by Belva Plain
You don’t bribe children. That’s no way to bring them up. Nevertheless, Sally coaxed, “There’s a new box of candy in Daddy’s office, and you may have two pieces if you’ll come nicely and take your bath.”
The candy box was produced, Tina took her two pieces and allowed her mother to undress her. The mother’s hands shook as she took off the fancy pink panties, another of Happy’s presents, put Tina into the tub, soaked and sponged her. The mother’s eyes looked sharply over her child’s body, searching for signs. But many things can be done without leaving a mark.…
Rage and disgust rose to choke Sally’s throat. If anyone had dared to touch this vulnerable baby! Oliver Grey, if you’ve done anything, I swear I’ll kill you.… But it was preposterous. Amanda Grey had to be crazy. But if she was not?
“Did you ask anybody to give you the carousel, Tina?” she began.
“I wanted it. Are you going to take it away from me?”
“No, of course not. I was only wondering who said you might have it.”
“Oliver. He’ll take it back, too,” Tina said fearfully.
“Why would he take it back?”
“I don’t know. But he would.”
“Would what?”
“Take it back, I said!” Tina cried impatiently.
She must go very slowly. Her words, her motions, must be very calm. Lifting Tina out of the tub, she wrapped her in a bath towel and sat down on a stool to brush her hair.
“You know what I think about you? I think you keep secrets,” she said pleasantly.
“No, I don’t.”
“Oh, I think you do. I think sometimes when people do things you don’t like, you don’t tell me.”
Alarm passed like a shadow across Tina’s eyes, which were quickly lowered to the floor.
“You know nobody loves you more than Daddy and I do. Nobody.”
There was no answer.
Sally put down the hairbrush. Rocking and hugging, she repeated, “Don’t you, darling? And you can tell us anything. We’ll never be angry, no matter what. If anybody is ever mean to you—”
“Nobody is.”
“Ah well, that’s good. But sometimes you’re upset, and that makes me think maybe somebody’s
hurt your feelings. I wish you would tell me instead of being sad all by yourself.”
There was still no response. Yet Sally went on, with a feeling that she had touched some sore, hidden spot.
“I remember the day one of the children accidentally stepped on your hand at school. You didn’t say a word when you came home even though there was a big scratch on your hand.”
She felt, as the silence continued, that she was walking into deeper and deeper waters. “And then,” she said, being very casual, “there was the day the carousel came. You began to cry and wouldn’t tell me why. That’s funny, I thought. Such a beautiful present, and Tina’s crying. But maybe you didn’t really like it. Maybe that was the reason.”
Tina slid from her lap and screamed, “I like it, I like it! You’re going to take it away. He said you would if—”
“He? Who said so?”
“Uncle Oliver. If I told, he said you’d take it away.”
“Told what, Tina?”
“You know, what Uncle Oliver does.”
Sally shook her head. “No. Tell me.”
“Takes your panties off and touches you. And if I tell, he’ll say I’m a bad girl, I do bad things, and you’ll punish me.”
Don’t overreact. Don’t let her know she has just put a knife in your heart.
“It’s a secret, and now I’ve told!”
Sally swept her up and clasped her, whispering, “No, no, no. It’s all right. You don’t do bad things, my Tina. He did bad things.” And in spite of her resolve to be unemotional, she wept.
“Why are you crying, Mommy?”
“Because I love you so.… You’re our good girl. You’re the best girl in the world.”
Oh, Amanda. Forgive me for doubting you.
“You mustn’t think about that anymore, because no one will ever touch you like that again. You mustn’t let them. You know that, don’t you? You’ve heard that many times from Daddy and Nanny and me.”
Stop it, she told herself. You’re overreacting. Just say it quietly and then try to wipe it out of her memory—if you can. If you ever can.
“You must never let anyone take off your clothes or touch you ever again, my Tina. Now, let’s go and have supper.”
