The chaperone, p.8
The Chaperone, page 8
They think Sister Helen was murdered.
I hurry to my seat and bend over my textbook like I’m reading.
If I don’t let them in, they can’t hurt me.
“Studying hard?”
I look up and see the same moss green eyes from the library staring back at me.
Mateo.
My heart races. “Pardon me?” I say, managing to get out two words before looking over my shoulder to see if anyone is watching. No surprise—everyone has eyes on us.
Mateo’s black hair falls across his flawless skin in long wisps. “I said, Are you studying hard?”
I have no idea what to say. I repeat the response I’ve heard Dad give: “Hardly.” It’s a weird thing for Dad to say because he works all the time. But whenever he says it, the other guy laughs. Like it’s some kind of man code for being normal.
But Mateo doesn’t get the joke. “You don’t like this class?”
“No, that’s not what I meant.” I glance at Mr. Jeffrey, who sits hunched over his desk at the front of the room, oblivious. “I actually do like it.” I’m not lying. It’s the only class I like.
“Cool. It’s my favorite.”
“It is?”
“Highlight of my day. If you know what I mean.”
And then, just before he turns and heads for his seat in the back of the room, he does something I don’t expect.
He winks at me.
He totally winks at me.
CHAPTER 24
Adrenaline buzzes through my body.
I actually enjoy going to self-defense today, punching Sister Laura’s gloves with joy instead of resignation. At the library a tiny part of me hopes to see Mateo, but another part knows I won’t get lucky twice in one day. I breeze through the book Sister Laura found, The House on Mango Street, finishing the whole thing in one sitting. Sure, it’s short, but never before have I read an entire book without looking up from the page. The effect is exhilarating.
By the time I get home, I’m bursting with all kinds of different emotions—about Mateo, the book, what Bonita and Liv told me. It’s no surprise I interrogate Mom as soon as I walk in the door.
Tiffany is vacuuming the dining room. She lifts her gaze from the rug and watches me beeline across the house. Before I get to the kitchen, she flips off the vacuum. “Sheesh, you’re in a hurry. Almost like you’re running from something.”
Is that an accusation? Does she know about the investigation?
Mom is in the kitchen making sourdough.
“I need to ask you something.”
“Yes.” Her impatience is obvious. Do I really want to bring this up? You have to try new things if you want to grow, Stella.
“Remember when the constables were here?” I pause until she looks up from the mixing bowl. “After?”
“After?”
“You know. After.”
“Oh, that.”
“Do you remember what you said?”
Mom uses her I-told-you-so voice. “I said a lot of things that day, Stella. We all did.”
“You said we didn’t want to look suspicious.”
Mom turns to the cabinet behind her.
I talk to her back. “You said we didn’t want them to think we were involved.”
Mom returns to the counter and pushes the heels of her hands into the lump of dough. The scent of flour and yeast reaches me on the other side of the island. My stomach quakes.
“I don’t know why you’re doing this, Stella.”
“Doing what?”
“Dredging up the past.” She picks up the dough and shapes it into a ball.
“It’s hardly the past, Mom. It happened less than two weeks ago.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t.”
“It’s over, Stella.” She drops the ball of dough on the pastry mat. “Sister Helen is dead. You have to get over it.”
My jaw drops, but that doesn’t deter Mom.
“She wasn’t your mother, Stella. She was just your chaperone. She wasn’t family.”
“She lived with us for five years, Mom.”
“Almost six. Sister Helen lived under our roof for five years and ten months.” Mom’s eyes bore into mine, and as much as I want to, I can’t pull away. “I know Sister Helen liked to act as if she was the most important person in your life, Stella—Lord knows she’d love all the carrying on that has gone on in her absence—but the truth is, she was just the hired help, and sometimes I wish she’d acted like it.”
“How can you say that?”
“It’s the truth, Stella. She was nothing more to us than a servant.”
I’m too stunned to respond. But now I know for sure. Mom hated Sister Helen. The only question is, how much?
CHAPTER 25
As soon as dinner is over, I go to my room and flop onto the bed. How could Mom say those things about Sister Helen? Did she want Sister Helen gone? Could she have hated her enough to kill her? I try to put it all together—the message from Rose, what Mom said about Sister Helen, the investigation, but I must fall asleep at some point because the next thing I know I’m jolted awake by the sound of a car door slamming.
I’m still wearing my school clothes, but it’s pitch dark outside. The last thing I remember is a pink-and-orange sunset slanting through my bedroom windows.
I tiptoe to the window. Parked in front of the annex door is a single car. A red SUV.
A constable is here.
Again.
A tall man dressed all in gray with a red armband and a gun as big as an oar crosses the driveway. I don’t recognize him. His thick dark hair and pronounced jawline make him look like a movie star. Even though it’s after eleven, Dad steps out the annex door and gives him a long handshake.
It’s almost like he expected him.
* * *
I linger at the window, waiting to see if the constable will come right back out, but nothing happens.
What’s going on?
