Whispering, Idaho Read online

  Alice watched the mother yank him away by his out-stretched arm. The kid started crying. Alice longed to cry too, but had to keep it together. Soon she’d see Stephen. Once her father was locked away and, of course, her period started, then she could cry for as long as she needed. She stepped out from the tree, finding her way to the beach path.

  As she scurried down the hill, she searched the beach for Stephen. He was nowhere in sight. She knew it was too good to be true; sticking by the town whore was too much to ask of the preacher. She should never have told him to steer clear of her.

  She wandered up to the river’s edge and kicked off her flip-flops, stepping into the rain-softened mud. The rushing sound of the water and the warm muck squishing between her toes calmed her, while the cool air and slight breeze revived her. In the distance, a siren wailed. In her mind’s eye, she saw her father sitting in the back of the police car, his hands balling into fists, stainless steel cuffs cutting into his wrists, his blue baseball cap shadowing his eyes. Suddenly, Alice found herself wailing along with the high-pitched siren. The crows joined in, cawing from the top of the willows. A dog began to howl. She turned quickly to see Stephen and Zeke running toward her.

  “Alice, you okay?”

  “Sure,” she said, embarrassed that he’d heard her crying. “I’m fine.”

  “You sounded hurt.”

  Clutching her sketchbook tighter to her chest, she stepped away from Zeke’s wagging tale, the stick he dropped at her feet. “I thought you’d ditched me.”

  Stephen grabbed Zeke’s collar. “Why would I do that?”

  “Because I’m a whore,” she snapped. “That’s why.”

  “You’re not a whore. Whoa! This is tough. I thought you should be with your mother.”

  Alice avoiding Stephen’s perplexed look, aware of the smells: sun-heated mud, mock orange, wet dog fur.

  “I guess I should have stayed with you.”

  Alice wedged her toes deeper in the mud. She wanted to look at him, but she couldn’t.

  “Was it bad?”

  “They’re making me see a doctor.” She looked around for a log to sit on. Zeke romped over, stretched out next to her, chewing the stick.

  Lowering himself to the sand, Stephen leaned back against a rock facing Alice. He held up a hand to shield his eyes from the sun and studied her.

  Alice opened her sketchbook and despite her aching stomach, her sparking nerves, began drawing. She sucked in her breath. “They’re arresting him now, you know.”

  “Don’t feel bad about turning him in. You did the right thing.”

  “It’s creepy. All those towering bars and that awful stink. I couldn’t take losing my freedom. I’d go crazy locked up in a place like that.”

  “Alice Sharp doing time? Not a chance.”

  Alice forced a smile. “Can they lock you up for having your father arrested? The town will hate me now.”

  “You did the right thing. Just keep remembering why you did it.”

  “I’m scared,” Alice said, nervously sketching in Stephen’s honest features. She quickly caught his essence in the pencil drawing. “God didn’t protect me. That scares me the most. Doesn’t that scare you?”

  Stephen came over, sitting down next to her. Zeke thumped his tail. “It bums me out!”

  Alice searched his clear blue eyes for jest.

  She could see that he was completely serious. “But you’re a preacher. That’s impossible for you, right?”

  “Bad things happen to everybody. Like the Glimmer’s kid dying in Nam. And, my brother Tim, too. You locked Jim up. God’s not punitive. That’s what counts.”

  “You lost your brother in Nam and you still think God hasn’t ditched you?”

  Stephen pushed back his hair. “If He’s not there, I’ve turned my back. Bad things happen. We’re scared, we hide. It’s life. And God’s still there.”

  Alice shifted her weight away from her still tender parts. “I guess I’m madder at myself than at God. I could have prevented the rape. Then he wouldn’t be locked up,” she cried.

  “He’s at fault here; he didn’t protect you,” Stephen said, squeezing her shoulder, leaning over her drawing. “Hey, pretty good likeness.”

  “Thanks,” she said, catching his comforting smell, feeling his warmth. She reached for the cross at her throat, fingering the warm metal. “There’s something else I’m afraid of.”

  Stephen draped his arm over her shoulder. “What’s that?”

  “You going away.”

