Lookaway, Lookaway

by Barnhardt, Wilton

  “You have to make a decision today. And it’s one of those decisions that you have to live with your whole life. A job you can quit, a boyfriend you can break up with. Even a marriage you can get out of, as your sister has amply demonstrated, though we don’t approve of that sort of thing. Almost anything can be undone, but some things cannot be undone once committed to. They can merely be decided upon. And you have to make such a decision—a decision which will absolutely conclude the matter in question. Do you understand?”

  Jerilyn did not understand, but gave up a nod as if she did.

  “Either you accuse this boy of a crime…” The word rape still need not be said, for once released into the air, Jerene sensed, it might have a life of its own. “… and have him arrested and put on trial, for which you will have to single-handedly take the stand and convict him—starting right now by our going to the police and filing a report and having a doctor examine you … intimately. Or, you chalk this up to a misunderstanding and never think about it again.”

  Jerilyn mumbled, “But couldn’t we—couldn’t I—”

  “Darling, those are the only options. Prosecute this boy and spend the next few years, and few trials, I suspect, since he’ll appeal and all that, devoting yourself to punishing him for what he did last night or call it a learning experience and never, ever mention it to anyone.”

  With her daughter thinking it over, Jerene gently paced the room, to the window and back. “If,” Jerene began again, “you wish to take this boy to court and put him in jail, your father and I will support you. We will spend whatever it takes on lawyers, and it will take a lot, Jeriflower, a whole pile of money, since I suspect his parents are well off, that could be better spent sending you to Europe or buying clothes for a job interview—you name it. What does this boy’s father do, by the way?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Jerene, her back to Jerilyn, stopped pacing. “Darling, in the future, you may not invite to a bed any young man about whom you do not know his father’s profession, his eventual means, his status in this world. That is a one-way ticket to the mobile-home park. These are most important details. I did not…” Jerene now stood by the window, looking down on the spectacle in the backyard. Young sorority girls in cutoff jeans and tube tops washing cars for charity, lathered up, wet, receiving the hoots and catcalls of the university boys, who were bringing their sports cars, their Audis and Saabs and father’s Lexuses down the side lane to wait in line to offer up their dollars for a car wash and a nudie show, with these girls, like the harlots of the Old Testament, splaying themselves on the automotive idols, all but mounting the hood ornaments … “I did not,” she continued, a little absently, “approve of your being here, spending this sort of money and wasting time. I did not want you to drop anchor in a place like this but now that you are here you must promise me to cast an eye for only the best, most wonderful men of good family and, yes, fortune if you can find it.”

  Jerilyn said, “Mama, all the other girls—”

  “Many of the girls here are whores. Their mothers were probably trash, too, whatever their pedigree. You can direct the men who can’t behave themselves to those girls who’ll spread their legs gladly. It hardly matters what they do, it only matters what you do.”

  Jerilyn’s one gasp of rebellion: “I pledged Sigma Kappa Nu because I, for once, wanted to have a little fun.”

  “Jeriflower, let me clarify your mission here at the University of North Carolina. You’re at Carolina to pick up facility with some subject so you can work until you get married. Learn to do something you enjoy for a little while then retire to a nice home with a nice husband and have some nice children. There are many fine men to attach yourself to. Marry a future surgeon, a lawyer, at least. Trade your good looks and good name for an even better life than we have, darling. So your daughter can do as she pleases.”

  “Why can’t I do as I please?”

  “Because you are my daughter.” Jerene pulled the curtains closed, as a duel with the garden hose broke out, shrill squeals and hard nipples through cotton tops for all to see. She turned to Jerilyn, offering her daughter a more loving countenance. In a few hours, three or four at the most, this whole episode would be behind them. Jerene said gently, “You will not get pregnant here, you may not be the girl everyone whispers about having had an abortion. You may not be the sorority tramp—”

  “Mama, I wouldn’t!”

  “Last night, apparently, you were well on the way. Now what’s it going to be? Shall we go to the police and let them insert some kind of kit into you, collect some … some sample or will we wrap this up here and now?”

