The Rust Maidens Read online

  At the back of the mansion, Jacqueline untangled her hand from mine and moved toward the door. Her lithe fingers peeled up a splintered board, and though the space looked much too small to welcome her, she could fit into places I couldn’t imagine. Her body contorted and she started vanishing into the darkness. When she was halfway in, I held my breath, thinking she wouldn’t look back. But she did.

  “It won’t be long now,” she said, and slipped the rest of the way into the house. Out of my reach.

  The Rust Maidens were almost ready. It was almost time. For what, I couldn’t comprehend, but I did know this: right now, she was still here. Maybe we couldn’t ever reverse the transformation, but that didn’t mean we couldn’t figure out a way to live with this.

  Underneath it all, she was still Jacqueline. She was still my best friend.

  I walked home, resolve rising inside me. I was ready at last to talk to my parents. Ready to ask for their help. This wasn’t over yet. It couldn’t be over.

  But everything in me stood still when I reached the front porch. My mother was waiting there for me, a splayed newspaper in her hand and tears in her eyes.

  “What have you done, Phoebe?” She wilted against the doorway. “You foolish, foolish child.”

  When I was close enough, she shoved the paper into my arms like a bomb. I unfolded the page and read the top story, first word to the last, without stopping.

  It was Kathleen’s work, and this was the article the first one should have been. No unbridled fear, no triteness so cloying it made your teeth ache. She took her time this round. There were quotes from doctors and nurses and family members, most off the record, but some on. There were charts and theories, better than anything the rest of us had invented. She’d done well. She’d told everything. This was the Kathleen I’d always admired, the one I wanted to be like.

  The one I now hated.

  Because I was there too, on the page, looking like the fool my mother accused me of being. It wasn’t a picture, and it wasn’t even my name, but anyone familiar with this neighborhood knew it was me.

  Those on Denton Street have been mostly apathetic in gathering answers. A cousin of one of the girls had shown initial interest in assisting this investigation but later lost interest, perhaps too busy cavorting with her own government sources.

  That was a low blow. Honest, but unnecessary. Still, I couldn’t blame her for telling the truth, but I could loathe her for it. No one could stop me from doing that.

  I kept reading. I kept going. All the way to the final line that stopped my heart.

  By the end of next week, the government representatives intend to remove the girls to DC for further research.

  Adrian. My lover the liar. The Judas I should have always known he would be.

  With my head heavy, I leaned against my mother, but her arm was cold to me.

  I deserved that. For what I’d done—to the neighborhood, to the girls, to myself—I deserved so much worse.

  And that was exactly what we were going to get.

  SIXTEEN

  The house is empty now. Our lives retired to storage, or moved into my mother’s one-bedroom apartment on Detroit Avenue. I’ve refused to visit there. I don’t want to see what’s left of her, how she’ll reach the finish line of life, cramped and alone and in unfamiliar territory.

  I wish I could do better by her. I wish I could do better by anyone.

  She and I walk through the house together, one last time.

  Into the dining room, where no one will ever have Sloppy Joes again. The kitchen where mothers will no longer gather for Virginia Slims and gossip. Up the steps and down the hallway and past my bedroom.

  This is the only room that hasn’t been hollowed out. The diaries and Polaroids still sprawl across the floor and in the dresser that I didn’t empty.

  My mother frowns. “You aren’t taking any of your things with you?”

  “No,” I say, and close the door. Let the wreckers come and destroy the past like I should have years ago.

  We’re done here now. Nothing tethers us to this place anymore.

  Back downstairs, that old Bible still sits in the corner of the living room. My mother picks it up.

  “I’ll wait outside,” she says. There’s no hint of sorrow in her voice, and although the temperature’s holding steady at zero, she heads to the front porch. She’s too tired to stand in here another instant. For the last twenty-eight years—ever since I left, ever since that summer—she’s been saying her goodbyes to Denton Street. There’s no room for sentimentality in her heart.

