Blood Rubies

by McDowell, Michael

  Her dreams during this difficult period only increased in frequency and intensity; and although they were pleasant or at least innocent dreams in themselves, Katherine was disturbed by them. She would dream of herself transformed, and with each succeeding night she seemed to become prettier—prettier still than even the most popular and admired of her classmates. Mark Robbins had found a space in those dreams as well. He would walk quickly up behind her, then run to catch up with her when she increased her pace, but he never reached her—and she could never hear what it was that he was saying to her.

  When he came to Katherine at night, he appeared bare chested and damp with sweat. She’d wake with a start, her own face glistening with perspiration in the pale morning light. She’d turn on her side and fix her stare on the crucifix above her bed until her eyes grew heavy again.

  Mark Robbins had given his senior students the option of writing a ten-page paper instead of taking the final examination, and Katherine, knowing that she would panic when confronted with that mimeographed page of questions, had asked her teacher if he could think of a topic that would suit her. He suggested that she read some of Emily Dickinson’s poetry, perhaps with an eye toward writing about the poet’s unorthodox views of heaven and hell.

  The topic exactly suited Katherine, and, with a little help from Mark Robbins, she researched the paper, studied the poems until she knew many of them by heart, and finished the assignment two days before it was due. Yet, on the last day of class, she told Mark Robbins that she still needed to copy it out in her best hand—Katherine felt vaguely that there was something religiously offensive about typewriters—and asked if, possibly, she could deliver it to him that next day, Saturday.

  He agreed and gave her his address. Katherine recognized the name of the street and knew it to be just over the Somerville line, in Cambridge.

  That Saturday Katherine rose early, bathed slowly, and dressed in the clothes that she normally set aside for mass on Sundays—a white silk blouse with off-white stitching on the collar, a black skirt, and a black leather belt. She placed her oxfords in the closet and put on her loafers. She had purchased a pair of sheer hose at the discount center in Lechmere and wore these also; a girl at school had told her that hosiery lent flattering sophistication to any outfit. Viewing herself critically in the full-length mirror in the bathroom, she was satisfied, but then, as a final touch, fixed a length of blue ribbon in her hair. She took the manila envelope containing her term paper and left the house.

  Although she could have walked the distance to the street on which Mark Robbins lived, Katherine waited for the bus. It was a warm morning, and she did not want to risk soiling her blouse with perspiration. As the bus rattled through the dusty streets of Somerville, she folded her hands gently over the manila envelope and stared out the window. She envisioned herself sitting in Mark Robbins’s living room, conversing with him casually, as would never have been possible at school, with one happy subject lapsing gracefully into another. He would ask her to assist him in grading papers or recording scores in his book. They would work for a while, side by side on the couch, stopping to put questions to one another about the papers or the exams, and then they’d break for lunch. Something soft and without words would be playing on the stereo. After lunch they’d resume their work, but in a manner that was even more relaxed than before. Mark would tell her this and that thing about his personal life—things unimportant in themselves and not really secrets, but things, nevertheless, that he had revealed to no one else at ImCon.

  On the bus, Katherine started nervously when she realized that the object of her little waking dreams was now her male teacher, and no longer the Slaves of the Immaculate Conception. But then she told herself that what she was really interested in was teaching; what she really wanted was to see how teachers—any teachers, really—felt about their classes and their students and academics in general. From Mark Robbins, she told herself comfortably, she would find out what it was all like.

  Mark Robbins lived in a spacious Victorian duplex painted a shade of yellow that would have been much too cheerful for Somerville. Katherine walked slowly up the walk, taking care to appear graceful in case Mark was watching for her out the window. On the nameplate beside the door that led up to the second floor was a piece of ripped notepaper with “Robbins” written in neat block letters. Katherine pushed the buzzer, and only a moment later heard footsteps descending the stairs. She tried to peer in, but the lace curtains obscured her view.

  The door was unlocked and pulled open by a young woman with long dark hair and large dark eyes. “Yes?” she asked pleasantly.

  She was dressed in a red Chinese print robe, its black sash gathered to one side and tied in a loose knot. The toes of her shiny black slippers showed beneath the wide ornamental hem.

  Katherine wanted to flee across the shaded veranda, but found that she could not move beneath the young woman’s polite but curious stare. Sister Mary Claire had told Katherine that Mark Robbins was not a married man.

  “May I help you?”

  “Eden, who’s there?” It was Mark’s voice, issuing from the top of the stairs. Katherine saw his head come suddenly into view as he leaned over the railing. “Who in the hell—oh, Katherine . . . Bring her on up, Eden. A student of mine.”

  The woman smiled warmly and stepped aside to admit her, but Katherine didn’t move. “Don’t be shy . . . what was your name again?”

  Katherine coughed and told her. This woman, Katherine was horrified to think, was not Mark Robbins’s wife, and yet was so comfortable with her unlawful position in his household that she would answer the door even in her robe. Such an easy acceptance of a blatantly sinful situation astounded Katherine.

