The first time Dermott dared enter Mel’s room, it was an unseasonably warm April night and she had left her bedroom window open. There was no breeze that night; the air was still and lifeless as if the world had been stripped of all sound. She sensed someone’s presence, someone’s eyes on her backside, and rolled over quickly, her heart quickening. She thought it might be an intruder, someone who had come through the open window, but instead, it was Dermott, standing with his hands behind his back, rocking on his heels, transfixed on her form in the bed. She could smell the mix of Johnny Walker and nicotine on every inch of him; he’d just finished a cigarette and the stench followed him like a snake, invading her room.
His round, hollow, bloodshot eyes rested on her. He was long and lanky and his Wrangler jeans fit him tightly. Finally, he took a seat on the empty twin bed opposite hers.
She opened her eyes and whispered his name in a breathless rush that came with urgency as if she was punishing him. “Dermott.” She had never addressed him by his first name, but somehow “Daddy,” the name she’d always called him, didn’t feel right, not this time. It was as if she was speaking to someone she didn’t know, someone she didn’t trust. She was leery of him, frightened. She felt the perspiration bead under her armpits and the knot in her stomach grow.
“Yeah.”
“What are you doing?”
“I ain’t doing nothing. What do you think I’m doing?”
The moon moved through the cheap blinds that covered the window, throwing shadows across his long face, distorting his features. He was rough around the edges, stubbly and worn from too much work and even more drinking.
She swallowed down the fear, pushing it to the back of her mind. “Why aren’t you in bed?” she asked him. She worked to control her voice, hoping she could fool him into believing she wasn’t frightened.
He hesitated a minute, then smiled wickedly before he said to her, “I’m going.” Then he shuffled out of her room and down the hall, his boots heavy on the wood floor.
One night she woke to him perched on the end of her bed staring into the dark at her. She had been dreaming that she was running, far across the expanse of the high school football field, as far as she could get, for no particular reason, only that she sensed danger. She woke with a start, realizing that someone had begun rubbing her feet methodically; then realized it was Dermott rubbing her feet. She couldn’t stand his touch, the way his fingers ran over her toes and down around the bones in her heels. His hands were strong, rough and calloused, and they ripped across her skin. He’d clearly had too much to drink again, and the smell of nicotine and sour beer choked her.
She hadn’t heard him come in, hadn’t heard the usual turn of the doorknob, the noisy creak from the unoiled, worn screws in her door. She bolted straight up in bed, and curled herself into the corner nearest the wall, hiking the pink gingham sheet up around her neck as high as she could get it. Her skin was prickly, the hairs on her arms stood out amidst goose bumps.
He leaned back on one arm and scratched his day-old beard with his right hand. His long legs stuck out like matchsticks.
“What? What do you want?” She spoke in loud hushes, panic gripping at her vocal cords.
“You’re jus’ so pretty, Melanie, tha’s all. Jus’ so pretty,” he slurred at her, reaching for her legs. Her knees were tucked under her chin; he couldn’t get a hand on her. And she was prepared to kick him hard if he tried. He swayed and caught himself in the center of the bed, balancing on one arm.
“Dermott,” she whispered harshly. “You’ve had too much to drink again. Get outta here. Go on to bed.”
“Nah. Nah, I haven’t had so much. I jus’ wanted to tell you how pretty you was and all. You jus’ so pretty. Jus’ look like your mama. You know that? You look jus’ like your mama.”
Melanie swallowed hard, pushing back the bile that rose in her throat and kicking at his hand that crept her way across the worn bedspread. He recoiled only for a minute, hung his head and shook it from side to side. “Whassa matter, Mel? You don’t want your old man in your room? You didn’t use to mind so much when you were little. What happened?”
She shook her head hard, cowering against the chipped and scratched oak headboard so that it banged against the wall. “I don’t know. You’re scaring me is all. You’ve had too much to drink, Dermott. You can’t keep drinking so much. You shouldn’t be in here. Why don’t you just go to bed? We can talk about all of this in the morning. Go on now . . .”
