Girl of Rage

by Charles Sheehan-Miles

“I—I called to say thank you for hosting the dinner the other evening. It was a distinct pleasure.”

  Adelina started to answer and found herself stumbling over her words. Flustered, she said, “Thank you. Would you like me to pass a message to Richard?”

  George-Phillip coughed. Then he said one word, a word that made Adelina’s chest hurt a little.

  “No.”

  She swallowed, waiting for him to speak again.

  “Actually,” he said, “it’s really you I wanted to speak with, if that’s all right. You see, I’m still fairly new in Washington, and…”

  “Yes?”

  “I suppose it would be improper of me to ask you to meet me for lunch.”

  Extremely improper. But she wanted him to ask her. She wanted it very badly.

  “Perhaps,” he continued, “you could bring along your lovely daughter. I genuinely do have the highest of motives. You see … ironically, you’re the first person I’ve really met in Washington my own age.”

  She wrinkled her forehead. Of course. That made much more sense. Julia would act as a tiny chaperone.

  “Of course. I think that’s a lovely idea,” she said.

  “Perhaps Monday?”

  “Monday is good. I can meet…” She thought quickly. Nowhere near Embassy Row, of course, though that would be most convenient for George-Phillip. The State Department wasn’t far from there, and Richard might well be in that part of town for meetings. “What about … Matisse on Wisconsin Avenue?”

  Matisse was sufficiently distant from the State Department. Richard would be unlikely to be in that part of town. Plus, he hated French food, except when he was trying to impress others.

  “That sounds lovely,” George-Phillip said.

  “Monday then? At one?”

  “I will see you then,” he replied.

  Quickly, before she could acknowledge what she was doing, Adelina hung up the phone. Thirty seconds later, she let out a gasp, and only then did she realize that she hadn’t been breathing.

  Jessica. May 2. 10:14 am Pacific

  Jessica Thompson sat on the stone wall overlooking the Pacific Ocean and wondered what it would be like to throw herself off the wall, to roll down the cliff, to die in the cold, heartless waves below. A brisk and cold wind blew a chill right through her soul as she wiped tears and stared out at the ocean, wondering if her mother was a liar or insane. She had a piercing headache; the kind that felt like someone had driven a nail right through her skull. The pain was centered just over her right eye.

  Abruptly, she said, “Show me your driver’s license.”

  Adelina didn’t balk at the strange request. Instead, she stood and walked to the minivan and opened the door, then took out her purse.

  A moment later Jessica was holding the California Driver’s License in her hands.

  Adelina Ramos Thompson. Birth date: March 21, 1964.

  The math wasn’t all that hard to work out. Julia was born in December of , 1981.

  “You were sixteen when you got pregnant.”

  Her mother nodded.

  “But you always said you were two years older.”

  Adelina sighed. “Your father always wanted it that way. He didn’t want to get married in the first place, I think. But leaving a pregnant teenage girl in Spain would have been detrimental to his career.” Her face looked wistful as she said the words.

  “Why did you marry him?” Jessica asked. “Who marries their rapist?”

  Adelina shook her head. “You grew up in a different world, Jessica. A world where girls tweet and post on Facebook and Instagram and marry other girls if they want to. A world where people have heard the terms date rape and sexual harassment and it actually means something. When my mother realized I was pregnant, she dragged me to the priest to go to confession. They forced me to marry him.”

  “I don’t understand,” Jessica said.

  “Of course not. To you, some level of freedom has always made sense. When I was growing up, divorce wasn’t even legal in Spain.”

  Jessica shook her head slowly. Her mind was awash with thought, with confusion. Then she said, “Why did you have more children with him?” She felt a stab of pain and something akin to grief. “Why did you have me?”

  Adelina sighed. “That’s a long story. I hadn’t planned to have any children after Julia.”

  “You must have loved him a little, right? To sleep with him again? Otherwise … what about Carrie? If you didn’t love him?”

  “Dear, Carrie isn’t Richard’s child.”

