Because I Remember Terror, Father, I Remember You

by Sue William Silverman

  The blonde girl, with a small group of friends, enters the cafeteria. I lean forward in my chair—1 must—as if this will allow them to notice me. I want them to see me, walk over to me, select me for a friend. They don’t. What can I do? What can I say? Who can I be? I don’t know the language, the magic, of these beautiful, well-behaved, well-scrubbed girls who live in New Jersey suburbs. Yes, for years these girls have been scrubbed in warm, sudsy New Jersey shower water, while I, in St. Thomas, was cleansed in sun and in the salty sea—which I’d thought was cleansing. Now, looking at these girls, I see I am wrong. For the bright colors of the tropics—all that I know—look garish here in this clean, white cafeteria. If these girls even dare glance my way, their eyes will quickly turn from me as if my body has been bathed forever in the wrong color, in the wrong light.

  “That’s Jane Johnson,” Betty says.

  She’s followed my gaze and I look back at her, embarrassed. She understands she is not my first choice of lunch partners.

  “Who’re the others?”

  Robin Hays, Ginger Walker, Vicki Sheldon, Elizabeth Parker. Their names are listed, first and last. “They get all the good grades and all the boys like them.”

  The next morning I don’t want to return to school. I sit on my bed clasping my zippered notebook.

  “Is Jane Johnson a Jewish name?” I ask my mother when she comes to see if I’m ready. I am looking for a connection.

  “No,” she says. “Why? What’s the matter?”

  “I don’t look like them, like the others,” I say. “That’s the matter.”

  “You look very nice, dear.”

  I know I don’t. Because I don’t look Christian—or as if I were raised in New Jersey—I know I could never look nice and that none of these girls will ever like me. “Besides,” I say, “I’m too old to wear my hair in a stupid ponytail. I want to cut it off.”

  My mother sits beside me, but makes no move to touch my hand or comfort me. Her words are measured and definite: “Your hair’s fine. You know how your father loves it.” She whisks a stray strand from my neck. “Believe me, you’re not too old for a ponytail. There’s no need to look sophisticated for schoolboys. There’s only one thing they want. You stay away from them or you’ll get yourself pregnant.”

  I’d been staring at the blue rug next to the bed. Slowly, I begin to glance up at my mother as if, by seeing her eyes, I’ll truly be able to understand what she just said. My gaze rises up to her waist, her shoulder, her chin—but then quickly I glance away, believing it too dangerous for us to look at each other, too dangerous for me to know what she meant.

  “Honey, cheer up. You look fine. Soon as everyone gets to know you, they’ll like you. Just give it some time,” she says.

  But there is no time. I want to look Christian now. I want to be a New Jersey girl now. I want to molt my tropical skin to a cool shade of winter. I must. For how can I return to school until I decipher the secret language of New Jersey suburbs, until I learn the magic of ordinary New Jersey towns, houses, streets?

  Every morning, on the way to school, my sister and I sit in the back seat of the black Fleetwood Cadillac the bank has bought my father. I am embarrassed by this car, too. Jane’s mother brings her to school in a cream-colored station wagon, and I want that car, wish we had a practical cream-colored station wagon, a sturdy family car. Surely if you drive a sturdy family car you will have a practical, sturdy family. And Jane’s mother, I also notice, is neatly dressed and energetic. She does not remind me of the mothers in St. Thomas who sleep and drink in the afternoons behind closed hurricane shutters. I believe Jane must have inherited her own neatness and energy from her mother. And perhaps I almost understand a small connection between mothers and daughters, between fathers and daughters. But no—I am not ready to know.

  During the drive to school my father tells my sister and me about his work, the success of the bank. Neither she nor I respond, but we know no response is necessary. Simply, he needs to tell us, even though, over the years, he will never notice that my sister and I don’t listen. Over the years I will smile to myself when I see my sister drift beyond the reach of his voice. Out of the corner of my eye I watch her now. Kiki, I whisper to myself. I want to ask her to walk me to class. I want to ask her to hold my hand and guide me through school. But she ignores me the way she ignores our father. She stares out the window, her eyes safely blank. Her mouth is set. Her schoolbooks are neatly stacked in her lap, her hands tightly clasped on top of them. Her fingernails are clean and manicured. Her legs are crossed, hitching up the hem of her plaid skirt. And her pale kneecap, for just that moment, breaks my heart.

