In the Midst of the Sea

by Sean McCarthy

  Ford pushed her jeans down to her knees, letting up for a second as he did, and Diana struggled beneath him, but he had his weight right on top of her again. She called out one more time to Samantha, and then the little girl was there, standing in the doorway. Wide-eyed and still. Frozen in time. She held Louie upside down by the foot, the doll’s head brushing the floor. Diana looked at her and mouthed the word run, not wanting to alert Ford to the fact that the little girl was right there, but Samantha didn’t move, and then Ford looked over.

  “Sam, back in your room!” he shouted, and when she still didn’t move, he jumped up quickly, and slammed the door, giving Diana the chance to jump from the bed. She tripped as soon as she hit the floor, trying to yank up her jeans as she went, and then Ford tackled her, landing on her back. Diana was flat on her stomach, pushing to get out from beneath him. He began to grind into her buttocks, and then he lifted her head by the hair, and knocked it against the floor. “A little cunt, Diana,” he said, “Do you hear me? A fucking little cunt.” He rapped her head a second time, this time harder, and Diana began to the feel the fight draining from her body, everything draining. Her head was spinning again and starting to go gray. She could feel Ford moving inside her from behind, and with one final push, she tried to move away. She felt something blunt and hard hit the back of her head, and then her cheek resting against the floor, she looked to her side and saw a man standing there. A tall man, with his hands behind his back. All dressed in black, slicked hair, and muttonchops. Watching them. And then she felt something again on the back of her head and everything went black.

  46

  She dreamed. A conversation in the kitchen. A man, shouting, and then his voice cracking as he started to cry. A woman’s voice answered, slightly unsteady, and nearly impossible to hear. Asking him to stop. In the dream Diana was sitting in the kitchen, at the table by herself, and she could see Samantha in the front parlor. Standing completely still, her eyes looking far past Diana. “The child,” the woman’s voice said again, hushing the man. “She’s just a little girl.” But then something broke against the wall, and the man began to shout.

  When she woke, she could feel an ache in her ribs, and the tenderness on the side of her head, swollen and pounding. Everything was sore. She couldn’t see clearly, couldn’t focus. A concussion, she thought, the bastard had given her a concussion. She wondered what time it was. Her watch was gone. Had she been unconscious a day? A few hours, or a few minutes?

  She felt a cold dampness beneath her, and she looked around. The workbench, the bookshelves, her jeans and panties tossed in a pile beside her.

  And then she jumped.

  Ford was sitting on the cellar stairs, halfway down. Samantha on his lap. Her eyes wide with fear. Ford ran his hand down over the back of her head, staring at Diana.

  Diana, jumped up quick, propping herself with her hands, unsure if she was still dreaming. Ford’s eyelids were red, his eyes yellow. Drunken. Still. This time he wasn’t going to stop. Wasn’t going to sober up. Not before they were all dead.

  Diana scrambled to her feet, and started toward them, but Ford placed a hand on either side of the little girl’s head.

  “Uh, uh, uh,” he said. “I’d stop right there, violent lady. Mace lady. I saw this in a movie once, and I was surprised how easy it looked to do. It’s all in the flick of the wrist, one quick twist, that’s all it takes. Isn’t that right, Sam?” He kissed her head. “And we don’t need any more fighting. Tell Mummy, there’s been way too much fighting, and not enough love. That’s the problem. Not enough love. With other people, maybe, but not with Daddy.” He kissed her again. “If we all just loved each other, like we should, we wouldn’t have any problems at all. Just like the old days.”

  “Let her go, Ford.” Diana’s voice was trembling. She felt her spine stiffen, everything stiffen, her bones tightening inside of her.

  “I’m going to let her go. Just not down here. Not in this cold cellar. Not anymore. She’s been down here long enough.” He ran a hand through her hair again. “I love my little girl, and she loves me. Don’t you, Sam?”

  The little girl hesitated, then slowly nodded.

  “Sam and I have no problem with love,” Ford said. “We know who we’re supposed to love—and who we’re not—and why, and we do that. We support each other in good times and bad like we’re supposed to. The way people who love each other are supposed to, the way families are supposed to, the way we all used to. Don’t we, Sam?”

  The little girl didn’t respond, and this time, his hand on the back of her head still, he nodded it for her. “Just like a puppet. My beautiful little brown-eyed puppet.”

  “Sam, honey?” Diana asked. “Are you okay?”

  Samantha nodded.

  “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

  Samantha shook her head.