  Jerilyn wasn’t sad anymore, just exhausted, defeated. “I’m not going to sit through some trial and have some lawyer call me names.”

  “That’s very sensible. But what about part two?”

  “Whadya mean, part two?”

  “I mean, are we agreed that this is finished right here and now, that you are not going to dwell on this? You cannot decide not to press charges and then gossip around creation that you were assaulted—that will have consequences, and not just for the boy. You must decide that it never happened.”

  “Never happened.”

  “I have no intention, Jerilyn, of paying for ten years of therapy as you relive and relive it, and—oh whatever you see on Oprah these days from people who can’t buck up and move on. There’ll be no hating yourself and turning to drink and pills…”

  “Oh, Mama.”

  “… and falling apart over what is really a small thing like this kind … this kind of miscalculation.”

  “You don’t want me to even think about what happened?”

  “I most certainly do not. Unless it stops you from doing something equally foolish in the future.”

  “All right.”

  “Repeat after me,” Jerene said, raising her hand as if administering an oath. Jerilyn raised her hand warily as her mother pronounced, “I am a Jarvis woman.”

  “I’m a Jarvis woman.”

  “There will be much in life that will not go our way.”

  Jerilyn rolled her eyes, but said it.

  “But we will make our choices clearly and never look back.”

  Jerilyn dutifully repeated that as well.

  “And this misadventure is now officially behind me.”

  “And this misadventure, Mama, is now officially behind me.”

  Jerene now sat on the bedside and put her arm around her daughter. “Now don’t you feel a little better? It’s done, and now you can move on. I might have thought a hundred times about whether I should have married your father. He should have married a Civil War cannon, I think.”

  Jerilyn smiled again, then chuckled, the first laughter since the assault.

  “But I made up my mind not to be one of those unhappy women. One of those women who is always second-guessing herself, trade up, do better, outthink, overthink—there’s no future in it. He’s who I married. I was there at the altar, I could have said no, but I said yes, and that’s the end of it. You cannot go through life regretting or second-guessing everything.”

  “No, Mama.”

  “You can control what you do from here on out, so let’s dwell on that, Jeriflower.” Jerene kissed her daughter’s cheek. “Oh your hair smells nice. It must’ve cost the earth whatever you put in it.”

  “It’s just old bargain shampoo, Mama.”

  Jerene retrieved the purse she had laid on the desktop. Jerilyn had two hundred-dollar bills pressed into her hand. “Well, no bargain goods for this pretty eligible young woman, with her debut coming up just around the corner. You buy the best thing there is for my best little angel, hm?” Another kiss, and a tighter hug. “Now who was this boy?”

  Jerilyn faltered. “What does it matter? I thought it was behind us.”

  “No, you’re putting it behind you, darling. It is not quite over for your mother. His parents shall be made aware of their son’s behavior—”

  “Oh Mama,
no.”

  “I will have his name.”

  * * *

  This could have waited until another day, a late afternoon without Jerene’s Mint by Gaslight scheduled to begin in five hours, but the boy in question hailed from Durham, and the parents’ address was easily found with the help of a service station map. In any event, Jerene reflected that in another hour, three at most, this would all be behind them and then she could focus on her little speech tonight. A nice two-hour drive back home where she could rehearse and practice—just perfect.

  Jerene pulled up into the driveway, 683 Grosvenor Lane, in an upscale neighborhood near the Southpoint Mall, not a mile from the interstate. Not a fine old district of columned houses and edenic vegetation, but something newer, something not there ten years ago. Jerene had seen more vulgar mansions—the inside would tell the tale. It wasn’t polite to just drop in. Manners, even in a crisis. Though yards from their front door, she called the MacArthurs’ number.

  “My name is Jerene Johnston and I am parked in your driveway,” she began when Mrs. MacArthur answered. “I am sorry to disturb you on a Sunday but there is something we must urgently discuss concerning our children, my daughter Jerilyn, and your son Luke.”

