“You want all of them?” The young clerk looked surprised as she nodded. She was almost breathless. But her inhaler was her constant friend now.
“Do you have more?” she said hoarsely to him. And he nodded.
“Sure. In the back. You want them too?”
“Yes.” She bought fifty copies of Thrill, and the groceries she needed for Matt, and ran to her car, as though she had just bought the only copies in existence and she was going to hide them. And as she drove home, crying behind the wheel, she realized how stupid she had been. You couldn't buy them all up. It was like emptying the ocean with a teacup.
She ran into the house as soon as she stopped the car, but Charles was sitting in the kitchen looking stunned, holding a copy of the tabloid in his hands. His chief aide had just seen it and brought it to him. They had never warned them. The aide saw the look on Grace's face, and left immediately, and Charles looked at her with real shock for the first time. She had never seen him look as betrayed or as weary, and seeing him that way almost killed her.
“What is this, Grace?”
“I don't know.” She was crying as she sat down next to him, shaking. “I don't know …”
“It can't be you.” But it looked like her. You could see her face. Even though her eyes were closed, she was completely recognizable. And then suddenly, she knew … he must have taken off her clothes … he must have taken them all off. … The only thing she was wearing was a black ribbon around her neck. He must have put it on her, for sex appeal, while she was sleeping. The credit for the photograph said Marcus Anders. She went even paler than she was when she first saw it. And Charles had seen her look. He knew there was something to it. “Do you know who took this?”
She nodded, wishing that she could die for him. Wishing, for his sake, that she had never met him, or borne his children.
“What is this, Grace?” For the first time in sixteen years, his tone was icy. “When did you do this?”
“I don't know for sure that I did,” she said, choking on her own words as she sat down slowly at the kitchen table. “I … I went out with a photographer a few times in Chicago. I told you about him. He said he wanted to take pictures of me, and they wanted me to at the agency …” She faltered and he looked shocked.
“They wanted you to do porno? What kind of agency was this?”
“It was a modeling agency,” the life was going out of her. She couldn't fight this anymore, she couldn't defend herself forever. She would leave him if he wanted her to. She would do anything he wanted. “They wanted me to model, and he said he'd take some shots, like for a portfolio. We were friends. I trusted him, I liked him. He was the first man I'd ever gone out with. I was twenty-one years old. I had no experience. My roommates hated him, they were a lot smarter than I was. He took me to his studio, he played a lot of music, he poured me some wine … and he drugged me. I told you about it a long time ago.” But he no longer remembered. “I guess I must have passed out. I was completely out of it, and I think he took pictures of me when I was asleep, but I was wearing a man's shirt, it was no worse than that. I never took my clothes off.”
“How do you know that for sure?”
She looked at him honestly. She had never lied to him, and she didn't intend to start now. “I don't. I don't know anything. I thought he had raped me, but he hadn't. My roommate took me to a doctor and she said nothing had happened. I tried to get the negatives from him, and he wouldn't give them to me. My roommates finally said I should just forget it. He needed a release to use them, if I was recognizable, and if I wasn't, who cared anyway. I would have liked to get them back, but I knew I couldn't. At one point, he tried to make it sound like I'd signed a release, but then he gave me the impression that I hadn't. I don't see how I could have anyway. I was so stoned from what he gave me, I could barely see when I left.
“He showed the pictures to the head of the agency afterwards, and the head of the agency made a pass at me. He said the shots were pretty hot, but he said that I had a shirt on, so I figured nothing really terrible had happened. I never saw the pictures. I never saw him again. I never thought we'd be in this position, that I'd be married to someone important and we'd be vulnerable.” Now he could do anything he wanted. And they looked terrible. They looked like real porno. All she was wearing was a black ribbon she'd never seen before tied at her throat. And as she stared at the photograph, she saw that she looked drugged. She looked completely out of it, to her own eyes. But to a stranger, intent on seeing something lewd, it was everything they could have wanted. She couldn't believe anyone could do something like that. He had destroyed her life with a single picture. She just sat there, looking at Charles, her whole body sagging with grief as she saw the pain on his face. Killing her father in self-defense was bad enough, but how was he going to explain this to his constituents, the media, and their children?
