by Bourne, Sam
Maggie looked up from the handwritten pages and surveyed the small guest bedroom where Peggy had invited Maggie to rest after her ‘long travels’ and to read the journal in peace. The walls gave off the very faintest hint of must. It wasn’t unpleasant. On the contrary, it was familiar, reassuring. It reminded her of staying the night at her nan’s.
She was reading the journal on a narrow single bed. Again, it was old-fashioned, if not downright ascetic: no duvet, or comforter, as they called it here, but rather a sheet and a fairly rough blanket. Given that Aunt Peggy was a Winthrop, a family with serious money, it seemed to be making a point. Something about the virtues of modesty and restraint, of old money wearing itself lightly.
Was this where Natasha stayed on her visits here, a grown woman, an accomplished lawyer, curled up in a single bed as if she were still the teenage niece? The funny thing was, Maggie could picture it.
But that still left an obvious question. Why would Natasha lie about her one surviving relative? Why would she go out of her way to say to Maggie and to everyone else that her beloved Aunt Peggy was dead?
Maggie had assumed this journal would contain some kind of answer. But this story – while unsettling – shed no light at all. Was this a child whose case Natasha had taken up? Would the denouement of this tale be a plea from Aunt Peggy? And you see, Maggie, it’s girls like Mindy that my niece wants to help. That’s why she’s running for president. Maggie remembered the Tuesday deadline. There was so little time.
Resisting the urge to flick to the end, conscious that Peggy had removed this notebook from a hiding place, that she had shown it to no one else until today – You can be the second person to read it – Maggie went back to the diary. She saw a clear break, a change in the handwriting that suggested Mindy had left a long gap between entries, that she had grown older.
Dear Diary, I’ve missed you. It’s been two years and ten months since I picked you up. You’ve been buried in the . . . well, you know where you were. I don’t have to tell you to keep that place a secret, because you don’t say a word about anything. You’re the best kind of best friend. I trust you.
So you probably know what’s been happening but I’m going to write as much of it down as I can. I wish there was someone I could tell. Someone else, I mean. (No offense.) Sometimes I think about my birth mom and whether I could tell her. I try and picture her face, imagining what it would be like to talk to her. I imagine her voice, and when I imagine it, it’s kind of soft and soothing, like a lady in one of those ads for Thanksgiving gravy or for soap powder that smells so nice you hold the blanket next to your cheek even though I don’t think she really talks like that. I don’t know how she talked, I don’t remember her voice at all. Or her face. And I don’t have any photos. But P once said she was a junkie—he kept chanting “Your mom’s a crackhead, your mom’s a crackhead”—and even though I pretended to ignore him, and did that little smile I sometimes do to show that it doesn’t bother me, I can’t get that out of my head. And sometimes I imagine her like one of the addicts on Summit Street, her skin covered in spots and so thin her bones show. Maybe she’s sleeping outside or maybe she’s dead.
Anyway, I’ve got off the point which is that I’m going to tell you because there’s no one else I can tell. It’s about P. I just read the last thing I wrote in here when I was ten and it made me sad because I was so shaken up back then about what had happened, and now I’m like, well, yeah, of course you were shaken up, you were only ten, but also, come on, that was nothing compared to what happened afterwards.
I was right about what I thought he was doing to himself, standing over me, next to my bed. He would have been fourteen then, when I was ten. I told myself then that maybe I had got it wrong, that maybe he was having a nightmare or like sleepwalking or something. You know, like he was doing it without knowing? I kind of wanted that to be what it was, I guess.
But then it happened another time and then once more. And the next time, he didn’t hide it or look embarrassed. He said that same thing again, that if I said a word to Mom and Dad he would kill me. He made me swear. And I promise you, if you’d heard him, you’d have known he meant it.
So I had to just let him do it. I tried to pretend I wasn’t there, closing my eyes and imagining I was somewhere far away but he made me open my eyes. He wanted me to look. He wanted me to keep looking until he “finished”. That’s what he called it. I was scared of it, I would turn my face away when it happened. But when I did that, he slapped my face and made me look.
That went on for a few weeks, every night he’d do it. I dreaded night time because I knew it was going to happen. One time Mom was telling me it was past my bedtime and I needed to get to bed, and I didn’t want to go and I began crying, and I think P must have thought I was about to say something because he gave me this look, like a glare, and I swear I thought he was going to kill me that night.
Instead, he punished me a different way. Now I didn’t just have to look while he touched himself. Now he made me touch him. He made these noises, kind of like grunting, when I did it and I hated it so much, I tried closing my eyes and pretending I was somewhere else, that my hand was touching something else, but he told me I had to look.
After that, it got worse. I think it was kind of my fault because when I got a bit older, like when I turned twelve, my body started changing and that made him even more crazy. He would stare at me when my Mom and Dad were around, just looking at my chest and stuff. I tried to hide from him, kind of to cover myself up and hunch over, but he was always staring at me. Every night in our room, he’d stare at me and then try to touch me and when I said no, he would put his hand over my mouth or he would pin me down on the bed and whisper in my ear while he was doing things to me. He’d say, “You make even a little sound and I will take your eyes out with a fork.” And he’d say other things, about knives and about other parts of me, that I don’t even want to write down.
