institution… an orphanage?”
“What's an… orphanage?”
“A place, dear, where children without parents live.”
“Yes. Yes, it was an orphanage.”
“And they were cruel there, dear?”
“Oh yes.”
Lucy's mom moved her food around on her plate with a fork, but didn't eat anything; her eyes were damp, and moving side to side, in thought.
Then the mom said, “We tried to get a nice girl like you, through… official sources. But they wouldn't let us. My husband… has a drinking problem. I guess you have a right to know that.”
Then the mom blurted, “Would you like to stay with us?”
Still chewing, Max just looked at her.
“You and Lucy could be like sisters.”
Max glanced over at Lucy who was nodding emphatically, a wide smile on her face.
“We can't have any more children, Lucy's dad and I, and God knows, we could use another hand around here.”
Max held the woman's gaze. “Would anyone have to know?”
The mom's eyes flared. “No! They couldn't know, dear… or you'd be taken back to where you ran from.”
Max shook her head, violently. “I wouldn't want that.”
“You're my late cousin's Beth's girl.”
“I am?”
The mom smiled. “You are now… We're your foster family. Will you stay with us, Max?”
Knowing what the woman wanted, Max slowly nodded. Then and there, just that easily, she had a new home.
Lucy spoke for the first time since they'd sat down. “Will it be all right with Dad?”
“I'll convince him. Don't you girls worry. He can be… difficult… but he'll know what this means to me. And as long as Max is willing to work around here… you are, aren't you Max?”
Max nodded.
“Well, then, we won't have any trouble. In the meantime, I'm going to see to it you get plenty to eat, and then we'll get you some new clothes.”
Glancing down at her soiled nightshirt, Max knew that wasn't a bad idea.
The mom beamed at her. “Now, you make sure you leave room for pie— it's lemon meringue.”
Max had never had this exotic dish before, and it was incredibly, deliriously delicious.
The next night, Max found out what a dad was, and it wasn't near as good as a mom: a dad (this one anyway) was a burly bully with stringy graying hair, putrid breath, a foul mouth, and a vicious temper. Oh, the dad could be nice, but only when he hadn't been drinking.
Which wasn't often (and it didn't take Max long to learn what a “drinking problem” really was).
After just ten minutes with Jack Barrett, Max knew she'd been wrong thinking Lydecker was mean. Lydecker was only businesslike, cold but not brutal; Lydecker was monstrous— this “dad” was a monster.
That first night, Mr. Barrett had come in the door, brushed past his wife with the greeting, “Get me a beer,” and then he dropped into his recliner, lit up a smoke, and turned his eyes toward Max (in a pink T-shirt and jeans), who stood next to Lucy at the side of his chair. “Who the hell is this?”
Popping the top on his beer, Mrs. Barrett said, “This is Max. Say hello to Mr. Barrett, Max.”
“Hi, Mr. Barrett.”
The dad ignored Max. “What the fuck is that war orphan doing here?”
How could he know she was an orphan? And a soldier?
Rubbing her hands on the front of her apron, Mrs. Barrett said, “Be nice, Jack… She needs a place to stay for a while.”
He turned to glare at Mrs. Barrett. “Another goddamn mouth to feed?”
“Jack, I want this.”
“Joann, I—”
“I put up with a lot, Jack. If you don't like it, you'll come home to an empty house— no meals, Jack. No laundry. Even get up and get your own beer.”
He was gazing at her like his wife was on fire. “Don't get mouthy… ”
“You can hit me, Jack… but I'll go. I'll leave. I really will this time.
”
He turned away. Clicked on the TV with his remote and gulped his beer.
Mrs. Barrett turned and walked off in a huff. “Come on, girls.”
“Not so fast!” Mr. Barrett bellowed. He turned to Max again. “You!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well… you're polite, anyway. Kinda scrawny… maybe you'll fill out like Lucy, in a year or two… You gonna help around here, earn your keep?”
Max nodded.
“This one,” he jerked a thumb toward his daughter, “don't do squat, half the time.”
Lucy said, “I always do—”
Mr. Barrett swung around in his chair and slapped his daughter— the crack rang in the small house, like a gunshot.
Lucy's mouth was tremblingly open, as tears rolled down her face, but no sound came out.
“Don't talk back to your father.”
Between gulps of air, Lucy managed to say, “Yes, sir.”
“That's better.”
Max took a step forward. “Don't hit her.”
Jack slapped Max even harder, the pain shooting through her jaw, her teeth, through every fiber of her being. She resisted the urge to strike back; maybe this was how families behaved. She could always kill him later.
“You want to stay here,” Jack yelled, “you want three squares and a bed? You keep your fucking mouth shut unless you're told to speak.”
Her cheek still throbbing, Max stood there silently, glaring at Jack Barrett.
He slapped her again. “Don't stare at me, and when I tell you something, you show me the proper goddamn respect. Stick with that ‘Yes, sir' shit, and we'll get along just fine.”
Pain shot through her body again and this time a tear welled in her eye, but Max willed it not to fall. “Yes, sir.”
“Then she can stay, Jack?” Mrs. Barrett said.
“Kid can stay. For now.”
“Oh Jack, thank you.” And she kissed her husband on the cheek, and he brushed her away.
Mom (as Max had now begun to call her, and think of her) escorted Max to the bedroom she was sharing with Lucy.
“Stay on Jack's good side,” Mom advised, “and don't talk back when he's… in a bad mood.”
Later Lucy said, “I hope… I hope you don't think this is worse than where you escaped from.”
In her own warm bed, Max was weighing that. Getting slapped was better than getting shot.
“It's fine,” Max said.
That had been February. There were more slaps and even some outright beatings in March, April, and May. Sometimes Mr. Barrett would enter the room in the middle of the night and take Lucy away with him; the girl would look scared, but when she returned, she'd say at least her dad hadn't hit her.
Max had been too sexually naive at the time to really understand what was happening; but she knew it was something bad. As for the beatings, they were commonplace around the Barrett house; and Max, in an effort to fit in, had only fought back one time.
That had been in early March. Jack (as Max now thought of him, never coming to think of him as, much less
