Eating the Cheshire Cat

by Helen Ellis

  With both hands, Sarina slapped Stewart on the ass. Stewart scuttled to his feet and awkwardly stepped into his shorts. He froze as Sarina pressed her sticky stomach teasingly against him. She held him close, arranging her breasts so that he could see her nipples. She looked into his face, so serious, so intent. She let herself relax. Hang back. Look alive. This time she would be ready. Savor everything he said. When he told her that he loved her, she would not interrupt.

  “Ree,” he started.

  Sarina waited for the gush.

  “Tonight was a mistake.”

  “A mistake?” said Sarina.

  “A stupid mistake.”

  Stewart pushed her away and she lost her footing, toppling onto the couch like a preteen in stilettos. She sat there in shock as Stewart scrambled with his clothes. Zipping up his pants, he walked hurriedly from the living room. He shouted as if she might be in the backyard. “Let yourself out. I’m sorry. I gotta go.”

  Sarina was dumbfounded, but still willing to kill. “You know that she’ll smell me all over your clothes!”

  “No she won’t,” Stewart returned, as if to make his point final. “She won’t.” He shook his head. “She’s not like you.”

  With Stewart gone, Sarina didn’t feel so pretty. The orange juice had dried. Her pubic hair clotted as if it she’d romanced the Elmer’s Glue cow. Her makeup was a mess. Her lipstick rubbed off. She was cold. She was clammy. Belly empty. She stank.

  What was wrong with her? Where was the control she used to carry like cover-up? Her life had always been Win, Win, Win. Now it had dissolved to No, Not Again. Sarina was paranoid. Itchy. On guard. The windows betrayed her. Her mind pulled rabbits. It was as if there was some sort of conspiracy brewing. As if a spy was outside, writing feverishly on a birdseed bag. She could feel the eyes of judgment take aim through night goggles. Stalk her. Mock her. Memorize her every move.

  Well, this had to end.

  When there was no one left to trust, she could always trust herself.

  She deserved Stewart and she would go get him. According to playground rules it was fair and it was square. She saw him first. She tagged him eight years ago. He was covered in her cooties. He was hers. He was hers.

  Yet, she had to be careful in her approach. She couldn’t just show up and tell Bitty Jack she’d screwed him. She couldn’t sit in his house until he returned. No, in this case, it was definitely bad to be the bad guy. No matter what the circumstances, Stewart would never propose to the bad guy.

  So she would take him on the rebound. Make Miss Bitty Jack undesirable. Once Stewart left Bitty, Sarina would mend his broken heart. She would be there through the tough times. She would remind him of how good she could be to him when she wanted.

  What would it take to make Stewart break up with her? What was too distasteful for Stewart to forgive? When Sarina concentrated, the answer came easily. It was as if the trap was right under her nose. It was infallible. Divine. Told-you-so-ish. God-approved. Sarina would hit that freak where it hurt.

  Take Back the Night had been promoted for weeks. There were flyers posted on telephone poles, ads run for free in The Crimson White. The march would start in the Bryant-Denny Stadium parking lot and weave through campus to end on the Quad. It was an event dominated by double x-zomed GDIs. Unlike the Greek girls, God Damned Independents did not consider date rape to be part of a beer buzz. The National Organization for Women ran the show. The dormitory indies turned out in droves. Tuscaloosa’s twelve lesbians were sure to attend. Golden Key could be counted on. Even feminists would show their faces. To combat stereotypes, sororities marched. They had T-shirts made, colorized by house. There was a sign-up sheet on the Tri Delta bulletin board. Sarina’s name was the last on the list.

  The Tri Delta president was pleased to see Sarina involved. “It’s such a dirty subject. I’m surprised at you, Ree.”

  Sarina said women’s safety was important. “What happened to the days when we could walk alone at night? When we could jog and have a drink and, like, totally feel okay about it?”

  “Aren’t you the little speech-giver.”

  “Hey,” said Sarina, “I do what I can.”

  “I’m beginning to see that. If this goes well, you’re off probation.”

  In the Bryant-Denny parking lot, Sarina passed out candles to the Tri Delta marchers. She had been waiting for this night, biding her time, practicing exactly how the evening would go. She had refrained from calling Stewart and, with the certainty of converting Stewart’s taste from white trash to diamond girl, she had weaned herself from checking the answering machine. Did Joe call? Joe never called.

