The Pillow Friend (11 page)

The sound of a screen-door slamming made her open her eyes. She realized then that the horse was no longer moving.

“Agnes? I was expecting you back for lunch.”

It was Marjorie, with the house looming behind her. Quickly, while she had the chance, she slid down the horse's side and landed on her feet.

“Oh my God. What's happened to you? Oh, sweetheart—”

Her bare legs were covered in sticky brownish-red, her shorts were soaking wet, and looking up she saw the horse's white back spotted with the same stuff: blood. The horse hadn't managed to throw her, but he had damaged her in some terrible way, had wounded her, perhaps fatally. She burst into tears.

Marjorie's arms were around her. “Agnes. Sweetheart. Try to tell me what happened. Did you fall? Did you cut yourself? Did someone . . . Where does it hurt? What happened?”

They worked it out eventually, through tears and fear and confusion. She was not hurt; the blood signified no injury but womanhood. Agnes had gotten both her wishes.

Although her aunt and her mother were identical twins, Agnes had never had any trouble telling them apart. Yet throughout this crisis, Marjorie seemed so much like her mother that it made her uneasy.

Even her face, and the way she moved, seemed to change.

She hoped she wasn't trying to be Mary to make her feel better, but that was not something she could say, and it came between them.

After she'd had a bath she got into bed. She'd been too squeamish to attempt to use a Tampax—Leslie claimed her cousin had lost her virginity that way—so she'd improvised a thick padding of tissues in her underpants.

She ached all over, and had no idea if that was from horseback riding or if it was another nasty side effect of the curse. “The curse” was what Leslie and her other friends at school all called it, although Marjorie objected.

“Think of it as a blessing. Think positively and you won't have any problems. I know it seems strange to you now, but it's a part of life—it's a sign of life, proof that you're a woman.”

So now she was a woman—not like her aunt or her mother, of course, but like Leslie with her Mary Quant make-up and her crushes on high school boys, and Janis Reed who was allowed to go on dates, and Mary Kilmartin who stuffed her bra with toilet paper and flirted with Mr. Jameson, because he
blushed,
and with the new Spanish teacher because he was cute, and with the fat old bus driver just for practice.

Like it or not—and she didn't—she had become part of that merry scene.

And to think she had actually wished for it—

But she couldn't blame a wish. This wasn't magic, it was just life.

“I'd better get up to the store before it closes, and buy you some sanitary napkins,” said Marjorie. “If you'll be all right on your own?”

“Sure,” she said, annoyed. What had happened to the Marjorie who used to talk to her as to another adult?

“Would you like anything else? What would you like for dinner?”

“I don't care. I'm not hungry.” As resentful as if the changes in her body had been engineered by her aunt, she turned her face to the wall. “That's right, get some sleep. I'll make something light, and you can have it whenever you want. I'll get a few things. I'll be as quick as I can.”

She did sleep, without intending to. She slept for hours, and woke when the room was gray with dusk, feeling ravenous. She still ached, and the tissues between her legs were blood-soaked pulp. But by then her aunt had come back with a big blue box of sanitary napkins and something like a garter belt to keep them on. After she'd cleaned herself up she had a peanut butter sandwich and a glass of apple juice and sat in the kitchen with her aunt, who kept smiling at her, her face changing from familiar to unknown and back again in the shadowy room.

She was eager to escape, and soon went back to bed. Marjorie had bought her a flashlight which she used to read
Agnes Grey
for a couple of hours. It was a comforting read; there were no surprises in it anymore, and yet, strangely, this time as she read it she felt she was understanding it in a way or on a level which had not been available to her before. It was a love story, of course. Now that she was a woman, what about love?

She put the book away, turned off the flashlight and put it within easy reach beside her glasses. Then she lay in the dark and thought about the boys at school, who were all horrible, except for Devon Baker who was shy and kind of sweet—“queer,” said Leslie—and about the high school boys who seemed remote and rather frightening. She thought about Mr. Jameson, and the way his blue eyes sparkled, and the funny feeling she'd had once when he smiled at her. She thought about Paul McCartney and George Harrison. That was more like it. She was certain she could love—did love—both—either of them, but so what? So did millions of other girls. They had the whole world to choose from. They were Beatles. Even if they came to do a concert in Houston, even if some fateful chance brought her into their presence, why should they notice her out of all the other adoring young fans? She thought about the young poet Graham Storey. He was English, too, with a Beatle-style haircut, but he was not a Beatle. Some chance might bring him to Texas, she might meet him by another chance and then, if she was lucky, he might fall in love with her. She fell asleep thinking about being in love with Graham Storey.

There was a man standing in the doorway, a more solid darkness in the dark.

Her heart lurched and the breath caught in her throat. She was awake enough to remember that she'd had this nightmare before. She only had to perform some action—opening her eyes, or sitting up in bed—to make him vanish.

Her eyes seemed to be open already, so she rolled onto her side and propped herself up on one elbow. The man was still there, and now she remembered that the door had been closed when she went to bed. It had been the sound of the door opening which had woken her. It wasn't a dream. The man who watched her was real.

She felt choked and cold, despite the stifling heat of the night. She tried to scream, but, just as in a bad dream, nothing came out but a tiny mewling squeak.

