" 'Because you couldn't keep it a secret,' " she said dully. " 'Because if it's going to come out, Jessie, it's better for both of us that it should come out now, rather than a week from now, or a month from now, or a year from now. Even ten years from now.' "
How well he had manipulated her--first the apology, then the tears, and finally the hat-trick: turning his problem into her problem. Br'er Fox, Br'er Fox, whatever else y'all do, don't th'ow me in dat briar patch! Until, finally, she had been swearing to him that she would keep the secret forever, that torturers couldn't drag it out of her with tongs and hot coals.
She could in fact remember promising him something just like that through a rain of hot, frightened tears. Finally he had stopped shaking his head and had only looked across the room with his eyes narrowed and his lips pressed tightly together--this she saw in the mirror, as he almost surely knew she would.
"You could never tell anyone," he'd said at last, and Jessie remembered the swooning relief she'd felt at those words. What he was saying was less important than the tone in which he was saying it. Jessie had heard that tone a good many times before, and knew it drove her mother crazy that she, Jessie, could cause him to speak that way more often than Sally herself. I'm changing my mind, it said. I'm doing it against my better judgment, but I am changing it; I'm swinging around to your side.
"No," she had agreed. Her voice was wavery, and she had to keep gulping back tears. "I wouldn't tell, Daddy--not ever."
"Not just your mother," he said, "but anyone. Ever. That's a big responsibility for a little girl, Punkin. You might be tempted. For instance, if you were studying with Caroline Cline or Tammy Hough after school, and one of them told you a secret of hers, you might want to tell--"
"Them? Never-Never-Never!"
And he must have seen the truth of it on her face: the thought of either Caroline or Tammy finding out that her father had touched her had filled Jessie with horror. Satisfied on that score, he had pushed on to what she now guessed must have been his chief concern.
"Or your sister." He pushed her back from him and looked sternly down into her face for a long moment. "There could come a time, you see, when you wanted to tell her--"
"Daddy, no, I'd never--"
He gave her a gentle shake. "Keep quiet and let me finish, Punkin. You two are close, I know that, and I know that girls sometimes feel an urge to share things they ordinarily wouldn't tell. If you felt that way with Maddy, could you still manage to keep quiet?"
"Yes!" In her desperate need to convince him, she had begun to cry once more. Of course it was more likely that she would tell Maddy--if there was anyone in the world to whom she might one day confide such a desperate secret, it would be her big sister ... except for one thing. Maddy and Sally shared the same sort of closeness Jessie and Tom had shared, and if Jessie ever told her sister about what had happened on the deck, the chances that their mother would know before the day was out were very good. Given that insight, Jessie thought she could quite easily withstand the temptation to tell Maddy.
"Are you really sure?" he had asked doubtfully.
"Yes! Really!"
He'd begun to shake his head again in a regretful way that terrified her all over again. "I just think, Punkin, that it might be better to get it out in the open right away. Take our medicine. I mean, she can't kill us--"
Jessie, however, had heard her anger when Daddy had asked that she be excused from the trip to Mount Washington ... and anger wasn't all. She didn't like to think of it, but at this point she could not afford the luxury of denial. There had been jealousy and something very close to hatred in her mother's voice, as well. A vision, momentary but of paralyzing clarity, had come to Jessie as she stood with her father in the bedroom doorway, trying to persuade him to hold his peace: the two of them cast out on the road like Hansel and Gretel, homeless, tramping back and forth across America ...
... and sleeping together, of course. Sleeping together at night.
She had broken down utterly then, weeping hysterically, begging him not to tell, promising him she would be a good girl forever and ever if he just wouldn't tell. He had let her cry until he must have felt the moment was exactly right, and then he had said gravely: "You know, you've got an awful lot of power for a little girl, Punkin."
She had looked up at him, cheeks wet and eyes full of fresh hope.
He nodded slowly, then began to dry her tears with the towel he had used on his own face. "I've never been able to refuse you anything that you really wanted, and I can't this time, either. We'll try it your way."
