MOON FALL (15 page)

"You guys are such chickens!" Mark Lawson swung off his
bike outside Apple Heaven. "Minerva Payne's pies are a hell
of a lot better than the nuns', and she'd let us have a price
break, too!"

Corey Addams twined a chain through his front bicycle tire
as Pete Parker counted his money. Neither answered.

"What d'you think, guys?" Mark chided,
"That
Minerva's
gonna shove apples in your mouths and stick you in her oven?"

Pete took the bait. "Nah
, we're just afraid she's gonna want
to give us blowjobs, like she does you."

Mark talked as rough as his friends, but the remark about
Minerva offended him. He tried to hide it, knowing Pete would
redouble his insults if he thought he was getting to him. "You're
chicken, Parker-admit it."

"I want a mincemeat pie, and everybody knows the nuns
make the best in the world." Pete shoved his money back in
his pocket. "I got three bucks." He looked at Corey. "You
want mincemeat, too, right?"

"Yeah, sure. I have two dollars and thirty-one cents."

"What about you, Lawson?"

"I'm not gonna chip in for mincemeat. Yuck!"

"Who's chicken now?" Pete asked. "You never even tried
it.”

"Hell, no, and I'm not gonna," Mark said firmly.

"Why not?" Corey asked, threading the chain through Pete's
and Mark's tires as well.

''
'Cause
my dad calls it moose turd pie, and he knows what
he's talking about."

"Do you believe everything your daddy says?" Pete asked.

Corey snickered. "Turds! I love it. It's not made of turds,
Mark! I'll bet your father never even tried any, either."

"Sure he has." Mark didn't really know whether he had or
not; he only knew his dad had been right about anchovies,
buttermilk, and especially the true nature of sweetbreads. That
was good enough for him. "You guys get yourselves a pie.
I'm gonna get a pumpkin tart."

''We need two dollars more for a pie, so you have to chip
in," Pete said.

"No way. That's all I have. You guys get mincemeat tarts.
They're plenty big."

''Are not." Pete protested. You don't hardly get any. They're
a waste of money."

Mark looked at Corey
.
"Your mom'll have dessert anyway,
right?"

"Yeah, but it's probably apple cobbler or something."

Pete and Corey looked at each other and rolled their eyes.

"I like apples," Mark admitted, locking his bike to Corey's.

"Yeah," Corey said, "but you wouldn't if you lived in an
orchard and had 'em every day."

"Damn straight."

''Okay, look
.
" Mark dug his two dollars out and handed
them to Corey. ''Buy your moose turd pie, but I get your apple
cobblers."

"Cool," Pete said. "It's a deal."

They walked up the wide wooden steps to Apple Heaven.
The building was low and long, painted barn red with white
trim. Mark pushed open the door and the fragrance of apples
assaulted his nose.

The place was empty of tourists, and evidently nuns, this
late September afternoon, and Mark took the opportunity to
wander up and down the shop. At one end of the bakery was
a seating area for tourists who needed a piece of pie on the
spot. The rest of the place was lined with boxes of apples,
apple cookbooks, fancy potholders, mugs, salt-and-pepper
shakers made of fake mason jars, and an array of apple-head
dolls. Mark thought they were the ugliest things he'd ever seen,
especially the ones dressed like little nuns. Above the displays
were reproductions of apple and pear company posters from
earlier in the century.

One area was reserved for the bakery counter, its glass case
filled with pies and tarts. Behind the unmanned counter were
advertisements for Apple Heaven's wares, including "Our
World Famous Heavenly Mincemeat Pies."

"You know what's really in mincemeat, guys?" he asked
s
oftly as he rejoined his friends at the counter
.

Pete, his hand hovering over the old-fashioned service bell,
paused. "You already told us," he sneered.

''Moose turds," Corey giggled.

"No," Mark whispered. "I mean what's
really
in it!"

''Apples and raisins and beef," Pete said. ''And spices."

''What kind of beef?" Mark raised his eyebrows knowingly.

"Roast, what else?" Pete said. "You're not gonna talk us
out of this, Lawson. We got your money, and we made a deal
.
"

"I know, I know." Mark was enjoying himself, because he
really did know what was in mincemeat, at least the old-fashioned
kind. His great
-granddad, Gus, had a really old cookbook,
and he'd looked it up one afternoon when he was bored. "It's
got guts in it."

