Writing on the Wall Read online

  Lola’s Thanksgiving was her best ever. She cleared her head by walking a couple of miles to volunteer at a local soup kitchen, a new tradition she’d decided to start. Orrin always preached the value of service to others but wouldn’t let her actually volunteer anywhere. Working at the soup kitchen was an amazing experience, and she vowed to return and set up a regular shift there. She was no less shy there than anywhere else, but many of the clients seemed as reticent as she.

  After several hours of writing, Lola was stuck. There was a part she just couldn’t get right. She knew it was pivotal to the rest of the story, and the weight of that knowledge was paralyzing her. She kept playing out the possibilities in her head, refining and reworking it, but she just couldn’t make it go the way she wanted it to. As she sat there, frowning at the screen, she heard Orrin’s mocking laughter.

  “Stuff it, Orrin. Nobody cares what you think.” Wow, she thought, that almost sounded convincing.

  She decided to follow up on her impulse to start finding more friends and maybe even a girlfriend. It’s about time, she told herself. You’ve wanted to do this your whole life. The fact that she’d let so much time slip by made her angry and sad and frustrated. Why had she been so stupid? Why couldn’t she just start over and live her life the right way? She’d lived in a bubble of fear and uncertainty for as long as she could remember, and other people had structured all of the important parts of her life. Well, no more of that. She was living on her own terms now, and she was done wasting time. The first time she’d developed an overwhelming crush on a woman was when she was nine, and she’d been afraid even then.

  She’d just been moved to her seventh foster home and had by then grown wary of adults. There were five other foster kids and a middle-aged woman, Aunt Margie, a solid woman with graying hair and a lined face. She wasn’t a cuddly or affectionate woman, but she wasn’t mean. That and the fact that there were three meals a day, every day, were enough to ensure Lola’s loyalty. But there was something else about Aunt Margie that drew Lola to her. Aunt Margie had a secret.

  Living in one foster home after another had taught Lola a few things. One of them was the importance of learning the laws of each house. Not the rules, which people told you about and which were easy to follow: don’t leave dirty dishes in the sink, never talk back, and don’t ever take food without permission. Rules were easy to understand and were often the same from house to house. Lola had no problem with rules.

  The laws were harder to figure out and much more important. They had to do with the bad secrets in a house. If the man was a drinker, there were laws about not making him mad when he smelled like beer and not telling people he was home if they called on the phone. If the woman was a pill popper, there were laws about pretending not to notice her mood swings and about not coming into any room when she was alone, because she didn’t want you to see her taking anything. If the man liked to hurt you, there were laws about not telling anyone and not crying out loud and not putting your bloody underpants in the laundry.

  Breaking the laws always had much graver consequences than breaking the rules. So whenever Lola came into a new house, the first thing she needed to do was to learn the bad secrets, and the second thing she needed to do was figure out the laws that protected the bad secrets.

  During the first few months she lived with Aunt Margie, Lola watched and listened, wondering what the bad secrets and the laws would be at Aunt Margie’s. Would the older kids hurt the little ones? Would Aunt Margie have a boyfriend who liked to hurt kids? Would Aunt Margie fly into sudden fits of rage and beat or burn her or lock her in the closet? Would she feel a burning need for the violent purification of Lola’s soul, by way of a belt or a hot iron or holding her head under water? None of these things seemed to be true, and it was almost scarier at first, not knowing what the bad secrets would be. There was always something, wasn’t there? It wasn’t that she wanted there to be something bad, it was just easier to sleep if she knew what to expect. Not knowing was scary. How could she figure out the laws, if she couldn’t even figure out the bad secrets?

  What made Aunt Margie so happy? It wasn’t like she walked around smiling and whistling all day. She just didn’t seem ready to fly off the handle at any moment. It drew Lola like a moth to a flame. She watched Aunt Margie so closely that the woman started calling her Lola Owl Eyes. But it didn’t seem to make her angry. She didn’t even get mad when Lola couldn’t answer her questions or make a decision about anything. She just waited until Lola mumbled something and went about her business as though she’d gotten an answer.

