Sleeping Beauty (9 page)

Charles looked down at the bent head of his daughter. “Anne, did you hear that?”

She sat without moving.

“Charles,” Marian said. She stood, clasping and unclasping her hands, her mouth trembling. “I think we should wait. This is too hard for all of us. If we waited—”

“For what?” Charles demanded. He knelt beside Anne's chair. “Look at me, Anne. Now think carefully. This isn't a game. You've made a dreadful accusation that could do great harm to your uncle. Did you make it up? Or dream it? Be careful what you say, Anne, your uncle's future is at stake.”

Anne felt herself shriveling up inside. Her father's face wavered through her tears. He was not smiling at her. He looked stern. She turned to Ethan. “Please,” she whispered.

Ethan looked at her intently. “Tell us what happened, my dear.”

There was another silence. “I can't,” she whispered. She turned to Marian, who stood agitatedly at the end of the table.

“Tell us, dear,” Marian said. “We'll listen to you. Tell us anything you want.”

Anne stared at her. She was choking with her shame. No words would come. She shook her head.

“Well, then,” Vince said smoothly. He walked around the table. Anne cringed as he came close. “I'm sorry you had to
go through this, Charles. If I can help in any way . . . though I think I'd better be careful to stay away from Anne. I might touch her, you know, out of affection, and then everyone would think . . . Oh, Christ, Charles”—tears filled his eyes—“how could this happen to us?”

Anne glanced at her father as his eyes met Vince's tearful ones, and she saw what she had always seen there: admiration, a kind of helpless envy, and love for his favorite brother, his favorite person in all the world.

“Nothing happened to us,” Charles said to Vince. He put his arm around Anne's shoulders. “Anne is a fine girl, and nothing happened to her. She's fifteen years old and growing into a woman as good and beautiful as her mother was. And nothing happened to her. Did it, Anne?”

“Why can't you tell us?” Ethan asked Anne. His voice was firm, not as gentle as it usually was when he spoke to her. “When I ask a question, I expect an answer, Anne. We don't make accusations in this family without explaining what we mean. I can't punish anyone or undo damage if I don't have facts. I expect you to tell me exactly what you meant, and then we'll know what to do next.”

Anne squeezed her eyes shut so she would not have to see all the men staring at her: Ethan, Fred, Vince, Charles, William. Marian stood helplessly at the other end of the table; Rita had withdrawn into her usual silence.
It's all my fault. I led him on and enticed him and then I let him into my room and did everything he wanted and I did it over and over again all this time. I can't say that. I can't tell them . . . anything.

Ethan was looking at her, puzzled, angry, helpless. Marian clasped her hands beneath her chin. “What can we do? Anne, I know you're having a difficult time, but you must talk to us so we know what to do.”

You could believe me.

“Rita may be right, you know,” Fred Jax said, still as if talking to himself. “I mean, girls do have these fantastic imaginations, and Vince comes on strong. Big smile, lots of teeth. You know.”

“I'm sure Anne believes her story,” said William. “She's not a malicious child; I'm sure she wouldn't willfully hurt anyone in our family. Something led her to say what she did, as shocking as it is; I just wish she would tell us whatever is in her mind. It's very hard on us, Anne; we're ready to help you, but you won't talk to us. Don't you trust us? We want to do what we can for you.”

Anne slumped in her chair and was silent.

William sighed. “Well, what do we do now?” He looked around the table. “Is Anne going to tell the world about this? Or has she? Anne? Have you accused Vince to your teachers or your friends at school?”

“Anne,” Charles said when she did not answer. He put his hand on her hair. She could not tell if it was a gesture of affection or of warning. “Have you told anyone else?”

Beneath his hand, she shook her head.

“Well, of course that's the way we'll keep it,” Fred Jax said firmly. “None of us wants a scandal; it would hurt us all. The family and the company, too. We'll keep it quiet and work it out. Anne? We need to hear you say you understand that.”

“Don't push her!” Marian said sharply. “We've got to give her some time. She'll talk to us later. I think”—she looked everywhere but at Vince—“I think she may be telling the truth.”

“Oh, God, Marian, don't,” Vince groaned; tears filled his eyes again. “You can't think that; you know I wouldn't . . . what the hell do you think I am?”

