by Merry Jones
Nora grabbed hold of it. With a growl from someplace deep inside her, she swung the shard at Paul’s head with all her strength. Her strength wasn’t very strong, though. Her fingers slipped and, too soon, before she’d finished digging the edge into Paul’s skull, the broken saucer fell from her grasp.
Paul cried out.
He released her and raised his hand to his temple. Blood swelled from a jagged gash and streamed down his face. He stared at the blood on his hands as if he couldn’t understand what had happened.
When his weight shifted, Nora lifted herself onto her elbows and worked her way out from under him. Paul was distracted, dazed, dabbing at his wound with his shirtsleeve. Nora tried to move quickly. Grasping the sofa for balance, she grabbed her pocketbook, pushed to her feet and stood unsteadily, eyes on Paul as she dared to take a step, then another. Carefully, she let go of the sofa and edged away from him, past the coffee table with its broken cup, spilled drinks, and crystal dolphin knocked onto its side.
When she looked back at him, Paul seemed stunned, one side of his face streaming red. He fumbled with his pants, cursing, blinking through blood, and groped in their pockets for a
handkerchief.
“What have you done?” he croaked, his voice as raw as if it, too, were bleeding.
Nora secured her bag under her arm and raced in slow motion. Each of her steps was too short, taking too long. She hiked up her culottes and struggled with shirt buttons—so many buttons that she abandoned the effort and kept moving toward the door. Except, no. That door led to Paul’s campaign offices, to his entire staff. Paul would chase after her, bloody and raging, and his staff would charge her like an angry mob. So she pivoted, aiming for the back door to the parking lot. But she spun around too quickly, and a wave of crippling dizziness almost brought her down.
“You fucking bitch!” Paul pressed the handkerchief to his temple. “Look what you did!” He stared in disbelief at all the blood, ribbons of it flowing from his head.
Nora didn’t look. Turning might make her dizzy again. Instead, she estimated how far it was to the door. Fifteen steps? Twelve? It might as well be miles. Her mind felt sluggish, her movements heavy and ineffective. But she had to move. At any moment, Paul was likely to get up and grab her. Hurry, she told herself. Faster! She held her breath and kept plodding ahead, braced for Paul to pounce.
When she dared to glance back from the door, though, Paul hadn’t moved. He remained huddled and groaning on the sofa, bleeding onto his fine, hand-tailored shirt, but he saw her looking at him.
“Nora, stop!” He billowed to his feet as if hoisted from above, as if about to sail across the room and catch her.
Nora froze. There was no sense trying to escape. It would take him no time, just a few sweeping steps to tackle her.
“Do not move!” He started forward.
Nora stiffened and closed her eyes, preparing for impact.
But impact didn’t happen. At least, not to her. When she heard the crash, Nora opened one eye and turned her head toward Paul. He had thundered to the floor, knocking into the coffee table and landing in a heap of succulents, newspapers and broken glass, his ankles tangled and trapped in his expensively
tailored, unfastened slacks.
Nora tried to open the door. It wouldn’t budge. Her pocketbook slipped to the floor. Slowly, leaning against the door, she stooped to pick it up, looking back at Paul.
He was on his knees, wiping blood from his eye with one hand and pulling his trousers up with the other, bearing little resemblance to the charismatic candidate she’d come to meet.
She tried the door again.
“Nora, wait. Listen.” Paul spoke softly, like a wolf. Like a snake. “I thought you’d be on board with this course of action. I never anticipated that you’d object. But since it didn’t work out, let’s agree, no hard feelings?” He stumbled to his feet and touched his forehead. He blinked at the wet blood on his fingertips and sank back onto the sofa. “Damn, this won’t stop bleeding. But listen, how’s this? I won’t report you for assault if you agree to keep our little liaison to ourselves. All right? Come sit. Let’s talk. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to. I just want to make peace so we can discuss what to do about our spouses. Please. Come sit.”
