"You know what's really in mincemeat, guys?" he asked softly as he rejoined his friends at the counter.
Pete, his hand hovering over the old-fashioned service bell, paused. "You already told us," he sneered.
''Moose turds," Corey giggled.
"No," Mark whispered. "I mean what's really in it!"
''Apples and raisins and beef," Pete said. ''And spices."
''What kind of beef?" Mark raised his eyebrows knowingly.
"Roast, what else?" Pete said. "You're not gonna talk us out of this, Lawson. We got your money, and we made a deal."
"I know, I know." Mark was enjoying himself, because he really did know what was in mincemeat, at least the old-fashioned kind. His great-granddad, Gus, had a really old cookbook, and he'd looked it up one afternoon when he was bored. "It's got guts in it."
"Does not." That was Corey.
"Does so. It's made out of deer meat or beef, but most of the meat is guts. Hearts, livers, shit like that."
"I don't care what's in it, I like it." He tapped the bell
"Really? Guts?" Corey asked with concern.
“'Maybe even intestines," Mark said, sensing a crack in the mincemeat faction. "They just wash the shit out of 'em and-"
"I didn't quite catch that," said an angry-looking nun who had appeared in the doorway behind the counter so suddenly that Mark knew she'd heard him talking. "What did you say?"
"Ah, what's in the mincemeat pie?" he stammered.
"It's a secret recipe," the nun said. She wore a little nametag that said, "Sister Margaret." "Basically, it's made of fruit and meat."
"What kind of meat?" Corey pushed his lank blond hair from his blue eyes.
“'The very best."
“Is there, like, hearts or liver or anything?" Pete asked
"It's a secret recipe," Sister Margaret repeated, then gave them the smallest of smiles. "But you don't have to worry about things like that."
"Okay," said Pete. "One mincemeat pie, to go." He gave Mark a triumphant look.
''Very good. One moment, please." The nun disappeared into the back room; then Mark heard her say, ''Cindy, box up a mincemeat pie, please."
A girlish voice said, "Yes, Sister."
"I'm telling you," Mark whispered quickly, "it's full of guts."
"Bullshit," Pete hissed back. "Nuns don't lie."
"She didn't say what kind of meat it was, dickhead."
As Pete opened his mouth to reply, the nun reappeared bearing a pink box with the words "Apple Heaven" printed on it in curlicue letters. "That will be seven twenty-five."
Pete and Corey counted out the money and laid it on the counter. The nun handed over the pie, then silently handed Pete a nickel change.
The boys turned toward the door just as it opened.
''Dad!" Mark blurted, surprised.
"Hi, Mark, boys. What’cha got there?"
"Mincemeat pie," Pete said. "For tonight."
His dad made a face. "Mark, I didn't know you liked mincemeat."
Mark returned the face. ''I told 'em what you call it, but they want to eat it anyway. I'm getting their apple cobblers."
''Are there really guts in it, Sheriff?" Corey asked, wide eyed and worried.
Behind them, the nun manufactured a polite cough.
"I don't know, boys," John Lawson said quickly. "And I don't want to know."
''May I help you, Sheriff?" the nun asked, after another little cough.
"Yes, Sister, you sure can. Excuse me, fellas. Have fun tonight." He walked past them to the counter. "But not too much."
" 'Bye," Corey and Pete yelled as they went out the door.
"See ya, Dad," Mark called, hanging back in the open doorway, curious as to why his father was here.
"How can I help you?"
"Would you unlock the gate for me, please? I need to speak with Dr. Dashwood."
Police stuff. Mark closed the door softly behind him, wondering what else he'd expected. That Dad's secretly scarfing mincemeat? With a snort, he joined his friends at the knot of bikes they were busy unlocking.
Twenty-five
"Are you ready?"
Sara, shivering, clad only in a tiny white gown and a myriad of goosebumps, looked around and saw Sister Regina, the school nurse who had administered the psychological tests earlier today, enter Dr. Dashwood's examination room. She carried a tray, which she placed on a cart next to the examination table where Sara was perched, her skin sticking to the paperless leather upholstery despite the cold air of the room. The nun turned, her body hiding the tray's contents. At least today's tests kept her mind off the incident in the shower room the night before, not that she hadn't nearly convinced herself that the whole thing had been a trick of her overactive imagination.
