Chasing Shade Part 8

'Yes?' She barely managed to project her voice.

'Ms Gre um, Smith? Betsey Smith?' asked the voice. It wasn't an unpleasant voice. But it was a stranger's voice.

Except for patrons from the diner whom she knew about town, or Charlie or other residents, Betsey didn't get visitors. She had no ties with her family any longer. No one from her past. Once in a while she got a Christmas card from her uncle, the one who'd given her the Pink Lady, but that was it. She kept in touch with Uncle Abe and no one else. He'd never send a stranger.

'Who is it, please?' she asked, trying to project her voice with authority, though it felt like it was shaking just like the rest of her. And she didn't know why. Instinct?

'My name is Marie Branson. I wanted to talk to you about '

'I'm sorry,' Betsey said. 'I don't know you. Please...please go.'

'Ms Smith! Please...' The woman sounded like she was crying or would start at any moment.

Too bad, Betsey told herself. Not her problem. Not her worry.

'Please...please just go. Unless you have a legal right to be here. Do you? Are you a police officer? Do you have some kind of ' she put her head to the door, not even sure of what she was trying to say ' warrant?'

'No, Betsey. I'm just a daughter '

'Don't.'

'Who is coming to ask your mercy '

'Don't!' Betsey roared. She startled even herself. Her voice so loud it seemed to bounce off the objects in her small home. Usually her trailer felt cosy and safe; today it felt like a tomb. As if she'd been sealed into a colourful coffin by a ghost of her past.

She'd often wondered where she would be living, what her life would be, had it not been for Denton Jackson Miller.

She pushed herself back into her rocking chair and covered herself with an old multicoloured throw. 'Please leave,' she said softly.

There was a pause. A long spell of silence where she thought the woman might have left. She knew who she was now. Had known, pretty much, since she'd pulled up in her big white car. But Betsey hadn't wanted to deal with it or her or the aching rip in her soul opened by the thoughts of the past.

'Ms Smith, my name is Marie Branson. Formerly Marie Miller.' She was talking fast. Trying to get it all out before Betsey went off the deep end or called the police or came out and clocked her. Whatever it was Marie Branson nee Miller thought was going to happen. 'I know the prison sent you a letter.'

Against her will, Betsey's eyes went to the small makes.h.i.+ft desk by the front door. The small table complete with bowl for keys and cellphone and change. Beneath it was the letter, held down as if the weight of the bowl could keep the evil contents of the letter from invading her home. Her head.

'Please go away,' Betsey said. But she whispered it. There was no way Marie Branson heard her.

'My father ' Her voice broke there. Maybe she didn't want to claim him any more than the state did. 'I know what he did to those women. I know that he took you.'

'And intended to do the same to me,' Betsey said, her voice a bit louder. By the way the woman on the other side of the door paused, she knew she'd been heard. Marie must have had her face pressed to the failing weather stripping.

'Yes, I know. I cannot imagine.' Her voice was so clear. Too clear. It felt as if she were inside with Betsey.

'No, you cannot,' Betsey said. She wanted to say, 'He ruined my life anyway. Even though he failed in his attempted abduction. He ruined it because I was forced to try and forget it all. I was forced to try and heal a crack in myself that could never actually heal. I was forced to face fear every day that came along.' Instead she sat and stared at the door and the letter trapped beneath the bowl.

The first tickle of rage began.

'I know. But he is...he is dying. And I wanted for me more than him, mind you I wanted to try and put things to rest before he pa.s.ses.'

He should be dead already, Betsey thought. But something kept her from saying it. Maybe the part of her that was decent. The part of her that realised she could not blame Marie Branson for her father's crimes. Or his damage.

Betsey said nothing. She scratched at a small hole in her jeans with her fingernail and wished for a drink. Or a Percocet. Then she wished for the urge for those things to go away. Wis.h.i.+ng did nothing. But she made one more wish. The wish for Archie to be here.

She had not craved someone by her side for a very long time. She had not wanted someone to help her through a s.h.i.+t situation since Eddie. Because look where Eddie had ended up.

But she craved Archie. And then she felt bad about it.

Rage blossomed.

She stood up just as Marie said on the other side of the door, 'If you could just find it in your heart to speak to the parole board. Special circ.u.mstances due to his terminal '

Betsey ripped the door open to find a small, fat woman with dark-red hair. Betsey knew her to be roughly early thirties. She knew a lot about Denton Jackson Miller, including his children, who were in their twenties during his crimes and had suffered greatly at the hands of the press.

