The Rise and Falling Out of Saint Leslie of Security

by Andrew Tisbert

  Beyond the bay the lake is divided by strands of dark blue, gray, and touches of a dull green. Bumps have raised up along Terry's arms and thighs, and she shudders, thrusting her wet hair out of her face to rest uncomfortably on her neck and shoulders. She watches her father on the bank, in a T-shirt and red trunks, looking for flat stones to whiz across the water, bouncing on the waves. He had been promising to take her swimming for four days. Now they are finally here, and even though she's cold she doesn't want it to be over. Just Terry and her daddy, laughing and splashing in the water

  But he's been giving her that look, too. The look she's seen him give women in short dresses on the street in downtown Albany. It makes her nervous and she doesn't know why—after all, she wants his attention, doesn't she? She sits on the rock, hoping the sun will shift enough in the clouds to heat her up again.

  Just as it does and she has to squint against the brightness, her father hollers to her. “Are you about ready to go?” The sun is hot against her face and body, but her skin feels as if it has shrunk on her frame and she shudders again, but this time it's pleasant.

  "Just a little longer,” she says. She watches his face change: His expression goes blank and he stares off into the woods. She knows he's getting frustrated with her, but instead of coming back to shore she slides off the rock toward deeper water. Stones are sharp and slippery against the soles of her feet as she stands there trying to keep her balance, and waves slap her knees. Her arms fly up and flail the air as she wades away from her father. She jumps when a particularly pointed stone stabs the bottom of her left foot. Her right foot slips on a flat rock and she falls forward into the water, hand steadying her on the bottom. She pushes with her legs and floats to deeper water where she can beat the waves with her desperate, gasping dog paddle.

  She hears her father yell over the splashing in her ears. “Terry, you need to come back now!” She can't seem to make herself stop swimming just yet and he hollers the same order a second time.

  "Just a ... minute, Dad,” she says, swallowing a mouthful of fishy-smelling foam. She stops thrashing the water and lets her legs down. Her toes touch bottom, her body submerged to her shoulders. She hops up and down, motion slowed down by the buoyancy of the lake, and spins to face the shore. Her father is standing there, unmoving, his mouth a tight straight line.

  He's just staring at her, the slightest twitch at the corner of one eye. She's scared of him when he looks like this, and now she doesn't want to come to the shore for an entirely different reason. She stops bouncing and says, “Okay Dad, I'm coming,” but she doesn't move forward. He just glares at her—he looks deep in thought, as if distracted by a complex philosophical puzzle that if solved would change the world.

  "I'm coming, Dad. I'm coming.” She starts pushing through the water toward him, but slowly—giving him time to maybe calm down a bit. He doesn't move as the water gets lower and lower against her body, until she's hobbling along the stones with the breaking waves pushing at her ankles. She feels water rolling down her thighs in rivulets from the bottom of her one-piece swimsuit. It feels like she has peed herself for a second.

  "I'm coming Dad, I'm coming.” She's about ten feet from him when he moves. He bounds forward and clamps her arm with one bony hand. He shakes her once then lets go roughly, and Terry slips and falls back into the water with a small splash. She rakes her back and one forearm in the gravel under the water, and a stinging pain erupts. She knows better than to cry, but she can feel the muscles of her face contorting no matter how hard she tries to fight it. She sobs once, then again, but she forces the sound back down inside her.

  "What is the matter with you?” he cries. “Why do you make me do that? You're just like your mother. But she couldn't hack it, could she? Get up! Get up!"

  She pushes herself up, flinching, her knees crush into gravel and sand. Her hands dart up, fingers splayed out, to cover her face. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

  "I said ‘Get up!'” He grasps her arm again. Her eyes clamp shut; when they open again she's on her feet. He raises a palm in the air to spank her and she thrusts her hands behind her so that the blow lands on her wrist as well as her buttocks and the force sends her lurching forward. Then, abruptly, her father grows silent, and he strides to where their towels are laid out in a patch of sun. He slowly picks one up and turns again to Terry. She still stands there, forcing down her sobs. Breaths come in sharp, inexorable gasps, almost like having the hiccups. When he looks at her now, his gaze has softened. She can begin to relax.

