“I think that business about not seeing each other before the ceremony only applies to real weddings, don’t you?” She doesn’t mean this cruelly and I’m surprised to find that I’m at least a little hurt. She must see the disappointment on my face before I can hide it because she moves forward then and brushes her lips against my cheek. “We’re above all that is all I meant,” she explains.
I try to think how to tell her what I feel, but she’s already saying it for me.
“I love you, Roarke. I wanted to say that at least one time without the lights and cameras and people. And it’s not just because of what you’ve given me, not just because of what you’re doing for me today. You’re the best friend I could ever hope for and I don’t ever want that to change.”
I put my hands on either side of Essie’s face and lean my lips against her forehead. She slides her own hands up to cover mine and we stand like that for a while until I say, “I feel exactly the same way.”
“We’re running out of time,” Lissa says, and I break away from Essie and see that she has been there all along. “Say what you came to say.”
Essie takes a deep breath and starts. “The book. I just don’t think I can put it out there. Not anymore.”
“Is this because of Libby?” I ask. “She sounded worried that she said something that went too far.”
“She reminded me of the truth, that’s all. You tried to tell me too. I just wasn’t ready to hear it. There are too many people who will be hurt.”
“Caleb deserves more than a little hurt,” I tell her. “And your parents. I know they weren’t right in the room with you, but they still let it happen. That means that they deserve some too.”
Essie brushes her hand across her forehead even though there’s not a single hair out of place. “It’s not just Caleb or my parents who would be hurt by the things that are in the book. There will be questions about Lissa too, about why she left. Isn’t it best to leave some things buried? To leave the past behind?”
Lissa raises a hand, palm toward her sister. “Leave me out of this. I don’t need protection. I already told you what I think.”
“Which is?” I ask.
“That if I had been braver, I would have done what Essie did. But I wasn’t. And I ran. What happened to Essie is my fault as much as it is Caleb’s. My silence made it possible. Her silence, now, could do the same. He could hurt another girl.”
“We don’t have any more sisters,” Essie protests.
“Do you really think that that will stop him?” Lissa responds.
Essie is silent. Her eyes fall.
“Maybe there’s a way for both of you to be right,” I say, trying to defuse the tension. “There are other ways, less public ones, to make sure Caleb is dealt with. It doesn’t have to be this one.”
“Anything having to do with Caleb is public,” Lissa answers, “especially now that the campaign is under way.”
“Maybe he’d be willing to bow out quietly.”
Lissa ignores this and turns to Essie. “Who are you really trying to protect?”
Essie’s hands flutter at her side and then bury themselves in the fabric of her dress. “We were a family once. We were happy. It’s not just Daddy or Mother or Caleb. The others never asked for this. Think of what it will do to Naomi and to Millie and little Nate. Their entire world will collapse in on them. How do you come back from that?”
“Is it better for Millie to grow up with a child molester in the house?” Lissa asks quietly, and there is a deadness in her voice that is frightening.
“I’m just not ready.” Essie sighs. “I’m not brave enough. I thought I was, but now I know I’m not.”
“It’s fine,” Lissa says, taking her sister into her arms. “It’s fine. I’m sorry. Don’t worry about a thing.”
I leave the girls and wander back toward the bathroom. My face in the mirror is jarring in its familiarity. I had expected to look changed somehow. More like my father. It was surprising how quickly I rushed to judgment, how certain I felt that it was impossible for the Hicks family to be worthy of Essie’s compassion, her forgiveness. As if how you feel about your family ever makes any sense at all. I should know this better than most. Because forgiveness is exactly what I gave my own parents years ago.
* * *
—————
The sign at the roadside was welcoming, the stone wall quaint, like something out of a storybook. The farmhouse was visible only after we had turned onto the dirt lane that led away from the main highway. White clapboard. Black shutters and trim. Only the door was red. There were other buildings as well, but I wouldn’t see them until later. I remember that there was a wooden swing hung from the branch of an English oak in the yard beside the house. It looked like a child lived there. It’s possible that one did. After that first meeting with the director in his sitting room, I never went back inside. Once Dad left, they took me down the hill, down behind the barn, down where the animals were kept. Even looking back, there was nothing to suggest what was about to happen, nothing I can think of that might have served as a warning. I went in completely blind.
Blake asked me later why I hadn’t written to him at camp like I said I would. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t write down what was happening, but I couldn’t pretend it away either. So I just concentrated on surviving, on getting through the days.
The days at least were predictable. Up at six. Muck out stalls. Dig holes for fence posts or for a new latrine. There was some tasteless food, the occasional fight between two of the other boys to break up the monotony. There were the sessions where we were handed baseball bats and encouraged to hit a life-sized dummy. We were supposed to be working through our anger issues. Our hatred toward our fathers. Or something. I recognized that not all of the boys sent to Holden Park were like me. Some were like Caleb, though I wouldn’t have put it that way at the time. I only knew that they were not to be trusted. None of them. It was safer that way. Safer, not safe. So yes, the days were predictable. Boring, even. It was the nights when the real learning took place.
