by Regina Doman
“Nothing,” Paul said.
“What do you mean, nothing?”
“Nothing essential,” Paul said. “Once you’ve decided to see a person as a toy, the degrees between the toys are close to non-existent. But for practical purposes as far as the deluded man was concerned, there was a difference.”
“Which was?” Rachel asked.
“Time,” Paul said slowly. “Only time. You spend more time with a good toy. Lots of time. You date her, you take her out, you pay her compliments. You might even marry her. But in the end, she’s just a toy.”
“And the bad toys?” she asked after a moment.
His face had a rigid, hard look on it. “You don’t waste your time. You play with them, but not for long. Maybe not even twenty-four hours. And then you don’t care if you ever see her again. Remember,” he said, “From this twisted point of view, a smart man doesn’t waste his time on bad toys.”
“But what about Christian men?” she objected.
“Christian men were taught to look through this mirror, too. Sometimes they attached more importance to the ‘good’ versus ‘bad’ distinction. You have to make sure you marry a ‘good’ toy. Because a Christian man doesn’t waste his time on ‘bad’ toys. Oh, maybe a Christian man might glance at a ‘bad’ toy—say, in the pages of a sports magazine or on a web page. But a good Christian doesn’t waste his time on ‘bad’ toys. You want a good toy—just one. Or at any rate, only one at a time.”
His voice was bitter. She was breathing hard, staring at him.
“But it’s not fair!”
“Of course it’s not.”
“I don’t believe all men are like this.”
He met her eyes. “They’re not, but don’t underestimate the power of the looking glass. Many, many women do. They think they’re being brave. But they’re only naïve. Naïve girls who think they’re being bold are girls who are going to get hurt. And maybe hurt beyond repair.”
He looked away. “You see, there’s no place in a deluded man’s world for an old toy, or an ugly toy, or a toy who doesn’t have the right figure, or whose body doesn’t work the way it should—a handicapped toy, a toy who’s fallen ill. If the toy was once a good toy, you might hang around—after all, she was once a good toy. And you can feast on the memories, and keep an eye on other good toys from the sidelines or glance at the bad toys in the magazines—but a ‘smart’ man doesn’t let himself get stuck with a broken toy. Particularly a toy who’s been used and is in need of repair.”
She wiped her eyes, angry. “Why are you telling me this? I know all of this already. I know everything you’re saying.”
Now he turned and looked at her, his voice unexpectedly husky. “You do?”
“Yes,” her face was red with shame. “It’s what happens to girls who aren’t careful. Who think too much about their bodies. I’ve been warned all my life about what happens to girls—who become like you said. Who become bad toys.”
His face twitched, as if he were in pain. He said softly, “Don’t say that. Don’t you understand? The whole point is, it’s all a lie. You’re not a toy at all.”
But she was too upset to listen to him. Pushing away from the rock, she swam back to the shore, and sprinted onto the beach. Snatching up her clothes, she hurried up the path to the house, not once looking behind. For some reason, she had a panicked idea that he was following her, but when she glanced back as she reached the top of the cliff, she saw he was still sitting on the rock, his flute in between his hands, his head bowed.
Who does he think he is?
Who is he? Pagan or Christian? Man or god? Good or bad?
He didn’t seem to fit onto any side of the scale, and Rachel decided, as she got dressed, that it was in her best interest to pretend that this conversation had never happened.
It was almost midnight. Paul straightened his scapular, then pulled on his black hood over a black shirt. He was already wearing the black pants and fitted shoes that completed the outfit. It was time to go.
Paul had learned a lot about stealth and tracking in the military, which was an asset to him now. And in college, he and his friends had done war games in the woods near the campus, involving nighttime reconnaissance, and to that end, he had acquired a black outfit that resembled a ninja costume—the same black pants and fitted shoes he wore for juggling, and a black shirt and hood. He had brought it along on vacation because it was comfortable and light, and one never knew when one might need a ninja outfit.
