Jackson Sugar: WANTED DEAD

By Kaley Craig

Banished and left homeless by her mentally unstable mother, and devastated upon learning Will has married someone else, Maggie enters into a coerced marriage with the nefarious but charming Edmond Jackson. But as 1971 draws to a close, his suspicion that she still loves Will Marshall leads to an act of violent, unforgivable rage, and the threat of death should she ever betray him. Unable to leave, but determined to find a safe haven before her child is born, Maggie soon finds herself entangled in circumstances beyond her imagining, where even the voice of God cannot be heard.

Set in the 1970's South, Maggie's story continues in WANTED DEAD, Book Two in the Jackson Sugar Series. Rich in period detail, absurdly funny, smart and sexy, WANTED DEAD is a love story that will make you laugh, cry and rage with it's unforgettable characters, bizarre happenings, and suspenseful situations. This chapter of Maggie's story is about the strength we find in love, and the power of promises kept.
J.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kaley Craig
• Release date: Sep 20, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311370532

Kaley Craig

Kaley Craig is a freelance writer/photographer with a background in criminal law, social work, and education. She lives in Atlanta.

Book preview

Prologue

December 11, 1971

Edmond had cautioned his wife repeatedly that she risked harm anytime she engaged in conversation or even made eye contact with other men. And while Maggie had made a point of ignoring her husband’s paranoia-fueled warnings as often as possible, she knew there was legitimacy in this concern. Bad things did sometimes happen to women at the hands of strangers—sometimes horrible, unspeakable things—and they did seem to be happening with greater frequency in the new decade, even on the relatively peaceful streets of Columbia.

But a woman in her own home, a pregnant woman, alone with her husband in a newly created nursery decorated with bears, balls, and baby books, all awaiting the arrival of a much-desired child? Such a woman should be safe from such horrors. She should be safe. For unless the deadlocked doors were breached by an intruder capable of killing her husband, who would surely fight to the death to protect their unborn child, then, short of being locked away in Fort Knox or within Jack Benny’s fabled vault, no place should have been safer. Nothing remotely horrible could happen there. Or so Maggie believed.

But it did.

After their argument, after Edmond had dropped to his knees before her amid the broken remnants of her rocking chair, she believed his anger spent, his rampage over. She believed what he wanted then, needed then, was sex. He’d drawn her to him, quickly subduing her protests with the intensity of his gaze and the expert strokes of his hand. Edmond knew how to make Maggie want him. Since first coming to his bed as a virgin three months before, he’d caused her to experience such delirious heights of sexual pleasure that his lovemaking had become the focus of her life. Never mind that he was frequently angry, or jealous, or that he dictated every detail of her life from the length of her fingernails to the color of her shoes. That was nothing. Before Edmond, her life had been nothing—save year after year of loneliness, unanswered prayers, and false hope. Years of ridicule, betrayal, and lies. But, in Edmond’s bed, the pain of all that had come before was forgotten. In Edmond’s bed, she was at last the center of someone’s world, the source of someone’s happiness—if only for a time. And to have that time, to be able to feel truly alive and necessary to someone for the first time in her life, was ample reason to disregard everything else.

But in Edmond’s prolonged, painful absence from her bed, Maggie’s mind had begun to clear. Her thoughts turned increasingly to the child she carried, and how she would soon be able to give to her all the things she’d never received from her own mother, which was basically everything good. This child would be loved from the moment of her birth and every moment after. And if she knew next to nothing about the proper care of a baby, it didn’t matter. Changing diapers, baths, and feeding schedules could be learned. The most important thing her child or any child needed was to be wanted and loved, and this love was already in her heart.

As for Edmond, Maggie had come to realize that what she felt for him—or rather, what he was capable of making her feel in his bed, as wonderful as it was, had never been, and would never be love. She knew love. She’d loved Will, and though he’d ultimately abandoned her to marry someone else, she would always be in love with him. What she felt for Edmond, in those rare moments when he was warm and charming and generous, was no more than the fondness any woman might feel for such an attractive man. But, as for the rest of it, as for the overwhelming, all-encompassing need she had to be with him sexually—this was no more than an intense biological urge.

And now Edmond was making her feel it again.

Now, after long weeks apart, Edmond was fueling a desire in Maggie so powerful that it negated his hateful accusations and acts of moments before. For her body, her wretched, wanting body, needed to feel this way, and that was all that mattered in the moment. Her desire was so great that she’d clung to him, unwilling to release him even as he’d laid her on the floor, so anxious was she to have the feeling again.

Edmond was laughing as he reached for the robe on the floor beside them, his robe of heavy black silk, which she’d worn routinely since their first night together. She’d laughed as well, watching as he wound it into his hands and thinking he meant to make a pillow for her head. What a sweet, unnecessary thing for him to do. And Maggie was still laughing, giddily, anxiously, when his hand came to her locket, moving it swiftly along the silver cord until it nestled in the hair behind her neck.

Close your eyes, he said, smiling as he moved to sit astride her, and when she did he dropped the robe onto her face, lifting her head to wrap it quickly around before securing it in place with the sash, her mouth left uncovered.

Edmond, what— she began in mild alarm.

His hand came to cover her mouth. I am not Edmond, he whispered, leaning over her face. "I am the man on the street whose smile you returned yesterday. I am the man at the post office you spoke to when I asked the time. The man whose eyes you met in line at the market. You may have done these things without thinking. But your mouth, your voice, the look in those beautiful eyes—what I see is a lovely woman choosing to direct her attentions at me. And why else would you give your attention to a strange man, unless you wanted sex?

