Months now and yet what seemed to her much of her life in recent years adrift in a dream. Now it is my turn. Why should it not be my turn?
She was convinced, she loved Brett Kincaid more than her sister had loved him, or was capable of loving him.
Convinced He must know this!
That evening at Marcy Meyer’s house. That evening she’d come close to fainting seeing herself at the table with the others—with the females—Marcy who was her high school friend, Marcy’s mother, and Marcy’s grandmother—the food they’d eaten, the kitchen-smells, the familiar wallpaper, scented pink toilet paper in the guest bathroom adjacent to the dining room and the adults’ well-intentioned blundering questions And how is St. Lawrence University, Cressida? Did you enjoy your professors?
This life she found herself living—a half-life. At Canton, in early-morning solitary hikes along the St. Lawrence River she’d been happy, at unpredictable times—only when she’d forgotten her particular life; the (arbitrary, accidental) circumstances that boxed her in, like a trapped animal.
She’d been in love with Brett Kincaid, even then. Before returning at the end of the spring term.
Before seeing him again, so altered.
Himself and yet—altered.
So very difficult to comprehend—(she could imagine herself making this argument, in a public forum)—how if you feel very strongly, if you believe very strongly, with no doubt, that what you feel and believe is not true.
In “History of Science” at St. Lawrence their professor had lectured on hyper-selectionism. This was an evolutionary theory at odds with Darwin’s theory of evolution through the randomness of natural selection.
Darwin’s rival Alfred Russel Wallace had not finally believed in natural selection—this was too radical a belief, for the era. Wallace had believed that the brain of Homo sapiens is “overdesigned” and can’t be the consequence of random accidents—A superior intelligence must have guided the development of man in a definite direction.
In recent years, hyper-selectionism had been resurrected in conservative-American religious quarters as intelligent design.
Cressida knew, it was Darwin whom every intellectual and every scientist revered, and not Wallace. Cressida knew, it was very likely the randomness of life, and not the “design” of life, that triumphed.
Yet, her feeling for Brett Kincaid was so powerful, and so particular—it felt to her as if “overdesigned.”
Her secret, she had not told anyone. Of course, Cressida Mayfield wasn’t one to confide in anyone.
With Marcy Meyer she’d fabricated a shrewd-canny-cool Cressida-self who hadn’t given a damn for boys, and now didn’t give a damn for young men; a sarcastic girl who joked—(cruelly, unconscionably)—about those few boys who’d seemed to “like” her in high school. (Nothing so provoking of hoots of laughter as a stammered invitation Cressida had received from a boy in her advanced math class—a “fat slow slug” of a boy—to attend a school dance; or, invitations from girls perceived as even less popular than Cressida and Marcy, to have dinner at their houses, attend birthday parties, sleepovers.) Never would Cressida have confessed to Marcy how she felt about Brett Kincaid. Never hide her face in her hands, and weep—Oh God! I want to die, I love him so much.
(Cressida liked it that, however inarticulately, shyly, and meekly—Marcy Meyer adored her. She did not scorn Marcy Meyer outwardly but could not take Marcy altogether seriously, as a consequence. Dismissing her closest friend to her parents—Oh just Marcy! If nothing better comes up and I guess nothing better will, I’ll be seeing Marcy tonight.)
Thrilled then, in her mean little charcoal-lump of a heart, to be deceiving Marcy. Who’d expected Cressida to stay after dinner, after cleanup in the kitchen—(with which Cressida helped, of course how could Cressida fail to help however bored by this time with the Meyer household)—and watch a DVD. But Cressida had said she couldn’t stay late, she was planning to get up early to run/hike and to work on a new set of ink drawings, seeing the disappointment in her friend’s face—“I’ll give you a call. Maybe we can do something next week.”
Thrilled to think she was going out to Wolf’s Head Lake. She, Cressida Mayfield!
Marcy had tried to insist, of course she wanted to drive Cressida home—“It’s Saturday night. Lots of people are out. You know—bikers, from out of town. I’ll drive you.”
