Sleeping Beauty (6 page)

Anne stared at her hands. She hated being the center of attention. She wished she could go to her room and be alone. But she wouldn't be alone. Vince had told her he would be there. To celebrate her birthday.

“Well, Anne.” Her father raised his wineglass. “Fourteen, and such a grown-up girl. Your mother would have been very proud of you.” He spoke to the whole table, looking from one face to the other, but Anne kept her eyes steadily on him. He was eleven years older than Vince, and not as flashily handsome, but he had a serious look and an upright bearing that she admired. His blond hair, never as bright as Vince's, had turned gray seven years earlier, when her mother died; his eyes, blue-gray like his sisters', were somber; but his eyebrows and small mustache were still blond and gave him a youthful, almost jaunty look. Anne liked it that he was dignified and strong and still young; he looked to her like a hero who could hold back hordes of enemies just by speaking sternly to them.

He had been only thirty-five when Anne's mother died, and everyone had expected him to marry again, but he had not. He had stayed alone in the big house that had once been filled with his family, three blocks in one direction from Marian and Fred's house where his daughters, Anne and Gail, now lived, and two blocks the other way from the house Vince and Rita had bought when Dora was born. Anne knew from Marian that he went out frequently, dividing his evenings between two women with such mathematical precision that neither could think she was more favored than the other. And she knew that he and William played racquetball on Mondays, tennis on Thursdays, and swam on Saturdays at their club. Once he had taken her to his office, showing her the surroundings of Chatham Development Corporation and letting her read his calendar, with its neatly ruled blocks of time. Charles Chatham led a careful life, controlling everything within his power, and sometimes, when he looked at Anne with puzzled eyes, she knew with a sinking feeling that he was wondering how someone so disordered could possibly be his daughter. Maybe that was why he didn't spend much time with her; he always seemed at a loss for words and nervous, as if he couldn't wait to go somewhere else, where he could know exactly how to behave.

“Your mother and I talked about the kind of children we wanted,” Charles said in his birthday toast, his gaze coming to rest on Anne. “Of course first we wanted you to be healthy, but then, like all parents, we hoped for everything else: brains and talent and charm. And you have those. You're very different from your mother, but you have a spirit and drive that remind me of her, and you seem able to handle difficult situations on your own, without whining or running to others to get you out of them. That's very grown-up and it makes me proud. Happy birthday, sweetheart, and many more.”

“Hear, hear,” said William. “I couldn't say it better. You're a good girl, Anne, and we're all proud of you. Just don't grow up too fast; enjoy these years of childhood while
you've got them, because they're gone before you know it and then you have to deal with the tough stuff: money and sex, that sort of thing.”

“William,” Nina said mildly, “I hardly think that's appropriate for a toast on Anne's fourteenth birthday.”

“It's always appropriate to tell a child to stay a child.”

Anne looked at William from beneath the tangle of black hair that came to her eyebrows. He always seemed most foolish, she thought, when he was being most kind.

“My turn,” said Ethan. He leaned forward, smiling beneath his bushy mustache. “You're only at the beginning of the long road you'll travel, my dear Anne, but I know you will make the journey with strength and integrity and intelligence. I hope you make it with love, as well. And I hope, for as long as I'm here, you'll let me share it with you.”

Anne blinked away tears. He said things she loved to hear, but it didn't mean anything. What she wanted was for him to say he'd spend a lot more time with her, go for more walks with her than he already did, even take her on some of his business trips—just her, no one else—so she could talk to him about everything she couldn't talk about at home. She wanted him to take care of her; she wanted him to protect her from Vince. But he couldn't do all that; he didn't even know she wanted it. Anyway, he was ancient: an old man of sixty-six; how much could he know about people her age? He was wonderful to her and once in a while he took her to Chicago for lunch and a trip to the Art Institute or the Field Museum or the Museum of Science and Industry, and he'd always say he wished they could do those things more often, but then he would be gone again, seeing his own friends, traveling on business, and Anne would know that she wasn't all that important to him after all.

