by Raine, Meli
“Don’t even joke about threatening an agent with a gun, Alice,” Silas says dryly, shaking me out of my darker place.
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” she sweetly replies.
“Or the last,” I mutter.
“You’re getting impertinent,” Alice chides me, but she’s grinning.
“I always was your best student,” I reply.
We laugh. It feels good. Silas pretends to ignore us, but he can’t help but grin.
“I know you know this, Jane, but none of that was your fault. Whoever is at the heart of this mess is responsible. You’re damn lucky the van didn’t get you.”
“It might have if Silas hadn’t been so fast.”
Silas shakes his head. “No. He wasn’t aiming for you.”
“How can you be sure?”
“He could have altered his path. Taken us out, then Mandy. He didn’t.”
I try to swallow but can’t.
“Mandy was the target, then?” Alice’s face tips up, giving him her full attention. “You know this?”
“As much as someone in my position can know it, yes.”
“Then it’s as good as fact, as far as I’m concerned.”
We sit in silence, my coffee liberally flavored with a warming Irish cream that Alice slipped in there. I suspect a quantity of vodka has been added as well. The flight here was abrupt and bumpy, turbulence turning my gut inside out. Nerves can only take so much before they become overstimulated, always working because the signal to rest has been broken.
Drew ordered me here. I heard the conversation. Said I wasn’t safe for anyone to be around. I’m sure he got rid of me so Lindsay wouldn’t comfort me. Support me.
Be anywhere near me.
It’s just as well. Alice’s place is an oasis and this time, no one is making me leave. Alice gave me the same room I had before. Her paint supplies are fresh, set out by the covered, unfinished painting of me. Think of this as a work trip, I tell myself. A haven. An asylum.
A prison of my own choosing.
Silas clears his throat, takes a sip of coffee, and winces. “We’ve, uh, learned other information.”
Alice looks at him. “And?”
“Tara left a suicide note.”
“Bull!” I gasp. “That’s complete bullshit. Just like the radio report when we were driving to the airport with Duff. This is spin, and none of it is true. I’m no fan of Tara’s, but it’s all a lie!”
“You saw the headlines about Mandy, but I take it the Tara stories are already on page twelve,” Silas explains with a sigh. “The PR spin on Tara is that she was mentally unstable, ‘never really the same’ after Lindsay’s attack, had a history of anxiety, and the suicide note clinches it.”
“But that’s not true!” I protest.
“Same old same old,” Alice says sadly. “Not much has changed since the 1950s. Paint a woman as hysterical and unhinged and you can justify the worst crimes.”
“Tara didn’t commit a crime.”
“I didn’t mean Tara. I meant this is standard operating procedure. It reeks of agency involvement. Make the victim look like she did it to herself,” she explains.
I give Silas an appraising stare. “Is that true?”
He shrugs.
Oh, that shrug holds a lot of secrets.
“Then it’s a clue,” I muse. “Tara and Mandy really were inside jobs.” I start to ask about Jenna and whether anyone is protecting her, but Alice interrupts.
“It’s all one big inside job, sweetie.” Alice pats my cheek and sits down, eyes watching me carefully. “And when are you going to tell me all about Harry?”
“Harry?”
She knows.
“Yes. Your–”
I finish the sentence for her. “Father. Alice, you knew? All these years?”
“I suspected. I heard the rumors. And when you came to Yates, I had a financial aid counselor look at your record. All of the tuition was paid by the Bosworths.”
“What? No! I had a full-tuition scholarship. An academic one, based on my high school record.”
Alice’s eyes fill with pity.
“No!” I gasp, hoarse and empty. “You can’t tell me that wasn’t a real scholarship. That it’s all been–that I–”
“Sweetie, I don’t want to tell you, but I have to. Your scholarship from the college was small. The rest was paid for by Harry Bosworth. It was a well-kept secret. Around Yates, people just thought of him as an ultra-generous, giving man to help his staffer’s daughter like that.” As she swallows, her throat tremors. Her hand lifts to the base of her collarbone. It’s shaking.
I frown and start to ask if she’s okay, but Silas speaks first.
“But not you,” Silas asks her.
“No. Not me. Men like Harry aren’t generous in that way. They give to gain stature, power, favors, or more money. They don’t give without a good reason.”
“And being my father was good enough?”
“I can’t speak to his motives, but I guess so,” she says softly. “I guess so.”
I gulp the coffee, which has gone lukewarm, and give myself a full-body shake, as if exorcising demons. “Even my proud achievements aren’t mine,” I gasp, absorbing it all. “I’ve always thought of myself as someone who did this on her own. It’s–it’s part of who I am.” Sobs take over my breath. I give in, speaking around them. “He’s taking too much from me. He lied to me my entire life. My mother gave him her life. He made her lie to me, too. Who the hell am I if my entire life has been nothing but a lie?”
Silas reaches for me. Alice’s look is filled with empathy. I stand up, pushing him away.
“You spent our first few days together being a complete dick to me,” I say to him. Clearly, he didn’t expect to hear that based on the look he’s wearing.