“No thanks! I want to walk.”
“But, Cressie . . .”
Fuck Cressie! I am not your fucking Cressie don’t think it.
Suddenly irritable she’d repeated no thanks, she wanted to walk.
As if to say Want to be alone. Have had enough of your bland banal boring conversation for one night.
Zeno had teased Cressida about making her (girl) friends cry. Since middle school Zeno had teased Cressida without seeming to realize, or to acknowledge, what it might mean if what he were teasing his daughter about were true.
Any girl has a crush on me, I will crush beneath my boots!
Don’t whine and blink at me, I’m not going to feel sorry for you.
And don’t call me “Cressie”—not so anyone can hear.
She’d said good night to Marcy and the others. Thanked them for a “wonderful dinner—as usual” and strode out the front walk as if propelled.
At last, free!
At last, she could breathe!
All evening she’d been thinking of Corporal Brett Kincaid. All day, all the previous night. Rehearsing how she would speak to him, and in what sort of voice.
Rehearsing what she’d say, hitching a ride out to Wolf’s Head Lake.
For it wasn’t so very unusual, if you didn’t have a car, or a ride.
At least, this was what Cressida had gathered. Easy to get a ride out, and a ride back, on a weekend night in summer.
Aged nineteen. Cressida Mayfield had not ever been at Wolf’s Head Lake at night.
Long she’d resented girls who’d been taken there, to the lakes, boating on the lakes and drinking parties, dancing at the lakeside taverns, Fourth of July fireworks. Miles away, back in Carthage, they’d seen how the sky at Wolf’s Head Lake had smoldered and brightened on the night of July Fourth and the sounds of detonations were like whiplashes in the flesh.
But though she’d resented these girls to whom boys and men were attracted, she would not have wished to be one of them. Cressida Mayfield was too vain and too proud of the Mayfield name to wish to trade places with anyone.
The smart one. And the one she’d come to resent most was the pretty one.
Still, Cressida wouldn’t have wished to trade places with Juliet. What she wanted was that she might remain herself, yet be admired, loved, adored as her sister was.
In the Roebuck, she sighted him. In actual life the injured corporal was not what you anticipated but another person with a raw-looking face, truculent and intimidating.
All that she’d rehearsed—Brett! Hello! Can I join you—melted from her.
She was frightened. She was confused. The noisy tavern had no charm. Rude-jostling men, a smell of men’s bodies—she’d made a mistake to come here.
Yet, there was Brett Kincaid. Blindly she made her way to him through the crowd that barely yielded to her, indifferent to her, or inhospitable.
Not a good-looking girl. Who asked you to come here. Who gives a fuck about you.
Seeing, not wanting to see, the look of surprise, chagrin and disapproval in the corporal’s face.
Even this face that was scarred, and stitched. Even this face with but one good eye in a ruin of a socket.
And his friends were there. His hateful friends.
Somehow it happened, she was sitting with Brett. Maybe he’d taken pity on her, or felt responsible for her—tugging at her wrist, embarrassed, saying sit here, Cressida. OK, Cressida.
Want a beer, Cressida?
Her head was ringing. It was very difficult to hear, in this clamorous place.
To speak, you had to shout. Had to l
ean to your companion, to shout in his ear.
She’d never anticipated this! Such noise, confusion . . .
Juliet who never complained of her fiancé had complained of these high school friends of Brett’s, who “took advantage” of him—who “weren’t worthy” of him. How Cressida feared them, disliked them—couldn’t recall their names, out of repugnance—as they stared at her in genuine surprise. And then, their leering smiles.
Jesus! Juliet’s sister—what’s-her-name.
Some weird name—Cassie? Cressie?
And soon she’d swallowed several mouthfuls of beer sharp and sour and vile-tasting and yet—how delicious it tasted, how thrilling, in this place with Corporal Brett Kincaid.
And no one knew where she was. No one at home.