Of course, I could not ask you about it. A man like me is not very adept socially, and certainly not willing to risk the possibility that I might be mistaken, or that you might refuse me. So I followed you, and forced you into my car, he continued, his free hand moving to stroke her breasts. Or I dragged you behind a building, or, this time, I followed you home. And now I have you alone, and I can give you what you want, and what I want. I can satisfy my every desire. And when I’ve had my fill, when my need is sated, I may want to make certain that no other man will ever experience the same pleasure you will give to me. I may need to make certain. His hand moved quickly from her breasts to her throat, firmly encircling it. So tell me, Marguerite, he whispered at her ear. Are you afraid of strangers now?

She wanted to hit him, but hitting would have accomplished nothing. Edmond was strong, and to hit him would have been as effective a deterrent as a kitten swatting at a lion. And she wanted to scream, but even if she could, there was no one to hear, their nearest neighbors past the end of the private drive that led to the converted cotton mill offices whose top floor housed their massive apartment. And even if someone had heard her screaming—even if a troop of policemen had been inexplicably marching past the nursery door and heard her cry for help, what could they have done? Settled in for the show and phoned out for pizza? Edmond was her husband, and a husband’s right to have sex with his wife was inviolable.

She was afraid, but there was reason not to allow her fear to turn to panic. The child she carried, his child, was assurance that he would not seriously harm her. Edmond wanted this baby—he wanted a half-dozen babies—and he would never take this sick game far enough to risk harming his child. 

 "Answer me! he yelled. Are you afraid?"

She’d read of lovers playing games akin to this in Edmond’s men’s magazines, and as frightening and disturbingly un-game-like as she found her situation, there was nothing to do but play along.

She nodded her head vigorously. He won’t hurt us. 

You will not make a sound, nor will you move unless I direct you, he said menacingly, removing his hand from her mouth. I did not come here for words.

The details of the violence that followed these words had thankfully become difficult for Maggie to remember, her brain choosing to conjure up the image of a Raggedy Ann doll being tossed about by a large, vicious dog whenever she thought of it. Only by concentrating could she remember specific feelings—how her shoulders had felt on fire as she was pushed across the carpet, how her long hair, trapped beneath her, had felt as if it would be snatched from its roots. She remembered the feel of the locket lodged behind her neck, Edmond obviously having moved it to avoid looking at the symbol of protection he’d given her. There had been no feelings of arousal—only a masochist could have possibly had those. The only pleasurable sensations she could recall was that of a smooth, cool rubber ball briefly brushing her arm, and the relief when her head met resistance at the wall.

She remembered being flipped to her stomach, and the feel and the smell of the new carpet on her face. And how the ringing began in her head, and seemed to grow in volume each time the top of her skull struck the baseboard before her. And strangely, amidst all this, the brief, unbidden empathy she’d felt for all her husband’s whores, knowing now what it was to be subjected to a sex act that held not the barest hint of warmth or tenderness.

She remembered standing, and how she’d been pulled, stumbling on shaky legs, across the splinter-strewn floor until her burning face met the blessed coolness of the window. And then, the feeling of being stretched and pulled and pushed so relentlessly that her legs buckled, her hands slipping from their appointed place, and Edmond’s hand coming to grip the back of her neck.

A massive sob escaped her then, and with it, the assault abruptly stopped, and he released her. She leaned against the window, trying to catch a full breath, trying to control her near-convulsive weeping, trying to will her body to be still.

Is he done? Is he gone? Is he waiting for me to turn around? Her heart was thumping wildly, as she knew the baby’s was. Calm. We need to be calm. Minutes passed as she stood in place, steadying her heart and breathing. How long have I been here? Is he there? Is he gone? She strained to hear past the ringing in her head, but could hear nothing.

He’s gone. He must be gone.

She untied the robe from her head and slowly turned.

Edmond sat with eyes closed, his back against the nursery door. He was naked, and she could see that, despite having not achieved orgasm—as she knew he had not—he was no longer aroused. She dropped silently to the floor, covering herself with the curtains, still on their rod, that he’d ripped from the window. There was no way to escape, for though she eyed the arm of the splintered rocking chair as a potential weapon, and wondered briefly if she and her baby could survive a jump from the second story window, Maggie knew either attempt would be foolish. Slowly moving the broken chair arm within reach, she stretched out on her side, pressing her strained back firmly against the wall and tucking the curtains around her. She knew she needed to be vigilant, to ready herself for what might come next, but she’d never been so tired.

His Notorious Evil Twin

December 1971

1

I need to catch up, Maggie said as Edmond raised his eyebrows over her request for a second slice of cake. Our baby needs the calories, and so do I."  

Agreed, he nodded, noting the thinness of her wrists. But the calories should not be from cake. 

It was Christmas Day 1971, two weeks since Maggie’s seventeenth birthday, and two weeks since Edmond, who was now summoning the waiter, had assaulted her in an act she could only regard as rape. It wasn’t legally rape, she knew, as the law said a husband couldn’t rape his wife. But while she acknowledged that what he’d done to her would certainly have been worse had it been done by a stranger, it was still the most horrible thing she’d ever experienced, and for Maggie, that was saying a lot.

She had no memory of Edmond lifting her from the floor and carrying her down the hall afterwards, or how he’d laid her gently on her bed before going for antiseptic to treat the burns she’d suffered on her knees, shoulders, buttocks, and face. Her first memory was the feel of a wet cloth on her forehead, and the taste of orange juice on her tongue.

Wake up, Marguerite. Drink.

She was leaning against him, and he was holding a glass of juice to her mouth. She drank.

Wake up, Marguerite. Take these.

He held pills in his palm. She took them and swallowed.

Eat, he was saying the next time he woke her. You and my son need nourishment.

The smell of food had made her hungry, and she took the fork from the plate of eggs he held and ate quickly.

Come, Marguerite. He was pulling her up, leading her to the bathroom and helping her to sit before turning his back. She felt a brief sense of shame as she relieved herself with Edmond in the room, but then it was dark, and he was laying her in the bed again. She didn’t remember walking back.