“You look just like her, you know. Just like her. Your mama. She had no right to go and leave me, you know. I didn’t deserve to be left, Mel. She shoulda stayed here. Her place is here.”
She felt her pulse echo in her temples. “Can you go now? Please? I’m real tired and I have school tomorrow. I need to go to bed. And you need to go to bed, too. It’s too late to be talking ’bout all this stuff. We can talk about it tomorrow if you want.” She let herself plead with him, cocking her head to the side and forcing her voice to sound soft enough that he might be convinced. She would do nearly anything to get him to leave, anything at all.
He was on her in a minute. She was gasping, begging him to let her go. “Dermott, you are hurting me. Dermott, let me go. God, please.” She cried unsuccessfully for him to loosen his grip. His nails drove into her wrist, on the palm of her hand.
She kicked him with everything she had, bucking him as if she were a wild horse that couldn’t be tamed, writhing and twisting her torso so that he’d fall to one side or the other of her. He was thin and bony and he dug his knee into the base of her spine and held it there, pinning the arm he’d been holding behind her back to her butt so that she was immobile on her left side. When she realized he was serious about all this, she stopped begging him to let her go and started screaming, piercing wails that rang through the house and shook the windows, deep and guttural and fierce.
“Noooo, God, noooo! Help me! My God, Dermott, stop, stop!” Her voice echoed throughout the room, echoed in her head and fired back at her, empty. When she began to scream again he covered her mouth with his right hand and pushed her head farther into the bed, suffocating her against the sheets.
When he penetrated her petite frame, he did it fiercely and with quick repetition, ripping everything innocent out of her. He forced his way deep inside her, pressing her legs open wide from behind and pushing her farther into the bed, farther into the soul of the darkness. She closed her eyes hard and prayed to stay conscious, prayed that she could get enough oxygen to sustain her. He ripped at her hair, tore at her T-shirt until it was askew and then stripped it from her body. There was blood left behind, smeared across her legs and stomach.
When he was finished, he stood over her on the bed. She heard him zip his pants and cinch the buckle on the belt around his waist.
His face was scratched, deep red lines that ran across his rough stubble. She wasn’t sure when she had gotten him but she was glad to see that she had succeeded, that he hadn’t gotten away without something that would remind him of what he’d done when he looked at himself in the mirror.
He backed out of her room slowly, closing the door behind him and leaving her lying, discarded, in a heap. When he was gone, she locked her bedroom door. The next day she packed her duffel, stuffing it with everything she could manage, and went to Cara’s.
12
David Michel swore to Cara that he had not stood her up. “Cara,” he said, “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.” A blank, puzzled look crossed his face.
“Mel’s party. I asked you to meet me there on Saturday night, remember? My friends were waiting to meet you.”
As soon as the words had sprung forth from her mouth, she wanted to gobble them back up. Her face grew hot with embarrassment; she felt like a schoolgirl who hadn’t gotten her way.
“Cara, I had no idea.” He said this to her in his softest French accent. “I didn’t realize you expected me to be there. I thought it was a casual invitation.”
> She forgave him immediately.
“Let me make it up to you. Can I take you to dinner? Just the two of us?” he asked her in what she deemed a purr.
“Well . . .” She failed miserably at being coy, she always had.
“We’ll go tonight. I’ve got an idea about a perfect spot. Somewhere I’d like to take you. I’m sure you’ll like it very much.”
“Um . . .” She wasn’t prepared to go out with him tonight. She had convinced herself she was due at least a week’s worth of misery, that she would be angry with him for a long while before she finally just wrote him off. Besides, it had been a long time since she’d had a casual date, a long time since she’d had any kind of date. Did going mean she was too available? Did not going mean she wasn’t interested? Oh, stop thinking about it already and just do what you want to do, she thought.
