“Oh. No. Help yourself.” She pushed her plate across the table. Corrine broke a biscuit in half, spooned jam onto it, and popped it into her mouth. At least that silenced her for several seconds.
Laurel didn’t know where the girl found the energy or wherewithal to chatter. Both of them had been up for most of the night, taking turns sitting with Irv, waiting and watching to see if he would take a bad turn. He was in obvious pain, but he’d showed no signs of worsening. Except for some spotting on his bandage, there’d been no further bleeding, no fever.
At sunup, Laurel had gone to her room to wash and dress for the day. She’d undone her braid and brushed her hair, then plaited it again and wound it into a bun on her nape. As though her loose braid were responsible for her lapse in good judgment last night, this morning she had mercilessly jabbed the hairpins in to secure it.
What other excuse did she have for allowing Mr. Hutton to kiss her like that? The crisis with Irv had left her emotionally vulnerable, yes. But she’d always disparaged members of her sex who blamed stupid behavior on frayed emotions.
When she had returned downstairs, Corrine was in the kitchen frying bacon. Biscuits were baking. Laurel had been embarrassed by the girl’s industry, because she felt completely wrung out.
When she’d murmured an apology to that effect, Corrine had said, “You got saddled with me. I’ll make myself useful till you kick me out.”
When Corrine had been left behind in the middle of the night, Laurel would never have insisted she leave. But now she didn’t know what to do about the girl. Or really what to do about any aspect of her predicament.
Throughout the night, Irv’s condition had been her primary concern. However, dawn had brought with it jarring realizations. He’d survived the gunshot, thank God. But the repercussions of it, chiefly his convalescence, created practical problems to which Laurel must find solutions. Soon.
“…so what I think is that he outright sold me to that old bitch.”
Laurel’s thoughts were so deeply troubling, her attention had again drifted away from Corrine’s running monologue. “Sorry?”
“Gert,” Corrine said. “When I came back after a visit to the outhouse, Jack was gone. He’d hightailed it as soon as my back was turned. Gert said I could stay, but I’d have to earn my keep and pay back her ‘investment’ in me.
“I caught on quick, though. I could spend the rest of my life
on my back, and I would never make enough to earn my ‘keep’ plus repay whatever chickenshit amount of money she’d given Jack. But I didn’t have nowhere else to go, so…”
She gave a shrug which, to Laurel’s amazement, conveyed more resignation than rancor. The girl seemed to have accepted being prostituted better than she herself had being intentionally widowed.
“Most of the time it wasn’t so bad,” Corrine continued, “but after the hullabaloo that creep Wally Johnson caused, Gert—”
“Wally Johnson? The man who was murdered?”
“Yeah. The night after he did this to me.” She pointed to her face and patted her arm in the sling. “The sheriff came out to Lefty’s and asked did I know anything about his killing. I told him nothing except I was glad he was dead.”
Laurel remembered Irv telling her that he had seen Dr. Driscoll at the roadhouse, attending a girl who’d been beaten. Things had come full circle.
“Anyhow,” Corrine continued, “all ol’ Gert cares about is money, money, money. I thought she was gonna beat the tar out of Wally for ruinin’ what she called my ‘earnin’ capacity.’ Now he’s dead, she’s takin’ it out on me that my face is messed up and my eye has gone wonky. She’s gotten meaner by the day. So, last night, when I saw a chance to get away from her, I took it.”
“With Mr. Hutton.”
“Um-huh. He sure is nice. Handsome, too. I clapped eyes on him the second he walked into Lefty’s. I thought to myself, now there’s a man that might be worth droppin’ drawers for. Gert must’ve thought so, too. The bitch pounced, offerin’ her wares, I’m sure. He didn’t go upstairs, though.
“Then, after the shootin’ started, I ran outside like everybody else. I saw Mr. Hutton come out carryin’ the old man. He laid him in the back of the truck. I ran over, took in what was happenin’, offered to help if he’d let me tag along. He cussed somethin’ fierce. You know how a man does when he’s had about all the aggravation he can tolerate? But then he said okay and told me to get in the truck.
“I didn’t give him time to think twice. I hopped in, put your daddy-in-law’s head in my lap, so it wouldn’t be bangin’ around while we was driving. Along the way, though, he started bleedin’ real bad. I hollered at Mr. Hutton to stop. He came back, took a look, and that’s when he pulled off his shirt and stuffed the bullet hole with it. Are y’all sparkin’?”
These sudden questions of Corrine’s continued to throw Laurel. When she realized what the girl was asking, she replied with a definitive no.
Corrine giggled like she knew otherwise, then scooted her chair back. “You go see to Irv. I’ll clean up the kitchen.”
“Really, Corrine, you don’t have to do that. I don’t expect anything from you.”
“Neither did Mr. Hutton, which is why I think he’s right decent. And real serious like, ain’t he? Go on now, before the ol’ man gets cranky. I took him some breakfast. He’s probably finished it by now.”
* * *
Laurel tapped once on Irv’s bedroom door before pushing it open. He was half sitting up, a tray on his lap. His lined features were compressed into a frown.
As Laurel entered, she asked, “Are you hurting?”