Woman Scorned Page 7

  She arrived at the chair but didn’t sit down.

  I bet I could have. The chair had been moved again. The other somebody liked it twisted a few inches to the left for some reason. But not now, she thought. Things have changed. I’ll never be a doctor. I’ll never be anything more than… she paused again only to allow the tears to finally come. God, I’m so pathetic!

  And then the strong second-in-command allowed herself to cry, knowing no one would see and that deep inside she loved doing it because women on Monroe’s Island didn’t cry, didn’t have hard days, and didn’t need emotional outbursts. Except they did. They all did. They just weren’t permitted to show it. When she slowed, her hands saturated with tears, Lucy suddenly remembered her letter.

  Almost scared to find out, she dashed over to the coffee table and slid open its small drawer. Inside, resting on red velvet lining like a treasured jewel, was the same folded piece of paper she had placed there a week ago.

  “Still there,” she murmured through a smiling sob. She wiped another tear from her eye and picked up the paper, letting her fingertips enjoy the feel of the raspy edges. She thought of unfolding it, of re-reading it. She thought of destroying it. Instead, she simply placed it back onto the velvet and slid the drawer shut. She held onto the drawer’s knob for just a second, waiting for the right moment to let go. Then her fingers released and Lucy’s tears finally stopped. Her part was done. Some other woman would have to bring closure to her time on the island. But her part was done at last.

  Lucy moved back over to her favorite green chair, adjusted it to the right those few inches for better placement of her heels on the windowsill, and plopped down into its old, deep cushions for the last time.

  Two weeks, she thought again. Just fourteen little days.

  Outside, the stars were there for her yet again, as loyal and patient as always. She watched them for many hours, listening to their silent song of seduction, and did not sleep that night. Her last night of guard duty was too peaceful, too wonderful, to miss.

  Just before dawn, the reverberating thwaps of Monica’s helicopter rose across that silent world and invaded her peace. When Monica and whoever she brought back with her opened the door at the far end of the west wing, she ignored them and continued looking at the stars.

  5

  Josie was exhausted and went immediately to her bedroom. Let Monica deal with Charles, she thought. That she didn’t feel the need to be there to witness to his horror when he woke up surprised her. But she also believed it to be a good sign.

  She eased the door open, conscious that her roommate, Stephanie, would still be asleep. She put her little suitcase down on the carpet and turned to quietly close the door. It was then that a pillow hit her in the back of the head.

  “Welcome home, bi-atch,” said a sleepy but clearly happy voice.

  Josie laughed and threw the pillow back. Steph caught it, sat up, and snuggled it into her lap.

  “Hey girl,” Josie said. “God, it’s good to be home.” In truth she was even happier that her best friend was awake. She’d spent the latter half of her plane ride thinking about that word, scrupa. Back in Charles’ bathroom on the night she’d given herself to him, she’d hatched a relatively insane idea, and she was desperate to now share it with the one person she thought she could trust.

  “You think Rhonda’s going to let you slide today?” Steph asked.

  “What do you mean?” Josie took off her shoes and plopped down on her own bed and sat cross-legged against the wall, mirroring Steph’s own favored position.

  “Well, you’ve been gone for a week and a half,” Steph explained, “so she’s been making the rest of us pick up your work. No big deal, of course, but you can tell she’s been itching to have you back.”

  “So, then I’m back. What’s the problem?”

  “The problem,” Steph paused only to throw the pillow back in Josie’s face, “is that it’s less than three hours to roll call. You need your beauty rest.”

  But this time Josie couldn’t laugh. She held the pillow in her own lap for a moment and just stared at her feet. Beneath those socks was the big toe that had begun her emotional transformation. She’d been forced to recruit her ex-boyfriend and rapist, and to do so she had had to seduce him. Afterwards, sitting in a scalding shower, she’d reclaimed herself piece by piece, and it had started with that toe.

  “What’s wrong?” Steph asked. But when Josie didn’t reply she tried again. “What exactly did you do out there, Josie? Where did Monica send you?”

