South Of Hell

Joe dropped Louis at the Ann Arbor police station so he could tell Shockey about Amy and make arrangements with the police in Hudson to do a welfare check on Geneva Brandt.

Then she swung by the College Inn, left Louis a note, grabbed her overnight bag, and checked herself and Amy into the only hotel in the city that had two-room suites and an on-site bar, the Ann Arbor Hilton.

Amy was groggy but managed the walk down the long hotel hall without asking where she was going. Joe unlocked the door and, with a gentle push, guided her inside. Amy wandered to the middle of the living room and turned a slow circle as she looked around.

Joe unzipped her bag, dug out a hair brush and the oversized Cleveland Browns T-shirt she used as her nightgown. Then she went into the bathroom, soaped up a warm washcloth, and snatched a towel. When she returned to the living room, Amy was gone. Joe spun to the door. The chain was still on.

She found Amy in the bedroom, perched nervously on the edge of the bed. Joe sat down next to her and carefully pulled her hair back to wash her face.

Good Lord.

One washcloth was not going to be enough. The girl was filthy, dirt caked behind her ears and in her hair. And now Joe noticed a smell, too.

“Amy, will you take a shower?”

Amy turned to her, confused.

Joe sighed and pulled her to her feet. Amy trailed along behind her without protest. She stood limply in the bathroom while Joe turned on the water, her eyes brightening with a glint of interest at the rise of steam. But she made no move to undress herself.

Joe started with the dirty blue T-shirt, easing it up Amy’s body. Amy let her take it off, her arms going up and flopping down like a rag doll. She wore no bra.

Joe unsnapped the blue jeans and pulled them down Amy’s skinny legs. Amy surprised her by balancing herself on Joe’s shoulder as she stepped out of them. Her panties were blue and too small, the elastic biting into the skin. As Joe reached for them, she looked up at Amy’s face.

She wasn’t sure why, but she half expected the girl to tense at this point. Most abused girls would have started fighting her long before this. But Amy was simply watching her, that same empty expression on her face.

Joe lowered the panties. There was a small spot of blood in the crotch.

“It came again,” Amy said. “I’m sorry.”

Joe stood up, relieved that the blood was not the result of a recent assault and grateful that Amy had finally spoken.

“It?” Joe asked. “You mean your period?”

“Just it.”

Joe set the panties in the sink and went back to her overnight bag. She found a tampon and returned to the bathroom. Amy’s sad brown eyes registered no understanding at the sight of it.

“Do you know what this is?” Joe asked.

“No.”

Joe sighed. “Okay, never mind. We’ll make do for a while ’til I can get to the store. Why don’t you get in the shower?”

Amy looked to the bath but didn’t move. Joe pulled the curtain back and took Amy’s hand, urging her firmly into the tub. It took Amy only seconds to appreciate the warm rush of water. With the deepest sigh Joe had ever heard, Amy closed her eyes and turned into the spray, like a child in the rain.

Joe watched her, waiting for her to pick up the soap or reach for the washcloth. But it was clear that Amy wanted nothing more than to feel the water, so Joe took on the task of washing her. Amy didn’t seem to mind being touched, but she also didn’t respond to anything. Joe had to tell her the simplest things — turn around, lift your arm, rinse your hair.

It was just as difficult to dry her. Joe finally gave up and returned to the living room to rummage through Amy’s backpack, hoping to find clean underwear.

The top of the bag was cluttered with sardine cans, saltine crackers, and uncooked popcorn. Under that, Joe found a pair of jeans, the denim elaborately marked with colorful swirls, circles, and glued glitter. She dug deeper and found one pair of clean panties.

Joe started to restuff the bag, but her eye caught something in the bottom. It was an old cardboard kaleidoscope, like something you’d find in a bin at some long-forgotten dime store. Joe set it aside. She noticed a book at the bottom of the bag and pulled it out.

It was A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. Joe knew the story. It was about a young girl named Francie who struggled to survive in a home without love and a place without hope.

“That’s my book,” Amy said from the doorway. “Please don’t take it away.”

Joe turned to her. Amy had put on the clean Browns T-shirt Joe had left in the bathroom. It hung like a sheet on her body, the shoulders wet from her dripping hair.

“Have you read this book?” Joe asked.

“Many times.”

“What is it about?”

“Finding things where there isn’t anything to find. Can I have my book?”

“In a minute,” Joe said. She held out the panties. “Go put these on, and use a dry washcloth for… the it. Okay?”

“I understand,” Amy said.

Amy left and returned a minute later, hand out again for her book. Joe gave it to her. Amy started to put it into the backpack but paused. She rummaged through the backpack and then looked up at Joe.

“Where’s Toby?”

“Who?”

“Toby,” Amy said. “Did you take him?”

“I didn’t take anything out of there, I promise,” Joe said. “What — who — is Toby, Amy?”

“He’s my rabbit,” Amy whispered. “He’s missing an ear. I must have lost him.”

She looked inconsolable. But then she slowly repacked the backpack, zipped it up, and stowed it under the coffee table. When she drew herself to her feet, she looked around again, as if she was just realizing she was in a hotel room.

“Where am I?” Amy asked.

“Ann Arbor.”

Amy’s eyes sparked with something Joe had not seen until this moment — life.

“Go Blue,” Amy said.

Joe blinked in surprise. “Where have you heard that before?”

“Mr. Bustin had a Go Blue room at his house,” Amy said. “He went to school here. He missed this place very much.”

Amy walked to the window, holding back the heavy drape so she could look out. Joe knew there was nothing to see but an alleyway Dumpster with a glimpse of a gas station at the corner.

“I thought Ann Arbor must be a beautiful place for Mr. Bustin to miss it so much, but it isn’t,” Amy said. “It looks just like Hudson.”

“Is Hudson far from here?” Joe asked.

“It’s way down by Ohio, I think,” Amy said. She had been still looking out the window and turned suddenly toward Joe, her expression clouded. “Aunt Geneva died in her sleep. She shouldn’t be there alone. Can someone go help her?”

“Someone is already on their way.”

“Good,” Amy said. “I didn’t know what to do with her, but I didn’t think she’d mind if I left. But I think I’m selfish now.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t miss her,” Amy said. “I only feel free. Is that selfish?”

Joe watched her, fascinated by the way Amy’s strange young mind seemed to work and the way she was changing — no, maturing — right before her eyes. She was starting to like this girl.