by Mary Gordon
“We were so young,” Jo says. “And Letitia Barnes just threw us into the water with very little training, she just assumed that because we were intelligent and knew our subject, we would be good teachers.”
“I was lousy,” Christina says. “I was much too impatient.”
“You were great for the bright kids,” Jeanne says.
“You, for example.”
“Me, for example. You were the only one I respected.”
Agnes wonders if Jeanne realizes that she has just insulted her and Jo.
“Well, I was getting worried that she was becoming too attached to me…her parents seemed to be away a lot of the time.”
“Her mother was a Nazi goddess…wasn’t she a skier?”
“Yes,” Agnes says. “Heidi felt her mother never cared for her…and I could see she felt she could never measure up. The father was a pathetic little man, though quite wealthy, I think…and he…well, talk about follow like a puppy…I remember, people smoked all the time, even in parent-teacher conferences, and she took out a cigarette and snapped her fingers and he lit it for her. She wasn’t conventionally attractive, Heidi—by the way, she’s changed her name now to Quin Archer—”
“I love it,” Christina says, and Jo says, “Perfect, absolutely fucking perfect.”
“She had these little eyes…like she was always waiting to find you doing something stupid,” Jo says.
“I tried to encourage her interest in art, she did have talent—it was for a kind of art I found alienating—Warhol and Lichtenstein and Rauschenberg and all the pops—and I thought it would be nice if she and Jeanne could do something together—you were both so bright,” she says, turning to Jeanne. “So I gave her a ticket to a lecture on Guernica at the Museum of Modern Art. It was on a Saturday, and I knew, Jeanne, that you took that special science course on Saturdays—I was hoping maybe the two of you could explore New York together or even if that didn’t work I thought it would be good for her to explore New York—and that was where it happened.”
“Please, Mom,” Maeve says. “I need to know what’s going on.”
And Agnes thinks, Now I will say it, now I will make a story of it…of the moment of my life that changed everything…that made me know that I had in me something curled and dark and careless and capable, with that same carelessness, of great harm.
“And you haven’t seen or heard from her since then?” Maeve says, when Agnes has finished.
Agnes shakes her head.
“You tried, Jesus knows, you tried,” Christina says. “My God, you drove yourself crazy…she was covered with eczema, Maeve, she spent the summer in New York following up on what the private detective came up with…we were all so worried about her, and that was when your grandmother came up with the idea of Jasper and Italy…that was the thing about your mother, Agnes, she always seemed so vague, so in her own world, but she was always seeing everything and when everyone else was confused or paralyzed, she seemed to have a plan.”
Maeve paces the length of the table.
“I never knew. Oh, Mom, I never knew…but you always, well, you always take so much responsibility for everyone…it drives me crazy sometimes because you always think everything’s up to you, you don’t let anything go…but oh, Mom…this has been such a burden for you and I never knew.”
“Children aren’t meant to carry their parents’ burdens.”
“But you wouldn’t let us help,” Jo says.
“I couldn’t let you help because I knew you disliked her…you didn’t even really believe her.”
“We still don’t know whether it’s really true…I remember Letitia thought it wasn’t true.”
Agnes bangs her hand on the table, and says, “That was very, very wrong…that was very, very wrong of all of you. You didn’t like her and you didn’t like thinking about what happened to her…because she wasn’t appealing to you, you didn’t believe her. You didn’t want to. It was in the world, it was in the air we all breathed, not to believe girls, because we didn’t want to believe in the reality of how unsafe we all were, that it could happen to any of us, at any moment, that there was really not much we could do to protect ourselves, and so it was better for everyone to say, ‘Well, it was her fault,’ that if she’d just been smarter, more careful…more modest or more chaste…if she’d done something that any of us could do to protect ourselves…then we would all be safer…and we wouldn’t have to think things about men that we didn’t want to think. And that, all that was in the air we breathed, all that was in our minds from the time we were girls…and so it was in my mind. Almost the first thing that came to my mind…to all our minds when we heard the word rape, so coming out of sleep…instead of sympathy I created blame. I believed her…I could see that she had been hurt, hurt badly, but what I couldn’t bear to believe…you can call it my unconscious but it was still part of me, something that belonged to me, that was me—that there was something in the world that couldn’t be prevented…by intelligence, or foresight, or self-protection or whatever else it is that we think keeps us safe.”
Everyone is silent. Marcus comes behind Agnes and puts his arms around her and this touch releases Agnes’s tears.
“All right, it’s all right, we’re with you. We’re always with you. We’ll do whatever you want.”
“I want to do whatever she wants,” Agnes says. “I owe it to her.”
“You do not. You do not. You don’t owe her anything,” Maeve says.
“Oh, Maeve, I do…and whether you understand or not, we’re going to do this.”
“I don’t think your mother’s been so tough with you since you were in third grade and wanted to give up the violin,” Christina says.
“Yeah, she made me keep it up for three more years although I hated it.”
“It was so important to your father,” Agnes says.
“Yeah, but he made you be the bad guy.”
“Please, Maeve…it doesn’t matter. Leo’s got it, Leo’s really a marvelous violinist,” Agnes says.