"I'm ready," she managed, as Sister Regina shoved a thermometer in her mouth.
"Don't talk," the nun ordered, putting a stethoscope to her ears and pulling a blood pressure cuff from the wall. Efficiently she slipped it up Sara's bare arm, then began inflating it, squeezing the bulb until Sara almost cried out in pain. Abruptly she let off the pressure, removed the thermometer, then crossed to the counter area, picked up a clipboard, and began writing.
Sara saw the contents of the tray and her stomach flip-flopped. There were Latex gloves, a tube of K-Y jelly, a speculum, slides, Q-tips, tweezers, three hypodermic syringes, and several small rubber-tipped vials.
"Sister," she demanded, "what are all these things for?"
Regina turned, slowly blinking her heavy-lidded eyes. She looked more reptilian than human. She wet her pale lips, a snake in nun's clothing, then smiled thinly. ''Doctor needs these things to examine you."
"He's going to do a pelvic?"
"Of course, dear. He does us all every year."
''But I brought my records. I had a complete exam by my own doctor less than three months ago."
"It's customary. Doctor likes to get to know his patients while they're healthy, so that he has a baseline to work from if you become ill." She glanced at her clipboard. "When was your last period. Miss Hawthorne?"
''I forget. What are the syringes for?"
"Tetanus, a measles booster, and flu vaccine. All customary. Have you ever been pregnant?"
"No. And I've had the measles, and everything else is up to date."
"I'll make a note of that. Doctor will decide what's best. Have you had any unusual discharges or bleeding?"
"Why are you so interested in my sex life?" She'd almost said "genitals," but stopped cold, suddenly remembering the girls' nickname for the nurse: Sister Vagina. Something flashed in her memory, disappeared before she could examine it. Had this been done to her when she was a girl? No, she didn't think so. And turning "Regina" into "Vagina" was inevitable, wasn't it? They probably still called her that.
"Do you have sexual relations?" the nun asked, blinking again.
"That's none of your business."
''Uncooperative," Regina muttered, writing something down. ''Is there any history of insanity in your family?" She gave her another reptilian smile as she asked the question.
''You have my history; you know I was orphaned." She was feeling anger on top of the humiliation now.
''Of course, dear. How thoughtless of me." The nun set the clipboard on the edge of the cart, then approached her, the expression on her face softening. ''Scoot to the end of the table and lie back. Doctor will be here in a moment and he expects you to be ready. If you're not," she added, her voice a falsely conspiratorial whisper, "he'll report me to Mother Lucy, and I'll be in trouble."
Sara did as the Regina requested, studying her all the while, trying to remember what she'd been like years ago. Aside from appearing no older-the nuns all seemed to have retained their earlier appearances-you, too, can stay young forever, if you give up sunlight, sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll- she couldn't remember anything in particular about this one except for the snaky looks and the vulgar nickname. Some of the nuns, like Sister Bibi, had been friendlier th
an most, and she suspected that Sister Regina's change of attitude was just a tool; more than likely, she truly was afraid of Mother Lucy's wrath.
The footrest dropped away, leaving her legs dangling uncomfortably off the end of the table, and she stared at the ceiling, not wanting to look as the nun raised the stirrups attached to the examination table.
"Just relax, Miss Hawthorne," Regina said. "I'm going to help you put your legs up. It can be a little tricky to do yourself."
That sounded odd, but Sara, resigned to her fate, let the nun lift one leg. She felt cold curved metal against the back of her knee; it seemed unusual, but not too bad.
Sister Regina put the other leg up. "Are you comfortable, dear?"
"As comfortable as can be expected." Sara decided that the knee stirrups were less humiliating than ankle ones, but wasn't about to say so.