The weather was bad. This fine, dry snow was the kind that lasted. It was a good thirty-five miles still to go to Red Hill, northward and upward on a narrow, twisting road. A great storm was predicted for tomorrow. But tomorrow was hours away.
She had cleared her mind. There were no thoughts in it. There was only a bloody, red rage. She had no idea what she was going to say when she got there. She had only to concentrate on getting there.
The snow that had begun so lazily, so quietly, was now being driven by a risen wind that whirled against the windshield. On spruce and hemlock it lay in great white bouquets, and the black road was white with it.
The circling winds picked up speed, and the clacking windshield wipers were barely able to keep up with the pouring snow. Although it was still early in the evening, barely seven o’clock, only an occasional car was out, moving cautiously toward shelter and home. It was foolhardy to be traveling away from one’s home on such a night, and Sally knew it, but she pressed on. Her sturdy four-wheel drive could make it, had to make it.
And she sat hunched forward as if, on horseback, she were urging the animal to hasten with all its strength toward some rescue, some good.
She watched; five minutes passed, then ten minutes. The minutes crept. She watched the speedometer: thirty-five, forty-five, fifty. The car slid recklessly across the road. Recovering, she slowed down. The car crept.
Houses were few, becoming fewer and fewer and farther apart. This was the forest; those who lived in this area were either solitary types in weathered shacks or city people whose sumptuous hunting and camping lodges were hidden away at the end of gated driveways. Rarely in winter, except for a few days at a time over some vacation or holiday, were these gates open.
Between their stone pillars Red Hill’s tall gates were open now. She turned in. Passing Clive’s new cottage, she had kind thoughts. A sad young man, Amanda had said. She was glad she had told Amanda some good things about him and sorry that she herself had ever had such evil suspicions about him. In some way, she thought, in my own mind, I must make it up to him.
A thick powder dusted her shearling jacket as she walked the short distance between the car and the front door. When she rang the bell, she still had no idea what she was going to say.
To her surprise, the door was opened by Oliver himself. A gentleman in a velvet smoking jacket doesn’t answer his own front door! His eyebrows rose in surprise.
“Sally! You came alone? What is it? Is everything all right with Dan?”
“Yes, he’ll be home tomorrow.”
“You scared me. You’d said you’d come out with Dan, so I wasn’t expecting you. And in this weather! Well, come in to the fire. I’ve a good one going. Just right, just right for a night like this.”
She followed him up a few steps into the great central room. Deer heads hung over the rough stone fireplace, while above the mantel at the other end of the room hung the painting of this very house that had been last year’s birthday present from the family. Indian blankets were flung across sofas and chairs. A long sawbuck table was strewn with metal objects, statuettes, old pistols and brass loving cups, mementos of past tennis matches and gymkhanas.
“I’ve been polishing all this stuff,” he explained. “I enjoy doing it myself. It’s a nice occupation on a lonesome evening, don’t you think?”
She didn’t answer, but stood there looking at him. Not seeming to notice, he went on polishing and talking.
“There’s nobody here but the caretaker. The cook’s coming up tomorrow with the des
sert. She doesn’t like the oven here for pastry baking. I don’t know why, but then I don’t know anything about cake baking. Do sit down,” he said, for she was still standing with coat, hat, and gloves on. “Take off your things and tell me what the trouble is, if any.”
“I won’t be long,” she said.
He put the polishing cloth down. “What’s the matter, Sally? What is it?”
She was staring at him, at silvery hair, a ruddy tan from the ski resort near Chamonix, a gleam of white collar against black velvet, a slightly quizzical tilt of the noble head. Brains. Charm.
“What on earth is the matter, Sally?”
“I saw Amanda this afternoon.” She had not planned to begin with Amanda, had not actually planned anything.
The eyebrows went up again. “Amanda? Here in town?”
“She came to my house looking for Dan. Her lawyers will be here on Monday.”
“Ah, that business again.” Oliver shook his head. “I wish you young people would settle your differences. This has been going on far too long. But I don’t want to be involved, Sally. You know that. It’s not my company anymore—”
She interrupted. “We’ve heard all that before.”