“He’s got my family’s DNA for sticking to stuff,” Marcus says.
“I don’t think there’s DNA for that,” Jeanne says.
Everyone laughs, because Jeanne’s literal-mindedness is an old joke for all of them, and something lifts, everyone is suddenly free to move forward.
* * *
—
Agnes turns to Jo. “She wants to do some shooting at the school.”
“Shooting…I guess she means a camera, but somehow in connection to Heidi Stolz I think of guns,” Christina says.
Jo says, “I will not, will not permit it. That the school should in any way be fodder for her hideous revenge binge…no, she won’t be allowed through the gates of the Lydia Farnsworth School.”
“Quite right,” Christina says.
“And don’t let her back in the house,” Maeve says.
“No, Maeve, she can use the house as a backdrop…and Jo…please, don’t be unpleasant.”
“I do unpleasant. I’m a mother of two sons, I’ve taught for forty-five years. I’m good at unpleasant.”
“And I’m the biggest one here so I’ll stand at the gate with a pitchfork and keep her out,” Christina says.
“And we’re in a joint practice, Christina, so I’ll stand beside you with a matching pitchfork.”
* * *
—
When they have left, Agnes phones Quin. “I’m afraid Jo Walsh doesn’t want you to shoot at the school.”
“Well, that’s just dandy, but no surprise. You all managed to make me feel like an outsider, that I wasn’t welcome there…even though my father was paying through the nose.”
“I’m sure we never meant—”
“No, that was the problem…you never meant.”
“You’re very free to use my house, though, if you like
, or we can walk around the town.”
“So you can show me your ancestors’ graves.”
“My ancestors aren’t buried here, Quin,” Agnes says. “We only moved here in the ’50s when my father got the job in Providence.”
“Fine, fine, whatever you say…shall we say tomorrow at ten…it’ll be Sunday so I’m assuming everyone’s free.”
“I’ll try to make it happen,” Agnes says.
“Oh yes, Miss Vaughan, you’re good at that.”
* * *
“YOU’RE OFF your game, babe.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I just asked you what spin class you wanted to take…I found a gym near the hotel that does day passes, and you were miles away. Also, I know you, Quin Archer, or whoever you are, and this lady’s throwing you off. Remember, we play them, they’re the drum and we set the beat. You’re responding to her rather than making her respond to you.”
“You stick to your part of the business…getting me a spin class. And I’ll stick to mine. Take the earliest one…I like to be up.”
She knows he’s right. She was miles away, almost literally. Crossing the bridge to Newport she is back in the car with her father, visiting her brother. One visit only, but it pressed down, it set its seal, it made its mark on the wet soil of the life of the young Heidi Stolz. Hateful, everything about it. The shock of learning she had a damaged brother. His grotesque shambling entrance into the ugly room. His slobbering over the chocolates…the violent outburst, with chocolate-smeared mouth and hands. As if he’s just been eating shit.
Her brother Jimmy. The rusting pole that sticks up out of the landscape, ruining its harmony, the element that Ayn Rand could never have incorporated…nothing could be done for him, except perhaps to kill him…and often she had thought of that, that it would be a mercy. But then she would be a criminal, at the mercy of the law. Lawrence had told her there was enough money to see to Jimmy’s care; she didn’t have to think about it. Well, she had thought about it, but decided it wasn’t her problem. She didn’t know if the money had run out…if it had, people would be looking for Heidi Stolz, not Quin Archer.
In justice, he shouldn’t be fed, clothed, given a roof over his head. In justice, he should have been left out…perhaps in some fairy tale cared for by animals, but it was not a fairy-tale world, and in the world as it is he would not have been cared for by animals, he’d have been devoured. Which would have been right.
No one alive knows of Jimmy’s existence. How easy it is, she thought, simply to erase someone from the pages of the living…easier to erase Jimmy Stolz than to erase Heidi Stolz…because someone alive still knew of her, still, it would seem, remembered her. Agnes Vaughan said she had thought of her constantly. She will not allow herself to take pleasure in that. It didn’t mean anything…it led to nothing. Heidi Stolz had been killed. It would be better if Jimmy Stolz had been. More than anything, she hopes he is dead. She will not allow herself to think of him…it’s the influence of this damn place…maybe it wasn’t worth it, maybe this is a mistake. But it’s not a mistake. Her ratings were way down. Nothing could be worse than the humiliation of being canceled. They won’t dare cancel her now.
“I’m not sure you’ve thought this out all the way,” Rich says.
“What do you mean?”
“She’s no good for our kind of show. She won’t fight back. But she’s not pathetic—she’s, what is it, I don’t know, but I’m worried that the camera will like it, and the audience will like it. Quiet, reserve, that’s no good for us. Think about it, babe; maybe it’s time for us to cut our losses.”
Anger flares, and she welcomes it, is drawn to it, as a traveler is drawn to a fire on a freezing night. Anger. Home and hearth. The good place. The safe place. Rich was right, she was off her game because she had stayed away from the flame…weakened by, what was it, sadness…a sense of having been abandoned, bereft. Those were the feelings that could suck you up, suck you in, so you were swimming up to your eyes in filthy mud. Anger was the flame that consumed the mud, dried it to a hard surface that you did not drown in, that you could walk on, in safety, in security, with the firm promise of support.