What day is it? he asked.

Was it day? The room was dark outside the circle of light from the bedside lamp, and she wasn’t sure if she was dreaming.

Mi pequeña, what day is today? he was asking.

Is this a dream?

No.

Is this . . . the same day you came home?

Yes.

Then it’s my birthday.

Outside the nursery window, Will crouched on long legs in the pouring rain, smiling as he studied the motor of her Volkswagen. She couldn’t believe he was there, and she wanted to yell to him, to tell him to look up, but a hand covered her mouth. Edmond’s hand. And she could feel him very close behind her, and she was overwhelmed by such a powerful feeling of shame that she fought to pull away from the window, though she knew it was dangerous. She could never let Will see her like this, not even if he’d never really wanted her anyway.

She woke suddenly, fearfully, anxiously. Did I scream? Did I say his name? She lay very still, waiting. But the room was quiet save for the steady whir of the ceiling fan. There were no echoes of a scream, no reason to believe she had called Will’s name—for if she had, Edmond would surely be killing her now.

She lay on her left side, the bed sheets held tightly to her chin, and as she became aware of this and released her grasp, she saw spots of blood on the usually pristine, snow-white linens. Her fingers moved to her jaw, gingerly feeling along the line where her face was raw and bleeding, and wondering if he was done with her or simply resting before he would hurt her again. Edmond lay behind her, she could feel his nearness, and Maggie closed her eyes, listening to his breathing and wondering if he slept. And wondering if a stranger had done this to her, if he would be long gone by now, far away. And wondering if it would be better if a stranger had done it, for it would be over now. She moved her hand silently to her stomach, then Edmond’s hand was on her shoulder, and he was turning her to her back.

Have you recovered? he asked, moving his hand to cover hers on her belly. Is my son well?

Yes, she answered quietly, fixing her eyes on their two hands, noting how the deep, rich tones of his skin made hers look all the whiter. There was no reason to believe her pregnancy, just entering its second trimester, had suffered any ill effects from the assault. The child was tiny yet, and well protected.

Look at me.

Maggie raised her eyes, and seeing the fear in them, Edmond shook his head.

There is no reason to be afraid any longer, mi pequeña, he said as he raised up on one elbow and drew his fingers lightly across the long burn on her jaw. You gave me no choice but to punish you, to teach you this lesson about strangers. It was a harsh lesson, and I took no enjoyment in it, but it is over now, and you will remember it, and it will not be necessary to punish you for this behavior again. Do you understand?

She dropped her eyes and nodded.

Do not allow petulance to spoil the courage you displayed earlier, he chided. The punishment was deservedly harsh, but you have proven stronger than I realized, and this makes me proud.

Proud? she asked, confused.

Edmond smiled. You are not a stupid woman, Marguerite, though you like to play at it, he said. You have demanded your rights as my wife twice now when I have sought to deny you, and this took no little courage. And while it shames me to have you ache for me like a whore, I would be lying if I said I did not find it appealing. And your courage in demanding sex when you need it, regardless of the consequences, has solicited something from me that no woman other than my mother ever has. My respect.

Are you insane? He’s insane! Oh, God. I’m sorry, she said, keeping her voice low and her expression blank. I don’t really know what you mean.

Again, he smiled. Of course you do, Marguerite. I gave you a choice today, and you chose to love me. He pulled at the bed sheet, baring Maggie’s breasts, and began tracing his fingertips across nipples that became instantly erect. You see? he laughed. "Even now you want me. Despite my absence, despite every arrogant, selfish thing I have done in your regard, when given the choice today, you chose to love me. You honored your vows when less courageous women would have sent me away. You endured your punishment with silence and dignity and for much longer than I imagined you would. And even now—even after the pain you have endured—you yearn for me. You have proven your love for me is genuine, and your need of me absolute. I will never again deny you." 

Then Edmond was kissing her, his eyes locked on hers as he whispered the words that lovers say, and touched and stroked and tasted her in the way lovers do. And though Maggie didn’t attempt to protest, this too was rape, albeit a kinder, gentler rape than the one that had preceded it. For while Maggie’s body responded to Edmond’s as it always had, in the way he had so meticulously trained it to do, her mind and heart no longer wanted him. Her mind and heart would have been less fearful of a stranger. 

Near dawn, Maggie slipped from the bed, her body aching as she walked naked into the living room, which was silent, the many raucous cuckoos having unwound. Beside the fireplace the Christmas tree glimmered, its shiny new ornaments and tinsel reflecting even the dimmest light. Edmond had sent all of it in his absence, and the initial bitterness she felt upon their receipt had been forgotten as she and Reg set to decorating. It was, after all, the first real Christmas tree she’d had, and it was as different from the sad, spindly, aluminum tree her mother had pulled from the attic each December, as Maggie was different from her mother.

They’re selling real trees in the parking lot at Piggly-Wiggly, she’d said last year after descending the pull-down stairs from the attic with the dusty tree.

Yes, Margaret Rose, they are, Sybil had replied sharply. And any fool who spends ten dollars on one of ‘em deserves the mess of ants and chiggers and God only knows what else them trees gonna bring in their house.

Sybil snatched it from her, carrying it by its attached three-legged stand to the living room where she stood it before the fireplace. Which was not really a fireplace at all, but an inset area below the mantle covered with plastic bricks, at whose center sat an andiron holding plastic logs.

You see? Sybil said, standing back. It looks as good as the day I got it, and it’ll look just as good in ten years.

But it didn’t look good. It was tacky—sad and fake and dusty and tacky. And not even a Christmas tree at all, technically, as it had no lights or ornaments, not even on the top. Maggie knew her mother knew this, but would never be truthful enough to admit it.  