Nora didn’t go sit. She closed her fingers around the doorknob yet again, turned and pushed. The door still didn’t open. She pulled, but that didn’t work either. She leaned against the door, trapped. What could she do? Risk sitting with Paul again as if there were no hard feelings? Take her chances running through the outer office? Hopeless, Nora leaned her head against the door. And saw the dead bolt. Oh. No wonder. She wasn’t trapped after all. But she had to hurry, couldn’t take time to look at Paul again, couldn’t waste even an eye blink. She plunged ahead, pushing with all her strength, feeling a click as the bolt gave way. Nora reached for the doorknob, grabbed it, twisted, anticipating escape. But before she could get out, something whizzed past her ear and exploded against the door. Tiny shining sparkles erupted in the air around her head, floated snow-like to the floor.
The crystal dolphin lay shattered at her feet.
Behind her, Paul said, “That was a warning, Nora. Keep this to yourself or you’ll face consequences. Nobody crosses me.
Nobody. Understood?”
Nora swung the door open and barreled outside.
“Answer me, you pathetic cow!”
The rain had stopped. Puddles dotted the asphalt of the parking lot, reflecting white sunlight. A pair of aides wearing campaign T-shirts and carrying posters passed her on their way to the office. They stopped and stared. Damn. Did they know she was running from Paul? Were they his people—would they
accost her and force her back to Paul’s office?
“Ma’am?” one of them said. “Are you all right?”
She didn’t trust them. “I’m fine.” Her words sounded wrong, as if someone else said them, but she kept moving, leaving them standing there, frowning and whispering. What were they staring at? Did she have Paul’s blood on her? Or was her hair messed up? Oh God. Was Paul charging after her, bloodied and simmering? Nora didn’t dare look back. Holding onto her bag, she kept inching toward the street, one step after another, until she made it to the curb and stopped to lean against a light pole. Hailing a cab, she realized that her blouse was unbuttoned, hanging open. She managed to overlap the collar, holding it closed, by the time the driver stopped.
She half fell into the backseat. When the driver asked her where she wanted to go, she managed to articulate her address. He eyed her from the rearview mirror, probably assumed she was drunk.
As he pulled away from the curb, Nora risked looking back at Paul’s office. The candidate was nowhere to be seen.
Tuesday, August 14, 2018, 12:40 p.m.
T
he cab driver watched her in his mirror, asked if she was all right. She nodded. Talking, explaining what had just happened, was beyond her capability. So was comprehending it. What had happened? Paul drugged her—probably? And tried to rape her—definitely. How was that possibly actually true?
After the cab had dropped her off, Nora stood in her driveway feeling disconnected from her body. How much time had passed since she’d entered Paul’s office? An hour? Less? How long until the girls would get home from camp? Oh God. She couldn’t face them, not after what had happened, what he’d done. She would call the police and report him. With each step toward her house, she felt his claw-like fingers inside her. The man was a predator. An abuser. He deserved to have his campaign aborted. He deserved to be in jail. Yes, she would have him arrested.
But not until she had a bath.
Nora made it to the front door, then her bathroom. She drew a bath, pulled her clothes off, put a foot into the water, and remembered something about bathing after sexual assault. About destroying evidence? Wait. No, that wouldn’t apply. Because Paul hadn’t left any sperm behind. All Paul had left was the repeate
d, endless shock of his fingers, and a constant, aching, rawness whenever she took a breath. She felt unclean, scuzzy, contaminated, dirty, unfit to greet her children or even touch them until she had scrubbed enough to somehow undo what had been done to her.
She got in the tub carefully, sunk down into water so hot she could barely endure it, and concentrated on holding the soap, on sudsing her body with it.
The phone rang almost immediately and she let it go, certain that it was Paul calling to repeat his threat. As soon as the phone finally stopped ringing, it started again. Again and again.
Despite the hot water, Nora shivered. She kept seeing Paul’s twisted grin, his feral blue eyes. Why was he calling? What did he want from her? She dunked under, felt the heat engulf her. Opened her eyes and saw the tiled walls, wavy through the water. She stayed there, holding her breath until, with a jolt, she realized that maybe it wasn’t Paul, but Dave, who’d been calling repeatedly. She’d forgotten to call him after her visit with Paul. He must be frantic that he hadn’t heard from her, especially since she hadn’t been answering her phone.