I slide my arms into my cashmere robe before putting an ear to the door. But all I hear is the sound of the air-conditioning roaring through the house. This is my chance. I crack the door and peek out. The hallway is deserted. I pull the door shut behind me as quietly as possible.
I’m down the stairs in less than a minute.
The first floor is so quiet it’s eerie. Like the house has been muted. I tiptoe through the dining room and kitchen and peer into the annex hall. The door to Dad’s office is closed, but I can see light under the doorframe. That’s when I hear them.
Dad and the constable.
Their voices are louder than they should be at this hour, but not so loud we could hear them upstairs. This close I have no problem making out what they’re saying.
“You’ve got to put a stop to it.” The irritation in Dad’s voice is unmistakable.
“How am I supposed to do that?”
“I don’t care how. Just do it.”
It almost sounds like Dad is giving the constable orders.
“But people think—”
“People think what?”
Before the constable responds, I hear shuffling. Are they moving toward the door? I slide back almost to the kitchen. Now I can only make out snippets of what they’re saying.
“Your wife.”
“Nonsense.”
“Investigate.”
“Goddamn it!” Dad yells, and then something slams. I run to the other side of the kitchen, crouching behind the island.
A door squeaks open, and their voices are clear again.
“I don’t want to have this conversation again,” Dad says.
“Understood, sir.”
Sir? Why is the constable calling Dad sir?
“And I don’t want another single person to call my wife a murderer.”
CHAPTER 26
I don’t get a chance to inspect Dad’s face until Sunday morning when the five of us go to church.
Dad pulls his brand-new Corvette Wilderness SUV up to the front door. He gets the latest model as soon as it rolls off the assembly line. Everyone who lives in Bull Run knows the Corvette was a flashy sports car created a long time ago by a company called General Motors. But after New America was founded, the people who worked at the Corvette plant in Bull Run broke off from GM and started a new company, which they named after the car that made their town great. Now the Corvette Motor Company is the biggest auto manufacturer in the country.
When he opens the door for me, I search Dad’s eyes for some hint about what he knows. I see nothing but impatience.
“Go ahead, Stella.” He tilts his sweaty head toward the back seat. It’s hotter than it should be this early in the morning.
Sister Laura is in the third row. Our eyes meet, but she doesn’t say a word.
When Dad gets in, he immediately tunes into Freedom Radio.
As usual, we don’t speak, instead listening to the Sunday morning experts screaming about all the babies being killed in Old America.
Infanticide is a daily—no, hourly, no, minute-by-minute—occurrence in the hell-on-earth that is Old America, folks. Women actually put coat hangers up their vag—
Dad lunges at the dashboard, flipping off the radio before the commentator can finish. I don’t know why he bothers. We all know how women kill their babies in Old America. It’s one of the reasons everyone hates it so much. I glance at Shea, who holds her new Girl of Faith doll in her lap, stroking its long hair. No, Shea doesn’t know exactly how women in Old America kill their babies. She doesn’t know about the hangers. But she knows they do it. As soon as she was old enough to recite The Divine Praises, she was praying for those babies.
It used to bother me. When I was Shea’s age, I would cry about it. But I cried so many tears and said so many prayers it stopped seeming real. It felt like something happening in a story or book. I don’t know a single woman who’s committed infanticide, a crime punishable by death.
We’re pulling into the church parking lot before I can figure out if not praying for those babies anymore means there’s something wrong with me.
“I have an announcement,” Dad says before he comes to a stop.
No one speaks.
“Chief Liu called this morning.” Chief Liu? He must mean Brooklyn’s dad. “He called to tell me they’ve closed the investigation.”
“What?” I can’t help myself. It just comes out. “Why?”
“It’s as we suspected, Stella. Sister Helen was old, and she died. That’s what happens when you get old.”
My eyes go to Shea. Should she be hearing this?
“Anyway, this means we can all move on.” He tilts his head like it’s a form of punctuation. “Sister Laura is with us now. She’s taking good care of you. And to be honest, I’ve heard enough speculation and gossip about this situation. It’s time for us to move on.” Dad catches my eye in the rearview. “All of us.”
“Yes, sir,” I say because I know his words are directed at me.
Dad pulls up to the front of the church, putting the Wilderness in park. Two constables appear on either side to open our doors. First Mom and Dad’s doors, the constable shaking Dad’s hand like they’re friends. When the back doors open, a constable with wavy blond hair and unnaturally blue eyes holds his arm out to me. It’s one of the only ways I can touch a man—when he’s helping me out of a vehicle. I grab hold of him as I teeter out in my kitten heels.
Sister Laura brushes off the constable holding the door for her, refusing help but still offering a polite greeting. “Good morning, Constable.” She smiles warmly. “Thank you for your service.”
Inside, Dad doesn’t even glance back at us before striding to the front of the church. I could swear Sister Laura slits her eyes at him, but her face morphs into a smile before she says goodbye and heads toward the stairwell. The chaperones sit in the choir loft though they never sing.
Women aren’t supposed to talk in church, but Mom leans close enough to whisper. “Get us a seat.” She nods at the pews behind the three-foot barrier separating men from women. “I’ll take Shea to Sunday School.”
