by Saul Black
“No idea of what?”
“Of what I do for you.”
For a moment this silenced Abigail. She was standing behind Joanna, who was struggling with the clasp of her silver neck chain.
“I don’t know why you didn’t just have an abortion,” Abigail said. “Think of all the shitty stuff you wouldn’t have to do for me.”
The room tightened. She’d never said anything like that before. The words coming out of her mouth surprised her.
What surprised her more was that Joanna hit her. A hard blow with the back of her hand as she spun on her heel away from the mirror. The still unfastened silver neck chain went flying across the room. They found themselves facing each other. It had been years since Joanna had hit her. And when she’d done it in the past it hadn’t been like this. Smacks on the bottom or the legs, humiliating rather than painful, no more than an offshoot of Joanna’s general craziness.
In shock, Abigail stood there, her hand to the side of her face where the blow had struck. Joanna grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her.
“You don’t know anything,” she hissed. “He can put me in fucking jail. Don’t you understand?” Tears sprang from her eyes. “He can send me to prison, Abby.” Speaking the name “Abby” fractured her. She pulled Abigail tight against her and wrapped her arms around her. “I’m sorry, baby. Oh, God, I’m so sorry.”
Abigail held her. Her face was still stinging, as if a hot leaf rested on her cheek. All the feelings jammed: rage; fear; hurt; sadness; disgust. She and her mother hadn’t held each other like this in a long time. Abigail had forgotten the warmth, the shape, the smell of her hair. For a couple of seconds even the jammed feelings fell away and she felt only a deep physical peace.
“Hey?” Larry called, coming in the front door and slamming it behind him. “You ready, babe?”
* * *
When they’d gone, Abigail paced the apartment. He can send me to prison. The phrase repeated itself, gave shape to an understanding that had been vague. Not even vague. Just denied. All those hours she’d spent trawling the city, fantasizing, reading, escaping—doing nothing about what she knew except pretending not to know it. She was disgusted with herself.
All right, she was disgusted with herself—but no more pretending. She had to think what to do.
It was a muggy night and the apartment’s air-conditioning was feeble. She would take a quick cold shower and go out. Cold water to wake herself, then the city’s spaces to think in.
The bathroom had changed its nature since becoming the arena for her illicit transformations and the pleasure she’d discovered in herself. The dirty fortune of sins was beyond measure now. She knew God was still counting the coins even if she wasn’t. This was how God worked. His patience was a kind of cunning, to see how far you’d go. It didn’t sadden Him, as her early teachers had said. It satisfied Him, proved He’d been right about you all along. The scale of her deviance frightened her, suddenly, added to by the dizzying feeling of having somehow cheated her mother. You have no idea of what I do for you. Was that true? Could everything her mother did…? The thought was vast and terrifying, a weight which, if she accepted it, would suffocate her.
She showered, quickly, in icy water.
* * *
She didn’t hear Larry come in. One minute she was alone in her room taking clothes from the wardrobe, the next he was in the open doorway. She was wrapped in a pale blue bath towel. Her hair dripped on her bare shoulders. When she turned and saw him, some inner gear shifted in her and she knew. She supposed, now, that she’d known this all along, too.
“Get out,” she said.
Larry opened his arms and rested his hands, one on either side of the door frame. His leather jacket spread like the wings of a bat.
“That’s not going to happen,” he said, quietly, with a smile.
All the things she could say rose in her—then dissolved, uselessly.
Larry stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. His smell came in with him: cigarette smoke and aftershave, leather, alcohol on his breath. He used a hair wax that had an odor of concentrated coconut.
“Princess, you and I need to come to an understanding,” he said.
Abigail was trembling. The water dripping on her bare shoulders was a torment. Larry leaned back against the closed door. “Let me ask you something,” he said. “How do you feel about your mother going to prison and you going into CPS?”
She didn’t know what CPS was, but she knew if it was anything good it wouldn’t be an option.
