A Kingsbury Collection

  The band member smiled and flashed an okay to the couple as they headed out the door. They walked more quickly than Jane would have liked and headed away from the party, down a narrow sidewalk that led to a private beach. In a matter of minutes the roar of the party had disappeared, and Jane felt suddenly awkward in the silence between them. She wondered if she was crazy, walking hand in hand with a perfect stranger, someone so stoned he probably didn’t remember his name.

  He glanced at Jane, tripping and nearly pulling her down on top of him. As he struggled to regain his balance he laughed. “You sure are pretty, Jane. Clay must have been messed up for weeks when he lost you, huh?”

  Jane wrinkled her eyebrows, not sure what he meant. “Clay was a jerk, to be perfectly honest.”

  “Yeah,” the young man laughed as if he’d heard the funniest line ever. “Right. A jerk.”

  They stepped off the paved sidewalk and began walking on the sand. There were clusters of bushes and trees along the beach and dozens of dark places.

  “Let’s go back.” Jane tried to twist her hand free from the stranger’s. “I’m cold.”

  He stared at her, the laughter gone, and tightened his grip. “We can’t go back now, we haven’t had any fun yet.” He turned toward her and pulled her into his arms, holding her fast, kissing her hard.

  Jane pushed him away and wiped her face with the back of her hand. She was suddenly terrified. “We took our walk, now it’s time to go back.”

  Suddenly the stranger shoved her hard with both hands so that she fell backward onto the sand. The spot was pitch dark, surrounded by dense brush. In the distance she could hear water lapping softly against the shore. A faint scent of honeysuckle from a nearby garden mingled with the smells of the bay.

  “Hey!” she cried. “What do you think—”

  “Shut up! Don’t pretend you don’t like it. I heard all the stories from Clay. You’d tease him all night and never give in. Well, you’re gonna give in tonight, baby. Right now.”

  In an instant, he ripped at her clothes.

  “No! Get away!” Suddenly she thought of the one person who had always saved her from trouble and she screamed his name. “Daaad! Help!”

  The stranger laughed at her as he pinned her to the ground. “Your daddy’s not going to help you now.”

  She screamed again and fought to be free of him. But she was no match for his strength and he slammed his hand over her mouth.

  “Don’t say a word, or you’re dead. Got it? Just relax and enjoy it. Let old Squidman teach you a thing or two about teasing.”

  For what seemed like an eternity the stranger savagely raped her. When it was finally over, he stood and kicked her in the ribs. “You look like something a cat would bury.” He laughed cruelly, then bent down, picked up a fistful of sand, and threw it at Jane’s face. “Good for nothing witch,” he snarled. “You tell anyone about this and I’ll say you begged me for it.”

  Jane waited until the sounds of the party began to fade before she crawled back into her torn clothing. She wiped the sand from her eyes and mouth and made her way through the shadows back toward her car. When she got home, she slipped into her room, changed her clothes, and ran a finger over the painful bruises on her arms and legs. There was blood on her underwear and she stuffed them in a bag, which she buried quietly in the trash.

  Then she stared in the mirror at the woman she had become that night and wondered at the lengths she had gone to convince herself she did not need her father’s love.

  “Daddy,” she whimpered at her reflection. “I only wanted you to love me for who I am. Oh, Daddy, I miss you.”

  She cried herself to sleep that night and every night for a month.

  Jane fell silent, hanging her head. Twelve years had passed since that horrific night, but she could still feel the pain, still smell the musty wet sand and the sickly sweet honeysuckle.

  What must Troy think of her? Fear filled her, but she pushed it aside and turned to look at him. He watched her, his eyes filled with pain and compassion. He opened his arms, and with a sob of relief Jane collapsed in his embrace. She cried deep, gut-wrenching sobs.

  “Th-that,” Jane said when she could speak again. Tears streamed down her face as she lifted her head and stared into her husband’s eyes, “was how I lost my virginity. The same week my dad left.”

  She sobbed loudly, painfully.

