by Joy Fielding
“Five-eight,” Charley repeated.
“Wayne would have been about five-six, which is pretty short for a guy, but I didn’t mind. I mean, I’m not very big either, in case you hadn’t noticed.” She made a sound that was more nervous twitter than laugh. “And it was kind of nice to have a guy who wasn’t looming over me all the time.”
“Like Ethan?”
“Yeah. Like Ethan.” She sighed.
Charley jotted the sigh down in her notebook. “How old was Wayne?”
“Eighteen.”
“An older man.”
“I always liked ’em older.”
“Them?”
“My men,” Jill said with a big smile.
From big sigh to big smile, Charley jotted down. “So what was Wayne like?”
“He was real nice. He was the preacher’s son, if you can believe that. Just like that old song, what was it? ‘The only man who could ever reach me…’” she sang. “That was him. The son of our preacher. I think he thought he could save me or something.”
“Save you from what?”
“From what was going on in my life.”
“Which was?”
“He knew my father was beating up on us.”
“Did he know about Ethan?”
“About Ethan and Pammy, you mean?”
“About Ethan and you,” Charley corrected. There was a moment’s silence. Charley listened as the tape whirred softly inside the tiny recorder. “Tell me about Ethan,” she urged gently.
“I told you I didn’t want to talk about that yet.”
“I think you do,” Charley said.
“Well, you’re wrong,” Jill snapped. She got up, began pacing back and forth. “Now, you want to hear about Wayne or not?”
“Yes. Of course.”
Jill took a deep breath and resumed her seat. She dragged her hair out of its elastic band, then gathered it roughly behind her head, securing it so tightly, it tugged on her forehead and pulled her eyebrows toward her scalp. Her voice, when she finally spoke, sounded hard. “Like I said, Wayne wasn’t very tall, and he wasn’t especially good-looking either. He had a crew cut and bad skin but, I don’t know, there was just something about him I liked. Maybe because he was so different from Ethan and my dad.” She shrugged. “I can’t remember when we actually met. It was probably at church. I mean, we were there every week, and so was he. Pretty soon, we started hanging out. I’d get out of school, and he’d be waiting for me at the end of the street. Of course, at first he wouldn’t admit he was waiting for me. He’d pretend there was some other reason, but then he’d end up walking me home. Sometimes we’d go to a movie or out for an ice cream. It was fun. He never tried anything funny.”
“You were friends,” Charley stated.
“He was my best friend. We’d just talk and talk and talk. I told him everything.” She paused. “That was my mistake,” she added, a cloud settling over her unlined face.
“How was it a mistake?”
“He started acting different toward me.”
“How did he start acting?”
A long pause. “Like Ethan.”
“How was he like Ethan?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Jill said stubbornly.
Charley put down her pen. “We’re going around in circles here, Jill.”
“I know.”
“That isn’t going to get us very far.”
“I know that, too.”
“How was Wayne like Ethan?” she asked again.
Another long pause, even longer than the first. “After Pammy got her period,” Jill began, “Ethan decided he couldn’t keep doing the things he was doing without running the risk of her getting pregnant.” She stopped, twisted her lips back and forth, then tugged nervously on her ponytail. Charley recorded each gesture in her notepad. “That’s when he started crawling into my bed.”
Charley took a deep breath, released it slowly. “How old were you?”
“Nine. Maybe ten.”
Charley thought of Franny. In another year, she’d be nine. Dear God, she thought, closing her eyes. “What did he do to you?”
Jill shrugged. “You know.”
“I need to hear it from you.”
Jill’s shrug was bigger the second time. “He made me touch him, use my mouth,” she said matter-of-factly. “And he raped me. First with his fingers, then with…What’s the word your sister always uses in her books? His ‘manhood.’” She laughed her girlish giggle. “You know. The standard stuff you see in kiddie porn. It was pretty gross.”