  He drew her close, kissing her hair. “You’re not getting rid of me.”

  “What about the Glimmers?”

  “Charlie got a church in Connecticut.”

  Alice relaxed into Stephen, drawing in his scent. “I’ll miss them, the Glimmers, but I’m so glad you’re staying.”

  “Big shoes to fill.”

  “You can do it.”

  “Over there,” Stephen whispered. “The fox.”

  She looked up. Across the river, the red fox stood at the edge of the brush. Setting her pencil to paper, she captured him in a few quick strokes before he slipped back into the thicket.

  A half-hour later, Alice closed the apartment door behind her, shutting out the smell of bottom mud and incense from the foyer. She remembered the way her apartment smelled the first time she stepped inside: dust and mouse turds. Now it smelled like linseed oil, lavender and storm-fresh air. She flopped onto the davenport, her body heavy as a soaked blanket: tired, edgy, achy. Nerves, she guessed.

  As she stared up at her painting, heaviness bloomed in her chest, the weight of it like water rushing past her legs when she waded out too far. The weird thing about coming home to an empty apartment was the quiet. She sighed, wishing Stephen had come back with her. Her heaviness began to turn to sadness when she was startled by a loud knock. Alice ran to the door.

  “Gena, finally!” she said, yanking it open.

  “I’m not your sidekick, Stupid,” Christie said, pushing past Alice, stomping into the living room. She wore a blue striped T-shirt dress and matching flip-flops. Her hair was pulled off her face with a red headband, gray eyes wide, metal-mouth flashing in the glare of the bare bulb.

  “So this is the hellhole Mom’s been raving about?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “You’re so stupid, Alice Sharp. You wouldn’t notice a pregnant chick even if she bit you on the nose. Onion rings? Get it?”

  Alice remembered Gena’s words. “What does that mean?”

  “I’m pregnant, Stupid.”

  Alice stepped back, catching herself against the bedrail. “I don’t believe you; who’s the father?”

  “Who do you think?” Christie teased, flopping onto the broken-down couch, her skinny arms and legs landing in a pile of awkward bends and angles.

  “Dad?”

  “You’re warped.”

  “Gad, I can’t believe you’d let that asshole, Rod, touch you like that?”

  “Get a life, Alice. Everybody does it, except for you, that is.”

  Alice watched Christie’s thin fingers stroking her slight belly. She felt sick to her stomach. She began to pace before her grinning sister.

  “Stop pacing. You’re making me nauseous,” Christie snapped.

  Alice threw her a look of disapproval like a sharp knife. While she was worried sick about being pregnant, her sister wanted a baby like it was a schoolgirl fad.

  “Stop looking at me like that.”

  Alice turned away, feeling the pressure shift from her chest to the small of her back. The first leak of sticky wetness between her legs brought red Fourth of July banners and celebrations to mind. Smiling, she hurried from the room.

  “Where’re you going? Come back here. I’m not finished taking to you,” Christie yelled.

  “You sound like Dad,” Alice said, closing the bathroom door.

  Christie pounded on the rickety door. “Stop ignoring me.”

  “Give me a minute. I started my
period.”

  “Lucky you.”

  A few minutes later, Alice walked back into the living room. Her sister lounged on the davenport beneath the painting Freedom. Leaning against the bed frame, she watched her sister chew her lip, while swinging one leg over the edge of the cushion.

  “You’ll make a good mother,” Alice said.

  Christie pushed herself up with her elbows. “Really?”

  “Yeah, really. And maybe Rod will be a good father, unlike our father, who thinks doing to me what Rod did to you is an okay thing.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Fortunately, I’m not pregnant and Dad’s on his way to prison.”

  Christie jumped to her feet. “Daddy’s a lamb and you know it. How could you say such a vile thing about him? You’re more stupid than I thought.”

  “Believe me, he’s no lamb. I know you heard me scream.”

  “No!” Christie shouted, a shadow crossing her gray eyes like a cloud blocking out the sun. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Did he hurt you too?”

  Christie started to cry. “Stop it, Alice. Stop it.”