The noise was too small to carry to another room, but the stranger heard it and he moved, taking a couple of slow, shambling steps into her room and toward her. He had his hands out, pawing the air, groping for her. In a few seconds he would have her. She was trapped in the worst dream she'd ever had, and the fear she felt was paralyzing.

But she wasn't paralyzed, and before he reached her she moved, scooting away, off the other side of the bed, snatching up the flashlight and brandishing it like a weapon. He was between her and both doors.

Unless she wanted to go out one of the windows—which meant opening the screen and then a nine-foot drop to the ground—she would have to pass him. Thinking of the window (the screen would just require a push) as her secret plan made her more brave. She would, she decided, dazzle him with the flashlight, and while he was blinded she would rush past, calling for Marjorie as she went.

She switched on the light and gave a rebel yell. But when she saw him, the yell turned into a scream, and she was frozen to the spot, unable to look away. He was completely naked. Apart from a few brief guilty glimpses of her father when she was younger—now imperfectly remembered—she had never seen a naked man before, not even in a picture. Some black-and-white photographs of classical sculpture in a book treasured by Leslie's cousin were her only preparation, and that was no preparation at all.

She screamed again, and suddenly Marjorie was there.

“What's going on? You! Get out of here! You're not supposed to be here—go on, get out!”

She spoke to him as if he were a dog and, like a dog, he obeyed, lowering his head and hunching his shoulders against an expected blow as he turned and slouched away. He went out of the room and, after a moment, the back door opened and slammed shut.

Marjorie reached out and took the flashlight. “What were you doing?” Her voice was accusatory.

“Me! I was sleeping—I wasn't doing anything! I was asleep, and then that man came in—I was trying to get away from him. I thought he was going to kill me!”

“Don't be ridiculous. I suppose you were dreaming.”

She almost choked on the unfairness of it. “Dreaming? What are you talking about? That wasn't a dream.
You
saw him—you told him to get out! And you talked to him like—you must know who he is.”

Marjorie switched off the light. “Of course I know who he is. He's mine, and you don't have any right to him. He shouldn't have been here with you.”

In the darkness, her aunt was suddenly a stranger, the note of accusation in her voice weirdly menacing. It reminded Agnes unpleasantly of certain occasions with her mother, of being guilty of nameless, unspecified crimes.

“Well, I didn't want him in here! He nearly scared me to death.”

“You must have wanted him. He doesn't go where he isn't wanted. You were probably dreaming. He felt the pull of your desire, and he came to you.”

“Could we have the light on?”

“Why? What do you want to see?”

“I just don't like being in the dark.”

“Nobody does.”

Her aunt was starting to frighten her more than the man. She backed away until she felt the edge of the bed and sat down.

“How could I dream about somebody I'd never even seen before, never even knew existed? How could I want somebody I don't know? Who is he, anyway? What's the deal with him?”

“I don't mean you wanted him, specifically. Just that you were dreaming of a lover. Well, it's natural. You're not a child anymore, you're a woman, and women have desires. . . .”

“Stop it! What difference does it make what I was dreaming, if I was dreaming—
he's
not a dream. You can't say that, you saw him—”

“He's something like a dream. I don't expect you to understand right now, but someday you will. I call him my pillow friend. He's a wish—my wish. I told you that wishes come true here—I think you know that's true. He exists because I want him to; he exists to satisfy desire. And although he's mine, the presence in the house of another desirous woman . . . confused him. But now that I know, I can be on guard against it. It won't happen again; I won't let him go to you.”

“That's the most horrible thing I've ever heard! You're sick—you must be sick if you think I would want for some horrible naked old man to come crawling into my bed at night! I don't want a lover—I don't want sex—I'm not a woman, I'm just a kid!”

“My dear, you protest too much. He knows what you want—that's all he knows. He responds to desire—that's all he can do. And your body knows, too, even if you'd rather think otherwise. Your body's betrayed you.”

“I need to go to the bathroom. Can I have my light back, please?”

In silence, her aunt handed her the flashlight.

She didn't see the pillow friend again during her visit but she heard him at night with Marjorie. That was the meaning of the sounds she heard, the heavy breathing and soft moans, the rhythmic creaking of bedsprings: that was not her aunt dreaming, as she had first thought; that was Marjorie having sex. The thought made her unpleasantly excited, and although she didn't want to think about it she couldn't seem to help herself recalling the male nakedness she had seen, trying to figure out how something like that would fit together with her body, and why such a coupling would be pleasant.

Maybe the curse was a blessing, in some ways: at least Marjorie didn't force her out of the house every morning. She could lie in bed as long as she liked, read all day indoors if she wanted. By the third day she had read six of the twelve books she had brought with her and was feeling overstuffed with words and restless. She wasn't bleeding anymore and she wanted to move. She missed her bicycle and the company of other children. She began to think about the horse, her horse, in a different way.

Yes, she had been frightened, but there had also been something wonderful in the connection between them, the power that carried her along in response to her unspoken wishes. She found herself re-creating the ride in her mind, changing it so that the fear and discomfort vanished and it became purely exciting, like something she'd read about. She became different, too, the skillful rider of the horse, someone brave and free. On the day that she finally went out to look for him she even had a name for the horse: Snowy Miles. It made her think of that poem by Robert Frost which she'd memorized a couple of years ago, “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.” He was white, too, as white as the snow she'd seen only once in her life.