No one ever interrupted Oliver, or spoke so rudely to him, and he looked his astonishment. When she did not flinch, he continued, “And how is Amanda?”
“How do you expect her to be after what you did to her?”
“I did? I don’t understand you.”
“You understand me, Oliver.” Her entire body was burning, her head swam as with a fever, and she took a deep breath. “You’re a devil, Oliver, a savage, a criminal. You’re filth.”
He asked calmly, “Are you sure you’re feeling all right, Sally?”
“Meaning, ‘Am I sane?’ Yes, I’m quite, quite sane, Oliver. Whether I’m in good health, though, is another matter after what you did to Tina.” She began to cry, and with a heavy glove, wiped her eyes. “I wish you were dead. In your grave and forgotten.”
“Well now, Sally, that’s quite a statement. What’s this all about?”
“Don’t play games with me! You molested my baby! Took off her clothes, put your hands on her and God knows what—your dirty hands on her!” Her voice was shrill and piercing. “No games, Oliver. A doctor told us what was wrong with Tina, and we didn’t believe it, but now I’ve heard in that baby’s own words—oh my God!”
Oliver nodded. His eyes spoke tolerance, wisdom, sympathy. “She’s seen too much television, Sally. That’s all it is. These lurid things make a deeper impression on a child’s mind than we realize. I’m surprised that you let her watch them.”
“We don’t allow it, and she doesn’t watch it, do you hear me? She showed me what you did. In her innocence, her ignorance, she showed me. But she knew it was wrong. ‘I’m a bad girl,’ she said because you told her she was, and—and you gave her that damned carousel so she would keep quiet. ‘It’s a secret,’ she said. And if she told, you’d take back the carousel.” Now Sally’s voice died in exhaustion. “You bastard. You disgusting old man.”
“This is the most preposterous thing I have ever heard in all my life, and I’ve heard a great deal.”
In his dignity, a dignity that could be formidable and was so now, he stood with one hand in his velvet pocket. His air of imperturbable superiority was maddening.
“You’ll be hearing a lot more when Amanda tackles you. You abused her, too. She told me what you used to do to her.”
“Oh, so it’s Amanda now. She’s only a little bit crazy. Just a trifle. Always has been.”
“There’s nothing crazy about Amanda, though if she were crazy, it would be no wonder. But you know she isn’t, and that’s why you have no opinions about the business. Oh, how nobly you remove yourself to ‘let the young people take over,’ ” Sally mocked, “when the fact is, you don’t dare offend Amanda, don’t dare come near her. All these years you’ve lived in terror of her.”
A small, lopsided smile played across the man’s mouth, as with nonchalance he jingled coins or keys in his pocket. He means, she thought, to show me how unconcerned, even how amused was Oliver, and how weak, how powerless was Sally.
“It’s too bad you can’t see how ridiculous you are,” he said.
“You think so? You’ll find out how ridiculous Amanda is, too. You, creeping into her room at night.… You gave her presents, you gave her the same carousel. Until your wife found out and sent her away to safety. And afterwards killed herself. Lucille killed herself, didn’t she, Oliver?”
On his cheeks the muscles tightened, and on his lips, the smile died.
“She went out that day when the fog was thick and drove her car off a road that she had traveled all her life, drove it into the river. Because of you, Oliver.”
There was a pause, an eerie silence. When Oliver broke it, his stance had changed. And she knew that her last words had struck to the heart.
“I don’t know what you want, Sally, other than to make these cruel accusations. I really don’t,” he said.
“I want to let the world know what you are. I want to expose the great benefactor, the scholar, the gentleman, for the phony, sick, fake mess that he is. That’s what I want.”
“You can’t really think that anybody would believe your lies.” And with hard, stern eyes, he tried to stare her down
Through a cloud of tears, she looked up at him. There he stood among his treasured possessions, saved all these years by them, by his reputation and his good works, while within this cocoon, unspeakable crimes had been committed.…
She didn’t recognize herself. The screaming voice, the very words, were not hers. “You’ll see! The smell of you will rise to high heaven.”
