by A F Carter
stam’s. The doctor’s blue eyes glittered with life, with . . .
The bed shrinks as a question forms. Halberstam’s eyes
are first of all calculating. For him, it’s about making plans, devising strategies, putting them into play. It’s about watching other people dance to his tune. But there’s need there,
too. Need and lust.
So, which of the two—Hank Grand or Laurence
Halberstam — is more dangerous? Or are the threats merely
different, neither one more- or less deadly than the other?
Suddenly I feel Eleni’s presence, as real as if she were
breathing in my ear. As if she were spooned into me, holding me in her arms. Victoria and Martha have been dominating
the body for almost two weeks, leaving Eleni, Serena, and
me to communicate in bits and pieces. Halberstam’s been
the sole topic most of the time, specifically whether Eleni
should let him into her pants. That’s not Eleni’s style, not at 38
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all, but the way we’re thinking, Halberstam won’t commit
us as long as he gets laid every so often.
Lying here now, thinking about Halberstam’s cold stare,
I’ve had a change of heart. Halberstam doesn’t need an incentive to keep us around. He’ll toy with us until he decides
we’re no longer fun. And then—
I stir, suddenly restless, when Tina’s voice sounds in my
ear. “Daddy,” she announces, her tiny voice surprisingly
cool, “will come for me. Daddy always comes for me.”
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CHAPTER EIGHT
SERENA
I don’t find il Dottore’s office bland, only soothing, colors not a single shade as Victoria claimed. Pale threads of
orange and red and ochre and green running through the
fabric of the wallpaper, the blue edge of a robe worn by a
porcelain statue of the virgin in a lit niche, a celadon bud vase, a dragon of lavender jade that belongs in a museum,
two rosy-red pigs on their hind legs doffing top hats, they
lead my eyes around the room, from pleasure to pleasure, the whole screaming money, money, money. The price adds to
the seamless whole, everything connected, a single message
conveyed in a sensual dance, the chefs’ cliché confirmed:
you eat first with your eyes.
Il Dottore’s working hard when I enter his sanctuary, the
picture of diligence, one hand brushing his forehead, lean-
ing forward, shoulders stiff and bent, the posture by now as predictable as it is studied and I know he can’t help himself.
It’s all he’s got.
I wait patiently, my delight in the room sufficient for the
time being, wait for his gaze to turn my way, wondering if
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I’ll find the piercing glare reported by Victoria or the predatory calculation discovered by Martha or the lust Kirk rec-
ognized. But I don’t see any of that when he looks up, only a tired man approaching middle age, hoping against hope to
maintain the superhero fantasies that fueled his adolescence.
His eyes travel the length of my body, across my windblown
hair, amber eye shadow, curving lashes, violet lipstick, over a multitiered necklace of glass beads, my necklace of many
colors, a female echo of Joseph’s coat that drops into the
neckline of a silky white blouse.
“Please introduce yourself,” he demands.
“Serena Grand, at your service.”
“Ah, you’re the one Martha called a troublemaker. Last
week, according to Martha, your control of Carolyn Grand
caused her to be late for her appointment.”
Il Dottore’s stilted tone is unexpected, the man trying too
hard, his effort only revealing the child beneath, vulnerable, unprotected. I want to console him despite Martha’s warning: Do you remember what it was like in the hospital? Don’t give the bastard an excuse.
I do remember what it was like, the lost days, weeks,
months, heavily drugged, each moment weighing down the
next. Cinderblock walls framed the long corridors, every hallway identical. You were in the same place no matter where
you were, and the worst part—the absolute worst—your suf-
fering might never end, no time limit to the dead time, no life or liberty or pursuit of happiness. Your most basic rights taken away because you happen to be who you are.
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“I did,” I admit, my tone contrite. “I was carried away.”
“By what?”
“By a chance to exist, to become flesh and dwell among
you.”
Halberstam responds with a sagacious nod. “‘Dwell
among you,’” he says. “Very nice. But Carolyn Grand com-
mitted herself to an appointment she couldn’t keep. And
before you say anything about there being no Carolyn
Grand, please understand this. From my point of view, there
must be a Carolyn Grand, a responsible adult who can func-
tion, with appropriate support, in the community.”
I can see why Martha hates this man who doesn’t get
it, who will never understand because he cannot step far
enough away from his own needs to know the needs of
another, to make those needs his own, a burden freely held.