"Does not." That was Corey.

"Does so
.
It's made out of deer meat or beef, but most of
the meat is guts. Hearts, livers, shit like that."

"I don't care what's in it, I like it." He tapped the bell

"Really? Guts?" Corey asked with concern.

“
'Maybe even intestines," Mark said, sensing a crack in
the mincemeat faction. "They just wash the shit out of 'em
and-"

"I didn't quite catch that," said an angry-looking nun who
had appeared in the doorway behind the counter so suddenly
that Mark knew she'd heard him talking. "What did you say?"

"Ah, what's in the mincemeat pie?" he stammered.

"It's a secret recipe," the nun said
.
She wore a little nametag
that said, "Sister Margaret." "Basically, it's made of fruit and
meat."

"What kind of meat?" Corey pushed his lank blond hair
from his blue eyes.

“
'The very best."

“
Is there, like, hearts or liver or anything?" Pete asked

"It's a secret recipe," Sister Margaret repeated, then gave
them the smallest of smiles. "But you don't have to worry
about things like that."

"Okay," said Pete. "One mincemeat pie, to go." He gave
Mark a triumphant look.

''Very good. One moment, please
.
" The nun disappeared
into the back room; then Mark heard her say, ''Cindy, box up
a mincemeat pie, please."

A girlish voice said, "Yes, Sister."

"I'm telling you," Mark whispered quickly, "it's full of
guts
.
"

"Bullshit," Pete hissed back. "Nuns don't lie
.
"

"She didn't say
what kind of meat it was, dickh
ead
.
"

As
Pete opened his mouth to reply, the nun reappeared bearing
a pink box with the words "Apple Heaven" printed on it
in curlicue letters. "That will be seven twenty-five."

Pete and Corey counted out the money and laid it on the
counter. The nun h
and
ed over the pie, then silently h
anded Pete
a nickel change.

The boys turned toward the door just as it opened.

''Dad!" Mark blurted, surprised
.

"Hi, Mark, boys
.
What
’
c
h
a got there?"

"Mincemeat pie," Pete said. "For tonight."

His dad made a face. "Mark, I didn't know you liked mincemeat."

Mark returned the face. ''I told 'em what you call it, but
they want to eat it anyway. I'm getting their apple cobbler
s
."

''Are there really guts in it, Sheriff?" Corey asked, wide
eyed
and worried.

Behind them, the nun manufactured a polite cough.

"I don't know, boys," John Lawson said quickly. "And I
don't want to know."

''May I help you, Sheriff?" the nun asked, after another little
cough.

"Yes, Sister, you sure can
.
Excuse me, fellas. Have fun
tonight." He walked past them to the counter. "But not too
much."

" 'Bye," Corey and Pete yelled as they went out the door.

"See ya, Dad," Mark called, hanging back in the open doorway,
curious as to why his father was here.

"How can I help you?"

"Would you unlock the gate for me, please? I need to speak
with Dr. Dashwood
.
"

Police stuff.
Mark closed the door softly behind him, wondering
what else he'd expected
.
That Dad's secretly scarfing mincemeat?
With a snort, he joined his friends at the knot of bikes
they were busy unlocking.

"Are you ready?"

Sara, shivering, clad only i
n a tiny white gown and a myriad
of goosebumps, looked around and saw Sister Regina, the
school nurse who had administered the psychological tests earlier
today, enter Dr
.
Dashwood
's examination room. She carried
a tray, which she placed on a cart next to the examination table
where Sara was perched, her skin sticking to the paperless
leather upholstery despite the cold air of the room
.
The nun
turned
,
her body hiding the tray's contents. At least today's
tests kept her mind off the incident in the shower room the
night before, not that she hadn't nearly convinced herself that
the whole thing had been a trick of her overactive imagination.

"I'm ready," she managed, as Sister Regina shoved a
thermometer
in her mouth
.

"Don't talk," the nun ordered, putting a stethoscope to her
ears and pulling a blood pressure cuff from the wall. Efficiently
she slipped it up Sara's bare arm, then began inflating it, squeezing
the bulb until Sara almost cried out in pain. Abruptly she
let off the pressure
,
removed the thermometer, then crossed to
the
counter
area, picked up a clipboard, and began writing.