We could get another light wheel, Maggie offered. She had fond memories of the color wheel that had lit the tree all red and green and blue when she was young. With its light, the tree would be far more acceptable, providing one saw it with the other lights out. I bet Sears has some.

I ain’t buyin’ no durn light, Sybil snapped. It don’t need it. But you ain’t never satisfied with nothin’, are you? You could care less if I put it out at all.

I don’t care about having a tree, Maggie replied. Not this tree, anyway. Not an ugly, fake tree without presents beneath it, and there are never any of those.

Well, Miss Priss, I don’t care either, but I ain’t doin’ it for you, Sybil replied testily. I’m doin’ it ‘cause that’s what a good Christian does. What if somebody came up to the door this time of year and we didn’t have no tree? They’d think we was Jews, Margaret Rose, and you don’t want nobody ever thinkin’ that.

It was funny, really, that the three meanest people she’d ever known—Sybil, Edmond, and that awful Pamela Ritch—all claimed to be Christians, yet it didn’t seem to make a whit of difference in the way they lived their lives. But Edmond had made sure his home had a tree, Sybil had certainly drug hers out again this year, and Pamela Ritch, wherever she was, most likely had a tree, too. Maggie didn’t know any Jewish people—or even if there were any Jews in Columbia—but she’d read Anne Frank’s diary three times, and would be proud to call her a friend.

She crossed to the couch for the throw to cover herself and walked to the long row of windows, watching as the horizon began to brighten in a near-cloudless sky. The rain had finally stopped, and her birthday was over. And Will’s.

If it were just her, she would leave now. But it wasn’t just her anymore and it never would be again, and she had to be smart about it, and do what was best for her child. There would be no comfortable home in which to raise her child were she to leave now. She had no money, nowhere to go, and no one to go to for help, and even if she did know someone in Columbia willing to take her in, how long would it take Edmond to find her? And what kind of punishment would she be subjected to once he did? No. She couldn’t hide from him here. She had to go far enough away from here that he’d never be able to find them. She just had to figure out where that was, and how they’d live once they got there.

But not today.

If not for the horror and violence that preceded it, the evening she’d just spent with Edmond had been among their best—ever. Never before had he loved her as gently, never before had he been as affectionate, or spoken as much of his love for her, or his plans for their future, as he had this night. He’d even remembered her birthday, presenting her with a halved cantaloupe after their late dinner, having inserted a red taper in the middle for her to wish on and blow out. It was as if he were a completely different person from the one who’d terrorized her, humiliated her, hurt her. Almost as if, as in a Superman comic she’d read years before, the bad Edmond was in fact his notorious evil twin.

But even the Evil Twin Edmond wasn’t completely crazy. He’d not touched her abdomen during the assault. And remarkably, he’d not done, or even threatened to do, the one thing Maggie most feared. For an assault on her perpetually chaste bottom would have ended the game forever, and Edmond knew this, and had apparently chosen not to take it that far.

But while this indicated Edmond wasn’t completely mad, his propensity for violence, his jealousy, his tyranny, his paranoia—still made him dangerous. For as Maggie well knew, one needn’t be completely mad to be dangerous, the prime example being her mother. Sybil could go on for days or weeks acting normal, at least normal for Sybil, and then strike viciously with no warning. It had been a horrible way to grow up, living with her erratically violent, peculiar mother, and she would flee to the ends of the earth before allowing her child to grow up that way.

But not today.

Today, she would begin healing from the physical and emotional wounds Edmond had inflicted. Today she would begin to make an intelligent, workable plan to get away. And today she would begin playing her own game, that of an exceedingly docile, loving and obedient wife. There was much to do before she could safely make her exit, and she had ample time.

Another glass of milk? Edmond asked when the waiter arrived with her sandwich.

Yes, Maggie replied, careful to look only at her husband.

I’ll have coffee, Edmond directed. And two slices of Red Velvet cake to go.

 Thank you, Maggie said as the server left. I’m going to be as big as a house by the time our child is born with the appetite I’ve had lately.

I think not, he said. If I must feed you twice as much, I will need to fuck you twice as often, or twice as long. Either way, the exertion will keep you shapely, and as your appetite for sex is never completely sated, this will be welcome, yes?

It was rare for Edmond to joke, and Maggie wasn’t sure he was kidding. Since his return, he’d wanted sex as frequently as he had in the beginning. He even slept in her bed now, something he hadn’t done since the first week of their marriage. And with his fear of harming the baby apparently forgotten, their coupling was as intensely physical as ever, though he no longer bit her.

Whatever pleases you, Edmond, Maggie answered.   

When they left the restaurant, Edmond drove the few blocks to the dealership where her Cadillac was purchased, closed this Christmas Day, driving through the lot until he found an empty space within a row of new cars. Letting back the seat, he’d pulled her onto his lap, taking her with the urgency of a horny teenager.

Tell me you love me, mi pequeña, he said. Tell me you are happy and want for nothing.

Maggie drew her fingers through Edmond’s hair as she leaned into his neck. You always make me happy, she whispered, kissing his ear. What woman could be happier? I’m married to the dearest, most generous man in the world—one who would never let me or this baby want for anything—not even cake. So of course I love you, she said, leaning up to look in his eyes. And I always will.

It was easy to smile and say the words, to give a performance worthy of a dozen curtain calls.

But it was all a lie.

Fervor, Humbleness and Such

2

Maggie sat on her knees before the fireplace, admiring the finely bound 1944 edition of Anna Karenina that Edmond had given her that morning. She would have liked to read it, but it would be worth more in its current, apparently unread condition, when the time came to sell it. And she would sell it, along with the fur-trimmed leather jacket, gloves, and fancy gold watch, each expensively gift-wrapped and waiting beneath the tree. She would sell everything she owned, save Will’s ring, in exchange for a safe home for her and her baby.

