Such a Pretty Girl (11 page)

I
go in ahead of my father, who pauses to fuss with the garbage can and am immediately enveloped in chilled air and murky shadows.

“Come here,” my mother calls. “I have a surprise for you.”

I open my mouth, close it again, and go dutifully into the living room doorway. The sliding glass curtain is closed and Barry White is on the CD player.

“Here’s a hint,” she purrs and I track her disembodied voice to the swivel rocker facing away from me. “Think back twenty-seven years, to the presents you gave me the night you asked me to be your girlfriend. I was so excited that I wore them almost every day for six months straight, remember? Well, guess what?” She spins the chair around to show off an ancient green-and-white softball cap and team jersey. “Recognize these?”

No I don’t, but the colors are familiar, seeing as how the entire Estertown school system, from kindergarten through high school, still uses them.

Her flirtatious gaze meets my anguished one and in the split second before she snaps upright a medley of shock, guilt, and anger contort her features. “Meredith! What are you doing here? I told you supper wasn’t until six!”

“I found her outside,” my father says, coming up and settling his hands on my shoulders. “I thought it would be nice if we finally got a chance to talk.”

“Talk?”
my mother says. “Now? But I thought we were going to—”

“Plans have changed.” My father’s fingers dig into my skin, preventing me from bolting. “We’ll discuss this later, Sharon.”

“Later? Later when? We’re supposed to be together
now.
You know I’m ovulating—”

“Sharon!”

“Oh, she already knows we’re trying to get pregnant,” my mother snaps, glaring at me like I interrupted them on purpose. “Or at least we’re
supposed
to be trying.”

I’ve heard enough, but my father’s hands pin me and the moaning in my head still isn’t loud enough to drown out what comes next.

“What about yesterday?” he says.

“Once!
One time. Big deal,” my mother says sulkily.

“Once is all it takes,” my father says.

“So that’s it? That’s my reward for waiting three years?” The chair creaks. “That’s not fair, Charles. I’m doing everything I can for you. You
know
I am.”

“Keep it down, will you?” my father says. “The neighbors.”

“Oh, screw the neighbors,” she cries. “I don’t care about them, I care about us!”

“Well, if you care about
me,
you’ll shut up before somebody calls the cops,” he says, releasing me and striding over to her.

“Oh,” she says, sounding stricken. “I’m sorry. I forgot.”

Somehow my brain’s frantic signals reach my legs. I turn and with robotic stiffness, walk straight to my bedroom. Enter. Close the door. Lock it.

Seconds later my father tries the knob. “Meredith? Open the door.”

“No,” I say.

“Open the door. I want to talk to you.”

I shake my head. I don’t care if he can’t hear me. I walk around the bed and perch on the edge of the mattress, watching the doorknob jiggle.

Click.

The door opens.

My father comes into my room and stops in front of me. Holds up a thin, metal rod, the all-purpose key to open any all-purpose door. “I’m not going through a repeat of this morning’s little adventure. From now on, no more locked doors around here, okay?”

I round my shoulders and consider my feet. Reach over to the nightstand and pluck the bottle of black nail polish from the rainbow assortment. Tuck my knee beneath my chin, unscrew the cap, and begin painting. Dab, dab. Short strokes. My hair interferes with my concentration so I tuck it behind my ears. Hiding behind the curtain doesn’t matter now because my face muscles are paralyzed and my eyes have seen their fill.

“Meredith,” my father says softly. “Chirp.”

Dab, dab.

He sits down next to me. His body radiates heat and the faint scent of my mother’s CK Obsession cologne. He waits. Sighs.

Short strokes. I exceed the nail’s limit and paint a glossy, black streak across the top of my toe. I leave it there. Do it again and again.

“Look, I know you’re upset,” he murmurs, touching my arm. “I don’t blame you. Your mother wasn’t supposed to tell you about this new baby. I wanted to tell you myself and I would have if you hadn’t skipped out on me this morning.”

I move on to the next toe and don’t even try to stay within the lines.

“You know nobody could ever take your place,” he says, toying with the skeleton key. “Believe me, this new baby won’t come between us. We’ll take care of it together, I have it all figured out. We’ll teach it shapes and colors and ABCs….”

I remember his ABC game. I had to sit on his lap and whisper in his ear, repeating one foul word after another in alphabetical order.

Shaking, I stick the nail wand back into the bottle. Slip my hand into my right pocket and press the teddy cam remote. Scratch my thigh and, without looking at him, continue painting my toes. My duplicity feels huge and obvious. My face burns.

“Chirp? What’re you doing? You’re making a mess.”

I blink and find three perfectly round blobs of black polish spotting the pink floral comforter. I move my heel and smear it into the dainty weave.

“Don’t do that. Your mother’ll have a fit. Do you have any nail polish remover?” His hand lights on my back. “No? We’ll keep it our secret, then.” He caresses the curve of my spine. “When did you start wearing a bra, baby?”

My head droops. I become a marble statue as his trembling fingers twitch to my side, dip under my armpit, and pause, spasming, at the curve of my breast.

His breath hitches. “Oh God,” he whispers, then exhales in a stale rush and closes his fingers around me and—

“Charles?”

He snatches his hand away.

“Charles?” my mother calls again. “I thought you were going to be right back.”

He clears his throat. Quietly. “I’m coming, Sharon.”

The mattress springs up as he rises. The gauze knee patch flexes and fresh scrapes tic-tac-toe his shins. Desire rolls off him in waves, a deadly, invisible gas that will strike me down unless I take the necessary precautions.

I should have taken my vitamins today.