  “Shhh, it’s okay, honey.” Troy stroked her back, speaking words of love, telling her how proud he was of her for finally trusting him with the truth. “I love you, Jane. I’ll always love you.”

  “I loved my dad. I wanted his love,” she cried. “I wanted it so badly. Then he left, and I tried to find it somewhere else. Instead I got raped.”

  With a shuddering sigh, she straightened. The memories had left her exhausted, almost dizzy. “Dad came home a week later and found another job. Six months after that, he was rehired by the college.”

  Troy’s arms came around her and he held her tightly. Jane would always remember the expression on Troy’s face. He obviously understood now. By the time her father had returned home, the damage was already done. How could she grieve his death, when, in her mind, her father hadn’t existed for more than a decade. He had died twelve years earlier on a musty, sand-covered beach in Charlevoix, Michigan.

  8

  On Sunday morning, two days after her father’s death, Megan and her mother attended an early church service. For forty-five minutes the priest droned on about being a servant of the church and how best to imitate the lives of the saints. Not once did he make reference to their father’s death.

  Afterwards, arms linked, Megan and her mom made their way back to the family van where they were silent for a moment. The service had been a disappointment for her mother, Megan could tell. The poor woman had hoped to receive some comfort from her church family. After all, they had belonged to St. Francis Xavier Catholic Church for twenty years.

  “That was terrible,” Megan said quietly as they drove out of the church parking lot.

  “It was a bit disappointing,” her mother conceded, keeping her eyes on the busy tourist traffic that congested State Street. The church was located in the Gaslight District where dozens of quaint shops added to the annual draw of tourists. July was the busiest month of all.

  “It was more than disappointing. It was sinful. That priest knew we were upset and he didn’t even acknowledge us.” Megan fumed as she tightened her seat belt. Certainly the priest knew who they were and what had happened! Mom had spoken with him the day before to arrange a date for the funeral. “Dad took us caroling to that priest every Christmas for the past twenty years.” She turned to stare out the van window. “And not even a smile or a hand on the shoulder, nothing to help us believe we’ll get through this.”

  Megan and Amy had attended the church’s grade school, and their mother volunteered her time as a catechism teacher. The Barrett family had sat in the same pew every Sunday for two decades, Megan thought angrily. But still the priest had failed to help them in their time of need.

  As they drove, Megan remembered an incident two years earlier when her father was in the hospital with circulation problems. Mom had called St. Francis Xavier and requested that the priest visit John in the hospital.

  “I’m sorry,” she was told. “That hospital isn’t in our area.”

  “What? It’s only three miles from the church,” her mother had protested.

  “I’m sorry. You’ll have to contact the priest of a church closer to the hospital. I believe that would be the Catholic church in Charlevoix. That’s the way the system works.”

  Overall, Megan believed St. Francis Xavier was undeserving of John Barrett. When they moved to Petoskey her father had offered his assistance in fund-raising, but he was told the church had all the help it could use. Her father never forgot that, and in Megan’s opinion, he never viewed St. Francis the same way he had once viewed St. Thomas in Ann Arbor.

  The women drove home in silenc
e and sat outside for a moment.

  “I need you to help me clean the house, Megan.” Her mother looked weary, and Megan was worried about her. “We’ll have the girls home tonight, and in a few days people will arrive from out of town. I want the house ready.”

  “Fine.”

  “And don’t worry about what happened at church today. I’ll be all right. Grieving is a private matter for me, something between God and me. I don’t need a priest hugging me and telling me everything will be okay.”

  Megan nodded, and the two went inside. The cleaning started in the kitchen.

  “I think Ellen’s right,” Megan said thoughtfully as she worked alongside her mother. Ellen and Jane had both left the Catholic church years earlier and attended small, nondenominational Christian churches in their separate communities. “Ellen says the Catholic church isn’t concerned with people’s private lives and that—”

  “That’s her opinion,” her mom cut in, making it clear to Megan that she did not want to talk about the ways in which the Catholic church, according to Ellen, might be lacking. Megan knew her mother had participated in very few religious discussions since Ellen and Jane had abandoned their Catholic upbringing. Still, she’d always made it clear she accepted their decisions and believed there were good things about the churches they attended.

