor. But now, he only sat looking at her.

In a moment, Edmond came to his feet, helping her to stand as he turned off the water and wrapped a towel around her. "The doctor called. The pregnancy test was positive, as we knew it would be," he said as he led her into his bedroom. "But the iron in your blood was unusually high, and he believes your sickness may be due to that, as much as the pregnancy. You are to stop taking the vitamins he gave you, and he will give you different ones when you go again."

Maggie sat on the edge of the bed, barely listening, her attention drawn to the wall where Marcos had kissed her, and wishing Edmond would stop talking and do the same to her now. But he had crossed to his closet, emerging a few moments later in his black pajama pants.

"I will cut my hair soon," he said casually while crossing back to the bathroom.

But I love your hair. You love your hair. There's no reason to cut it. Why would you do that? Why are you doing this? She sat there a long minute, distressed and confused. They should be in bed together, naked, intertwined, and breathless. Had her retching been so revolting, her marks so disgusting, that he had no desire? Then why did he have such a magnificent erection? It made no sense. As tears filled her eyes, she stood, swallowing hard, and pulling her towel more closely, headed for her room.

"Stop," Edmond called as she reached the open door. "I did not say you could leave."

"You didn't have to," she replied without turning. "Your pants say it for you."

She regretted the words as quickly as she'd said them, and as he advanced, her thoughts went to Sybil, who would have slapped her hard for such backtalk. Edmond grabbed her roughly, turning her to face him.

"Is this what you want?" he demanded, grasping his erect penis through the thin fabric of his pants.

Maggie said nothing. How I am supposed to answer that?

He grabbed the front of her towel, pulling her along to the bed. "If you're going to speak as a whore," he said, "you force me to treat you as one." Stripping off his pants, he pushed her onto the bed. "The one thing you fear," he began, grabbing her ankles and pulling her to the edge, "I need not be behind you to accomplish, wife. This way will be better, as I can watch how much you enjoy it."

This wasn't supposed to happen, and had certainly not been his plan, but in making his celibacy vow so hastily, he'd failed to consider a few crucial facts. Marguerite's need for him could not be satisfied without actually fucking her, regardless of the other pleasures he gave. She expected it, and all else was but prelude. He'd fed her sexual appetite to the point that she expected nothing less than everything, every time, which was exactly what he'd set out to do.

Yet in conditioning Marguerite, Edmond had unwittingly created in himself the same insatiable appetite for her. Gone were the years of sexual indifference, where he could take or leave yet another bedding of an insignificant, faceless whore. His desire had become exclusively for his wife, and he'd acted on it with the randiness of a teenage boy. They'd seldom finished a meal without his appetite for her making him abandon it. Even in his dreams he wanted her, and more than once had been roused from sleep by his desire, entering her without first waking her up. And he'd not seen this as a problem?

He'd felt a fool in the shower. He'd been hard and ready, Marguerite wet and waiting, and yet he'd been forced to disregard both as if he were impotent, and that was when his rage had come, with this unnatural, all but criminal denial of his desire—and Marguerite's calling him out on it. For while her behavior was understandable, she was only a woman, and not allowed to question or make demands of him, and certainly not to talk back. For that she had to punished, and while his heart would never have allowed the punishment she so feared, his member had a mind of its own, and was impatient to meet its destiny by any means necessary.

But Edmond's heart was no longer a dead thing in his chest, and as he looked into Marguerite's tearful eyes, he realized he could not inflict this particular pain. He stepped back, releasing her legs, and then laid on the bed beside her. "You did not fight me," he said, turning her face to his and brushing her tears away. "Why not?"

"I didn't believe you'd do it," she said. "You promised you never would on our honeymoon. I made you angry, and I was wrong, and I'm sorry. But I also know you love me, and being angry doesn't change that."

Edmond laid his hand on her stomach. "I do love you," he said, stroking his mark. "But I will not allow you to disobey me or question what I think best. I tire of reminding you of this, Marguerite."

"You won't have to again," she said. "I'm done talking back to you, Edmond. I promise." She hadn't meant to promise, as promises were too easily broken, but it seemed the right thing to do to keep him close. But too soon, he moved his hand, turning on his back and looking at the ceiling.

"What I tell you now is not punishment, Marguerite, but something I had already decided. I will not lie with you again until after the birth of our child."