“You won’t have been to this restaurant,” he said to her confidently, baiting her with the idea.
She eyed him carefully, the way he waited on her response. He busied himself at his computer, working while she stewed on whether she should take him up on his offer. He looked as if he could have cared less whether or not she could join him, which made her want to go all the more. She gnawed subconsciously on her thumbnail, rocking back and forth on her heels. “How do you know I won’t have been there?”
He stared at his computer screen but answered her nonetheless. “I know. You haven’t been to this restaurant Trust me, Cara, I know.” When he looked up, he smiled at her.
She was intrigued. And, more importantly, she was childless for the evening so there was no reason not to go. “I’m not changing. So you have to take me like this.” She flung her arms wide, referencing the flattering black suit she was wearing.
He glanced up at her, his eyes running over her top to bottom. “Perfect.”
She was all of a sudden tremendously self-conscious. She shifted from one foot to the other; unsure of what she should do next.
“Okay, then.”
He waited for her to leave his office, which she did, backing out into the corridor, realizing that she had just accepted a date with the man she had spent the weekend convinced was the biggest ass in the city. She had been in a funk since Mel’s party, angry with Mel and sad for those Mel was hurting, sad for what she had been through herself.
And now she had a date with him. A real eat-out-and-carry-ona-conversation-between-just-the-two-of-them date, exactly what she’d been trying to avoid in the first place. She wasn’t sure at all what she had gotten herself into. She wasn’t sure at all that she should go.
Cara picked up the phone to call Mel no less than three times that afternoon. It was a natural reaction, a habit she couldn’t quite quit. Under normal circumstances, it would have been the first thing she would have done. Mel was her sounding board, the one person she knew who could calm her nerves no matter what the circumstance. She shared everything with Mel; how could she possibly go on this date without a consultation?
The first time, she punched out the numbers to Mel’s cell phone with her thumb, excitement bubbling over as she sat at her desk and stomped her feet on the floor. She was dying to tell Mel about her conversation with David. She knew Mel would be nothing less than proud of her, for putting aside her ridiculous feelings about being stood up and for snagging a dinner out of the deal. Melanie would have said to her, Do you have on your best thong underwear, Cara? Just in case you end up in bed with him. Please, please tell me you took this into consideration when you got dressed this morning. My God, what are you wearing? Melanie would have been just as excited for Cara as Cara was for herself. She would have wanted a blow-by-blow report of their conversation. She would have role-played the upcoming evening with Cara over the phone until the butterflies in Cara’s stomach finally stopped dancing and fluttering.
But each time, Cara set the receiver back in its cradle, remembering Mel’s selfishness. Mel would be holed up in her apartment with her married boyfriend, helping herself to what wasn’t hers to have, what wasn’t hers to taste. Cara could barely stomach the idea, never mind endorse it.
The truth was, despite what Mel was doing, the lie she was living, Cara had missed Mel ever since she had stumbled out of her flat on Sunday morning. It had been three days since they’d talked and she had longed to hear Mel’s voice, she had longed to deconstruct why David Michel had stood her up. She’d never been very good at being angry with her best friend, her oldest confidante. But it was a longing that she pushed aside, and convinced herself that Melanie wasn’t good enough for her. Mel had lied to her, without so much as ever opening her mouth. Mel had done to Garin’s wife what Barbie had done to Cara. And the thought of it happening while Cara had been in such deep despair about Jack just about made Cara sick to think about it. Cara wondered how many times Mel had smugly laughed behind Cara’s back, how many times she had pitied Cara for what she didn’t know, for what was happening right under her nose. No, Cara couldn’t call her; she simply wouldn’t call her.
Cara was just bursting to share the information with someone, anyone who would listen and offer her some piece of advice. Cara finally called Leah near five o’clock, brimming with the news that she was going on a date. But Leah wasn’t near as daring, not anywhere close to as adventuresome as Mel would have been. Leah made a lousy substitute.
