Page 47 of My Darling Girls

“I find it hard to believe.”

“So do I,” she says. The life she created with August no longer feels like hers. No longer feels safe and real. Her husband was a liar and involved with the mob. She was hurting after his death, but now her hurt is different. Morphed into bewilderment and anger. Also, shame. August did unspeakable, disgusting things for Ira. What is she supposed to do with all this knowledge? She wishes there was someone who could tell her how to deal with this, what to do. But there’s no one she can turn to, no one who can offer her advice.

Ira’s quiet for long enough that the cold sweat beads slide down between Jo’s shoulder blades. She drops her blanket, gets to her feet, and pulls a thick woolen shawl around her shoulders. She stands in front of him for a few seconds, smoking, wanting to leave the room, but reconsiders and sits down on the edge of the bed, the mattress sagging under her weight. She looks to the left, out the window, and stares at the stormy sky for so long, Ira turns to see if there is something or someone on the street behind him.

“You must stop seeing Grace,” he says, a smoldering cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. When she doesn’t reply, he continues slowly, “Stop the lessons.”

She understands, and nods again. No one likes a knife in their gut. Or lips sewn shut.

“Can I ask you a question?” She waits for his reaction, and when he waves his hand at her, encouraging her to go on, she says, “How did you make August agree to take photos of the girls?”

His full attention is on her, dissecting her, trying to read her mind. “I didn’t make him do anything. All I had to do was offer money.” The shadows grow deeper around him and morph into a deep, inky presence. If Jo extends her arm, she’d be able to dip her fingers into the darkness. “Where did you think his money came from? His photography business? When I met him, he was almost destitute. That studio of yours was too flashy, too expensive. He accepted my offer.”

“When was it?”

“Two years ago.”

Stunned, she pulls on her cigarette. If she knew two years ago what she knows now, would she have considered leaving August, walking out of the studio and into the streets? She had no place to go to. She had no money. She had no one to run to. The world wasn’t kind to women with no means and no family to ask for help. And so Jo admits to herself that she, most likely, would have pretended it wasn’t all that bad. That it was all temporary. Until the bills were paid. Until the filthy work ran out. But that type of work never runs out, does it?

“You really didn’t know, I reckon,” Ira drawls from his chair.

Jo swallows, feeling dizzy. “No.”

“I didn’t take August for such a good secret keeper.”

August had a lot of long nights, and there always were deep lines around his eyes in the morning. Hollows on his cheeks. He seemed twice his age in that last year. The work he was doing must’ve been taking its toll. Why did he agree to something so abhorrent? Why didn’t he say anything? They would’ve found another way to make money. And now, she’s left all alone with this shameful discovery, and she isn’t certain anymore if there’s anything left in her that still loves August. Her sorrow is replaced with disgust. Her longing for him is replaced with rage. As the thoughts press in on her, stifling and angry, she cannot draw a full breath.

“Are you going to stop seeing Grace?” Ira taps the ash on the floor.

“Yes,” Jo says quietly. An outright lie.

“Good. I don’t appreciate difficult people.”

Jo nods because she also knows the price of being difficult. She knows the pain it inflicts.

“I won’t see her anymore.” Jo lifts her chin. “But don’t you think Grace is old enough to decide for herself who she wants to spend time with?”

“She’s old enough to be married next month.”

Grace never mentioned any wedding plans. “I’m happy for the girl, then.”

“Are you now?” A smirk stretches his thin lips. “You’re not good for Grace. She comes home full of ideas about having her own photography business one day. And that’s preposterous. She found a photography magazine and showed it to her mother, saying that one day she would have her own photography gallery. Because of you, she forgot that a woman’s place is with her family. Her husband and her children. At home.” He sighs and shakes his head. “She upsets Gertie. And when Gertie is upset . . . well. We all are. So, the next time Grace comes, you’ll tell her to go home and forget about photography.”

Jo thinks about Grace’s skinny shoulders, her elegant hands, and her bright-blue eyes that shine like sapphires in the sunlight when she smiles. Her dark bruises, and her fragile bones that can be shattered by a single blow. This is what happens to women when they let their guard down. When they trust people they shouldn’t. People who, instead of protecting them, steal their dreams and eventually their lives.

“Is that why you punish Grace? She refuses to listen to you, so you use your fists to pound your message into her bones?”

Ira freezes. His eyes widen. “What are you talking about?”

A sudden frost expands, chasing the heat away. Was she wrong all this time? “I’m talking about Grace’s bruises. Someone’s been hurting her.”

Ira stubs out his cigarette into Jo’s wooden vanity, leaving a burn mark as dark as his coal-black eyes. His fingers are shaking, and she cannot decide if it’s from anger or the shock of her words. Perhaps both. “Tell me everything you know.” There’s a promise of violence in his voice. Whether it’s directed at her or someone else, Jo isn’t certain. The only thing she’s certain about is that Ira isn’t the one hurting Grace.

Jo gets up, pours two glasses of whiskey, and hands one of the glasses to Ira. She drains hers with a few swigs, wiping her mouth with the corner of her shawl. Then she tells him about Grace. When she’s done, she asks, “Do you know who could be hurting her?”

Ira gets to his feet, pours some more whiskey for both of them. “Have you ever heard of Occam’s razor?” He hands her the glass.

Jo shakes her head.