“Earth to Rich, earth to Rich…there’s no cutting losses, we already went on the show with Valerie, if I back out now, I’m a total loser…to say nothing of what this was all about in the first place: booting up our audience, getting our ratings back. Or maybe you’re interested in downsizing…selling the house, moving to a nice two-bedroom condo…using the town pool…and when it’s time to visit Dr. Drew for the next touch-up, going to Walgreens instead to see what’s on the discount-makeup rack.”
Rich sinks into the seat. “You’re right, of course you’re right. But how do we put this back on track?”
“I’ve thought about it. Two things make our kind of show work: the audience’s love of humiliation, and their endless appetite for displays of rage. Well, you’re right, if we humiliate Agnes Vaughan the audience is going to be on her side, and she just doesn’t do rage. But there’s something else. I’ve said I wanted to shoot some footage at the school and her old friend Jo Walsh is the headmistress—oh, wait, they don’t want to say that anymore, it sounds too sexy—she was always ready to blow a gasket about anything she perceived as unjust…so we’ll rev her up to attack me…but that’s not all, the other friend turns out to be a dyke who’s married—oh, please, here come the brides—to one of her ex-students. So I just drop the hint that as students we all knew that the old dykes were diddling the young lovelies. That will get a reaction.”
Rich takes her hand and puts it to his lips. “You are without a doubt, wife of mine, a genius. But by the way, why’d you plant that whopper about your being infertile because of an STD you got in the bad old days?”
“I was road-testing it.”
He kisses her hand again.
* * *
—
“Three. Two. One. Action.”
“Hello, I’m Quin Archer, and this is PAYBACK.
“You may be surprised to find me here, in the perfect New England town of New Canterbury, Rhode Island. But this is, you might say, my hometown, where I was born, where I lived till I ran away from it at age sixteen.
“This, my good friends, is finally my story. This is my PAYBACK.
“I’m standing at the gates of the Lydia Farnsworth School, where I was a student. As you can see, the gates are locked; the headmistress—she likes to call herself the ‘head’—MIZZ Jo Walsh, has forbidden us access.
“Let me tell you what it was like at the Lydia Farnsworth School in 1972. My parents had sent me here because it was the place where the people—anyone who was anyone—sent their daughters. Well, let me tell you, they should have saved their money. What were they educating us for? To marry rich men…to be volunteers at the local museum…to be on the board of the local orchestra…to arrange flowers? Nothing I learned here was of the slightest use to me in my life…most of what I learned here I had to unlearn.
“We’re starting here rather than in the house I was brought up in, because the house I was brought up in no longer exists. It was sold in the late ’70s, to developers who turned it into condos. The development company that owns the condos has also denied us access—they say the condos don’t want their privacy invaded. I’ve learned that what people mean by privacy is that that they don’t want their dirty dark secrets exposed to the light. Never mind, I don’t need them. And this, my friends, is one of the reasons I’ve devoted myself to this show. To show other people who have had difficult experiences, people who might think of themselves as victims—well, to get out of that victim mentality, to take your own life in your own two hands, to feel your own power to undo the past—and how?—through justice. Through PAYBACK.
“But I didn’t follow my own advice. For years, I’ve kept my own story hidden. And then, by chance…or maybe n
ot by chance…what people call chance or luck is, in my opinion, just being awake, taking the hint and turning it into something you can use. Something you can use for yourself. Those of you who’ve known me for years in my home in Brimston, Arizona, know that I began here by running a program in the gym I owned called Selfishness Boot Camp. Selfishness has a bad name. But it’s the fear of selfishness that keeps a victim a victim…or encourages people to think of themselves as a victim. And I’ve devoted myself to saying no, it’s not the only way. Love yourself, think of yourself, take your past in both hands and make of it the future that you want.
“So you can say it was good luck that I discovered that the person who harmed me was back here in New Canterbury…but it was my good sense that continued to subscribe to the local newspaper here, and when I saw that the woman who had harmed me—my teacher in this very school, the prestigious Lydia Farnsworth School—when I saw that this woman had come back to New Canterbury after having lived in Italy for forty years—well, I knew it was time for my PAYBACK.”
“Quin, walk toward me…walk away from the gates into the street. Great. Perfect.”
“One way to describe what happened to me is to say that I was a victim of rape. But a better way to describe it is that I hadn’t yet learned to rely on myself, that I relied on someone who said they were reliable, my teacher, I gave away my own power to her…”
“Quin, walk closer to the camera.”
“Yes, this is my story. I was raped. You may be surprised that the person I’m confronting today is not the person who raped me. I didn’t know his name…he was a stranger, someone who accosted me on the streets of New York, or a back alleyway of New York…no, I would never be able to get PAYBACK from him, because I don’t even know his face—he wore a ski mask when he accosted me. No, the person who harmed me…and this will surprise you, but it is, my friends, the truth…was not the person who raped me, but the teacher I loved and trusted, who said that what happened to me was my fault.