Sara saw the contents of the tray and her stomach flip-flopped.
There were Latex gloves, a tube of K-Y jelly, a speculum,
slides, Q-tips, tweezers, three hypodermic syringes, and several
small rubber-tipped vials.

"Sister," she demanded, "what are all these things for?"

Regina turned, slowly blinking her heavy-lidded eyes. She
looked more reptilian than human. She wet her pale lips, a
snake in nun's clothing, then smiled thinly. ''Doctor needs these
things to examine you
.
"

"He's going to do a pelvic?"

"Of course, dear. He does us all every year
.
"

''But I brought my records. I had a complete exam by my
own doctor less than three months ago."

"It's customary. Doctor likes to get to know his patients
while they're healthy, so that he has a baseline to work from
if you become ill." She glanced at her clipboard. "When was
your last period. Miss Hawthorne?"

''I forget. What are the syringes for?"

"Tetanus, a measles booster, and flu vaccine. All customary.
Have you ever been pregnant?"

"No. And I've had the measles, and everything else is up
to date."

"I'll make a note of that. Doctor will decide what's best.
Have you had any unusual discharges or bleeding?"

"Why are you so interested in my sex life?" She'd almost
said "genitals," but stopped cold, suddenly remembering the
girls' nickname for the nurse: Sister Vagina. Something flashed
in her memory, disappeared before she could examine it. Had
this been done to her when she was a girl? No, she didn't think
so. And turning "Regina" into "Vagina" was inevitable, wasn't
it? They probably still called her that.

"Do you have sexual relations?" the nun asked, blinking
again.

"That's none of your business."

''Uncooperative," Regina muttered, writing something
down. ''Is there any history of insanity in your family?" She
gave her another reptilian smile as she asked the question.

''You have my history; you know I was orphaned." She was
feeling anger on top of the humiliation now.

''Of course, dear
.
How thoughtless of me." The nun set the
clipboard on the edge of the cart, then approached her, the
expression on her face softening. ''Scoot to the end of the table
and lie back. Doctor will be here in a moment and he expects
you to be ready. If you're not," she added, her voice a falsely
conspiratorial whisper, "he'll report me to Mother Lucy, and
I'll be in trouble."

Sara did as the Regina requested, studying her all the while,
trying to remember what she'd been like years ago. Aside from
appearing no older-the nuns all seemed to have retained their
earlier appearances-you,
too, can stay young forever, if you
give up sunlight, sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll
-
she
couldn't
remember anything in particular about this one except for the
snaky looks and the vulgar nickname. Some of the nuns, like
Sister Bibi, had been friendlier than most, and she suspected
that Sister Regina's change of attitude was just a tool; more
than likely, she truly was afraid of Mother Lucy's wrath
.

The footrest dropped away
,
leaving her legs dangling uncomfortably
off the end of the table, and she stared at the ceiling,
not wanting to look as the nun raised the stirrups attached to
the examination table.

"Just relax, Miss Hawthorne," Regina said. "I'm going to
help you put your legs up. It can be a little tricky to do yourself
.
"

That sounded odd, but Sara, resigned to her fate, let the nun
lift one leg. She felt cold curved metal against the back of her
knee; it seemed unusual, but not too bad.

Sister Regina put the other leg up. "Are you comfortable,
dear?"

"As comfortable as can be expected." Sara decided that the
knee stirrups were less humiliating than ankle ones, but wasn't
about to say so.

"All right, Miss Hawthorne, or may I call you Sara?" She
didn't wait for a response. "We're almost ready for Doctor
.
"
The nun stood at the foot of the table-Sara could just see her
face above her bare knees, felt herself blush when she realized
what the nun could see. Regina calmly flipped up an extension
on the stirrup, revealing a two-inch wide strip of belting material.
She heard the crunch of Velcro as the material was wrapped
around her ankle.

"Hey, what the hell
-
"

"Please don't swear, Sara. We've found these cloth anklets
much more comfortable than the old
-
fashioned stirrups."

Before she could protest, Regina trapped her other ankle and
she lay there, shocked and humiliated, thinking it couldn't get
any worse. But it did.

"Let's just adjust the
s
e a little," the nun said. She touched
something at the side of the table, and Sara heard a low whir
of machinery. The stirrups moved slowly apart. "What do you
think you're doing?"

