by Merry Jones
Wait, hold on. Marla thought Tommy got physical? That he was the aggressor?
“As you know, he’s given and received more than a few punches and gotten into trouble at school. Dad and I took him to a counselor, but that led nowhere. Tommy refused to admit he needed help. And he flat out denied ever bullying or picking on anyone.”
Nora searched Marla’s face for traces of a lie, a joke, a willful distortion, but found none of those. Did her mother really believe that Tommy—withdrawn, introverted, slouchy, twerpy Tommy—could be a bully who started fights? That he dared to pick on anyone besides his little sister?
She ought to say something, set her mother straight, but how could she tell Marla that Tommy was not the occasional instigator, but the perpetual victim? That Tommy was ostracized, universally despised, and a loser that bullies picked on for sport? She couldn’t. She didn’t.
“Here’s my point,” Marla went on. “Try to step into Tommy’s shoes. And remember, friends come and go, but family is forever. So, give him a break. He’s your big brother for life.”
For life. Nora held onto her pillow. Oh God. Breathing hurt. Nora wanted to rip out her hair. Marla had no idea who Tommy actually was—an outcast, a sneak, a sicko peeper, a lowlife blackmailer. She ached, worrying about what he’d do with the photos. She wanted to strangle him.
Marla put a hand on Nora’s leg. Those rose-colored nails, the glittering stones of her mother’s wedding ring made Nora’s temples throb. Her skull wanted to pop. The moment stretched.
“So. You and Annie had fun?” Marla straightened her back, put on a smile.
“Yeah. How was your party?” Nora changed the subject before Marla could ask more.
“Great.” Her eyes lit up. “Too great. Dad’s still sleeping it off.” She squeezed Nora’s hand and, after sharing a too long, very uncomfortable, deeply penetrating look, said she was glad they’d talked, and went downstairs to make coffee.
Nora replaced the pillow and lay back. She closed her eyes, trying to digest what had been said. When she opened them, Tommy was standing in the doorway, aiming his camera at her, smirking.
Tuesday, August 14, 2018, 4:45 p.m.
D
ave came home early, unexpectedly. He barreled into the playroom, and even as the girls jumped on him with cries of “Daddy!” and reports of their day at camp, he kept his eyes on Nora.
Nora tried to smile, to act normally. She stood to greet him as she would have on any other day. But after smiling ‘hello,’ what was she supposed to do? Her mind buckled, blank. Why couldn’t she remember her usual way of greeting Dave? What had been their routine before another man had shoved his fingers between her legs? Had she gone to Dave with a kiss? Waited for him to come to her? Had there even been a kiss, routinely, or just a welcoming grin? Why couldn’t she recall this frequent and mundane event? Dave was still watching her, expecting something. But what?
Sophie asked Dave if he’d take them to the park. Elle hung on his sleeve. Somehow, he freed himself, squatting to give them kisses and hugs. “Before we do anything, your mom and I have to talk.”
Of course. That was why he’d come home early. To talk about Paul. Her visit. Nora bit her lip. What should she tell him? She stalled, picking up loose beads from the necklace Sophie had been making.
“Nora.” He stood at the stairway, waiting.
“You girls okay for a few minutes?” She glanced at Sophie, then Ellie, who was chewing her thumbnail and pulled it out of her mouth as soon as Nora looked her way.
“They’re fine, Nora. We’ll just be upstairs.”
Dave hadn’t wanted her to meet with Paul. He’d warned her that it was a bad idea. She should have listened. But that was useless to think about. She’d gone and now she needed to figure out what to tell him. She watched the girls, delaying. Sophie worked on her beads. Ellie was drawing.
Nora’s phone rang. She let it go. Tasted blood on her lip.
“Nora?” Dave sounded impatient.
Nora crossed the room, still unclear about what to say, or even how to greet her husband. Still feeling that her body was not quite her own.
Dave was waiting. She felt it, the weight of his gaze on her. Was she taking too long? Was she moving slowly, or was her sense of time altered? He didn’t tell her to hurry, didn’t seem concerned that she was acting oddly. In fact, when she approached, he stepped close and kissed her mouth, then led her to the kitchen table where he pulled out her chair and sat beside her with
probing, expectant eyes.
“So? What happened? Tell me.”