  But all I am is a sack of sentimentality. It disgusts me, but it’s true.

  The red phone jacked into the kitchen wall glistens at me through the doorway. Utilities won’t be turned off until tomorrow. That means it’s not too late.

  I creep toward the receiver, like I’m trying to sneak up on it, and I dial a number I memorized long ago. Then I stand here, wound tight inside, on the last phone call I’ll ever make from home.

  It only rings once before she picks up.

  “Kathleen Carter, Chicago Tribune.”

  Though it’s been almost three decades, her voice is the same. That catches me off-guard. I was expecting something different, something withered and aged. But she’s as fresh and eager as that girl who fled Cleveland without remorse, without one glance over her shoulder. At least not until I called her that day from the payphone down the block.

  “Hello?” she asks, impatience singeing her voice. “Is anyone there?”

  I breathe in for courage.

  “This is Phoebe Shaw.” That’s all I say. I don’t have anything else for her. If she wants to talk, she can talk. If she doesn’t, she can hang up.

  I wait, wondering which choice she’ll make.

  “Hello, Phoebe,” she says finally.

  “Hi,” I whisper.

  After everything, life didn’t turn out so bad for Kathleen. She went on to become the reporter I always knew she’d be. Promoted at the Tribune, nominated for awards, a six-figure book deal for her memoirs. Over the years, I’d kept up with her work, and for a while, I even clipped out her articles and taped them in a leather-bound scrapbook. Then it became too much, the pain of sliding the articles into place, taping them down, remembering. Over and over, like a record that would never stop skipping.

  After more than thirty-five years on the job, she should probably be retired by now, but why would she bother? What’s waiting on people like us? Retirement would be as empty as this room where I’m standing, a daily reminder of what was missing.

  “What is it you need?” she asks, her voice even, the utmost professional.

  “After I left,” I say before changing course mid-sentence, “after you left, after everything.”

  I stammer out something even I can’t recognize. Words, I guess, but not decipherable ones. This isn’t going well. I grip the phone tighter, and the plastic bows in my hand.

  Another breath. Try again.

  “Did you ever figure out why?” I ask. “In all your research, did you determine what happened? Or if we could have prevented it?”

  It’s a fool’s question, but it’s the only thing I want to know. If we could have stopped it then, maybe I can stop it now. Maybe it’s not too late to help Quinn, and help myself too.

  Kathleen hesitates, and I’m sure that she knows the real reason I’m calling. That it’s happening all over again. That I need her help.

  “Phoebe,” she says at last, her voice soft and sad. “If I knew any more now than I did then, don’t you think I’d be back there? Still trying to find her? Trying to save her?”

  Sorrow stitches up my chest and holds me so tight I feel I’ll never move or breathe again. There it is. The answer I knew she’d give me. That it’s all useless posturing. You can’t stop the sun from rising or the tides from coming in. You can’t stop the girls from becoming what they became.

  I nod once to myself, as satisfied as I can be. “Thanks for talking
with me.”

  “Anytime,” she says, and hangs up without saying goodbye.

  I stand frozen, still holding the receiver, listening to the melody of static on the other end. I already knew this was what she would say.

  Even now, after all these years, part of me swells with happiness for Kathleen. At least she got out and stayed out. She didn’t watch her life swirl down the drain like last night’s flat beer. I still hate her a little, but I still admire her too.

  I set the phone back in its cradle and turn away from the wall. That’s it. That’s all I’ve got. She has no ideas. Neither do I.

  I cross through the living room and close the front door, not looking back once.

  Outside, my mother lingers in the yard. She looks up at me and smiles.

  “Do you want to get lunch before you head out? We could go downtown to Tower City.”

  This is so pitiful, the warble in her voice, the desperation setting in. We both know this is it. Goodbye, maybe forever this time.

  “I’m not hungry,” I say.

  She nods. This was the response she expected from me. I’m nothing if not predictable.

  I’m ready to leave, but I can’t. Not yet. There’s one question I’ve been wanting to ask her. Not that it matters after all these years, but I ask anyhow.

