The Clinic

“Her intelligence. I taught for forty-eight years and she had to be one of the smartest kids I ever had. Maybe the smartest. Grasped things immediately. And a hard worker, too. Some of the gifted aren't, as I'm sure you know. Rest on their laurels, think the world's lining up for them. But Hope was a good little worker. And not because of her home environment.”

The skin around the black eyes tightened.

“No?” I said.

“No,” she said, but this time it wasn't mimicry. “Not because. Despite.”

26

She got up again. “Sure you don't want a drink?”

“Something soft, thanks.”

Swinging the fridge open, she took out another beer and a can of orange soda. “This okay?”

“Sure.”

Popping both tops, she sat down and immediately started tapping her feet. Then she straightened a slipcover, pulled her braid forward, unraveled it, and began to retie.

“You need to understand something,” she said. “Things were different back then.” She looked down at her feet, kicked aside a pink plastic feed bowl. “Hope came here with her mother when she was just a baby. I never saw any father. The mother said he was some kind of sailor, died at sea… This professor husband, what makes you think he beat her?”

“We don't know that he did. It's just a possibility.”

“Why's it a possibility?”

“Because husbands are usually the ones who do that.”

“Does he have a raw temper?”

“Don't know,” I lied. “Why?”

“I've had two husbands and neither would classify as brutal, but both had their tempers and there were times I was afraid. How much older is he than Hope?”

“Fifteen years. Why do you ask?”

The beer can rose to her lips and she took a long time drinking. “She was always mature for her age.”

“Where did Hope and her mother come from?” I said.

She shook her head and took a longer swallow. I tried the orange soda. It tasted like candy mixed with cleaning solvent. I tried to produce saliva to wash away the taste but my mouth was dry.

“The mother's name was Charlotte. Everyone called her Lottie. She and the child just showed up one day with one of the migrant picking crews. Lottie was nice-looking but she had the face of an Okie, so maybe she was one. Or maybe she just had Okie heritage- know anything about the Okies?”

I nodded.

“Where are your folks from?”

“Missouri.”

She thought about that. “Well, Lottie seemed like pure Okie to me- pretty, like I said, but skinny, rawboned. Twangy accent, not much education. I know it's a derogatory term, now, but I'm too old to start worrying about shifts of the wind. Back then they seemed fine being called Okies so they're still Okies to me. My own family's part Californio but I've been called everything from taco-bender to greaser and I've survived. Know who the Californios were?”

“The original settlers from Mexico.”

“The original settlers after the Indians. Before the New Englanders came out west to find gold. I've got both in me- tamales and boiled supper but I don't exactly look like DAR so I've been getting wetback comments my whole life. I learned to close my ears and go about my business. Lottie Devane was an Okie.”

Two more swallows and the beer was gone.

“She was quite a nice-looking girl- slim figure, good bust, legs. But she'd seen some wear. And she could walk, make it look like a dance step. Natural blond, too. Not the platinum stuff she started using a month after she got here, wanting to match Hope. More of a honey blond. She favored blue eye shadow and false eyelashes and red lipstick and tight dresses. Everyone wanted to be Marilyn Monroe back then, whether it was realistic or not.”

She looked away. “The thing with Lottie was she came with the picking crew but she never went out to pick. Despite that she managed to pay rent on a two-room cabin over on Citrus Street.” She hooked a finger. “That's three blocks over, we used to call it Rind Street 'cause the migrants took the oversoft fruit home to make lemonade and the gutters were full of skin and pulp. Rows of cabins- shacks. Communal bathrooms. That's where Lottie and Hope lived. Except soon they got upgraded to a double cabin. When Lottie was in town, she tended to stay indoors.”

“Was she gone a lot?”

She shrugged. “She used to take day trips.”

“Where?”

“No car, she used to hitch. Probably up to Bakersfield, maybe all the way to Fresno, 'cause she came back with nice things. Later, she bought herself a car.”

“Nice things,” I said.

The skin around the black eyes tightened. “My second husband was assistant general manager for one of the lemon companies, knew everything about everyone. He said when Lottie hitched, she stood by the side of the road and lifted her skirt way up… She and Hope lived here until Hope was fourteen, then they moved up to Bakersfield. Hope told me it was so she could go to high school close to home.”

“All those years of paying the rent without picking,” I said.

“Like I said, she knew how to walk.”

“Are we talking a steady lover or business?”

She stared at me. “Why does everything nowadays have to be so overt?”

“I'd like to bring back information, not hints, Mrs. Campos.”

“Well, I can't see how this kind of information can help you- yes, she took money from men. How much? I don't know. Was it official or did she just lead them to understand they should leave her something under the pillow, I can't tell you that, either. Because I minded my own business. Sometimes she went away for a few days at a time and came back with lots of new dresses. Was it more than just a shopping trip?” She shrugged. “What I will say is she always brought clothes for Hope, too. Quality things. She liked dressing the child up. Other kids would be running around in jeans and T-shirts and little Hope would have on a pretty starched dress. And Hope took care of her things, too. Never got dirty or mixed in with rough stuff. She tended to stay inside the cabin, reading, practicing her penmanship. She learned to read at five, always loved it.”

“Was there any indication Hope knew what her mother did?”

She shrugged and passed her beer can from one hand to the other.

“Did Hope ever talk to you about it, Mrs. Campos?”

“I wasn't her psychologist, just her teacher.”

“More kids talk to teachers than to psychologists.”

She put the can down and her arms snapped across her chest like luggage straps. “No, she never talked to me about it but everyone knew, and she wasn't stupid. I always thought shame was why she kept to herself.”

“Did you see her after she moved to Bakersfield?”

The arms tightened. “A year after, she came back to visit. She'd won an award, wanted to show it to me.”

“What kind of award?”

“Scholastic achievement. Sponsored by a stock-and-feed company, big ceremony at the Kern County Fair. She sent me an invitation but I had the flu, so she came two days later, with photos. She and a boy student- smartest