She wasn't important to anybody, she thought. They all said they loved her, but they had their own busy lives and, anyway, none of the Chathams reached out to anybody else. They're a race of short-armed aliens, she thought with angry humor; they all came from a planet of people who never learned to cuddle so their arms atrophied and shrank to little stumps that can never, ever hug anybody.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” said Vince, exactly as her father had done. He gave her a little mock salute and his sweetest smile. “As far as I can tell, you're growing up admirably, and I think that's the best thing you can do, even if William doesn't agree.”

“Of course I agree,” said William. “Anne is growing up beautifully; of course she is.”

“And tired of hearing about it, I'm sure,” said Marian. “It's time for presents, don't you think?”

Everyone watched as Anne opened the brightly wrapped packages and said thank-you and briefly held up the cashmere sweaters, records of rock and folk groups, books, and a necklace from Charles, before putting them away and stacking them neatly. She pushed back her chair, anxious to be gone. I probably look like a criminal making a quick getaway with the loot, she thought. But she didn't care. She just wanted to get out of there. “I'll put these away,” she said, standing beside her chair. “Thanks again, it's all very nice.”

“Don't you want more birthday cake?” Charles asked.

“I'm full.” She gathered up the pile of gifts.

“But you haven't given us a birthday speech,” said William. “We all talked and talked and the birthday girl didn't get a chance to say anything.”

“I don't want to,” Anne said. “I'm not good at speeches.”

“ ‘Thank you' was quite enough,” Marian said. “We don't need speeches. But you might just want to stay with us instead of running off the way you always do.”

Anne shook her head, feeling hemmed in. “I just want—”

“But you know, I told the children we might light the candles again,” Nina said. “They like to watch you blow them out.”

“Damn it, I did it once!” She was at the door. “That's enough!”

“Anne,” Marian sighed, “I've asked you and asked you . . .”

“Sorry,” Anne muttered, and slipped through the door. They were staring at her. It's my birthday, she thought angrily. I ought to be able to do anything I want on my own
birthday. She ran up the stairs. If she was lucky, she'd have some time to herself before Vince came.

He was there in twenty minutes. “I brought you your present. We'll get to it later.”

Anne had already taken off the silk dress Marian had asked her to wear for her party, and was wearing only her robe. She undressed Vince quickly and surely while he untied her sash, opened her robe, and ran his hands over her body. Her breasts were growing and he held them, pinching her nipples. “Fourteen,” he murmured with a broad smile. “My favorite age. So lovable. So grown-up.”

He lay on the bed and Anne bent over him, knowing exactly what he wanted. He never had to tell her anymore. Just by the way he sat or stood or lay down, or put his hands on her shoulders or waist to turn or push or lift her, she knew what to do, and how to do it in the way that pleased him most. He had trained her so well she didn't even have to think about it. In fact, most of the time her mind was on other things. Some of the time she thought about school. She didn't like it—she hated being told what to do—but she loved to read and she could forget everything else when she was absorbed in
Don Quixote
and
Moby Dick, Barchester Towers,
and
Leaves of Grass
and everything by Shakespeare. She could recite to herself whole passages from Walt Whitman while doing what Vince wanted her to do; it made her feel she was somebody else, not Anne Chatham doing what she hated.

She thought about other things, too: movies she saw on television, and a new book she'd bought that told how to name the birds that flew along the lake shore. She identified them when she was in her new secret place, hidden among boulders on the shore near Ethan's house, where she could curl up and read and write all day with no one discovering her, just as she had in the forest clearing. She especially liked to think about that while her body and mouth and hands went through their practiced motions with Vince; she would think about her own place, and how soon she would be back there, cool and clean and by herself.

