“You wanted out, but they wouldn’t have let you get married if there wasn’t a baby, would they?” he asks, and I shake my head. “Did you do it on purpose?”
This time my laughter swells until I am nearly in hysterics. I wipe my eyes, not sure if I am laughing anymore or crying.
“No,” I tell him finally. “It wasn’t on purpose. I never wanted to get pregnant, not like this.”
His eyes narrow as he says, “Then why not just use birth control?”
“I couldn’t.”
“Horseshit,” he spits out and points toward the bathroom again. “You have an abortion in a bag in there. You couldn’t make your boyfriend buy some condoms?”
“I never had a boyfriend.”
Something about the way I say this interrupts Roarke’s pacing and he stops in front of me again. I cannot meet his eyes. My throat constricts and I remember how the hands on my neck always squeezed tighter the more I struggled. The harder I fought, the longer it lasted, and so I learned how to be still.
“Essie,” he begins and his voice has become gentle as he asks, “who’s the father?”
Now I know for sure that the noises coming out of me can only mean that I am crying and I realize that what I want even more than for all of this to be over is to stop feeling so alone. So I tell Roarke why I have spent years watching him, and when I am finished, he takes my hand and leads me to the bed and then lies down beside me and holds me until I fall asleep. Just as I am drifting off, I think I hear a whisper. It’s possible that it’s only a dream or maybe it’s even just the wind, but it’s also possible that it’s neither of those things, that Roarke is really saying, “We’re going to take them for all they’ve got.”
Liberty
The garden is in shambles when we walk through it after breakfast. The storm had been a real gully washer, but by noon the sun has dried the soggy ground. Three gardeners move through the space, plucking out the last of the stray branches that had fallen down into the bushes in the high winds. There had been a hurricane once when they were in Saint John, Essie tells me as she watches the gardeners. Her brothers had teased her for being frightened. They had threatened to lock her outside. Then, while they stood on the patio trying to coax Essie to join them, Lissa slid the door shut and turned the latch. Even though the boys screamed and yelled, their parents couldn’t hear them over the howling of the wind. I’m not sure whom I’m meant to feel sorry for as she finishes the story, Essie or her brothers, but presumably someone eventually let them in.
We wait until afternoon, when the light has softened, and then we run through the questions one more time. Roarke is solicitous as we prepare. He hovers over Essie, opening the door for her when we step outside onto the veranda, pulling back her chair. It’s not just the well-rehearsed routine they have prepared for the cameras. There is an air of actual concern when she says she’s thirsty and wants to take a break. Roarke shoots up out of his chair as if he’s just been told the chow line is open and jogs over to a tall dark man at the bar across the way. He returns with three tumblers of ice water but doesn’t take his eyes from Essie until she raises the glass to her lips and takes her first sip.
As Margot starts to set up the cameras, I send the youngsters in to change. Roarke emerges a short time later in linen pants and a pressed white shirt with the sleeves rolled up above the wrists to reveal his newly tanned arms. Essie follows not long after. She’s wearing red, which is not what we agreed on. From a purely aesthetic standpoint, she looks beautiful: alabaster skin, coral lips, the sort of features that once were hewn by sculptors from blocks of marble. Maybe it should be that simple.
But the color of the dress is a loaded one. Red has always been fraught with hidden meaning. It’s the color of blood, which girls have been shamed for or else shamed by throughout the ages, sequestered in menstrual huts or forced to wear a crimson A on their chests. It’s the color of life but also of death, a thread stitched by our mothers and our grandmothers with careful fingers to hold us fast in time and place. While Sid will recognize none of this, I know he’ll see the color and won’t be able to help thinking words like harlot or floozy, words thought of as quaint and therefore permissible. I step forward to tell Essie to swap the dress out for another and then stop. Women have been defined by red far more often than they themselves have sought to define it, and in a moment of pique I know I’ll regret later, I decide that she should wear any damn color she wants.
I turn instead to Roarke and reach up with both hands to smooth down his collar, then leave my palms pressed lightly against his chest. “You ready for this?” I ask.
He nods and I squeeze his shoulders to offer reassurance before I pull my hands away.
The stylist sets one final curl to rest beneath the curve of Essie’s jaw and leads her to her seat. We’re arranged in three separate chairs so that we face the hotel and the ocean stretches out behind us. Mama would say that a view like that is proof enough for her that God exists, though she would also say that no proof is needed. The water is far enough away and the sun low enough in the sky that there is no glare coming off the ocean’s surface, just an eternity painted in varying shades of blue and gray.
The first question goes to Essie, a softball about the school where they’ve both been volunteering and the long relationship her family has had with the community there. She tells a story about a girl, Maritza, whom she met when they were both still children, a friend she grew closer to each successive year. She talks about the opportunities that the girl has now, to study at the university, which were made possible by the education she received at the New Light School and by the scholarship program funded by generous donors from all across the United States.
