Sleeping Beauty (5 page)

“Go on,” he ordered, and closing her eyes, she pulled down the zipper. He raised himself slightly and she pulled off his pants and his underpants. The hardness of his cock whipped against her hand as it sprang free, and she jerked away as if from a hot poker. But Vince took her hand and pressed her fingers around it. “Hold it,” he said. Anne had a moment of surprise at how soft it was. Underneath, it was rigid, but the skin was soft and she felt soft pulsations beneath her palm. It did not seem threatening at all. But then, accidentally, she glanced at it, and saw how enormous it was. She could see nothing else but that huge rod. Terror welled up in her, and she knew she was about to throw up. But she couldn't do that; he would never forgive her. She swallowed the terror and once again stopped thinking about
anything. “Move your hand,” Vince said. “This way. Not so tight, little girl; you're not strangling it, you're loving it. Like this.” She began to relax. It wasn't so bad, moving her hand rhythmically along that soft skin; the firmness was comforting in her hand, and Vince liked it and she wanted to please him. If this was all he wanted, in exchange for his sweet smile and his love, it would be all right. She did it just the way he'd told her to, and was beginning to feel better when suddenly Vince put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her down, to kneel on the floor in front of him. “Keep your lips over your teeth,” he said. “I don't want to feel them.”

She did not know how long it lasted. After a while, Vince pulled her up to the bed, and told her what to do, and she did whatever he said. She hated it; she hated him and she hated herself. But Vince said it was love.

“My good girl,” he crooned as they lay together much later on the tumbled bed. “Good little Anne, terrific little Anne. Such a good student. But you couldn't have a better teacher, could you? You don't know how lucky you are.” He stood and pulled on his pants and shirt. “God, you get me more excited than any woman I've ever known.” He slung his jacket over his shoulder, holding it with one finger. “I'll see you tomorrow night, sweetheart. Oh, a couple of things.” He paused at the door. “Don't miss family dinner again; I want to look at you and think about you with everyone there. And from now on, when we make love, I want to hear you. I want to know how much you're liking it. I don't like dead silence. And one more thing, the most important. Listen to me. I expect you to remember what I told you last night, about keeping this our secret. I shouldn't have to repeat it; you're a smart girl and a quick learner; but I'll do it just this once. You won't talk about us to anybody, not even your imaginary friend.
Not anybody.
It's our special secret. Right?”

Anne lay still, watching him through heavy-lidded eyes.

“Anne,” he said very softly, “I asked you a question.”

She tried to nod, but her head felt too heavy to move.

“Anne.” His voice changed to a low, rasping growl. Anne would not have recognized it if she had heard it coming
from another room. “This is between us. Nobody is going to know about it. You understand me? Of course no one would believe you if you did say anything—they'd say you were crazy; they'd lock you up—but it won't come to that. You won't talk to them. I won't allow it. I don't want to have to hurt you, little girl, but I would; I'd hurt you or kill you if you disobey me. I'd hate to do it, but I would, in a minute, if I thought you were talking to anybody. You remember that. We have love now, and lots of fun. We're making each other happy; and we can keep it that way as long as you're good. And you will be good, won't you?
Answer me.”

Anne made a sound in her throat.

“That's better. I wasn't really worried; you're a very smart girl. I'll remind you now and then, just in case, but I know I can count on you. I'm counting on you, Anne; don't let me down. Good night, little girl. Pleasant dreams.”

Anne watched the door close. She could not move. Her lips and tongue were bruised and swollen, and there was a cloying, sweetish taste in her mouth. Her knees hurt, her neck was stiff, her fingers felt locked in the curve Vince had taught her to use on him. She took long, slow breaths and stared out the window at the delicate tree branch that brushed against the glass.
Maybe I'll die. They'll find me in the morning, dead, and they'll know it was because of what Vince did, and they'll punish him. Maybe they'll kill him.
She closed her eyes.
I wish they'd kill him.

