Sleeping Beauty (4 page)

“And you think all that will be different when you learn hard, complicated things?”

“Sure it will. Because then I'll be important, and I'll find other important people and we'll all be friends because . . . because I'll be good to be with.”

Vince rose and walked to her. He ran a finger lightly along her cheek. “You're already important, little Anne, and very good to be with. You're the best person to be with that I know.”

The sun touched the horizon and slipped below it. The air was still warm, but the deep shadows made it seem cooler. Anne shivered.

Vince moved closer and took her face between his hands. “Sweet little Anne. People should love you.” Anne stared at
him. “And I will,” he said, and moved still closer to kiss her. His mouth covered hers and his tongue thrust inside, pushing Anne's tongue back into her throat. It was terrifying, but Anne did not move or cry out; suddenly she was afraid of making him angry. He really cared about her. He loved her. He loved her enough to ask how she felt about things, and to listen when she answered. He loved her enough to kiss her. He said she was important. He said she was sweet.

She wished he wouldn't kiss her; she really just wanted to be held, the way she remembered her mother holding her, and her father, too, before her mother died. She shuddered and Vince put his arms around her, pulling her against him. It was as if he had read her mind. He held her so tightly it hurt, but she didn't care. She liked it when he held her. She liked hearing his warm, deep voice say she was good. She wanted him to say it again, but he wouldn't if he thought she was stupid and a baby, and she was sure that's what he would think if she flinched from his tongue deep in her mouth. She had to be careful or he'd leave and never pay attention to her again, and she'd come to the clearing and be all alone and know she'd be that way forever.

But what about Rita? Rita and Dora. Vince was kissing her, and he had a wife. And a daughter.

It's just a kiss.
Her thoughts swirled like autumn leaves; they flew up and skittered along the surface of her mind, and she could not hold on to them.
It's just a kiss. It doesn't mean anything.

Vince took his mouth from hers. He turned her sideways and with one hand clutching her buttocks and the other her shoulder, walked her to the grass at the side of the clearing and forced her to her knees.

“No! Uncle Vince—!” she cried, but he pushed her back until she lay beneath him.

“Vince!” she cried again. “I don't
want
to! Vince, please, please don't—!”

“You want to,” he said harshly. Kneeling over her, he gripped her wrists in one hand and with quick fingers lifted
the skirt of her sundress and pulled off her underpants. He kicked them aside.

“No, I don't! I don't! Vince, stop, please!”

He sat back on her squirming legs and undid his belt. “You loved it when I kissed you. I could feel it.”

“I didn't! I just—”

“Don't lie to me!”

Confused, terrified, Anne stared up at him. He was flushed and breathing hard, and glaring at her. She squeezed her eyes shut so tightly they hurt. Was that true? Had she loved it when he kissed her? She did love it when his arms were around her; maybe she loved his kissing, too. She must have; she must have done something that made him think she liked it. He knew so much more than she did; he knew everything. She didn't know anything, except that she was afraid and she felt sick. She shook her head back and forth on the hard ground. “I don't know. Please, Vince, please let me go, I don't want to—”

“You want it.
I know what you want.”

He tossed his pants aside. Still gripping her wrists he held her hands above her head and thrust his fingers between her tightly clasped thighs, forcing his knee between them, spreading them. “You'll love it. I'll teach you.” He was tremendously excited. Her knees were knobby, exactly as he had imagined them; her thighs were thin and hard. She was skin and bones, taut muscles, closed and secret places. His to discover, his to take. He opened her thighs farther with his legs and shoved his fingers deep inside her, probing beneath the black, curly hair. “Don't fight me, Anne. I'm going to teach you how to love.”

Through the roaring in her ears, Anne heard one word.
Love.
She gave a long moan that Vince took for passion. Without waiting, he rammed into her, gasping at her exquisite tightness. He did not hear her cry out; he did not see the tears that squeezed through her closed eyes. All he knew was that she was not fighting him; she was lying beneath him like a good girl, and she was the tightest he had ever known and he could not hold back; it would take
practice to hold back with a girl like Anne. Eyes closed, he pounded into her and came with an explosion that made him drop like a stone on top of her, his face against her neck.