Yet the Roebuck Inn was so loud, you couldn’t hear your own voice. To be heard by another you had to lean close to him, raise your voice, half-shouting, hoarse in his ear.
In her dream of Brett Kincaid, it had not been like this. In her dream Brett Kincaid and Cressida Mayfield had been together in a place of solitude and beauty and they had not needed to say much to each other.
In silence, they’d understood each other.
For it was so—obviously. They were soul mates.
Brett would understand. Brett had always known. Juliet had been a distraction to him, a detour. But now.
But now, Cressida heard her voice weakly faltering, plunging: “Brett? Maybe I could help you? The way Juliet did? Drive you to the hospital?—‘rehab’? Please? I’m serious. I want to help. Or if you needed—I don’t know—some kind of medical help—blood transfusion, kidney—bone marrow transplant”—these bizarre words tumbling from Cressida’s mouth though she’d never considered such remarks before—“or if you plan on going to college, somebody was saying maybe Plattsburgh?—I could drive you there, I mean like to visit the campus, or to register—it isn’t so far from St. Lawrence where I—I’m—” (In his disfigured face an expression of shock, and of insult beyond shock so she’d wanted to plead Why don’t you help me? Why won’t you smile at me? You know me—Cressida.)
Later, she was making her way—unsteady on her feet, swaying—to the women’s room.
She was sick in the women’s room. Or maybe—almost sick.
Splattering with water the front of the little striped-white cotton sweater, with tiny pearl buttons, that had once belonged to Juliet.
Then later. Wishing that his friends—Rod, Stump, Jimmy—would go away.
Telling Brett she was OK, she was fine. He didn’t have to worry about her getting home.
And Brett told her they were leaving now. He was driving her home.
In the parking lot. Amid a deafening din of motorcycles.
Men’s voices, shouts and raw ribald laughter.
Telling him she didn’t need him, thank you. As he was escorting her to the Jeep Wrangler.
Telling him no. God damn she didn’t want his charity.
Don’t be ridiculous, he said.
She would go with—someone else. Get a ride back to Carthage with someone else.
No, he said. You will not.
It wasn’t a quarrel. Yet possibly the two were observed by witnesses in the parking lot of the Roebuck Inn, sometime past midnight.
Corporal Kincaid in black T-shirt, khakis speaking earnestly with the younger Mayfield sister. Helping her up into the cab of his Jeep. The girl had seemed just slightly resistant. Her knees were weak, she’d seemed to lose balance and so had to clutch at his arm to keep from falling.
Her voice was slurred as she tried to explain to him—exactly what she could not have said.
DON’T WANT YOU get away you disgust me.
These words he’d uttered. These terrible words, she would never forget.
She would think Like napalm. Sticking to flesh.
In the Preserve. Somehow this had happened.
Along the unpaved road north of the river. High overhead a faint, fading moon.
Somehow, they’d come here. It was clear that Brett had driven them here of his own volition.
Things they had to talk about, in private. The broken engagement, and Juliet.
And yet she’d said again—she’d pleaded—how alike they were—soul mates. And how rare this was in life, and how precious.
He’d seemed to understand. He’d seemed to be listening to her.
Then, he’d recoiled.
No. This is crazy. Get away.
Hadn’t meant to hurt her. In surprise and revulsion pushing her from him.
And she struck at him as a child might strike.
Striking at an adult in all confidence that the blow won’t be returned. But Brett pushed her away angrily, irritably—struck her head against the windshield, bloodying her nose.
So quickly this happened! So quickly, and irrevocably.
Calm-seeming and then in an instant out of control. For he wasn’t well—this wasn’t the corporal’s right mind.
Knew better, Christ he had to know better. Mixing alcohol with his meds.
Drinking, and psychoactive drugs, and driving a vehicle—the Jeep Wrangler, Brett Kincaid was no longer licensed to drive.
He knew this. And he knew, the girl had to be protected, driven home—safely home.
Though they’d expelled him from their family yet the Mayfields were his family, still. For he had no other family.