  “Why didn’t you move before now? Why stay here?”

  She sighs, and her breath fogs all around us. “Why did any of us stay?” She shakes her head. “It’s the only place we thought we belonged, and I always felt like I owed it to them. That if we left, and others moved in who didn’t know the girls, it would be like forgetting them.”

  Forgetting them. Like I’ve tried to forget.

  “Believe me,” I say, “leaving wouldn’t help.”

  Yet that’s exactly what I’m going to do. Run from this city all over again. I turn toward the Impala in the driveway, but my mother grabs my arm.

  “Wait,” she says. “There’s something I want to give you.”

  She passes me the Bible. I start to ask her why I would need this, if she’s still trying to convert me. But then I see it. An old envelope, yellowed and crushed at the edges.

  I take it out, instantly knowing what’s inside.

  My college bond money. This was the envelope Jacqueline and I searched for. Now I’ve finally found it, almost thirty years too late.

  “It was worth ten thousand then,” my mother says. “It’s about three times that now.”

  I gaze at her, convinced it’s a strange trick.

  “Take this back.” I dangle the envelope out to her, the withered paper quivering between the tips of two fingers, not wanting to touch it, not wanting to claim it as my own. “You need it more than I do.”

  “No, baby, I don’t.” She looks at me in a way only a mother can, her eyes soft and sweet and impatient. “It’s yours. I always promised myself if you came back, I’d give it to you. And you did come back. Thank you.”

  “Thank you for having me,” I say, and the words ache in my mouth. I sound more like a dinner guest than a daughter.

  My mother takes a step forward before she kisses my forehead. “Goodbye, Phoebe.”

  And that’s it. She climbs into her own car, parked on the street, and heads off to visit my father. To say her long goodbyes there, too.

  I’m alone now.

  My gaze slides down the street to the still-standing houses. There aren’t many of them left. Our house. Clint’s and Eleanor’s house.

  Quinn’s house. She knows I’m leaving today, but she hasn’t come to see me off. Down the block, there’s a light on inside, and I wonder if she’s still there. I wonder if she’s still her.

  Eleanor isn’t one for goodbyes either, but she has shown up to see me off. She watches me from the sidewalk on the other side of the street, her eyes heavy and accusing.

  We could still talk. It’s not too late for that.

  I step forward and start to say her name, but she just shakes her head, tears already staining her cheeks, and turns away. This has been too much for her. I’ve had my chance to explain things, but I didn’t bother, and now she’s lost to me. Everything here is lost to me. Jacqueline’s house looms down the block, an upstairs curtain fluttering. There’s somebody there, moving just out of sight. Watching me, waiting for me.

  They can wait a whole lot longer. They can wait forever, as far as I’m concerned.

  With my lone duffel bag tucked in the trunk, I climb behind the wheel of the Impala and drive off. Not into any sunset. Not into anything. For all I know, this car will sputter out a mile from here, or ten miles, or a hundred. I probably won’t make it far, but I’ll go as far as I can.

  On the highway, I take one last detour.

  Adrian is in his office, door open, his shoulders hunched over pages of blueprints. When I’m standing close enough, I recognize the drawings. It’s for the monument he’s building outside. The one for the girls.

  He looks up at me and smiles. “I didn’t think I’d see you again,” he says.

  “You won’t after this. I’m just here to say goodbye.”

  This is it. I’ve done what I came for. Everything I need to do in Cleveland is finished, yet I don’t move from this spot. I just stand here at the desk, my fingertips balancing me, considering what to do next.

  Adrian senses this in me, my indecision, and he seizes instantly on it. “Don’t leave,” he says. “Work on this project with me. Nobody would be better for this than you.”

  A crack forms inside me, and I want to stay. Adrian, always the persuasive one. Always the heartbreaker. If I remained here, it would all be the same. But not the same. Not without her.

  I shake my head. “I can’t.”