“That won’t happen,” she said. It was nothing. Just a reflex refusal. She had no argument.
“Well, the great thing is,” Larry said, “that’s exactly what’ll happen. Do you know your mother’s an accessory to murder?”
Abigail’s insides lurched at the word “murder.” It was a dark presence in the room with them, suddenly.
“I don’t believe you,” she said.
“I think you do. My guy was there. And will testify. Your mom made some bad friends at Jezebel’s. I’m pretty sure you know that.”
“My mom wouldn’t kill anyone. You’re lying.”
“I didn’t say she killed anyone,” Larry said. “I said she was an accessory. Do you know what that word means?”
Abigail didn’t answer.
“Sure you do. You’re a smart kid. Smart and pretty. The problem is,” he continued, moving toward her, “you’ve got no modesty. You’re smug.”
He was right in front of her now. “You need to come down a couple of notches,” he said.
“You touch me and I’ll—”
Larry grabbed the towel where it was tightened around her chest. His fingers against her flesh were hard and cold. Abigail flung up her hand to try to hit him, but he blocked it and pushed her back onto the bed. In a moment he was sitting astride her, kneeling on her arms. She thrashed under him. His jeans smelled freshly washed. He put his hand around her throat and tightened it. Enough to let her know he could go on tightening it, if he liked. In the middle of her horror, she realized that he had literally never laid a finger on her before.
“Lie still,” he said. “I haven’t finished talking to you yet. Lie still and I’ll let go.”
Abigail stopped struggling. Larry eased his grip on her throat. But he left his hand there. Her solitary pleasures in the bathroom massed in her body like a disease she hadn’t known she was carrying. She had the clear thought that this was her fault. For enjoying looking like Joanna.
“You say a word to your mother, she goes to jail. You run away, she goes to jail. In fact, princess, there’s only one way now Mommy doesn’t go to jail, and that’s if you start pulling your weight around here and being a little more appreciative of just what I’m doing for you.”
“I’ll tell,” Abigail said.
“Didn’t you hear me? If you tell your—”
“I’ll tell your boss.”
Larry looked at her incredulously. Then he laughed, as if she’d genuinely amused him. “Go ahead,” he said. “You think he’s going to believe you? Or your mother? Her lifestyle, it’s a miracle she isn’t already in the fucking slammer. And just so we’re clear: You tell anyone, including my boss, and your mother goes to jail, even if he does believe you. Even”—he laughed again—“if he sends me to jail.”
Abigail felt the room pressing around her, in addition to his weight on her. A long time seemed to pass in silence, but for the sounds of their breathing. She turned her head from him and stared at the ceiling. The need to find something to say was a stone in her chest.
“I’ll kill you,” she said, at last.
Larry slid down slightly, releasing her arms from under his knees. She tried to leave her body. For the briefest moment it seemed she had succeeded. She had a view of herself as if from above, with him crouched over her like a giant beetle.
Then he put his fingers back under the towel and yanked it open. His face warmed, visibly, as the air touched her exposed flesh.<
br />
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll try.”
He began undoing his belt. “Meantime I’m going to take charge of your education. Think of it…” He laughed as the buckle tinkled and his cock sprang out. “… as homeschooling.”
* * *
Abigail had only ever had one recurring nightmare. There were several versions, but the central element was always the same: She had killed someone. Sometimes by accident, sometimes on purpose. The lead-up in the dream didn’t really matter. What mattered was that the victim hadn’t deserved it. She would wake from this nightmare and for the first few seconds not know it was a dream. In those first few seconds it was as if the blood was still warm and wet on her hands. She would lie there in silent horror, knowing that she had done something—the worst thing—and it could never, ever be undone. The stain on her soul was indelible. She was damned.
Then, as the moments passed and she realized it was a dream, that she hadn’t killed anyone, the relief was such joy it brought tears to her eyes. She would lie there filled with extraordinary tender happiness, repeating to herself that it was just a dream … It was just a dream … The feeling was so good it was almost worth the horror she had to pass through to get it.