Maggie smiled, waiting for his laughter, but no laughter came, and as the moments passed, she realized Edmond was serious. A thousand thoughts and words and questions began to crowd her mind, but she said nothing. She didn't trust herself to speak.

Edmond turned back to her, meeting her eyes. "I will not risk harming my son," he said. "I cannot control my passion, Marguerite, the marks I've left on your body are clear evidence. And it is not in my nature to take a woman gently. I require it to be more physical. You know this."

She worked to keep her face expressionless, but she seethed with anger. She wasn't even showing. It would be the middle of next year before their child was born, and Edmond wasn't going to have sex with her in the meantime? He can't do that. That's crazy talk.

Their coupling had always been enthusiastic; Edmond was a powerful man who lifted weights daily, and it was only natural that she'd be injured from time to time. He'd dislocated her right shoulder in this very bed pulling her to him, oblivious to her pain until his passion was spent. And her head was injured routinely when he took her against a hard surface—the service elevator door at the rear of the apartment, the rough concrete of the building's exterior wall, and many times against the raised brick hearth of the fireplace. Maggie viewed none of these injuries as intentional, but rather as an unavoidable part of the process. She needed sex, and if it meant enduring pain to receive pleasure, that was just the way of it. And while Edmond's marking of her was intentional, this pain, too, was necessary, as it assured Edmond that he alone possessed her.

She'd never have guessed that sex would entail so much pain, but she should have, as thinking back, it was obvious. She'd seen the marks on the girls at school, and heard their stories about friction burns, and strained necks and backs, and how some of the boys they'd known were so well endowed, they'd hurt long after the sex was over. But not one of them had ever said she wouldn't do it again. Sex wasn't for sissies, and Edmond wasn't doing anything to her that every woman on the planet wasn't having done to them, although it was difficult for her to believe that the sex she had with Edmond was in any way typical. And it was also hard to imagine Will ever biting her breasts or buttocks, or pulling at her nipples with his teeth. It was harder still to imagine her parents engaging in such behavior, though she doubted they still did. But neither did she, now that Edmond had proclaimed it was over. She sighed deeply.

Edmond moved the hair away from her eyes. "This will be difficult for us both, but after our child is born, I will come to your bed again, Marguerite, and it will be as it's always been between us."

Until I become pregnant again? Am I a baby machine? She couldn't believe this was really happening, but a quick glance told her even Edmond's member had abandoned the fight. She sat up, pulling her knees to her chest. "I promised to obey you," she said quietly. "So whatever you want, I'll do. But you can't make me like it."

Edmond smiled, his hand moving to her hair. "You surprise me, Marguerite. I was sure you would try to persuade me to change my mind."

"But I can't," she shrugged. "I just promised that I wouldn't."

"You may speak. I will allow it."

"But what point is there in speaking?" she asked. "If being naked and willing and wet in the bed beside you won't change your mind, I'm sure nothing I could say will do it."

"This has nothing to do with my desire," he said, sitting up beside her. "I still desire you."

She drew her legs to her chest more tightly and turned her eyes to his. "Yet you refuse to make love to me."

"We will be lovers again," he said. "But now, your mind can be free to concentrate on the child that grows inside you, without worrying I may break your back fucking you against the stove." He laughed, meaning it as a joke to lighten her somber mood. But instead, it only made Maggie wish they were in the kitchen risking traction.

"But I think of our baby all the time, Edmond. I can't wait to be a mother. But I also think of you, and the greatest joy of my life is when you make love to me. I love you both, but I need you to be with me to be happy. I need to know you love me, and that's how I know."

He knelt before her, taking her head in his hands. "Would I have given you this if I did not love you?" he said, pulling up her chain to produce the pendant. "Or this?" he said, pulling forward her hand to look at her rings. "You carry my child, Marguerite. Is all this not proof enough?"

"No," Maggie said adamantly. "I need to feel it, Edmond. Nothing else will ever make me feel the way you do when you love me. The way you breathe then, and smell—I could write a letter about the way your neck smells and how it feels when your hair falls on my thighs. Or my breasts." She stopped, looking away from him. "I want to be a good wife and obey you. And I will. And in a few months I might not feel so strongly. But now, this moment, I need you to make love to me. That is the proof I need."