  Jessica winced. “Am I?”

  Adelina reached out and took Jessica’s hand. “Yes, your father is Richard.”

  “My father is the man who raped you,” Jessica said bitterly.

  Adelina closed her eyes. “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  Jessica gave her mother a scornful look. “You’re sorry? He’s the one who should be sorry.” She thought through so many things in the past that hadn’t made sense. Her dad, always locked away in his study when he wasn’t working. His long trips away from home. His cold demeanor.

  Was that why—?

  “Mom? Is that why Andrea left home? Is she also not his?”

  Her mother nodded. “Yes. I tried. I hated him, but I still tried to—you can’t imagine how hard I tried to … to—”

  As her Mom flailed around for the word, Jessica muttered, “You mean, you tried to stay faithful.”

  Adelina looked down, her face twisted with shame. “Yes. But I couldn’t.”

  Why should she have? Jessica thought. She didn’t say anything right away. So much of this made no sense. It was one thing to believe that her father had pushed Adelina. That it had been date rape maybe. That he was drunk or worse. But she couldn’t believe the father Adelina described—a cold-hearted sociopath. A man who would murder to protect his secrets.

  Who was Richard Thompson? What did she even know about him?

  The answer was basically nothing. She knew nothing about her father. Nothing at all.

  “Mom … what happened? Why?”

  Adelina took a deep breath then began to speak again.

  Adelina. February 13, 1984

  Adelina Thompson squeezed Julia’s hand tightly as the taxi jerked away from the curb, pushing its way into the heavy traffic along Wisconsin Avenue. It was almost one in the afternoon, and grey drizzle chilled everything in the area.

  “I’m coll,” Julia said.

  Adelina walked down the sidewalk and said, “Come along, Julia.”

  “But I coll!”

  “Julia, the word is cold. Please enunciate.”

  “I coll!” She wasn’t any clearer, but she was a lot louder.

  “We’ll be inside in just a moment.”

  Adelina’s heart was racing as she walked to the entrance of Matisse. She didn’t think she was likely to run into anyone she knew here, or for that matter, anyone Richard knew. But one couldn’t be too careful. Washington, DC might be a large city, but the class of high level government workers her husband belonged to was a small town indeed.

  Even if she did encounter someone, she had Julia beside her. She was having lunch with another recent arrival to the city, a Prince for God’s sake, and no one had any right to question it.

  As she entered the restaurant, a mustachioed man, arrogant and commanding, approached her. He wore a tailored Perry Ellis suit, which probably cost far too much for his position. His eyes scanned Adelina and Julia ruthlessly, probably tallying up the apparent value of their clothing and hair accessories, undoubtedly taking note of the diamond bracelet she wore. Richard might be a complete bastard, but he liked her to look the part.

  “How may I help you, ladies?”

  “I’m meeting a friend … George-Phillip?”

  The maître d’ raised his eyebrows. “Indeed. Prince George-Phillip will be here shortly. Please, come this way.”

  She followed, surprised as he led her to a small room in the back. “Please forgive the presumption. A most noxio
us person has been here stalking the Prince.”

  “Oh no,” Adelina said. “Not a criminal, I hope.”

  He chuckled. An unpleasant sound. “Not that I’m aware of. A young lady, as a matter of fact.”

  Adelina gave him a frozen look as he led her to the private dining room. “You are impertinent,” she said.

  He sniffed and walked away without taking her coat. Not her problem. She took off her raincoat, then Julia’s, and threw them on the overstuffed chair in the corner.

  “Have a seat, Julia,” she commanded, pulling out one of the dining chairs.

  The little girl’s chin barely came over the top of the table. Her face was set and unhappy.

  “It’s all right, dear. We’ll get something for you to eat in a moment.”

  “Hunngy,” Julia said.

  “I am too. What do you say we play a game?”

  Julia smiled, a bright, happy smile, and clapped her hands together.

  “We’re going to guess who’s coming in through the door next. You guess first.”