“I don't know what to say. I can't believe you'd do such a thing.” He was overwhelmed, and his chin was quivering with unshed tears. He couldn't even look at her as he turned away and cried. Nothing he could have done to her could have been worse. She would have preferred it if he had hit her.
“I didn't do it, Charles,” she said weakly, crying too. She knew for a certainty that their marriage had just ended over Marcus's pictures. “I was drugged.”
“What a fool you were … what a fool …” She couldn't deny that. “And what a bastard he must have been to make you do that.” She nodded through her tears, unable to say anything in her own defense. And a moment later, Charles took the paper and went upstairs alone to their bedroom. She didn't follow him. She was beside herself, but she knew that on Monday, the day after Matt's party, she would have to leave him. She had to leave all of them. She couldn't keep putting them through this.
The photograph itself was on the news that night, and the story broke so big that every network and wire service in the country were calling. His aides were frantically trying to explain that it was probably all a mistake, the girl only looked like her, and no, Mrs. Mackenzie was not available for comment. But even worse, there was an interview with Marcus the next day. He had white hair, and he looked seedy in the interview, but he said with a lascivious smile that the photographs were indeed of Grace Mackenzie, and he had a signed release to prove it. He held it up for all to see and explained that she had posed for him in Chicago eighteen years before. “She was a real hot mama,” he said, smiling. And from the photographic evidence, she certainly looked it.
“Was she in great financial need at the time?” the interviewer asked, pretending to look for a sympathetic reason why she had done it.
“Not at all. She loved doing it,” he said, smiling. “Some women do.”
“Did she give you the release to use the photographs commercially?”
“Of course.” He looked insulted even to be asked. They flashed the photograph again, and then moved on to another topic, as Grace stared at the screen in unconcealed hatred. She had never given a release to him, and when Goldsmith the libel attorney called back at noon, she told him point-blank that she had signed no release to Marcus Anders.
“We'll see what we can do, Grace. But if you posed for that photograph, and gave him a release, there isn't a damn thing we can do.”
“I did not sign a release to him. I didn't sign anything.”
“Maybe he forged it. I'll do my best. But you can't unring a bell, Grace. They've seen it. It's out there. You can't take it back, or undo it. If you posed for it eighteen years ago, you've got to know it's out there, and it'll come back to haunt you.” And then, in a worried tone, “Are there any others? Do you know how many he took?”
“I have no idea.” She almost groaned as she said it.
“If the paper bought them from him in good faith, and he represented to them that he had a release, and presented one to them, then they're protected.”
“Why is everyone protected except me? Why am I always the guilty party?” It was like getting beaten again, and raped. S
he was a victim again. It was no different from getting raped night after night by her father. Only her father wasn't doing it anymore, everyone else was. And it wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that just because Charles was in politics they had a right to destroy her and their family. They had had sixteen wonderful years, and now it had all turned into a nightmare. It was like coming back full circle, and being put back in prison. She was helpless against the lies. The truth meant nothing. Everything she'd done, everything she'd lived, everything she'd built had been wasted.
And by that afternoon she'd seen a copy of the release, and there was no denying that she had signed it. The handwriting was shaky, and the forms a little loose, but even to her own eyes, she recognized the signature. She couldn't believe it. He had obviously made her do it when she was barely conscious.
Matthew's party was subdued, everyone had either heard about or seen the tabloids. All the parents who dropped their children off gave Grace strange looks, or at least she thought so. Charles was on hand to greet them too, but the two of them had barely spoken since the night before, and he had spent the night in their guest room. He needed time to think, and to absorb what had happened.