Roarke chimes in then, unprompted, “I know that a lot of my friends back home were surprised when they heard that I was engaged to Essie. I’m not usually a fan of secrets and I know that’s how it looked, our not telling anyone that we were dating. I guess we just thought the relationship deserved a little space of its own to grow before we entered into the public eye, some time for us to figure out if it was real. So I get that it was a shock even to those who are my closest friends when they saw me sitting next to Essie on TV, when they heard us announce our engagement that day with you.
“They can’t imagine us actually loving each other and at first I found that odd, probably because when you are inside it, falling in love feels like the most natural thing in the world. So I’ve been thinking a lot about how to explain all of this to my friends, to my family, and what I realized is that even though everyone I know—everyone in the entire country, for that matter—can tell you that Essie’s middle name is Anne, they don’t see her as an actual real-life person. The same goes for her whole family. Even among the people in our town, I think that there’s this tendency to see them just as characters on a TV show, to think that they’re always playing a part. People think that maybe there’s nothing at all about the Hickses that is real. Not the sort of real that you could fall in love with, anyway. I know this because those were things I used to think myself.
“But now, being here, seeing the work that Essie has done this week, that her family has done over so many years, seeing the lives that they’ve changed for the better, well, people don’t get any more real than that. I just feel honored to be a part of it, to be one of them now, the newest addition to the family.”
I permit a breath of silence there, because Roarke has spoken beautifully. The viewers will never suspect that he has memorized these lines. I allow time for Essie to run a finger beneath one eye and it’s possible that the tear she wipes away is real. It was a moving speech. Even I half believe that Pastor Hicks is the next Bill Gates until I remember that any Hicks campaign to rid the world of pestilence would probably focus on eliminating “immorality” rather than disease. I press my lips together into a curve that I realize isn’t really a smile, but it’s the best I can do.
> “Back to you now,” I tell Essie. “What is it about your time with Roarke that makes you certain that you two will go the distance?”
What she is supposed to say here is that Roarke is the perfect partner, that having him by her side only strengthens her resolve to continue to do the “good works” her family is best known for. We worked on the reply together and it’s intended as a segue into our talking about the upcoming wedding, so that we can promote that broadcast ahead of time without really seeming to.
When Essie doesn’t answer right away, I’m afraid that she’s forgotten her line, but then I see the wrinkle between her eyes that tells me she knows exactly what she’s doing.
“I don’t know,” Essie replies.
“Excuse me?” I say, giving her another chance to get back on script.
Essie shakes her head as if willing herself into action and continues, “I don’t know that we’ll go the distance. I don’t even know what that phrase is supposed to mean. Does it mean being married for fifty years but hating each other after the first ten? Does it mean living in a house you can’t afford and working so much that you spend less time together than you do apart? If couples like that are ‘going the distance,’ I’m not sure that’s something I want to aspire to. But I will say that whether Roarke and I last six months or six decades, there is something precious about being seen, about being known, and being accepted for who I truly am. Now that I’ve finally felt that, it’s not something I would ever willingly let go of.”
* * *
—————
“What was that?” I ask when we’re finished taping.
Essie meets my eyes and it’s clear that she knows exactly what I mean.
“I thought it was good,” Roarke interjects, stepping between us. “It sounded honest. It sounded sincere. Isn’t that what we’re going for?”
“Sure, of course. It was fine.” I sigh and put up my hands in surrender, then try again. “It wasn’t about what you said, Essie, it was that I didn’t know you were going to say it. We have rehearsals for a reason. These scripts have been carefully planned to build at just the right pace, to maximize viewership for when we broadcast the wedding. That’s what you want, isn’t it? That’s what you told me and so that’s what we’ve been working for. I really believe that if we do it my way, we can get at least twenty million pairs of eyes watching live when you walk down the aisle, maybe more. Unless you’ve changed your mind about what the goal is?”
Her eyes fall.
“No, that’s still what I want.”
I feel my face soften and I say, “Good. Then it’s what I want too. Today’s interview was great. Don’t worry about anything. Roarke, you especially came through. I know this is all new to you still, but you’re a natural in front of the camera. When you look at Essie, it seems like you actually care.”
“I do care,” he says defensively.
“Of course,” I correct myself. “It comes across nicely. That’s all that I meant to say.” Margot motions to me and I raise my hand to let her know I will be just a minute as I continue, “We’re heading out as soon as we pack up the equipment and get the footage sent off. We don’t have long before the next taping, though, so I’ve put together an outline of what we should cover. I’ll email it to you both before I leave. Get back to me with any questions. We’ll all meet up back in the studio three days after you get home.”
“And Lissa too,” Essie blurts out.
I nod. “And Lissa too. That’s what she said.”
I turn to go, but Essie calls after me and I stop. “It wasn’t always like this.”
“What wasn’t?” I ask. Roarke puts a hand on Essie’s arm as if to reassure her.