Sister Regina only smiled, then walked to the door. ''Doctor
will be right in."

As soon as the nun was out of the room, Sara tried to sit
up, to reach her ankles, and free them, but it was physically
impossible. "Damn. Damn, damn, damn!" She flopped back.
Nothing, but nothing, was worth this. She'd resign the moment
she was free, and report her treatment to the authorities.

Minutes passed.
Authorities.
Could she tell Sheriff Lawson?
It was too embarrassing. She'd go to the town doctor instead.
Surely, that would be at least a little less humiliating.

There was a rap on the door. "Miss Hawthorne?"

She recognized the voice, deep, very masculine, and vaguely
British.
Dr. Dashwood!
How could she have forgotten who he
was? All the girls had wanted him, had talked and fantasized
about the man. She felt herself blushing furiously as she heard
him approaching.

Blessedly, he stopped by her side and looked at her face with
eyes you could get lost in and not ever care.
Except now.
He
smiled, showing straight white teeth, his cheeks creasing with
small, perfect dimples. "Are you comfortable?"

"Frankly, no," she said firmly.

He glanced back, saw her legs. "Oh, dear. Sister Regina got
a little carried away." The machinery whirred again, and he
did something to the ankle stirrups, bringing them down to a
normal level.

''Why am I trapped like this? You have no right."

He shook his h
ead. "Sister Regina is much older than she
appears, and I'm afraid she's become a bit eccentric. I've spoken
to Mother Lucy about letting her retire, but our Mother Superior
believes Reggy
h
as a few years left in her. We don't need
these." He moved to the end of the table and she heard the rip
of Velcro, then her ankles were set free, lowering her
h
umiliation
level from excruciating to merely severe.

"When would you
ever
need them?" she asked, as she started
to remove her knees from the metal rests.

Dashwood's hands came down gently on the knees. "No,
leave them up a moment longer and we'll get this part out of
the way." He left his hands, warm and dry, on her a moment
longer, then, evidently sensing she'd acquiesced, removed
them. ''Many of our girls are very rebellious. Runaways, drug
addicts, former gang members. We have to check any new
adolescent for problems, and sometimes they won't allow it
without the restraints. You understand
.
"

"That's cruel," she said, hearing the snap of gloves.

"Yes, it is, but it's vital we check for disease, pregnancy,
and so forth. And some of the younger girls must be examined
as well if sexual abuse is an issue." He placed one gloved hand
on her abdomen and palpated gently, his eyes locked on hers.

"Surely you don't make a practice of restraining the girls."

"Very rarely, I assure you. Sometimes we give them a few
grains of relaxant, but usually just a cup of herb tea and gentle
conversation is enough."

Sara began to believe him. The man had a bedside manner
that defied description. Trapped only in his gaze, she began to
feel relaxed, even as
h
e began the pelvic. She barely realized
she was being touched, and he kept talking the entire time,
never looking away from her face. He was more thorough than
she had ever experienced, but it was less humiliating, too, even
though she'd had a female doctor in San Francisco. He talked
about the nuns, gossiping a little, then went on to tell her about
the girls, warning her about some of the ones who would be
special problems
.
By the time she felt the cold metal speculum
against her, she barely flinched, hardly realizing she could no
longer see his face.

"Hmmm," he said.

''What?"

"Something looks just a little odd here." He stood up and
smiled at her. "It's nothing, I'm sure," be added, stripping off
the gloves.

"What? There couldn't be anything wrong. I just saw my
own doctor." She tensed against the metal instrument as it
began to hurt. "Please, get this over with
.
"

"Relax, Miss Hawthorne." He picked up a syringe and she
saw a momentary flash of a long needle as he attached it.
"We'll be done in just a moment."

''What are you doing?" she demanded, on the verge of panic.
She started to withd
raw one leg, but his hand went up, firmly
but gently holding it in place. "I'm just going to take a small
biopsy of tissue. I can virtually assure you there's nothing to
be concerned about."

"What's the needle for?" She relaxed slightly, soothed by
his soul
-
searching gaze.

"A little l
idocaine, so you won't feel anything."

"Oh." She felt stunned, couldn't think.

''Nothing but a tiny pinch. Are you ready?"