An Act of Love

by Nancy Thayer

  Mostly Owen had been aware that this year the boys were bored by the farm. The pond, the woods, the hills, the horses, all had lost their charms. Day after day Bruce and Doug and Terry and Pebe had risen after noon to straggle down the stairs bleary-eyed and sit with cups of coffee on the side porch, staring out at nothing. After a while they’d strolled in to collapse on the various sofas in the den where they’d watch television with the glazed eyes of lobotomy patients. When the coolness of evening fell, they might rouse themselves for a long walk in the woods, and then sometimes they had grown lively again. They’d returned laughing and shoving each other and muttering behind their hands. Owen didn’t know how their time had passed; they’d been so inactive. He remembered his own adolescence, how his parents had yelled at him for being absentminded and forgetful. He remembered his first sessions with liquor, how violently ill he’d been. When the boys were out in the woods, Owen had made surreptitious inspections of the attic, looking for bottles of booze or signs of drugs; he’d never found anything suspicious.

  Owen came out of his reverie. “I asked Terry why they’d all gotten so quiet. One morning when he came down before the others woke up.”

  “He was always the easiest one to talk to. What did he say?”

  “Just that they were getting older, heading into their last year of high school. They were all worried about applying to colleges and waiting for the results. They were facing the most difficult semester of their lives. Everything hung on the grades they would make.”

  “Well, we know Bruce is anxious.”

  “Terry said the college advisor told them that it’s harder now for prep school students to get into colleges. Universities are trying to redress the balance of earlier years when prep school kids sailed into any school they wanted, but parents still expect the same accomplishments their parents had expected of them.”

  “Did you ask about girls?”

  “Yup. Terry said people didn’t date anymore. They went out in groups, or else they met as really serious couples in the woods surrounding the school. He also told me the girls at the school liked the jocks, or else the radical grungy guys. Although Pebe had a girlfriend.”

  Linda smiled. “Pebe would.” He was drop-dead handsome as well as brilliant. “Did he mention Alison?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “She likes Bruce, it’s obvious. And he likes her. There’s a real sweetness between them.”

  “They must have been involved before the summer. Bruce never particularly cared about which college he got into before this summer, and suddenly he was adamant about getting into Westhurst.”

  “Where Alison wants to go. Right.”

  “It just doesn’t seem to fit that Bruce would be so … smitten … with Alison and yet—” Linda paused. It was hard to say the word. “—and yet rape Emily.”

  “I know. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “But then I can’t believe Emily would lie.” Linda rubbed her temples. “I’m getting a headache.”

  “Want to stop for a cup of coffee?”

  “No. I’ll be all right. We’re almost home.”

  They finished the ride in silence, and when they turned down the long gravel drive to their house, Linda realized with a jolt that this beautiful farm, their sanctuary, their home, looked different to her now. The bare branches of trees darkened the ground and the buildings with tangles of shadows. Was this the house where her child was harmed?

  “I’m going to cut some firewood,” Owen said. “Maybe it will clear my head.”

  “All right.”

  As Linda entered the house, their old dog, Maud, snorted forward, wagging her tail as well as she could. Linda stooped and scratched her behind the ears. On the old desk wedged between the refrigerator and the door, the answering machine blinked. She hit the button: a message from her friend Janet, wondering when she was coming to Boston for their annual Christmas shopping spree. Linda just stared at the machine. She’d call Janet later.

  The house felt cold. For once she wouldn’t fret over the money spent on heat. She needed heat. Perhaps she’d take a long hot bath. But when she reached the second floor, she found herself wandering into her daughter’s room where she simply stood in the silent air, looking around.

  Emily’s room could scarcely keep up with her personality changes. Her canopy bed still dripped with pink chintz, but her dolls and stuffed animals had been heartlessly shoved beneath the bed, along with a lone sock and a paperback of Shirley MacLaine’s Don’t Fall off the Mountain. Barrettes, earrings, and tiny rubber bands from Cordelia’s braces left during her summer visit glittered on her bureau. An opened box of cassettes was stacked on the satiny linen chest Linda’s mother gave her. An incense holder full of ash slanted atop a pile of Sassy, Dance, and Cosmopolitan. Cosmopolitan! A little advanced for her.