The standard stuff you see in kiddie porn, Charley repeated silently, gripping her pen tightly to keep her fingers from shaking. “And this went on until…”
“…until I was fourteen and I finally got my period. I’d been praying for that day for so long, I tell you, ’cause I knew then he’d have to leave me alone.”
“And did he?”
“He stopped raping me. But he still made me use my mouth. Said I was better than Pammy or any of the other girls he knew.”
Was that a note of pride in Jill’s voice? Charley wondered, thinking she’d have to replay that part of the tape.
“Do you like doing that stuff?” Jill asked.
“What?” The word was more exclamation than question.
“Using your mouth. You know. Blow jobs. Do you like doing that stuff?”
“Do you?” Charley asked.
“I asked you first.”
Charley considered her response very carefully. She could refuse to answer the question altogether, she thought, but that might make Jill angry, convince her to stop talking. Or she could fudge her reply, say something about all sexual acts being permissible and enjoyable when they took place between two consenting adults. Or that love enhanced every aspect of sex. Except how did she know that, she who’d never been in love? “Yes,” Charley finally answered, honestly. “I like doing that stuff.”
A slow smile slid across Jill’s face, until it reached her eyes. Once again her hand moved to free her ponytail from its tight elastic band. She shook her head, letting her soft blond hair fall loosely across her shoulders. “You know the part I like best about it?” she asked, leaning forward on her elbows. “I like the feeling of power it gives you. You know. He’s lying there, all exposed. His thing’s in your mouth, for God’s sake. He’s moaning away. His fate is in your hands.” She snickered. “In your mouth, I guess I should say.” She traced her lower lip with the tip of her tongue, then leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, as if remembering. “And you get to decide…you get to decide….”
“What?” Charley asked. “What do you get to decide?”
Jill opened her eyes, stared directly at Charley. “Everything.”
CHAPTER 14
Charley drove home with Jill’s words still echoing in her ear, like the refrain of an annoying, but particularly catchy, song. He made me touch him, use my mouth. She turned up the radio, began indiscriminately changing the channels in an effort to drown the words out. He’s moaning away. His fate is in your hands. Her right heel pressed down on the accelerator. The car lurched beneath her, its gears grinding audibly, and picked up speed. I was nine, maybe ten. She checked her reflection in the rearview mirror, saw Franny’s innocent eyes staring back at her. She looked away, turned up the volume of the radio louder still, and pressed down harder on the gas pedal. You get to decide. You get to decide.
What do you get to decide? Charley had asked her.
Everything, had come the cryptic response.
But did a girl who’d been raised by a tyrannical and sadistic father, who’d been raped by her brother when she was all of nine years old, who’d been similarly abused by her first real boyfriend when she was fourteen, and manipulated, then abandoned, by virtually every man she’d met since, ever really get to decide anything?
Charley couldn’t help but think of her own formative years, of the remote iceman who was her father, and the damage his coldness had wro
ught. His wife had sought comfort in the more accepting arms of a woman and fled with her to the other side of the globe, leaving his daughters to seek salvation with a succession of unsuitable men. Emily was not even thirty and already thrice divorced, while Anne, separated from husband number two, relied on the heroines she created in her fiction to find manly perfection and unconditional love. Their brother Bram had sought refuge in drugs and alcohol, their false promises searing his throat and scorching his lungs. And Charley? Charley had babies with disposable men, and chased the glare of the spotlight to keep her warm.
Like Jill, she’d had her first real boyfriend at age fourteen. His name was Alan. Alan Porter, she recalled, a boy as plain as his name. She pictured the tall, skinny boy with the long, reddish hair that was always falling into his pale green eyes, eyes that had seemed so mysterious at the time, but were merely vacant, she realized now. The real mystery was why she’d found him so appealing. Like Wayne, he wasn’t especially good-looking. His attractiveness lay solely in the fact he was attracted to her.