She threw herself into his arms and began covering his face with kisses. Somewhere far back in her mind she had been afraid this might (get him going)
start trouble again, but her gratitude had completely overwhelmed such caution, and there had been no trouble.
"Thank you! Thank you, Daddy! Thank you!"
He had taken her by the shoulders and held her at arm's length again, smiling instead of grave this time. But that sadness had still been on his face, and now, almost thirty years later, Jessie didn't think that expression had been part of the show. The sadness had been real, and that somehow made the terrible thing he had done worse instead of better.
"I guess we have a bargain," he said. "I say nothing, you say nothing. Right?"
"Right!"
"Not to anyone else, not even to each other. Forever and ever, amen. When we walk out of this room, Jess, it never happened. Okay?"
She had agreed at once, but at the same time the memory of that smell had recurred to her, and she had known there was at least one question she had to ask him before it never happened.
"And there's something I need to say once more. I need to say I'm sorry, Jess. I did a shabby, shameful thing. "
He had looked away when he said that, she remembered. All the time he had been deliberately driving her into hysterics of guilt and fear and impending doom, all the time he had been making sure she would never say anything by threatening to tell everything, he had looked right at her. When he offered that last apology, however, his gaze had shifted to the crayon designs on the sheets which divided the room. This memory filled her with something that felt simultaneously like grief and rage. He had been able to face her with his lies; it was the truth which had finally caused him to look away.
She remembered opening her mouth to tell him he didn't have to say that, then closing it again--partly because she was afraid anything she said might cause him to change his mind back again, but mostly because, even at ten, she had realized she had a right to an apology.
"Sally's been cold--it's the truth, but as an excuse it's pretty sad shit. I don't have the slightest idea what came over me." He had laughed a little, still not looking at her. "Maybe it was the eclipse. If it was, thank God we'll never see another one." Then, as if speaking to himself: "Christ, if we keep our mouths shut and she finds out anyway, later on--"
Jessie had put her head against his chest and said, "She won't. I'll never tell, Daddy." She paused, then added, "What could I tell, anyway?"
"That's right." He smiled. "Because nothing happened."
"And I'm not . . . I mean, I couldn't be . . ."
She had looked up, hoping he might tell her what she needed to know without her asking, but he only looked back at her, eyebrows raised in a silent interrogative. The smile had been replaced by a wary, waiting expression.
"I couldn't be pregnant, then?" she blurted.
He winced, and then his face had tensed as he worked to suppress some strong emotion. Horror or grief, she'd thought then; it was only all these years later that it occurred to her that what he might actually have been trying to control was a burst of wild, relieved laughter. At last he had gotten himself under control and kissed the tip of her nose.
"No, honey, of course not. The thing that makes women pregnant didn't happen. Nothing like that happened. I was wrestling with you a little, that's ait--"
"And you goosed me." She remembered saying that
very clearly now. "You goosed me, that's what you did."
He had smiled. "Yep. That's close enough. You're just as fine as ever, Punkin. Now, what do you think? Does that close the subject?"
She had nodded.
"Nothing like this is ever going to happen again--you know that, don't you?"
She nodded again, but her own smile had faltered. What he was saying should have relieved her, and it did, a little, but something in the gravity of his words and the sorrow on his face had almost sparked her panic again. She remembered taking his hands and squeezing them as hard as she could. "You love me, though, don't you, Daddy? You still love me, right?"
He had nodded and told her he loved her more than ever.
"Then hug me! Hug me hard!"
And he did, but now Jessie could remember something else: his lower body had not touched hers.
Not then and never again, Jessie thought. Not that I remember, anyway. Even when I graduated from college, the only other time I saw him cry over me, he gave me one of those funny old-maid hugs, the kind you do with your ass poaching out so there isn't even a chance you can bump crotches with the person you're hugging. Poor, poor man. I wonder if any of the people he did business with over the years ever saw him as rattled as I saw him on the day of the eclipse. All that pain, and over what? A sexual accident about as serious as a stubbed toe. Jesus, what a life it is. What a fucking life.
