“Trixie,” Janice said fiercely. “Trixie, honey, stop fighting. It's okay. It's just the doctor.”
Suddenly the door burst open and Trixie saw her mother, lion-eyed and determined. “Trixie,” Laura said, two syllables that broke in the center.
Now that Trixie could feel, she wished she couldn't. The only thing worse than not feeling anything was feeling everything. She started shaking uncontrollably, an atom about to split beneath its own compounded weight; and then she found herself anchored in her mother's embrace, their hearts beating hard against each other as the doctor and Janice offered to give them a moment of privacy.
“Where were you?” Trixie cried, an accusation and a question all at once. She started to sob so hard she could not catch her breath.
Laura's hands were on the back of Trixie's neck, in her hair, around the bound of her ribs. “I should have been home,” her mother said. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”
Trixie wasn't sure if her mother was apologizing, or just acknowledging her own errors. She should have been home. Maybe then Trixie wouldn't have chanced lying about going to Zephyr's; maybe she never would have had the opportunity to steal the sheer blouse. Maybe she would have spent the night in her own bed. Maybe the worst hurt she would have had to nurse was another razor stripe, a self-inflicted wound.
Her anger surprised her. Maybe none of this had been her mother's fault, but Trixie pretended it was. Because a mother was supposed to protect her child. Because if Trixie was angry, there was no room left for being scared. Because if it was her mothers mistake, then it couldn't be hers.
Laura folded her arms around Trixie so tight that there was no room for doubt between them. “We'll get through this,” she promised.
“I know,” Trixie answered.
They were both lying, and Trixie thought maybe that was the way it would be, now. In the wake of a disaster, the last thing you needed to do was set off another bomb; instead, you walked through the rubble and told yourself that it wasn't nearly as bad as it looked. Trixie bit down on her lip. After tonight, she couldn't be a kid anymore. After tonight, there was no more room in her life for honesty.
* * *
Daniel was supremely grateful to have been given a job. “She needs a change of clothes,” Janice had said. He was worried about not getting back in time before Trixie was ready, but Janice promised that they would be a while yet.
He drove back home from the hospital as quickly as he'd driven to it, just in case.
By the time he reached Bethel, morning had cracked wide open. He drove by the hockey rink and watched it belch out a steady stream of tiny Mites, each followed by a parent-Sherpa lugging an outsized gear bag. He passed an old man skating down the ice of his driveway in his bedroom slippers, out to grab the newspaper. He wove around the parked rigs of hunters culling the woods for winter deer.
His own house had been left unlocked in the hurry to leave it. The light on the stove hood - the one he'd kept on last night in case Laura came home late - was still burning, although there was enough sunshine to flood the entire kitchen. Daniel turned it off and then headed upstairs to Trixie's room.
Years ago, when she'd told him she wanted to fly like the men and women in his comic book drawings, he had given her a sky in which to do it. Trixie's walls and ceiling were covered with clouds; the hardwood floors were an ethereal cirrus swirl. Somehow, as Trixie got older, she hadn't outgrown the murals. They seemed to compliment her, a girl too vibrant to be contained by walls. But right now, the clouds that had once seemed so liberating made Daniel feel like he was falling. He anchored himself by holding on to the furniture, weaving from bed to dresser to closet.
He tried to remember what Trixie liked to wear on weekends when it was snowing, when the single event on the docket was to read the Sunday paper and doze on the couch, but the only outfit he could picture was the one she had been dressed in when he'd found her last night. Gilding the lily, that's what Laura had called it when Trixie and Zephyr got into her makeup drawer as kids and then paraded downstairs looking like the worst prostitutes in the Combat Zone. Once, he remembered, they'd come with their mouths pale as corpses and asked Laura why she had white lipstick. That's not lipstick, she'd said, laughing, that's concealer. It hides zits and dark circles, all the things you don't want people to see. Trixie had only shaken her head: But why wouldn't you want people to see your lips?
Daniel opened a dresser drawer and pulled out a bell-sleeved shirt that was tiny enough to have fit Trixie when she was eight. Had she ever worn this in public?