  "Come here, Terry. Let me dry you off."

  "Okay, Dad. I'm sorry,” she says, and hobbles to him. He's affectionate now. He begins drying her by playfully tousling her head, and under the towel she grins. Then he's rubbing her shoulders, her bare back, the wet fabric on her chest. She sways from the pressure of his hands. His touch is reassuring—he's forgiven her and she enjoys the feel of his strong hands on her. Then his movements slow down at her belly, her hips, her bottom. A hand brings one side of the towel around the inside of her right thigh, then up slightly to press her crotch. It isn't the first time he has touched her there, so it doesn't surprise her. But it always makes her feel vaguely anxious—she wants him to finish this portion of the job as quickly as he can.

  This time his hand lingers there, almost stops completely. She tries to squirm from his touch without being obvious about it and he rubs more firmly. She looks up at his face. His gaze on her is somehow cold, but he starts grinning on one side of his mouth and he tells her to stop dancing around. She can feel the strength in his arms—tendons and stringy muscle tighten against her and she stops moving. “That's right,” he says. “We've got to bring you up right. Your Daddy is the one in charge here, right?"

  "Yes, Daddy,” she says, and stands still as he continues to dry her off. One hand steadies her between her legs as he hunkers down to dry off her thighs, calves, shins. His breathing has changed, it sounds like the slow ripping thrusts of a hand saw. She doesn't move. She's afraid to speak.

  When he's finished and he straightens in front of her his expression has changed once more. He looks down at her almost warily. And she's confused when she notices his trembling. “What are you trying to do to me?” he whispers. “You little whore.” She doesn't know what the word means. His chest is heaving and he just stands there glaring at her, occasionally blinking and shaking his head. And then, inexplicably, he is apologizing to her! “I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” over and over. He slips to his knees in front of her and puts his arms around her. “I'm trying so hard. Please forgive me, God. Pray with me Terry. Pray with me right now!"

  He pulls her down to her knees too and they hold each other. “Lord, please forgive my daughter. She does not know what she is doing. Like Lot's harlot daughters who are filled with a demon spirit of lust, and seduce him in his tent, she is ultimately good deep inside. Please forgive her for driving her mother away, and for possessing the spirit of disobedience. I am trying to be lenient in my discipline. I—"

  Terry realizes her father has begun to weep and she finds herself stroking his cheek. “It's all right Daddy. Please don't cry. It's all right. I'm sorry.” But even while drowning in her overwhelming frantic sense of guilt, she's begun to see there is something wrong with her father's looks, his caresses, and his rages. Perhaps she's had reason to feel uncomfortable those other, earlier times. But it was her Daddy. She liked it when he touched her. Cinnamon and musk.

  She can remember clearly now the first time he fucks her, and then punishes her by throwing her in the closet, by a fist-full of hair. She can remember hearing the lock click in the dark and kicking the walls, digging at the crack of light along the bottom of the door. His endless lecturing through the door. “Do you know why your nigger mother left, Terry? Do you? Because she was a no-good slut, a Godless whore. Just like my mother, the woman who brought me up, I mean. She pushed me through her cunt for money; did you know that? Everyone lets you down, little girl. Don't think you're so special in that resp
ect. And don't think for a second I don't know what you're thinking about me right now. How you want to kill me—maybe cut off your Daddy's balls and stuff them down his throat, huh? Because I've thought things a thousand times worse. My real mother fucking cloned me for God's sake.

  "Cloned me and then threw me to the wolves when she didn't need me, and my brother was groomed to be President of the United States, while I was stuck here in fucking Vermont with nothing. Nothing! But whatever you're thinking will be forgiven by the grace of God, Terry. Because we're family, and I'm not giving up on you. We're better than my mother and my brother and my step-parents. We take care of our family, no matter how hard it is. That's what's most important, Terry. You'll see. I'll never let you go. You'll thank me in the end."

