Chapter 16
Hester looked around the tent, making a last check of the emptiness. Yes, everything was in the car. There was really no reason to stay any longer. She was leaving the place clean, with everything picked up and put in order. That was the least she could do after what had happened.
Tired, she put her hand to her face, feeling only a vestige of pain when she rubbed her eyes. That was the way it was now. She felt the fading throb only when her body was weary.
Two weeks had worked wonders for her battered features. The bruises were gone and so were the scratches. The tape had been removed from her nose and, except for having to be careful not to bump it by accident, everything seemed to be all right.
Except that everything was not all right. Things were absolutely miserable. She was miserable.
She had lost everything-her job at camp, her effectiveness as an agent, her home and, almost certainly, her husband. He hadn't called, hadn't come to see her at the hospital.
She had lost even more. She was no longer human. The great wave of hate which rose up against her at the time of the scandal had cut deeply-far more deeply than Candy's fists. She had been cut to the soul and exposed, to herself especially, for the "thing" she'd become.
There was no way to come back. Homosexuality was like a cancer as far as society was concerned. No one could be "cured." The stigma was always there, far worse than the shaved heads of the miserable wartime prostitutes who had collaborated with the enemy.
She walked from the tent and stood on the step, looking about the camp. The wind sighed in the trees, as though keening a mournful dirge for Hester St. Claire. The wooden sign over the gate creaked to and fro, its sound cutting into her vitals like a dull knife. It was a grinding, rasping sound, sad with the message that the winds of winter were upon them.
The tents were gone except for hers, and only plank floors and skeleton-like frames stood among the dark forest shadows. She stepped to the ground, the dust swirling about her ankles as she walked toward the car.
She reached it and looked inside. Her bags were stacked on the seat, along with her typewriter and the camp ledgers. She'd return them to the Treacher Foundation, and that chapter of her life would be closed forever.
She put her hand on the door, ready to drive away and never see this place again. Despite the recent awful memories, she would always have, she loved the Treacher Camp for Girls. Her willing acceptance of the supervisor post each year had not been completely selfish.
She had hurt some girls along the way, but she hoped she had helped others by exposing them to the better things of life. If only-she choked back a sob-if only she hadn't weakened and allowed herself to teach others so many filthy things...
She heard the car and opened her eyes, lifting her head. It was turning in the gate, and it looked familiar. The driver looked familiar, too. Somehow the silhouette in the shadows was like home.
"George!" she cried. It was her husband.
She waited while he braked the car and climbed out stiffly. He came to her and stopped, looking into her face, saying nothing.
At last he cleared his throat, wiping his hand across his mouth. "I wasn't going to come. I never wanted to see you again. But I'm here, Hester. I'm here for two reasons. I pray there's a chance we can do something for you. I've talked it over with friends at the hospital, and they're anxious for you to come in for a preliminary examination."
She nodded. "I'm willing to try." She forced herself to look into his face, choking back her shame. "What's the other reason?"
"It's selfish," he murmured. "I'm here because, despite the bad times, home is an empty place without you. Come back with me, and we'll try to fill it again." He coughed. "Get inside, I'll drive us back to town."
The car disappeared around a curve, and the only noise was the creaking sign. Somehow its sound seemed less lonesome now.