“I don't know,” Marian said, shaking her head. “I don't know much of anything. But I know we've got to give Anne a chance to tell us what happened in her own way. She's frightened and you men are badgering her.”

“Nothing happened!” Vince cried again. “She'll give you some fucking fairy tale!”

“Shut up, Vince, for Christ's sake,” Fred muttered.

“But what do we do, if we don't know for sure?” asked William.

Nina came into the room. “I told the maids not to clear.
Did Anne say what happened?” She looked around the table. “Well, she must have said something!”

“Oh, Anne,” Marian sighed. “You really must talk to us. Maybe we really can't wait until later. Please don't make it so hard for us! If you'd only talk to us! We can't just pretend this didn't happen, or promise not to tell anybody, because if it is the truth, we have to tell the . . .” Her voice wavered and she took a long breath. “We have to tell the police.”

“That Vince raped his niece?” asked Fred. “That's what you'll—”

“You son of a bitch,” lashed Vince. “I told you—”

“I believe you,” said Fred. “I was asking my wife if that's what she wants to tell the police.”

Marian looked at him for a long moment. “I would tell them the truth.”

“Well, but we aren't agreed on that, are we?” he said. “I mean, until we are, I agree with William. I'd rather not turn your family into a circus for the newspaper reporters.”

“It's for Anne's sake,” Charles said. “She'd be hurt the most if this got out.”

Fred nodded. “I agree with Charles. We have to think of Anne.”

William snorted. “We're thinking of ourselves.”

Ethan watched them. His face was heavy and brooding.

“Anne,” said Marian suddenly. “Do you want to talk to me alone?”

It's too late.

“Anne, my dear, please help us,” Marian begged.

You didn't help me.

“Anne, tell us what you want us to do,” Ethan said urgently. “This is a terrible day for our family. We want to do what's right for everyone. Help us. If you won't talk to us about what happened, at least tell us what you want from us.”

“I want you to love me!” Anne cried. She was sobbing and her nose was running and her voice did not sound like her own. She shoved her chair back.

“We're not finished here,” said Charles.

“I
am!” She scurried to the door, her voice trailing behind her in a wail. “I am. I am. I am.”

In the darkness of her room, she sat cross-legged in the middle of the floor. Marian stood outside her locked door, calling her, and after her came Ethan and Nina and William. Then Gail came. Anne listened to her knocking on the door and finally let her in. She lit a small lamp on the desk so they could see each other.

Gail threw her arms around Anne. “I don't understand anything!”

“You shouldn't be here,” Anne said. “You shouldn't even be hearing all this stuff; you're only nine. Go to bed.”

“Tell me,” Gail said.
“Tell me!
I love you!”

Anne shook her head. “I can't. Listen. Will you listen real carefully? Stay close to Marian. Really close. When anything happens that you don't like, tell Marian. She's okay, Gail; she'll help you, you just have to push her a little bit, otherwise she just kind of drifts around in her own world.” Gail giggled. “No, seriously, are you listening? Stay close to her. Don't let anybody do anything to you that you don't like.”

“Like what?”

“Just anything you don't like. Tell Marian if anybody tries. Okay?”

“Sure.”

“Gail, I mean it. I'm serious.”

Gail's eyes were wide in the dim light of the room. “Okay. I'll remember.”

“Then go to bed.” Anne held her close. “I haven't paid much attention to you. I'm sorry. You're really nice. Go on, now. Go to bed.”

“I could stay here with you.”

“I don't want you to. Go away, Gail, I don't want you here.”

Gail's mouth drooped. “Well . . . I'll see you tomorrow.”

Alone, Anne turned off the lamp and sat again in the middle of the room, in the darkness. When her window began to turn a faint gray, and then grew steadily brighter,
she could see the roses all around her, in the wallpaper, in the draperies, on the bedspread. They looked wan and old, half-dead. Ugly, Anne thought. They're so ugly.

Just outside her window, a bird began to sing. Anne stood up. It's the day after my fifteenth birthday, she thought. And Vince is going to kill me.

She couldn't stay here and wait for him. She had to get away. It wouldn't do any good to tell anyone she was terrified of him because none of them believed her. For a minute she'd thought her grandfather did, and Marian did, maybe, but they didn't try to help her; they didn't get mad at Vince; they just looked miserable and not sure of anything. That made her feel more alone than anything Vince had ever done to her.