Though I didn’t think I’d be wearing it every night, he thought, as he started weaving through the trees to the Durham’s property. There was no moon tonight. At least his job would be a bit easier, but it still wouldn’t solve his problem.
It was difficult to stand in the shadows and watch. In the beginning, he had kept himself occupied with the logistical problems of tracking and following the girls, of getting on and off a boat unseen. But now those problems were mostly solved—each time the boats were docked, they were in deep shadows, and he merely had to wait for the odd moment to get on or off. And the routine for the evening was rapidly fixing itself in concrete—every night from now on, he guessed that the girls would be getting on the boats, going to the island, and having their dance.
The island itself brought up contradictory feelings in him. It was indeed a place of enchantment. The nights had been particularly beautiful lately, and the island was itself extremely lovely. The willow trees, pines, and oaks provided ample cover for him, as well as a fitting background to the pageant of girls dancing in the moonlight.
And the girls were very beautiful, all of them in their individual ways, and if he had nothing else to do but watch them dance, this was going to get frustrating. Already it had become a bit difficult for him to actually watch them dance, particularly the ones who chose to wear the skimpier outfits.
But his way to salvation was through beauty, and he kept forcing himself to appreciate their beauty without reducing them to objects. Sometimes that meant looking away from the girls up at the beauty of the waning moon, or the frothy leaves of the willows, or the stars. The wonders of nature were not his personal treasures, he told himself. And neither were the girls. In particular, not the girls.
Now he left the campsite stealthily and wove his way down the bayside, across the remainder of the campsite, through a stretch of woods, across three private lots (fortunately the beaches weren’t clearly in view of the houses) to the Durhams’ grounds. The far edge of the Durham property was woods, mostly willows and vines. He had cut a path for himself through the brush so he didn’t have to make much noise. Eventually he reached the willow tree that overhung the deep water where the boys docked their boats. He slid behind the trunk into a little hollow that was conveniently shadowed and waited.
Eventually, he heard the sound of the girls’ voices from the bike cave above, and then, one by one, they started to make their way down the bank to the beach, giggling and sliding. The younger girls were usually ready the quickest—Debbie, Linette, Brittany, and Melanie came down together in bare feet, holding their sandals by their straps. Debbie started splashing around in the water, and Brittany picked up stones and started to shy them across the bay water, seeing how many times she could make them skip.
“I wish we could just go swimming,” Linette said wistfully. “Do we have to go to the island every night? It’s so boring.”
“Yes, this used to be an adventure, but now it’s all about chasing boys,” Debbie agreed. “There’s no boys our ages on the island. They’re all in high school or older.”
“Doesn’t make a difference to Becca and Liddy,” Brittany observed, letting another stone fly expertly over the waves.
“They’re silly,” Debbie said loftily. “I’m smarter than them, and I’m only eleven. I hope I don’t get so dumb when I’m a teenager.”
Brittany’s stone skipped five times and she shouted, “Score!”
“Shhh!” Becca hissed, skittering down the sandy slope in a flor
al dress. “We’re still home, remember?” On level ground, she dabbed at her hair with her hands. “It’s too windy tonight.”
Paul became aware that Rachel was coming down the bank now, slender and sylphlike in her navy blue dress, and he felt unusually self-conscious. He hadn’t seen her since she had left him abruptly at the swimming rock that morning. She was back to her usual air of cool indifference, and he wondered if anything he had said to her had affected her. Most likely not. Her angry exit still stung in his memory.
Now she clapped her hands. “Come on kids, look alive,” she said easily. “We’re going to a party tonight.”
“But we go to a party every night,” Debbie said resentfully, sloshing water on her dress.
Rachel set her hands on her hips and swayed. “Yes. Aren’t we lucky?”
“I wish we could do something else,” Debbie said frankly. “All we can do is dance or talk. It’s boring.”
“I’ll ask Michael for some paper so that you can draw,” Rachel said, and the other girls snickered. Rachel punched Debbie’s arm gently. “Come on, isn’t it better than staying home?”