Marcos wishes to see me, Edmond said as he came into the living room.

It’s Christmas. You should see your brother, she replied. I know I’d love to see mine. She hadn’t spoken with Michael since her graduation six months earlier, and she hadn’t seen him since last Christmas, but Maggie knew once she told him her situation, he’d move heaven and earth to help.

Taking her hands, Edmond helped her up. He didn’t like the idea of Marguerite seeing her family, but as her parents lived in Columbia, forbidding it completely might be impossible. If you believe your brother may be there for Christmas, you may go, he said. But only there and no place else, and you must be home by four. Can I trust you to obey me?

Yes, Maggie said excitedly. If Michael’s car’s not there, I won’t even stop. Thank you, Edmond.

And they still know nothing of our marriage?

No, Maggie assured him. I haven’t talked to any of them. I wouldn’t do that without asking.

Edmond pulled her close. "I will grant you this visit, but hear me, Marguerite. I will not have your parents or your brother interfering with our lives in any way. They have no say in how you live your life now, as this responsibility is mine alone. And do not make additional plans, or tell them where we live, or say anything to them of a private nature. Do you understand?"   

Yes, she answered quickly. I do.

Michael’s car was in her parents’ driveway, and he was in the back corner of the yard, practicing his putting on the green their father had made with squares of carpet grass and an empty can the spring before he’d left for school. Maggie made a U-turn at the top of the hill, then drove down and pulled the Cadillac onto the wide shoulder of the yard.

Hey! Arnold Palmer! she called after scooting across the front seat and opening the window. Can I have your autograph?

Michael dropped his putter and came swiftly across the yard, hurrying down the hill to the car.

Margaret! he exclaimed, clearly surprised as he recognized her. "It is you. He bent and kissed her cheek through the open window. I had no idea who was stopping, but you’re the last person I expected to see."

Did you think I was Santa? she teased, laughing as she looked into sky blue eyes that were an exact replica of her own. Michael looked good, slim and sunburned. I hope you’re not too disappointed.

Oh, God, of course not, he replied. I’m just so surprised. Mom said you’d run off with a cult.

And you didn’t know she was lying? Maggie asked. You know, you have to assume that witch is lying whenever she opens her mouth.

I know, he said, crouching down. I should have. But—wow, Margaret, look at you. You look really good.

You think so? she asked happily. She was wearing her new coat and gloves, as Edmond said she must, as well as a full face of makeup to hide the burn marks still visible on her jaw. 

Yeah, you really do. Like a movie star or something. So what’s going on? Whose car is this?

Maggie glanced at their parents’ back door. I don’t want to talk here. Can we drive up to the school?

You’re not going in?

No, she said, shaking her head as she opened the door. No way I’m going in there. I only came to see you.

All right, he said, getting in. I told the folks I might go to Steve’s, so I’m good for a while. Steve Owens was Michael’s best friend who’d grown up across the street. And it doesn’t look like anyone’s home, anyway, he said, glancing at their house. So . . .  whose car is this?   

It’s a long story, Maggie replied, cranking up. Let’s wait and talk at the school. She popped in an eight-track of Simon and Garfunkel, filling the car with Scarborough Fair as she drove the ten blocks to the junior high they’d both attended and parked beside the football field. Beneath the far goalpost, some boys were playing touch football, and they sat watching until the song ended.

I’ve always loved Simon and Garfunkel, Michael said as they exited the car.

Take the tape, Maggie replied. Oh, and there’s an Iron Butterfly tape you’d like. It’s too weird for me. I didn’t even think about getting you a Christmas present. I’m sorry. 

Okay, he said as they reached the bleachers. We’re here. Now talk. Where are you getting all this money? Who owns that car with less than two hundred miles on it, and how’d you pay for that coat?

I’ve missed you, too, she returned, smiling sweetly.

I’m sorry, he said, taking her hand. You know I’ve missed you, Margaret, but I’m more than a little freaked out. It’s just that you seem more like some happy-rich-girl-alternate-universe version of the sister I know, and I need an explanation.  

Maggie looked at her feet. She hadn’t meant to give that false of an impression of her situation, but she could hardly just jump in with the truth. So what else did she tell you? she asked, stalling.

He sighed impatiently. Basically, she said you joined some cult when you could have been working for a lawyer, then came home high, punched her in the nose for no reason, and took off.

Wow, Maggie said, shaking her head. That’s not up to her usual standards. I thought she’d at least have had me tripping on LSD, naked, and writing in blood on her walls.

Michael laughed. So nothing she said was true?

Sure it was, Maggie said, taking a seat. "Sybil’s lies always have a little truth. I did hit her in the nose the last time I saw her, but she was pulling my hair and it was the only way to make her let go. And I was maybe, possibly going to get a job typing for a lawyer after graduation, but there was no guarantee, and I didn’t want to do that anyway, so I got a job waitressing downtown. But I didn’t randomly move out—she threw me out. She wouldn’t even let me in the house to get my money or any of my stuff, so I ended up living in my car—until it quit and I couldn’t do that, either."

"You what? Margaret, why didn’t you call me?"

I started to, she said. I even drove over to your school, but, I really didn’t think it would be for that long. I thought Will was coming home. Any day. "As for the rest of her lies, you should know I’m not stupid enough to do drugs, and do I look like someone who’s joined the Hare Krishna’s?"

No, he said, running his fingers through the mink collar of her coat. So how did you go from living in your car to driving that car and having this coat? This is real fur, right?

You’re such a brother, she laughed. It’s real fur. And it’s mine and so is the Cadillac. But that doesn’t mean I’ve become the Happy Hooker. I know that’s what you’re thinking.

No, he said nervously. Of course not. But—for God’s sake, Margaret. Will you just tell me the truth?