  “It was Gertrude,” Josie said. “Gertrude sent me.”

  “Okay, but sent you where? What the hell have you been doing for ten days?”

  Josie considered telling Steph everything just then, every last bit of it. Her resurfaced compassion for the men, her mission, even her crazy idea. Instead a tingling from one of the bruises on her back seemed to grow in sensitivity, and in a flash everything hit her all at once

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ Charles’ voice.

  ‘I don’t suppose you have a place of your own where we could get some privacy?’ Her voice.

  His backhand. Six years ago.

  His grunting. Six days ago.

  ‘I want you to think about Charles.’ Monica’s voice.

  ‘They’re called Emotional Markers, Josie, not ‘names’.’ Gertrude’s voice.

  Charles’ hand pawing her waist.

  Charles’ foot pushing down her panties.

  Charles’ teeth biting her left breast.

  Charles’ erection-

  and she lost control.

  “She sent me to recruit Charles!” she blurted out. “And I went, and I did Dirty Gertie’s fucking bidding! And I mean it was him, Steph, it was Charles! I couldn’t just pretend like with all the others. I had to actually seduce him.” She shook her head, still not believing she had done it. “And I did that too.”

  “My God,” Steph whispered.

  “And…” Josie was staring at her toe again, searching for the strength she’d found once before, but it wouldn’t come. “And he basically… raped me,” she finally admitted. “He raped me all over again, and I think that’s exactly what Gertrude wanted.”

  In a second she was bawling and her friend was wrapping her in an embrace. They stayed that way for several minutes. Neither girl spoke. Eventually, Josie’s sobs died and her tears dried.

  “She’s a fucking bitch,” Steph said at last. “I swear to God this place is worse than where we came from.”

  “It is,” Josie agreed.

  “But we’re not stuck here forever, Josie. Just remember that. Only four more years. You have to keep telling yourself that. Just four more years. Then you get a huge payout and you can do anything and go anywhere in the world.” She paused, listening for Josie’s reply. When it didn’t come she went on. “Do you think Dirty Gertie did it to test you? Never mind. Of course she did. She’s probably making you second-in-command, now, you know that. Maybe it’ll be better that way. Like… she’s finally giving you the respect you deserve.”

  “It’ll be worse. You only need to look at Lucy to know that.”

  Steph could not counter the argument, so she sat stroking Josie’s hair instead. Her friend’s tears had already soaked through the shoulder of her shirt, and now she was taking care of her woes as if she were just a little girl crying over a lost pet. Steph knew she would never be able to do enough. She felt helpless.

  “I met an old woman on the plane,” Josie said. “She was smart as a whip and funny too. You’d have liked her.”

  “Yeah? What’s her name?”

  “Granny Vira.”

  “Granny Vira? She actually introduced herself as Granny to you?”

  Finally Josie laughed a little. “She did. And she said something I’ve been working over in my mind for hours now. Have you ever heard the word ‘scrupa’?” Steph shook her head. “It’s what I’ve been doing for far too long. All of us have. It’s this island, Steph. We have to
do something about this island.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Steph stopped stroking Josie’s hair and pulled back in curiosity and surprise. It was clear to Josie she’d already said more than she should have, but suddenly she didn’t care. Suddenly her anger was stronger than her fear.

  “We need to change what we see every day,” she said.

  In the room next door, a bedside alarm sounded. For one young woman, it was the start of another normal day.

  “I don’t know about that,” Steph finally said. And was that a touch of whisper in her voice?

  “We need to, Steph. I need to. I can’t live in this place a minute longer the way things are. This isn’t a place of healing. It’s just a place of even more violence than where we came from.”

  Steph smiled a little, but Josie could see it was fake. It was then her fear returned. What have I just done? she thought. If Steph squeals to Gertrude or Lorraine…

  But the thought flew away from her mind as quickly as it had come. Steph may have been a little put off by what she’d said, but her roommate was no fink. Nevertheless, she doubted Steph was the fully compliant ally Josie had hoped for. She’d just have to find another outlet for her idea.