She looked at the older girls, and said, in a general sort of way, “I noticed that everyone seemed to be ignoring Kirk yesterday. Why was that?”
“He’s such a hick,” Taren said. “He always smells like gasoline.”
“That’s because he works at the auto body shop,” Brittany said. “He fixes cars all day. He can’t help it.”
“You only want us to be nice to him because he has a boat,” Tammy said.
“And because that’s only fair to him,” Rachel raised an eyebrow. “He’s given us a ride every time we’ve needed one.”
“I wish we had our own boats,” Taren fretted. “Then we wouldn’t have this problem.”
“Well, until then, we have to deal with the situation at hand,” Rachel said coolly, shaking her head. “And I’d hate to see Kirk stop coming because he feels you all are giving him the cold shoulder now that we know—this rich guy.”
“Hey, the boats are coming!” Liddy called, from the middle of the cliff path. Paul heard cries of panic from the girls above in the cave, who were still dressing. He could hear the boat motors coming closer, and soon the water splashed below him as the boats pulled into their temporary dock.
The girls crowded around, greeting the guys, and Paul waited until he heard them leave the boats. Fortunately the girls were never all ready when the boats arrived, so necessarily the boys left the boats to go on the beach and hang out for a while. That was when Paul made his move.
He peered around the tree to ensure the boats were deserted, and stealthily crept through the shadows to the biggest one, Alan’s boat, and slipped beneath the canvas covering part of the back. There were mostly deck chairs and old boat parts beneath the canvas, and he had found a place for himself amidst the jumble. He crouched into a small ball and waited once more.
Soon the parties started clambering into the boats, finding their way in the darkness and settling themselves.
“So how are you tonight, Alan?” Rachel asked. Paul saw her long legs, quite noticeable in her short skirt, slant down in his direction, and adjusted his position so that he wouldn’t be staring at them.
“Pretty good. Hot day.”
“I’m glad the wind picked up,” Rachel said lazily. “Hey Rich.”
“Hi Rachel.” Rich’s voice came in. Paul heard his heavy footfalls dropping on the boat, and his brawny legs stretched out next to hers.
Debbie clambered over the canvas, landing for a moment on Paul’s back, and scrambled into her seat. Melanie edged around beside her.
“Prisca!” Rachel’s voice had impatience in it.
“I’m coming! Gee whiz!” And there were two light footfalls, and Prisca landed in the boat. “Gosh I’m so hot!”
Alan started the engine, and they were off.
Paul found it difficult to hear any conversation that went on while the boat was moving, as his ears were so close to the floor of the boat and its motor. He focused on keeping still, and out of Debbie’s sight. Lately she had been surreptitiously lifting up a flap of the canvas, trying to catch a glimpse of him. He hoped he was too far back to be seen.
When they reached the island and docked, Paul heard Michael come out to greet the party, as he usually did. Paul listened for the other boats, and counted them as they docked. It was only after about ten minutes had gone by that he edged out from beneath the canvas. The night was dark, and Michael had put floodlights on the portico. Fortunately, the boats were out of the range of the lights.
eleven
Rachel was pensive that night as they landed on the island, despite her outward cheer. It was windy. Michael was standing on the quay, waiting to greet them. She saw him toss something into the bay as they landed, and she was surprised. She hadn’t considered him a smoker.
But she didn’t smell anything like tobacco smoke when he came up and greeted them. Perhaps the wind blew the scent away. He greeted Rachel first, and the other girls and their friends. Then he said, “Some of my friends came down. I’d like you to meet them.”
Rachel saw three guys sitting in chairs, beers at their elbows. They all got up to greet the group, then sat back down. Mark, Brad, and Dillon were their names, but Rachel quickly forgot them. They were moderately good-looking guys, well dressed, obviously from the same set that Michael belonged to.