  The parking lot was getting louder. Women practicing their chants, passing fire wick-to-wick. There was every shape and size. Big bangs and buzz cuts. Unkempt armpits and electrolyzed eyebrows. There were no men allowed, except for one who was there for the photo opportunities. At the front of the crowd Big Al stood solemnly, his arms behind him, his head bowed in respect.

  Stewart was in there, and where Stewart was, Bitty Jack Carlson was surely close by.

  Somebody fired a starting pistol and everybody screamed. The march moved forward, stopping traffic with a loud, slow momentum. When the crowd reached the Quad, the leaders and Big Al climbed the Amelia Gayle Gorgas Library stairs where a microphone was already in place. Sarina steered the Tri Delts toward the front for better news coverage. Their picture would look great in the sorority newsletter.

  One woman after the next came out of the crowd. They spoke of rapes and muggings and run-ins and sex wars. One freshman was locked in the Brass Monkey bathroom. One woman accosted in two different dorms. There were scars shown and abortions admitted. Tears came like comets and then Sarina took the stage.

  The Tri Delta president looked shocked, but hushed her girls. The NOW leader asked Sarina’s name and introduced her, passing the mike.

  Sarina stayed silent, sucking in humid air. She scanned the crowd for the Chickasaw freak. She was easy to find. Ugly girl, three o’clock. The candle Bitty Jack held cast a glare across her glasses. She looked like a bug, her line of sight undeterminable. She might be staring straight at Sarina. She might be looking at Stewart one foot behind.

  “I was a victim,” Sarina said strong and clear, “but not the kind you’ve heard about tonight. What happened to me happened a long time ago, when I was twelve years old and completely defenseless. It was horrible.” She shut her eyes as if reliving the moment. “To be a child and taken advantage of by an adult, a grown man.”

  “What happened?” came a voice.

  “You can tell us,” encouraged NOW.

  “I can’t,” Sarina whispered making the microphone squeal. “I can’t,” she repeated a little louder than necessary. “I’ve been able to forget for so many years. But I can’t do that anymore. I don’t get to do that anymore. Every day,” she aimed her finger directly at Bitty Jack, “I have to see his goddamn daughter and know her father’s never paid!”

  The crowd gasped and Bitty Jack dropped her candle. She ran, her figure shrinking until all eyes lost her and turned back to center stage.

  Sarina false-fainted and two NOW girls caught her. They called for Big Al. “Help us get her off the stage.”

  Stewart came forward and took Sarina in his gray felt arms. She wrapped her hands around his neck and pressed her face into his giant ear. The elephant skin was so soft and comforting. It was like she was being carried in a purse or a pouch.

  Stewart lay her down in front of the library doors, twenty feet behind the mike stand, the cement columns making her efforts seem heroic. In the distance, Sarina heard the roar of the crowd for another confession. Stewart leaned over her, his Hulkish costume blocking everything out. Sarina tried to see Stewart through Big Al’s black mouth screen. She apologized for exposing his girlfriend for what she was.

  “You’re lying,” she could hear him. “You’re lying!”

  “No, it’s true!”

  “God, Ree, don’t you thi
nk I’d remember? You pulled the same crap when we were sixteen!”

  “No, this is different. It really happened. I swear.”

  “Bullshit!” said Stewart.

  “The other night wasn’t bullshit.” She grabbed his trunk with both hands. “Have you told her about that? Have you told her you fucked me?”

  “I fucked you all right.”

  “She’ll leave you.”

  “Let go!” Stewart jerked his head back. He put his front feet to his ears. He yanked and he yanked till he yanked his trunk free.

  “I’ll take you back,” said Sarina.

  But Stewart was gone. Jogging down the library steps. Elbowing his way in the direction that Bitty ran.

  Back at Tri Delta, the sisters were split.

  Some were behind Sarina one hundred percent. They had taken back their night. They had taken Sarina back to the house. In a way, each one wished that she could trade places. To be the one known for something. A survivor. A fittest.