And while he was saying these things he’d be doing things. It would hurt so much, but he’d put a pillow over my mouth so that no one could hear me. One day I was gagging from, you know, and Mom must have been up and heard the sound of me coughing, because from outside the door she said, “Are you all right in there, Mindy?” I wanted so much to say “Mommy, come in here” or “Please help, Mom” or just “Help” and for a second I was about to. I was on the verge of doing it. But all he had to do was glance at me—he didn’t even have to glare—and I knew that he would kill me if I dared say anything.
Also I was ashamed. I didn’t want Mom to see me like that. I know she would know that P forces me to do it. But it would get him into so much trouble if Mom knew what was happening. She would be so mad at him. They would send him away or maybe even go to jail or something and this whole family would be ruined. She’d be crying and he’d be crying and it would all be my fault. My fault for telling, my fault for having this body that makes him this way.
Maggie looked out of the window, at the cold, grey sea. She was finding this unbearable. She knew of course that child abuse happened, just as she knew that there were men and boys who preyed on underage girls for sex, and that both horrors happened most often within families. She knew all that: how in this world could you not? But that didn’t mean she forced herself often – or ever – to look at the reality of what that meant, not to really look at it. This poor girl, Mindy, was demanding Maggie’s attention, demanding she stare into the abyss. The truth was, Maggie had always avoided doing that, skimming past the news stories, turning down the radio, finding the pain of it too intense. Now, with Mindy’s diary in her hands, Maggie had no escape.
But why was this diary in Peggy Winthrop’s home? A thought came in swift reply. Perhaps this was a charity case, embraced by this Brahmin family as part of their patrician duty. Maybe Peggy was going to ask Maggie to help in some way, lending a hand to a foundation endowed with the great Winthrop fortune. I’ll help you to help Natasha, b
ut first I want you to help me and these terribly unfortunate girls.
And yet, the journal had been hidden. No one, apart from Peggy herself, had read it before. If this was a case study, why the intense secrecy?
Maggie was becoming impatient for an answer. That, coupled with her reluctance to digest any more of the agonizing details, made her skim through the next paragraphs, which, she could see, detailed in the sometimes plain, sometimes bewildered language of a young teenage girl, her further abuse at the hands of her adopted brother. It seemed Paulie, or P, repeatedly raped Mindy, coercing her through both actual violence and the threat of it. And all of this took place under the roof of the people Mindy regarded as her parents. A vulnerable young girl who had kept this torture secret and, if anything, blamed herself for it.
Maggie stopped at an entry written soon after Mindy had told her diary that she had turned fourteen.
Today I saw something that shocked me so much and I still don’t know what to do about it or what to think about it. What’s even weirder is that I don’t know what to feel about it. I just feel numb. The one thing I know is that I have to tell you about it. I’ve been waiting for this moment, when I could be alone with a pen and with you so I could just get it all down.
So I was going back from school and now that P has finished at school I walk the last bit on my own. I didn’t mind, I quite like having time on my own. But then I remembered that I’d left my math book at school and we have a test tomorrow so I had to turn around and get it. Normally I’d only ever go the street way, by Chalamont, but this time, because it’s like summer, I thought I’d take the shortcut, through the woods.
So I did, and I got the book from school and then I took the shortcut again, and this time it was like after five and as I was walking I could hear the sound of voices. But not like the voices of people having fun. This sounded different.
Something made me stop, just by the dip where the old abandoned wagon is, where P always used to play when he was little. I was by this tree, kind of looking down into the dip, with this completely clear view. And there was P. And he was with Helen, from my class.
It took me a second or two, because at first I thought maybe they were fooling around, but it was obvious: he was—Oh, God, I can’t even write it down—he was . . . doing to her what he does to me. He was forcing her. She was kind of screaming, but he had his whole arm across her mouth, like a gag. And he was using his other hand to pin her arm behind her back. She was in such pain, because he’s really strong, and he pushed her down onto her knees and then he forced her to, you know, in her mouth, and he was slapping her face at the same time. Like he does with me. There was worse stuff, but I can’t even . . . I don’t want to write it down.
I didn’t say anything. I should have done, I should have screamed or called for help. But it was like I was stuck there, my legs nailed to the ground. I couldn’t move.
And I had the strangest feeling. Because for the longest time, I’d been thinking that maybe—I don’t know how to say this—that maybe what P does is sort of normal, that maybe this is just what brothers do with their sisters, even though no one else ever talks about it? Or maybe no one else does what he does, but that’s because of me, because of something I do, that makes P like that.
But now there was Helen. When I saw him gagging her and twisting her arm, I suddenly felt, I don’t know, but it was kind of like relief, because I thought it’s not just me who makes him this way. If he does this to another girl, not even his sister, then maybe it’s him that’s the bad one, not me. I’m not explaining it very well.
And then I realized that if it’s not just me he’s doing this to, then someone has to do something. Because he could keep hurting people, not just his family.