And then it was morning and she knew that somehow she had slept. She slid from the bed, feeling the cool morning breeze caress her warm skin, and when she took a shower, she touched herself gently. The swelling was down; the redness was almost gone. She brushed her teeth; her mouth hardly felt swollen, either. She stood in front of the pier glass in her bedroom and looked hard at her naked body. Nothing showed. You'd think something would have changed, but nothing had. A nice normal thirteen-year-old girl, she thought, and she saw her mouth harden. That's what Marian would say, because Marian liked things to be normal and under control. So did the whole family. So Vince would come at night, and she would do what he wanted, and no
one would ever guess what was happening to her, because there would be nothing to see.

Unless I tell them, she thought. She stared at herself in the mirror. Marian doesn't like problems, but she doesn't like me to be unhappy, either. And Nina listens when I tell her things that happen at school. And my father would listen; he doesn't pay much attention to me, but he wouldn't want anybody to hurt me.

I don't want to have to hurt you, little girl, or do something worse, but I would; I'd kill you if you disobey me. I would, in a minute, if I thought you were talking to anybody.

How could he have talked like that when almost at the same time he was talking about love, and about how wonderful she was? She remembered the warm, solid feeling of his chest when she laid her head against it, and how strong his arms were when they held her close. She remembered the sweetness of his smile. He couldn't have meant what he said. People didn't talk about killing their relatives, or even hurting them. They only did that in books.

But he did say it. She couldn't pretend he hadn't because he'd been pretty specific. “And I'm not stupid enough to put it to a test,” she said aloud. Her voice startled her in the silent room. “He probably only said it to see how I'd react,” she told her reflection. “He wouldn't hurt me; he loves me. And that's the best thing, being loved.”

She stripped the sheets from the bed. The maid would put clean ones on. I'll tell her I got my period, Anne thought. Or I won't tell her anything; why should I? Why should I tell anybody anything? They're not waiting for explanations; they don't care what I do. She threw the sheets down the laundry chute, pulled on a shirt and a pair of jeans, and went to breakfast.

She was supposed to go shopping for school clothes with Marian; that would take all day. And tomorrow she could ask the gardener to show her how to take care of orchids; he'd promised to do it whenever she wanted. She didn't really care about orchids, but she loved beautiful things and orchids were very beautiful, even the ones that looked evil and voracious. Anne thought they were probably interesting
enough to fill most of tomorrow. And she'd buy some books when she and Marian were shopping; reading filled a lot of hours, too, and she liked getting lost in other people's stories. She had a lot of things to do with her days; in fact, she was going to be so busy she wouldn't have any time to go to the clearing in the forest. Amy wouldn't miss her. Amy was gone. I guess I've gotten too old for Amy, she thought.

She never went to the forest again.

Marian was delighted; she thought Anne was finally learning to be a lady. That week and the next, at Saks and Marshall Field's and The Pompeian Shop, they bought cashmere sweater sets and matching wool skirts, plaid wool dresses with little velvet collars, tweed slacks and coordinated Aran knit sweaters, and because Anne didn't argue about anything and Marian was beginning to be alarmed and wanted to make her smile, new blue jeans and oversize sweatshirts and a corduroy jacket lined with fleece.

“Thank you,” Anne said gravely when the shopping was all finished. “These are very nice things.”

Marian peered at her. “You're all right, aren't you, Anne? You look fine; it's just that you're so quiet. Is there anything else you need? Anything we forgot to buy?”

Anne shook her head.

“You're supposed to be happy, you know,” Marian said. “Thirteen, almost fourteen: such a wonderful time for a young girl. Your whole life ahead of you, nothing to think about but having a good time, family, friends, love . . .” She sighed. “Of course you've seen that Fred and I aren't exactly romantic. You're such a smart girl; you don't miss very much, do you? It's not that we fight, you know; sometimes I wish we would. But there doesn't seem to be anything to fight about. Or talk about, for that matter. We just don't have anything to say to each other. Talking is more important than anything, you know: more important than sex, God knows. Oh, for goodness' sake, I shouldn't be talking about such things to you.” She gave a little laugh. “You mustn't be burdened with any of this now; this is a time for you to be young and innocent. Innocence.” She shook her head. “You don't know how lucky you are.”

Someone else had said that.

Good little Anne, terrific little Anne. Such a good student. But you couldn't have a better teacher, could you? You don't know how lucky you are.