  “I thought so,” Alice whispered, walking out onto the balcony. She wanted her sister to leave. She liked peace and quiet, after all. She leaned against the railing, relishing for once the painful cramps biting at her belly like a mongrel dog. The screen door creaked open behind her. Alice turned to her sister’s face, long as afternoon shadows.

  Miss Green pounded on the wall between the two apartments, yelling words Alice couldn’t make out.

  “Who’s beating on your wall, Stupid?”

  “My neighbor, Stella Green. Tell Mom you’re pregnant. She’ll help you decide what to do. Maybe you’ll get to live in the Wayward Girls’ Home.”

  “Come with me, please?”

  “I don’t think I can. Telling Officer Wise about the rape was more than I wanted to confide to any stranger.”

  Another round of pounding and Christie squealed. “Your neighbor’s weird. I’m leaving.”

  “That wasn’t my neighbor. It’s the door. I’ll be right back.”

  Alice pulled back the curtains to see Gena’s smiling face peering through the cracked glass. Jerking open the door, she asked, “What happened?”

  “Geez Louise, I’ll tell you at the café. Come on.”

  “I waited for you. Where were you?”

  “With Rod. I was wrong about your sister. She means nothing to him. In fact, she totally bugs him. Says she’s always throwing herself at him. He hates her.”

  “Noooo! You’re lying. You big fat liar,” Christie shouted, running past Alice, shoving Gena out of the way, and scrambling down the stairs.

  “Wait Christie, come back here,” Alice shouted.

  “Let her go,” Gena said.

  “Rod’s the dad.”

  “What?”

  “Christie’s pregnant,” Alice said, hurrying after her. “It’s Rod’s.”

  Alice saw Christie’s skinny arms fly toward the dusky sky at the same time her mousey-brown hair disappeared over the bluff.

  “Christie! Wait up!” Alice yelled, sprinting off the porch and across the dry grass to the trailhead. At the edge of the cliff, she could see her sister scrambling onto the beach. Alice was surprised at how fast she could move. She ran after her, slipping midway down the trail and landing on her butt. She picked herself back up just as Christie leapt from the sand onto a clump of half-submerged rocks.

  “Christie, get off the rocks,” Alice yelled.

  “I hate you and your stupid friend,” Christie screamed, balancing precariously, jabbing at Alice with her scrawny arms. She swung them suddenly in a wide overhead arc and lost her balance. She fell back into the rushing water and was whisked quickly downstream. “Help! Alice! Help me! Help! Help!”

  Christie’s frightened voice cut into Alice’s core like her father’s butcher knife cutting the flesh of her forefinger. She grabbed her cross, said a quick prayer, kicked off her flip-flops, and jumped into the cold river. Her sister’s cries were quickly muffled by the sound of splashing rapids. Alice threw her arms and legs into action, swimming crosscurrent with all her might. Her breath came in harsh gasps, lungs burning as she crawled frantically toward the middle of the river where she’d spotted Christie clinging to a clump of half-submerged brush. She pierced the moving surface with conviction and with several more exhausting pulls, she grabbed onto a sturdy branch, swinging in beside her shivering sister.

  “Save me,” Christie cried, flinging her arms around Alice’s neck.

  “Let go before you drown us both.”

  “Noooo! I don’t want to die. The baby. My baby.”

  “Stop screaming in my ear,” Alice cried, peeling her sister’s hands from around her neck and returning her blue fingers to the willow limb. Alice floated around behind her, encircling her sister’s narrow chest with her arm. “Now, let go and I’ll pull you to shore.”

  “I’m scared,” Christie said, clinging to the brush.

  “Trust me.”

  Christie let go. Alice kicked hard, her rubbery legs burning, as well as her lungs. She let the current take them, steering toward a break in the brush along shore. Soon she could touch bottom. She got her footing and stood. Christie flailed and tottered and grabbed onto her, shivering like a drowned rat.

  “Walk,” Alice demanded.

  “I can’t.”

  “I can’t carry you. Come on. We’re a long way down stream. It’ll be midnight before we get home.”

  Alice ducked her shoulder under her sister’s arm. She half-carried, half-dragged the limp girl along the shadowy beach.

  A car honked. It was Gena waving from the road.