If Rachel wasn’t particularly interested in talking to them, Prisca was, and Rachel resigned herself to sitting at her sister’s elbow, trading banter with the three new guys. They seemed older—well, they were older than the guys from church. Rachel felt distinctly that Prisca was getting ahead of herself. After all, she was only fifteen. Prisca giggled and chattered and peppered the three guys with questions. Rachel felt compelled to leash her in a few times. She wished Michael would come and sit down with them, but he seemed to be talking with Alan and the other guys.
After a while, he walked up to the group, Alan and Rich on his heels. “Rachel, you want to come for a walk with us?” he asked. “I’m going to show your friends around the island.”
“Sure,” said Rachel, glad for the break, discreetly seizing Prisca by the elbow. “We’ll both come.” She had been seeing the wisdom in the buddy system more with each passing minute.
“Aw, do any of you guys want to come with us?” Prisca wheedled to the threesome. Dillon, a dark-haired handsome guy, said he would come, but the other two said they were too comfortable to move.
Rachel took a sweeping glance around the party. The twins were dancing with Kirk and Keith. Miriam and Linette were sitting on the quay with Pete. Liddy and Becca were pawing through a stack of CDs. Melanie and Debbie were walking by the oak trees on the border of the dance floor. Cheryl and Taylor were sitting at a table having a tête-à-tête while Brittany sat on the far end, looking slightly bored, flipping a bottle cap with her thumb.
Rachel ambled slowly after the party, which had started to file through the woods. Prisca, who had worn heels, was picking her way up the path with squeals, and Dillon gallantly offered her a hand.
Michael led them up a woody path and said, “Come over this way. There’s an overlook where you can see over the island’s south shore. It’s the highest point outside of the house balconies.”
He led them past the heliport to a stone wall, and Rachel looked down over the twinkling lights of the bay. She could make out her own home among the shadows of the trees.
“Hey! I can see the swimming rock!” Prisca exclaimed, pointing.
Rachel saw the rock where she and Paul had talked earlier that day. Recalling that conversation this morning about mermaids and toys, she felt an odd, disjointed quality—a collision of two worlds that had very little to do with each other.
“I can’t see it,” Dillon was saying.
“There!” Prisca said, leaning closer to him and guiding him with her arm. “Are you blind? Can’t you see it?”
“Where?” Dillon s
quinted his eyes, obviously trying to get a rise out of her.
“There! There! There!” Prisca squealed, pulling Dillon’s arm over her shoulder. Rachel, in embarrassment, turned away on the pretext of walking further up the wall. Her walk brought her closer to Michael, who turned and smiled at her. She sighed and rolled her eyes at her younger sister.
“She drives me nuts sometimes,” she murmured to Michael.
Michael cast an appraising glance at Prisca, who was giggling as Dillon continued to fake long-distance blindness.
“She wants it,” he said knowingly, and winked at Rachel. Then, perhaps sensing her disquiet, he took her arm. “I remember what you told me about your Underground Railroad hidden staircase,” he said. “I think this property had one too.”
“Really?” she asked, intrigued.
“Yes. Not this house—the house is new. But there used to be an older house here, a smaller one. You might have solved a little mystery for us. We too have a puzzlingly small artificial cave. Want to see it?”
“Sure,” she said, intrigued.
“All right.” He beckoned to Prisca and Dillon. “Come on.” They followed him along with Alan and Rich.
Now he ducked into the woods and began following a path downhill. It wound among the trees and over a ridge, then abruptly sank down into a valley tucked into the hillside. Rachel and the others found themselves in a small hollow, sheltered from the island winds by a huge rock, which formed the side of a hollow. A tree grew against the rock, an ancient knotted tree with a smooth bare trunk rising seven feet into the air before twisting over into branches reaching over the rock and up desperately to the open air. The other side of the hollow jutted underneath the cleft, forming a shallow cave. Michael stepped aside, put a hand into a shadowed cavity, clicked something, and pulled out a powerful flashlight. The visitors gasped as he swept the bright light over the cave. It went into the rock that formed the foundation for the house, which was somewhere on top of the hill above them. There were rocks and logs dragged into positions for seating.