Sleeping Beauty (8 page)

Vince had unlocked the door; he stood there, his hand on the knob. “Doing something?”

“I decided to work on the school paper.” Her voice came in a rush. “And there's an editorial meeting Wednesday at five; they're getting sandwiches, in case it lasts a long time.”

He took his hand off the knob. “You didn't tell me about the paper.”

“I didn't tell anybody.”

“Why not?”

Because I need secrets that are just mine, and nobody else's.
“I didn't think you'd be interested.”

“I'm interested in everything you do, little girl. Are you the copyboy?”

Stung, she said, “I'm writing stories. I'm an investigative journalist.”

“And what do you investigate?”

“Whatever they want me to. I like to interview people; I'm good at it. I like to figure out why people do things. Illegal things.”

He looked closely at her, but she returned his look steadily, her eyes wide and direct.

“I want to see the next issue,” he said. “All of them, in fact. I don't mind your doing it, but you're not to keep things from me. And I expect you to be here next Wednesday.”

“Please, Vince.” She felt powerless, sitting naked before him while he stood above her, dressed in his business suit, but she knew he would be angry if she pulled the sheet over her. “I can't miss this meeting.”

“It's the only night I have free next week.” He saw the tears in her eyes. “Is it so terrible to spend the evening with me?” he asked softly.

Anne dug her fingernails into her palms. “No, but—”

“Of course not. You love me. Tell me you love me, little one.”

“I love you. But can't I go to this meeting?”

“Tell me again.”

“I love you, Vince. But couldn't I, just this once—”

“No. Don't argue with me, sweetheart; I'm not about to change my plans just to accommodate you. Tell them to change their meeting; what else have they got to do?” Halfway through the door, he looked back. “Wednesday,” he said, and closed the door behind him.

The scream Anne had held so long tore from her, low in her throat. Reaching out blindly, she picked up a graceful ceramic lady in a long gray gown, a valuable Lladro that Marian had bought her, and hurled it across the room. But even then, even in her anger and despair, she knew enough not to make too much noise, and she aimed it at the flowered draperies. It struck them and fell to the carpet, where one arm broke off with a sharp crack. And Anne began to sob.

She cried until she was so tired she could not cry anymore. Then, slowly, she went through the routine that always followed Vince's leaving. She stripped her bed and put on clean sheets, and she played some of her records: lilting folk songs that were light and happy. Then she took a hot bath, lying back, her eyes closed as she soaked in jasmine bubbles that rose to her chin. When she was dry and powdered, she put on smooth, freshly ironed pajamas. Finally, she slipped into her cool bed and read until two or three in the morning. By then she felt she had things under control, and she could go to sleep, and sleep soundly until her alarm went off at seven. She never remembered her dreams.

On Wednesday, she went to the newspaper meeting at five o'clock and left while it was still going on, to be ready for Vince. When Marian stopped her as she went upstairs, and asked about dinner, she said she was not hungry. “Growing
girls are hungriest when they think they're not hungry at all,” Marian said wisely. “Anne, dear, is there something you'd like to talk about? Do you need help with your schoolwork? Do you have—I know you're still a child, but young people seem to move so fast these days—do you have a boyfriend? You could invite him here after school if you like. Or your girlfriends; they're always welcome, you know. Come into the kitchen; we'll get you some dinner and you and I can talk.”

Anne shook her head. “I don't have time.”

“My dear, you have all evening. You can't have that much homework.”

“I have a lot to do. Aunt Marian, could you send some food up? You're right; I'm really starved, but I've got to be in my room; I'm worried about doing everything I have to do.”

Marian smiled and kissed her cheek. “It won't take long,” she said, and went off to the kitchen. It was amazing, Anne thought, how often one could get one's way just by telling other people they were right. It didn't work with Vince; nothing worked with Vince. She always told him he was right; she always told him what he wanted to hear; but she never got her way with him. The weeks and the months passed, and despair and hatred were always inside her. They were like a tumor, Anne thought; a huge tumor swelling up like a balloon. That must be how people died, when the tumor got bigger and bigger and demolished everything until there was nothing left: no bones or blood, no lungs, no heart. I'm going to die, she thought. I'm going to die if I don't do something. And then it was April, and her fifteenth birthday.