  She clearly had some kind of secret. Maybe, though, it wasn’t a bad secret. There might, Lola realized, be good secrets as well as bad ones. Once this idea took hold, it was impossible for Lola to shake it loose. She wavered about prying. Aunt Margie was kind to her, and Lola didn’t want to upset her or get sent away. But she had become obsessed.

  The secret had to fit into the few hours when all the kids were in school and no one needed to be taken to physical therapy or speech therapy or social skills training or counseling or supervised visits with their parents. She would have to sneak out of class to find out what Aunt Margie did at those times. This was incredibly daring for Lola, who was a compulsive rule follower and desperately wanted teachers’ approval, but she felt it would be worth it. Lola knew that being a Goody Two-shoes and a loner would serve her well. She didn’t have friends to notice that she was gone, and she never raised her hand or looked anyone in the eye. She was not someone whose absence would be noticed. She had seven teachers, and they likely didn’t compare notes. As the only nine-year-old in the middle school, she should have been noticeable. But because she was so shy and withdrawn, no one seemed to see her. Their eyes passed right over her. She had not made a conscious choice to be invisible, but now it would be helpful.

  She bided her time. She spent over a month cataloguing Aunt Margie’s schedule in her school planner, laboriously filling in as many blanks as possible, and finally picked her chance one Tuesday morning.

  Ducking out of sight during a change of classes, she slipped off campus and ran the two miles to Aunt Margie’s house, praying that no one would notice her. As she neared the house, she slowed down. Her breathing sounded loud, and she needed to catch and quiet her breath. After a few moments spent lurking on the front porch and not seeing anyone, she decided it was time to slip in. She snuck from room to room, seeing no one and growing increasingly distressed. She’d risked everything, only to find out nothing! Aunt Margie could be at the grocery store, although she usually went on Thursdays. Or she could be out for a walk or shoe shopping or getting the vacuum cleaner repaired. Suddenly the folly of her plan hit Lola. How stupid, assuming that Aunt Margie would be at the house, just because she had nothing scheduled for Tuesdays! But then she heard voices in the backyard. Lola tiptoed into the bathroom, peering through the open window and hoping that the curtains hid her.

  Kneeling on the toilet to get closer to the window, she tried not to fog up the glass with her breath. At first she was disappointed. What she saw didn’t seem like any kind of secret. Aunt Margie sat on the back patio with a cup of coffee in her hands, chatting with Mrs. White, a neighbor. Mrs. White sometimes came over for coffee or lunch on the weekends, and she usually brought cookies or muffins for the kids. She was nice. She helped Lola comb out a snarled ponytail one day, and her hands were gentle. She was younger than Aunt Margie, and prettier, by most standards. But she wasn’t anything secret. Who cared if a couple of adults sat around and drank coffee? Lola’s disappointment was a palpable thing, and it weighed her down.

  Mrs. White said something in a low voice then, and she and Aunt Margie laughed. They looked at each other. After a long, quiet moment, they started talking again, but Lola had stopped paying attention. The sound of their voices blended in quiet laughter, that long, shared look—these things had spoken what their words had not.

  Mrs. White and Aunt Margie loved each other. Like, really loved each
other. Their quiet conversation in the backyard continued, Lola’s spying presence unnoticed, and nothing outward betrayed their love. But Lola had heard and seen enough to know that this was Aunt Margie’s secret. She loved Mrs. White, and Mrs. White loved her, and drinking coffee in the backyard with Mrs. White was the good secret that made Aunt Margie happy. They would like to be married to each other. And Lola, who wasn’t even sure why she was so positive of this, thought she might burst!

  She climbed carefully down from the toilet, her legs shaking, and tiptoed to the front door. She eased it open and shut again, careful not to let it bang. She ran back to school and slipped in with the crowd, snagging her backpack from the classroom where she’d stowed it and entering the cafeteria just in time for lunch. But she couldn’t eat.