After the first time with Larry she had only the horror. It wasn’t a dream. The relief couldn’t come. The stain was indelible. She had done something that could never, ever be undone.
Except she hadn’t done it.
It had been done to her.
* * *
From then on her life reduced to a single imperative: Stay out of his way. There was no end to the contortions she produced to keep herself out of the apartment. For a while Larry seemed to accept that it was a game between them. Seemed to relish it, even, as if the rarity of getting her alone increased his pleasure when he did. But soon enough the novelty of cat-and-mouse wore off for him.
He showed up at her school, leaning against the side of his car, grinning.
“Fuck off.”
“Get in the car, princess. You know how this goes.”
She did know. No matter how many times she went over it in her head, the logic didn’t change. She couldn’t tell and she couldn’t leave. The only option was to get herself and her mother away. Far away. And Joanna wouldn’t risk it.
“Jesus, why not?” Abigail asked her, when the nightmare had been going on for six months.
“I’ve told you,” Joanna said. “You don’t know what he’s like. He’ll find us.”
“Mom, this is a big country. We could go … I don’t know. We could go anywhere.”
“He’s a cop, for God’s sake. You don’t think a cop could find us?”
“Not in Alaska. Or Mexico. What’s to stop us going to—”
“Oh, yeah, sure, I didn’t think of that. We don’t have any money. Or did I miss you winning the goddamned lottery?”
The just-this-one-time trick had, of course, become Joanna’s regular obligation. Larry handled the money, of which neither Joanna nor Abigail saw a cent, short of minimal disbursements to keep them alive. The only concession (to Joanna) was that Larry kept the drugs coming.
“If I get money, will you go?”
“Oh, God,” Joanna moaned. “Just leave it, will you? I don’t understand why this is such a fucking crucifixion for you. I mean for Christ’s sake. What do you want? What do you want from me?”
* * *
Abigail adopted a new strategy with Larry—of complete deadness when he raped her. Struggling had in any case proved useless. Instead she learned pages of biology or geography by rote, and forced herself to repeat them, mentally, word for word, while he did what he did. The new frozen passivity gave her something, though she couldn’t say precisely what. He didn’t like it.
“Fuck is wrong with you?” he said, the third time he found her inert in his hands.
She didn’t answer. He hadn’t yet hit her in any way that would leave marks.
“Hey,” he said, shaking her. “You think this is going to make a difference?”
Abigail stared at the ceiling. “‘Plants and various other groups of photosynthetic eukaryotes collectively known as “algae” have unique organelles known as chloroplasts,’” she said.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“‘Chloroplasts are thought to be descended from cyanobacteria that formed endosymbiotic relationships with ancient plant and algal ancestors.’”
For a few moments he didn’t respond. Then she felt him understanding that she hadn’t lost her mind but was doing this for herself. He laughed.
“I get it,” he said. “That’s a neat trick, princess. Let’s see if you can keep it up.” He grabbed her by the hair and yanked it, tugging her shoulder so that she was twisted over onto her belly. She felt him spreading her legs with his knees.
“I’ve been saving this for a special occasion,” he said. “And I’m damned if this isn’t it. Ready? Here we go…”
* * *
One afternoon at school she had cramps so bad she could barely walk. She didn’t tell anyone. Just got up and left. All the way home pain came and went. There were moments when she stood still, eyes closed, teeth gritted, riding it out.
When she made it home, Larry’s car was outside the apartment. She sat down on a nearby stoop, wrapped her arms around her shins, leaned her head on her knees. Watched and waited. The pain embraced and released her like a demon that couldn’t make up its mind. All she wanted was to get in, take some of her mother’s painkillers, and sit in a hot bath.
After more than an hour, Larry came out carrying a crumpled-up plastic bag. He got in the car and took off. Abigail pulled herself to her feet and hobbled across the street. In the sunlight after the stoop’s shadow she felt herself shivering. She hadn’t realized she was cold.