Marian had bought her a new dress, as she always did, for the birthday party she and Nina always gave. And when everyone was there, they sat at the same places around the table they had taken on her birthday the year before. She blew out all the candles on the cake, and everyone sang “Happy Birthday.” Nina kissed her on both cheeks. “We all love you, dear,” she said. “I hope we haven't criticized you too much in the past year; if so, I for one apologize.” She laughed a little sheepishly. “I say that every time you have a
birthday, don't I? Well, but you know what we hope for you: that you're as perfect as you can be. We owe that to your poor mother.” She held her glass up. “You're a dear girl, Anne, pure and good and no trouble to any of us. And I wish you a happy birthday, and many, many more.”

Anne stared at her hands. She wanted to be in her room, 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. “Fifteen, and such a grown-up girl. Your mother would have been so proud. I can't tell you how I miss her, and how I wish she could share your growing up. She'd appreciate your spirit, and your wit, even though I see a tendency for you to be a little too sharp now and then. You must watch that; it can hurt your popularity. She'd admire your intelligence, too, and your charm. You're like her in many ways. And I admire your fortitude; you're not a whiner or a clinging vine. You're very grown-up and I'm proud of you. Happy birthday, Anne, and many more.”

“Hear, hear,” said William. “We're all proud of you. You're a real little woman. Just be sure you enjoy these years of childhood before they disappear. You don't want to rush into worrying about earning a living and dealing with the really tough stuff: money and sex, that sort of thing.”

“William,” Marian said mildly, “that's not appropriate on Anne's fifteenth birthday.”

“It's always appropriate to tell a child to stay a child. And fifteen is still a child in my book.”

“My turn,” said Ethan. “Dear Anne, I don't know what goes on in your head in these years that you're growing up. I treasure our times together—I always wish we had more of them—but even when we spend an afternoon together, I confess I don't feel I know you nearly as well as I'd like. Well, maybe that's asking too much; I'm afraid your age often seems very strange to me—and I'll bet mine does to you. This year I promise I'll take more afternoons off and we'll scout out some new museums and shops and whatever else you'd like to see, and we'll talk about anything you like. If you want to, that is; I know how young people usually like
to be with young people, not grandfathers. Well, you let me know. For now, I'll just tell you I admire you and I love you, and for the future I wish you inner strength and integrity, and intelligence and love.”

“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” said Vince. He gave her a mock salute and his sweetest smile. “I agree with William: you're quite a little woman.”

Anne looked at all of them, and at the stack of presents waiting for her, and suddenly she felt that her whole life would be just like this: these people, these toasts, these gifts. Nothing would change; she would never escape. Even if she went away, she would always be a prisoner. Vince would find her, wherever she was, and he would open her bedroom door and call her
little girl
and make her do things she hated. Twice a week, forever, she would hurry home from whatever she was doing just so she would not make Vince angry by keeping him waiting. Twice a week, forever, she would take a hot bath and try to wash away all the . . .

“Grandpa,” Anne said loudly in a fierce, despairing rush, “Vince comes to my room at night and . . . makes me . . . do . . . things.”

There was a terrible silence at the table. “Oh no, oh no, oh no,” moaned Marian.

“Vince?”
said William incredulously.

“It can't be,” Nina whispered. “It can't.”

Charles was on his feet. “Vince, you bastard, what the hell did—”

“It's a lie,” said Vince loudly. A vein pulsed at the side of his neck. “The little bitch. What the hell's wrong with her? We're all celebrating her—”

“Vince?”
William repeated, more loudly.

“Christ,” said Fred Jax, “what a stupid—”

“Be quiet!” roared Ethan. He leaned forward in his chair at the head of the table and stared at Anne, sitting two places away, hunched over, staring at her plate. “Is this true?”

Still looking down, she nodded. She was terrified. And then she began to cry.

“It's a damned lie,” Vince said again. His voice rose as he turned to Ethan. “She's a liar! She always has been.”