  Moments later, Jerene was met at the door. Mrs. MacArthur was in her early forties, lovely, an oval face with large brown eyes and a small mouth that played successfully at a smile even in repose. Still dressed from church, perhaps. Custom designer, a small shop in town …

  “I take it this is not a happy call,” Belinda MacArthur said graciously, the right note of concern in her voice.

  “Do you already know what this is about?” Jerene asked.

  Belinda paused. “No,” she said simply. “I’ll get some coffee.”

  She does too know, thought Jerene. The woman has given away the game already. Their little darling has been in trouble with girls before. Jerene entered the foyer, seeing a golf bag and clubs leaned against a dark wood table; perhaps Mr. MacArthur was bound for the golf course … Louis Vuitton bags with a pouch for a mobile phone, Jerene noted, and a bouquet of gleaming silver-headed Nike clubs within.

  “Welcome, welcome,” boomed Lucas J. MacArthur Sr., a bearish man, much older than his wife, dressed in high-end leisure wear. Sixty-something. Belinda must be the second wife; a first wife is probably eating him alive with alimony. Good. Perhaps daddy can’t keep it in his pants any more than sonny can, in which case he is practiced in the art of paying to make trouble go away. “What can we do for you?” Mr. MacArthur purred, directing Jerene into the living room.

  “I’m afraid it is a most unpleasant business,” she said, meeting his gaze without a flinch.

  “We should wait until Belinda brings in the coffee. She’d like to hear.”

  Jerene faintly smiled. All right, who was the power in this family, who had the name to protect? Who was more scared of scandal? Jerene assessed the living room. Acceptable taste but nothing very fine. The glass-fronted cabinets were Thomasville, not antique, all newish. A Persian rug of no great antiquity or distinction, maybe not even Middle Eastern, baubles, odds and ends, small statuary (possibly from Pier 1), oil reproductions of the English countryside, a fox-and-hounds lithograph over the fireplace, not a trace of originality. The first wife is probably in the good home, Jerene figured; this one had to be moved into quickly and filled hurriedly, so as not to look empty. There was the sound of a coffeemaker whirring from the kitchen. Sailing magazines—they must have a boat. The door slowly opened, revealing a three-second glimpse of the kitchen: French copper cookware hanging from hooks, a pasta maker, granite countertops, Illy, Le Creuset, Miele … Belinda’s domain, so he has spared no expense in pleasing her. Belinda approached with the tray and coffee things. China cups and saucers, not just any old mugs from the kitchen, no instant coffee blasted in a microwave. Belinda wanted her to see they were refined people, too.

  Belinda poured well, placing the cup on the saucer and not spilling a drop as she poured with her left hand; the saucer and cup were extended with balletic grace. Jerene upped her assessment: he married the college-era sorority girl for Wife Number One, then he married society for Wife Number Two, once he made partner. He didn’t just marry his secretary. Position and reputation are important to him.

  “I suppose, then, we might as well have it all,” said Lucas, leaning forward.

  “My daughter—and there is no easy way to put this—tells me that she was assaulted by your son. It happened in a bedroom, in the Zeta Pi house. There had been a wild party—‘Hell Week’ they call it—with the boys violently intoxicated beforehand. My daughter had lain down in a bed, not feeling well, when Luke…” Jerene paused for effect, terrifying her listeners that she might cry or break down. “She had her clothes on, when he … I know you can’t possibly want to hear this about your son.”

  Belinda was all empathy: “We’re so sorry that…” But she trailed off as Lucas shot her a look. Ah, the woman must never play cards for money, thought Jerene.

  “Honeybun,” Lucas said to his wife, “will it be all right if Mrs. Johnston and I have a little talk, privately.”

  She nodded, relieved, and left the room, pulling the double doors closed behind her.

  Lucas folded his hands on his belly and leaned back in his chair sagely. “She’s not Luke’s real mother—his stepmother.”

  Jerene accepted this with a slight nod.

  “I don’t think, Mrs. Johnston, my son is capable of … of assaulting your daughter. It’s not in his nature—”

  “My Jerilyn has not showered. Or washed her torn clothes. She has not gone to the police yet, or the doctor’s.”

  He was utterly attentive.

