Chapter 9
Jud
He hadn't thought he'd go back to the smokehouse again, at least not as often as he did. But there he was, same as before, sitting on the edge of his narrow bed, surrounded by all his things, things he didn't even remember buying, mostly, but they made him feel safe, more insulated from his pain than he did outside. There was a bottle of whiskey on the table, French postcards in his hands. It wasn't so much that he liked looking at their bodies; last couple of weeks, he just wanted to see a girl smile at him for a change.
They looked so sweet, but if they knew what he'd done—if they met him in real life— they wouldn't smile at him like that, they'd hate him the way he deserved. But as long as he had their pictures, they didn't have a choice but to smile at him. He immediately skipped past pictures where the girls were looking sad, scared, or sultry, he just wanted to see the ones who looked glad to see him, like they wanted to be his friend, if they weren't already.
He took a swig from the bottle, and flipped to one of his favorite pictures. The girl was lying on her stomach on a plush couch, looking over her shoulder. The pose wasn't even flattering, but he liked the worldly look she had, a little bit naughty, like she was up for any sort of suggestion and wouldn't even be shocked by it. Maybe a girl like that would realize he'd just loved Laurey; wouldn't have done what he did if he hadn't loved her so much. He had to rescue her, or do something crazy like that was no other way to make her love him too. There had to be some girl out there who would understand.
Besides, it had been El Gallo's idea in the first place, not Jud's. Maybe El Gallo had done it to countless other women who'd been happy with his services, who had enjoyed being ravished like that and thought it was funny or romantic when their husbands confessed the truth. Or even if they didn't enjoy it, maybe other ladies didn't mind as much as Laurey—she always was a little hysterical. El Gallo was the one who had actually…done what he did, and Jud still saved her. He could have up and left if he'd wanted, and let El Gallo just keep going. Really, Laurey should be grateful that he had saved her at all.
Dizzy from drink, he lay down, and the unbidden image of Laurey's ravishment—he couldn't think that other word—played out, clear as if he'd photographed it that night. Now, the memory of her crying with her shirt torn open was revolting, he couldn't even remember how he'd found it exciting, or why he used to think about it while he touched himself on the nights leading to their wedding. Couldn't remember why he sometimes thought about it when they were first married, even though he had her in front of him to look at and touch and kiss.
The terror on her face, the nights of sobbing, the way she started at every little noise, he'd done all that to her and called it love. Some folks would probably call it the opposite. He wouldn't do it now, at least. Not now that they'd shared so much, danced together, laughed and cried and everything in between together. But there was no good way to explain that to her, that he had effectively raped her, ruined her life, but started loving her so much in the aftermath that he wouldn't do it again. No woman could understand that, not really, not even a French postcard girl lying on her couch.
The sound of the dinner bell woke him, and he staggered back to the farmhouse. He knew he was visibly drunk, even as he tried to walk straight, but couldn't find it in himself to care.