She began to pump her arms slowly up and down again almost without being aware of it, only wanting to keep the blood flowing into her hands, wrists, and forearms. She guessed it was probably eight o'clock by now, or almost. She had been chained to this bed for eighteen hours. Incredible but true.
Ruth Neary's voice spoke up so suddenly that it made her jump. It was filled with disgusted wonder.
You're still making excuses for him, aren't you? Still letting him off the hook and blaming yourself, after all these years. Even now. Amazing.
"Quit it," she said hoarsely. "None of that has the slightest goddam thing to do with the mess I'm in now--"
What a piece of work you are, Jessie!
"--and even if it did," she went on, raising her voice slightly, "even if it did, it doesn't have the slightest goddam thing to do with getting out of the mess I'm in now. so just give it a rest!"
You weren't Lolita, Jessie, no matter what he might have made you think. You were about nine country miles from Lolita.
Jessie refused to reply. Ruth went one better; she refused to shut up.
If you still think your dear old Daddy was a parfit gentle knight who spent most of his time shielding you from the fire-breathing mommy-dragon, you better think again.
"Shut up." Jessie began to pump her arms up and down faster. The chains jingled; the cuffs rattled. "Shut up, you're horrible."
He planned it, Jessie. Don't you understand? It wasn't just some spur-of-the-moment thing, a sex-starved father copping a quick feel; he planned it.
"You lie," Jessie snarled. Sweat rolled down from her temples in large clear droplets.
Do I? Well, ask yourself this--whose idea was it for you to wear the sundress? The one that was both too small and too tight? Who knew you'd be listening--and admiring--while he maneuvered around your mother? Who had his hands on your tits the night before, and who was wearing gym-shorts and nothing else on the day of?
Suddenly she imagined Bryant Gumbel in the room with her, natty in a three-piece suit and gold wrist-chain, standing here by the bed while a guy with a Mini-cam stood beside him, panning slowly up her almost naked body before focusing on her sweaty, blotchy face. Bryant Gumbel doing a live remote with The Incredible Handcuffed Woman, leaning forward with a microphone to ask her, When did you first realize your father might have had the hots for you, Jessie?
Jessie stopped pumping her arms and closed her eyes. There was a closed, stubborn look on her face. No more, she thought. I guess I can live with the voices of Ruth and the Goodwife if I have to ... even with the assorted UFOs who chip in their two cents' worth every once in awhile ... but I draw the line at doing a live interview with Bryant Gumbel while dressed in nothing but a pair of pee-stained panties. Even in my imagination I draw the line at that.
Just tell me one thing, Jessie, another voice said. No UFO here; it was the voice of Nora Callighan. One thing and we'll consider the subject closed, at least for now and probably forever. Okay?
Jessie was silent, waiting, wary.
When you finally lost your temper yesterday afternoon-when you finally kicked out--who were you kicking at? Was it Gerald?
"Of course it was Ger--" she began, and then broke off as a single image, perfectly clear, filled her mind. It was the white string of drool which had been hanging from Gerald's chin. She saw it elongate, saw it fall to her midriff just above the navel. Only a little spit, that was all, no big deal after all the years and all the passionate kisses with their mouths open and their tongues duelling; she and Gerald had swapped a fair amount of lubrication, and the only price they'd ever paid was a few shared colds.
No big deal, that was, until yesterday, when he'd refused to let her go when she wanted, needed, to be let go. No big deal until she'd smelled that flat sad mineral smell, the one she associated with the well-water at Dark Score, and with the lake itself on hot summer days . . . days like July 20th, 1963, for instance.
She had seen spit; she had thought spunk.