  “Why would I hurt her? She’s never hurt me. You’ve hurt me, Diana, you hurt me all the time, but Sam’s never hurt me. As a matter of fact, we were thinking about taking a little trip together, isn’t that right, Sam? Maybe a long weekend up to Boston or somewhere like that. I told her we can go to the top of the Prudential Tower, have lunch at the Top of the Hub. Get all dressed up. She’d be my date,” he said. “Then maybe we’ll go to New York City.”

  “You’re not taking her anywhere.” Diana took a step forward again, and Ford once again placed a hand on either side of the girl’s head.

  “Just like that,” he said. “Twist and shout. So easy to do. And with you trying to leave me the way you keep doing, sneaking off to meet with people you shouldn’t be meeting with, what would it matter to me? Deserting me. I wouldn’t have anything to live for anyway—my wife and child gone—so it isn’t like I’d be taking a risk. I’d just be making sure I had the last up at bat. Take care of her, then myself, and if you want, Diana, you can always come with us.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m just trying to explain how it is. And how it could be—one way or the other—if we all care about each other, love each other, and cooperate, and how it could be if we don’t. Loyalty, Diana. Do you remember that word? And love and honor and obey? You remember that? I think there was a priest there and everything. I guess you didn’t pay much attention to him.” He looked at the girl. “I think we have to go away for a few days, to give us all a chance to settle down and think about things. The way we’ve all been behaving. I don’t think any of us have been behaving well—myself included—but you’ve taken it to a whole new level, Diana. You need to think about that, and what we can do so we can all be happy. Get things back to normal. The way they should be. And Sam and I have to think about things, too.” He smiled, pressed his cheek against her head. “Things like hot fudge sundaes. And maybe going to Child World to get a new stuffed Elmo. Maybe a bicycle for the spring. And then maybe by the time we get back, we’ll all be seeing things a little differently. A better way of looking at things. Understanding each other. And appreciating each other more. And if we do that, there probably won’t be any need to contact DSS at all. Nor the need to do anything silly—by you or me. Probably. Will there, Sam?”

  “Don’t you dare take her, Ford. You can’t.”

  “I’m her father, remember? I can do what I want. We’re all in this together, Diana. How’s that old song go? We’re in this love together,” he sang. He laughed a little. I think that’s what you’ve never been able to understand. You still act like you’re a single parent, sometimes. But you’re not. Sam belongs to both of us. Don’t you, Sam?”

  Sam remained completely still.

  “Don’t you, Sam?” he asked again, the edge creeping into his voice.

  And then she nodded.

  Diana’s vision was beginning to blur again. Fury. And her head still aching. She almost wished Samantha would struggle a little bit, catch him off guard and squirm free. Enough time to get down the stairs and behind Diana. Then he could come at her all he wanted. She would kill him, tear his throat out
with her teeth before he put his hands on her little girl again. She suddenly heard a dripping noise. Coming from the well. How could there be dripping in there, this time of year? There was no moisture anywhere in the basement. But everything suddenly seemed louder, the shifting of Ford’s shoes on the dusty, wooden stairs, the bending of his knees as he went to stand, turn the brush of Samantha’s clothes against his. Everything around her blurred just a little more, except for Ford and Samantha, clear and defined and heading up the stairs. Diana lunged, hit the bottom, and started up, but before she made the fourth step, Ford swung around, raised his foot, and kicked her square in the chest. Diana flew backward, her head hitting the floor, and Ford continued scrambling. Onto the landing and the door swinging shut behind him. Lock turning, and dead bolt sliding.

  The back of Diana’s head screeched with pain upon impact, and she could feel the immediate trickle of wetness, warm and sticky, moving down her neck, but she jumped to her feet, grabbing the rail for balance as she began to feel dizzy, and then once again charged up the stairs. She tried the knob, pushed. Nothing. She began to pound and to scream. Demanding he open the door, to give her back her baby.

  Her baby. How could she have brought her back here? Taken the chance? With so much at risk. Her baby. She had been so stupid. How could she have been so stupid? And now he was running off with her. Diana’s heart pounded, the blood from the wound on the back of her head, now moving over her shoulders. The whole thing was crazy. He was crazy. Nuts. How could he be doing this? Lunatic. No good, fucking lunatic.