“Before Lissa left, everything was different. Well, not everything, but the important parts. Before she left, the things that felt true at least outweighed everything I knew was false. We weren’t perfect. We weren’t the people we pretended to be when we were on TV, but we were still…I don’t know how else to describe it.”
“A family?” I ask. I know exactly what she means. Essie breathes out and nods. She looks relieved, so I say, “What were some of the things that were true?”
Her eyes become unfocused and I wonder what she is replaying in her mind. I have spent so many hours watching old episodes of Six for Hicks that it’s possible whatever she is remembering is a scene I would recognize. Or, more likely, those memories that are the most precious are the ones that happened when the cameras were absent, when the Hicks family was alone.
“The boys used to come home for dinner on our parents’ anniversary. Not their wedding anniversary, which was filmed, but the day they actually met. It was never discussed beforehand and of course there were years when someone was missing because Jacob was living down in Texas or Daniel and Hillary were on their honeymoon. But for the most part everyone who could show up did and they never brought their wives or girlfriends. It was always only us.”
She takes a breath as if savoring that thought and then continues, “After dinner, Mother would pull out their old photo albums, the ones from before they moved to town, from the years that they were poor, and when I watched Mother and Daddy laughing over a picture of some tent that had fallen down on top of them while they slept, I knew that there had been a time when they were in love. And I thought that even though it didn’t show, that love had to be there somewhere, buried underneath the hair and makeup and all the million ways they spoke to each other that were just the same as if they were reading from a script. If it was there, if they still did love each other, it would make everything else more real.”
We are quiet. A peacock staggers by looking vaguely drunk.
Roarke clears his throat. “I think they do. I wouldn’t have said that, you know, before, but that day we went to the planetarium, I don’t think they heard us when we came in. Your back was turned. Maybe you were closing the door. But your mother was in a chair, just reading, and your father was watching her with this strange expression on his face. He looked happy. I guess I remembered it because at church she’s always the one looking at him and this was the other way around. Anyway, it seemed real enough to me.”
Essie seems to accept this. I give her one last reassuring smile and then turn away to help Margot break down the set. Within an hour we’re ready to leave and Margot asks the front desk to arrange a taxi. All of this goes more smoothly than we had expected, so there’s time, on the way to the airport, to pull over and stop alongside a beach. The driver watches, amused, as we unstrap our sandals and step into the foam.
“It seems a shame,” I tell Margot, “to come all this way and only just put our toes in.”
Margot looks out at the waves and then back at the driver. “I don’t think he’d mind if you stripped down and threw yourself under.” I splash the water and Margot throws her hands up in surrender. “No? Well, if everything goes according to plan, you and Mike will be able to take a proper beach vacation when all of this is over.”
I shrug. “Actually, I don’t think I want a vacation. I’m finally doing work that I like. For the first time in a long time, I feel connected to something important.”
“You shouldn’t confuse fame with importance. You of all people should know that. It’s easy to be seduced by a powerful personality. But when it comes down to it, Pastor Hicks is no different than Quentin Ames. Not really. He’s better-looking, maybe. Certainly more polished. He’s a watered-down version of Ames that’s acceptable for mass consumption, but his message is the same.”
The mere sound of his name is enough to pull me back there. The floor is cold, the carpet thin and rolled out over hard cement. I tuck my knees up in the sleeping bag to pull my feet away from the chill and curl myself around Justice. We’re seven. Ames says something from across the room. He’s calling to us. I keep my eyes closed and pretend not to hear, but Justice slips out from underneath our cov
ers and runs toward his voice. I feel her rough wool socks scratch against my leg, her flannel nightgown brush my cheek. Then she’s gone. An hour later, she is dead.
I turn to Margot, and as I do, I feel the warmth flow back into my body. I feel the sand get sucked out from underneath my feet. I say, “It’s not Jethro Hicks who’s important. It’s his daughter.”
There is hurt in my voice and anger too.
“I’m sorry,” Margot tells me. “I shouldn’t have said his name.”
She means Quentin Ames, the man who promised us eternal life but got my sister killed instead.
“Don’t be. His name doesn’t mean anything to me anymore.”
Roarke
The day after we fly back, I’m summoned to the rectory. Celia Hicks, whom I’ve decided I’ll never in a million years call Mother or anything of the sort, pours tea and gestures to a plate of freshly baked muffins. As her hand moves through the air, I count the rings on her fingers and think how much the carefully manicured nails look like they belong to a bird of prey.
“Thank you, ma’am,” I say and wait for her to protest, to offer some nickname that I should use instead, but she doesn’t.
Essie pulls at her sleeve and looks bored.
“I don’t think Roarke cares about flower arrangements, Mother. I don’t either, come to think of it. Just choose whichever you think will look best.”
The corner of Celia Hicks’s lip curls down on one side. I nudge Essie’s shoe with my foot to tell her that she should be more careful. She sits up straighter in response and crosses her ankles.
“You have such good taste, after all,” Essie adds lamely.
The Book of Essie Page 15