He sank down onto the floor, holding the shirt, wondering if all this had been his own fault. He'd forbidden Trixie to buy certain clothes, like the pants she had had on last night, in fact, and that she must have purchased and hidden from him. You saw outfits like those in fashion magazines, outfits so revealing they bordered on porn, in Daniel's opinion. Women glanced at those photo spreads and wished they looked that way, men glanced at them and wished for women who looked that way, and the sad reality was that most of those models were not women at all, but girls about Trixie's age. Girls who might wear something to a party thinking it was sexy, without considering what it would mean if a guy thought that too.
He had assumed that a kid who slept with stuffed animals would not also be wearing a thong, but now it occurred to Daniel that long before any comic book penciler had conceived of Copycat or The Changeling or Mystique, shape-shifters existed in the form of teenage girls. One minute you might find your daughter borrowing a cookie sheet to go sledding in the backyard, and the next she'd be online IMing a boy. One minute she'd lean over to kiss you good night, the next she'd tell you she hated you and couldn't wait to go away to college. One minute she'd be putting on her mother's makeup, the next she'd be buying her own. Trixie had morphed back and forth between childhood and adolescence so easily that the line between them had gone blurry, so indistinct that Daniel had simply given up trying for a clearer vision.
He dug way into the back of one of Trixie's drawers and pulled out a pair of shapeless fleece sweatpants, then a long-sleeved pink T-shirt. With his eyes closed, he fished in her underwear drawer for panties and a bra. As he hurried back to the hospital, he remembered a game he and Trixie used to play when they were stuck in traffic at the Maine tolls, trying to come up with a superhero power for every letter of the alphabet. Amphibious, bulletproof, clairvoyant. Danger sensitive, electromagnetic. Flight. Glow-in-the-dark. Heat vision. Invincibility. Jumping over tall buildings. Kevlar skin. Laser sight. Mind control. Never-ending life. Omniscience.
Pyrokinesis. Quick reflexes. Regeneration. Superhuman strength. Telepathy.
Underwater breathing. Vanishing. Weather control. X-ray vision. Yelling loud.
Zero gravity.
Nowhere in that list was the power to keep your child from growing up. If a superhero couldn't do it, how could any ordinary man?
* * *
There was a knock on the examination room door. “It's Daniel Stone,” Laura heard. “I, um, have Trixie's clothes.” Before Janice could reach the door, Laura opened it. She took in Daniel's disheveled hair, the shadow of beard on his face, the storm behind his eyes, and thought for a moment she had fallen backward fifteen years.
“You're here,” he said.
“I got the message on my cell.” She took the stack of clothing from his hands and carried it over to Trixie. “I'm just going to talk to Daddy for a minute,” Laura said, and as she moved away, Janice stepped forward to take her place.
Daniel was waiting outside the door for Laura. “Jason did this?” she turned to him, fever in her eyes. “I want him caught. I want him punished.”
“Take a number.” Daniel ran a hand down his face. “How is she?”
“Nearly finished.” Laura leaned against the wall beside him, a foot of space separating them.
“But how is she?” Daniel repeated.
“Lucky. The doctor said there wasn't any internal injury.”
“Wasn't she .
. . she was bleeding.”
“Only a tiny bit. It's stopped now.” Laura glanced up at Daniel. “You never told me she was sleeping at Zephyr's last night.”
“She got invited after you left.”
“Did you call Zephyr's mother to . . .”
“No,” Daniel interrupted. “And you wouldn't have, either. She's gone to Zephyr's a hundred times before.” His eyes flashed. “If you're going to accuse me of something, Laura, just do it.”
“I'm not accusing you”
“People in glass houses,” Daniel murmured.
“What?”
He moved away from the wall and approached her, backing her into a corner. “Why didn't you answer when I called your office?” Excuses rose inside Laura like bubbles: I was in the restroom. I
had taken a sleeping pill. I accidentally turned the ringer off. “I don't think now is the time . . .”