The truth? Looking in his anxious blue eyes, Maggie realized she couldn’t tell him the truth. Not all of it, or even most of it. He might be a man and her older, wiser brother, but his experiences were so different from her own that he couldn’t possibly understand what she’d been through or how much she’d suffered, especially with the raw horror of Edmond’s vicious assault. Michael was so sensitive, so sweetly innocent in comparison to her, and the truth was so complicated and vulgar and ugly. What good would come from putting such ugly thoughts and images in his head?

None. And she wouldn’t do it.

And Michael didn’t need to know the truth to help her, anyway. She could just say she’d realized she was too young to be married, that she’d made a mistake. She could even put off telling him she was pregnant for now.

The truth is that I got married, she said finally, pulling off her gloves and holding up her left hand.

"You got married? He took her hand in his, staring at her ring. When? Who?"

His name is Edmond Jackson, she said. We met after Mom kicked me out and got married a few weeks later.

He pulled her up to him, hugging her. Why didn’t you tell me? Mom and Dad were there, right? They gave permission?

They don’t know anything, she said, And you have to promise me they won’t. I didn’t need their permission to get married in Alabama, apparently. Edmond knew some people, and as far as I know, no one even asked about my age.

But how could—

It’s a real marriage, Michael, she interrupted. I don’t know what the laws are in Alabama, but we were married, in a church by a preacher, in front of dozens of witnesses.

I believe you, he said, laughing. "I do. I’m just a little shocked—I thought you had to be eighteen. But it’s a happy shocked, okay? He sat on the bottom bench, pulling her down beside him. You know all I’ve ever wanted is for you to be safe, and well, and happy. And if this Edmond makes you happy, that’s all I care about."

Maggie looked down at her hands, which he still held, and at the ring that affirmed her marriage. She had been happy with Will, happy every moment of every day when she’d believed he loved her. And she was happy knowing she would be a mother in a few months. But she’d never felt that kind of real happiness with Edmond, at least not for more than a few moments at a time. The emotion that best described the feeling Edmond elicited from her was fear.

But why didn’t you call me? he asked. I assume a man who can afford to keep you in fancy cars and coats, and buy you that expensive ring, can afford a phone.

Maggie swallowed past the lump that was forming in her throat. I wanted to call you, she said, but I didn’t have your number, and I could hardly call home and ask for it. I’m sorry.

Don’t be sorry, Michael said. I understand better than you think, because I’ve got a secret of my own.

You got married, too, didn’t you? she asked, knowing from the look on his face that it must be true. You and Donna.

I did, he said, smiling broadly. We did. At her parents’ place last Saturday. Michael reached into his coat pocket, producing a Polaroid. It showed Michael and his bride standing before a tree whose branches held half a dozen wind chimes and other decorations of different colors and sizes. Donna was lovely, dressed in a long, white, gossamer-looking gown covered with tiny flowers; she was almost as tall as Maggie was, and had a freckled face and long, flaxen blonde hair. The smiles on both their faces were of pure joy.

She’s beautiful, Maggie said. Like a fairy princess. Michael had been going out with Donna since practically the day he left for college, and though they’d never met, Maggie liked her because she knew Michael loved her. Besides, Sybil hated Donna, and that alone was reason enough for Maggie to approve.

She does, Michael said, running his finger lovingly across his wife’s photo. "A beautiful, pregnant fairy princess who’s going to be a mom in about seven months."

"What? Maggie asked, genuinely surprised. You got Donna pregnant?"

"Well, I hope it was me, he joked. I love her, but I didn’t get married and join the Navy to support the mailman’s bastard."

What? Maggie asked, shocked. What do you mean you joined the Navy?

I mean I enlisted, Marguerite. I leave for basic at Great Lakes on Monday.

No! she cried. "This Monday? But you have to finish school!"

I’ll finish school. Either the Navy will send me or I’ll finish when I get out. But I’ll finish.

"But why did you do it? she cried. What were you thinking? What about the war?"

Michael smiled. I’ll be forecasting the weather, sis, on a ship at sea, which means it’s highly unlikely I’ll even see the coast of Vietnam, much less any combat. The Navy was always my backup plan if I was drafted, and honestly, with the baby coming, it’s the best way I’ve got to provide for them. Besides, it’s time I did my bit for God and country, just like dad did. I’ve been watching from the sidelines for a while now.

Maggie hugged him tightly. It was one thing not to see her brother for months at a time when she knew he was an hour away, but this was different. He was going to be half a planet away, and for a long time, and despite his reassurances to the contrary, he would be in harm’s way. She couldn’t ask to be rescued now, or give him any reason to believe she wasn’t completely content and happy. He had enough on his mind without wasting a single thought worrying about her.

 So this is a good thing, right? she asked, releasing him and wiping her eyes. I mean, wow, Michael. You’re gonna be a dad, and you guys were going to get married anyway, right?

Yeah, he said. We’ve been together a long time.

Longer than a couple of weeks, you mean? Maggie asked. You must think I’m crazy to have married Edmond so quickly.

It doesn’t matter what I think, he said. And you don’t have to explain anything about the decisions you’ve made. I dropped the ball with you, Margaret, saying I wanted you to come live with me and go to school, but I never followed through. I was too wrapped up in myself, and now it’s too late.

No, she said, shaking her head.

"Yes, he insisted. I completely blew it being your brother. And now you’re barely seventeen and married, and you’ll probably be pregnant before I see you again, and we both know the only reason you married this guy you hardly knew is because your entire family dropped the ball. Not just Mom. I’m as much to blame as she is—more. Because I actually care about what happens to you, and I still let this happen."

That’s not true, Maggie said.   

"It is true, he replied, placing his hands on her shoulders. If you’d felt you could have come to me, if I’d been a better brother, a better person, or if I’d made even a little effort to stay involved in your life, you never would have married this guy, even if he is rich. You would have waited until you were older and married someone you love."