Standing near the window, Anne closed her eyes. “Mommy,” she whispered, and tears stung her eyelids as the word fell softly in the silent room. “Mommy, please help me.” But there was only silence, and the trill of the bird beyond the glass.

She opened her eyes and wiped them on her sleeve. She straightened her back, holding her head high.
I don't need them. I don't need anybody; I'm not a baby anymore. I can do everything alone. I won't ask anybody for anything, ever again. I don't need them. All I need is to be strong and not let anybody hurt me. Ever. And when I grow up, I'll be better than all of them. And I'll be very happy.

She pulled her duffel bag from the closet shelf and stuffed clothes into it, whatever she could grab from her closet and bureau, without looking at them. She pulled off her party dress and picked up a pair of jeans. No, she thought, suddenly beginning to plan. Nobody pays attention to a teenager in blue jeans. She put on a tweed pantsuit and a white silk blouse with a bow at the neck. She emptied the birthday envelopes from William and Fred of the money they held and put it in her wallet and carefully put the wallet in her leather purse. Then she left the room.

She skirted the pile of presents Marian had placed outside her door during the night, and went to the side stairway and outside door that Vince had used for two years, and down
the walk to the street. The sky grew brighter and she was followed by the songs of birds as she walked the mile into town and waited on the railroad platform for the Chicago train. Her eyes were dry. She was dry inside, all shriveled up, too tightly controlled even to feel fear for whatever lay ahead. She stood straight in the fragrant beauty of the April morning, and when the train arrived, she walked onto it, her duffel bag in her hand, and never looked back.

F
ind her!” Ethan demanded. He glared at the detective sitting beside Charles. “Don't waste my time telling me how hard it is to find runaways; just do it!”

“All I said, Mr. Chatham, was that there's thousands of these kids, and they get to New York and San Francisco and places like that, and they kind of blend in, you know, and if somebody doesn't want to be found, they usually don't get found.”

Ethan brushed his words away. “You haven't given him much to go on,” he said to Charles. “Friends she had, people she trusted, give him some names!”

Charles shook his head. “I don't know anyone. Anne didn't talk about herself very much.”

“Did you ask her very much?”

“She didn't like to be asked,” Charles said defensively. “You know how she was. Is. Always going off by herself, talking back . . . I love her, but she made it damned hard; she was so different from Alice. I kept looking for Alice in her, I thought a girl had to be like her mother and I wanted to love her as much as I loved Alice, but she wasn't—isn't—anything like her. She could be, she's pretty enough, but every time Marian or I tried to get her to improve herself, she got worse. Marian is the one to talk to,” he said to the detective. “She knows Anne better than anyone.”

“Right,” said the detective. “She knows the kid liked to
read; she bought books like mad and stacked them all over her room. She liked to hide out in the forest; she either had friends nobody ever saw or she made them up, nobody knows for sure; she wasn't crazy about school but she got pretty good grades; and she all of a sudden liked to go clothes shopping a couple of years ago. That's about it. Didn't anybody ever talk to this kid?”

“All of us had dinner together every Sunday night,” said Charles, still defensive.

“I'm talking about
talking
to her.” The detective picked up his briefcase and stood beside his chair. “Nobody knows nothing; that's what I got so far. I talked to her classmates at school and they liked her all right, she seemed to get along with everybody, but she wasn't close to any of them. They all called her a loner, a little strange, not comfortable with people, that sort of thing. Nothing you could put your finger on and say she was the type who'd run off. And nothing that can help me. If she had close friends, nobody knows it. If she had favorite teachers, nobody knows it. If she visited neighbors, nobody knows it. If she hung out at bars in Chicago, nobody knows it. If she was one of your rich North Shore kids who blow their allowance on pot and LSD, nobody knows it. If she ever wanted to take off for some city or other, nobody knows it. Nobody knows nothing.” He glanced at his notebook. “Anne Chatham, fifteen years old, five feet four, one hundred five pounds at her last physical, which was a year ago, blue eyes, black hair, no distinguishing marks.” He flipped through the pictures Marian had given him. “Pretty girl. Well, I'll be in touch. But I'm telling you, we've got a lot of these and the ones who show up do it on their own; they don't get found if they don't want to get found.”