Anne opened her eyes and stared at the trees tapering above. The light was fading, but she could see them swaying in the evening breeze. They creaked as they swayed.
Doesn't it sound like a horror movie? Close your eyes and you can believe something really awful is about to happen.

T
he next night he came to her room. She had been there all day, in her pajamas and seersucker robe, refusing food, refusing Marian when she stood outside the closed door, asking to come in and take Anne's temperature. “I'm all
right,”
Anne said. “I just don't feel like doing anything. I'm
all right.
I just want to be by myself!”

“It's hard to deal with overly dramatic children,” Marian murmured to herself. “But then, we're all overly dramatic at thirteen, aren't we?” she added wisely, and returned to her gardening.

Anne sat curled up on the flowered chintz cushion of her window seat. She was surrounded by bright flowers: in her wallpaper, on the canopy above her bed, on the skirt of her dressing table and the deep armchair in the corner of the room beside a round table with a flowered cloth that reached to the floor. Pictures of her mother, in silver frames, were everywhere. A picture of Marian and one of Charles were on the mantelpiece above the small marble fireplace across from the bed. Fresh roses were on the round table, put there by the maid every day. Everything was so bright and cheerful Anne couldn't stand it. She closed her eyes against it.

She burned between her legs, a throbbing, high-pitched pain. If someone asked her to paint it, it would be bright red, brighter even than the blood she'd found smeared on the
inside of her thighs when she undressed last night. Vince had walked almost all the way to the house with her, his arm around her shoulders to keep her from stumbling, while he talked about some trip Ethan was planning for him. “But that's a
long
way off,” he said as they stopped near the side entrance. “I couldn't leave you now.” He kissed Anne lightly on her forehead, then took her chin in his hand. “You won't talk about this to anybody. You understand that?” He was holding her chin too tightly; his thumbnail dug into her skin. “You do understand that?” She nodded. “That's my girl,” he said, and let go of her chin. “Get inside, little one; I'll go around to the front. I'll see you tomorrow night.”

The next day people came and went below her second-floor bedroom windows as if everything were perfectly normal. The gardeners gossiped in Spanish as they pruned bushes and mowed the lawn; the sweet smell of newly cut grass floated up to Anne's window. The mailman handed letters and magazines to one of the maids. Marian walked to the rose garden and put down her long wicker basket, pulled on flowered cotton gloves, adjusted her wide-brimmed straw hat, and carefully examined each flower before deciding which she would cut and place delicately in the basket. A nanny pushed Keith in his stroller, and Marian waved at them with her pruning shears as they went by.

There were no thoughts in Anne's head at all. She was empty. She had tried to confide in Amy, but she could not do it. No matter how hard she tried, Amy would not come to life, and somehow Anne knew that Amy was gone, and would never come back. She sat without moving as the hours passed, watching the life below. Fred came home and gave Marian a little peck on her cheek while she gazed off in the distance. A little later, she knocked on Anne's door. “May I come in?”

“No,” said Anne. Her room was at the far end of the hall, behind a heavy door, she had to raise her voice to be heard.

“Well, of course, dear, if you'd rather I didn't.” She, too, raised her voice. “It's time to go, Anne; Nina likes everybody to be on time. And we don't want to be late for your grandfather's birthday party, do we?”

“I'm not going,” Anne replied, still staring outside.

“Of course we'll give you a few minutes to wash up, if you're worried about looking your best.”

“I'm not going,” Anne said again.

“Or to change your clothes. It's nice that we all look our best; it makes it more festive. And Grandpa does appreciate it.”

Anne was silent.

“Well,” Marian said. Her voice came calmly through the closed door; Marian never got upset. “Of course if you're not feeling well, you certainly shouldn't go out. I'll explain to everyone, and I'm sure Grandpa will be just as pleased with your birthday wishes tomorrow. I recommend that you stay in your room. I'll have dinner sent up. Soup. It's good for almost anything. Is there anything else you'd like?”