  Julia’s lower lip puffed out. “Don’ like this game.”

  “It’s okay, Julia. Just take a guess.”

  “A penguin?”

  Adelina raised her eyebrows. “It could be … it could be indeed. What if it’s … a prince?”

  Julia smiled. “A penguin prince!”

  “Yes!” Adelina cried. “A penguin prince!”

  And of course, at that very moment, George-Phillip walked in through the doorway.

  “No penguin I’m afraid,” he said.

  Julia giggled. “You are penguin.”

  George-Phillip looked down. Adelina snickered. He wore a black suit with a white shirt.

  “Hmmm,” he said, raising his formidable eyebrows. “Perhaps I am the Prince of Penguins. But in disguise.”

  Julia giggled again.

  The formerly rude maître d’ lifted their coats from the chair, as a hostess pulled out seats for Adelina and George-Phillip.

  “It’s marvelous to see you, Adelina.”

  “And you too,” she said.

  “And Julia. You are, perhaps, the most beautiful little girl in the entire world. I could easily imagine that you are a princess. Tell me it’s true.”

  Julia giggled and buried her face in her mother’s lap.

  “The maître d’ told me you were having some trouble with a … uh … stalker?” Adelina said.

  George-Phillip grunted. “A little. Do you really want to hear this story? It’s dreary.”

  Adelina smiled. “I’m curious.”

  “Well, when I first arrived at the Embassy, the charge d’affaires had no idea what to do with me. So he arranged for me to meet with a young society columnist with the Washington Post. You might be familiar with her work? Maria Clawson?”

  Adelina grimaced. “Horrid woman,” she muttered. “I met her at a party two weeks ago. She’s a terrible gossip.”

  George-Phillip grimaced. “Yes, indeed. We dated a few times before I realized how vindictive she was. I broke it off in fairly short order, but I’m afraid she took it hard.”

  “I’m sure she did,” Adelina said.

  She was fairly certain Maria had appeared in Washington from the recesses of some empty place in the middle of the country, Kansas or Ohio or Minnesota, and only had pretensions at society. Which would make her doubly offended at being jilted by an actual prince.

  “So, Adelina. You know my background. You know my father died, and that I became Duke at too young an age, and served in the Falklands. Yet, I know almost nothing of you.”

  She smiled and deflected his words by saying, “I’m just a simple woman, George-Phillip. No real story there at all.”

  “You’re from Spain. And I heard you say that you played with the National Symphony? At such a young age?”

  “Not the Symphony, the National Youth Orchestra. I played violin.”

  “Played? Past tense?”

  A stab of sadness sliced through her chest. “Played. I’ve no time for such things in my life these days.”

  George-Phillip leaned his head slightly to the side. “So sad for one so young.”

  “I’m not much younger than you,” she replied, laughing. “What are you, twenty-one? Two years is hardly that big of a difference.”

  George-Phillip frowned a little. “I thought you were twenty-one.”

  Adelina froze.

  “Oh, dear,” he said. “How old are you?”

  “Nineteen,” she whispered.

  “Hmm,” he said. “That rather changes things, doesn’t it?”

  “Not really. It’s just—awkward to explain sometimes.”

  “There’s no need for you to explain anything, my dear. Sometimes we do things when we’re young that surprises others.”

  She didn’t know why she said it. She didn’t know why. Absolutely nothing forced her. Nothing in her history had given her any reason to trust anyone—much less yet another over-privileged upper class white male. George-Phillip and Richard were probably cousins.

  Despite all of that, the words that came out of her mouth were, “And sometimes people do things to young people who have no control over it at all.”

  He frowned, and she instantly said, “Forgive me. So tell me … what compelled you to ask me to lunch?”

  George-Phillip coughed, then stumbled on his words. “I … you see … I needed to…”

  Adelina couldn’t help it. She felt her face begin to flush, the heat beginning at her cheekbones and working its way down her face to her neck and chest.

  “Mamma turnded red,” Julia said, helpfully.

  “The word is turned, Julia,” Adelina said.