  The moment the car stops in front of the school, my sister flings open the door and bolts, barely saying good-bye. I leave more slowly, not wanting to hurt my father’s feelings. I lean over the seat to kiss him good-bye on the cheek, like any daughter would do. Now, in the morning, his bay rum aftershave is strong and fresh and the scent makes me dizzy. But never in the morning when I arrive at school do I think about what happens at night. Perhaps he doesn’t either, for he lightly pats my shoulder and tells me to have a good day. His words are thin; his glance is absent. He’s planning his day at the bank now and doesn’t need his daughter.

  No, Mother. I will not stay away from boys at school. Almost from the start I notice Christopher and want him for my boyfriend. But you are wrong, Mother. Certainly he doesn’t want that; if he wanted that, with me, he could have it. I am the one who wants that. He sits next to me in English. In his shyness he barely glances at me when I slide into my seat and mumble, “Hello.”

  I feel contrary—conflicting desires, odd angles that don’t fit. First, I am Dina. Silent Dina, who desires nothing for herself. With lowered eyes she sees no one; with her silent mouth she never speaks. When Sue’s father fucks Dina she is ordered never to look at his face. She will be hit if she does. But she doesn’t. The moment he touches her—no, even before—her eyes are shut tight. She has no need to see what’s done to her body because it’s not hers. She is not the one who owns it; he does. Dina has the freedom, the luxury, of no responsibility. He does what’s necessary to nourish her body, and she will do anything he wants. He doesn’t ask. Nor would she want him to. He orders and demands, and she will acquiesce. Her sole role is to serve him, to fulfill any need or desire he might have.

  Celeste, however, is usurping Dina: Celeste, with her blonde hair and garnet lips, with ivory skin she wants to see bruised. She wants sexual marks on her body: teeth marks, fingernail marks, blood-kiss marks, fist marks, slap marks, rope marks, belt marks. She wears all these marks proudly, like tattoos. She will look her rapist right in his eyes and dare him. He will punish her for the bold look and she will crave the pain. It nourishes her body and emboldens her. Celeste wants Dina, passive Dina, weak Dina, stone cold dead.

  There is me. Then Dina. Then Celeste. From a distance I observe everything they do. But I am not one thing, one entity, either. I am shy and shamed, as I was on the first day of school. I can also hide the shyness and the shame beneath the exterior of a girl who wants to be popular. A girl who wants to be liked. A girl who will do anything, be anything, in order to be liked, anything to obscure the shame of her body.

  So, then, all this is me. And more. I am a palimpsest. Erase Celeste. Erase Dina. Erase me—whom I appear to be—and there is yet another girl, a little girl, someone else, but she is the one person I can’t see. This little girl is a faint smudge, as transparent as a shadow, her body hiding inside a flower petal, or her heart hidden deep inside a rock. For this little girl must hide. It is far too dangerous for her to come out. Once I caught a glimpse of her running down the beach as I flew away from the island. That was the only time I saw her; I have not seen her since. So how do I know she’s still with me? The knowledge is far from conscious. The fact will remain hidden for years. But sometimes, in a total absence of worldly sound, in a stillness as black as the night sky, I hear the faintest of pulses; no, it’s not a s
ound, but I feel, yes, feel the faintest of pulses, beating. And the pulse is not mine.

  So who wants Christopher? Celeste wants to corrupt him. She wants to unfurl his shyness from his sleeping body and shock it awake. She would teach him everything Sue’s father has taught her. Dina, however, will never understand his shyness. Passively, she needs for him to desire her body, the one thing he’s most unable to do. Since this is how she believes she is loved, she will never believe he cares for her, loves her.

  I, on the other hand, desire his shyness, that he barely notices my body. I love his scent of white soap, the way he smells when I slide past him to reach my desk. From the corner of my eye, as I try to listen to the teacher, I see his clean fingernails. The palest of hairs on his wrists glisten. I love his small pug nose. And how straight is the part in his clean blonde hair. He looks like no one who could be born into my family.