“You told me why. I get it. But you took all this fake evidence and these twisted field reports that someone planted and you and Drew believed them. You believed nothing but lies. And knowing that you know it was all lies–and that there are even more lies that aren’t about me, but can hurt Harry–what do you do?” My question is an accusation.
“What do you mean?” Silas asks, chin rising, body tense.
“What do you do when an entire case turns out to be wrong?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “You assume everything is a lie and figure out the truth piece by piece.”
“And how do you do that?”
“You dig. Relentlessly. You roll over every rock. Methodically and with great care. You reconstruct the truth out of the pieces you find and verify.”
“And then?”
“And then what?”
“What do you do after that?”
“You trust the next level in the system and hand it all over to them.”
“Is that what I’m supposed to do? I just learned that my life–my very existence–is a lie. How do I find all the pieces of truth to assemble a whole that I can pass on to the next level, Silas?”
He looks stricken.
“Tell me!” I beg, my throat hoarse from crying, my neck aching from the pain of holding so much in the voiceless part of me that never knew she could say what she feels.
“I don’t–you’re not a case, Jane.”
“I’m not?”
“No. Not anymore.”
“Then what am I? Who am I?”
Alice steps forward. “You are Jane. And that is enough.”
“No offense, Alice. I love you dearly, but what the hell does that mean?” It’s always hot in Texas, but it’s hotter than usual in the studio. I start to fan myself and pace the room. I’m unraveling. My skin feels like long bands of noodly ribbon. All the lies flay me, turn me into exposed nerves and bleeding vessels.
I need to be centered.
I need to be anchored.
Mostly, I just need.
Just then, a tap tap tap at the main door, followed by the creaking sound of it being opened, cuts me off. A round, smiling woman with black hair in a
long braid enters, carrying a tray of food.
“Miss Alice? We have some snacks.” The woman smiles at Silas, then gives me a completely unearned dirty look.
I’m stunned into silence.
“Thank you, Delia. Just leave it there.” Alice points vaguely at a coffee table. Delia removes the top of the tray to reveal cookies and some small sandwiches.
Delia leaves as fast as she can.
“What was that about?” Silas asks, beating me to it. “If looks could kill, Jane would be twice dead.”
“Oh. That,” Alice says as she reaches for a chocolate cookie. “Delia doesn’t like Jane.”
“You think?” he says.
“She’s convinced Jane did it all. Says there is a secret group on the internet that connected all the dots. Then again, Delia thinks the Westboro Baptist Church caused the twin tower attacks on September 11, so take her opinion with a grain of salt.” Alice munches happily. “The woman may be a loon, but she’s an extraordinary cook and baker.”
I ignore the cookies and just sigh. “You were talking about enough. What’s enough? How am I enough?”
“I can’t answer that for you, Jane. You’ll have to figure it out for yourself.” Alice’s words have a finality to them that makes a surge of panic rush through me.
“Don’t I already have enough to figure out? This isn’t fair,” I counter.
“Life isn’t fair,” Silas says in a voice dripping with sympathy.
“And platitudes aren’t fair, either. That doesn’t help!” I turn on him, lashing out, needing an outlet for all these feelings welling up inside.
“Why are you mad at me? What did I do to piss you off?” he asks.
“Nothing! You’ve done nothing! I’m just angry! I have a right to my feelings! I have a right to my freedom! I have a right to my identity! No one gives a damn about any of my rights!” I explode.
“We do,” Alice says, putting her hand on Silas’s forearm as he gives her a confused look. “That’s why you’re venting to us right now, Jane. Because we’re safe.”
“Safe?” I gasp.
“Child, you never showed any negative emotions during those three years at Yates. Not one single time. Other faculty members admired your poise, your positivity, how such a young woman could be so nice. And that’s who you were for so long, Jane. You were nice.”
If I was so nice, why does the word sound so awful the way Alice says it?
“You know what nice people do, Jane? They stuff their feelings. No one ever did anything remarkable in this world by being nice. No one ever invented a revolutionary device or idea that changed society by being nice. No one ever became rich and powerful by being nice. And no one–not one damn soul in all creation–ever met their own needs by being nice.”
My crying stops. All I can do is stare at her.
“Nice is a cover. It’s a threadbare cloak we throw on and pretend it’s a mink coat. It’s what we settle for when we can’t have better. Jane, when did you ever argue with a professor or a boss?”
“What?”
“Argue. You know. Tell someone your opinion differs from theirs and when challenged, hold your ground.”
“I–ah–I do that all the time.”
She points to Silas. “With him. Sure. Because he’s good. But how do you defend yourself against the people in your life who suck your soul and regurgitate it back to you, expecting praise?”
Silas watches her, wholly engrossed in Alice’s words. The actual words she’s saying are divorced from the reality I’m feeling. Dawning horror and extreme denial are battling for supremacy inside me. She’s right. She’s wrong. She’s insightful. She’s crazy.
She’s old.
She’s Alice.
“People don’t exploit me like that,” I scoff.
“No, they don’t. You invite them in, make them a cup of tea, and offer up your nice self to them to use and abuse,” she replies, eyes narrowed as she stares straight into my soul, her wrinkled skin folding in on itself like lifetimes layered on top of each other.