  Others were pissed off, humiliated, waiting up. They had seen Sarina’s confession on the ten o’clock news. Bert Hicks had gone live and there she was, camera ready. She had shamed the Tri Deltas. She had aired her dirty laundry like soiled panties at a prison rodeo. Delta girls did not kiss and tell. They were never molested. They were not spectacles-in-waiting. People’s parents were calling. Alumni asking, How did this trash get past?

  And then, there were sisters who hadn’t even noticed. They were reliving Spring Break up in their rooms, trading peach schnapps for rum, comparing their hickies.

  Everyone else was in the front hall, waiting. Sarina was escorted through the house by the Tri Delta president. “Has my mom called?” she asked over questions and insults. “Am I back on probation?”

  The president didn’t answer. She put her hands on Sarina’s back and steered her through the pack of girls, some in Take Back the Night T-shirts, others in rollers and PJs, slippers and robes. Everyone clamoring to talk to Sarina. Everyone wanting a piece of her pie.

  It disturbed Sarina that things had not gone as planned. Stewart sucked. A school year of her life had been taken by Joe. She’d been out of the social circuit. Forgotten by college ring–bearing, upper-class men. So she had to throw herself back into the arena where sex sold and there were no returns. She had to start over. Become someone no man could refuse.

  There was one thing left.

  Sarina imagined herself on the Alabama football field. The AstroTurf had been shampooed and ninety thousand people had shown up to see her. On her scalp, she felt the weight of good rhinestones and 14 carat-plated gold. She was next year’s Homecoming Queen.

  Winning that title would prove her life theory right: that all was controllable with the proper gut wrench. As queen, Sarina would be back on top. Everyone’s favorite. The prime pedestal pusher. A few good men would be in that stadium. After the Homecoming game, she would pick one and start over.

  Nicole

  IN HER BATHROBE, Mrs. Summers paced furiously between her daughter and the sliding-glass doors. She held a rolled-up newspaper with Sarina pictured at Take Back the Night. Mrs. Summers seemed iffy. At a loss in her living room. She put her hands on her hips. She put her fists in the air. She opened her mouth and her mouth warped to Why.

  “Why?” she asked Sarina, who sat still on the sofa. “Why?” she asked the backyard as if the answer was out there, camped beneath two bed sheets and a bristle-less broom.

  The only one out there was Nicole Bernice Hicks. She was rooted like a weed on the confines of Deerlick. She sat in one of her many viewing spots. She adjusted her binoculars. She watched closely. She saw it all.

  For eighteen months and six days, Nicole had been watching Sarina. She followed her on dates. She followed her wherever she could. Nicole had been present for the sad seduction of Stewart, Sarina’s speech at the library, so many other things. There was always a window shade raised just high enough. Blinds never shut tightly. A porch light illuminating a hint or a dare.

  When Sarina was home, Nicole watched from the woods. She sat on the moss, her back against the tallest pine. After so much time, the roots had grown around her, made room, saved her place. Nicole was sure she would never be caught. No one ever climbed that tree or had a picnic in the shade at the edge of the woods.

  If they did, the rumor mill would have churned out fresh malarkey. The tree had Ree’s name on it. The last time she counted, Nicole had carved it ninety times.

  Through her binoculars, Nicole could see Sarina tucked within her mother’s arms. She was crying, crying, crying. She was faking, Nicole could tell. Never in her life had she seen Sarina lose it. Her lip was as stiff as upper lips could get. To get herself started, Sarina must have bit her tongue, imagined herself with no fingers, no nose. Whatever the tactic, Nicole was impressed. Sarina’s face was flushed with color. Her mouth trembled. Her breath came quickly. Every sentence, hijacked by coughs. Blue eyes, bloodshot. Puffy lips, pale. She was so beautiful this way. So luscious, wet with tears.

  Nicole wanted to rush the sliding-glass doors, break through the plate, and tackle Sarina. She’d tell her that she’d always been there. She’d never left. Hi, Ree! It’s me! Rolling across the carpet, Nicole would press down when on top. Glass would be everywhere. Shards net between them. Slivers on the floor. There’d be blood, blood, blood. Nicole could share her pent-up pain. The cut glass would keep cutting, embedding past their lines of flesh.

  Nicole knew better. She would not endanger, least not ruin, what she had.