“If this isn't the time,” Daniel said, his voice aching, “maybe you could give me a number at least. A place I can reach you, you know, in case Trixie gets raped again.”
Laura stood perfectly still, immobilized by equal parts shame and anger. She thought of the deepest level of hell, the lake of ice that only froze harder the more you tried to work yourself free.
“Excuse me?”
Grateful for a distraction, Laura turned toward the voice. A tall, sad-eyed man with sandy hair stood behind her, a man who'd most likely heard every word between her and Daniel. “I'm sorry. I don't mean to interrupt. I'm looking for Mr. and Mrs. Stone?”
“That's us,” Laura said. In name, at least. The man held out a badge. “I'm Detective Mike Bartholemew. And I'd really like to speak to your daughter.”
* * *
Daniel had been inside the Bethel police station only once, when he'd chaperoned Trixie's second-grade class there on a field trip. He remembered the quilt that hung in the lobby, stars sewn to spell out PROTECT AND SERVE, and the booking room, where the whole class had taken a collective grinning mug shot. He had not seen the conference room until this morning - a small, gray cubicle with a reverse mirrored window that some idiot contractor had put in backward, so that from inside, Daniel could see the traffic of cops in the hallway checking their reflections. He focused on the winding wheels of the tape recorder. It was easier than concentrating on the words coming out of Trixie's mouth, an exhaustive description of the previous night. She had already explained how, when she left home, she changed into a different outfit. How there was a posse of players from the hockey team
present when she arrived at Zephyr's, and how, by the end of the evening, it was only the four of them.
One parent was allowed in with Trixie when she gave her statement. Because Laura had been at the hospital exam - or maybe because of what Daniel had said to her in the hall - she had decided that he should be the one to go. It was only after he was inside that he realized this was more of a trial than an advantage. He had to sit very still and listen to Trixie's story in excruciating detail, smiling at her in encouragement and telling her she was doing great, when what he really wanted was to grab the detective and ask him why the hell he hadn't locked up Jason Underhill yet.
He wondered how, in just an hour's time, he'd regressed back to being the kind of person he'd been a lifetime ago - someone for whom feeling came before thought, for whom reason was a postscript. He wondered if this happened to all fathers: as their daughters grew up, they slid backward.
Bartholemew had brewed coffee. He'd brought in a box of tissues, which he put near Trixie, just in case. Daniel liked thinking that Bartholemew had been through this before. He liked knowing that someone had.
“What were you drinking?” the detective asked Trixie. She was wearing the pink shirt and sweatpants that Daniel had brought, plus his coat. He'd forgotten to bring hers back, even when he went home again. “Coke,” Trixie said. “With rum.”
“Were you using any drugs?”
She looked down at the table and shook her head.
“Trixie,” the detective said. “You're going to have to speak up.”
“No,” she answered.
“What happened next?”
Daniel listened to her describe a girl he didn't know, one who lap-danced and played strip poker. Her voice flattened under the weight of her bad judgment. "After Zephyr went upstairs with Moss, I figured everyone was gone. I was going to go home, but I wanted to sit down for a minute, because I had a really bad headache. And it turned out Jason hadn't left. He said he wanted to make sure I was
all right. I started to cry."
“Why?”
Her face contorted. “Because we broke up a couple of weeks ago. And being that close to him again ... it hurt.” Daniel's head snapped up. “Broke up?”
Trixie turned at the same time the detective stopped the tape.
“Mr. Stone,” Bartholemew said, “I'm going to have to ask you to remain silent.” He nodded at Trixie to continue. She let her gaze slide beneath the table. “We . .. we wound up kissing. I fell asleep for a little while, I guess, because when I woke up, we weren't near the bathroom anymore ... we were on the carpet in the living room. I don't remember how we got there. That was when he ... when he raped me.”
The last drink that Daniel had had was in 1991, the day before he convinced Laura that he was worth marrying. But before that, he'd had plenty of firsthand knowledge about the faulty reasoning and slurred decisions that swam at the bottom of a bottle. He'd had his
share of mornings where he woke up in a house he could not recall arriving at. Trixie might not remember how she got into the living room, but Daniel could tell her exactly how it had happened.