  Or maybe not.

  Opening her desk drawer, Linda made a desultory search for Emily’s diary and was relieved not to find it. She wouldn’t have violated Emily’s privacy before, but now might be an appropriate time. If only there were some proof … But of course there couldn’t be, not when the rape had taken place almost three months ago.

  She looked back at Cosmopolitan. Picking up the magazine she looked at the front cover. She could tell the model was very young, perhaps not even Emily’s age, and made up to achieve a perfection real life never saw. Images like this, which once would have titillated young boys from the inside of porn magazines, now flashed out from all magazines, and from catalogues as well. Sex was advertised everywhere, like a kind of food or product. Certainly it was a confusing time for young people just growing into their own sexuality.

  But Emily was not naïve. She wasn’t insane. She knew the difference between imagination and reality. If she said that Bruce had raped her, then that was what had happened.

  The afternoon had grown dark with a glowering late November sky and a steady wind. From the windows Linda could see Owen ferociously chopping wood. She should do something physical as well to use up her nervous energy, but in spite of her nerves, what she felt most was a terrible fatigue.

  She left Emily’s room, went back downstairs, wandered into the front parlor, which after her marriage to Owen had become a den. Sinking onto the worn, welcoming old brown sofa, she remembered how, when they were younger, Bruce and Emily used to watch the same television shows from opposite ends of this sofa. During the coldest parts of the winter they’d pulled the afghan Owen’s mother had made down from the back of the sofa for warmth, but it hadn’t been long enough to cover them both. They never had snuggled up against each other. Instead they’d yanked the afghan, played tug of war with it, and sometimes this had escalated into a kicking battle. Finally Linda had put another blanket there, over the arm of the sofa. But they had both preferred that ratty old afghan, and time and time again as Owen and Linda had sat reading, they’d heard the children yelping with laughter. Sooner or later would come a thud and a yowl as one kicked the other onto the floor.

  “Settle down in there!” Owen would yell. “What do you think, you’ve been raised on a farm?”

  Linda and Owen would look up from their books and smile at each other. It was as if Bruce were her son, Emily Owen’s daughter. As if they were a family.

  Chapter Twelve

  Whit’s family’s Manhattan townhouse was all old furniture and old paintings and old books and Whit’s parents were so old they looked more like his grandparents. Mrs. Archibald wore her gray hair stuck up in a sort of bun on top of her head, held there with what looked like chopsticks, and at Thanksgiving dinner she also had a number three pencil stuck through the clump. Mr. Archibald had terrible posture and yellow teeth and went around in a tweed jacket with holes in the elbows; if you saw him on the street you’d think he was one of the homeless. Bartholomew, the oldest child of six, was twenty-one years older than Whit. He came with his wife and four children, the oldest of whom was thirteen. Some of his cousins came to Thanksgiving dinner, too, and various f
riends of the family, so there were twenty-one people for Thanksgiving dinner, which was served by a couple who looked straight out of Monty Python. After dinner they all had to play charades in the living room, the maid and butler, too.

  “Don’t you think we could slip out and no one would notice?” Bruce asked Whit.

  “Not tonight,” Whit whispered back. “We can do whatever we want Friday and Saturday.”

  So Bruce had to be content with that. He could have called Alison, but he didn’t want to appear too eager, or like a pest.

  He called her at noon on Friday.

  “My parents are going to a party tonight. Come over about nine,” she said.

  “That’s so late.”

  “Yeah, but they won’t be home until two or three in the morning.”

  “Cool. See you at nine.”

  “Just give the doorman your name.”