But Nora couldn’t call him back. Couldn’t let Dave hear her unsteady voice, couldn’t risk having him find out what had
happened.
“Damn it, Nora!” he would yell. “I told you not to go.” Then he’d slam the phone down, furious, the vein in his forehead throbbing, fists tightening. Who knew what he’d do to Paul? Dave might end up getting hurt—or arrested. So, she couldn’t talk to him yet. Instead, Nora grabbed her phone from the counter. Slowly, she manipulated her trembling fingers, texting him that she was home and okay and that they’d talk later.
The phone rang again as soon as she’d sent the text. Not Dave’s number. Oh God. It had to be Paul’s. Reflexively, she threw the phone, sent it skittering across the bathroom floor.
You looked for trouble. You found it.
Nora closed her eyes and lay back, took deep uneven breaths, felt the sways and sloshes of the water responding to her slightest movements. Over and over, she replayed the scene at Paul’s office. Paul’s unbuttoned shirt, unfastened pants. His explanation, “There must be some kind of retribution, don’t you think?” His bloody head. Despite all her scrubbing, she smelled his cloying cologne. Despite the soft embrace of hot water, she felt his cold, viselike grasp. Time passed, but she didn’t move.
Nora was still in the tub when the camp bus pulled up. The girls stampeded up the steps, calling for her. She wasn’t ready. She hadn’t prepared a way to greet them, hadn’t fixed snacks or planned an after-camp activity. She sat bolt upright, as if caught doing something shameful, and reached for a towel.
“Mom, I have a new friend!” Sophie burst into the bathroom, her face flushed. Or maybe sunburned. Had Nora forgotten to pack sunscreen? “Her name is Madison. Can she come over? Please?”
Behind her, Ellie dropped her camp bag on the tiled floor and chewed her fingernail.
Nora’s phone rang.
“Mommy, want me to get it?”
“Nope. Let it go.” She dabbed her face and smiled brightly, reached for a towel and pulled the plug. Water gurgled and spun, sucked helplessly down the drain.
Sunday, October 24, 1993
N
ora’s whole body raged. She couldn’t stay still, couldn’t lie down or sit up, couldn’t even manage a good cry. She burst out of her room and into Tommy’s.
“How could you do that?”
He glanced up from a butterfly he was working on as Nora charged, intending to sweep the mountings off his table and destroy all his precious specimens. Tommy turned and reached an arm out, his hand catching her midriff, stopping her, knocking the air out of her lungs. Gasping, Nora swung her fists, pounding at him, spewing words and tears.
“I hate you!”
“What else is new?”
“Give me the pictures or I swear I’ll smash your camera, your dark room, and all your stupid bugs!”
“Try it.” Tommy grinned. “I’ll break all your bones.” He grabbed one of her flailing arms and twisted.
Nora winced in pain. She forced herself to stop struggling and spoke calmly. “You’re making a mistake. Trust me, you’ll be sorry.”
“Sorry? For what? You should thank me.”
He released her and leaned back. Lowered his brows, eyed her with something like pity. “I took those pictures for your own good. So you’d see for yourself, with your own eyes, what bad choices you’re making.”
“My choices are none of your business.”
“God, Nora. Do you really want to be one of them? Part of that mindless, superficial horde? That girl you had over, she’s one of the worst. Stuck up. Cheap and trashy—”
“She is not!”
He chuckled, pleased at getting a rise out of her. “She’s so cheap and trashy that she’s practicing being a slut even before she’s even grown tits.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“Me? You’re the one with cigarettes and liquor, kissing another girl while you’re half naked.”
“Shut up! It’s none of your freaking business.” Blood rushed to Nora’s face. Her heart raced.
“Think about how she’s changing you. Do you really want to be like her? Look who she hangs with. Guys way too old for her, like that asshole Craig. If she’s not trashy, why do you think that he’s so eager to see her?”
“Because she’s cool. Which is something you wouldn’t know about, loser.”