Not. Her. Problem.

'Look, I don't care about your dad. Or you. I don't want to...nor will I...ever...speak on that man's behalf. What he did ' Her voice broke and Betsey hated herself for it. Hated her weakness. 'To those women. What it did to me...' She lifted her bangs to show the daughter her scars. Several deep splits in her skin they'd done their best to repair but which had been too ragged for successful mending without a plastic surgeon. Which had been way out of her family's price range. 'This is from banging my head against gla.s.s until I d.a.m.n near gave myself a concussion.'

Marie backed up a step. Her brown eyes wide. Her hands twisting in the hem of her oversized sweater. It was humongous, the thing was nearly a dress, and Betsey wondered if it was meant to be slimming. She wondered, a stab of pity in her chest, if instead of addiction and narcotic cravings the daughter got the urge to hide herself behind herself. Some survivors drank, some smoked the pipe, some popped pills, some consumed. They ate until the pain went away and when the pain returned they ate some more.

What had he done to his daughters? Or had they been off limits? Was this just guilt? Guilt over what a father had done?

Not. Her. Problem.

'Ms Smith '

'Get off my porch. Before I toss you over the edge. I'm sorry ' Another break in her voice. Betsey clenched her fists at her sides and shut her eyes long enough to stop the swirling rush of vertigo that threatened to drop her to her knees.

'I'm sorry for what your father did to you with his actions. I know it is not your fault. But he is not my concern. I will not help him. I spend every day of my life trying to forget him. Trying to recover from the domino effect of s.h.i.+t he caused in my life. I am not going to help him. Don't come back.'

The last bit was said on a sob. And that was even more humiliating than the cracking voice. She slammed the door and rested her head against the cheap plywood. As it had swung shut in Marie's startled and saddened face, she'd seen Archie coming up the driveway. A catch cage complete with squirrel in his hand. His eyes had been startled too.

How much had he heard? she wondered. And whatever would he think?

Chapter 12.

It took for ever to hear the woman's car start. At least it felt like for ever. She peeked out the window. Archie had stopped in her front yard but wasn't coming up. He looked unsure and she had a fleeting thought: bless him. See, he wanted to know but he didn't want to intrude. She knew that about him already. Knew what kind of man he seemed to be.

A good one. A kind one.

'And he doesn't need this dramatic s.h.i.+t,' she said.

Betsey slipped into her boots, noticing serious wear on the sole. She'd need to have them repaired if she wanted more years out of these beat-to-h.e.l.l things. Tears dripped on to her jeans and it was the only reason she knew she was still crying. She was too far gone in the numbness to be aware of anything but her sadness and her rage.

She found her coat and paused, staring at the door. Did she really want to do this? Did she really want to give in?

The truth was, she realised, that she'd been waiting for an excuse to give in. It was exhausting keeping oneself straight. And on track. And sane.

She pulled her coat on and peeked out again. The truck was gone and Archie was gone. He had some trailer-park work to do and she could slip out and get what she needed. The question was, what did she need? Did she need a nice little pill bought on the town border that would zone her out and let her sleep? Did she need something stronger? Did she just need a nice bottle of wine? Or whiskey? Or vodka would do.

It all raced through her mind and she felt a p.r.i.c.kle of excitement. Finally an excuse to give in. A reason to fail.

Followed quickly by a rush of hot shame. It made her sob, that horrible feeling.

Why should I be ashamed for needing a buffer against the world? she asked herself. It seemed a legitimate question but Betsey had no answer. She had nothing to say to herself or anyone else. She wound her scarf around her throat, checked the road again to make sure it was clear and stepped out of her house, keys in pocket, wallet in the other.

She'd head for the liquor store, she decided. That would be the least of the evils. Sort of.

Archie watched her go. Her body language was one of exhaustion and defeat. Gone was the angry woman he'd seen dismissing a stranger just moments before. This Betsey walked like she had the world strapped to her back. And for some reason he felt horribly and inexplicably afraid for her. So much so that he jogged the cage to the border of the woods and opened the door. The squirrel took one look at him, shuddered hard and then took off like Archie was going to pursue him.

He returned the cage to the stack behind Mr Booth's office and then popped his head in. 'Anything else, Charlie?'

