Jenny

The period of solitude along the river had not only made her realize how incredibly lucky she is to be alive and with such simple injuries, but it had also solidified some ideas that she would need Martha’s co-operation to work them out. Although it hurt her ribs, she gave Martha a one-arm hug, and then waited for her to turn her back, before easing down into a chair by the table. The woman asked, “What’s that for?” “Just for being such a warm, wonderful person.” Martha went back to the sink to wash potatoes she was preparing for dinner. “Fishing must have been good. I hope you brought some home with you.” “No such luck.” Then Jenny lied, and told how she had fallen and wrecked and scattered the borrowed fishing gear, that she had just dumped it all in a trash barrel, but intended to replace it before she left town. “Forget the stuff. What about you?” Martha turned her head to look at Jenny. “I picked myself up and walked on to my intended location, and, I’ve come up with some ideas.” She felt deceitful by giving such a simplistic, evasive answer. She wasn’t prepared for Martha’s attitude when she presented her ideas. Martha had gone to the refrigerator and immediately shut the door and backed against it. “You can’t do that Jenny!” She spoke quickly and sharply, clutching a pitcher of ice tea against her chest. “But I must Martha.” Jenny twitched when she stood too quickly, and was flushed at her own impertinence. “Suddenly I find I have blood relatives and you say I can’t see them. They are my grandparents, my real honest-to-goodness grandparents, my father’s and mother’s parents. I have their blood flowing through my veins. Do you know how it feels to realize there is someone alive who belongs to me? Someone I have never seen, never even had the chance to be called by my name?” “No, I don’t, but still you can’t,” Martha responded as she opened the refrigerator door again to get a pitcher of lemonade. Her attitude was now elusive and Jenny refused to accept it. “Why? Why?” You have no idea how much I want to see them, have them see me.” She cried, stiffly falling into Martha’s arms, who had to quickly set the pitcher on the counter. “You are emotionally hurting now.” Martha didn’t seem to notice Jenny wrench when she rubbed the girl’s back. “Multiply that four times. They stoically arranged for and attended the memorial service for your parents. No tears, no remorse, no interest in why and how it had happened, that we could see. As far as we could tell, they were as impassive as could be, simply washed their hands of the whole situation, and never looked back.” Jenny stepped back and before remembering her injuries, stomped her foot, and felt her whole body jar with pain. Perhaps Martha thought Jenny’s scrunched up face was from her statements, for although she frowned and looked carefully at Jenny, she didn’t say anything. “Now that really aggravates me and makes me more than ever determined to see them, to confront them, with me . . . their granddaughter! Surely, surely . . .” “Jenny, dear, you can’t go to the Wallace’s either to ask about the property.” Martha guarded her words, fighting the desire to remain forever silent on this subject.” Walter where are you? I need you! Before she knew what she was doing, she blurted out, “We are certain, after years of studying the situation, that Larue killed your parents. He set fire to their house in a fit of aggrieved, jealous rage. Lawrence would welcome you, but it would just create problems for him. You can understand that, can’t you?” Tears were flowing down the cheeks of both women. Martha reached for a hand towel to share with Jenny. “No! No! Larue killed my parents. What terrible thing are you telling me, Martha?” she cried to the older woman, as she clung to her arm and searched her face. Father, help me, guard my tongue. “He is quite unstable, and I am being kind with that description. If he knew there had been a child, who lived, and was right here in Easton now, he might try to kill you.” Oh, God, help me. I can’t assimilate this knowledge. Someone want’s me dead! How would Mother and Father handle my death? Oh, this can’t be! But . . . I didn’t die. I’m alive. I’m alive! Why would anyone want me dead? Jenny’s perceptive mind searched for something else, and finding it, asked Martha, “Does Diane know?” Her hand was now gripping Martha’s arm. “I really don’t know,” she answered, as she maneuvered Jenny back to the kitchen chair. The girl looked out the open door, asking softly, almost to herself, “Diane Barrett? Does she own a yellow convertible?” “Yes.” “A loud sports kind?” “Yes, I guess you could call it that.” Jenny’s hand flew to her face and she trembled uncontrollably. Martha fell to her knees in front of the girl. “Jenny! What is it?” Jenny sat for a few minutes, and then stared at Martha with terror-stricken eyes. “Diane tried to kill me! Today! On the bridge! Not Larue, but his daughter, Diane. She was driving the car I thought just careened out of control. Now I believe it was on purpose. She deliberately tried to run me down. That’s why there was no car on the bridge or anywhere in sight when I was able to crawl up to the road from the river to investigate. Look at me.” She stood, then helped Martha stand also, while pointing to her face and undoing her blouse, showing the cuts and bruises, and the wrap around her body, her shoulder and upper arm. She slid down her slacks and pulled them up from the bottom, revealing more injuries.