  A candle burned on the radiator, while Moody Blues crooned from the record player, soothing them. Soaked clothing hung over the porch railing. Alice and Christie were on the old davenport, towels wrapped around their wet heads, hot tea cups clutched in their hands. Gena said she was sorry for what she’d said, and then left.

  “She’s a good friend.”

  “I hate her.”

  “We’d still be dragging ourselves up the beach if it wasn’t for her. Now, why’d you jump?”

  “I slipped. What do you think? I’d drown myself over a stupid guy?”

  “I guess not. But we don’t exactly know each other.”

  Christie slumped. “What’s to know?”

  Alice peeled the towel away from Christie’s now warm head. She pulled a comb through her hair, thinking how small she looked in the loaned jeans and T-shirt. Suddenly, she felt sorry for her, not angry. “You didn’t answer me earlier. Did Dad hurt you, too?”

  “He’s in prison now, Stupid. What difference does it make?”

  “Stop it, will you. I’m not stupid. I hate being called that! How do you think it makes me feel?”

  “Okay, okay,” Christie said, pulling away, smoothing the front of the oversized clothing.

  “Don’t ever call me that again,” Alice cried.

  “Sorry! Let it go, will you?”

  Miss Green pounded on the adjoining wall, the thuds as abrasive as a solicitor. A photo slipped off its nail onto the floor, splintering glass and Alice’s nerves.

  Alice jumped to her feet and bolted for the door. “Great! Now she’s gone too far. That was my favorite photo of Gena and me. It’s ruined.”

  “Don’t make a scene, Alice,” Christie said, her bare feet padding the floor at Alice’s heels. “You just saved our lives. What else matters?”

  “Peace and quiet,” Alice said, flying out of her apartment, down the hall to her neighbor’s door. She slapped Stella’s door with the palm of her hand until her skin stung. “Open up, you witch.”

  The door opened to Miss Green, who stood drawing a brush through her graying hair, smiling faintly. “Wet like that, you’re a spitting image . . .”

  “Your pounding knocked a photo off my wall. The glass is broken.”

  “You could hav
e been mine. It’s all Vi’s fault.” She looked frail, dressed in a sagging pink slip, her arms and legs bare as peeled sticks. She wasn’t as old as Alice thought and she smelled nice, like milk, cinnamon and bread. Alice suddenly felt sorry for the crazy bat, her anger draining away.

  “Whatever! Just stop pounding on my wall. I’m not going away. We’re neighbors now, so you’d better get used to it.”

  “Who’s that?” Stella asked, pointing a skinny finger past Alice.

  Alice turned to see Christie standing behind her, wet hair clinging to her rosy cheeks, her smile angelic.

  “Hi, I’m Christie, Alice’s sister.” She held out her hand, taking Stella’s.

  “Jim’s daughter, aren’t ya? The whole lot of ya got a thing for the drink. Too dangerous. Stay out of it.”

  “What?”

  “She means the river. I think you know that now.”

  “It’ll kill ya,” Stella said, pulling a tattered pink robe from the armchair and slipping it over her shoulders. “Jimmy could have saved him.” She flopped her hand over her heart and groaned.

  “Who?”

  “Vi stole him away,” Stella said, wringing her hands. “Stole him from all of us.”

  Alice rolled her eyes. “Come on, Christie,” she said, grabbing her sister’s arm, pulling her down the hall.

  “Wait! Where’s Jimmy now?”

  Alice turned back. “In jail.”

  “Good favors deserve a turn.” She pretended to zip her lips. “No more pounding.”

  Alice couldn’t tell if Stella was winking or if she had something in her eye. The woman stepped out into the hall, curling her finger at the girls to come back inside.

  “What now?” Alice asked, letting go of Christie’s arm. They returned to Stella’s apartment like curious children.

  Inside, the apartment smelled like years of pot roasts and baked bread. The curtains were frayed, the windows dusty, newspapers and books in piles.

  “Nice,” Christie said, “if you like old stuff.”

  Stella returned from the kitchen with a plate of cookies clutched between her shaking hands. Christie shoved past Alice, grabbing up fists full. “Thank goodness. I’m starved from all that swimming.”