Edmond held her eyes a long moment, then kissed her, closing her hand over his newly awakened member as he laid her back on the bed.

The remainder of the night had been blissful, as every moment in Edmond's arms was. He'd even carried her into his office at some point, taking her astride him in his leather chair, wanting, he said, to have the memory of her there. Nothing further was said about his edict, and he'd loved her with the same intense passion as always, even marking her belly again. She'd fallen asleep in the wee hours of the morning, and he'd carried her to bed, though she had no memory of it. And when Maggie awoke in the morning, Edmond was gone.

His note said he'd be away a few days and would call if he had the opportunity. So she'd listened for the phone—he didn't call—slept in his bed, bathed in his tub, and worn his shirts. And on the third and fourth days she took extra care with her appearance. And when he came through the door just before noon on the fourth day, she was waiting in her highest heels and shortest skirt.

"I'm happy you're home," she said as he put his keys on the hook by the door. Her own car keys had been put away somewhere when he left, not that it mattered, as she had no desire to leave.

"Are you well, Marguerite?" he asked. "You and my child?"

"Everything's good, except that I missed you." She lied about feeling well. She was still getting sick every day, but she'd never been sick in Edmond's arms, and he was home now. "It's lonely when you're gone."

The clocks began sounding the noon hour as Edmond removed his jacket. "But Reg was here," he said. "I see that she wound the clocks. Perhaps I will have her stay in my room the next time I go away, so you will not be so lonely."

"Your hair!" Maggie exclaimed as Edmond turned to make his way down the hall. It was as short as Marcos' hair now, and she might have mistaken him for his brother from the back—if it was dark, or from a distance. She wondered what had become of his hair and wished he'd brought it home. It had been such a part of him, and she'd loved it so, and she didn't want to think of it being tossed out with the trash.

She stood in the kitchen doorway as Edmond poured a glass of water and took the vitamins he'd missed. "I'll miss your long hair," she said softly. "I'd grown attached to it, especially when we make love."

By now, he should be kissing her, preparing to lay her on the counter, or back her into the pantry, or drag her off to another spot in the apartment where he'd not had her yet. It's what he did when he returned home, if he'd been gone more than half a day. It was fun, it was their playtime, and Maggie was ready to play. But instead, Edmond sat his glass aside, then moved to where the breakfast counter was between them, leaning against it with his chin on his hands to look at her.

"We have both become as Pavlov's Dogs, Marguerite," he said. "I cannot look at you without wanting you, and I need not ask if you feel the same way. I know that you do, because I created your desire."

Maggie's heart immediately fell. She'd wanted to believe she'd changed his mind about abandoning her bed, but it appeared that she hadn't. "May I speak?" she asked, moving to the counter.

"No," he said, raising his hand. "I allowed you to speak on the subject, and you seduced me, primarily with your words. I will not allow it to happen again, though I must confess, I have no regrets regarding that night. It was good for you to have a final night of release, Marguerite, before the birth of our child. It was better that I leave you that way."

Maggie sighed deeply, looking down at the counter. She had seduced him, quite successfully, and the release he spoke of had happened many, many times that night. But that was four days ago, and it was more than six months until the birth of their child.

Edmond reached across the counter, lifting her chin. "You are very beautiful today, but I do not wish for you to dress like this any longer. The skirt is short enough that I can see the marks left on your inner thigh, and the shoes dangerous to your pregnancy. You are to put these things, and others like them, away."

"Edmond, don't do this," she said, unable to stop herself. "We're not dogs, we're in love. We're supposed to want one another the way we do."

He dropped his hand, standing back from the counter. "You will obey me in this, Marguerite, or it will be necessary that I leave our home altogether," he said coldly.

She nodded, then turned and left, her only solace being an instinctive awareness that he was watching her walk away.

The next few days were exceedingly awkward. Maggie abandoned her short skirts and dresses in favor of jeans and shirts as asked, but even then Edmond found it impossible to stay in a room with her, claiming the garments revealed too much of the body beneath, albeit less readily accessible. He stayed in his office much of the time, working his weights, reading, or exploring his options regarding the coming business dissolution with Marcos.

He'd considered opening a pro shop, where he could talk golf all day, perhaps give lessons, and spend most of his time playing. But his business needed to be more than a hobby. It had to be profitable, and it had to be profitable enough to provide the life he wanted for his growing family. And there were already a number of pro shops in Columbia, all owned by men who shared a commonality with their customers. They were all white, and he would never be able to compete with that.