Tell him? Tell him that Paul’s mouth had smashed her lips, or that his breath had steamed her face? Nora smelled Paul’s harsh cologne, though she couldn’t place where it came from. She saw his bare, ginger-haired chest, the blurring ceiling lights, the cappuccino cup. She felt his thrusting, swirling fingers. She closed her eyes. Tell him.
“At first, he was cordial.” She didn’t look at Dave. She examined the saltshaker and the half-full coffee pot. The refrigerator door covered with the children’s drawings. “His office is swank. It’s got art. And a full bar—”
“That’s nice. Why did he want to see you?”
Why was she avoiding the truth? Was she embarrassed? Should she be? Did she think the assault was somehow her fault, that—Oh God—she had somehow encouraged Paul? Had she given signals that she was attracted to him? Lots of women were, after all. Most of their friends were open about finding Paul drop dead gorgeous—for sure, Patty did. And Alex. But no. Nora needed time to process it, was still in shock, but she hadn’t done anything. Paul had plain and simple attacked her. He’d tried to drug her and force her to have sex.
But she couldn’t tell Dave any of that. If she did, his face would harden, eyes steely, jaw rigid. He’d call the police, but not right away. Not until he’d gone and beaten the bloody crap out of the honorable candidate for Senate. She pictured Dave in a jail cell, arrested for an assault.
She couldn’t risk it. Besides, Nora doubted she could make herself say the words out loud. He raped me. With his fingers. She cringed, unable to even think the truth. Besides, what good would saying it do? Words were finite and simple, gave no hint of what had actually happened, the humiliation, invasion, fear. The disbelief. The rage.
At least she knew about rage. She’d learned long ago how to contain it within a smile.
She fiddled with a cereal crumb, pushing and rolling it beside a placemat.
“Nora? What’s going on?”
“Sorry. I’ll make it short. Paul told me that you and Barbara are having an affair.”
Nora’s phone rang again.
“Shit.” Dave chewed his lower lip. “What gave him that idea?”
“He hired a private investigator to watch Barbara while he’s off campaigning. He’s got pictures of you together.” She paused and met Dave’s eyes. “There’s a lot of body contact.”
Dave’s brows rose. His eyes shifted ever so slightly. “No way.”
“You do touch each other a lot. Your hands are always on her.”
“Horseshit.”
“Dave. I saw the pictures. Shots of you going into and out of their house. Hugging. Kissing her goodbye at the door—”
“Kissing?” He frowned. “Pecking maybe. A friendly ‘hello’ and ‘goodbye.’”
She studied his face, saw no deceit. “Okay.” She gave Dave’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “But I couldn’t tell him the truth about why you’ve been spending so much time together or taking boxes out of their house or pecking her face. He assumes it’s an affair. Understandably.” She nodded, then met her husband’s eyes. “And he’s hopping mad. He scares me, Dave. He’s nothing like his family-man, all-American, nice-guy public image. He’s mean. Evil. He vowed that there’d be consequences. And I believe him. We’ve seen Barbara’s bruises.” She shifted in her chair, easing her lingering soreness.
“You’re right.” Dave took out his phone. �
�I better check on her.” He punched in a number, drummed his fingers on the table, waiting. His eyebrows furrowed. “No answer.” He set down his phone, scowling. “This isn’t good.”
Nora folded her hands. Maybe Barbara was at the hospital with Paul, having the gash on his head stitched. How had Paul explained the wound to his campaign workers? And to Barbara? Oh God. If he’d told Barbara that Nora had hit him, Barbara would for sure tell Dave that Nora cut Paul’s head open. And Nora didn’t look forward to explaining why.
“She’s probably busy.”
“I called before I left the office. She didn’t answer then either.” His eyes darted from spot to spot, thought to thought.
“She might be at the hairdresser. Or the gym.”
“No. He thinks we’re having an affair, and you said he’s furious and looking for revenge. My guess is he’s taken her phone so I can’t reach her. He’s putting an end to our affair.” Dave leaned back, crossed his arms. “And if he’s taken her phone, God knows what else he’s doing. Damn.”
Nora pictured Barbara’s bruises, heard Paul’s warning. Cheating isn’t something one can simply forgive. There have to be consequences.
“Should you go over there? I’ll go with you.”