“I wish I didn’t have to go.” He lingers, stroking my hair. “Promise you’ll be here when I get back?”

I nod once, slowly, but don’t look up.

“Okay, then, let me go do this,” he says and adds apologetically, “I have to shut your door. Your mother wants this private.” He pauses in front of me, too close. “Hey, what if after dinner you and I go down to the Dairy Queen for some ice cream—”

“No,”
I say loudly.

“Charles?” my mother calls.

“Coming,” he says hurriedly.

I listen to the
swish
and
snick
as the door closes. Wait, motionless, until their muffled voices rise and fall beneath the throbbing bass.

Then I shut off the camera and climb out the window.

I
drop to the ground and stumble but don’t fall.

Mrs. Calvinetti watches from her porch. She hisses and makes arthritic hand signs to ward off my evil. The twins have abandoned their soccer melee and now roll around the front lawn, locked in mortal combat. They grunt and curse and practice wrestling moves on each other. When they see me they stop fighting, hitch up their baggy shorts, and call, “Hey, how’s your faggot father? Did he blow any kids today?”

Mrs. Calvinetti scolds them shrilly in Italian.

The Mobile Mechanic’s gone and Nigel’s Buick is parked near Andy’s steps.

I head for the court out of habit. I can see and hear but I don’t feel anything and I wonder vaguely if my mind has closed down to keep me from opening my pocketknife and ending this whole stupid mess with one swipe.

I stop walking and look at my wrists. They need washing.

I sink onto the curb, sick with the realization that I have nowhere left to run to, that I can’t get away, and with the exception of my grandmother across town, my entire life spans a distance no greater than that of the condo complex and, more specifically, the Dumpster court.

I’m like a pinball bouncing off the same people over and over again, flinging myself around in a desperate attempt to avoid disappearing into the black hole of my father’s embrace…

“My daddy,” I whisper, staring up at the four big white ceiling tiles framed within the curtain track. “I don’t want him to get in trouble. I just want him to stop.”

“Shhh, it’s all right.” The lady with the velvet eyes warms my frigid hands. “You’re safe now. We’re not going to let anything happen to you.” Her voice is soothing, but she’s wearing rubber gloves and the smell turns my stomach.

I gulp and concentrate on the ceiling. One two three four, my gaze travels from corner to corner, over and over again. The tiles are white, the curtain is white. The sheets on this bed are white, too, just like the ones at home were before…. My breath hitches. “He’s gonna be mad. I wasn’t supposed to tell.”

“Tell what, sweetie?” the lady says softly, exchanging glances with the quieter lady on the other side of the bed who is doing something prickly to my arm.

I shake my head and think of white. Clouds are white, cotton is white. I need two more to make four. I need to cry but I can’t. Oh. Snow and eggs. Am I still bleeding? I don’t think so. There were doctors here, but now they’re out talking to my mother. The look in her eyes as they took her out said, “Quiet, be quiet.” I tried, I will tell her. I tried, but I couldn’t.

I’m up and moving again, running headlong into the smothering heat.

I won’t bleed for him anymore.

Parking lot pebbles gouge my heels, sweat streams from my pores.

My mother’s giving him another baby.

“What did you tell them?” my mother whispers, stepping back in and bending over me after the velvet-eyed lady leaves, and she and I are now alone behind the rippling white curtain. “You didn’t mention Daddy, did you?”

The drugs stretch me see-through and I drift above myself, touching the four tiles, wondering why she needs me to talk when she can see the answer in my head.

“You didn’t blame him, did you?” Her breath is sour in my nostrils. “You know he didn’t mean it, he loves you, he really does. It was a mistake, Meredith, so nobody’s really to blame. You understand that, don’t you?”

“I told them,” I mumble, floating like a wispy, white cloud.

“You told them?” She isn’t whispering anymore. “How could you do that? Don’t you know what’s going to happen?” Her fingers yank me down from the peaceful place. “We’re supposed to stick together, family is supposed to stick together. He made a mistake! Lots of people make mistakes and no one tells on them! How could you?”

The curtain swishes open. “Mrs. Shale? Your daughter needs rest.”

“Don’t touch me,” my mother growls, clinging to my arm. “Meredith, tell them you were wrong, tell them you lied. Go ahead, tell them.”

“Here she is, guys,” the nurse says grimly. “Be my guest.”

My mother yelps and walkie-talkies squawk and the bed pitches and jerks, but everything is smudgy and distant and dark as I float away….

I pound across the burning macadam, an eighteen-wheeler running at full throttle, past Andy’s and then right back up the hot, metal steps to his door. The curtains twitch and I find myself returning Nigel’s gaze.

“You arrested my father that day,” I say as he lets me in. My eyes don’t adjust to the darkness quickly enough and the air-conditioning makes my head spin. I stumble and Nigel steers me into a seat. “Tell me again what you saw and this time I want details. No more of that ‘we got the call, arrested him, and that was it’ crap. I was in the middle of it, remember? If that didn’t kill me, this won’t, either.” I smear sweat from my forehead and drain the glass of water Ms. Mues offers.

“Now?” Clearly uncomfortable, Nigel runs a ham-size hand over his hair and trudges back to the table. He sits and the cushioned chair wheezes beneath him.

“What’s going on with you, Mer?” Andy asks and his hands close tight around the Jim Beam bottle. He looks like he wishes he were already in Iowa.

And that pisses me off because I
can’t
run away to Iowa or to Leah Louisa’s or drown myself in alcohol. I have to stay to protect others and keep my wits sharp to protect myself. “My father and mother are trying to have another baby.”

Andy hoists his bottle and drinks.