"All right, Miss Hawthorne, or may I call you Sara?" She didn't wait for a response. "We're almost ready for Doctor." The nun stood at the foot of the table-Sara could just see her face above her bare knees, felt herself blush when she realized what the nun could see. Regina calmly flipped up an extension on the stirrup, revealing a two-inch wide strip of belting material. She heard the crunch of Velcro as the material was wrapped around her ankle.
"Hey, what the hell- "
"Please don't swear, Sara. We've found these cloth anklets much more comfortable than the old-fashioned stirrups."
Before she could protest, Regina trapped her other ankle and she lay there, shocked and humiliated, thinking it couldn't get any worse. But it did.
"Let's just adjust these a little," the nun said. She touched something at the side of the table, and Sara heard a low whir of machinery. The stirrups moved slowly apart. "What do you think you're doing?"
Sister Regina only smiled, then walked to the door. ''Doctor will be right in."
As soon as the nun was out of the room, Sara tried to sit up, to reach her ankles, and free them, but it was physically impossible. "Damn. Damn, damn, damn!" She flopped back. Nothing, but nothing, was worth this. She'd resign the moment she was free, and report her treatment to the authorities.
Minutes passed. Authorities. Could she tell Sheriff Lawson? It was too embarrassing. She'd go to the town doctor instead. Surely, that would be at least a little less humiliating.
There was a rap on the door. "Miss Hawthorne?"
She recognized the voice, deep, very masculine, and vaguely British. Dr. Dashwood! How could she have forgotten who he was? All the girls had wanted him, had talked and fantasized about the man. She felt herself blushing furiously as she heard him approaching.
Blessedly, he stopped by her side and looked at her face with eyes you could get lost in and not ever care. Except now. He smiled, showing straight white teeth, his cheeks creasing with small, perfect dimples. "Are you comfortable?"
"Frankly, no," she said firmly.
He glanced back, saw her legs. "Oh, dear. Sister Regina got a little carried away." The machinery whirred again, and he did something to the ankle stirrups, bringing them down to a normal level.
''Why am I trapped like this? You have no right."
He shook his head. "Sister Regina is much older than she appears, and I'm afraid she's become a bit eccentric. I've spoken to Mother Lucy about letting her retire, but our Mother Superior believes Reggy has a few years left in her. We don't need these." He moved to the end of the table and she heard the rip of Velcro, then her ankles were set free, lowering her humiliation level from excruciating to merely severe.
"When would you ever need them?" she asked, as she started to remove her knees from the metal rests.
Dashwood's hands came down gently on the knees. "No, leave them up a moment longer and we'll get this part out of the way." He left his hands, warm and dry, on her a moment longer, then, evidently sensing she'd acquiesced, removed them. ''Many of our girls are very rebellious. Runaways, drug addicts, former gang members. We have to check any new adolescent for problems, and sometimes they won't allow it without the restraints. You understand."
"That's cruel," she said, hearing the snap of gloves.
"Yes, it is, but it's vital we check for disease, pregnancy, and so forth. And some of the younger girls must be examined as well if sexual abuse is an issue." He placed one gloved hand on her abdomen and palpated gently, his eyes locked on hers.
"Surely you don't make a practice of restraining the girls."
"Very rarely, I assure you. Sometimes we give them a few grains of relaxant, but usually just a cup of herb tea and gentle conversation is enough."
Sara began to believe him. The man had a bedside manner that defied description. Trapped only in his gaze, she began to feel relaxed, even as he began the pelvic. She barely realized she was being touched, and he kept talking the entire time, never looking away from her face. He was more thorough than she had ever experienced, but it was less humiliating, too, even though she'd had a female doctor in San Francisco. He talked about the nuns, gossiping a little, then went on to tell her about the girls, warning her about some of the ones who would be special problems. By the time she felt the cold metal speculum against her, she barely flinched, hardly realizing she could no longer see his face.
"Hmmm," he said.
''What?"
"Something looks just a little odd here." He stood up and smiled at her. "It's nothing, I'm sure," be added, stripping off the gloves.
"What? There couldn't be anything wrong. I just saw my own doctor." She tensed against the metal instrument as it began to hurt. "Please, get this over with."