  Lola sat staring at her free lunch with sightless eyes. Running back to school, she’d come to a realization that burned her. And in the weeks that followed, this realization continued to haunt her more and more. Aunt Margie and Mrs. White loved each other, but they couldn’t really be together. They had to pretend and sneak around and just love each other in their hearts. Lola had heard many words for gay, of course. People used them all the time. But they were ugly words that seemed bad and weird and gross. Aunt Margie and Mrs. White weren’t bad or weird or gross, but Lola knew that other people would think that they were, and she felt afraid.

  She began to watch Mrs. White, who always looked cool and beautiful and glamorous. Lola wondered if the two women kissed, and what it felt like. She wondered, gazing at Aunt Margie’s thin lips late one afternoon, if they weren’t tinted just a little bit from Mrs. White’s lipstick. What would it feel like to kiss someone? Like, not because they forced you to, but because you wanted to? Perched on the stool she still had to stand on to brush her teeth, she looked in the mirror. Would any woman ever want to kiss her? If she were pretty like Mrs. White, maybe, but she wasn’t. She glared at her reflection. Why couldn’t she be pretty?

  One of the boys at school had called her a troll on the first day of seventh grade, and she’d been called Trolla by most of the kids since then. And next year, high school would be even worse. She would be the only ten-year-old, and all of the girls would be pretty and wear makeup and high heels and be a foot taller than Lola, and no one would like her. Mrs. Fiori, the science teacher, had said that social standards for beauty were based on biological imperatives, that symmetry and proportion mattered more than fashionable clothes or makeup.

  But Mrs. Fiori had been talking about boys liking girls. What about girls liking girls? Would girls like her, even if she was too short and too skinny and ugly? Not that it mattered. Girls didn’t get to like girls. As much as Lola hated to admit it, Mrs. Borden, the lady at her last foster home, had been right: girls don’t get to pick anything. They just have to accept whatever God gave them and pray for the strength to endure with grace.

  She felt very afraid for the delicate looking Mrs. White and especially for Aunt Margie, who suddenly seemed much more fragile and vulnerable. Please, Lola prayed over and over, protect them. Keep their secret. Even if it is a sin, like Mr. Borden said. Please don’t let anyone hurt Aunt Margie or Mrs. White.

  Her prayers, it seemed, were answered. Over the next several months, Lola watched them and loved them and imagined herself their secret guardian. Her love for them grew fierce, fueled by secrecy and fear and envy and hope. She imagined that she was their daughter and that they would love her and never make her go away. They would all be safe and happy and be a family and stay together forever.

  And then one Saturday morning Aunt Margie sat the kids down and announced that she was moving out of state and would no longer be their foster mother. Lola hoped but didn’t dare to ask whether Mrs. White was moving out of state too. She never knew what happened to them. She was moved later that day to yet another pious family extra fond of the rod.

  As Lola sat at her computer scanning the personal ads nearly thirty years later, she felt the same mix of exhilaration and envy and fear she’d felt kneeling on the toilet lid in Aunt Margie’s house. Some of the women in the ads were very young, and Lola felt sharp regret that she had been paralyzed by fear for so long. She had known she was attracted to women, but she’d told herself that it didn’t mean anything, that all women felt these yearnings and did nothing about them. Men were, she’d concluded early on, an unfortunate necessity, one that couldn’t be avoided. She rolled her eyes. No wonder Orrin thought she was such a ninny. She was.

  “Stupid, silly Lolly,” Orrin crooned, “you’d never survive without me to take care of you.”

  “But I did, Orrin. I am.”

  He laughed, that mean laugh she hated.

  “Okay,” she told herself, “stop talking to Orrin, and definitely stop listening to him. Turn off that record!”

  She found that she could use a few keystrokes to refine her online search and weed out the under-thirty-five crowd, and she felt much better. She was surprised by how many women in her age group were “single and looking.” Several specified that they did not like bisexual or married women, and Lola bit her lip. Would women despise her because she came out so late in life? Would anyone ever really accept her? She had been married to a man for nearly twenty years. She’d never even kissed another woman. She was like a middle-aged teenager, and she was inexperienced and insecure and distinctly unbeautiful—who could possibly want her?

  “The past has passed,” she whispered, and she forced herself to read the remaining ads.

  Chapter Seven

  After a quick couple of buzzes on the doorbell, Del leaned on it, listening to the chimes echo through the house.

