by Helga Zeiner
Repulsion!
Her daughter must have done something to encourage Tony. How else could he get involved in something as weird as that? It couldn’t have been his idea alone, she must have seduced him with God knows what kind of behavior.
Tiara stirred, opened her eyes. There was barely any light in them.
“Mom,” Tiara said. “He’s hurt me so bad.”
Melissa closed her ears and her heart.
“I don’t want to hear any of it. Girls your age should know what to do. Men stop when they’re not encouraged. It’s your own fault if it went too far.”
The dull eyes of her daughter grew wide, then closed.
“Don’t you breathe a word about it, to nobody. You hear me? Not a word, or they all know you for the slut you are.”
With that she left the room.
Tony had touched her daughter. They were both defiled by him.
For a while, she hated Tiara.
Melissa winced. The thoughts had come back so strong, she wanted to vomit. Her stomach contracted, but all she managed was a silent burp. Indigestion. That’s all that was left of Tony. If Tiara had told the police what Tony had done to her, that would put her on the hook.
The detectives would never believe that she had not known about the rape. Not with Tiara telling them that she had begged her for help. It had been nearly a week before she finally got Tiara out of the house and back to Canada. Well, that was something she should stress when the detectives accused her of neglecting her daughter. After all, she had taken quick action to protect Tiara. What would it have helped to expose Tony? Tiara would have been exposed as seducing her mother’s lover, probably in a desperate effort to regain some of her lost beauty queen status. It would have been so embarrassing. The whole world would have laughed at her. What had Gracie called her? A fat slob.
The door of the interview room opened and there they were, the detectives, glaring at her. She knew it, had known it all along, they despised her. She steeled herself for the inevitable fight.
One of them, this dreadful Macintosh, seemed especially pleased to see her so disheveled.
“So, here we are again, Melissa,” he said. “Do you know why we asked you to come in?”
She took a deep breath. “You’ve spoken to my mother.”
“Indeed, we have. She told us what happened when she came down to Houston to get you.” He let his words linger in the air.
“So she took the money. That’s not really a crime. At least part of it belonged to me and Tiara. We only took what was ours anyway.”
Macintosh seemed to lose his composure, but regrouped very quickly.
“Yes, but still, your sister-in-law wouldn’t think so. Stealing her money would make her very angry. How much was it again you took?”
“I told you, I didn’t take it. You got that wrong.” Melissa felt a glimmer of hope. If Louise had admitted it already, she might be able to convince the detectives that it hadn’t been her idea. “I only told Louise where to look. I didn’t ask her to pocket it. It wasn’t much anyway. Five thousand dollars. Please! Gracie owed me more than that. I did all the housework, the cooking, the laundry, everything, and I never saw a cent for it.”
Macintosh leaned into her.
“And how much was it you stole from Gracie before your mother arrived?”
“What? … I … I never …”
“Yes, you did. Louise told us about it. She told us you had been afraid of Gracie because of that theft.”
The demons around her laughed. Now they had her. Stupid, stupid Louise and her blabbermouth. She had always known it would come to that.
“It was twenty thousand,” she admitted. But it had been for Tony, she added in her mind. Should she tell? Could she blame it on him? It had never been her fault. Things had just happened. And always people made it her fault.
“Look, Melissa, we know already what happened on that day, so why not tell us in your own words. Give us a chance to see your side of things. Everybody sees things in a different light. It will make it easier for us to understand.”
He was right. So she told them. It didn’t differ much from Louise’s story, except for the one small detail Louise had omitted. Apparently, when Louise had come to rescue Melissa and Tiara, it had been Louise who had taken Gracie’s stash of money. Melissa had whispered to her to go back in the house and look for it, while she was talking to Tony. Louise had found it, had quickly grabbed it and hidden it in one of the garbage bags. Only after they had driven away, with Tiara dozing on the backseat, had Louise told Melissa that she had taken it. They sure could use the five thousand dollars, she argued when Melissa got scared and worried. She had even wanted to turn the car around and return the money, but Louise had insisted they drive on. All the way up to the border, Melissa had been terrified that Gracie would follow them or would have them stopped at the border.
“Why would you think that?” Macintosh asked.
“Well, Louise had stolen from Gracie. She’d think I was in on it. She’d think we’d both be thieves, wouldn’t she?”
“Please, you didn’t really expect your sister-in-law to contact the authorities over a relatively small amount of money. Not her.”
That’s when it hit Melissa. They knew. Not only about that pitiful theft. They knew about the twenty thousand she had stolen before as well. Louise told them! They must have interviewed Gracie, checking the story, and, my God, now the detectives knew everything. Tiara. Tony. The rape. She started to cry again.
Macintosh smiled. Produced a tissue box from nowhere and slid it over the table. “Now there, no point in crying. Let’s start from the beginning. Let’s go back to where you said you did everything and got paid nothing.”
She nodded.
“Do you mean she never once paid you for selling your daughter into the sex trade?”
“What …?”
Harding opened the lap top.
Macintosh pressed the start button. The video ran.