I was thinking, maybe I should tell the school? But P doesn’t go to school anymore. He’s working now, as an apprentice in the shop. I really want to talk to Helen, but then I’ll have to admit that I saw her and she’ll feel so ashamed—I know she will—and what if she tells P that I saw, because she might do that, and then what would he do to me? Or I could go to the police, but then he would kill me.
I don’t know what to do, which is why I wanted to come to you, the friend I trust most in the world. But telling you doesn’t solve anything.
There was a change in ink colour, and then, though it was not clear how much time had passed, another line had been added:
I think there’s only one thing I can do. I’m going to have to tell Mom and Dad.
Chapter 35
Washington, DC, one day earlier
‘Guys, listen up. Now, I’m going to leave all this to you experts here – you know this stuff better than me – so I just wanted to say a few very general things, before throwing it over to you all. First: thank you – thank you for coming today. Not easy to cut an hour into the kind of schedule I know you’re working.’ Here Senator Tom Harrison leaned in towards the flat, grey, starfish-like device at the centre of the boardroom table, a speakerphone designed for conference calls like this one. ‘I’m looking at you, California. And you, Arizona. I know this is a horrible hour of the day for you, so truly, I’m extra grateful.’ He leaned back. ‘But all of you, seriously, I know you’re putting your backs into this campaign and I appreciate it.’
There was some grateful nodding. Watching, Dan Benson dutifully joined in. But he also kept an eye on the couple of staffers, both senior, who remained impassive. That could just be their rank: they didn’t need to suck up. But it could also be a mild signal of dissent, their way of registering that this meeting was happening because things were not all well. And that that was not their fault.
‘Second,’ the candidate continued, ‘we’re here because we’re in a very unusual situation. Normally, you’re in a race with the candidates who’ve declared their candidacy. But this time, there’s a lot of interest about someone who has not declared, but who might. True, this someone has only, what, three working days to jump in before the deadline for nominations? Also true that this someone has no political experience and has never served in elected office – which used to be considered a negative in this business, but heck, things have changed.’ There was just an edge of bitterness, which even the folksy delivery and whitened-toothed smile could not conceal. ‘Even more unusual, this potential candidate is not currently free but is in custody awaiting trial for homicide. So, all in all, a real strange situation, even wilder than my first race for county commissioner, which was about one hundred and thirty years ago.’ More polite laughter.
‘So I’m going to sit back and listen as you geniuses kick this around, work the angles. Like I say, I’m just a kid from the South Side. You’re the experts. I want to hear how you see it.’
As campaign manager, Doug Teller assumed the right to speak first. The presence of him, Greg Carter and the candidate himself attested to the significance of this gathering.
‘All right, I just want to stress that both the content and fact of this meeting is strictly confidential. When the senator has completed two full terms in the White House, and this gathering is mentioned in the memoirs, then and only then will any public reference to it having taken place be forgiven – and maybe not even then. There were no papers circulated in advance of this meeting, there is no PowerPoint presentation and none of you will write any notes. You’ve all left your cellphones with the team on your way in. Sorry that we’re behaving like paranoid Stasi assholes, but that’s what a poll lead of three points, forty-one to thirty-eight, does to ya.’
Dan Benson registered the ripple that went around the room. As Director of Comms, he’d had advance warning of the poll numbers Teller was referring to, but most hadn’t. He could see the faces falling, behind each pair of eyes the same question, one he had asked himself: Have I just tanked my career by jumping on a ship that is holed below the waterline?
Teller had seen the same look. ‘OK, before you all start hawking your ré
sumés around the Hill, let me clarify. That’s not the headline figure. Basic horse race, voting intentions, the senator is still nineteen points ahead. Nice fat lead. But when you look underneath the hood, it’s not so pretty.
‘Our big issue is gender. We do fine when you ask registered party supporters who they’d prefer as the party’s nominee for president. But you know my view. At this stage of the cycle, you ask that, it’s basically a quiz question. We might as well be asking, “Who have you heard of that is running for president?” With name recognition in the high eighties, the senator’s always going to win that one.
‘But with prompts, once we start suggesting names, things look very different. Strip out don’t knows, make it a head-to-head, Harrison versus Winthrop, and the senator’s lead is down to eleven points among all voters. He leads by nineteen among men. Among women? It’s just three. That’s not a gender gap. That’s a gender chasm – and we’re falling right into it.’
With that, Teller did not throw to Greg Carter, which would have been the natural progression down the chain of command. Instead, he gave a nod to Ellen Stone. Teller was no fool. He understood that this was a message that couldn’t be delivered by a succession of men. Ellen took her cue and began to speak.
‘We’ve done qual as well as quant on this, and we’re getting the same message. Our initial assumption – and the assumption, we understand, made by all the campaigns as well as by the media – was that once Winthrop was formally charged, that would burst the bubble. Among men that is clearly true: her numbers are low; among white men lower, among white men who didn’t go to college, lower still.
‘But women see this completely differently. In focus groups, we’re hearing women describe her as a “political prisoner”, as a “champion” of women, and all lining up behind the idea that there’s more to this story than they’re being told. Big numbers across all sectors, white women, black and Latina women, non-college – every one. At several groups, women said, unprompted, that they wouldn’t just vote for her, they would volunteer for her.’
