Steal the North: A Novel by Heather B Bergstrom Page A

especially not on someone as seemingly unscathed as Spencer. His hands are calloused from years of hard work, sure, which I greatly admire, even if he is the boss. But his heart has never been blistered, let alone calloused. His life, and he’d be the first to admit, has been pretty cushy. He’s made smart decisions, but also his parents gave him a huge leg up. He’s never been part of the great unwashed. He’s never been a single parent using WIC coupons at a grocery store while couples in line behind him flutter or huff. He’s never worried if a box of generic laundry soap will last until payday. He’s probably never spent a single Valentine’s Day alone—let alone ten in a row—pining for a first love, a blinking Appaloosa Inn sign, a shoddy motel room surrounded by a sea of wheat.
    I try to move away from Spencer. “I don’t need you,” I say. I’ve been struggling to convince myself of that since the day we met.
    He grabs my arm. “You need me, Kate. Feminist or not.” Now it’s his turn to laugh. “That’s what scares you. It’s always scared you.”
    I pull free. “Oh, but I don’t.” I gesture toward my books and furniture.
    “All I see is mismatched thrift store furniture,” he says. “It looks like a damn garage sale in here. I can provide better.”
    That is the first mean thing he’s ever said to me. I try to keep my voice steady as I reply, “Emmy and I do just fine.”
    “Emmy’s not here.
You
sent her away.”
    That hits me, hard. “She’ll—she’ll be back.”
    “It won’t be the same. I hope you realize that.”
    “Please leave.”
    “As soon as you tell me one thing about your childhood. One day. One moment. Let me in, Kate.” I don’t respond. I’m tired and afraid what I might confess. “One detail about Emmy’s dad then,” he says. “At least his name, so I can despise all men with that dickhead’s name.”
    “Fine,” I say. “I’ll let you in a bit. But remember
you
asked for it.” I hesitate because I am about to tell him everything, not just one thing, and it will probably be the end of us. I should shut the windows for privacy, but the cool breeze from the delta will help me not pass out. I press on my jaw once more to stall and to call forth my courage. I begin. “After Emmy’s dad—name of Jamie Kagen—took my virginity, then knocked me up, he dumped me. I was shunned, condemned as a
whore
from the church pulpit and by my father at home.” Spencer reaches for me. “Wait.” I put up my hand. I’m sweating despite the breeze on the back of my knees. “After I gave birth to Emmy, I waitressed at a truck stop café, where I also slept around for money.” His face flinches. “With nasty old men in their stinky truck cabs.” I’ve never told anyone other than Beth my secret. “It turns out I
was
a whore after all.” He closes his eyes. When he opens them, I continue. “I was only a few years older than Emmy. I let one bastard cut off my hair.” I tug at the ends of my bobbed hair. “And I’ve never grown it back out. I hocked my mother’s wedding ring to buy gas. I left my sister, who had turned her life upside down for us, and I wasn’t there when she lost baby after baby.” Spencer makes a noise in his throat. “Now leave,” I whisper. He doesn’t, so I turn away. “Please, Spencer. I want to be alone. Please go.”
    He seems unable to move or speak.
    Just as I have been unable to clear from my head, no matter how much literature I read, a certain Bible verse damning a harlot: “.
 . .
days of your youth, when you were naked and bare, struggling in
your blood
.”
There are plenty such verses. Biblical prophets blame harlots—not overzealous men, corrupt kings, jealous family members, or warring tribes—for the downfall of Israel.
    Finally Spencer speaks. “I love you more,” he says, then turns to leave.
    What does he mean, “more”? More than he did before I told him about being a hooker?
    More than I love him? Maybe I