Red. Erica Spindler
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as beautiful and self-confident as the women in the magazines, but she wasn’t an idiot. And she didn’t want to be prom queen.
Her love of the glossies wasn’t about being beautiful. It was about dreaming of a wonderful place nothing like Bend, a place where boys didn’t expose themselves to girls who hadn’t done anything more than be born poor and ugly. It was about being accepted, about being loved.
“Fayrene gets a bit caught up in herself sometimes,” Miss Opal said from the doorway. “She wasn’t trying to be mean.”
But she was, anyway. Becky Lynn swiped at a tear, horrified at the show of emotion. After a moment, she looked up at the other woman. “Isn’t it all right to dream, Miss Opal? Is it so wrong to wish for something you know you can’t possibly—” Her throat closed over the words, and she shook her head.
Opal crossed the room, stopping before her. She laid a hand on Becky Lynn’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “No, child. It’s not wrong. Now, come on. I need you to do a shampoo.”
Becky Lynn stopped at the end of the dirt driveway and gazed at the small, square house before her. Home. She hugged the magazines Opal had given her tightly to her chest. In the fading light, its once-white exterior, now chipped and gray, looked even more dismal, more beaten—as if even the house had given up hope of something better. The picket fence that circled the property, once, she supposed, white and jaunty, was now dingy and broken.
She started up the driveway, dragging her feet. Funny how fast the hours at Miss Opal’s passed, and how slow the ones here did. Time had a way of doing that, she thought. Of standing still for misery.
Becky Lynn smelled the whiskey the moment she stepped onto the sagging front porch. She hated the sweetly sour smell. Sometimes she would wake in the night and feel as if she were being suffocated by it. It permeated everything, her clothes, the furniture and bedding, her father’s skin.
Her life.
Becky Lynn couldn’t remember a time before the reek of whiskey.
Until that moment, she’d managed to forget today was Friday. The day her father got his pay. The day he drank the best, Jim Beam sour mash. He bought a fifth on the way home from the foundry, and he drank until the bottle was empty or he passed out, whichever came first. The rest of the week he settled for the best he could afford. Most times on Thursdays he couldn’t afford anything, so he slept. Becky Lynn looked forward to Thursdays almost as much as she did the arrival of the new glossies. Almost.
Through the tattered screen door she heard “The Family Feud’s” closing music. Why her father loved that show so much, she couldn’t fathom. He never laughed. He never tried to predict the highest scoring answers. Other than an occasional grunt, he just stared at the television screen. And drank. And drank.
Considering the time, her father had no doubt been at that very thing for a couple of hours now, just long enough to have gotten stinking mean, just long enough to be spoiling for a fight. If she had been just a few minutes earlier, if she had arrived in the middle of the lightning round, she would have had a much better chance getting inside without her father noticing.
Cursing her own timing, she slipped quietly through the door. She knew exactly where to place her hands so the door wouldn’t squeak, knew precisely how far to push it in before it scraped the floor.
She held her breath. Her father’s back was to her as he stared at the TV, and pressing herself against the wall, she inched toward the kitchen. If she was lucky, she would avoid his ire tonight. If she was lucky, she would be able to ease by him and—
“Where do you think you’re goin’, girl?”
Becky Lynn stopped, recognizing his tone, the slurring of his words, from a hundred times before. Her stomach turned over; the breath shuddered past her lips. So much for luck.
She swung toward him, forcing a tiny, stiff smile. “Nowhere, Daddy. I just thought I’d see if Mama needed a hand in the kitchen.”
He grunted, and raked his bloodshot gaze over her. A shiver rippled through her as he stared at the apex of her thighs. When he met her eyes again, his were narrowed with suspicion. “You been out whoring around?”
“No, sir.” She shook her head. “I had to stay late at Opal’s. We were busy today, even for a Friday.”
“What d’you got there?”
She tightened her arms on the magazines. “Nothing, Daddy.”
“Don’t tell me ‘nothing,’ girl!” He lurched to his feet and crossing to her, ripped the magazines from her folded arms. She bit back a sound of dismay, knowing the best way to avoid the full brunt of Randall Lee’s fury was to be as quiet, as agreeable, as possible.
He stared at the magazines a moment, spittle collecting at the corners of his slightly open mouth. Then he swore. Wheeling back, almost losing his balance, he threw the magazines. Becky Lynn jerked as they slammed against the wall. “How many times I told you I don’t want you readin’ this shit. How many times I told you not to spend money on—”
“I didn’t!” she said quickly, breathlessly. “These are the old issues. Miss Opal gave them to me. If you’d check the mailing labels, you’d see—”
“You tellin’ me what to do, girl? You sayin’ I’m dumb?” He took a menacing step toward her, his fists clenched.
“No, sir.” Becky Lynn shook her head vigorously, knowing that she had somehow, once again, crossed the invisible line. But then, it had always been like this with her father. She’d never had to do anything in particular to set him off.
Her mother appeared at the kitchen door, her face pinched and pale, her eyes anxious. “Becky Lynn, baby, why don’t you come in here and help me with the supper.”
A ripple of relief moved over Becky Lynn, and she sent her mother a look of gratitude. Randall Lee didn’t like interference and he wasn’t averse to turning his rage onto his wife. And it was an awesome rage. But then, her father, at six foot four inches tall and as big as a tree trunk, was an awesome man.
“I’d better help Mama,” she whispered, taking a step toward the kitchen.
Her father grabbed her arm, his big hand a vise on her flesh. She winced in pain but didn’t try to jerk away.
“How much you make today?”
“Twelve dollars.” Seventeen, counting the five she’d tucked into her shoe.
He narrowed his eyes. “You’d better not be lying to me.”
She straightened and looked him right in the eye. “No, sir.”
“Empty your pockets.” He dropped his hand and stepped away from her, weaving slightly.
She did as he asked, handing him the money. He looked suspiciously at her, counted it, then handed her two dollars back. She stared at the crumpled bills, thinking of the heads she’d washed that day, of the hair she’d swept off the floor. And of the fact that there would probably be enough money for her father to drink Thursday night.
Bitterness welled inside her, souring in her mouth. She supposed she should be happy, she thought. Most times, he took it all.
Her brother, Randy, came in then, the screen door slapping shut behind him, and her father’s attention momentarily shifted. He swung toward his oldest child. At eighteen, Randy, who had been held back in the third grade, was already as big as his father. And almost as mean. His disposition on—and off—the field had moved his fellow football players to nickname him Madman Lee. “Where’ve you been, boy?”
Randy shrugged. “Out with the guys.”
Randall Lee opened his mouth as if to comment, then just snorted with disgust and turned back to her.
Randy shot her a cocky glance and ambled toward the kitchen. Frustration welled up inside her. Her father rarely attacked Randy. Not Randy, star tackle on the Bend