“How lucky am I?” Anne demanded of Marian. “Like being lucky at cards? Like being a lucky penny somebody can pick up? Or like somebody has the luck of the devil? Is that what I have—the luck of the devil?”

“Don't be difficult, dear,” Marian said calmly. “We all know how clever you are.”

They all said she was clever. They said it whenever one of them chastised her for being out too long, for slouching when she walked and slumping when she sat, for dressing sloppily, for not combing her hair, for swearing and using slang, for not washing her face and hands. “You're so clever, Anne,” said her uncle William. “You're smart as a whip and you could be the prettiest girl for miles around, but first you've got to stop behaving like a hobo.”

William was the second oldest of Ethan's five children, after Charles. He had never married, and he seemed to feel that was a serious error; that, by being single and childless, he'd let his family down and had to make up for it by being a model uncle to his nieces and nephews. For the most part that meant bringing them presents from his trips around the world, but he also was generous with advice. “You want to watch yourself for Gail's sake,” he told Anne. “You have a seven-year-old sister, you want to act properly so she can follow your example. We all have to have someone to look up to.”

“Do you look up to my father?” Anne asked.

“I've learned a lot from your father.”

“And he looks up to Ethan?”

“You must call him Grandfather, Anne; it's more respectful. Well, now, does Charles look up to Ethan? I'm not sure. Sometimes Ethan seems to admire Vince more than anybody else. Odd, you know, since Vince is the youngest of us; doesn't quite fit my theory, does it?”

Anne saved those conversations to tell Vince when he
came to her room at night. By now he had a schedule. For the first few weeks it seemed he was always there, and she had felt smothered by him. School started, and she had to rush through her homework because he would show up right after dinner. But then that changed. When summer ended, his business trips began again, and sometimes he was away for a whole week. And on weekends Rita liked to go out. So Vince settled into a routine of coming to Anne's room twice a week, and he always told her in advance when the next time would be, so she would be ready for him.

Anne thought it must be like a marriage. She hated it, but she thought most people probably hated being married, because it was like a job, with things that had to be done and gotten over with. Wives would hate the sex and husbands would hate being answerable to somebody else, the way Vince said he hated it with Rita. Of course he wasn't answerable to Anne—she couldn't ask him to do anything at all—but still, when they were in her room at night and she was telling him stories between the times he wanted her on the bed or the floor or the chaise, it seemed to Anne they were just like a married couple. Her flowered bedroom was their whole world; they sat in it and lay in it and talked in it, and when he brought cookies or doughnuts or éclairs, they ate in it. It was just like a married couple's house, only smaller.

But she wondered about love. She was sure married people were in love; all the books said so. But she and Vince had no love. She knew now that he did not love her and hadn't loved her in the beginning. Whatever words he used, and he seemed to use that one a lot, love had nothing to do with what went on in her bedroom two nights a week.

Love was a joke; she knew that now. It was a word people used to disguise whatever it was they wanted. She would never love anyone. And she would never get married.

On her fourteenth birthday, Marian and Nina gave a party for her. She blew out all the candles on the cake, and everyone sang “Happy Birthday,” even Rose, Marian's baby, who was only a year and a half old. Nina kissed her on
both cheeks. “We all love you, dear,” she said in her slightly breathless way. She was taller than Marian and her hair was dark brown where Marian's was almost blond, but the two sisters had the same pale skin, crinkly lines at the corners of blue-gray eyes, calm foreheads, and perfectly manicured nails. “I'm afraid we criticize you a great deal, and I for one apologize for that; it's just that we want you to be perfect. Marian and I agreed on that, you know, when you came to us after your poor mother died. We loved her so much and we felt we owed it to her to see that you grew up to be everything she would have wanted. And we feel sure you're doing that, my dear. You're going to be as beautiful as she was, and already you're far more clever. Of course she would never swear, and she was always so perfectly turned out . . . the most elegant, sophisticated . . . but perhaps, when she was your age . . . we can't be sure . . . well, I don't want to sound critical; that wouldn't do on your birthday. You're a dear girl, Anne, pure and good and no trouble to any of us. We couldn't ask any more of you. And I want to wish you a happy birthday, and many, many more.”