  She remembers it all. Getting pregnant. He beat her head against the hardwood floor when she tried to make him stop. And when her stomach began to bulge she made herself fall down the stairs. She remembers flailing her fists into the swollen curve of belly. Ramming into railings, the kitchen counter, anything that would make it go away. She remembers getting locked up in the dark while she throbs and convulses in the throes of the miscarriage. The loss of control she feels when her belly contracts, cramps. The hot gush as she thrashes on the floor in her own fluids. The sudden explosion of cloying smells in her nostrils. And then the mortal, horrible guilt. She'd killed her baby. She'd beaten it to death. She was a monster.

  She remembers her father's rages, piercing pains, sweaty terror. And she remembers her guardian angel, Tommy, who appears one day to make things a bit more bearable. But not to deliver her, no. To watch. And sometimes to touch. Remember honey, I'm your friend, but it's a secret. I don't exist, your daddy shouldn't know. He'll punish you even more. She remembers her father growing to suspect his presence, calling him his ‘shadow'.

  Even in her dreams Leslie longs for the vertiginous assistance of the head mem. The soft sheet over slumbering memory. The steady rising tide of forgetfulness.

  * * * *

  Consciousness returned to her in fragments. She must have awakened several times, only to descend back into a confused dull sleep. She experienced a blurred sense of blood dripping down her forehead, two men in masks and wrinkled scrubs staring down at her, outlined in blinding light.

  'The organic tissue has pretty well fused in,' one of them said, 'but I think the feed receptor hardware can be removed without too much problem.' Then light and awareness were sponged up into darkness. She had a disjointed sense of conversation around her bed.

  'She'll be fine. Just let her rest.... Yes, maybe a little dazed for a while.'

  A voice she recognized dimly asked if she'd be able to remember her past.

  'Hard to tell. But with the mess put inside her head it would be surprising if she could.'

  Then light again, and she snapped up off her back. Everett, her father, was standing over her. She wanted to scream, but silence was like a dense pressure in the air, making it almost impossible to breathe. Then the light and everything around her went amber and grainy. Everything blurred and he was gone. She writhed on the bed, tangling in the wet sheets. Roger was sitting on the mattress beside her. He grasped her hand and she fell asleep.

  When she finally woke, Roger was staring at the wall from a chair in a corner of the room. There were no windows, just one lamp on a night stand on the other side of the bed. Beyond that the door was closed. Beside the door was a small dresser on which her clothes were neatly folded. It was hot and she kicked off the sheet. She was wearing something like a hospital gown. “Where are we?"

  Roger stood and approached the bed. He looked tired, his face covered with the usual stubble. “Hey there,” he said and she sat up. “We're in the Atheist cell. It's all underground, did you know that? You've been out of it for a night and a day and a night. So—good morning, I guess."

  Leslie's head ached. She cautiously touched the right side of her head just behind and above the temple. A tiny patch of the hair had been shaved away and there was a gauze bandage taped in place.

  "Yeah, it's gone, or rather what part of it needed to go. They said you couldn't be tracked anymore. Or programmed, or controlled for that matter."

  "I don't really feel different,” she said. “I mean in my head."

  Even as she said it, she realized it wasn't exactly true. She did feel somehow different ... more alone. There was a silence in her head. She reached for the sensation of motion she was so accustomed to, in the way a tongue probed for a missing tooth. But the essential forms of her thoughts were the same—that's what surprised her. She still knew things that had to be part of her past programming sessions. She'd been so afraid she would lose all this knowledge, all the critical faculties the mem provided. That she would go dumb like Gun, as its power waned.

  "I think that's what the doctors expected.” Roger sat on the edge of the bed beside her. “I don't understand it. I mean they were talking about neural pathways that tended to remain once they'd been established.... “He trailed off. “They were worried about the seizure you had, though."

  She remembered Tommy Russell's forearm arcing through the sunlight, splashing mud when it hit the path, and immediately felt a pulse of panic.

  "My baby,” she said. “What did you do with it? Where's my baby?"

  Roger's gaze dropped, then rose again to Leslie's. “I still have it. Don't worry. It's on ice, in my room."