  After all this time, Tuscaloosa had forgotten her. The reward posters had come down. Too old for milk cartons, Nicole’s photo had been filed. Police had put away their flash-lights and moved on to simpler cases. With the proper disguise, Nicole could blend into a crowd. She fell in with the trees. Quiet as a bee’s knees. Hers was now like any other face: eyes, nose, and chin. Hers was now a simple story often taken as just that.

  Once upon a time there was a girl who hurt her mother, who loved another, who ran away.

  Nicole had become the ultimate ghost girl. She was a shadow, a memory, a fettered voice in the night. She spoke to Sarina without making a sound, without ever being spotted, but she knew she got through. Sometimes, Sarina turned right and not left, put her hair in a barrette, wore that cardigan set. All these signals told Nicole that Ree heard her. That she knew Nicole was watching. That she knew Nicole still cared.

  Nicole had Sarina exactly where she wanted. She had Sarina when she wanted. She watched and followed. Followed and watched. Nicole was content to observe Sarina from this distance. Even if she didn’t always like what she saw.

  At the moment, she didn’t like seeing Sarina so tightly knit to Mrs. Summers. When the two of them got together, Nicole always felt unsettled. The two of them together made Nicole extremely nervous.

  Nicole got onto her stomach and crawled through the hole she’d dug under the fence. She lay still in the bushes that bordered the woods.

  As Mrs. Summers led Sarina from the living room through the house, Nicole dashed though the empty backyard. Mrs. Summers had dismantled the swings long ago. There weren’t any trees. Just a barbecue grill. Nicole squatted by the watering hose, curled in circles, hung with a nail on the brick siding. Through the window above, she heard the two women speaking.

  Mrs. Summers said, “What’s done is done. We’ll have to use this Carlson business in the best way we can.”

  “How?” said Sarina. “Delta still might kick me out.”

  “Nobody’s kicking anybody. I’ll take care of it tonight.”

  “How?” said Sarina.

  “Just leave it to me. If my daughter wants to be a Delta, that’s what she’ll be. If you want to be Homecoming Queen, you’ll be that too.”

  When Sarina drove away, Nicole moved to the Summers’ garage and sat in the nook between the wall and tool closet. Nicole knew what was in there: Tupperware bowls full of nails grouped by size, screws and Playboys, hammers and bolts. The tool close
t was left behind by Sarina’s wayward father. Mrs. Summers never went near it.

  In that spot, Nicole savored her handmade reality. Nobody bothered her. Surprised her. Denied her. She could be comfortable in this corner. Absent from the world.

  She fell asleep and, in her dreams, met a very nice girl made of all kinds of candy. She was Sarina, only better. Her hair, untangled licorice. Her lips filled fuller by cherry syrup injections. Chocolate-sprinkled freckles. Glazed and sugar-coated. Bonbon boobies and congealed joints. She could not run. She just stood pretty. A gingerbread piece for a quiet, good girl. Nicole would surprise this confected Sarina. She would kiss her frosted skin. She would bite into her shoulder and know that muscle tastes like taffy.

  Nicole woke when the sun set, when Cheshire cars came home for supper. Her father’s car was the only one missing. As usual, he had a date with the six o’clock news. Her father had always been pulled away by reporting. Flood, feast, or famine, he was anchored to his anchor chair. His eyes chockful of community concern. His sports coat tucked neatly under his ass. Mr. Hicks was a man who was conveniently absent. Gone from his home when the dirty stuff went down.

  What happened that night was that Mrs. Summers crossed the road. She marched swiftly to Nicole’s parents’ front yard. Nicole knew if Mrs. Summers put her finger on the doorbell, her mother would let her stand there until she died of natural causes. Mrs. Summers must have known this too. She walked directly to their dining room window and rapped briskly on the pane.

  “Carolyn, it’s time we talked!”

  She called, “Carolyn, yoo-hoo!”

  Rap, rap, rap. “Yoo-hoo!”

  Rap, rap, rap. “I know you’re in there!”

  Through the binoculars, Nicole saw her mother pull back the drapes. She did not look well. Worse than at the funeral. Her hair was clipped at the back of her head. Brown roots, an inch in length. Sunken eyes, dark as sautéed marbles. Not pretty. No, not too pretty. In the vein of If-I-Was-Dead-Then-She’d-Really-Be-Sorry, Nicole was glad to see her mother affected.