Victoria whispers in my ear and I repeat what she tells me,
word for word. “We’ve been living at the same address for
the past nine years. We have no debts and we never, before
the incident, had any contact with the police. In addition,
we’re good to our neighbors, maintain our apartment and
take out the garbage before it begins to stink. As for being a responsible adult? We receive a disability check every month for a good reason. We’re disabled.”
Halberstam’s chin rises as I go on, a thin smile exposing
just the tips of his teeth. “Those are not your words, Serena.
Whose are they?”
“They belong to Victoria, whose special skill lies in
arranging simple ideas in little choppy elements that sound
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like accusations. But we don’t think we did anything to merit commitment, none of us. It’s not right.”
“I’m afraid right and wrong don’t apply to what we’re
doing. Strictly speaking. But I’m glad you’re being honest.”
He reaches for a fountain pen lying on his desk, picks it up, the better to display the green enameled barrel. “Victoria’s presence is a piece of good luck. I can at least be certain
that I’ll reach a pair of responsible ears.” He pauses, takes a breath. “Two things. First, I’m reducing your appointment
schedule to three times per week, Mondays, Wednesdays,
and Fridays. Second, your father will be released from prison three days from now. He’ll be living in a Bronx shelter and
subject to close scrutiny, but he’s on his own during the day until he finds a job.”
I don’t respond because there’s nothing to say. Here he
comes, ready or not.
“As a condition of parole,” Halberstam continues, “a court
will issue an order of protection forbidding any contact with you. And let me add th
at your father is sixty-seven years old and has been in one or another sex-offender treatment program for the past five years.”
I try to sit up straight, but the chair resists. Still, I manage a smile, Victoria’s voice again sounding in my ears. “I
sense a warning, Doctor. Despite the reassurances, I sense
that you’re trying to warn us.”
“There’s that, too,” he finally admits. “I have a hotline
number you’re to call if he does show up. Will you use it?
That’s my dilemma in a nutshell. No matter what you tell
me, I can’t be sure that you won’t put yourself in harm’s way.”
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The red light on Halberstam’s intercom blinks: on-off,
on-off, on-off. He lifts a receiver to his ear and listens for a moment before hanging up. I watch him rise, fingertips still on the desk as he leans forward.
“My apologies. I have an emergency here. You’ll have to
give me a few minutes.”
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CHAPTER NINE
KIRK
I’m up and out of the chair, crossing the room, as soon as
the door closes. I’m scared, no bullshit about it, but I’m
following Marshal’s simple instructions. I find a USB port
on Halberstam’s computer, take a flash drive from Serena’s
oversized purse, then plug the flash drive into the open port and move to the keyboard. Halberstam’s computer has a
Windows operating system, and I’m easily able to access the
device manager on the control panel, isolate my flash drive
and order it to open a program. The download takes less
than ten seconds.
I’m back in my seat and trying to relax while Serena
demands the return of our body. Nothing to worry about
there. I’ll be off as soon as Halberstam returns. Satisfied, really fucking satisfied. That’s because tonight, at 3:00 a.m., Halberstam’s computer will copy its files into one of Marshal’s computers. Everything.
I tune Serena out, Victoria, too. Victoria’s really pissed at me because I paid for the malware with money from the family till. Tough shit because we can’t wait until we’re committed, until the locked doors on our locked ward close behind
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us. That’s for suckers and we’ve been suckers long enough.
We need to get out ahead of this prick, to put him in a box.
Halberstam’s taking his time and my thoughts finally turn
to Hank Grand, a man with even less conscience than Hal-
berstam. They should have killed him; even Serena agrees.
Instead, New York incarcerated him at the cost of $60,000
per year and now he’ll be walking the streets. Five years of therapy? Plenty of time to get it right, to practice delivering the words asshole therapists want to hear. We know this
because we’ve done it ourselves, learned to mouth the words
this or that doctor found comforting.
Yeah, we can let this one go. She’s safe.
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CHAPTER TEN
SERENA
“I apologize for the interruption, Serena.” Halberstam
crosses the room and slides onto his chair, his gait
surprisingly graceful. “We were discussing your father’s
release. If there’s anything—”
“There is, actually. We want to know why he was freed
before the end of his sentence.”
Halberstam looks at me for a moment, a question linger-
ing in the arch of his brow, as visible as if spelled out in bold-face alongside a cartoon character’s head. Is the question
impertinent, a gauntlet thrown before his feet?
“I don’t work for the Department of Corrections, Ser-
ena, nor do I sit on the parole board, but I’ve spoken to your father’s parole officer. As he explained, felons in New York State automatically have their sentences reduced if they
behave and your father’s behaved for the most part. As a
result, his sentence was reduced from thirty to twenty-eight years.”