He'd also considered opening a nightclub, but such an enterprise required a certain dependency on whores, and he found the idea distasteful. All successful clubs depended on a dynamic and loyal base of these shameless women, as it afforded the average man a better than average chance of getting laid or blown—most often in the back seat of his car in the club's parking lot—for the price of a cover and a few drinks. Not every man had the means to regularly rent a hotel suite, as he'd done the last three nights in Atlanta, or employ the services of experts, as he'd done each night he was there. And while he could easily have found whores at a club, that would have required engaging in conversation, and he had no need of talk. What he needed was a diversion that would get Marguerite out of his head.

But it hadn't worked.

The whores he'd bought were pros, there was no question of that. But while his gonads were overjoyed to engage in lewd and lascivious acts with three different women on three different nights, his mind never got into it, experiencing the same malaise that had driven him to give up whoring in the first place. He needed more now than what three whores, or three hundred, could give him, in order to feel satisfied.

He needed to feel his lover tremble beneath his touch. He needed to kiss her hair, and taste her mouth, and hear the softness of her sighs. He needed to hold her eyes and watch as desire turned to elation in her eyes. He needed a lover who exhausted his body and filled his heart.

He needed Marguerite.

Maggie kept mostly to her room, reading and sleeping between bouts of crying and sickness, but making occasional trips to the porch, where she could sometimes hear Edmond working with his weights. When she did see him, almost always in the kitchen, he would quickly ask about her health, or the book she carried, or comment on the coolness of the weather—all of it forced, meaningless dribble. And he avoided looking into her eyes, and never lingered with her for long.

When Reg arrived with yet another armful of shopping bags a few days later, these filled with maternity dresses, stretchy pants, modest tops, and flat, comfortable shoes, Maggie wasn't at all surprised.

"I don't know why he had me buy these now," Reg confided as she began hanging them in her closet. "You won't need maternity clothes for months, as tiny as you are."

"He wants me to look the part," Maggie said. "He's very excited about the baby."

"Well, it's stupid, but a lot of men get stupid when they're going to be fathers. Like my Phillip. If he were home, he'd be spreading stupid all over the place."

"Why?" Maggie asked. "Why would he care? Wait! Are you pregnant? Reg!" Maggie yelled, getting up to hug her. "Why didn't you say something?"

"Well, at first we were strangers, and then you were pregnant, like practically the next day. How do you think I got you in to see my doctor so fast? But if I waited much longer to tell you, you'd have known anyway," she said, raising her shirt to show off her swollen belly. "I'm due the end of February. "

"February? That soon? I'm so happy for you. And me, cause I can watch and learn if you'll let me, and help with the baby, too."

"Of course I'll let you," Reg replied. "I'll be doing the single mom thing until Phillip gets home. Meantime," she said, turning back to her work, "let Edmond be excited. It's better he's too excited than not excited at all, right?" she asked. "I sure never took him for a guy who'd get stupid over having a baby, but I didn't think he'd give up all those nasty women either, and I was sure wrong about that."

Maggie began wearing the shapeless clothes, and flat shoes, and pulling her hair into a ponytail, and with these changes, Edmond soon became more comfortable in her presence. Soon they began eating together at home, and going out for breakfast or dinner. And he took her out for walks, or to the property where they'd sit together on the boulder while he explained his plans for the house and yard. Sometimes, he asked her to watch a movie with him, or joined her on the porch, or on the couch with a book, reading silently together. But the state of their relationship was never discussed, he always kept his distance, and sex was never mentioned. Maggie found their situation increasingly absurd and unnatural, but there was nothing she could do, as it was what Edmond wanted.

He made a point of telling her when he went out during the day, but he never said where, and was often gone long hours. He also went out at night, seldom returning before morning. He was keeping company with whores, Maggie knew, having them attend to his needs. The thought of him being with Red Nails, or Blondie, or any other of the multitudes of whores who seemed to encircle the globe, made her physically ill at first, gagging on her tears with the imaginings of what she knew they were doing. But as time went on, she took comfort in knowing that she possessed something much more precious to Edmond than anything the whores could ever give him, and her thoughts turned with increasing frequency to her child, just as he'd said they would. She still wanted him as her lover, and was sure she always would, but she'd come to accept that she may as well want the moon. They were both distant, and cold, and to Maggie, completely unobtainable.

