“Controversial in what way?”
I told her.
“And you’re saying this was a best-seller?”
“Yes.”
“I’m embarrassed not to know about it.” Bending, she peered into the crate.
I said, “Did Hope talk about anything else the day she visited?”
She’d countered several direct questions by changing the subject and I expected her to do it again. Instead she came back, sat, and looked right at me.
“She told me Lottie tied her up.”
Her lip trembled.
I sat there, shrink-calm. My heart raced.
“When?” I said. “Why?”
“When she was little and Lottie had to leave her alone for long stretches. Also when Lottie brought men home.”
“Tied her up how?”
“In her room. To her bed. The headboard. Remember I said it was a two-room cabin? One was Hope’s bedroom, the other, Lottie’s. Lottie used a dog leash and a bicycle lock, fastened it to the headboard, locked her in.”
“How long did this go on?”
“Years. I never knew, Hope never complained. Thank God there was never a fire. When Hope told me I was outraged but she kept telling me it was okay, there was no abuse, Lottie always left her plenty of food and drinks, toys, books, a radio, a potty. Later a TV. Hope didn’t seem the least bit angry talking about it. Kept telling me it was okay, Lottie had been doing what she thought was best.”
“Then why’d she bring it up?”
“She said she was worried about Lottie. The things Lottie had done to support the two of them. The things Lottie was still allowing men to do to her.”
“Lottie was still bringing men home?”
“Guys she met at the Blue Barn and other places. Regulars, Hope called them. She and Lottie had moved into a nice-sized house in Bakersfield by then, and the arrangement was that Lottie would hang one of those Privacy tags you get at a hotel from her bedroom doorknob when she was working. Hope was always supposed to come in through the kitchen door, check the knob. If the sign was hanging, she had to go straight to her room and stay there til Lottie told her the coast was clear.”
“More confinement.”
She nodded. “Even so, she could sometimes hear what was going on.”
Rubbing her eyes, she said, “And I mean besides sex. Screams. Sometimes there were marks on Lottie.”
“Bruises?”
“And rope burns on her wrists and ankles. Lottie used makeup to cover them but Hope saw them anyway.”
“So Lottie was getting tied up, herself.”
“Can you imagine? That’s what I meant by despite her home life.”
“Did Hope talk to her mother about it?”
“She said no, as if it were a ridiculous question. “Of course not, Mrs. Campos. She’s my mother!’ ”
“But she talked about it openly.”
“Yes . . . but then she cut it off. I think she really wanted to unload all the way, but just couldn’t. I never saw her again.” Again, she looked at the cuckoo clock.
“What was her demeanor when she told you all this?” I said.
“Calm, except when she cried about Lottie. Worried about Lottie getting hurt by a . . . customer. She rationalized what Lottie did by saying she had no education and skills and she was just trying to support the two of them the best way she knew how. So what could I say to that? Face it, child, Momma’s a tramp? I knew she had to be hurting. Still, a prisoner in her own home—can you see bringing friends home to a place like that? I tried to get her to talk about her feelings but she wouldn’t go for it.”
“Poor kid.”
“Yes, but to look at her you’d never know it. Beautiful, poised, perfect hair, the right amount of makeup. And Lottie was obviously still spending on her clothes. Silk blouse, nice wool suit, nylons, pumps. She could’ve passed for twenty. A young lady. And she made a point of telling me she was getting straight A’s at Bakersfield, honor society every semester.”
“School was probably the only place she felt free,” I said, realizing how far Hope really had come.
Getting past the fear and the shame and the isolation only to lose her life on a dark, empty street. I felt a tightening in my chest, at the back of my throat.