  Mom also made it clear that she was aware that St. Francis was not a perfect church, but that did not change her opinion of the Catholic church as a whole. Besides, she had been Catholic as long as she could remember and she would be Catholic until the day she died. Regardless of what anyone thought.

  “But, Mom, don’t you think that was cold? It’s like no one even knew Dad existed at that church. Even after twenty years.”

  “Your father loved being Catholic. He understood that the priest at St. Francis is a busy man. Now I think that should be the end of the conversation.”

  Megan shrugged. “At least at Ellen’s church everyone cares about each other. When someone dies they pull together and—”

  “Megan, that’s enough. Now check the calendar and tell me what time the girls’ flights are coming in.”

  Megan stared at her mother. All their lives she had refused to talk about controversial matters. Whenever the discussion made her mom uncomfortable she changed the subject, as she had just done. Megan let it go and checked the calendar.

  “Ellen’s in at 1:30, Jane’s in at 1:50. I need to leave here no later than eight-thirty.”

  “Well,” she wiped her hands on a towel and rubbed her eyes. “I hope the girls won’t bicker this week. The rest of you either. Your father would have wanted everyone to get along.”

  Megan rolled her eyes. “Mom, don’t even say such a thing. Of course everyone will get along. We haven’t been together since the reunion two years ago. Everyone will have a lot of catching up to do. Besides, we have Dad’s funeral to think about. You don’t think planning a funeral is going to cause us all to start fighting with each other, do you?”

  “It could.”

  “Mooooom. Please. We’re adults, after all.”

  “Honey, you don’t know your sisters as well as I do. I’m just going to say a special prayer that Ellen and Jane get along. I’m worried about them the most. It’s important to me.”

  “If you think it’s necessary.”

  Her mother sighed. “You know, sweetheart, you missed a lot all those years you dated Mohammed. Sometimes I think they created a vacuum in your life.”

  “Meaning what?” Megan knew she sounded defensive.

  “Meaning you have a tendency to see your brother and sisters the way they were when they were all very young. Things have changed since then, Megan.”

  Megan watched her mother as she continued scrubbing the kitchen sink. She felt tears forming in her eyes. “We still love each other, Mom.”

  “I know, dear, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say you don’t love each other.” She was quiet a moment. “I hope you have time to really help each other this week, maybe cry together. I think that would be good.”

  They heard Aaron lumbering down the hallway toward the kitchen. Megan swiped at an errant tear and sniffed loudly, composing herself. “Mom, you think Aaron would want to go to the airport with me?”

  Diane picked up a wet pan and began drying it. “Well, dear, probably not. He hasn’t said much since Friday and I don’t think he’d be very good company.”

  Aaron walked into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and grabbed an apple. He looked tan and freshly showered, and Megan wondered what he was thinking, how he was handling their father’s death.

  “What’d you say?” he mumbled.

  “Hello, dear.”

  Megan glanced at her mother. She always made an effort to sound cheerful when she talked to Aaron, almost as if she was afraid to make him angry.

  “Megan wanted to know if you’d like to go to the airport with her.”

  Aaron grunted, rubbed his apple on his jeans, and left the room.

  “Would that be yes or no, Aaron?” Megan called after him.

  “I said no!” Aaron’s voice boomed through the house from his back bedroom.

  “He’s going to be great company this week,” Megan mumbled.

  Sometimes she wondered if Aaron was still angry with her for dating Mohammed. But how was she to know he was a drug dealer? It wasn’t until they’d been together a while that she found that out. And by then it was too late to leave him.…

  Once Aaron had pulled her aside and snarled at her, “That idiot is worse than the slime from a septic tank. And you’re nothing but a scumbag for dating him, Megan. Don’t give out your last name. I wouldn’t want anyone to think we’re related.”