  “Nevertheless, you did turn red,” George-Phillip murmured.

  “I’ve no right to turn red,” she whispered.

  A second later a waitress entered the room, trailed by the maître d’. Within a minute, George had approved the wine and in fluent French, discussed their order.

  Adelina’s French was slightly rusty, but good enough. She joined in the conversation, and in a few moments they’d finished their order.

  “Est ce qu'elle comprend Français?” asked George-Phillip, nodding toward Julia. Does she understand any French?

  “Du tout,” she said. None at all.

  “Très bien,” he replied. Very good. He continued in French. “You see, Adelina, I must admit I was intrigued and disturbed by the age difference between you and Richard, and even more so now that I know you’re younger than you said the other evening. You were … seventeen when Julia was conceived?”

  “Sixteen,” she whispered. “But not willingly. They forced me to marry him.”

  “They?” he asked.

  “My mother. My priest. But you mustn’t tell anyone. You mustn’t do anything.”

  “Any man of honor would, and should.”

  She leaned forward. “Not if you would honor my wishes. Richard is dangerous. And I have a four-year-old brother in Spain to protect, along with Julia.”

  “Surely you don’t mean—”

  “I mean you must leave it alone.”

  He sighed and straightened his tie. “Well, then. I’m truly sorry, Adelina. I wish…”

  “There’s no point in wishing for anything,” she said. “Enjoy lunch. That’s all there is.”

  “Oui,” he replied, raising a glass of wine to her.

  She steered the question away from the very dangerous ground they’d treaded on. “Tell me about your parents,” she said.

  “I’ve little to say about them,” he said. “My father was a wastrel.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she replied.

  He took her hand and said, “It’s quite all right. I do have a favorite aunt, the Princess Alexandra. Feisty woman. Her father died while defending his nation, unlike mine.”

  Adelina smiled. “My father spoke very warmly of her. They met at King Juan Carlos’s wedding.”

  “Really? I believe I’m third cousins or some such with Q
ueen Sophia. What took your father to the wedding?”

  “It’s a small world,” she said. “Richard gets angry when I mention it, but my father was the Marquis of Cerverales, and second cousin to Juan Carlos. He met Princess Alexandra at the wedding, and told the story for years, among many others.”

  “What happened to your father?” he asked.

  She sighed. “He lost everything to Franco. He had to start life over as a street vendor, but he succeeded. Then he was run down in the street. A truck accident.” Her eyes pricked with tears. “I never had the opportunity to say goodbye to him.”

  He closed his eyes and reached out, taking her hand. “I’m so sorry, Adelina. Even my father … even four years later … I feel his loss keenly. I can only imagine your pain.”

  Julia said, “Mommy lost Daddy?” A line had formed between her eyebrows.

  “No, sweetie,” Adelina said. “I lost my daddy.”

  “Find new daddy?”

  Adelina suppressed a sob. George-Phillip said, “Aren’t you a sweet and kind little girl.”

  “Mommy say Jesus loves kindness.”

  George-Phillip smiled. “And so he does.”

  The conversation drifted from there to safer topics. The latest gossip from the diplomatic community. Fallout from the invasion of Grenada, the Falklands war, the attack on the Marine barracks in Beirut and the subsequent escalation of the war there, which had resulted in shelling of populated areas of the city in early February. The conviction of an Alabama Klansman who had randomly selected a black victim and hung him from a tree. And the topic which had dominated diplomatic circles for days: the selection of a new Soviet Premier following the death of Yuri Andropov. Politics was a far safer topic.

  They moved on to entertainment, television and the media and Spitting Image, the satirical and somewhat scandalous puppet show, which had launched on the air the previous week in London. Among other things, the show lampooned the royal family.

  “It’s really funny,” George-Phillip said. “Naturally, someone sent a film of it to the Embassy here. But all the old women running the Embassy were scandalized.”

  Adelina laughed as George-Phillip described the antics of the show, including the satirical show The President’s Brain is Missing!