“No, no. That would just aggravate him and make it worse. Look, the guy’s an abuser, but he’s also in the public eye, running for the damned Senate. He won’t risk doing anything extreme to her in the middle of his campaign. I think for now, we should lie low and not antagonize him.” His eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. Then he took a breath. “Let him think he’s in charge. The lease begins Saturday. We just get through the next couple of days and Barbara and the kids will be out of here—free and safe.”
“Why not bring them here?” Nora didn’t like the “couple of days” part. “We could make sure they’re safe until Saturday.”
“Believe me, I’ve tried.” Dave shook his head. “I’ve asked her to stay here, or in a hotel, or with other friends. She doesn’t want to go anywhere until she can be gone for good. She’s afraid he’ll find a way to stop her.”
“But that was before he—” she stopped, mid-sentence. She’d almost slipped, almost said before he assaulted me. “Before he talked to me about your affair.”
Dave rubbed his eyes and sighed. “Right.” He thanked Nora for finding out what Paul was thinking, pecked her cheek, and headed upstairs to change.
Nora’s phone rang again. She went to pick it up and shivered when she saw Paul’s number on the screen. What did he want? Was he afraid she’d file a complaint against him? Did he want to apologize? She turned off her phone, but not before checking her missed calls. Paul had called half a dozen times.
“Mommy, are you done talking yet?” Little voices flew up from the playroom. “We’re hungry. What’s for dinner?”
Nora called out, “Strip steaks.”
But she didn’t start dinner. Instead, she sat for a while, moving that crumb around with her finger, her heart heavy with the weight of her secret, smelling Paul’s cologne. Seeing blood streaming down his face.
A broken vow must incur some kind of retribution, don’t you agree?
Thursday, October 28, 1993
A
nnie had changed.
Nothing overt or dramatic. Not anything Nora could name. But she was different: slightly removed at lunch, a tad distant when they sat together on the bus. Even on the phone. In fact, unlike in the past, Nora seemed to be the only one making the calls, and the calls were shorter, less confidential, as if Annie was just going through the motions of talking, skimming over who wore what and which girls liked what boys.
Annie’s aloofness ate at Nora. So, she decided to appease Annie by answering the question Annie had been asking for weeks and admitted that she liked Bobby Baxter. But Annie hadn’t seemed to care. Worse, she hadn’t reciprocated. She had left Nora hanging with a secret exposed.
Annie was shutting her out.
That night, Nora lay in bed, worrying about her friendship. She comforted herself by thinking about the past. The good times: Annie taking her that first time up to that bathroom cluttered with her sisters’ towels, hairdryers, brushes and lotions. Annie’s fingers gently steering the skinny disposable razor through the mounds of foam on Nora’s legs, under her arms. Annie dabbing purple shadow onto Nora’s eyelids or teaching her to slow dance. Even now, she could hear Michael Bolton. How was she supposed to live without Annie?
Nora turned onto her side, forced her eyes closed, but the memories kept coming. Annie telling her about kissing. Instructing her.
“Keep your lips soft and a little open in case he wants to put his tongue in.” She’d shown her. Nora had said, “Ew.” Annie had laughed, called her a baby, and demonstrated, first on Nora’s hand, then on her mouth. And laughed some more.
Nora had learned Annie’s cool way to laugh, head back and nostrils flaring. She’d learned to wear Annie’s amused, knowing hint of a smile while others talked. To walk with Annie’s nonchalant, unhurried swing to her hips. Annie was her guide, her role model. Without Annie, Nora would still be that awkward girl wearing the totally wrong kind of clothes and childish style of hair, standing at the side of the room, saying the totally wrong things—if she even had anyone to say them to. If she lost Annie, she lost everything.
All because of Tommy.
Nora tossed. She rearranged her pillow. How was she supposed to fix things? It wasn’t her fault Tommy had taken those pictures. She couldn’t undo what he’d done, and she’d apologized a hundred times. What else could she do? She wanted to talk to Annie about it but getting her alone wasn’t easy. At school, kids always clustered around. On the bus, other people could hear. And on the phone, Annie had been distant. She needed to see Annie’s face, to have Annie see hers. It was her only hope.