At fourteen, Charley had yet to peck her way out of the hard, stubborn shell of adolescence. A good head taller than most of the boys in school, her body was still more square than round, her broad shoulders her most prominent feature. It would be another year before her breasts became a source of interest, and her eyes a source of power. In the meantime, boys routinely ignored and overlooked her. Except for Alan Porter who, perhaps overwhelmed by the sight of his studly reflection in her shyly upturned eyes, or more likely acting on a dare from some of his classmates, deigned to saunter over to her locker one morning and say hello.
Within weeks, they were hanging out together, and within weeks after that, they were officially an item, although she couldn’t remember that they went on any actual dates. A few parties, perhaps, that were really communal make-out sessions, boys lying on top of girls on an assortment of uncomfortable sofas and chairs in somebody’s basement, teenage torsos grinding impotently against one another, furtive hands slipping under skirts and beneath bra straps, fingers fumbling with zippers, low moans and high squeals, the occasional “don’t,” followed by the plaintive, “let me.”
Alan had been relentless in his pursuit of her virginity, and just as relentless in his efforts to distance himself from her once he’d accomplished his goal. “Call me sometime,” he’d said afterward, hastily climbing back into his jeans, and choosing to ignore the blood on the gray carpet of Charley’s rec room floor. Charley worked at it, but even after repeated washings, the telltale stain remained. Not that it mattered. Her father never noticed.
Charley snapped back into the present, not sure at what point she’d realized that the low wail she was hearing wasn’t part of an extended guitar riff on KISS-FM, but rather a police siren. Nor was she able to recall the precise moment she understood that the flashing lights behind her were meant specifically for her. But suddenly a police cruiser was passing her on her left, then quickly cutting in front of her, and signaling for her to pull over. “Damn it,” she muttered, coming to a stop at the side of the busy turnpike and reaching into her purse for her license and registration, then opening her window and handing it to the officer before he had a chance to ask for it.
“Any idea how fast you were going?” he demanded, as she’d known he would, although she was surprised by the ferocity of his tone.
Was he really as angry as he sounded? she wondered, lifting her eyes to his and biting down on her lower lip in a gesture meant to convey both vulnerability and regret. The helpless female, overwhelmed by circumstance, and intimidated by such a virile display of competence. This approach had gotten her out of two speeding tickets already this year. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered breathily, batting her eyelashes in a furious effort to produce tears. “I didn’t realize…”
“I clocked you at ninety-five miles an hour.”
Charley managed to squeeze out a few tears. The officer looked remarkably unmoved. “Are you sure?” she asked him, genuine disbelief breaking through the artificial girlishness of her voice. Could she really have been going twenty-five miles over the limit? “I never go that fast.”
“You can fight it in court, if you want,” the officer said, before retreating to his cruiser to run her data through the computer.
Charley watched as his stocky form grew smaller in her rearview mirror, trying to think what approach might work better with the obviously grumpy, middle-aged man. Clearly, he was at the end of his shift and in no mood to play nice, no matter how many tears her big blue eyes managed to produce.
“Look, I’m really sorry,” she told the officer upon his return, deciding to simply tell the truth. “I’ve just had a very upsetting afternoon.”
“Think how even more upsetting it would have been if you’d killed somebody,” he countered, handing Charley back her license and registration, as well as a speeding ticket for four hundred dollars.
“Four hundred dollars! Are you kidding me?”
“And three points.”
“I’m going to lose points?” This time the tears that filled her eyes were genuine.
The expression of the officer’s face immediately softened. He looked toward the ground, let out a deep breath.
Charley thought maybe he was reconsidering, that he’d take back the ticket, reduce the speed sufficiently so that, at the very least, she wouldn’t lose any points. Accordingly she tucked a few hairs behind her ear and lowered her eyes submissively.
The officer patted the side of her car. “Drive carefully,” he told her.