“Don't call her that!” Charles shouted.

“You can't trust her,” Vince went on, “you know you can't. She's a wild kid, a delinquent—”

Gail, sitting beside Anne, started to cry, her voice a loud wail beside her sister's wrenching sobs.

“Oh, no,” said Nina. “Look what you've done.” She took Gail on her lap. “It's all right, sweetheart, don't worry; it'll be all right.”

“Be quiet!” Ethan roared again at Vince. “If you can't, you'll have to leave.”

“Leave?
For Christ's sake, she's accusing me of rape!”

“He has to stay, Dad,” said William. “He has to be able to defend himself. You can't shut him up.”

“Anne, talk to us!” Charles cried.

“Defend himself?” quavered Marian. “How? What could he say? Unless . . .” She peered at Anne. “Are you very sure, Anne? It's such a terrible thing to accuse someone of, especially your uncle, who loves—” She bit off the word. “You might . . . do you think you might have dreamed it? Sometimes our dreams seem so real—”

Still crying, without looking up, Anne shook her head vehemently.

“Vince isn't that stupid,” said Fred Jax ruminatively. “At least I never thought so. If it's true . . .” He looked at Vince speculatively, as if rethinking their relative power positions in the family and the company.

“I don't defend myself against lies,” Vince rasped. “She's a child trying to get attention; she never grew up. Look at her: she never combs her hair, she's always dirty, she runs around in the forest like an animal, she stays cooped up in her room instead of being with the family like the rest of us, she swears like a truck driver, she talks back . . .” He raised his voice above the other voices clamoring against his.
“She's a goddam liar!
We all know it! How can you listen to her? She's uncontrollable, she's a—she's a—”

“She imagined it,” Rita broke in when Vince faltered. Everyone stopped talking and looked at her in surprise. Rita almost never spoke at family dinners. “It's not hard to figure; she's just a kid and nobody likes her much . . . I
guess nobody does 'cause she never goes to other girls' houses or brings them back here, does she? I mean, I never hear of her doing it. And Marian's always talking about how come she doesn't bring friends home after school. And I guess she doesn't date, either, does she? Seems like she's a real loner and she's probably been dying to have somebody give her the time of day, and she latches onto Vince, who's so handsome he's every girl's dream. She never looks at him, straight at him, you know? She runs off if he comes close and she won't look at him; it's like she's scared to death she'll blab something or her face will give her away. I guess maybe she finally tried to get him to say something nice to her and he probably just ignored her—he doesn't have the time of day for kids, you know, not even his own, usually—and it looks like she was mad or disappointed or whatever and wanted revenge.”

Vince put his arm around Rita. Without looking at him, she shrugged it off.

Charles had walked around the table to stand behind Anne. “I don't want to hear it from Rita. I want to hear what Vince has to say.”

“God damn it,” Vince snapped. “There isn't a fucking thing to say!”

“Vince!” Marian cried with a look at Gail, who sat with her face buried against Nina's shoulder, and at the other children, who were looking wide-eyed from one speaker to another.

“Nina, take the children to the playroom,” said Ethan. “Why didn't anyone think of that?”

Nina hesitated, reluctant to leave. But Ethan motioned toward the door with a sharp jerk of his head, and she went, holding Rose in her arms, herding Gail and Dora and Keith before her.

“I can't believe it,” William muttered, over and over, shaking his head. “I can't believe it.” He struck the table with his fist, rhythmically. “In our house . . . we're not the kind of people . . . I can't believe it . . . can't . . .”

“Nothing happened!”
Vince exploded. He looked across
the table, at Charles, standing behind Anne. His eyes never moved down to Anne; it was as if he and Charles were alone. “Charles.” His voice was soft and sweet. “Charles, you know me; no one else knows me as well as you do. You know I couldn't do anything like that. There's no way I could touch her. It would never occur to me! For God's sake, Charles, she's your daughter! And you're the dearest person in the world to me. Where would I be without you? You've helped me grow up, you've always been there when I needed you, you're my best friend. Do you really think I'd do anything to your daughter? My God, Charles, she's as sacred to me as you are!”