Fight for your right

Betty doesn't tell you where she goes at night, but after a few bruises on her face, you can guess. She's been going out boxing again. You don't know why; you don't ask why. She has a right to privacy, and you've invaded it enough by taking up room in her house. She doesn't answer to you. She does, however, let you ice her bruises, she sits still under your scrutinising gaze and once, your nimble fingers stitching the edges of a cut on her arm together. You apologise the entire time, and each time you dig the needle into her skin because you know how it feels to be on the other side of the thread.

You always tell her where you're going. You owe her that much; she tried so hard to keep you safe that you feel you have to let her continue to do so. If it's late, she'll pick you up outside the club and walk you home, hackles raised like a skinny street-cat if men cat-call after you down the street from the club.

One night there's a knock at the door and Betty is unceremoniously dropped on the doorstep. You help her into the house. It's bad this time; one eye is swollen shut.

You half-drag, half-carry her to the couch. You fill a pail in the kitchen, warm water, no soap and bring a clean cloth to the lounge before you go upstairs to start the long process of filling the bathtub. She doesn't always let you wipe the blood from her skin; she washes it off after the ice, but tonight she lies still as you wipe the cloth over her face. You're gentle, especially over her eye, and she barely flinches. There is dirt in the wound. You'd think they'd sweep up the ring more often. Her hair is matted with blood. Down on her scalp is a tiny nick but there is a lot of blood. You clean up as best you can, but she'll need that bath that's still running and some antiseptic. There goes your nice quiet night. You move methodically down her face.

Her lip is split. There's dirt and blood in her mouth and you've never asked why she still feels compelled to do this. She has her house, and you're safe in it. She has no need to do this.

The cloth is too clumsy and the bucket water is already dirty. You bring her a cup of water and get her to rinse and spit in the bucket.

You empty the bucket, fill it again. You rinse out the cloth and go back to her lip.

The cloth is still too clumsy. You wet your fingers in the bucket, bring them to the cut. The blood starts to run again in the water, but you're used to dealing with wounds.

Usually they're your own.

You're being as gentle as you can but there is dirt in there and after what sepsis did to Archie, you aren't taking any chances. Your fingers of one hand hold the wound open while the fingers of the other dribbles water over it. You run your forefinger over the cut until you're satisfied.

Betty, meanwhile, has put up no resistance. Her face is limp and tired in your hands. She eventually pushes you away. You click your tongue at her, reach forward but she pushes you away again.

"Please," is all she says, so you nod and turn to her skinned knee and knuckles instead, pretending not to notice where the hardened nubs of her nipples are pressed against the singlet she's still wearing.

She usually comes home in her street clothes. In the morning you'll have to find out where this boxing ring is and retrieve her clothes. The shorts they make the boxers wear really are too short, you think, as you run your fingers over a bruise on her thigh. She whimpers then, draws herself into a ball.

In the meantime, you have to check on the bath. You go upstairs to turn the faucet off and when you come down Betty is pretending to be asleep on the couch. You've watched her sleep too many times to fall for it; there's too much tension in her spine. You try to bundle her into your arms; she's little more than skin and bones these days, no matter how you try to spice up her meals, something to do with weight classes.

She's still a little heavy for that, or you've become unaccustomed to carrying heavy things, so you pull her upright and drag her up the stairs as kindly as you can.

You shut the bathroom door behind you, even though you're both in there and the front door is locked. You're creating the illusion of privacy, you suppose, and lift Betty's singlet over her head. It's been so long since you showered with her at the factory that her body seems unfamiliar to you now. Certainly there wasn't so many ribs before. There's a cruel bruise in between her shoulder blades, a coward's punch, you think to yourself.

You help her off with the shorts, then help her slip into the tub before leaving. You don't want to invade her privacy any more than you already have.

It's when you're emptying the bucket over the garden that you remember the way her lips felt under your fingers, so soft and warm and wet. You'd never touched Ivan's mouth; you'd never seen a need to, but you can tell, you can remember how full Betty's lips are compared to his.

You drop the bucket, scurry inside.