“Shit,” she cursed when he was out of earshot, stuffing the ticket into her purse that sat, like an uninterested passenger, on the seat beside her. “Three points! Four hundred dollars! This is all your fault, damn it!” she continued, thinking of Jill, and wondering if she could write the ticket off as a business expense. Research, she thought, waiting for a break in the traffic to pull back onto the highway. “Four hundred dollars!” she wailed again, careful to keep her eye on the speedometer. What a waste. Think what she could have done with four hundred dollars. She could have paid next month’s mortgage or purchased a sleeve of an Oscar de la Renta blouse. You can fight it in court, the officer had suggested. Maybe I should, she decided, thinking of Alex Prescott, and wondering if he’d charge her to take the case or do it for free. “He’d charge me,” she said out loud, thinking that her charm had worked about as well on the young attorney as it had on the middle-aged policeman. “Definitely losing my touch,” she muttered, as once again Jill’s words brushed up against her own, like a cat against a bare leg. He made me touch him. “Shut up.” Use my mouth. “Go away.” And he raped me. First with his fingers, then with…What’s the word your sister always uses in her books? His “manhood.” “Yeah, that’s a real man for you,” Charley exclaimed, hearing someone shouting something about “bitches” on the radio and realizing it was the song she was listening to. Immediately she changed the station. This time, a woman was singing mournfully about her cheating husband, praying he’d come to his senses and come back to her, announcing she’d wait forever, if necessary, for him to return. “Idiot,” Charley yelled at the wailing woman. “Better a bitch than a doormat.” She snapped off the radio, thinking it was too bad she didn’t have any tapes of case law to listen to, as Alex had done on her previous visit to Pembroke Pines.
This was the second time her thoughts had drifted to Alex in as many minutes, she realized. What was that all about?
Do you think he’s cute?
What?
Alex? Do you think he’s cute?
I hadn’t really noticed.
Yeah, sure.
There was a tape she could listen to, she knew, glancing again at her purse, and picturing the tiny tape recorder inside it. Wow. That’s a lot better than the tape recorder I had, she heard Jill say.
I should never have agreed to do this book, Charley thought, knowing she didn’t actually have to replay the tape in order to remember any of the things Jill
had told her. The young woman’s words were seared on her memory, like a branding iron on flesh. Charley doubted she’d ever forget them.
Something else she knew: She was in way over her head.
She could smell her mother’s chicken roasting in the oven as soon as she opened her front door.
“Charley, is that you?” her mother called out as James ran toward her, grabbing her by the knees and almost knocking her down.
“Mommy! Grandma’s making mashed potatoes, and I’m helping.”
“Yes, I can see that.” Charley wiped a spot of something soft and white from the tip of his nose. She hoped it was food.
Franny appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. “I set the table,” she said with quiet pride.
“I don’t know what I would have done without them,” Elizabeth Webb said, coming up behind Franny and draping her arms around the child’s shoulders. For the first time, Charley noted an undefined, yet unmistakable, family resemblance between them.
“I feel the same way,” Charley said.
“Grandma says I should be a chef when I grow up,” James announced.
“That’s certainly something to consider.”
“Can you be a chef and own a nightclub at the same time?”
“Own a nightclub?” Elizabeth asked.
“Glen owns a nightclub,” James said, nodding for emphasis.
“Who’s Glen?”
“He’s Mommy’s friend, and he took me to Lion Country Safari.”
“Something I should know about?” Elizabeth asked, glancing hopefully at Charley.
“I’m sure there’s lots you should know about,” Charley told her. “But why start now?”
Tears immediately sprang to her mother’s eyes, and she turned away, swiped at them with the back of her hand.
“You made Grandma cry!” James said accusingly.
“I’m sorry,” Charley apologized immediately. What was the matter with her? Her mother had been nice enough to baby-sit, even to make dinner. “I didn’t mean…”
“No, no, that’s quite all right,” her mother said. “Your mother didn’t make me cry, sweetheart. I just got something in my eye.”