There was truth in what he was saying. But there was no changing anything now, and the last thing Maggie wanted was for the one person in the world who really loved her to sail off to war with guilt and regret weighing him down. If she wanted that, she’d have told him the truth.

Pushing off his hands, she stood. Her skill at lying was in fine form from all the practice she’d had of late, but she’d never intentionally lied to her brother before, and she’d never been intentionally mean to anyone other than Sybil.

You’re so full of yourself, she said harshly as she turned to face him. "And you might be the smartest person I know, but you’re dead wrong about this. This isn’t about you. The way I’m living my life, and who I decide to marry, had nothing to do with you, or anything you did or didn’t do for me."

The look on Michael’s face changed from one of remorse to borderline anger, and he looked away, casting his eyes on the boys and their football game, which appeared to be breaking up.

"You are a good brother, and I’ve always known you’d be there if I needed you, but I haven’t needed you in a long time, and I don’t need you now. Will you look at me? she demanded, stepping closer. I’m not saying this to hurt you, but you need to understand I’m not your pathetic, suicidal little sister anymore. I was actually happy when Sybil kicked me out, she laughed derisively. Happy and free from that manipulative, lying, horrible bitch and that prison of a house for the first time in my life, and the last thing I wanted was to go running to you. I had my car, my job, my freedom—I just didn’t need you, Michael."

You’re making that perfectly clear, Margaret, he said flatly, folding his arms as he returned his gaze to her. I mean, why come to me, the one person who’s known and loved you all your life, when there’s a complete stranger willing to rescue you? It makes perfect sense.

Maggie felt her face grow hot from indignation and embarrassment, which was ridiculous. She could hardly be angry with Michael for questioning the veracity of her lies. You just don’t get it, do you? she continued. "Edmond didn’t rescue me. He had no idea what my circumstances were when we met. He just came into the restaurant for a take-out order and boom—I fell in love with him the first moment I saw him, and he felt the same way. I know it was sudden and I know you don’t believe in that sort of thing, but I’m happy being married to Edmond. Deliriously happy. And that’s what you want for me, right? To be happy?"

The boys came walking by them and polite hellos were exchanged as they passed. Michael stood, looking at the sky in silence for a full minute before shielding his eyes as the sun broke through the clouds. It’s going to be warm and rainy here this winter, he said quietly. Enjoy it. There’s a foot of snow already on the ground in Great Lakes, Illinois, and winter’s just started.

Michael, I’m sorry, she said. I didn’t mean to sound so angry. I’m not angry. I love you—you know I do. I just want you to know you don’t have to worry about me anymore, but the last thing I want is for you to be mad. Please don’t be mad.

He turned to face her. I’m not mad, Margaret, he said. It’s just hard to believe you’re all grown-up and married and doing great despite everything—and without any help at all from me. But you are.

I am, she replied steadily.

He hugged her. I’m glad. So I can put my cape away and stop looking for phone booths to change in.

Yeah, she said. Just don’t forget where you put it. I mean, you never know, right?

I won’t, he said as he released her. What happened here? he asked, looking closely at her jawline. It looks almost like a burn.

Maggie had become quite adept at disguising the burns on her forehead and jaw with Cover Girl, once they crusted over, but they weren’t meant to be seen in full daylight. "That’s because it is a burn," she replied honestly.

How’d you burn your face?

Friction burn, she said, taking his hand and starting towards the car.

Friction? he asked, confused. How do you get a friction burn on your face?

Romance.

What?

"Oh, for God’s sakes, Michael. It’s a sex injury, she replied, laughing. It’s new carpet." 

"God, Margaret! Michael exclaimed, his face turning red. You could have just said it was from a grease fire."

So you’re saying you want me to lie to you?

Yes, he said unequivocally. Definitely. From now on, lie to me. At least about sex, anyway. Please.

 So don’t you want me to just go ahead and tell them? Michael asked as she stopped the car a half block from the house. They’re going to find out eventually, Margaret. And, I mean, what happens if you’re nine months pregnant, and you run into Mom at the store? You just going to rip your glove off and expect her to go away quietly? And I know it would mean a lot to Dad to know you’re okay.

Fine, she said resignedly. Go ahead and tell them if you think it’s best. You were always the smart one.

Once upon a time I was, he replied, smiling. But you were smart enough to find a happy ending despite everything, and you didn’t do that being a dummy. I’m really proud of you. He reached for his wallet, pulling out a photograph of Donna and hastily scrawling her phone number on the back. You have a sister now, he said, handing her the photo, and she’s a wonderful person from a wonderful family, and I know you’re gonna love them all. Call her in a couple of weeks. She’ll have my address by then so you can write me—you’d better write me—and you guys can get together and go to the movies or dinner or something. I bet you’re best friends before I get back.

Maggie nodded, slipping Donna’s picture into her pocket. What Michael was suggesting would have been a dream come true not very long ago, but now she couldn’t even imagine it, and Edmond would never allow it, anyway.

He leaned across the seat, hugging her neck. I’ll miss you, sister, and I’ll pray for you every day, he said softly. But then, I’ve always prayed for you. I love you. You know that, right?

I know, she whispered at his neck. I love you, too.

She circled the block, having seen Leon coming out the kitchen door as she was driving off and hoping to get a better look, but they’d gone inside by the time she got back around. It was just as well. What if her Dad had seen her? Or Michael, unable to help himself, had pointed her out? She’d have had to stop then—had to risk a moment in her father’s arms before Sybil came crashing, screaming out the door to tear them apart, as she inevitably would. It would be an ugly scene, with Sybil sure to repeat the inane, incestuous insinuations about her and their father that Michael knew nothing about. And he didn’t need to know.