For the briefest moment, Tommy’s eyelids quivered. Then he uncrossed his arms and went back to his butterflies. “Fine, Nora. Blend in. Be mediocre. Don’t dare to be different or have pride in who you are. Be like those trampy, dime-a-dozen, ‘cool’ girls. But remember, once you’re known as cheap trash, you’re cheap trash forever.”
Something sharp and cold cut through Nora’s chest. “Shut up, Tommy. Just shut up. You don’t know what you’re talking about. Annie’s my friend. You don’t know what that means because you don’t have any.”
“If having friends means acting like those cool pieces of shit, I’d rather be alone.”
“Well, good. Because you are. And you always will be.” Nora spun around and left, slamming the door behind her.
And came face to face with Marla.
She was just standing there in the hallway.
Oh God. How much had she heard? Would she ask about the pictures? Nora’s mind went blank. How could she explain?
“Nora, what’s on your eyes?” Marla squinted and grabbed Nora’s chin, looking closely. “Are you wearing makeup?”
Damn, shit, damn. She hadn’t washed it off. Now Marla would lecture her about growing up too fast and making smart choices. Blah, blah, blah. First Tommy, now her mother. Everyone was telling her how to live her life. And it wasn’t even nine in the morning.
But Marla didn’t lecture her. Instead, she shrugged and said, “I guess that’s what girls your age do at sleepovers.”
Wait. She wasn’t mad? Marla put an arm on Nora’s shoulder, guiding her down the hall, back, into Nora’s room. They sat side by side on her unmade bed.
“A word to the wise,” Marla said.
Nora braced herself for a barrage of Marla clichés. At the same time, she forced her face to look unworried, unbothered, unmortified, unfurious, as if there wasn’t a stack of half-naked photographs, as if she weren’t being blackmailed by her perverted asshole brother, peeping Tommy.
“You get what you give,” Marla said. “From what I just heard, you’re giving anger. Anger begets anger. Tommy’s only trying to be protective.”
Protective? What planet did Marla live on?
“You’re his little sister, after all.”
Duh. Wasn’t that the whole entire freaking problem?
“And you’re growing up. You’re in sixth grade, not exactly a little girl anymore. That’s hard for him to adjust to. He’s your big brother, and he worries about you. That’s natural. Just like it’s natura
l that you’ll experiment with things like makeup and friendships. Tommy’s trying to look out for you.”
By spying on her? By taking pictures of her and Annie topless and doing each other’s hair and drinking mini-bottles of whiskey? Of Annie teaching Nora how to kiss? “No. He’s trying to ruin my life.”
“Nora, how can you say a thing like that?”
How? Seriously? Clearly, Marla had no idea what went on between her kids. Nora didn’t answer, didn’t know where to start.
“It isn’t easy, is it?” Marla’s shoulders slumped. She gazed at the floor, sighing.
What wasn’t easy? Nora watched her mother, the gray strands sprinkling her brown hair, the errant curls escaping her loose bun. The paleness of the skin on the back on her neck. The colorless tone of her wool robe and the tightness of the shoulders underneath. God. What did she want? Why was she sitting there, staring at nothing?
Marla cleared her throat and checked her rose painted nails. “Life doesn’t always turn out the way we expect it to.”
Wow. A new cliché to add to the list. Nora grabbed a pillow, braced for more. You’ll attract more bees with honey than with vinegar. If you get a lemon, make lemonade. Family comes first.
“For example, I never imagined having a son who was a genius.”
A genius? Tommy was an idiot.
“But as brilliant as he is, Tommy’s never had good social skills. He hasn’t made many friends. I suspect he’s kind of jealous of yours.”
Nora rolled her eyes. Tommy wasn’t jealous. He was a turd whose parents overindulged him, believing that he was the world’s smartest kid, feeding his bug obsession by buying, among other things, a mini-freezer, microscopes, mounting materials, a fancy camera, enlargement equipment, an entire freaking dark room.
“Friends are an issue for him. He won’t talk about it, but I suspect kids his age bore him. Sometimes they get on his nerves so bad that he starts picking on them. And when Tommy gets mad, he loses control and gets physical.”