You have to help Betty out of the tub, and she is considerably less dressed than you left her. It's no real surprise to you, her body; you used to shower together.

But you never had to touch her like this then. Your hands second-guess themselves, you try to grasp some safe flesh but everything you touch feels dangerous. You end up letting Betty hold steady onto you and climb out herself. You wrap her in a towel, and she feels like a broken bird, like the chickens your father would bring back to the trailer for you to pluck, neck snapped, all bones and limp.

You help her limp back to her room, then pick out some underwear, which she wriggles on under the towel before sitting on the edge of the bed. You gently towel her hair and she surprises you by leaning her head against you where your rib cage tapers to belly. Your dress is dampening but you run your fingers through the short hair at the nape of her neck. She pulls away eventually without looking at you.

You fetch the antiseptic from her dressing table, surprised she's still letting you look after her. It takes a few moments to locate the cut on her scalp, but you dose it well. Her left eye is still swollen but there is little you can do about that. You skip over her mouth and tend to her knee. She remains still, just watching.

You finish with her knee and swallow.

"Be careful not to swallow this," you caution her gently. Then you dab your finger in the antiseptic and bring it to her mouth.

Her lips are still so unbelievably soft and damp and warm. Her breath filters out around your finger and eventually her top lip comes down, lightly trapping your finger as she swallows. She breathes out again and you remove your shaking hand from her face, withdraw your tingling finger from her mouth.

"That was the last payment," Betty says finally, while you stare at her mouth.

You nod and retreat from her room.

You know what people were saying about the two of you when you moved in with Betty. You'd ceased to care. You know her heart; she laid it bare for you and no evil lies therein. People can believe what they want, but Betty has her home, which is a haven to her. And you have Betty, who is in turn your haven. And there's no crime in that. There's a crime in what they think you are to each other, but Betty's done her time.

You never felt as safe as you did the day you were all moved in and Betty closed and locked the front door to her house behind her with such a sense of pride. Everything bad was out there, and everything good was in here, and nothing could cross the threshold without Betty's say-so. And that was worth a few funny looks here and there.

You didn't think you'd see Gladys as often, since you quit the factory work, since she became some sort of secret agent, but she drops by when she's in town, she bunks with Betty, or on the sofa and she looks at you considering, as if she's wanting to ask a question you both know but can't put into words.

You don't know what you'd tell her, if she asked. Betty's always been monumental to you, but you're still figuring out how you feel about the sacrifices she's made for you, how you feel about Ivan (you feel like you'll turn a corner in this city and he'll look up, smiling, like he used to and you know he's dead but the sight of a head of curly red hair makes you ache), how you feel about letting her take the fall for your father's. It's so complicated, and the memory of your fingers on her lips doesn't make it any less so.

You'd always been so black and white. Right was right, and wrong was wrong. Now you can see a few wrongs can be justified in the pursuit of the eradication of evil, but your moral compass still spins dizzily, sways back and forth over past decisions.

You'd be relieved, you tell yourself, if Betty just moved on. If that bond girl came back, or Betty bought someone home and you could hear girlish whispers and stifled giggles from her room. She's a responsibility you don't think you'll ever be ready to take on. But she looks at you, when she thinks you're not looking, not paying attention, and her face softens and you can feel her mask slip a little, you feel yourself melt a little. You remember her hand in your hair in the hospital bed, Ivan's screams echoing through the bustling halls.

She never expects anything from you; not even rent. You try to have breakfast ready for her in the morning, and dinner on the table by the time you leave for the club and she looks surprised every morning as you pour her coffee. She'll tell you gruffly that you didn't have to go to all that trouble, but you just smile and tell her it's no trouble. You have to pay her back somehow.

You can't really tell, most of the time, the difference between your affection for her, and your gratitude to her. Alone in your room, you bring your finger to your own mouth but your own lips feel hard and dry and disappointing.

If that was the last payment for the house, then that means Betty won't have to fight again, which means this was probably your last opportunity to touch her like this, to tend to her wounds, to touch her mouth without raising her suspicion. You're glad she won't be coming home beaten any more, but you'll miss having a reason to touch her.