"I have a surprise," Edmond said to her from her doorway. "Come."

Maggie laid aside her book and followed him out the front door, standing with him at the rail.

"I hope you like silver," he said. In the driveway, parked beside his Corvette, was a Cadillac Coupe Deville, its new car stickers still on the window.

"Is it yours?" she asked. "You're selling the Corvette?"

"No," Edmond said. The Cadillac is for you,"

"But I have a car," she said, though she hadn't driven it a single time since the day he'd brought her home, and it was now missing from its parking spot.

"My pregnant wife will not drive a Volkswagen," Edmond admonished. "And no child of mine is going to ride in one. They are too small and dangerous, Marguerite. You know this. Now come," he said, turning for the stairs. "We will go for a drive."

"I'd better not," she said, "I might throw up in it." Maggie's sickness was improved since she'd stopped taking the iron, but she was still frequently sick.

"Nonsense," he said, taking her hand. "Getting out will do you good."

As they pulled onto the highway leading out of town, Edmond told her he'd sold the Volkswagen to Reg, apparently unconcerned that she and her baby would be driving such a small, dangerous car. Maggie knew she should be grateful, as the Cadillac was large and quiet and plush, right down to its black leather seats. But Daddy had bought her the Volkswagen, it had been her only home for six long weeks, and it was the only thing she had left that belonged completely to her. Edmond had no right to sell it, yet he'd done it without even asking. She felt a strong wave of nausea, and before he could pull off the road, she vomited her breakfast onto the Cadillac's luxurious carpeting.

At her first complete obstetric visit with Dr. Swords on the Monday after Thanksgiving, Maggie weighed twelve pounds less than she had six weeks earlier. "Did your mother have problems with her pregnancies? Anything I should know?" he asked when the exam was over and went into his office.

"No," Maggie replied. "If she'd had any problems at all, I promise you I would have heard about it a few thousand times."

He laughed. "Well, you don't need to lose any more weight. You need to gain it, at least twenty more pounds once you catch up, and you've got some real catching up to do. I want you to add ice cream, milkshakes, whatever you want and stomach, and I want you eating all the time between now and your next visit."

"Yes, sir."

"And take these vitamins every morning," he said, tearing off a prescription. "They shouldn't bother you, but let me know if they do. And this is for the nausea," he said, handing her another script. "That should ease up soon."

He sat back in his chair, laying aside his pen and crossing his arms. "You've got quite a few bruises and scars, Maggie. How'd you get those?"

She'd practiced this lie. Even though it was almost six weeks since the last time Edmond had touched her, or marked her, many of his marks were still visible on her pale skin. "I slipped up at Providence Canyon," she said. "Slid right down the slope about twenty feet and scared the heck out of everybody, including myself. I wasn't really hurt, but with all the rocks and bushes, I was scrapped up pretty good, especially when I thought I saw a snake and slid down another five feet or so trying to get away from it. I'm just lucky I didn't break anything. And I've always bruised really easily, and I keep bruises longer than most people. My brother Michael is the same way."

"This happened right after you were here last?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. The very next day," she lied again.

"You're telling me you felt well enough to go trekking in a canyon as sick as you were the last time you came in?" he asked, looking up from her chart to meet her eyes.

"It was the next day, and we'd already planned it," Maggie said, looking away. "A whole group of us. And I wasn't sick once I got out in the fresh air."

It was obvious to Dr. Swords that Maggie was lying. She was woefully out of practice, and even with the bit about the snake and her brother, hadn't pulled it off.

"I want you to listen to me, Maggie," he said, leaning forward. "I don't want you doing anything that's going to leave those kinds of bruises on you, especially your breasts. You need to take extra care of those, or you could have real trouble down the road. Now, do you need me to talk to your husband to make sure he understands what I'm saying? I'll be more than happy to do it."

"No," she answered quickly. "I'll tell him."

Edmond had asked her if the marks had healed last week and again this morning, and she'd said they had. She'd be in trouble if the doctor called him. "Edmond's out of town a lot, so he'd probably need to call you, anyway, if you ever needed to talk."