“What are you thinking, Cara? Are you crazy? You can’t go out with him; he stood you up. He never even called to say he wasn’t coming. Do I need to remind you how miserable you were on Saturday night?”
Cara hated the sound of Leah’s voice, the way Leah immediately made her feel as if she’d failed. “It’s just dinner, Leah.”
“Really? From the sound of your voice, I’d say it’s more than just dinner.”
“Okay, listen. I’ve already talked myself into it. And I’ve already told him yes. If things feel awkward, I’ll excuse myself and head for home. I’m a big girl, Leah; I think I can handle dinner.”
“Don’t go to bed with him,” Leah warned. “You’re likely to go to bed with him, I can tell.”
“I’m not going to go to bed with him. I hardly know him. God, Leah, you’re worse than Mel.”
“Ha. Mel would tell you to fuck him sideways and not to come back until you were good and done. And you know it. I’m telling you not to sleep with him, Cara. Take my advice on this one.”
“Honestly!”
Just after eight, David Michel wandered casually into Cara’s office, car keys in one hand.
She glanced at him anxiously. She had stopped working hours earlier, her concentration shot since they’d talked earlier in the afternoon. “So? Where is this so-called restaurant I’ve never been to?”
“Hmmm? Oh. The Mission,” he said, uninvolved. “We could go by cab, but it’s not so far from where I live. I thought I’d drive home and we can walk from there.”
“I’ll need my car later. To get home, of course.” She eyed him nervously from behind her desk. Leah’s words came echoing back at her. “Don’t go to bed with him.”
She barely had his attention. He stood punching at the miniature keyboard on his Blackberry. Cara gathered up her laptop and bag, stuffed a few documents she needed to read into her briefcase and reached for her coat.
“Okay,” she said firmly as if to alert him to the fact that she was ready. She swallowed back the hesitation she felt. She was beginning to regret her decision to go with him, unsure that this was a good idea.
“Okay, then. Shall we?”
With that, he turned off his electronic messaging device, took her briefcase for her and maneuvered her out the door. She relaxed, but only slightly.
He had been right about one thing: she had never been to the restaurant he chose. In the first place, she didn’t eat sushi so it wasn’t as if she would have ever wandered in there. In the second place, almost no one would have known it was a restaurant, save for the few people who had somehow stumbled on it. There was no sign, no discerning markings out front that would
lead one in off the street.
“What is this place?” Cara asked him. There were four tables in the whole restaurant, each no wider than would fit two people. He held the door for her and ushered her inside, taking the brisk San Francisco fog-laden street with them. It was cold out and they had walked the few blocks from his building at a clipped pace to stay warm.
He shrugged his shoulders. “Not a lot of people know about it. But I promise you, it’s one of the best places you’ll ever eat.” He smiled at her assuredly.
The sushi chef came to greet him. “Hello, David,” he said in perfect English.
“Shunichi, hello. I want you to meet my friend, the lovely Cara Clancy.”
Shunichi bowed slightly to Cara, and led them to the only open table—a corner table where he pulled out the chair for her. He was short, no more than five foot two inches, and he had piercing brown eyes that danced when he looked at her. She smiled at him and took her seat.
“What’s good tonight?” David asked the man, removing his jacket.
“Everything.”
David laughed and patted the man on his shoulder before he took the chair opposite Cara. “Do you see, Cara? Shunichi serves the best. Well, have at it, then; we’re starved.”
Shunichi bowed one more time and shuffled off toward the back of the cramped restaurant to what Cara assumed to be the kitchen. He reappeared a few minutes later with tea and small teacups, placing them in the center of the table.
David reached for a cup, turned it over, and poured Cara some tea. “Be careful, it’ll be hot.”
“I have a confession,” she whispered nervously, taking in the other patrons. “I don’t actually eat sushi.”
His eyes widened. “Don’t? Or won’t?” He looked disappointed but not entirely concerned.
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