  6

  Monica didn’t exactly struggle with the inert form of Charles DeSalvo- she was far too strong and too experienced moving bodies for that- but she cursed as she carried him down the long basement hallway nonetheless.

  “Precious little bitch thinks she’s too good to help out,” she mumbled. “Thinks she’s the only one who needs some fucking sleep. Thinks she’s the queen bee now that she met Gertie’s challenge.”

  The truth, however, was that Monica’s anger came almost entirely from her exhaustion, not Josie. Deep down, she knew this. And deep down she knew there was something else she should be concerned with, something bigger. Despite Josie’s own claim of fatigue, and despite the implied rule that Rhonda alone should do it, Monica couldn’t help thinking that Josie should have wanted to be there for Charles’ initiation. She has a real opportunity here, one that none of us has ever truly had. I just don’t understand­ it. I would love to do a session on her about this. I wonder if Gertrude will sanction a considerable look into-

  But the counselor’s thoughts were cut off. She had reached the training room door, and she’d heard voices behind it. Rhonda would certainly be awake. She always was. But who, then, was she talking to?

  She opened the door and saw Gertrude standing beside Rhonda’s desk and Rhonda sitting before the white glow of her computer screen. That damned manuscript of hers, Monica thought.

  Then she noticed the alertness in both women’s eyes and felt all the more tired because of it. What she wouldn’t do to be rid of her current baggage and just get some sleep. Even to sit down again would be a fine thing.

  It occurred to her just then that she’d never seen Gertrude sitting. There was no chair in her office, she was always at the podium during their monthly meetings, and even now at nearly six in the morning she had opted to stand rather than take the nearby empty chair or to even relax on the corner of Rhonda’s desk. Christ I bet she even eats and sleeps standing up, Monica thought.

  As she dragged the limp body through the door, Rhonda stood to join Gertrude, and the two waited as the door swung slowly and quietly shut. Monica dropped Charles to the floor, face-first. None of the women took notice.

  “So,” Rhonda said, “this is him.” Her voice was soft, a perpetual whisper to avoid disturbing the dozens of men in their boxes, yet it was nevertheless strong. It was angry, too. Monica had detected that persistent tone in her voice years ago and had come to love it. Rhonda was a proper woman, an honest believer in The Cause. Her words, however, were a statement not a question.

  Monica directed her attention at Gertrude and whispered in kind. “You told her, then?”

  Gertrude nodded but did not speak.

  “Yes,” Monica admitted. “This is Josie’s rapist. His name is Charles.”

  “Not anymore it isn’t,” Rhonda said. “But where’s Josie? Doesn’t she want to be here when he wakes? I know I don’t usually like company for a man’s first encounter, but this… how could I not offer?”

  Monica paused uncomfortably. “Josie went to bed. It’s been a long trip.”

  “I see.” Rhonda turned to Gertrude herself now and asked, “Are we sure that’s wise? As far as I’m concerned, Josie can castrate him herself or kill him on the spot. This is a little out of my league, Gertie. I’m not sure what to do with him.”

  Gertrude visibly winced at what she perceived to be a blasphemy of her name. “We proceed as usual,” she said. She did not lower her voice as the others had, and neither Rhonda nor Monica would dare say a word about it. For all their own power, Gertrude was the island’s true leader, and everyone knew it. “If we treat him as special he cannot learn how utterly common and useless he is.”

  “But Josie-” Rhonda began.

  “Josie has done her job. Now you should do yours. There is nothing more to it. Now,” she turned her attention to Monica, “how did she fare? Was it a challenge? Did she falter? I need to know, Monica. The future of this island may depend on it.”

  “You want her for Lucy’s replacement.” Again, this was not a question. It was, however, still a whisper.

  And here Gertrude showed signs of actual humanity. She sighed before going on. “Yes,” she said. “You can all stop with your gossip for once. I’ve just about made up my mind, but I need something concrete. I need to know if this business of compassion is real or not. It falls to you, Monica. You know her mind better than even I. You alone saw not just how she recruited him, but how she responded to it. I need your advice, so spill it. Is she woman enough for the job or isn’t she?”