Dr. Swords considered her a moment before leaning in to write on her chart. "We'll get your lab work back in the next few days, and call you if there are any problems. Any questions?"

"Can sex hurt the baby?" Maggie blurted, blushing.

"Not as long as it's not hurting you," he said evenly. "It's even good for you and your baby, pretty much up until labor starts."

"Really?" Maggie asked skeptically as she looked up. "What about all those stories about sex causing a miscarriage?"

He shook his head. "Those are old wives tales, Maggie, told by old wives who wanted their husbands to leave them alone. Only a small number of pregnant women have a condition that would preclude sex, and you're not one of them. As long as your husband is gentle, and respects you like the lady you are, sex is a good thing. And you can tell him I said that, too."

By the end of the week, Maggie's nausea was gone and her appetite had returned, even for the copious amounts of spinach Edmond insisted she eat. "I'll be giving birth to Popeye eating all this spinach," she said upon finishing the second helping he'd heaped on her plate. "Or to a boy with green hair. There's a movie about that."

"You must not joke about such things," Edmond said gruffly. "Our son will have hair like his father."

Maggie stifled the urge to suggest they might have a red-haired daughter, as Edmond had no sense of humor anymore, rarely smiled, and though she was clearly better, voiced continual concern regarding her health. He'd had her repeat everything that had transpired at the doctor's office, and she had, except for the part about her bruises. Edmond would have been livid had she related that conversation, and there was no need. She had told him what Dr. Swords said about sex, though she hadn't expected this expert information would make any difference, and it hadn't. Edmond had made no response at all.

Maggie was increasingly unhappy with her situation, and if Edmond was deriving any happiness from his nightly whoring, it didn't last once he got home. He, too, seemed to become more miserable with each passing day, except for the time he'd spent preparing the nursery.

The unused bedroom between Maggie's room and the rear exit was painted a deep blue, Edmond having ignored her suggestion that it be neutral. He then ordered a new carpet and pad installed, put up blinds, and hung the blue and white striped curtains Maggie had chosen to replace the heavy drapes. Shelves were installed along the hall wall, and filled with books and trucks and bears and balls from every conceivable sport, purchased during one massive toy store excursion. But there were no baby dolls, or farm animals, or flowers, and not a hint of pink anywhere, as Edmond was determined his first-born would be a boy, and he refused to make any advance preparations for a daughter.

"We will buy a dozen dolls in pink dresses if our child is female, Marguerite," he told her. "And paint rainbows on the wall. But not unless we have to."

"There was a woman in line at the drug store yesterday who said we were going to have a daughter," Maggie teased when Edmond appeared unexpectedly at the nursery door, punching his fist into a new baseball glove. It was the eleventh of December, 1971, Maggie's seventeenth birthday, and she'd just begun her second trimester. She'd come to the nursery immediately upon rising, as she often did these days, dressed only in Edmond's robe. It was nearly eleven now, and she'd been rocking and looking out the window for some time watching the rain fall, and thinking of Will. For it was Will's birthday too, his twenty-first, and she wondered where he was, and if he was happy, and if he would remember her birthday was today, or if he even remembered her at all. Not that it mattered anymore. But still, she wondered.

"And how would this stranger know the sex of my child?" Edmond asked, coming into the room. He'd been drinking; she could tell by the look in his eyes and the slight slur to his speech. In the last month, she'd seen like this a number of times, and while it troubled her, she knew better than to bring it up.

Maggie stood, tightening her robe. "It was nothing. It doesn't matter," she said lightly. "I should go get dressed."

He stopped her, his hand on her arm. "I asked you what the stranger said, Marguerite. Tell me."

As he was holding onto her right arm, Maggie held up her left hand. "She looked at my palm," she said evenly. "She said the lines mean I'm going to have a long life, and that our first child will be a daughter."

"Is that right?" Edmond returned humorlessly as he moved closer. "And she could tell this from the lines in your palm? What did she say about the other lines, Marguerite?" he asked, taking her hand and inspecting it. "These that you made when you cut yourself?"

She stood perfectly still, returning his steady gaze. He'd seen the scars on her hand a thousand times, but had asked her nothing about them since that first night. Edmond didn't know about her suicide attempt—there was no way he could know—and she wasn't about to tell him.

"Nothing," she said casually. "They're obviously cuts, Edmond. She didn't say anything about them."