For even if she’d had the time and inclination to explain to her brother all that he’d been kept in the dark about since leaving home, what would be the point? Neither of them were ever going to live at home again, never be routinely subjected to their father’s cowering passivity or their mother’s deranged wickedness. Filling him in on the details of Sybil’s most recent cruelties would only add to the disappointment and pain he’d already suffered with having such a witch for a mother, and she wouldn’t do it.

Even telling him about her and Will, which she intrinsically, selfishly longed to do, would have been painful for him to hear, as he’d long held Will up on that lofty, shining pedestal of Christian virtue like everyone else. What good would come of spoiling that image? Of telling him how she’d loved Will, trusted Will, waited for Will—only to have him ultimately break his word, their engagement, and her heart? No. There was nothing but pain to be gained from telling him the truth, and Michael already had enough painful memories to write for a soap opera. Better he believe the drama had ended. Better when he stood on deck to gaze at the sky or knelt at his bunk in prayer, his thoughts were only of the lies she’d told him. Better he believe the lies.

She’d driven past the front of Will’s house on her way into the neighborhood, and now she found herself heading that way again, this time turning down the narrow street that ran behind his house, separating it from the undeveloped, overgrown lot where she’d once taken refuge from her mother. And there, through a gap in the juniper that covered the chain link fence, she saw Will’s Charger, parked beneath the tin roof canopy.

Maggie braked hard, throwing the shift into park. She hadn’t expected to see anything—she’d never been able to see anything in all the times she’d driven past here before. Now, seeing his car, she felt a shock almost as great as if Will himself had been standing there. The thought that he might actually be inside, be within a bolt-from-the-car-climb-the-fence-and-burst-through-the-kitchen-door few short moments of her, caused a visceral anguish and longing so great that she cried out, holding onto the steering wheel as if it were the edge of a high, windy ledge and the only thing keeping her from falling.

Seeing his car doesn’t mean he’s home. It’s been there all along, waiting for him just like you did. It’s just that there was no gap in the bushes then so you couldn’t see.

But he must be home by now, must be safely back from the war and eating in the kitchen and singing in the shower and sleeping in his great big wonderful bed. Sleeping with his wife.

Running and jumping into the enormous, tall, wonderful bed that his great-grandfather made, and landing beside the good Christian girl he married instead of you. And touching her and kissing her in all the ways and in all the places you wanted him to love you, but he never did. He never will.

And now they’re probably in the kitchen drinking coffee and eating pie and saying and doing all the things normal people do with their family at Christmas. Or maybe they’ve just sat down to dinner and they’re joining hands and praying, and wouldn’t it be something if you came bursting through the door? The vaguely remembered, ridiculously pale, raincoat-wearing, red-haired, skinny girl with the botched suicide scars, all grown up and dressed up in diamonds and fur . . .

"You remember Maggie, Mom and Dad. They made me sing with her on Sunday nights at church. You know, she’s the one with the crazy mother and the alcoholic dad that don’t come to church?. The one who slit her wrist and got whacked in the head by the bulldozer the day we had the tornado? ‘Crazy Red Margaret Head’ everybody calls her. Remember?

This is the girl I told you about, sweetheart. The one I felt sorry for. The one I lied and said I’d love forever and always and no matter what? But you can see she’s not nearly as pretty or smart or good as you are, darling. And it’s a pretty sure bet she’s going to Hell.

A wave of nausea engulfed her then, and Maggie released the steering wheel, quickly opening the door and retching the remains of her Christmas dinner onto the street. The cool air was soothing, and sitting up, she rolled down her window and leaned her head against the door. 

Will would have never said those things. If she went to the door and he was inside, he would be excruciatingly kind, just as his parents would be, because they were all good people. And his wife would be kind to her, too, and why not? Will was her husband; he had chosen to abandon Maggie to marry her, so what else would a good Christian girl do but show an abundance of sympathy and kindness to the woman he’d rejected?   

It was just such a shock, after all this time, knowing he could be so close—close enough that if she were to blow the Cadillac’s mighty horn he would hear it. And if she were to blow it continually, he would certainly step onto the porch to see what the trouble was, and she could drive away before he saw her. But no. Better to not see him at all. Better to not know with absolute certainty he was there, or else she might be tempted to—to what? Lop him in the head with the cast iron griddle he’d used to make her pancakes? No. The last thing she wanted was to hurt Will. She’d spent the last few years of her life praying for him to be safe, and she hoped with all her heart he was.

She turned her head to gaze again through the gap in the juniper. I hope you’re in there, Will. I hope you’re home and safe and happy, and that you’ll have a wonderful life with your wonderful wife. Maybe if I’d only prayed a little longer or a little harder about it, or maybe if prayers really were answered, I’d be the one in there with you now. 

Maggie thought about how different life would be if prayers really did make things happen, or not happen, and exactly how that would work. No one would ever need to go to war or get sick or be in pain, or lose their job or their teeth or their hair, or be hungry or  fat or have zits, or fail Algebra, or bury their beloved pets or grandmothers because no one would have to die. But what about romantic love? How would those prayers work? 

There would have to be specific rules and parameters going in, of course. One wouldn’t be able to pray to fall in love and marry Mark Lindsay or David McCallum—it would at least have to be someone within your social circle, someone who knew of your existence and was within an acceptable age range. Will met all those parameters, and he had asked her to pray for them to be together, and said he would do the same every day. So if they were both praying to the same God for the same thing—a good thing, as God is a huge fan of marriage—then it follows that she should be the one inside his house drinking eggnog and waiting for him to bounce into bed.

But she wasn’t.

Her prayers had gone unanswered, so there must be a reason. Had she been out-prayed by the good Christian girl? That seemed unlikely, as in order to catch up and surpass the number of Maggie’s prayers, his