Vince lifted her on top and she straddled him, bending
down so he could play with her breasts. He rolled the nipples between his fingers, waiting for them to pucker and grow hard. When they stayed soft and flat, he looked at Anne through narrowed eyes. “Feel something,” he demanded. She met his eyes, her face impassive. He kneaded her breasts. “God damn it, feel something when I play with you!”

She never felt anything.

“Tell me how you feel,” he said harshly.

“Good,” Anne replied automatically. “You make me feel good.”

“Tell me how much you love me,” he said.

Anne bent lower until her lips were against his neck. She said something but it was muffled.

“I didn't hear that,” said Vince. “I want to know how much you love me.”

“More than anything,” Anne said, repeating lines he had taught her long ago, and if Vince heard the thread of despair in her voice, he gave no sign of it. “More than anyone. You're so exciting . . .” She moved her hips as she spoke; by now she could do three or four things at once without even thinking, without even missing a beat.

“And you wanted me from the beginning,” Vince said. “And made me want you. Go on.”

“And I wanted you from the beginning. I made you want me, I led you on, I enticed you, I lured you.”

And maybe it's true; otherwise, why would he be here? I'm not sure, because I don't know what leads a man on, but Vince knows. Maybe I wanted love so much that I enticed him into my bed. Then it wouldn't be his fault at all.

“Nice,” Vince said, and pushed her upright so he could watch her as she moved above him. His eyes closed, his breathing grew faster and louder, his hips moved beneath her. Anne watched him as if he were a long way off, a stranger who had nothing to do with her, and then she looked past him, at a painting on her wall of a beautiful mother and her little girl on a flower-filled terrace golden with sunshine and love.

After a while, Vince lay still and did not reach for her
again, and Anne knew that was enough for tonight. She sat cross-legged on the bed beside him, gazing at the black square of her window and the tree branch that lay against it, faintly illuminated by the lamp beside her bed. There were small green leaves on the branch, new and glossy in the April breeze. When Vince had first come to her room, months earlier, the leaves were large and deep green. She had watched them turn red and then russet, and she had watched them fall. They had held on as if greatly afraid, until a gust of wind or a rainstorm had torn them off and sent them spinning to the ground, where the gardeners raked them up. The branch stayed dark and bare for months, except when snowstorms outlined each twig with a slender coat of white that sparkled in the next day's sun, a brief beauty that vanished when the snow melted, leaving the branch naked again, waiting for the spring.

Anne was getting to know all the seasons by heart just by looking through her window while she waited for Vince to leave.

Lying on her bed, eyes closed, he nodded toward his jacket, on her chaise. “Your birthday present, little girl. I didn't give you one at dinner; did you notice?”

“I thought maybe you'd decided you'd given me enough already.”

His eyes flew open and he looked closely at her to see if she was being sarcastic. But Anne returned his look, her eyes wide and clear. It was a look he trusted. He smiled. “A woman never thinks she has enough, sweetheart. You'll learn that soon enough. Now open your present.”

Anne found the small box and sat on the chaise as she lifted the lid. Nestled inside was a gold and enamel Raggedy Ann lapel pin. She looked at it for a long moment. “It's been a long time since I had a Raggedy Ann doll,” she said at last. “You must have looked for it for a long time.”

“It reminded me of you. Something about those big eyes, seeing everything.” Vince propped himself up on another pillow. “What did you do today?”

Anne laid the pin on her dressing table and returned to sit
beside him on the bed. This was the time when she was supposed to entertain him with stories. “We had a history test, and part of it was to explain what history is. So I said it was like cooking. You take a whole bunch of things that are there for a long time with nothing happening, and then all of a sudden they get put together in a new way and you get a war. Or a gold rush. Or a revolution and a new constitution and a whole new country. If I ever saw a bunch of those things early enough, I'd like to add more heat and see what happens.”

“What do you think would happen?” he asked, amused.

“Something really terrible that would destroy everything. It could blow up, like a pressure cooker, and everything gets splattered on the ceiling. Or it could be like a cake. When you add too much heat, it collapses.”