  And now I understand that in order for Christopher to see me I must look like no one who could be born into my family. To begin, I chop off my hair. Except I botch it badly, and my angry mother refuses to take me to a beauty parlor to salvage what remains. I steal the allowance my sister saved for a new sweater and march to the salon. I tell the beautician to style my hair in a short flip, and teased. All the way home, walking down Main Street, I smile coolly, like Jane. I admire my reflection in store windows and glance to see if anyone I know is inside. And since the beautician has instructed me to set my hair every night, I stop at the drugstore and with the remaining money buy huge pink plastic rollers and a can of Aqua Net hair spray. Tomorrow I will enter the school lobby for the first time with my new hair. Tomorrow, I firmly believe, my new image will reflect the first glimmers of a New Jersey schoolgirl. I want to sit in a chair all night not to disturb my hair, not to crush this image.

  Neither my mother nor my sister recognizes this new image. Only my father is the one to tell me I look pretty, tell me I am a beautiful, his beautiful, beautiful girl.

  It is then I see the mistake. My error. I go to my room, close the door, and sit before the vanity, staring at myself in the mirror. My hair is rigid and sleek from the spray. Not a strand has blown out of place. I look perfect. I need for my hair to look perfect, but he, he, I now realize, will disturb the perfection.

  When the doorknob turns I barely raise my gaze. In the mirror I watch the door open and my father appear. Softly—the door doesn’t even tap—he closes it behind him. He pushes in the button, locking it. I don’t turn around. I say nothing. My eyes are now focused on the mirror, but see nothing. I hear him cross the room. I feel him press against me, where I sit on the stool, the back of my head hard against him. He runs his fingers through my perfect hair, brushes it up from my neck, kisses the back of my neck, whispering how beautiful I am with my new hair style. He reaches over and unbuttons my white lacy blouse. If I look in the mirror I will see his hands on my breasts.

  But it is only in the mirror where this happens. It must be, since I feel nothing. But then no longer am I even in front of the mirror. I am inside it, trapped in the mirror, hard as glass, and as cold. I feel nothing. I see nothing. It is not possible for me to look back outside. By the time he turns the stool and unzips his fly, Celeste gazes straight into his unsmiling eyes. And right before Celeste bends close to touch him, she smiles into those eyes—knowing this will enrage him. And it does. She wants to feel the fury of his rage. He pushes his penis into her mouth and keeps it there, hard against her throat. And he doesn’t stop, he won’t stop—her forehead bangs his belt buckle in a thin, tinny sound—he won’t stop until she is weeping in fury.

  In the center of night, I turn on my light. I wait for this moment when everyone is sleeping. I must. In the center of night, even in winter, my skin smells of sweat, the sheets smell of sweat and of… but I can fix this. Yes, I must. Tired, groggy, I stumble to the vanity and sit on the stool, staring dumbly for a moment until I am fully awake. My hair is a mess. Yes, this hair style is a mistake. The ponytail was easier—just yank back the tangles and wind a rubber band around it. No need even to unravel the snarls. But I don’t, won’t, surrender. I will not let my hair grow long again. The flip stays. Slowly, I urge the comb through my hair—no, the brush first—untangle the big snarls first, then the smaller ones, with the tortoiseshell comb. I curl my hair clump by clump, layer by layer, fastening the rollers with silver clips. I tie a pink net over the rollers and spray it with Aqua Net. I learn to crave the scent of Aqua Net. I spray more than is necessary and will spray even more on my hair in the morning, this Aqua Net, covering all other smells on my body. Then I dress for school. Slip. Skirt. Bra. Blouse. Socks. I put a gold circle pin on my collar. Carefully I lie back in bed, pull up the covers, sleep a few more hours, ready for school in the morning.

  In the eighth grade I buy a big box of Christmas cards and send a card to every girl I want for my friend, as well as a few boys, including Christopher. I do this in secret since my mother would be outraged by this overt display of Christianity. I mail the cards early to ensure there will be time for everyone to mail me a card back. I receive lots back and display them like trophies: on the bookcase, on the dresser, on my desk, on the vanity. Over and over I read the printed Hallmark messages, as if the messages were written just for me.

  As the days near Christmas, I still have not received a card from Jane or from Christopher. I meet the mailman at the front door. From sitting next to Christopher in English class, I know his handwriting, and I quickly flip through the mail. Finally, on December 24, I receive a card from him. It is from a large boxed set of cards such as mine. There is no special note below his signature. It is signed simply “Christopher.” I rush to my room, close the door, and rub my finger over and over his blue-inked name. No card arrives from Jane, but I will try again next year.