  “Try ignoring that, sweetheart.” She was electric with tension and rocked on the balls of her feet.

  She’d been fearful that she might end up looking for a body, but now that she was here, her gut said Lola was alive and in hiding. Sure enough, after a few moments, Lola unlocked the door with a click and opened it a crack to peer at Del with one eye. The other was covered by hair hanging over half her face. Del had seen this look more than once. Women always thought they could hide black eyes with their hair, and it never worked.

  Del pasted a pleasant expression on her face. Don’t let this get personal, she reminded herself. She’s just another victim, that’s all. Her gut cramped again, and her smile faltered. You can’t help her if you let yourself get wound up. She nodded. Waiting for the door to open, she’d concocted her cover story. Lola might not ask for help, but she would not refuse to give it.

  “Hi, Lola,” she offered her best sincere expression. “Listen, I’m really sorry to bother you, but I could sure use a friendly face. Can I come in?”

  Lola’s eye widened. “Of course, Del, are you all right? Please, come in.” She led the way into the living room. She was holding herself carefully, and Del grimaced at her back. She was obviously in pain.

  “Thanks.” She smoothed her expression.

  “Coffee?” Lola offered, gesturing at the couch.

  “That’d be great.” Though she wasn’t sure more coffee was a super idea, with her gurgling stomach already protesting the previous cup, witnesses were more comfortable if you ate and drank with them. It was weird, but it worked.

  Del sat down and looked around while Lola went to the kitchen. Nice furniture. Clean lines, neutral colors, a bit worn. Bold, colorful artwork. A few plants. Only the plants looked new. Maybe a moving truck had come, after all, and she’d missed seeing it. Bookcases on both sides of the fireplace were crammed, mostly with paperbacks. Lola came back, her face gray with the effort of holding a heavy tray. Del stifled an impulse to take it from her. I’m not supposed to already know what happened, she reminded herself. Lola set down a large brown tray laden with coffee cups, cream, sweetener, cookies and grapes, centering it on a huge red ottoman. She eased into the chair opposite Del with care.

  “Please, help yourself.” Lola flashed a bright, brittle smile. Phony. Scared. Del’s stomach cramped again.


  Del accepted a cup and watched as Lola added cream and sweetener to her own.

  “Thanks.” She waited to see if Lola would prompt her or wait her out. The silence stretched for a few moments, but Lola didn’t fidget. She held herself very still and watched Del. Del was reminded of a little bird, trying to gauge the danger. She swallowed hard and pretended to sip her coffee.

  “Del, what can I do for you? Are you okay?”

  “I’m okay. Had kind of a rough Thanksgiving, and I guess I was feeling a little blue.” She smiled her “trust me, I’m a police officer” smile and held Lola’s eye until her gaze dropped.

  “I’m sorry it was rough. Do you want to talk about it?” Lola’s eye was sympathetic, and Del was surprised to find that she actually almost wanted to confide in her. Lola moved closer and sat next to Del. She could feel Lola’s warmth. A strand of Lola’s hair tickled Del’s arm. Del cleared her throat.

  “Well, I’m not sure there’s anything to really talk about. Just, you know, holidays. They make everybody kind of shaky, I guess.”

  Lola murmured assent. “Like they make you face what’s wrong in your life.”

  “Yeah.” Actually, that was dead on. Del flashed a wry smile and sat back. “I thought it would be nice to stay home and relax, but it gave me time to sit around and think too much. Maybe it’s better to keep busy and just move on, you know?”

  Lola nodded. “Okay. But, Del,” she paused, and Del felt guilty for manipulating her. “I’m here if you change your mind, okay? People say that sometimes it helps to talk through what you’re feeling.”

  “I appreciate that. How do you like the neighborhood so far?” Del smiled and tilted her head. Lola was the kind who unconsciously mirrored other people’s postures.

  Sure enough, she tilted her head, which drew her hair away from the side of her face just a bit. Her left eye, slightly exposed now, was swollen nearly shut and housed in a nest of black and purple bruising. Suddenly, Lola seemed to remember, and she straightened her head as though casually.