The next morning, Nora left for school without breakfast, her homework unfinished because she’d been unable to concentrate. Her chest felt raw, her stomach twisted. She went to school in a wounded haze, waiting for an opportunity. Finally, between English and Math, she saw Annie at her locker.
“Can we talk?” Her voice was paper thin, too high-pitched.
“What’s up?” Annie waved to some girls walking by, then worked the combination on her locker door.
“Nothing. It’s just…”
Annie’s locker door swung open. She knelt, putting books in, stuffing others into her bookbag.
“Is something wrong?”
“Wrong?” Annie stood.
“I mean, it seems like, I don’t know. Are you mad at me?”
Annie stepped up to Nora, their noses inches apart. “Hmm. Let me think. Why would I be mad?”
Of course she was mad. What a stupid question. Nora went on blabbering, sounding dumber and dumber. “It wasn’t my fault. And I said I was sorry.”
“Sorry’s worth shit.”
Nora couldn’t breathe, felt punched. Her body wanted to cave in on itself.
“We could do what he said and talk to Craig.”
“Are you serious? Do you know Craig at all? If we tell him to lay off your brother, he’ll want to know why. And I’m sure not telling him. Besides, it would probably backfire. Instead of easing up, Craig would beat the shit out of him. Which wouldn’t upset me at all. But then, who knows what he’d do with the pictures.”
Nora bit her lip. “So, no Craig.”
“Of course not.” Annie’s voice became a hiss. “Nobody finds out about this, Nora. Not Craig, not anybody.” Her face hardened, and her eyes turned to ice. “Look, it’s been four days. You haven’t done shit. What’s so complicated? Why’s it taking so long? You want me not to be mad? Get those pictures. All of them. And the negatives.”
Nora could barely make a sound. “I’ll try.”
“Trying’s crap.”
“I’ll get them.”
“Good. Bring them to my sleepover Saturday.”
“Sleepover?”
“Come around eight.”
The locker door slammed and Annie sauntered off, waving to some eighth-grade boys.
Nora stayed behind, absorbing the news: Annie had almost not invited her to her sleepover. Had almost not mentioned it. Annie was going to drop her unless she could get Tommy’s pictures. But once she got them and gave them to Annie, things would be normal again. She and Annie would go back to how they’d been. They would. For sure.
Tuesday, October 14, 2018, 10 p.m.
N
ora called Barbara at seven and nine. Dave called her at eight and ten.
All the calls went to voicemail.
“Bastard took her phone away,” Dave fumed and cursed. “That’s the only explanation.”
Nora didn’t agree. There were lots of other possibilities. Barbara could have lost her phone, or forgotten that she’d turned it off, or dropped it into the bathtub. But she saw Dave’s point. The likelihood of something innocent happening to Barbara’s phone on this particular night was low.
After the ten o’clock call, Dave’s forehead veins were pulsing. His breathing was rapid and erratic.
“Want me to fix you a drink?”
He didn’t answer, just sat, breathing and pulsing. His right hand made a fist.
Nora and Dave sat in the family room, the television tuned to some complicated British mystery that neither of them was
following.
“So should we go and check on her? Or call the police and have them check?”
He bit his knuckle and stared at his phone. “I don’t want to stir things up. We have to wait.”
They did? Nora wasn’t sure. But Dave said to wait, so she waited.
Waiting didn’t feel right though. She watched the clock above the fireplace, its second hand hopping forward in measured bits. Each hop linked time to space but went nowhere, just around and around. And around.
Of course, she didn’t have to wait just because Dave wanted to. She could call the police on her own, could report Paul’s assault. The police would go arrest him then, wouldn’t they? And with Paul in custody, Barbara would be safe from his arm-twisting, eye-punching temper. Nora pictured it, the police sending someone to her house to follow up. An overtired detective with a crew cut and a pot belly would look her up and down, probably rating her a five, or at most a six, as he asked her what had happened. Sophie and Ellie would peek from the stairway, having heard the doorbell. Nora would ask Dave to take them back to bed, but Dave would want to know why the policeman was there. So she’d make up an excuse, just something to get Dave to go upstairs with the girls. When Dave was gone, she’d take the detective to the kitchen and offer him coffee. He’d say no and start to ask questions, politely at first, then more pointedly. He’d make her repeat details, looking for inconsistencies.