The sun set late that time of year, but even so, the rooms where they had us wrap our arms around each other were dark. The physical contact brought an intimacy I found unsettling. Sitting between the legs of a stranger, I would force myself to relax against him, rest my head on his shoulder, allow his arms to encase me completely. I would concentrate on the feel of his heart thudding dully against my shoulder blades and try to slow my breathing. These sessions weren’t meant to be sexual, were in fact meant to realign whatever neurons or chakras had gotten out of whack and turned us into the monsters that we were. Still, there were a fair number of erections that would rub against my back during these periods when we were holding or being held. I tried to ignore them. I tried to imagine I was somewhere else.
I must have been doing an all right job of floating through unnoticed, of seeming receptive to the program, because I was never singled out for some of the more intensive sessions, the ones that took place in the barn at night and were witnessed only by the animals. You could hear them when they happened. The thud of a fist hitting soft flesh, the muffled groans, the crying that came after. The dormitory would be silent when the door opened to admit the returning boy. I remember sleeping with my head beneath my pillow. I remember biting down on my tongue to stop from screaming. I remember the taste of my own blood.
Toward the end of the summer, one of the boys snuck out to the barn at night and hanged himself from the rafters. I found the body when I went to get a pitchfork for morning chores. His face was purple, swollen. I couldn’t remember his name and in that moment that was the thing that seemed to me the saddest. That he was already starting to be forgotten. I should have yelled for help, but I didn’t. Somehow shouting in his presence seemed disrespectful. Also, I didn’t want them to see him that way, the counselors, the camp director, the people who had drive
n him to it.
I found a saw and climbed into the rafters and drew the blade across the thick rope. I worked furiously, but even so, I wasn’t fast enough. The others entered the barn just as I was about to slice through the last few rough strands. The director barked at me to freeze. I did. And then the rope gave way. The body fell. There was a sickening thud as it hit the wide pine floor.
“What did you think you were doing?” the director asked me later.
And I had answered, “I was afraid he couldn’t breathe,” but that was a lie. I knew that he was dead.
They locked the dormitories while the boy’s parents came to retrieve the body, but I could see them from the bathroom window. It had rained heavily that morning, but the rain was stopping by the time they pulled their station wagon down the long drive. His mother wore a raspberry-colored coat and rain hat that seemed out of place. They were too bright against the brown grass, the gray puddles in the sandy mud. His father was much older. His back stooped, his face sagging. I was struck by how ordinary they both looked. How completely devoid of dangerousness. They didn’t look the way we had all been taught that murderers would appear, wearing hoodies and wielding knives. But they had killed their son just the same.
* * *
—————
Caleb has joined the others when I get back to the room.
“You get lost?” Reggie asks with a chuckle.
I shake my head. “My stomach,” I say. “I guess I’m really nervous.”
“It’s just about that time,” Caleb says. “Nervous or not, we’d better head upstairs.”
The tunnel that takes us beneath the church proper is dimly lit. Our shoes click on the painted concrete floor. We wait in the sacristy while Gretchen goes to fetch the microphones. While we loiter, Caleb slides up close beside me and places a hand on my shoulder.
“You’ve been a good sport about all this, I have to say. I’m not sure I’d have had your patience.”
I shrug against the weight of his touch. “It’ll all be over soon.”
“That’s not what I meant. I meant getting saddled with my sister. She’s a sweet little thing, but we both know she’s damaged.”
I look around the room in disbelief. Caleb is not making any effort to keep his voice down. I wonder if he’s drunk or just crazy. Or maybe seeing her sold off is harder on him than I would’ve thought. Who knows what sort of twisted feelings he might have for her, what fantasies are ruined by my being here?
I tell Caleb, “I see Essie for who she is and she sees me, flaws and all. No secrets. It’s a more honest relationship than most have. More honest than yours, for instance.”
Caleb brings his eyebrows together. “What makes you think I keep secrets from my wife? What sort of husband do you think I am?”
He looks genuinely offended. For a moment I don’t realize what he’s implying and then the gravity of what he’s saying sinks in. I speak slowly and say, “How does that work, exactly?”
Now Caleb begins to smile. “To love, cherish, and obey, isn’t that’s how the vows go? If you’re lucky, your wife will do the same.”
I speak before I can stop myself. “Aren’t you at all worried? Essie’s about to be free of you. She could take you down.”
“Maybe,” Caleb answers. His tone is even, confident. “But she won’t. She’s smart. She can’t say anything, not without destroying her own life as well. The ‘he said, she said’ thing never plays out well. She wouldn’t want to live through that. Besides, she has no proof.”
I raise my eyebrows and force myself to swallow before I say, “Well, then I guess you’re safe.”
Gretchen comes over with Caleb’s microphone. Caleb smirks at me and walks toward the door that leads out to the chancel. I force myself to stand still while Gretchen fastens my own microphone onto my lapel and then, still feeling dizzy, I step into line.