  "I want to see it."

  "What?"

  "I want to see it, Roger. Bring it to me."

  "Leslie, I don't think ... do you think it's a good idea?"

  "I just want to make sure it's okay. Just for a second. Please.” She realized she clutched his hairy wrist and let him go. Roger stared at the foot of the bed for a minute, started to say something, then rose and left the room.

  After a few minutes he returned with a small white Styrofoam cooler. He set it on the bed. He stood there looking at it. “Leslie, this is nuts."

  "I just need to...” she pushed the cover off, “...check it."

  He'd cleaned up what originally must have been a mess. Now the fetus was in a plastic baggy, half submerged in crushed ice. “The ice is melting,” she said. “You need to keep fresh ice in there."

  "I know, I know."

  She reached in and nudged the baggy with her finger. It wasn't any bigger than the palm of her hand. The sac of its head lolled against tiny paws when she touched it. It didn't look human, really. It was ill-formed, a little monster. “What's been going on since I've been out of it?"

  As she spoke, Leslie could tell Roger was upset without looking away from the fetus. She didn't care. “What's been happening?"

  "Actually, a lot. They've been helping us out, Leslie. This man Everett, he's been great. He set up our whole route so far. They all want to meet with us sometime today if you're up to it."

  Leslie nodded. She carefully shook the baggy into the ice.

  Yes, of course. It's time to learn what the Sons of Man think I owe them for all their help.

  "I could use some more rest, I think. Maybe after lunch.” She put the cover back on the cooler. Roger picked it up.

  "I'll let them know,” he said. With the cooler under one arm he leaned forward and rubbed his knuckles against Leslie's shoulder. “Are you okay?” She didn't move as he tried to kiss her. It landed prickly and moist on the edge of her upper lip. Off target and out of place.

  Leslie tried to stand up after Roger had left. Her legs were weak and she had cramps clenching like fists in her abdomen. Still, she vowed to herself she'd find the strength to deal with Everett.

  * * * *

  The group in the conference room reminded Leslie of a painting of the Last Supper she'd seen in the White House lobby. Seven men sat around the table and grinned with a smug sense of their own enlightenment. With the exception of the older bald man at the head of the table, Roger beside Leslie, and Everett, who sat motionless directly across from her, all the men sported full beards. At which, they tugge
d and twirled, as they made idle conversation with one another. Leslie wasn't impressed.

  The bald man scratched at his belly, then rapped a knuckle on the table. “All right, everybody. Let's get started.” He turned to Leslie and smiled. “It's good to finally meet you, Leslie. My name is Boris. I'm the leader of this cell. And I welcome you to the United Sons of Adam. We wanted to meet with you and Roger to tell you a little bit about ourselves, and figure out how we can further help you. But first, are you feeling all right? We know you've been through one hell of an ordeal. Is there anything I can get you?"

  Leslie shook her head. “I'm all right. Just a little bit out of it still. The last few days are a blur.” She paused. “And I still can't remember my past, I mean before I came to Washington.” She forced herself not to look at Everett as she told them all the lie.

  Boris did a half-decent job of pretending concern. “Yes, our doctor felt that might end up being the case. He said perhaps over time..."

  "It doesn't matter,” Leslie said. “I'm used to it."

  She pretended to listen as the captains around the room introduced themselves to her. She kept Everett in her peripheral vision the whole time. He only moved once during the introductions—one hand, to flatten his orange and white hair back over his scalp. She knew it was her imagination, but he seemed surrounded by a halo of ominous light, a painful glow in her peripheral vision. She forced herself to ignore it and instead concentrate on his face, his proud but relaxed posture. He was much smaller than she remembered him. Without the powerful aura her imagination hung around him, he really wasn't impressive. Thin and freckled. Hollow, weary eyes. She realized she could probably kill him without too much effort.

  Boris was talking, and Leslie half listened while she thought about her predicament. She could tell Everett scrutinized her every move. She couldn't let him know she remembered him. She needed him at her mercy—vulnerable to her, the way she'd been for so many years to him.