I search for Bonita or Liv. Bonita’s family doesn’t usually come to services, and Liv is often late. The Grahams are never late. We’re always right on time. There’s plenty of room in the first pew, so I throw my sweater over the empty seats, hoping Liv and her mother join us.
* * *
There’s nothing to do but people watch. My eyes rove over the congregation until I come to Dad standing next to a group of men in the Minutemen Party. The party officials sit in front, the constables right behind them, their tall guns leaning against the pew as if holding it up. After what happened the other night, I can’t help but notice how friendly Dad is with them. Shaking hands, smiling, even letting out a little chuckle. The other dads keep their distance.
Why is he so comfortable with the men in the Minutemen party?
“Who are you gawking at?”
I flinch before turning to see Liv sitting next to me, both of our mothers on her other side.
I ignore her question. “You’re late.”
“Almost.”
“Shhh,” Liv’s mom says as she presses a finger up to her lips. “You girls need to quiet down. You’re going to get us all killed.”
* * *
Church is just like class. The men talk, the women listen. It wouldn’t be so bad if they didn’t say the same thing every single time.
Praise God for showing us the true way to follow Him.
Praise God for teaching us our proper place in society.
Praise God for letting us see how to best revere mothers.
Praise God for allowing us to follow good men.
Praise God for protecting women from harm.
Praise God for rescuing us from the sins of Old America.
It goes on and on and on.
I’m so bored I push back my cuticles with the nail of my index finger.
A minute later Mom leans across Liv and her mom and whispers in my direction. “I’m going to the restroom.”
She jumps up and starts toward the vestibule before I can say I have to go too. Everyone sitting anywhere near us turns to watch her go. It’s no surprise. As usual, Mom looks stunning. Today she’s wearing a vintage Dior dress that highlights her tiny waist, and her hair is swept into an Audrey Hepburn–like updo. Not to mention her expertly applied makeup. Several men sitting in front of the barrier let their eyes follow her and a woman behind me hisses the words, “My gracious.”
Deflect attention.
This is why they separate us.
Because of women like Mom. Because of men who can’t stop leering. Because of how people talk. If only Mom would…I don’t know…stop being so beautiful. Stop dressing like that. If only she would act like she’s supposed to act.
After we turn back to the minister, all I can think about is Dad yelling at the constable last night and the fact that I still have to go to the bathroom. But I can’t go without Mom. I peer over my shoulder. What’s taking her so long?
A few minutes later, I realize I can’t wait any longer. I jump up before I reconsider, climbing over Liv and her mother to get out. Several people swing their heads in my direction. An O shape forms on Liv’s mouth. I rush down the aisle and bolt through the glass doors, praying no one stops me.
But the vestibule is empty.
In the ladies’ room, I expect to see Mom at the mirror, touching up her makeup. The stall doors stand open. I examine each of them, but she’s not here.
She’s gone.
* * *
I push the swinging door open just a crack, hoping Mom is outside the door, looking for me. But there’s still no sign of her.
Instead a dozen men are standing around the vestibule talking and laughing.
I let the bathroom door fall closed and wait.
Organ music reaches me from the other side. The glass doors into the nave must be open. I peek again. The men are gone, and Mom is still nowhere in sight. I tiptoe toward the rear doors of the church, sneaking outside, something I would have never dared a few weeks ago. The heat immediately attaches itself to me. I fan my face and scan the parking lot for Mom.
When my eyes get to the playground, I see her.
She’s leaning against an oak tree as if she doesn’t have a care in the world.
And she’s smoking.
* * *
“What are you doing?”
“What do you mean?” Mom holds the cigarette away from her mouth. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“That’s illegal, Mom.”
“Smoking is not illegal, Stella. It’s just frowned upon. There’s a difference.”
“Still,” I say with outrage in my voice. “You could be shunned. We could all be shunned.”
Mom waves her empty hand at me as if I’m being ridiculous. “That would never happen.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because your dad is one of the most powerful men in the country, Stella.” She drops her cigarette on the ground and smashes it with her toe. “He’s president of one of the largest corporations in New America. What are they going to do? Shun him because his wife snuck one measly cigarette in the church parking lot?” She lets out an uncomfortable laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. Besides, they don’t care about women like me. Middle-aged women too old to have babies. They only care about young women like you. Women who can procreate.”
It’s the most I’ve heard Mom say in years.
“Come on, Stella.” She nods toward the church. “We should get back. We don’t want anyone to know we have minds of our own, do we?”
CHAPTER 27
We’re ten minutes into class the next morning when Mr. Russell starts his questions. I let a few go, but when he asks about the role of the wife, I lift my hand as gracefully as I do for triangle pose. Levi glares at me, raises his hand at the same time. One girl scrunches her face, but two others smile. Do they know what I’m doing? Mr. Russell calls on Levi, doesn’t even acknowledge me. This process repeats itself two more times. Until Mr. Russell asks a more embarrassing question.