  “I’m Eden,” said the woman, “a friend of Mark’s,” and then waved toward the stairs. Katherine, a little dazed, passed inside. Eden relatched the door, gathered up the hem of her robe with one hand, and quickly followed Katherine up. As Eden showed her across the landing and into the living room, Katherine caught the faint scent of gardenia.

  Mark, wearing a blue velour bathrobe, was sitting in an overstuffed wingback chair, drying his hair with a thick red towel. Eden indicated a chair on the opposite side of the hearth from Mark, but Katherine sat on the sofa across the room. Beyond the wingback, through opened French doors, Katherine could see the bedroom. What she imagined to be a waterbed was brightly illuminated by shafts of green-filtered sunlight through the large bedroom windows. The rust-and-tan striped sheets had been thrown back, and one pillow had fallen off onto the floor. A pile of women’s clothing was strewn over a straight-backed chair. Katherine was scandalized and hot with embarrassment.

  “Coffee?” offered Eden.

  “Please,” said Mark. “Katherine?”

  She nodded, and Eden disappeared through the dining room and into the kitchen.

  “Instant all right, Katherine?” she called back.

  Katherine nodded silently.

  Mark laughed. “Instant’s fine!” he shouted. He rumpled the towel once more through his hair and then dropped it on the floor beside the chair.

  “I brought the paper,” Katherine exclaimed suddenly, and looked down at the manila envelope in her hands. “It’s all done, and . . . ah . . .”

  “And I’m sure it’s fine,” said Mark Robbins.

  She placed the envelope next to her on the sofa, and was embarrassed to see that the moisture from her sweating palms had glued down the flap. She flipped the envelope over, hoping that from across the room Mark Robbins couldn’t tell how nervous she was.

  “I hope you didn’t have far to come this morning?” he said.

  “No,” said Katherine.

  Mark smiled. Then, after a few moments had passed, he asked, “You live near ImCon?”

  “Yes,” said Katherine, and folded her fingers into themselves.

 
Eden returned with a tray holding three mugs, a dish of sugar, and a small carton of half-and-half. She set this on the coffee table before Katherine, and then seated herself cross-legged on the floor between the table and Mark. She tossed her long hair back off one shoulder and then handed Mark a mug of steaming black coffee.

  “Black or with cream and sugar?” she asked Katherine.

  Katherine nodded.

  Eden glanced at Mark, and he said, “I think Katherine’s the cream-and-sugar type. Am I right?”

  “Yes,” Katherine said. “No, I don’t drink coffee. Thanks anyway,” she murmured.

  Eden smiled and shrugged. She fixed her own coffee, took the mug in both hands, and sat back.

  “So, you’re Katherine Dolan,” Eden said. “Mark mentioned you, but he didn’t tell me you were such a pretty girl. He did say you were shy.”

  Even with her black hair falling uncombed about her shoulders, with no makeup, and wearing nothing but the Chinese robe and slippers, this woman was beautiful, Katherine thought. Involuntarily she looked down at her white blouse and black skirt and then saw with horror that there was a run in her new hose. She crossed her legs and held her ankles tight together.

  “Why don’t I look over your paper while you’re here, Katherine?”

  Before she could protest, Eden had snatched up the paper from the couch and handed it over to Mark. He pried open the gummed flap and began reading immediately.

  Eden asked Katherine where she lived, how she filled her spare time, what she planned to do after graduation. Katherine answered tersely when she couldn’t simply shrug her shoulders. As she watched Mark turn the pages of the paper, she began to fear that he would never get to the end and she would never be able to leave.

  At last the paper was pronounced acceptable, and Mark said she had received a B-plus. Katherine thanked him, mumbled her good-bye, shook hands clumsily and damply with Eden, and nearly slipped on the stairs in her haste to get away.

  She was shaken by her first brush with blatant concupiscence. Mark Robbins’s and Eden’s complete ease in their relationship disturbed her more than the relationship itself; they evidently had felt no embarrassment that she had come in upon them in their robes. They hadn’t closed the door into the bedroom; Eden hadn’t made some feeble excuse for her being at Mark’s apartment so early in the morning; she hadn’t tried to pretend that she didn’t know where anything was in the kitchen. They had, in short, expected her to accept them just as they were.

  If she had run forward only a few feet, she might have caught the bus that would take her to Medford Street again, but Katherine deliberately allowed it to go by. She walked home by the longest route she knew, clenching and unclenching her fists all the way.

  4

  When Katherine returned home that Saturday, she was limp and exhausted and wanted only to lie down in the cool darkness of her room and sleep. Her mother had just left for her regular Saturday afternoon bingo with the Daughters of the Sacred Heart. In the bathroom Katherine splashed water on her face and patted the cloth hastily over her cheeks and forehead. For a long moment she stared at her reflection in the mirror: she appeared haggard and stupid. Angrily, she yanked the blue ribbon from her hair and flung it into the toilet. She pulled the chain with such force she thought it would snap free.

  Katherine went into the kitchen. Through the back door she saw her father lounging in the large green armchair in the corner of the screened porch. His thick fingers were wrapped firmly about a beer can and he stared stuporously at the television resting on a small table just before him. On fine weekends from May through September he invariably sat out on this porch, drinking beer and watching whatever sports happened to be on. He laughingly referred to this as his “out-of-doors exercising.” He rose only for trips to the bathroom or the refrigerator.