They had talked to the children about the photographs that morning. Matthew didn't really understand what they were about, but Abigail and Andrew did. Andrew looked agonized, and Abigail had burst into tears again. She couldn't believe all that her mother had put them through. How could she do it?
“How can you lecture us about the way we behave, about morality, and not sleeping with boys, when you did things like that? I suppose you were forced to do it, just like your father forced you? Who forced you this time, Mom?” Grace had lost control this time, and she had slapped Abigail across the face, and then apologized profusely. But she just couldn't take it anymore. She was tired of the lies, and the price they ail had paid.
“I never did that, Abigail. Not knowingly, at least. I was drugged and tricked by a photographer in Chicago when I was very young and stupid. But to the best of my knowledge, I never posed for that picture.”
“Yeah, sure.” But it was all more than Grace could take. She didn't discuss it with them any further. And half an hour later, Abigail left to spend the evening with a friend, and Andrew went out with his new girlfriend.
Matthew enjoyed his party anyway, and Grace cooked dinner for him afterwards. Abby called to say she was spending the night with her friend, and Grace didn't argue with her. And Andrew came in at nine, but didn't disturb them.
Charles was in the library working again, and Grace knew what she had to do. When Charles came into their bedroom to get some papers, he pretended not to be concerned, but he was startied to see her packing a suitcase.
“What's that all about?” Charles asked casually.
“I figure you've been through enough, and rightfully so,” she said quietly, with her back to him. She was packing two big suitcases and he was suddenly worried. He had been hard on her, but he had a right to be upset. Anyone would have been shocked. But he was willing to let her past die quietly behind them. He hadn't told her that yet, but he was slowly coming around. Some things were harder than others. He just needed some time to himself to absorb it. He thought that she'd understand that, but apparently, she didn't.
“Where is it you're going?” he asked quietly.
“I don't know. New York, I think.”
“To look for a job?” He smiled, but she didn't see him.
“Yeah, as a porno queen. I've got a great portfolio now.”
“Come on, Grace,” he moved closer to her, “don't be silly.”
“Silly?” She turned on him. “You think that's what this is? You think having stuff like that out is silly? You think it's silly to destroy your husband's career and get to the point that your children hate you?”
“They don't hate you. They don't understand. None of us does. It's hard to understand why anyone wants to hurt you.”
“They just do. They've done it all my life. I should be used to it by now. It's no big deal. And don't worry, without me, you should win the election.” She sounded hurt and angry and defeated.
“That's not as important to me as you are,” he said gently.
“Bullshit,” she said, sounding hard. But at that moment she hated herself for everything she'd done to him, for ever loving him, or thinking that she could leave the past behind her. She couldn't leave anything behind. It had all come with her, like clanking tin cans tied to her tail, and they reeked of all that was rotten.
Charles went back downstairs again, thinking that she needed to be alone, and they both spent a lonely night in their separate quarters.
She made breakfast for him and Andrew and Matt the next day, and Charles made a point of telling her again not to go anywhere. He was referring to the night before and the suitcase, but she pretended not to understand, in front of the boys. And then they all left. Charles had a lot of important meetings, and press fires to put out, and he never had time to call her till noon, and when he did there was no answer.
Grace was long gone by then. She had written to each of them the night before, sitting up in bed, crying over the words until her tears blurred her eyes and she had to start again and again, just to tell them how much she loved them and how sorry she was for all the pain that she had caused them. She told them each to take care of Dad, and be good to him. The hardest one to write was to Matt. He was still too young. He probably wouldn't understand why she had left him. She was doing it for them. She was the bait that had brought the sharks, now she had to get as far away from them as possible, so no one would hurt them. She was going to New York for a few days, just to catch her breath, and she left the letters for Charles to give them.
And after New York, she thought she'd go to L.A. She could find a job, until the baby came. She would give it to Charles then … or maybe he'd let her keep it. She was upset and confused and sobbing when she left. The housekeeper saw her go, and heard her wrenching sobs in the garage, but she was afraid to go to her and intrude. She knew what she was crying about or so she thought. She'd cried herself when she'd seen the tabloids.
