You've been living a while with Betty in her house when you find yourself drawn to her bedroom when you wake at night. At first you just stood at the closed door, listening to her breathe on the other side, knowing you hadn't earned an invitation. You owe her enough for the largest bedroom in her little house, the one above the kitchen that keeps a little heat; the room Betty obstinately didn't want.

When you get a paying gig, you try to buy something nice; a steak that's more meat than fat, a carton of cigarettes, some fabric that you turn into curtains because Betty won't take rent from you which is just as well because paying gigs don't come along that often. Still, you tell yourself, you're pursuing your dream.

You still dream.

You still dream of an alleyway, of a never-ending fight. You dream of Betty in jail; Betty in the boxing ring, Betty's face beaten and defeated. You've seen the last often enough that it haunts you and one night you push her almost-closed door open just to check her face.

It's not bruised. It's open with sleep and her lips hang loosely. Her knuckles, where they clutch the quilt, are smooth and scarred. But you know she's always ready to pick a fight, ready to defend what she thinks is defenseless (usually you) and by now, well, you're already in her room. By now you can't face the thought of your own (slightly smaller) bed. You need to make sure she's here, that she's real, that she won.

That you won.

That you won her.

The thought flits through your mind and you don't let yourself dwell on it as you raise a corner of the quilt and slip under it. You just need a reminder, you tell yourself, just a reminder that your father is dead and Betty is alive and not in jail and doesn't hate you and isn't out in a boxing ring but is here in the house she bought .

The house she bought, you think sometimes, for you.

You usually wake up before Betty; you're used to waking at dawn with a policeman's knock on the trailer door asking your father to move on (like a gypsy or something, he'd say, once the policeman was carefully out of earshot). The point is, you wake up before Betty and you feel embarrassed by your need the night before so you get up before she asks a question you can't quite answer.

The next night, you don't dream, but you find yourself outside her door again. It takes a long time for you to go back to your own room.

It turns into a regular thing. You dream, you wake, you go to Betty who manages to comfort you even in sleep. Sometimes you're nearly sure she's awake when you come in, but her eyes are always closed, and any contact you need from her you have to initiate herself. You pull her arm over you, when she's facing you, or if she's facing the other way, you curl into her back, woolen socks finding their way between her feet. You might even rest a tentative hand on her torso.

Sometimes you find yourself in her room when you've finished your book, or the paper that she hoards at night, not even giving you a glimpse of it until you sneak your head under her arm and onto her shoulder. You can only read the page she's reading and she reads slower than you (but then, the only book you learnt to read was the Bible, and your learning was heavily facilitated by blows from a belt at any misspelled or misspoken word.) You get bored, and watch her read, thinking to yourself that if you get another show, maybe you can finally afford a record player, or a radio, or something that's more entertaining than Betty's heartbeat beneath your ear. But when she shakes you off, you miss it.

You don't wait for the dreams any more. You know they're coming, night after night. It doesn't seem fair; it was such a long time ago. you feel like you've paid your penance, that this should be over. That your brain should finally accept that he's really dead and won't come bursting into Betty's house in the middle of the night, belt wrapped around the knuckles of one hand.

He can't hurt you physically anymore. But mentally? You're beginning to accept those scars take longer to heal than the simple ones on your back, the ones that Betty's fingers read like a map when she thinks you're asleep.

You've started having nightmares in Betty's bed now, which is ridiculous. She's right there, you can tell she's not hurt or dangling limply from your father's cold dead hands. But it's better than before now, because she wakes, and she holds you, and she holds you like no one has ever held you, not even your mother except in stolen moments ('you'll coddle the child!' your father would yell) and when her hands wander the interesting landscape of your back you feel like she's sliding pieces of you into place. You meet her eyes, and you know you haven't been stealthy enough to escape her notice, that she knows that you regularly slip into her bed without her permission but in that moment she knows why and her eyes are full of sympathy and comfort and something else you're not quite ready to name. Where your hand rest on her back, the skin is smooth beneath her flannel pajamas. It feels like redemption, it feels safe and if heaven is anything like this, well you might have to try to end up there.

It takes months, but you finally bite back your fear of rejection. (Betty has never rejected you. She only stayed away when she got out of jail because she didn't want to remind you of the stench of your father that she thought clung to her. She only smells like cordite, now and then; yes, you do associate her with your father, but she's so much more than that. She reminds you of finally being free more than that action that bought that about. She reminds you that greater love has no man than he would lay down his life for a friend. If she can be that kind of friend to you, maybe it's time to stop being scared and lay out your life for her. You're an orphan, but Betty's all the family you need.)

You were singing 'I'm getting sentimental over you', and you thought of what Betty would be doing at this hour, padding around in the clunky socks you knit her ('I like them!' she protested when you tried to take them back so you could fix the heel), making a cup of tea and reading the paper in her dressing gown, and you found that you were getting a little sentimental, a little lonely. Song after song, you couldn't keep Betty out of your mind.

So you take her hand and you ask her if you can stay with her. She smirks a little but acquiescences to your request. She reminds you that what she is hasn't changed, and you look her blankly in the eyes and remind her that you're a murderer (man-slaughterer); you won't be passing any judgement. You let out a breath that you didn't know you were holding, and lead her up the stairs, once she's finished her milk. (You wouldn't know it too look at her, but she loves a glass of milk at night. Like a cat, you think absently, feet feeling for familiar steps.)

She looks so nervous in her own room, in her own bed that you're almost sorry you asked. But then you lie next to her and tangle your limbs together like you've been longing to for weeks. Months, maybe. Since before she won a house in a boxing match (you're still not sure how that worked).
She feels like she's frozen with terror, so you take her chin and turn her face to yours. She tastes like freedom and hope, and milk, and you wonder why you didn't do this earlier.

Companion piece to 'Read your skin like braille'.

Thanks for the condolences. Writing is helping.