  As quietly as possible, Katherine filled a glass with water from the tap. She turned to go back to her room, but stopped short. Her father stood at the screen door watching her, a grin playing uncertainly about his mouth. The girl blurted a hasty greeting as he pulled open the door and came into the room. He stumbled as he stepped in front of her, blocking her exit to the dining room.

  As she tried to step around him, he grabbed her chin, turning her face into the light. “Your eyes are red,” he said. “You been crying?”

  Katherine shook her head no.

  James Dolan ran his thumb across her lips. He let her go and scratched his chest. “You been crying. Some boy did that to you, didn’t he? Some boy.” His mouth expanded to a full grin. He kept his eyes on her and did not allow her to look away. “Who was that boy, Kathy? Come on, tell me.”

  “Daddy, please,” Katherine said, and again tried to step around him. “I don’t feel good and I want to lie down.”

  “You tell me his name, and you tell me what he did to make . . .” James Dolan could not keep down a belch that rose in his throat. “Nobody can do that to my little girl. You just tell me his name and I’ll go right over there and beat his ass.”

  Katherine’s hand trembled and the water in the glass sloshed over the rim, moistening her hand. She bit her lower lip to keep the tears from rising again. For one brief moment she wanted to shout out Mark Robbins’s name, to tell her father how the man had humiliated her, brought her in contact with his whore, but she only cried: “Daddy, nobody did anything to me! I just don’t feel good!”

  Katherine’s sudden anger surprised James Dolan, and he swayed back. She took the moment to dodge past him, but as she did so, he grabbed her arm. The water she carried spilled down the front of her blouse. The thin material clung to her brassiere, now plainly visible beneath. The cold liquid was fire on her breast. James Dolan’s hand tightened about her elbow.

  “Let me go, Daddy!” Katherine hissed in shame and terror. Her father stared bleary-eyed at the curve of her breasts.

  “Let me go!” Katherine shouted, her eyes wide with fright.

  “Your mama won’t be back before five, honey,” he said huskily, his face close to hers. The fumes of his alcoholic breath came hot against her cheek. James Dolan jerked forward, the hardness in his groin pressing firmly against her hip. “She ain’t really your ma, you know, just like I ain’t really your daddy. I ain’t—”

  Katherine wrenched her arm free with such force that her father slipped backward. The glass fell from her hand and smashed on the linoleum about his feet. Katherine ran through the apartment and did not stop until she had entered her room, at the end of the hall. She slammed the door, fell heavily back against it, and covered her face in shame. Her breath came in labored gasps. She was suddenly thrust forward as the door flew violently open and her father came into the room. He shut the door and, with the key clutched in his hand, secured the latch. He turned to Katherine.

  She backed against the closed window, rattling the lowered shade. The late afternoon sun against the shade filled the room with ochre light.

  “Leave me alone, Daddy,” Katherine said evenly. “Please, leave me alone.”

  James Dolan said nothing, but his moist eyes were bright with desire. Katherine clasped her arms across her breasts as he moved to within a few inches of her.

  His stale breath seemed to fill the small room, and Katherine turned her face away from him and shivered despite the stifling closeness. “Get out. I’ll scream,” she whispered. “Mrs. Shea is upstairs. I saw her when I—”

  “I saw her go out half an hour ago, Kathy. If you yell, you’ll have to yell loud enough to bring the nuns. Go on, yell—bring in the nuns. You want the sisters coming in this house and seeing how you show yourself off to your father? You’d be ashamed of yourself, Kathy. D’you ever tell the nuns about how you turn your daddy on, just walking around the house?”

  Katherine realized that she was trapped. An expression of stony resignation came over her face. She did not resist when James
Dolan pushed her arms tight to her sides and drew her close against his chest.

  “Don’t, please . . .” she whispered, but her voice was expressionless.

  “You want me to, Kathy,” he whispered. “You know you want me to. Not like I was your real father.”

  His fingers fumbled at the buttons of her blouse, but he was impatient and clumsy and could not undo them. He caught the material in his fist and ripped it apart. Katherine gasped and tried to shove him away. James Dolan wrestled her the few steps to the bed and toppled her onto it. He came down upon her with such force that her breath escaped in one heaving blast, and she could not catch it again. A sharp ache pulsed in her chest, and Katherine writhed to free herself. Her father clamped his wet mouth over hers, and she gagged as his tongue probed within her. He tore off her brassiere and yanked at her panties until they were stretched about her thighs. Dolan frantically undid his pants, leaned back and roughly threw her legs up. He dropped forward against them and entered her body in one thrusting motion. Katherine groaned uncontrollably and shut her eyes tight.

  “You been wanting it again, you know you have, big girl like you, it’s been so long, Kathy, been so long . . .” He grunted his litany over and over as he drove her into the mattress. “No boy can fuck you like this, like my little girl wants to get fucked, right through the fucking floor, Kathy . . .”