Melissa watched for all of ten seconds. As soon as she recognized Tiara, she lowered her head and refused to look at the screen. That was so disgusting, how could they do this to her?
Macintosh watched her like a hawk. He thought she knew. He thought she’d been part of this … this disgusting, horrible … how could anybody think a mother would be part of…? She couldn’t handle it.
That’s when she broke down. It was the last straw, she couldn’t handle any more of it. When she finally stopped crying and shaking, she was weak and spent.
“You knew nothing of this?” Macintosh asked.
“I knew Tony had tried to sexually assault Tiara,” she said, too weak to fight any longer. “My sister-in-law told me. But honest to God, I hadn’t known about …, about what’s on that video. That was at the studio. I’ve never been there. Only Gracie took her there—I had no idea. I didn’t know anything was wrong, not until the day Gracie brought Tiara home in such bad shape. I called my mother in Vancouver right away and asked her to help me get Tiara out of there. To safety. It took only a week before we left Texas. I did all I could.” Melissa kept sobbing in between sentences. “I wanted to get my daughter away from a child molester like Tony. It broke my heart but I’ve acted as fast as any good mother would.”
Macintosh sneered at her. “Sure, he broke your heart,” he said. “He’s been your lover. You let it happen because you couldn’t stand to lose him.”
“No, honestly, I didn’t know. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. You hear me!” Melissa cried louder. He could see she was falling apart. “Everybody always blames me. But it has been Gracie all along. She always acted like Tiara’s mother, always put me down. I never had a say in anything. Talk to Gracie if you need a scapegoat!”
The detectives looked at each other. Did she really not know? Could she put on such an act?
Harding took over. “This could prove difficult. She is dead.”
“What?” Melissa leaned toward him. “She is?”
“Dead, yes,” M
acintosh confirmed.
“Well, that’s too bad, but it won’t change a thing. I’ve done my duty by Tiara and that’s all that counts.”
Chapter 53
Candles on a birthday cake
Not knowing is a blessing when it comes to the bad stuff, some people say. Total BS, I say. That’s the ostrich syndrome. Stick your head in the sand and pretend it’s not there. I tell you, when you lift it up again, the bad stuff is still there and, to make matters worse, you’re coughing up grit.
I’ve been doing a lot of that lately. Coughing and splattering. Verbal cleansing of my corroded memory pipes. Serves me right for keeping my eyes closed and my head buried for so long. I’m feeling a lot better now that I got over the initial shock. It all makes sense to me now and I can concentrate on the future and not poke around the past.
Macintosh asked if I would see him again. Poor guy, he just can’t stay away from my case. As much as I’ve enjoyed his company so far, I’m not sure I’m ready to talk to him, or to anybody else except myself for the time being. In fact, I’ve talked all night, alone in my cell to get my story in order. It’s amazing, every quietly spoken sentence hangs in the dim light, does a few rotations so I can inspect it from all angles, then withdraws into a corner where it joins all the other sentences I have brought out into the open. Each sentence is a brick. There are so many, I’m building a fortress.
The morning routine interrupts the formation of my magic structure. I have to conform to their system, suffer through the closeness of my four resident-inmates while eating a mediocre breakfast. Then they announce my visitor, and I hope we don’t have to share the meeting room with other girls and their eager parents who were responsible in the first place that they landed in here.
We are alone. Obviously nine in the morning is too early to allow family members to visit, while police have access whenever they want.
“Good morning Tiara,” Macintosh says, painfully formal. The bearer of bad news?
He comes straight to the point, which makes my forehead relax.
“Tiara, Detective Harding and I have met with your mother and your grandmother yesterday. It’s been a very interesting talk, to say the least. Would you be willing to hear me out on what we’ve discovered so far, the idea being that you correct me whenever you feel my account is not accurate or if it becomes too distressing for you?”
Jesus, there I was, thinking that he’ll ask me all sorts of questions I won’t be able to answer, and now he’ll be doing all the talking. Still, I mustn’t let my guard down.
“As I said, if anything upsets you, just let me know and I’ll stop right away.”
“Shoot.” I realize what I said and quickly look at his side. No gun, of course not, he wouldn’t come in here armed with a deadly weapon.
“You’re pretty daring, talking to me unprotected.”
“You pose no threat to me.”
“Aren’t you brave?”
“What’s the matter with you today? Trying hard to be the bad girl again?”
“That’s what I am. So I’m told.”
“So there is still nothing?”
Nothing of what? Nothing happening in here? Nothing I remember? I decide how to interpret his open-ended question. “Nope. Nothing that might help you to get me out of here.”
He smiles, kind of amused. “Your bad girl attitude doesn’t exactly encourage me to go out of my way to help you.”
“Then why don’t you stay away?”
“Because I got a job to do. And because I like you.”
What can I say to that. I go all mushy inside.
“So, how about it? Play nice again?”
We’re both been grinning by now, but he turns serious again, ready to get started.
Before we do, I need to quickly clarify my position.
“Are you here to tell me whom I stabbed? Have you finally figured out who the victim is?”
“I’m afraid we still don’t know. We didn’t get anywhere with that. And to be honest, there’s a good chance that she doesn’t regain her brain function. If that happens and you don’t remember, we’ll never know.”