  Adrian hesitates, and something sparks in his eyes as he measures his next words carefully.

  “Jacqueline wouldn’t want this,” he says. “She wouldn’t want you to be running after all these years.”

  Her name on his lips. It’s all wrong.

  “You don’t get to talk about her,” I say. “You don’t get to talk about any of them. Not to me. Not like you knew them.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says, and honestly sounds like he means it.

  But I won’t let him have this. I won’t give him an inch.

  “You betrayed them,” I say. “You betrayed us.”

  What I want to say is, You betrayed me. Because even now, standing face to face with him after almost thirty years, I feel like the same jilted teenager. The one who trusted him. But I don’t say it. I just turn and walk away, down the long hallway and out into the cold.

  I shouldn’t have come here. I should never have returned to Cleveland, and I should never have bothered to speak to Adrian again.

  Back on the road, tears blurring my vision, I rev the Impala through traffic, escaping University Circle. Escaping these places that were supposed to be mine.

  It’s not quite rush hour yet, which means the highway is mostly open. By the time my vision clears again, tears dried, focus restored, I’m on I-90 heading east. To where, I don’t know. New York? Philadelphia? Some random town on the Atlantic where the water doesn’t catch fire? It doesn’t matter. So long as it’s any place that isn’t here.

  But Cleveland isn’t ready to let me go yet. Before I cross the county line, the knob on the car stereo twists, and the speakers crackle to life.

  Karen Carpenter’s voice pours into every crevice of the car. Jacqueline’s favorite song: “Close to You.”

  “No,” I say, and punch it off, but the radio fights me. It moves again, controlled by an invisible hand, and the song returns. It won’t let me forget, no matter how much I’m desperate to do just that.

  I want to scream. Maybe I do, I’m not sure. Or maybe it’s just the scream of the bald tires against the asphalt as I twist the wheel hard, my hands cold and unforgiving. The Impala slides over ice and salt and two lanes into the median, where it’s all frozen earth and stiff grass. A feeling of motion and then a feeling of suspension,
of not going anywhere. The car’s stopped here, halfway between two sides.

  The radio keeps crackling, more saccharine guitars and sweet lyrics. All of it too much. All of it from her.

  I hold my head in my hands, the whir of the road around me, those cars with places to go, drivers who know what they’re doing, zipping past. But I can’t move. Here on the slick of the leather seats, I’m trapped. Not in the future, but not exactly in the past either. I’m nowhere and everywhere at once, suspended in between. Desperate to choose.

  A choice. That was what they always needed. To decide for themselves.

  I can make a choice too. I can stop running away.

  With a steadiness budding inside me, I guide the Impala back the way I came.

  Back toward Cleveland. Back toward Denton Street.

  It’s only ten minutes. It’s the longest trip of my life.

  I park on the street where I used to live, and I walk, unshaking and unafraid, to the split-level with the slate roof.

  No knock. No polite make-believe. I move up the front steps and cross the threshold into the past I’ve avoided all these years. With my head high, I climb the familiar staircase to the second floor and march down the hall until I reach the end. Then, with all the strength in me, I throw open the door to Jacqueline’s bedroom.

  On the other side, she’s waiting there to greet me.

  SEVENTEEN

  The newspaper with Kathleen’s article slipped through my fingers and fluttered across the welcome mat. I couldn’t move from the doorway or from this moment. The day was new, the sun low in the sky, but the swelter of late July had settled in for the long haul, draping over me like bolts of burlap.

  I was alone, more alone than I’d ever been. But here I was, on the street where I lived, where I’d always lived, the only place I could call home. And my mother stood next to me, the one person I should be able to trust, but she couldn’t shift her gaze from her slippered feet. Not wanting to look at me, not wanting to see the thing she’d raised. The entire neighborhood could see nothing in me but a traitor. I’d turned against them, in favor of the girls and their insurrection from within; in favor of Adrian, an invader in our midst. But I’d done what I’d always promised to do: I protected my best friend, even if she didn’t want my help anymore.