  Jerene decided to wade in a little deeper. “Jerilyn, though she was upset, put a brave face on it and went down to breakfast with the other Sigma girls and brought up his name. It would seem Luke already has a reputation of sorts.”

  Lucas stared at Jerene and Jerene, chin high, stared back, expertly holding her saucer and sipping from her coffee cup without breaking his stare. “Perhaps you should call your son and ask about his side of the story.”

  “I will do just that.” Yet he didn’t move.

  “We have a name in Charlotte, Mr. MacArthur. My husband was a Republican city councilman; despite the commonness of the Johnston last name, we are prominent and…” Another tactical pause. “… and I assure you, I would no more make something like this up, or bring this sort of attention to my child and family, than I would shoot the president.”

  She sensed him sizing her up, the clothes, the hair, the bearing. Lucas MacArthur reached for the remote phone on a nearby end table. He speed-dialed his son. His son was still asleep. “Get him up,” Lucas growled to a roommate. Finally, his son came on and his father asked if he knew Jerilyn Johnston from Sigma Kappa Nu.

  “Uh-huh,” mumbled Mr. MacArthur. “Never heard of her?”

  He looked at Jerene, whose expression was stone.

  “Son, this is important. Were you with her last night?” He listened. “Who were you with?” A pause. “What was her name?” Lucas closed his eyes for a full two seconds. “So you do know her.”

  But Jerene was not prepared for what happened next: Lucas mumbled a few yesses, an “Oh really?” then hung up on his son, in the middle of what seemed a long explanation, and flung the phone into the bricks above the fireplace, smashing it. Jerene jumped in her chair, wondering what this moment of rage would lead to … but that gesture was the whole of the storm. Jerene sensed he had been here before, another mother in his living room, another girl with a court case, another incident. Jerene returned to granite ineluctability. In another half hour, forty minutes maybe, she would be in her Mercedes on her way to see if the caterers had obeyed her about the narrow-stem cocktail glasses, all of this over.

  “What do you intend to do?” he asked.

  “We’re both parents,” she said, softening. “I want a trial no more than you want a trial. You will hire someone to destroy
my Jerilyn and my husband will most assuredly call in the A-team from his former law firm to destroy your son. The question is what are you prepared to do?”

  Lucas seemed to have shrunk in size. “What am I prepared…” he repeated timidly.

  “What are you prepared to do to make this right?”

  “You mean, you need money—”

  “We hardly need money. However, if my daughter is pregnant, it will be most unfortunate. I will not have her reputation ruined, her chances for a good marriage obliterated. Her brother is a prominent minister in Charlotte,” she said piously. “We do not believe in abortion. We are active in family values politics.” Jerene briefly flashed on her telling both daughters that she would go through the kitchen drawers and find sufficient implements to perform a five-minute abortion at home if her daughters dared get knocked up in high school. Moving along. “… we would have to construct an elaborate scenario by which my daughter studied overseas and was out of sight for the term of her pregnancy. We would have to delay her debut. She would be showing by this winter, so it would mean a semester out of school.”

  Lucas shifted in his chair; his eyes showed something akin to relief. A price was going to be named, after all. Jerene could see the weight lift off him as she spoke. Money, he was thinking—she will go away and sweep it under the carpet for a check—a check he could write easily!

  She sipped her coffee, to make him wait a little longer. “Switzerland for foreign language study, Paris for art history—none of that is cheap. I do not intend to have her sleeping with backpackers in train stations. Good hotels, hostels for young women run by the Josephine Sisters.” Jerene had just seen a PBS special on the Josephine order two nights before.

  Lucas nodded eagerly. “That could well be ten thousand—”

  “Twenty thousand, so far, I should think. Sorority dues, tuition, all of her studies interrupted, while she’s in hiding, like a fugitive. She’s not bright enough for this sort of disruption; I envision having to hire a tutor. Doctors, obstetricians, of course she should have the finest health care. And I do not need to tell you about the counseling ahead, her sense of guilt and shame, the pain of giving up a child.” She drew a difficult breath and this time it was not playacted.