"Then this stranger must not be very good at reading lines, Marguerite, for I can tell you what they say," he yelled, angrily throwing off her hand and releasing her arm. "They say that you behave like a stupid child. You know better than to converse with strangers, much less let one touch you. I will have to rethink allowing you to go out alone."

Maggie seethed. Since he'd given her the Cadillac, Edmond had only allowed her to leave the house on errands he approved that had a definite return time, and had even gone out looking for her once when she'd been delayed by the train. He had her under house arrest just as her mother had, and now he was calling her a child.

"I'm not a child, Edmond," she said. "And I'm definitely not stupid. I'm a grown woman, and perfectly capable of deciding who to talk to in line at the store."

"You are a child," he returned. "And more naïve than anyone I've ever known."

Maggie flushed with anger. "I'm not naïve," she countered, her voice shaking. "I was taking care of myself before I met you, and I'm just as capable of doing it now."

"Are you?" he demanded, grabbing her shoulders and glaring down at her. His eyes were red, and he smelled of cigar smoke and bourbon.

"Yes," she answered defiantly, egging him on. She refused to be afraid of him, and this was the most stimulating encounter they'd had in months.

"Then tell me, Marguerite. Have you ever considered what would have happened if I had not made you my wife as quickly as I did?"

"I don't know what you are talking about."

"I picked you up walking the street after dark," he said. "Men spend more time negotiating price with a whore than I spent persuading you to get in the car with me and two other men you didn't know. And what did you do then?" he asked, digging his fingers into her shoulders. "You drank, you got stoned, and you announced you were a virgin before passing out."

"Edmond, stop this," she said, as he was hurting her shoulders. "You gave me this lecture already."

"And you will hear it again," he said angrily. "Do you have some idea now, Marguerite, knowing my appetite as you do, how close you came to being fucked by all three of us that night?"

Maggie's face turned crimson. "That's not true. You say that now because you're angry and drunk, but you gave your word I'd be safe before I got in the car that night. You know you did. You know I'm right."

"No," he hissed. "You are not right. Do you think any of the girls who get in a car with strangers and are raped, and killed, would have done so if they hadn't been naïve enough—stupid enough—to believe the assurances given that they'd be safe? To believe the word of a stranger?"

Maggie lowered her eyes, this rehashed argument making her incredibly tired. "You're right, Edmond," she said. "I was naïve and stupid that night, and at the store. I'll be more careful from now on." She turned away, but his hand took her chin, compelling her to look at him.

"It is not important that I am right, Marguerite. It is important that you understand. It was your innocence that drew me to you, that still draws me, but it also draws others. You can trust no one, especially now that you carry our child. People are not always who they seem."

"I said I'll be more careful—"

"As careful as you were with me?" He leaned close to her, his face mere inches from hers, and spoke in an angry whisper. "You were a beautiful virgin, Marguerite, the most precious thing in this world. Yet it took nothing to convince you to open your legs to me after a few days. And I believe you would have done the same for any man who made the slightest effort to seduce you. You were so easy," he said, his hands moving to caress her breasts. "So eager and willing to be fucked."

Maggie's heart was racing and her mind confused. She'd waited so long and wanted so badly to feel his touch again, and now he was touching her, making her want him. _Damn you, Edmond. Not like this._ She couldn't be so weak that she'd give herself to him now. Not after the things he'd said, not after he'd spent night after night with whores while she'd been all alone. She was better than that, stronger than that. She had to be.

Maggie pushed off his hands. "That's not what happened," she said angrily. "Why are you making it sound so ugly? What happened between us was special, Edmond. You know it was. You said it more than once."

"I did say that," he said, looking down at her. "But did it ever cross your naive female brain that I simply told you what you wanted to hear? Special?" he laughed. "You believe our bargaining for your body on a dark street at three in the morning was something special? Because it sounds like a deal I made with a whore to me."

Maggie stood looking at her husband for a long moment before dropping her eyes. This was more than alcohol, and it wasn't weed, or anything like the happy drug she'd been slipped. This was something else entirely, and it seemed to be fueling Edmond's prolonged, jealous rage.

"I don't understand why you'd say things you know aren't true. It was special. We were special. And nothing you can say now can change that." She lifted her head, meeting his eyes. "It's my birthday, Edmond, and I don't want to fight with you anymore. I'm going back to bed."