“Doesn’t that mean he still has a year to serve? Doesn’t
that mean our father could still be in prison, where he
belongs?”
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Halberstam sighs. I’m being tedious. “If your father
serves his full sentence, he’ll be released without supervi-
sion a year from now. As it is, he can be arrested imme-
diately if he violates the conditions of his parole, which
include approaching his daughter. You’ll be granted an
order of protection, by the way, so you won’t have to solely rely on his parole officer.”
Martha yells at customer service reps, calls them morons,
idiots, accuses them of having, collectively, the IQ of a
retarded frog. I hear something of that in Halberstam’s tone, the exasperation, a frustrated adult coping with a slow child who asks too many questions. I can’t fault him because
the central fact never changes. Hank Grand is going to be
released, and there’s nothing he or I can do about it.
Tina’s already suffering, the old memories churning up,
lava from the heart of the Earth, all consuming, her only
sustenance.
“You’re drifting, Serena.”
“I have nothing to add, Doctor.”
“Why not?”
“Because the die, being cast, still rolls, the numbers tum-
bling over themselves. Wait and see.”
“Well put. Now, in my conversations with Victoria and
Martha the subject of function came up several times. Mar-
tha maintains the household. Victoria is Carolyn Grand’s
public face. Two others I haven’t met also appear to have
set functions. Eleni’s tasked with satisfying Carolyn’s sexual needs. Tina remembers so that the others can forget or at
least claim not to have known in the first place. So Serena, 48
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and please take your time, describe your function. Tell me
what you bring to the table.”
I slide my hands between my knees, suddenly shy, this
monster man demanding secrets that ordinary humans are
allowed to hold close. Others have waited until we were
ready to share, until we trusted them, but there’s no time
here with the court’s demands looming. Only a few days
from the day of decision, il Dottore’s recommending that we
continue in therapy, that we remain on the tightrope indefi-
nitely because there’s only one alternative—confinement—
and we wouldn’t want that. Would we?
I’m born ten years ago, when our body is in its twenty-fifth year, my siblings and I floundering, as always, especially
Tina after days and days of remembering. The darkness is so
intense we can barely move through it, every chore becom-
ing an insurmountable obstacle, the sink full of dishes, the bedroom floor heaped with dirty clothes, the bathroom
smelling of piss. And all of us thinking this is it, this time she’ll succeed, this time she’ll kill us.
Escape the only option, I fly, newborn, through the door
and into the street,
putting time and space between our
body and Tina, my instinct protective, let her rest, let her fall into the oblivion between animations. I walk straight up Flatbush Avenue, lost in the cacophony, a baby learning the
difference between reality and memory for the first time. I
knew there would be people, cars, and trucks, knew there
would be lights and stores, horns and sirens, but I can’t sort them properly, can’t bring them to scale, sound overlying
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sound, image overlying image, and what I should simply
know I have to construct from the memory of others.
As I pass finally beneath the great arch at Grand Army
Plaza, sculptured soldiers above and on both sides, I feel like a foreigner, an alien, the wars of America someone else’s history, not ours. And then I’m in Prospect Park and I begin to run though not a fugitive, though unpursued. The late June
day is warm and I’m slick with sweat, my body making itself
felt, skin and bone, nerve and muscle, taste and touch and
smell and sight, my breath running ragged in my lungs, my
thighs on fire, half-blinded by the sweat dripping from my
brow, at last alive.
I finally turn off the path and stumble down a hill onto
a large meadow, others there ahead of me on blankets, scat-
tered about like offerings left for a ravenous god. I fall to my knees, reserves spent, and roll onto my back, patiently
waiting for my breathing to calm, for the pulse in my head
to fade away, until I can sense the blades of grass against the back of my neck, until clouds and blue sky move apart and
I feel a yearning so deep I cannot turn my eyes away. I raise my arms, palms open, reaching upward beyond the illusion
of a flat and solid sky—searching, searching, searching—my
heart craving the one who truly comprehends the folly of
words. Instead I feel yearning in every particle, every galaxy, every solar system, to stop the momentum, to shrink down,
eon by eon, to draw closer and closer, now touching, now
smiles everywhere.
Call it what you want. Call it Jesus, Buddha, Allah, Zeus,
Hera, Parvati, Lakshmi, Amaterasu. Call it Chango, Elegua,
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Ogun, Yemaya. Call it the creator who endowed us with cer-
tain unalienable rights. It hardly matters because the yearning runs both ways and I know my creator is as helpless as