"Relax, Miss Hawthorne." He picked up a syringe and she saw a momentary flash of a long needle as he attached it. "We'll be done in just a moment."
''What are you doing?" she demanded, on the verge of panic. She started to withdraw one leg, but his hand went up, firmly but gently holding it in place. "I'm just going to take a small biopsy of tissue. I can virtually assure you there's nothing to be concerned about."
"What's the needle for?" She relaxed slightly, soothed by his soul-searching gaze.
"A little lidocaine, so you won't feel anything."
"Oh." She felt stunned, couldn't think.
''Nothing but a tiny pinch. Are you ready?"
"Just finish it, please!"
He studied her a moment longer, favoring her with a smile. Despite herself, she relaxed a little more.
He disappeared; she felt the pinch; then a few minutes later, the speculum was removed. "All done," he told her, reassurance in his eyes.
She felt warmer now, especially inside; an effect of the anesthetic, no doubt. ''Can I get up now?"
''Let me do the breast exam, then you can get up."
"All right."
As he lowered her gown from her shoulders, holding he gaze, she vaguely realized her legs were still up, but she didn't really care. His hands palpating first one breast, then the other, actually felt good, like a massage. Better than a massage.
"You have an incredible bedside manner," she murmured. What the hell is wrong with me? She wanted to scream at him to get his hands off her, but she couldn't. She was mortified by her growing excitement. Her body was betraying her; it seemed to have a mind of its own. How can this be happening?
''Thank you." He kept kneading, fingers pinching her nipple now. "Very good. You're an excellent patient."
The warmth in her belly grew into heat that spread through her. She felt a violent sexual ache, could count her pulse through the steady beat in her groin. She heard herself moan. What am I doing? What is he doing? "Stop!" she cried.
"We're all done," he told her, one hand still resting against a breast. Her panic melted as suddenly as it had formed.
"We are?" I can't believe I said that. The thought was dreamy and she tried to lower her legs, but it was too much effort. She heard herself giggle, was horrified in a very detached way, as if she were watching herself from a distance. Dashwood's eyes were gorgeous.
Dimly, she heard a knock on the door,
then heard the Mother Superior's voice. "Well, Doctor? How's our patient?"
"She's fine," he said. "Quite ready."
She could barely keep her eyes open. and she saw Mother Lucy, her cowl off to reveal long black hair, peering into her face. "Miss Hawthorne? Are you unwell?"
"I'm fine," she mumbled. She could barely keep her eyes open. Her ears had begun to ring and she couldn't concentrate at all. The headmistress's face went out of focus.
“'I thought I might give her a trial run," she thought Dashwood said.
"No, Richard, you mustn't soil the merchandise. I'll take care of your needs personally." Was that really Mother Lucy talking? She must be imagining things, dreaming. Maybe the anesthetic Dashwood had given her had a relaxant in it. He drugged you! insisted a little voice, but she didn't listen, instead collapsing into an erotic dream in which she eavesdropped on two people making love.
Twenty-six
This return to St. Gruesome's wasn't nearly so terrible as that first visit last month, and in fact, in the several times he'd been there in August and early September, John Lawson's phobic reaction had lessened considerably.
Letting himself in the school building, be crossed quickly to the stairs leading down to Dashwood's basement offices and the infirmary and started down, relieved he hadn't run into any of the nuns.
When he reached the office door, he rapped twice, then opened it No one was there, so he moved on to the next door, the one to the waiting room, and went inside. The nurse wasn't at her desk, but two students, both attractive blondes, one with a mane of hair, the other with shorter loose curls, sat on chairs along the wall. They looked at him and almost suppressed their giggles.
"Is Dr. Dashwood in today?" he asked.
Curly Locks nodded. "We've got appointments to see him, so I hope so." A fresh giggle escaped.
"Buffy," said the other one, "control yourself." She looked at John, gave him a smile way too knowing for a high school kid. ''Dr. Dashwood will be here pretty soon." The bare tip of her tongue darted out and she wet her lips, keeping her eyes on his. "I'm Marcia Crowley, and this is Buffy Bullock. We're seniors."
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