He grabbed her arms, pushing her into the wall between the windows, knocking over the rocking chair and kicking it aside with his foot. "I will give you something special!" he yelled, reaching around to untie her robe. He caught her hands, pulling her arms above her head and holding them as he loosened his belt and unzipped his pants with the other. Maggie was pinned, her face flattened against the roughly textured wall.

"I'm pregnant with your child," she sobbed. "You don't want to hurt me, Edmond. Please don't hurt me."

He released her hands and turned her, his hand on her chest, bracing her against the wall.

"You fucked the soldier, didn't you?" he asked angrily, bending to her ear. "You still dream of fucking him."

"No," she said, shaking her head.

"You fucked him," he repeated. "But you found some clever whore way to hide it so I couldn't tell. It is the only thing that makes sense."

"No," she repeated. "You know that isn't true."

"But you loved him," Edmond mocked. "You would have wanted to fuck him as much as you want to fuck me. I know how you love fucking, Marguerite. I've never had a whore who loved it as much as you do."

"No," she said again. "I was a child then, Edmond. I didn't know anything. I didn't do anything."

"Yet you said you loved him," he insisted. "You told me the night I picked you up walking the streets. You said 'I love him'. I remember it very clearly. So were you lying to me then, wife? Or are you lying to me now? Answer me!" he boomed. "Did you love him?"

"No!" she cried, unsure if the truth or the lie would make him angrier.

"Liar!" Edmond roared as he turned to pick up the fallen rocker. Maggie dropped to the floor, instinctively pulling her knees up to cover her stomach. He flung the chair across the room, shattering it, knocking down the shelves, and books, and sending the bears and balls bouncing. Then he turned, dropping to his knees.

"Do you love me?" he demanded, his breathing shallow and fast. "Have you ever loved me? Or was that just another of your lies?"

"It's not a lie," she said steadily. "I love you, Edmond. You're my husband and the father of my child and I love you. I do love you."

"Then you will give me the proof I need," he said, carefully repeating her words from the last night they'd laid together. And pulling her to her knees, he stripped off her robe.

_No._ "Edmond, wait," she begged as he quickly stripped off his clothing. "I can't do this now. I need to bathe. I need to—"

"Be silent now," he said, again on his knees before her. "I know what you need." He thrust his hand between her thighs, forcing them apart, and began to kiss her deeply.

"No," she cried, turning her head as she pushed at his shoulders. "I don't want this now, Edmond. Please—"

His free hand came quickly to her mouth, covering it. "You lie to me again, wife," he said, smiling. "You want this. You _always_ want this. You may as well deny wanting to breathe." He leaned his forehead against hers. "Look at me, Marguerite," he whispered as he began his slow caress. "Let me see in those beautiful blue eyes how much of a liar you are."

She hated him for what he was doing, yet she hated her body even more for its near instantaneous, traitorous response. Her sense of reason had no say in this. It ran and hid when Edmond was this close to her, when he looked at her this way, when he touched her this way. For the things he did, the incredible things he was capable of making her feel, _were_ on a par with breathing. Just as breathing sustained her life, his touch made her feel alive as nothing else ever had. And when, in a few short minutes, she cried out, her body shuddering in release, she fell against him, grasping his arms to pull him closer.

Edmond removed his hand from her mouth. "It is your birthday," he whispered, beginning to stroke the sides of her breasts. "Tell me what you want, mi pequeña, and I will give it to you."

Maggie raised her head, looking again into his eyes. "You know what I want, Edmond. You made me want it."

And as he eased her down onto the carpet, Edmond laughed.

THE END

### Maggie's story continues in

## Jackson Sugar Wanted Dead

And look for Book Three

Jackson Sugar SINGLE THREAD

Coming in 2016
Thank you for reading _Crazy Red_.

If you enjoyed it, please check out my other titles, and leave a review at your favorite online retailer!

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About The Author

**Kaley Craig** is a freelance writer and photographer with an extensive background in law enforcement, criminal law, social work, and education.

She is a Georgia native, and after living across the U.S., currently makes her home in Atlanta.

CRAZY RED is her first novel.

About the Illustrator

**Victoria Skye Cleveland** is an actor, artist, and web designer.

See more of her work at www.victoriaskyecleveland.com