“Mom?” she called. No answer. But when she pushed the bathroom door she discovered Joanna fully dressed, slumped on the floor as if she were taking a nap. Abigail shook her.
As soon as her mother’s eyes opened, Abigail knew this was a different drug.
“Oh … Hey, sweetie,” Joanna said, smiling. Her speech was soft-edged, struggling back through a veil of bliss.
“Mom, what…?”
Joanna’s eyes closed again, though the smile remained.
“Mom!” Abigail bellowed, shaking her again. “What did you take? Jesus Christ, get up. Get up.”
“No need,” Joanna whispered. “I’m fine. I’m resting.”
Abigail scanned the bathroom for needles. Checked the trash. Nothing. Except of course what could have been in Larry’s plastic bag. She got Joanna up and onto the couch—then doubled up at a fresh assault from the cramps. She sank to her knees, rested her head on the couch, breathing carefully. Joanna put her hand in her hair and made a slight massaging movement with her fingers.
“It’s so nice you’re here,” Joanna whispered. “We don’t do this often enough. I love you so much…”
Abigail stayed where she was. There seemed no absurdity in it. For a while the hopelessness itself was a kind of obliterating peace.
Eventually, when she could stand again, she got up, took some Advil, then curled up next to Joanna on the couch.
* * *
There was no reasoning she disallowed. One night on the bridge over the Schuylkill, with a full moon silvering the slow-moving water, she found herself considering calling his bluff. She would either leave or go to the authorities. Not the cops, obviously, but to CPS, which she now knew stood for Child Protective Services. Suppose the bluff failed and he got her mother convicted? Okay, Joanna would go to prison. Abigail found herself trying to make room for that in herself: the girl who got her mother locked up. Maybe it was the one thing that would fix Joanna? The other drug was the only drug, lately. Abigail could actually see that people would understand. Some people would applaud. It wasn’t, if you took the feeling of betrayal away, the wrong thing to do. Intellectually she knew it was possibly the right thing to do. The problem was she
couldn’t take the feeling of betrayal away. It was an impossible subtraction. No amount of intellectual honesty could shift the belief that Joanna simply wouldn’t survive in prison. And in any case, prison for how long? It could be years. How long would she, Abigail, last in a place like that? Days? Weeks? Definitely not years.
She couldn’t do it. She went over it so many times it was worn smooth in her mind—but always the same end point: She couldn’t do it.
Which left killing Larry.
Another mental object worn smooth. She didn’t doubt she could do that—only that she could get away with it. The months had gone by and she hadn’t done it. Not least because Larry knew she was capable of it and exercised an uncanny vigilance. He was scrupulous with his gun, for a start. When he wasn’t wearing it he kept it in a home safe in his closet. Nights he was home and sleeping with Joanna, he locked the bedroom door. Even wasted, apparently, he kept half an eye open. I wouldn’t try that, sweetheart, he’d said once, when Abigail had crept in from the kitchen carrying a knife. He and Joanna were on the couch, Joanna passed out with her head in his lap. Abigail had assumed, from his closed eyes and slack mouth, that he was in the same state. Not so. Gonna have to do better than that, he’d said, then winked at her.
The breeze lifted her hair. She looked down at the water, and for the first time (this was a shock to her, that it was the first time) thought of killing herself.
It was an exciting prospect. She was a month from turning sixteen. She let the idea in, enjoyed it, imagined soft darkness covering her like an angel, a whispered shshsh … then the peace of nothingness.
But she couldn’t hold it. Rage got in the way. She would be gone but Larry would still be alive, and her mother’s situation would only get worse. It was impossible.
* * *
She got back to the apartment late, to find Joanna in a state. She was half-dressed, and had applied all her makeup except lipstick. It made her mouth look cruel. The place was a mess, drawers open, cupboards turned out.