Detective Bartholemew looked squarely at Trixie. “I know this is going to be difficult,” he said, “but I need you to tell me exactly what happened between you two. Like whether either of you removed any clothing. Or what parts of your body he touched. What you said to him and what he said to you. Things like that.” Trixie fiddled with the zipper of Daniel's battered leather jacket. "He tried to take off my shirt, but I didn't want him to. I told him that it was Zephyrs house and that I didn't feel right fooling around there. He said I was breaking his heart. I felt bad after that, so I let him unhook my bra and touch me, you know. . . my breasts. He was
kissing me the whole time, and that was the good part, the part I wanted, but then he put his hand down my pants. I tried to pull his hand away, but he was too strong.“ Trixie swallowed. ”He said,
'Don't tell me you don't want this.' "
Daniel gripped the edge of the table so hard that he thought he would crack the plastic. He took a deep breath in through his mouth and held it. He thought of all the ways it would be possible to kill Jason Underhill.
“I tried to get away, but he's bigger than I am, and he pushed me down again. It was like a game to him. He held my hands up over my head and he pulled down my pants. I said I wanted him to stop and he didn't. And then,” Trixie said, stumbling over the words.
“And then he pushed me down hard and he raped me.” There was a bullet, Daniel thought, but that would be too easy.
“Had you ever had sex before?”
Trixie glanced at Daniel. “No,” she answered. “I started screaming, because it hurt so much. I tried to kick him. But when I did, it hurt more, so I just stayed still and waited for it to be over.”
Drowning, Daniel thought. Slowly. In a sewer.
“Did your friend hear you screaming?” Detective Bartholemew asked.
“I guess not,” Trixie said. “There was music on, pretty loud.” No . . . a rusty knife. A sharp cut to the gut. Daniel had read about men who'd had to live for days, watching their insides being eaten out by infection.
“Did he use a condom?”
Trixie shook her head. “He pulled out before he finished. There was blood on the carpet, and on me, too. He was worried about that. He said he didn't mean to hurt me.”
Maybe, Daniel mused, he would do all of these things to Jason Underhill. Twice
.
"He got up and found a roll of paper towels so I could clean myself up. Then he took some rug cleaner from under the kitchen sink,
and he scrubbed the spot on the carpet. He said we were lucky it wasn't ruined."
And what about Trixie? What magical solution would take away the stain he'd left on her forever? “Mr. Stone?” Daniel blinked, and he realized that he had become someone else for a moment - someone he hadn't been for years - and that the detective had been speaking to him. “Sorry.”
“Could I see you outside?”
He followed Bartholemew into the hallway of the police station.
“Look,” the detective said, “I see this kind of thing a lot.” This was news to Daniel. The last rape he could remember in their small town happened over a decade ago and was perpetrated by a hitch-hiker.
“A lot of girls think they're ready to have sex . .. but then change their mind, after the fact.”
It took Daniel a minute to find his voice. “Are you saying ... that my daughter's lying?”
“No. But I want you to understand that even if Trixie is willing to testify, you might not get the outcome you're hoping for.” “She's fourteen, for God's sake,” Daniel said. “Kids younger than that are having sex. And according to the medical report, there wasn't significant internal trauma.” “She wasn't hurt enough?”
“I'm just saying that given the details - the alcohol, the strip poker, the former relationship with Jason - rape could be a hard sell to a jury. The boy's going to say it was consensual.” Daniel clenched his jaw. “If a murder suspect told you he was innocent, would you just let him walk away?”
“It's not quite the same”
"No, it's not. Because the murder victim's dead and can't give you any information about what really happened. As opposed to my daughter, the one who's inside there telling you exactly how she was
raped, while you aren't fucking listening to her." He opened the door to the conference room to see Trixie with her arms folded on the
table, her head resting on her hands.
“Can we go home?” she asked, groggy.
The Tenth Circle Page 7