No, that's not true, she thought, but she didn't need to summon Ruth to play devil's advocate this time; she knew it was true. It's his goddam spunk--that had been her exact thought, and after that she had ceased thinking altogether, at least for awhile. Instead of thinking she had launched that reflexive countering movement, driving one foot into his stomach and the other into his balls. Not spit but spunk; not some new revulsion at Gerald's game but that old stinking horror suddenly surfacing like a sea-monster.
Jessie glanced at the huddled, mutilated body of her husband. Tears pricked her eyes for a moment, and then the sensation passed. She had an idea that the Survival Department had decided tears were a luxury she could not afford, at least for the time being. Still, she was sorry--sorry Gerald was dead, yes, of course, but even sorrier she was here, in this situation.
Her eyes shifted to thin air a little above Gerald, and Jessie produced a shabby, pained smile.
"I guess that's all I've got to say right now, Bryant. Give my best to Willard and Katie, and by the way--would you mind unlocking these handcuffs before you go? I'd really appreciate it."
Bryant didn't answer. Jessie wasn't all that surprised.
23
If you're going to live through this experience, Jess, I suggest you stop rehashing the past and start deciding what you're going to do with the future . . . starting with the next ten minutes or so. I don't think that dying of thirst on this bed would be very pleasant, do you?
No, not very pleasant . . . and she thought that thirst would be far from the worst of it. Crucifixion had been in the back of her mind almost since she'd awakened, floating up and down like some nasty drowned thing which is just a little too waterlogged to come all the way to the surface. She had read an article about this charming old method of torture and execution for a college history class, and had been surprised to learn that the old nails-through-the-hands-and-feet trick was only the beginning. Like magazine subscriptions and pocket calculators, crucifixion was the gift that kept on giving.
The real hardships began with cramps and muscle-spasms. Jessie reluctantly recognized that the pains she had suffered so far, even the paralyzing Charley horse which had put an end to her first panic-attack, were only tweaks compared to the ones which were waiting. They would rack her arms, diaphragm, and abdomen, growing steadily worse, more frequent, and more widespread as the day passed. Numbness would eventually begin to creep into her extremities no matter how hard she worked to keep the blood flowing, but numbness would bring no relief; by then she would almost certainly have begun suffering excruciating chest and stomach cramps. There were
no nails in her hands and feet and she was lying down instead of hanging from a cross at the side of the road like one of the defeated gladiators in Spartacus, but those variations might only draw out her agony.
So what are you going to do right now, while you're still pretty much free of pain and able to think?
"Whatever I can," she croaked, "so why don't you just shut up and let me think about it for a minute?"
Go ahead--be my guest.
She would start with the most obvious solution and work her way down from there . . . if she had to. And what was the most obvious solution? The keys, of course. They were still lying on top of the bureau, where he had left them. Two keys, but both exactly the same. Gerald, who could be almost endearingly corny, had often referred to them as the Primary and the Backup (Jessie had clearly heard those capital letters in her husband's voice).
Suppose, just for the sake of argument, she could somehow slide the bed across the room to the bureau. Would she be able to actually get hold of one of those keys and put it to use? Jessie reluctantly realized that there were two questions there, not one. She supposed she might be able to pick up one of the keys in her teeth, but then what? She still wouldn't be able to get it into the lock; her experience with the water-glass suggested there was going to be a gap no matter how much she stretched.
Okay; scratch the keys. Descend to the next rung on the ladder of probability. What might that be?
She thought about it for almost five minutes without success, turning it around and around in her mind like the sides of a Rubik's Cube, pumping her arms up and down as she did so. At some point during her ruminations, her eyes wandered to the phone sitting on the low table by the east window. She had dismissed it earlier as being in another universe, but perhaps she had been too hasty. The table, after all, was closer than the bureau, and the phone was a lot bigger than a handcuff key.
If she could move the bed over to the telephone table, might she not be able to lift the receiver off the cradle with her foot? And if she could do that, maybe she could use her big toe to push the Operator button at the bottom, between the keys marked * and #. It sounded like some crazy sort of vaudeville act, but--
Push the button, wait, then start screaming my head off.