  Rhonda’s eyes widened and silence filled the room. Behind them all, a hundred and fifty square doors housed well over a hundred and twenty men. Some were asleep, and some were losing their minds, but the ones closest to Rhonda’s desk certainly heard Gertrude’s too-loud voice. Even among their usually quiet selves a kind of hush seemed to come over them.

  “Well yes!” Monica blurted. “She’s been just amazing, Gertrude! You should have seen her bring him in. And believe me it couldn’t have been easy. The things he did to her in that apartment. I can’t believe any woman would come out of that and feel something so mundane as compassion for a man ever again. I really believe I’d like to do a session-”

  “Fine,” Gertrude interrupted, stopping Monica dead. “It is decided then. But keep this to yourselves until the meeting tomorrow. Now,” she turned to Rhonda, “I know you’ve been short one girl lately, but from you I need to know if there’s anyone you could spare for my next raid. I’ve scouted the terrain and it warrants more boots on the ground. Coupled with it being Sherry’s first time, I’ll need at least one more woman than usual. I may need as many as three. Is this something the trainers can accommodate?”

  The request was unusual but not unheard of. Rhonda’s answer came quickly. “That won’t be a problem. Just name your girls. I’d like a few days’ notice, of course, but other than that it should not cause any undue interference. I can always give the ones you pick some time off as compensation.” She paused and decided to add, “Not that they’ll need or even want it. Any of my girls would consider it an honor to be included.”

  “Consider this your notice then. I’ll be ready to go in a week, perhaps less.”

  “Gertrude,” Monica interrupted. “I have something else.”

  “I wasn’t finished.” Gertrude’s voice was a few decibels shy of reaching an actual shout. Again, that hush fell over the entire training arena. Somewhere a man moved a single limb and the rattle of his chain seemed to echo like a horror film dog’s lone bark.

  “There is another problem I’ll need both of your help with,” Gertrude continued. “Monica, will you please explain to Rhonda about our situation with Lorraine.”

  That Gertrude had come to all but detest
the blue sector’s headwoman was no secret these days. Once a prized student as respected as Lucy or even Josie, Lorraine had come to be a thorn in Gertrude’s side in the intervening years since her permanent promotion. The recent incident, however, was known only to Gertrude and the island counselor.

  “Well,” Monica began, clearly happy to be allowed to spread gossip once again, “she simply destroyed Gertie’s office, Rhonda!”

  “What?” Rhonda’s surprise was palpable, and something Gertrude had planned on.

  “Why, yes,” Monica continued. “She drew all over her desk and broke her lamp and messed up the venetian blinds, and!…” she paused, holding a finger up like a scolding schoolmarm, “she went into Gertie’s closet and trashed that too.”

  “Your maps,” Rhonda said. “Oh, Gertrude, I’m so sorry.” It was a genuine statement. Everyone knew that Gertrude’s collection of maps- each intricately drawn with utmost patience and skill- were her lifeline to discovering and punishing the men of the black sector. Black kills were already so rare, and anything that decelerated Gertrude’s ability to hunt them was considered a direct affront to The Cause itself. The education of these oldest and most experienced men was paramount to its ultimate purpose.

  “It can be avoided no longer,” Gertrude said. “Lorraine has crossed the line and needs to be put back in her rightful place. When I broach this uncomfortable subject tomorrow, can I count on your support?” Both women nodded eagerly. “Good. Then that is settled too.”

  She sighed deeply before finally turned her attention back to Monica alone. When she spoke, her voice was now the modified whisper all women used within the training room walls. “You had a concern,” she said.

  “What?” Monica was temporarily confused. Then, suddenly, she remembered. “Oh! Yes! I believe I’ve found our next island girl! Her name is Heather and she called me again today. She’s desperate, this one, I can always hear it in their voices, but most importantly she clung on to the word ‘action’. She’s really ready, I believe. The other thing about her is her mother. We can really….”