“I doubt it.”
“Wait till Amanda talks, and I—”
“Go ahead. You think I’m afraid of you? I’ll deny everything, and that will be the end of it. Go ahead.”
“Your disgrace,” she began.
“… will boomerang upon you.”
“Not when Tina’s doctor hears me out.”
“Nonsense. Everyone knows you can coach a little child to say anything.”
“What motive would the doctor have? She doesn’t know you from Adam. What reason would I have? There’s nothing I ever wanted from you. I thought—I admired you, but tonight when Tina—” For a moment the room went reeling. “My baby. Oh my baby!” she cried, hiding her face in her hands.
Suddenly she felt that she had gone as far as, mentally and physically, she was able to go. And she looked up at him, saying quietly now, “More illustrious people than you have been found out, Oliver. Some of them have had the decency to confess and be sorry.”
“Quite right. Most laudable behavior, provided you have anything to confess.”
“You’ll feel better if you do. You can make it easier for yourself.”
He did not answer. “You claim to be a religious man.”
“I am one.”
“Then let me ask you: Will you take an oath that you never did anything to my Tina that you shouldn’t have done?”
“I don’t need to take any oaths. My word as an honorable man has been enough wherever I go.”
“Honorable men take oaths in court.”
He did not reply. She saw the blood rising into his cheeks, and knew that he was in terror. There was sweat on his forehead, and his knees buckled.
“Swear to the God you worship every week. You never miss a Sunday. Swear that you never touched my baby in a sexual way. I’ll get the Bible out of the library. Swear.”
“No.”
They were confronting each other, Oliver against the wall with his hands flattened on it, as though to support him, and Sally behind the littered table.
“You refuse,” she said.
“I refuse.”
He was trying to get hold of himself. She actually saw the process going on in the man, this man so reasonable, kindly, and correct, whose mask had dropped, had been stripped away. Slowly he
drew himself up to his natural height, and raising his head, defied her.
“What more do you want, Sally? I’m getting quite tired of this.”
“I told you. I want to reveal you as you are, and I’m going to do it.”
“You try and you’ll regret it.”
“I don’t think so, Oliver.”
“You do that and I’ll accuse Dan of molesting his own daughter.”
She was stunned; it was a moment before her brain received the full impact of what he had said. Then the enormity of this consummate evil drove her completely mad. And yet, in spite of it, she had enough control to keep from flying at his throat. Instead, her hands moved, seizing whatever they touched on the table, to destroy whatever was precious to him. She would have pulled the walls of his house down if she could. Her strength, like his, filled her veins and surged back. Blindly, in the seconds it took before he could cross the room to prevent her, she ripped the pages from an antique leather book and smashed to the floor a silver statuette and a silver presentation bowl with his name engraved on it, and a silver-handled revolver …
It went off. The crash almost broke her eardrums. She heard Oliver cry out; she saw him stagger back and slump against the wall.… She fled.
The first thing she was conscious of was the road. Somehow she had gotten out of the house, although she did not remember how. Then she thought she remembered banging the front door shut behind her. She must have started the engine because here she was, guiding the car with utmost caution into the flying snow. She was already past the bend where the road forked toward Red Hill before she was able to come awake.
I’ve killed a man. I’ve committed murder. Oh God.
Under the sheepskin jacket she was sweating. There were pulses all over her body, things beating and quivering. And she knew she must quiet down to think.
Her brain began to work. Like a little dynamo, fueled by panic, it began to click. The caretaker’s wing was at the rear of the house with no view of the driveway. So far, only two or three cars had passed on the road; in the dark and in this tumult of snow and wind, it was impossible for them to have seen her license plate. People didn’t ride around memorizing license plates, anyway. Then suddenly she realized that she had never removed her gloves while in the house, and a tremendous relief washed over her.