  Bruce spent the day with Whit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, seeing new exhibits Whit’s parents had told them they really shouldn’t miss, and then they ate at a Russian restaurant, where Bruce memorized lots of stuff on the menu so he could tell his parents. They liked stuff like that. Then since Bruce wasn’t familiar with New York, Whit walked Bruce to Alison’s, which wasn’t very far from his own apartment, and went off by himself to a movie.

  Alison looked unbelievable. She wore tight red plaid pants that started just below her belly button, and a tight black sweater that stopped just above her belly button. Bruce could hardly keep his eyes off that strip of skin with its seductive indentation.

  “Come in,” she said, and curled herself around him right there in the doorway. She gave him a teasing kiss, then pulled back. “Let’s get something to drink.”

  Alison’s place was extreme. Everything was black, white, chrome, with splashes of red and lots of enormous windows with all of New York glittering.

  “Look.” She spread her hands to indicate the wealth of choice behind the curved bar.

  Bruce didn’t want to expose his inexperience with alcohol. He wanted to be cool, but he also wanted not to get drunk and puke all over her house like he knew he’d do if he had more than two or three drinks of hard stuff. He looked for beer but found none.

  Alison was opening a bottle of Perrier-Jouët champagne, the kind that Linda was always cooing about.

  “Want some?”

  “No, thanks.” He poured himself a rum and Coke. He’d had some experience with that.

  “Want to see the house?”

  What could he say? I want to see your bedroom? “Sure.”

  For a while he got distracted from Alison’s midriff by the amazing place she lived in. It was more like a museum than a home, with massive murals and realistic life-size dummies seated at a table playing cards in the hall and clear Plexiglas bridges crisscrossing between bedrooms on the second floor; not the place for someone with a fear of heights.

  “This is really wild,” he told Alison.

  “I know. Dad’s the architect in New York. Let’s get more to drink.”

  With fresh drinks in hand, they invaded her brother’s room, which was like the control center of a spaceship. The guy had a state-of-the-art computer, CD player, VCR/TV, and every CD ever made. His bed hung by silver ropes from the ceiling and swung gently when Bruce and Alison leaned on it.

  “The help hate it. Hate to change the sheets,” Alison said.

  “It’s cool.”

  “Want to try it?”

  “Sure.”

  They fell onto the swaying bed and, using the remote control, played CDs. Pearl Jam. Soundgarden.

  “Not Hootie and the Blowfish. I’m so tired of them,” Alison said.

  Bruce had finished his second drink and felt too lazy to get himself back down to the first floor and the bar, so he let Alison pour champagne into his glass from the bottle she’d brought along. Then she finished it, holding it above her mouth so that the last few drops dribbled down onto her tongue. Bruce thought he’d lose his mind seeing that, being this close to her, and on a bed.

  “Wait a minute,” Alison said. The bed rocked as she got out. “I wish he’d alphabetize these. I don’t know how he finds anything. Here it is.” She put on a Mazzy Star CD, and the room filled with the slow, dreamy, slurred music.

  “Comfy?” Alison asked.

  “Um.” Bruce set his glass on the floor and curled toward her. “Alison.” He put his mouth on hers. He put his hand on the naked strip of flesh beneath her breasts. He felt her muscles tighten. Her skin was hot.

  She tasted like champagne and something sweet and minty. The inside of her mouth was like strawberries. She pressed herself against him and did not pull back when she felt his erection pressing on her belly.

  “God, you’re so beautiful,” he said, and sort of wished he hadn’t, because Alison stopped kissing him and drew back.

  “Do you think so?” she asked. “Do you really think so?”

  “Of course I do. I think you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  She smiled and ran her hands through his hair, one hand on each side of his face. It made him shiver. “Sweet boy,” she said.

  But the bed was swinging slightly, more every time they moved, and it was disconcerting. In fact it was making Bruce dizzy.

  “Where’s your room?” he asked. Hoping her bed was stationary.

  “I’ll show you.” Taking him by the hand, she led him from her brother’s room. “Want some more to drink?”