But Grace didn't take the car. She had called a cab, and waited for it outside the house with her bags. The housekeeper saw the cab pull away, but she wasn't sure who was inside. She thought Grace was still in the garage, getting ready to do some errands before she picked up Matthew. In fact, she had called a friend to pick him up, and she had left a long, agonizing letter for Charles in their bedroom, with the ones for her children.
The cabdriver drove as fast as he could to Dulles Airport, chatting all the while. He was from Iran, and he told her how happy he was in the United States, and that his wife was having a baby. He talked incessantly and Grace didn't bother to listen to him. She felt sick when she saw that he had the picture of her on the cover of Thrill on the front seat of the cab, and he was looking over his shoulder to talk to her, when he ran right into another cab, and then was rear-ended hard, by two cars behind him. It took them more than half an hour to get unsnarled. The highway patrol came, no one appeared to be hurt, so all they had to do was exchange all their numbers, driver's licenses, and the names of their insurance carriers. To Grace, it seemed endless. But she had nowhere to go anyway. She was taking a commuter flight, and she could always catch the next one.
“You all right?” The driver looked worried. He was terrified that somebody would complain to his boss, but she promised she wouldn't. “Hey,” he said, pointing to Thrill as she felt panic rise in her throat, “you look like her!” He meant it as a compliment, but Grace didn't look pleased. “She's a pretty girl, huh? Pretty woman!” He gazed admiringly at the photograph that was supposed to be Grace but somehow didn't seem right whenever she looked at it, “she's married to a congressman,” he continued. “Lucky guy!” Was that how people looked at it, she wondered. Lucky guy? Too bad Charles didn't think so, but who could blame him?
He dropped her off at the airport, and she felt a little twinge in her neck
from when they'd been hit, and she felt a little stiff, but it was nothing major. She didn't want to make any trouble for him. And she just managed to catch her flight. It wasn't until after they landed in New York that she realized she was bleeding. But it wasn't too bad. If she could just get to the hotel and rest, she'd be fine. She'd had a few incidents like that with Matt and Andrew when she was pregnant, the doctor had told her to rest, and the bleeding had always stopped quickly.
She gave the cabdriver the address of the Carlyle Hotel on East Seventy-sixth Street and Madison. She had made the reservation from the plane. It was only half a dozen blocks from where she used to live, and she liked it. She had stayed there once with Charles, and she had happy memories there. She had happy memories everywhere with him. Until June, their life had been idyllic.
She checked in at the desk. They were expecting her, and she had registered under the name of Grace Adams. They gave her a small room filled with rose-covered chintz, and the bellboy put down her two bags. She tipped him, and he left, and no one had said how remarkable her resemblance was to the porno queen in the tabloids.
She wondered as she lay down on the bed if Charles had come home by then and found her letter. She knew she wouldn't call. It was better to leave like this, if she called and talked to them at all, especially Charles, or Matt, she knew she couldn't do it.
She was exhausted as she lay on the bed thinking of them, she felt drained and utterly worn out, and her neck still hurt, and she had little nagging cramps low in her abdomen and in her back. She knew it was nothing. She didn't have the strength to go to the bathroom. She just lay there, feeling weak and sad, and slowly the room began to spin around, and eventually she drifted off into the blackness.
She woke again at four a.m., and by this time the cramps she'd felt earlier were really bad. She rolled over, and moaned in pain. She could hardly stand them. She lay there curled up for a long time, and then she looked down at the bed underneath her. It was soaked with blood and so were her slacks. She knew she had to do something soon, before she passed out again. But standing up was so painful, she almost fainted. She grabbed her handbag, and crawled to the door, pulling the raincoat she'd brought tight around her. She staggered out into the hall, and rang for the elevator. She rode downstairs huddled over, but the elevator operators said nothing.
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