Somebody to talk to.
She was crying.

“Anne?”

“No.”

“Get to bed early, then. You'll feel much better in the morning.”

The house was silent. The sun slanted across the empty yard, and the shadows of trees and fences lengthened until they lay like black bars as far as Anne could see. A little later the sun was gone, and everything was blue-gray, very still, waiting. And then the door opened and Vince was there.

“God, I've missed you.” He pulled Anne up from the window seat. “Thought about you all day.” He propelled her to the bed. “Dinner was endless; Ethan was in a mood to talk.” He sat Anne on the edge of the bed. “Get yourself undressed, little girl; I won't do it for you. That's the first thing you have to learn.”

Anne looked at him, unmoving, her eyes wide.

Vince let out a short, explosive breath. “Christ.” He sat beside her and put his arms around her. “We need some preliminaries. Come on, little one, relax, there's nothing to worry about. Uncle Vince is going to take care of you. You need that; you need a lot of taking care of. Remember what I told you last night? Relatives should try to make each other happy. That's what we're going to do. You just be a good girl
and we'll have lots of fun and be very happy. And you'll learn all about love.”

He drew the word out until it was like a long sigh, and he smiled so sweetly that Anne swayed toward him, drawn to him, wanting to be held, wanting to be loved. Vince tightened his arms, and slowly, she let her rigid body rest against his warm, solid chest. He was not much taller than she was, in fact he was the shortest man in the family and she had always thought it bothered him, but maybe not: maybe nothing bothered Vince. He was so strong; he dominated everyone. His presence filled her room. Nobody was as strong as Vince, Anne thought. She snuggled against him and closed her eyes. She wanted to sleep there, safe and warm.

“Wake up,” Vince said cheerfully. He held her chin and brought her face to his and kissed her, the way he had the night before, opening her mouth wide and pushing his tongue inside. But this time, while he kissed her, he was moving his hand up and down her body. He pulled up her cotton pajama top and rolled his palms over her small breasts; he slid his hand inside her pajama pants to grasp her buttocks and probe the raw, burning flesh between her legs. Anne cried out and he took his mouth from hers.

“Are you hurting there?”

She nodded, tears in her eyes.

“Well, don't give it a thought; we'll let it rest tonight. There's plenty of other things we can do. Take off your pajamas, I want to see you.”

Her hands came up and wavered.

“Damn it, do what I tell you!”

It was the voice of authority. It was the voice of all the men in her family. It was the voice of Uncle Vince, and her father always said that Vince was the strongest of all of them. Anne stopped thinking. She took off her robe and unbuttoned her pajama top, letting it fall to the bed behind her, and then pulled off her pants. They lay in a pile at her feet. She sat absolutely still, looking at her bare thighs.

Vince took her chin again and made her look at him while he surveyed her. He brushed her tangled black hair from her
forehead and ran a delicate finger from her forehead down the side of her face, down the long line of her neck, over the nipples on her tiny, hard breasts, and across her flat stomach. “Such a little girl,” he said with his sweet smile. “My amazing little girl.” He parted her legs and gazed at the swollen redness. “Poor little one, I'm too big for you. But we're going to change that; you'll be so proud of yourself when you see how open you'll be for me. God, we're going to have a hell of a time.”

He crushed her thin body to him, then held her at arm's length. “I have too many clothes on.”

Anne stared at him blankly.

“For Christ's sake,” he said, “take off my clothes.”

Her hands came up and fumbled with the buttons on his white shirt. “Now,” he snapped. Quickly, she unbuttoned his shirt, and when he made no move to help, she pulled off one sleeve and then the other. She noticed fleetingly that his chest was as bare as hers and that he had no hair on his arms or the backs of his hands. The thought drifted through her mind that that was odd: her father's and grandfather's arms were covered with dark brown hair. But the thought was no more than a wispy thread and then it was gone. “Anne,” Vince said, and she realized her hands were still. She undid his belt and put her fingers on his zipper. Her heart was pounding.