  She had long since forgiven him for his harsh words. She realized that essentially her brother had been right. Dating Mohammed had been a crazy thing to do. But she couldn’t help but wonder if Aaron still held a low opinion of her for those wasted years.

  She looked at her mother. “I’ll assume he doesn’t want to go.”

  “Now, Megan,” her mom pleaded. “Don’t be sarcastic. He’s going through a hard time right now, like all of us. Try and understand.”

  “Oh yes, I know the story. Aaron’s had such a hard life and so on and so forth. You’d think he was raised in an orphanage the way people talk about him sometimes. ‘Poor Aaron. Raised in the same house as all those girls.’ I guess they don’t know that he was the only one who had his own room and the only one who went golfing on Saturdays with Dad while the girls stayed home and did the housework.”

  “Megan, dear. Be nice.”

  “I will,” she said sweetly, brushing a single lock of hair off her damp forehead. “Don’t worry. We wouldn’t want to make Aaron angry, now would we?”

  Aaron always blamed his temper on the fact that he was raised with four sisters, as if that alone was enough to drive someone insane. Megan clenched her teeth, not wanting to let her frustration with Aaron spill over onto her mother. “I’m sorry.” She closed the dishwasher and pushed a button to start the cleaning cycle. “I’ll try to be nice.”

  “Thank you, Megan. It means a lot to me. I really don’t think I can make it if you children don’t get along this week.”

  Megan took out the broom and tilted her head thoughtfully as she swept the kitchen floor. After all these years their mother still referred to them as children. She glanced at her watch and saw that it was eight o’clock.

  The front door opened, and they heard Amy’s voice.

  “Hi.” Amy rounded the corner, her husband, Frank, by her side. Her eyes were bloodshot and she looked like she hadn’t slept. “We’re here.”

  Frank sat down immediately and began thumbing through a computer magazine. Amy remained in the kitchen. She leaned against the counter and stared at her mother and sister working together.

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  Their mother smiled warmly at her youngest daughter. Amy had always been quieter than the other Barretts. Famil
y theory had it that since her older sisters were so busy talking, she never had a chance to say anything. But Megan didn’t buy that. She was convinced Amy didn’t want to talk about her life. She was a private person. When she finished her child development courses at North Central in 1992, she’d married a computer wizard. They were a reserved couple who preferred to spend their time alone. Megan considered her sister. None of them really knew or understood Amy—and that seemed to be fine with her.

  The one member of the Barrett family who seemed to understand Amy perfectly was their mother. According to Mom, Amy was much like she had been at the same age. Amy was the only Barrett daughter with their mother’s jet black hair and green eyes. Megan smiled. The similarities did not stop there.

  Mom had always admitted she desired little in life except to be John Barrett’s wife and the mother of his children. She did most of the cooking and cleaning, even after taking a full-time job at the telephone company. She never complained. In her opinion a woman should take care of the home, regardless of her busy schedule.

  Of all her daughters, only Amy was the kind of wife their mom had been as a young married woman. She met her husbands needs much the way Mom had always met Dad’s needs, right up until his death. Amy would never cause a conflict, and for that reason their mother was especially proud of her youngest daughter. Amy had been a simple child and now, though she was married and working at a local day care, Megan saw her as a simple woman.

  “There’s a load of laundry in the dryer if you wouldn’t mind folding it,” Mom said, hugging Amy close.

  Amy nodded and did as she was told.

  “Want to come to the airport?” Megan put the broom away and helped Amy carry the laundry into the living room where they dumped it on an oversized chair.

  “No. You guys don’t need me.”

  Megan looked at her younger sister strangely. “What do you mean we don’t need you? We’re all in this together. He was your dad, too.”

  “I know. I just mean they’ll probably feel more like talking if I’m not around.”

  Megan’s eyebrows came together in a puzzled frown and she glanced at Amy’s husband. “I’m glad you understand her, Frank. I sure don’t.”