“That’s enough,” Silas says, interrupting. “Jane’s had a horrible day, and this conversation is nothing but–”
“Truth.” I cut him off. “Every word Alice is saying is true. I am nice. I really am. Jane is so nice. Jane is so pleasant. Jane is so sweet. Guess what? Sometimes I don’t want to be. And I have no choice. No one in my life has allowed me the space to be anything but nice.”
“Take that space, Jane. It’s yours if you want it.”
“All the people I want to take it from are dead except for Harry!” I shout. “And he–he–”
“He what?”
“He didn’t love me enough to step forward and be my father!”
Silas moves to me, enveloping me in a warm, big embrace. I struggle for a few seconds, the thick wall between myself and the world my final shield. Some part of me can float right through it, though. The trusting center inside me lets Silas comfort me.
“You don’t have to be nice with me anymore,” Silas whispers. “I just want Jane.”
“I don’t know who that is.”
“We’ll find out together.”
“What if... what if you don’t like who I become?”
“You won’t become anything I won’t adore.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do.” He’s staring at a fixed point, just past my head, and I track his eyes to the large painting of me, the one Alice is working on. It’s covered, but a small section of one corner peeks out. After staring for a few seconds, he turns his attention to the masterpiece from my college years. Alice’s work fills the room, my body simple.
And telling my true story.
“Alice,” I call out in a voice so firm and true, it feels alien. “Are you in the mood to paint, by any chance?”
She grins. “And if I said no?”
“I won’t be nice about it.” I pull out of Silas’s arms and walk to the small dressing area. As I undress, he makes strange sounds of emotional struggle, a weird assemblage of disapproval, incredulity, and frustration.
Perfect.
“You can’t,” he finally says, calling out from his spot across the studio, voice echoing into my heart.
“Can’t what?”
“Can’t pose for anyone other than Alice.”
“I can’t? Says who?”
“Me.”
“Is that an order?”
“No. But it is a statement of fact.”
“And if I don’t want to be nice?”
“Then I’ll go full caveman on you.”
“What the hell is ‘full caveman’?” Alice asks, her laughter crawling across my skin as if it’s refreshing the pores.
“Don’t test me.”
“Is it like the Incredible Hulk? I wouldn’t like you when you’re full caveman?”
“Seriously, Jane. Promise me,” he demands.
“I haven’t posed since college, Silas. I’m not about to run out and take my clothes off for strange artists just because I’m breaking all the nice rules.”
“Good.”
“But even if I did, you couldn’t stop me.”
“I’d have to try.”
I don’t even bother wearing the robe, strutting out from behind the folding screen, barreling down on him with my finger in his face.
And then I freeze.
Because I’ve never been naked, posing, in front of a man who has been inside me.
Oh, the difference.
My body has new meaning when it’s exposed before someone who has made it sing. Openly, possessively, his eyes crawl over my hips, the small patch of hair at my mons, the curl of my calf, the breasts that rest patiently like small globes, cradled against my ribs like ripe fruit on a tree. His gaze makes my experience in my body take on a completely new meaning.
“Please, Jane. Sit,” Alice says.
I do, assuming the pose in the half-finished painting.
She looks at me for longer than is comf
ortable, her head tilting as she studies light. This I expect.
What I do not anticipate is the amount of attention she gives Silas.
Who is watching only me.
“Look at him,” she says to me, making me jolt.
“What?”
“The way he’s looking at you.” Her voice is contemplative and otherworldly. “I want you to look back.”
Slowly, I look at him.
There is a hunger in his gaze that makes me want to be consumed.
And for the next thirty minutes, he devours me with his eyes.
Time stops. Seconds do not pass. Minutes become centuries, universes, vortices where cross-forces negate each other. Nothing in Silas’s eyes is neutral. The stakes are laid out as he gives me what no other man has ever given me.
His full and complete attention.
We breathe together as Alice paints. We blink, but do not look away. The room is a low, steady hush, the only sound our breath, light movement, the paint turning the electrical arc of passion between us into art. Alice’s hand is steady, though she squints, studying me more than usual.
After thirty minutes, she pauses.
“I am tired,” she announces. “More tired than usual.”
Only then does Silas break the spell. His chest expands with large, fast breaths. He goes to the kitchen, out of sight.
“Jane,” Alice calls out, her voice already down the hallway. “I am going to bed. I won’t be back in the living room tonight.” The precision of her words makes me shake my head.
If we were in a dorm, this would be a sock on the doorknob.
I reach for the small pile of my clothes, searching for my panties, when suddenly a warm hand is on my bare ass. Lips close in on my naked shoulder. The disconcerting brush of clothing against my bare back intensifies as he wraps his arms around me, gently grasping my breasts, and bites my earlobe.
I moan, the sound like wildfire.
“You are unbearably exquisite,” Silas tells me. “I’ve never seen anything like that before. I want to weep when I look at you. I want to thank God. I want to run into the wind on a sunny beach. I want to make love with you in a wildflower field. I want to climb mountains and write sonnets and compose music for you, Jane, when you let me look at you like this. Let me do something else,” he says into my ear, the power of his words making me shiver. “Let me touch you in ways that don’t involve being nice at all.”