  I sit before my gym locker slowly tying my sneakers. I untie the laces, then tie them again. I delay undressing, hoping most of the girls will change quickly and go out to the gym. I pull off my sweater and unbutton my blouse, trying to hide behind the small locker door. As usual my green gym suit is dirty and wrinkled. It’s supposed to be starched and ironed, but I never remember to bring it home to wash it. I have trouble with showers and clean clothes, overwhelmed by the enormity, the impossible job, of keeping myself clean, feeling defeated before I even begin. As a child in Washington I felt comforted by folding my handkerchiefs and arranging my Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday underwear in bureau drawers. Now, my bureau is in disarray. My clothes are in disarray. I am in disarray. There doesn’t seem to be time to keep gym suits clean or clothes ironed. Quickly I slip into my suit and snap the buttons.

  In the gym I lie on the mat with the other girls warming up, stretching, doing sit-ups, push-ups. My body performs the exercises smoothly. This is important. I must be good in gym. My body doesn’t want to be singled out for inadequacy. My body must perform perfectly—and besides, Robin, Jane’s friend, is in my gym class, so I must be noticed and admired.

  Four ropes hang across the width of the gym. I have never climbed ropes before, so I wait at the end of the line, watching the other girls, studying their movements. When it is my turn I grip the rope in my hands, wind it between my legs, clamp it between my feet, and pull. A heavy girl beside me struggles, but I don’t feel sorry for her—I can’t. I can’t afford to feel sorry. I must be the best in my group, or at least as good as the best. Another girl moves faster than I toward the top, but this isn’t so much a race as it is endurance: just make it to the top and down again, gracefully. I must. I maintain my form, the way our gym teacher taught us, inching upward. I glance toward the ceiling. I’m halfway there. I must touch that spot of white paint, leave a mark, before I can come back down. Only a handful of girls who preceded me reached the top—Robin, of course, was one. When she’d finished I’d warmly congratulated her, admired her form, ingratiating myself—as I must. She must like me. When I glance down I see her watching me.

  The heavy girl droops to the bottom. She sits on the mat rubbi
ng her hands, staring at them, embarrassed. Even though my palms burn, I continue. I will make it to the top even if all the skin on my palms blisters. I clamp the rope between my feet and push, my arms pull, I take a deep breath. The other girl has reached the top and is now sliding down, the rope a bit loose between her legs, using her arms more than her legs, but she’ll be all right. The fourth girl struggles below me; I don’t think she ’ll make it.

  With a surge, my fingertips sweep the ceiling. Below, there is a smattering of applause and my heart races. I know I’m grinning, can’t stop grinning, and I even linger at the top, plant my palm flat to the ceiling, push against it, swaying in the slow motion of the rope.

  With perfect form I lower myself, my arms and legs steady, still in control. When my sneakers hit the mat, a few girls congratulate me, including Robin, with her shiny hair, sparkling brown eyes, dazzling smile. I am thrilled—and still grinning. As we move to the pommel horse, / go first now, the first girl in line, not needing to wait to watch others. I run, run down the floor toward the springboard, my eyes focused, my sneakers pounding up the short ramp. A big bounce on the board and I’m sailing, till my hands grip the handles, my legs spread in perfect form, yes, I can feel the parts of my body perfectly placed and balanced, and I’m flying again, now over the horse, free of the horse toward the mat, my eyes open wide—and alive.

  Back in the locker room I laugh and joke with the girls. The shower will be all right. I will be all right. We kick off our sneakers and gossip about boys, gossip about teachers. Complain about homework. I agree with everything anyone says. As we move to the showers I hold my small white towel loosely in front of my body like everyone else. We are all the same. We hang our towels on hooks and enter. I must enter. The shower is a small tiled room, sprays attached to the walls and to a pole in the center. I must act as if I’m all right. I am here/not here. I don’t feel the spray but I see it, see beads of water on my skin, hear nothing, do not hear girls’ voices, only a throb. I must circle the room completely before exiting by the same door. I do this, although I don’t pause before a spray to soap myself as I’m supposed to. I hurry out and grab my towel, quickly dressing. But no one has said anything about my body. I’m okay. I wasn’t noticed.