I breathe in and exhale slowly, visibly. It helps to hide my relief. All I can hope is that Macintosh reads it wrong. He does.
“Sorry about that. We do what we can and we’ll keep at it. Promise.”
“Don’t stress yourself. I’m sure you’ll figure it out eventually.”
“Yeah, I know, not just a pretty face,” he says. “Here’s what we do know: Your aunt Graciella Rodriguez had been dealing with drugs. Your mother has been aware of some of your aunt’s activities and has been siphoning money off from those illegal funds, although we’re pretty convinced that she didn’t know until yesterday that your aunt is deceased.”
“Of course she didn’t,” I say, “and I bet she didn’t exactly break down when you told her.”
“Those two didn’t get along?”
“Love-hate at best.”
“We strongly suspect that Antonio Alvares, your dance instructor, was also involved in your aunt’s activities. In fact, we consider him the mastermind.”
“Who, Tony? The Stick?”
“Yes.”
I can barely suppress a giggle. “What has he done?”
“Well, I’m not so sure Dr. Eaton would want me to go into that.”
“Because it concerns my past?”
“Yes.”
“If you don’t tell me, I can’t help you.”
“Tia, it’s better if you don’t—”
“Look, Mister Detective, I’m not a child any more. If I remember rightly, my childhood has been exploited—”
He jerks his head up. What’s the matter with him? Has he forgotten what I told him yesterday?
“—and I have been more or less living on the streets the last three years, so don’t hold back on what you know. I’ve been wracking my brain ever since I’ve come in here to figure it all out. Whatever you tell me will help me as much as I might be able to help you with my answers. So let’s help each other!”
“Deal,” he says, without extending his hand, thank God. “Your mother and grandmother told us about the day they took you back to Canada. Let’s start with that. Do you remember anything about that day?”
“Yes.”
“Can you please tell me?”
“Sure.”
“Do you mind if I record it?”
“No.”
He takes a pocket-size recorder out, clicks a switch, says one-two-three-test, rewinds, listens, clicks again, puts it on the low coffee table in front of me and says, “go.”
Instinctively, I lean forward. I close my eyes.
I haven’t left my room for a week, not since Gracie brought me home after the session when they shot the rape video. Mom comes to my room and tells me it’s all my fault. She calls me a cheap tease. After that, she only comes in to ask if I need anything, with a detached voice, like she is afraid of getting too close to me. As if I have hurt her. She never comes to my bed, she never touches me or holds me, like I so badly need. She stands in the doorframe when she talks to me and she deposits a tray with food and drinks on the bedside table, keeping her distance and hurrying out as fast as her considerable bulk allows. My body hurts, and my soul is desperate. I don’t understand why she is angry with me. I’m like a stone in her presence. I can’t move and can’t speak.
Gracie doesn’t show up at all. She has disappeared from the face of the earth and I don’t miss her. I dread the thought that she might come through the door at any time.
One day, maybe a week later, Mom comes in and says: “Remember what I told you. You better not breathe a word about what happened—to anyone.”
She hands me a glass of the stuff Gracie calls dream-juice.
“Here, drink this. All of it. I got to leave the house for a while, and when I come back, I’ll take care of things. All will be well again.”
I must have gone back to sleep. When I wake up again, I hear two fem
ale voices, Mom’s and another. It’s not Gracie, I’m sure, and that makes me more awake. A stranger in the house is enough to shake me out of my stupor. When the door opens, I pretend to be asleep.
I hear Mom saying “Shhh, don’t wake her, Louise, I can carry her.” Wow, who is Louise? Where does she want to carry me? What is happening to me now? I’d like to ask her, but, as always, my throat is swollen tight and won’t let the words escape.
They leave the room. After a short while, Mom is back, alone, and she does lift me up and take my night-dress off. I go all limp to make it harder for her to dress me. She pulls and tugs and slides until I’m ready, all the while sighing and moaning, then she lifts me in her arms and carries me out, just like she said she would.
I’m kind of dumped on the backseat of a car I don’t know. Mom puts a thin blanket over me and disappears again. I open my eyes a tiny slit to look at the car. Why am I not in Gracie’s car? What’s going on? Fear grips me again and I don’t know why. The reason for the fear I have felt all week has flown into the sky, like one of those kites I have seen other kids play with when we drove by the park. The kite is still attached to me, there is no escaping the fear, it is holding me by its thread, but the kite itself is so far away that it is only a dot in the clouds. I dare not move.
Mom comes back with this Louise woman. She is shorter than Mom and much, much slimmer. Her face seems somewhat familiar. I can watch and hear them because they stand close by the car without paying attention to me, who is sleeping on the backseat. They argue over what to take with them.
Mom says: “I should look for the money, there must be at least a little bit.”
Louise sneers at her for not taking care of it in the morning.
“Damn it, mother,” Mom says, and that’s when it dawns on me that the smaller woman is my grandmother, and I remember that Mom had mentioned the name Louise before. “Damn it, I forgot, alright! You can’t expect me to think of everything!”