I find my taped mark on the steps before the altar and struggle to remain in place while the organ transitions from its prelude to the “Bridal Chorus.” There is more brass than usual. I see Lev Gottlieb in the front row of musicians. He opens the spit valve and gives his trumpet a shake before lifting the instrument to his lips. Then Essie appears at the back of the church. At first I can’t make out her features, she is so far away. The crowd turns and there is a flutter of handkerchiefs raised to blot out tears. Ever so slowly, Essie comes into focus and I will her to hurry so I don’t have to be up here alone.
Finally, Pastor Hicks is lifting her veil and I step down to meet them. He kisses her cheek and turns to shake my hand. Essie steps up beside me and I place a hand over my microphone and lean toward her.
“Naomi knew,” I breathe through my teeth. “She doesn’t deserve your protection. None of them do. She knew everything.”
Liberty
When we’ve finished up taping in the church basement, Margot and I claim a pew in the back of the church by a side door so that we can slip out when the recessional starts. We’ll meet Roarke and Essie on the front steps for their final interview. Margot takes my phone and starts live tweeting from my account. She tells me my number of followers has tripled since just last week.
“Your followers, you mean,” I say.
Margot shrugs. “What they don’t know won’t hurt them.”
She has dyed her hair brown for the occasion, with just a fringe of lavender remaining in her bangs. She called it going undercover, this casting off of her usual purple spikes, but she said it with a grin that showed she realized changing her hair color would never be enough to make her fit in. Not here. She has made an effort, though. She’s not wearing an actual dress or anything that extreme, but her slacks and top are light gray. They blend in well enough with the pastel Easter parade.
The crowd filing into the seats is clearly aware of how many people will be watching this on TV. Perhaps I am being unkind. It is a holiday, after all. Even Mama got us a little bit dressed up on Easter. Maybe that’s the reason for all the fuss, but in any case, there are an astonishing number of hats and they seem like just the sort of marker that would allow you to recognize yourself from behind if the camera happened to pan over your section of the congregation. There are fresh flowers set upon wide brims but also other fussier concoctions. Tall feathers projecting like spikes from delicate beadwork, satin roses, and even actual painted eggs lying in a nest of crinoline.
I know what Mama would think if she were here. How she’d roll her eyes. She was always dismissive of the sort of pageantry the Hicks family seems to relish, to have perfected. Getting gussied up in lace gloves and a ridiculous hat won’t bring you any closer to God, Mama would say. It’s hard work that does that, caring for the animals and land that He has entrusted to you that raises you up in His eyes. Then I would nod obediently and head back to the barn to finish the chores I was hoping she’d let slide.
Mama is awake now, or so the doctors said. Last night after talking to Essie I called the house again even though I didn’t really expect anyone to answer. It had become a ritual of sorts, to listen to the ringing, wondering if anyone was home to hear, to imagine the way the sound traveled through the rooms where I had grown up. When the windows in the living room were cracked, you could hear the kitchen phone ringing in the side yard, the one with the seesaw Pa and Topher built and that Justice fell off when she was six, splitting open her chin. It took eight stitches to close the cut and I remember watching the doctor intently, fascinated by the yellow bubbles of fat, the glistening curve of the needle that gave way to a filament so thin it was practically invisible.
“Will it scar?” Mama had asked.
“Every cut scars, at least a little bit. But it came together nicely. Over time, you might not even be able to see that it was ever there.”
That night I snuck a pair of scissors. My plan was to cut the stitches out, to open up the wound again and ensure that it would leave a pe
rmanent mark. I liked the idea that there could be something physical that distinguished me from my sister, some evidence that I and I alone was me. I had never been one for dressing up in matching outfits, and the year we turned five, I drew a chalk line down the center of our bedroom and forbade Justice from straying over it. I didn’t do it to be mean. She was my sister, after all. I loved her fiercely in that way that all siblings love each other, twins in particular: worship laced through with a shard of resentment. I just wanted something that was mine. The night I took the scissors, Mama stopped me before I even got to the stairs. She reclaimed them without asking what I was doing and returned them to the office drawer.
* * *
—————
I was unprepared when my father’s voice came through the receiver. It was the first time he’d picked up since it happened. I wondered then if he’d been at the hospital during all my earlier calls or if I’d simply worn him down. There was a dead silence on the other end of the line when Pa recognized my voice and I was afraid that he might hang up. Then he asked, “Why did you do it?” and I could feel the vibration of those words against my cheek as if he had struck me with his open hand.
Pa wouldn’t tell me any more than I already knew. She’s awake. She’s breathing on her own. That much I had heard from the doctor, who had doled out these updates sparingly, choosing her words so that she revealed what had been agreed upon, careful not to say anything to which my father had not given his blessing. It seems that Topher had been the one to find her. He had folded up his long limbs to bend down beside her and tilted back her chin to breathe air into her lungs. Rolled her on her side. Wiped away the vomit. Halted the slow wind-down of a heart starved for oxygen. He brought her back to life.
The Book of Essie Page 28