  “No.” His voice broke, and she smiled at him knowingly. She was so much more sophisticated than he was. She’d probably done it before. Lots of girls at Hedden had. She might even be on the pill. But he had two condoms in his wallet, thanks to all the safe sex courses.

  Her bedroom was kind of a disappointment, like any girl’s room anywhere. Twin beds, flowery, frilly spreads, tons of lacy pillows and what Linda called frou-frou.

  “It’s my own little world,” Alison said. “Now that my sister lives in California. My own little kingdom.”

  “The magic kingdom.” He pulled her down onto the bed with him. It was a big wide bed with a high white wooden headboard painted with flowers. The quilt was soft.

  If he told her he loved her, would she let him do it? He did love her; it wouldn’t be a lie. She was being very provocative, arching her hips toward him, rubbing against him, pushing his bum with both her hands. It was all he could do not to come in his boxers. What could he say?

  He said, “Please.” Groaned it.

  “Oh, Bruce, Bruce,” she answered, blowing in his ear.

  He rolled her beneath him.

  A crash resounded all around them. For one terrible moment Bruce thought a bomb had gone off.

  “What?”

  “Oh, jeez, my parents.” Sighing, Alison rolled off the bed and went to the door of her room, opening it a crack.

  “You knew she would be there, and you did it on purpose!”

  “Don’t be so fucking paranoid.”

  “Don’t call me paranoid. I’m not paranoid. You just wanted to rub my face in your shit.”

  Alison shut the door and leaned against it. Her face had gone white. “You’d better go.”

  “But I thought … you said they wouldn’t be back till after two.”

  “Yeah, well, sometimes …”

  “Why don’t we both sneak out? We could—”

  “I can’t. I have to stay here and help out.”

  “Help out?”

  “Mom calms down better if I’m around.” Something smashed against the wall. Alison straightened her clothing and leaned over to put on fresh lipstick. “Come on. I’ll let you out.”

  Bruce followed her. What choice did he have? He felt like crying like a girl.

  “Womanizing shit!”

  Alison’s mother caught sight of them as they were tiptoeing to the foyer.

  “And who’s this?”

  “Bruce McFarland, Mom. A friend from school. From Hedden.”

  Bruce held out
his hand, trying to be courteous, but Mrs. Cartwright put her hands on her hips and leaned forward aggressively on her high heels, saying in a sarcastic voice, “I see. I see. Come over to get a little action off my daughter, have you?”

  “Honoria, for Christ’s sake,” Mr. Cartwright said.

  “Mom.”

  “Well, it’s true. That’s all you males think about, isn’t it? Isn’t it?”

  Alison put her hand on Bruce’s arm and led him to the door. “I’ll call you tomorrow morning,” she said. “Sorry,” she whispered.

  Then Bruce had to go outside and hang around Whit’s apartment in the cold for a whole hour until he saw Whit coming home from the movie, so he could get into the Archibalds’ house without having to knock and explain why he was alone.

  Nothing much happened on Thanksgiving. No group or private sessions, no occupational therapy, although the chem depps did meet in the evening. The hospital cafeteria sent up a reasonable facsimile of Thanksgiving dinner with turkey and pumpkin pie, and at three o’clock one of the floor nurses arrived with a stack of new videos. So they made it through the day. Emily’s mother called and talked to her quite a while about neutral stuff: seeing Rose and baby Sean at Thanksgiving dinner, Barn Cat’s new litter, and the latest hysterically funny letter from Emily’s grandmother, who lived in a retirement home in Florida and at seventy-eight found herself besieged by suitors in their eighties.

  Most of the time Emily slept. Felt she could sleep the rest of her life.

  On Friday Dr. Travis was back and after breakfast and a fitness hour, Emily had to meet with her and some of the other patients in a small group session. For a while Dr. Travis focused the talk on holidays and the approaching Christmas season and its perils, and then when Emily wasn’t expecting it, she said, “Would you like to tell us how you feel about Christmas this year, Emily?”