She looked enraged.
What happened? Tracy mouthed, but Barbara only shook her head furiously and strode off.
Tracy followed her silently, glancing left and right, gulping the house with her eyes.
She wanted to see Barbara’s room. She wanted to see the rest of the house. She wanted to know more about what she had heard, those whispering voices.
But Tracy’s curiosity about all of these things was overruled by her discretion. She understood instinctively that Barbara would not appreciate questions along these lines, and so she said nothing, even after they’d reached the woods. Tracy panted as she walked. At a certain point—right before they reached the beach—Barbara finally stopped and turned.
“They painted my room,” she said. “Those motherfuckers painted my room.”
The word felt like a slap. Tracy had read it, but she’d never heard it spoken.
“I’m sorry,” she said—though she didn’t fully understand.
“All that work,” said Barbara. “All that work.”
She sank down into a squat. Put her face in her hands.
Slowly, Tracy lowered herself as well.
“What work?” she said, after so much time had passed that her knees had begun to throb.
But Barbara only continued with her rant.
“That’s probably why they let me come to camp,” said Barbara. “So they could get in there and paint it over without my permission.”
She stood up and set off again abruptly.
“Pink,” she said. “They painted my damn room pink.”
“Why do you think they did it?” Tracy asked. She was, once again, running a little to keep up with her.
“Oh, for their guests,” said Barbara. “For the party. God forbid someone witness any creativity in that house.”
She spun around again. The bag she was holding in her hands had become a weapon, swinging at the end of her arm like a bludgeon.
“The funny part is,” said Barbara, “they invited all these artists and writers and actors. But they’re the entertainment. The decoration. No one takes them seriously.”
• • •
They reached Balsam moments before the end of free hour. Louise and Annabel were waiting to lead them to the commissary for dinner.
So grateful was Tracy not to have been caught that it took her several hours to remember something. After lights-out, she lay in her bunk, growing more and more curious, until finally she couldn’t stop herself. She leaned her head over the side of the bunk.
“Barbara,” Tracy whispered. “What did you bring back in that bag?”
There came a little pause.
And then: “What bag?” whispered Barbara, in the dark.
Louise
1950s | 1961 | Winter 1973 | June 1975 | July 1975 | August 1975: Day Three
Louise, freshly bailed out of jail, once again finds herself in a car with Denny Hayes—in the front seat, this time. Though she has tried to persuade Hayes otherwise, he’s driving in the direction of her mother’s house.
One of the conditions of her pretrial release is that she will remain at one known address, and adhere to a six o’clock curfew. The only address Louise could provide upon being taken into custody was her mother’s.
Now, they ride in silence toward that house.
Abruptly, Louise says, “Do you know who bailed me out?”
Denny looks surprised. “Don’t you?”
“No. All I heard was a lady did it. That’s what the trooper told me.”
“Your mom?” Denny asks.
“I guess so.” She doesn’t want to let herself be hopeful. She’s barely seen her mother outside the house for several years. She’s never known her mother to have more than five dollars in her billfold at one time.
“You’ve changed a lot since you were a kid,” says Denny.
She tenses. To her, it feels like the opening of a come-on. Alone in a car with any man, she feels a threat in her body.
But he continues, reassuring her. “You were such a happy little thing. Always had the sunniest smile on your face when I came around.”
They’re approaching the crest of a hill that’s familiar to Louise from all of her trips home. The small center of Shattuck comes into sight, briefly, and then disappears once more.