Except, the weird sensations in his brain were making him crazy. Hallucinatory faces darting and dissolving. Had to defend himself—(but where was his rifle?)—since they would kill him otherwise.
Loyalty. Duty. Respect.
Service. Honor. Integrity.
Personal Courage.
She was one of them, a menacing shape. Or—the one he’d hurt badly, smashed and bloodied her face.
Yet—it had not been him.
Corporal Kincaid hadn’t been one of the guys. Except if they lied, to incriminate him.
Out of spite, and hatred of him.
It was puzzling to him, why this girl—why so furious at him. Spiteful and crazy and her nails clawing his face.
He’d had to protect himself. He’d gripped her skinny shoulders, and shoved her.
But now, she was free of him. She’d squirmed free of him. The little cotton sweater, one of the sleeves ripped and a little pearl button torn off.
She’d fallen onto the ground clumsy and desperate. She was crying, she was screaming at him. Hate hate hate you I hate you as a child would scream not knowing what she said.
Did she believe that he would hurt her? Kill her? Or, did she believe that he detested her so much, he wished he could be rid of her forever; and now she’d thrown herself out of the cab of the Jeep and onto the rocky ground and her hands and knees were bleeding.
He was calling to her. He was leaning out the opened door of the Jeep calling to her. Now frightened, repentant. In his confusion thinking that the Jeep had been in motion and that the girl had thrown herself out of the speeding vehicle to injure herself and to spite him who could not love her as she wished to be loved.
Calling to her, Cressida! Come back!
But she was gone. He saw only the underbrush, the glittering river. Trying to follow her. Meant to follow her. His bad leg clumsy as a wooden leg and his head pounding with pain and what strength he had drained from him leaving him helpless.
Wracked with pain, and shame.
Inside his brain a coin-sized hole opened. And then it opened farther like a well fascinating to see for it was the antithesis of visible—it was no-color, purely black.
Sucked the corporal inside.
She saw: in the river her body rushed downstream. Her clothes were torn from her.
Naked female body fish-pale turning in the frothy current amid sharp-glistening rocks.
Never the one loved. Never the one adored.
Better, then. Better to be carried away in the river like trash, and gone.
AND SO THE SURPRISE of waking, being wakened. Not in th
e riverbed but in a roadside ditch where she’d stumbled out of the Preserve on the ruins of an old asphalt road.
Mosquitoes whining in her face, through the long night. Bites, swellings on all the surfaces of her body.
Her limbs were knotted together. Her mouth and her nose had been bloodied. Her face looked as if it had been ground into the dirt. The tall woman crouched over her astonished. Who did this to you?
She could not speak. Her eyes were part-shut. She was trembling convulsively. She was very cold. The long-limbed woman touched her, hesitantly.
The swollen mouth, grotesque. The bloodied nose.
Can’t talk? Hey.
Maybe take her to—where? ER?
Like hell. Like fuckin hell no fuckin ER.
Looks like they dumped her. Like out of a car . . .
Face looks broke. Lemme wash that blood away.
Should call 911?
Fuckin sheriff like fuckin hell! Deliverin her to the enemy!
Well—if she’s hurt bad . . . If she needs like an X-ray—could be her skull is fractured?
Like hell I’m gonna deliver this girl to the hands of the enemy! No fuckin way.
Seems like she can’t talk? Maybe she is deaf, too.
A plastic water-bottle held to her mouth. But most of the water ran down her chin, she couldn’t swallow.
Try to drink, see? Could be you are de-hy-drate-ed.
And so she’d tried. But another time most of the lukewarm water ran down her chin.
In a voice of cold quavering fury saying to her where she lay curled upon herself in the wet grasses, Whoever hurt you like this will hurt you again. I know those fuckers. I know their kind. You can’t go back. You can’t press charges—bear witness—against them. I’ve seen other girls like you. Fuckin sheriff says get a fuckin injunction—nobody gives a fuck what happens to you. He will hurt you again, he will murder you. Don’t be afraid, girl—I will protect you.