The old man squinted over his cigar. It smelled like something was slowly dying, Archie thought. 'Nah. You got stuff to do, go on and do it. If I need you I'll give you a little beep-beep-beep.'

'I was going to run out real fast. Off the grounds.'

Charlie nodded, puffed. 'No problem. Go for it, son. If I need you, I'll get you. You put in a full day already, beyond that I just ask you to be aware if there's an emergency.'

Archie nodded, feeling grat.i.tude beyond explanation. 'Thanks, Charlie.'

'Yup,' the old man said and puffed some more.

Archie hurried to his truck and coaxed her into starting. He'd go see if Betsey was OK. He'd see if she needed anything. Something some instinct told him to steel himself for his encounter with her. Something in her body language with that woman.

So he did. He turned around fast, spewing gravel, and followed the road towards the entrance to the park. He'd catch up with her and see if he could help.

She was barely at the entrance as if she didn't really want to leave after all. He pulled up next to her and leaned over to roll down the truck's ancient window. Surprisingly, she kept walking. Archie took his foot off the brake and drifted along next to her.

'Go home, Archie,' she said.

Her face was streaked with tears but her jaw was set in anger. He'd never seen someone blanched so white from emotion.

'Talk to me, Betsey. Who was that?'

She glared at him. 'Who was who?'

'That woman. Who was she? And why has she upset you so much?'

'I'm fine.'

She put on some speed so he gently stepped on the gas. Archie was just grateful there wasn't any oncoming traffic.

'Betsey, you're not fine,' he said.

She stopped then. She stopped and whirled on the truck. On him. 'You don't know me, Archie. You think you do. Don't have any grand illusions that you're going to come in here and save the waif. Save poor Betsey. From her fear ' She gasped, trying to breathe through her anger. 'From her anxiety. From her memories.'

'I don't think that '

'Then why are you stalking me?' she barked.

He laughed. Really laughed and then he said, 'I'm not stalking you Betsey. I'm trying to help you.'

'I don't need your help!' she screamed.

She wanted to cry, he could see it, but she refused. Too strong, too proud. She absolutely refused and his heart broke for her.

Archie pushed the door open. 'At least let me give you a ride. I'm not helping. I'm going that way anyway.'

'And what way is that?' she said, crossing her arms against the wind. Against her pain and against him too, he figured.

He pressed his lips together and finally said, 'Towards town.'

She turned on her heels and started to walk away from him. Archie drifted forwards a little more. 'Betsey '

'Go away, Archie. You don't need this s.h.i.+t.'

'You're just having a rough day.' He sighed. 'And it looks like you had some help with it. I don't know who she was but '

'She was Denton Jackson Miller's daughter,' she said. She stopped dead in her tracks, forcing him to slam the brakes on. It jarred him and he rapped his head on the back window of the truck.

'd.a.m.n it,' he hissed. A look of concern flitted across her face but she quickly forced it away. He watched it happen. Watched Betsey override her normal concerned nature. 'I'm sorry. What did she want?' he finally managed, still rubbing the back of his head.

'For me to let her father out of jail. Because he's dying. All that he did and he's supposed to get a Get Out of Jail Free card because he had the luck to get cancer.'

A sob slipped out of her and Archie's heart buckled a little. She was such a nice person. Such a sweet woman. Her natural instinct had to be for empathy, and yet, in this situation, empathy was off the table. 'Oh, Betsey '

'Don't "Oh, Betsey" me,' she hiccupped. Then she bit her lips, brushed away a rogue tear and continued walking.

Archie sighed. Not sure of what to do. But he wanted to do something.

She dropped her wallet, stooped to pick it up and a small sound came out of her. One of the most broken sounds Archie had ever heard.

'Come on, Betsey,' he said. 'Get in.'

She turned on him, angry all over again. 'I didn't get to finish my story to you, Archie. You don't want me to get in this truck. Not now. Not ever.'

'Whatever you think...' He shook his head and wished for a cigarette, though he'd managed to quit four years before. Only stress did that to him. And he had a feeling Betsey was dealing with something quite similar. 'Whatever you think is so wrong with you, so broken and distorted that it's unfixable...you're mistaken. Now come on.'

'No.' She kept walking.

Archie pulled level with her, slammed on the brakes and said in a booming, no-bulls.h.i.+t voice, 'Get in the G.o.dd.a.m.n truck, Betsey.'