  She pounded some more. Shouting. But there was nothing from the other side of the door. After a moment, she began to plead. She would do anything, he wanted. Anything. They wouldn’t leave, she said, they wouldn’t go anywhere. He just had to give her Sam back, she sobbed. She would do anything. She would be his slave. He understood what she meant, she whispered between sobs, right? His slave. She would let him do anything. Anything.

  She pressed her cheek against the door, her face wet with tears. “Please, Ford,” she said. “Please.”

  47

  She stayed at the top of the stairs, her ear against the door, listening. She still couldn’t think clearly, every now and then seeing dark spots or flashes of light. And then she would begin to nod off. She couldn’t nod off, kept telling herself that. Not again. Not if she had a concussion. She had to stay awake. She could hear movement on the other side of the door from time to time, no voices, but someone walking about, and she knew they couldn’t have left yet. If they were leaving at all. Were they leaving? Would he really want to take Sam on his own, even for a few short days? Or was he just bluffing? Trying to get her to bend? Maybe, she thought, but she couldn’t take the chance. She wanted to hear Sam, talking to her dolls, or talking to her animals. Cassie? And if she could get her close enough to the door, without alerting Ford, maybe she could talk her through finding the key. But then what? What if he caught her in the act? What would he do to her? Diana couldn’t think about what he might do. If he had gone this far, he knew he had pushed it enough for her to press charges, serious charges, and he was capable of anything at this point. Capable of following through on the threats he had made. But she couldn’t let herself think that way. The worst. If he did anything to Sam, she would kill him.

  She would kill him first.

  She still didn’t know what time it was. Maybe he was working tonight, already asleep. That would be best. If he were working and she was sure of it, she could find a way out of here. She could get Samantha to come to the door, or with him gone, chances were he she would come on her own. But would he leave her alone and take that chance? Diana didn’t think so. He might just take her to work instead. She listened again, but still there was nothing.

  She went down the stairs, and arms folded, began to pace. Needed to move around to keep awake. Think. She had to think it through, but not overthink. Not second-guess him and think too much. That could just blow up in her face. But the anxiety, the sense of helplessness, was overpowering. She heard a noise in the corner. Scurrying. Mice? Rats. Rats could always come up through the well, she figured, travel through the underground stream. Small lights were still flashing across her field of vision. In the corners, the shadows. She thought of all the times she had escaped down here, hiding, reading. Once her sanctuary and now her cell. He still wouldn’t come down here, not for more than a minute. Hadn’t even earlier. Just grabbed Samantha and retreated to the stairs. Coward.

  She looked at the stone walls, ran her hands over them. Completely solid. Impenetrable. Not even a window. She looked at the pipes overhead, gurgling as the oil moved through them, the cobwebs in the corners, and the laundry piled on top of the washing machine. Laundry left from the week before the complete chaos had begun. From when they still had a chance. She and Samantha. What happened to their chance? She cursed herself again for being foolish enough to come back, and she wondered if he really would kill them. A little rocking chair sat over by the well. A rocker Sam had used up until she was about four—a light shade of purple, now peeling, with a bunny painted on the cross board. A Beatrix Potter bunny carrying a basket of flowers. Diana remembered peeking into Sam’s room and seeing her asleep in her chair, her head slumped to one side and a picture book open on her lap. So precious, so beautiful. Days gone past she could never have again.

  She listened again for noise upstairs. Something. Anything. Wondered if he had locked Sam in her room on the second floor. And what had he told her? Was he trying to turn her against Diana? Of course he would try, and Samantha wouldn’t listen. Would never turn on her mother. Her protector. As small as she was, she knew him now. Knew what he was, what he was capable of. Diana remembered her eyes that night on the carousel, watching him in the control booth. Her eyes more terrified of him than they were of the specters surrounding them. The imprints.

  They were all just imprints.

  Diana sat on the floor, her back to the wall and head in her hands, and started to cry.

  When she opened her eyes, the light was off. He must have opened the door and turned off the light, and yet the cellar wasn’t completely pitch-black. The door was open at the top of the stairs. He had opened the door, and the room was lost in gray and shadows. But it must have been close to dark when she dozed off, she thought, so how could there be any light now? She couldn’t have slept that long. Couldn’t possibly have. She heard footsteps upstairs. And then more yelling. A man’s voice, but not Ford’s—this voice was deeper, hotter. Diana jumped to her feet, and then she saw movement on the other side of the cellar. A crouched form, a form that looked to be that of a woman, long dress, and loose long hair. Hiding in the corner, and the man upstairs was still yelling, now screaming down the stairs. Calling for the woman, or someone, to come out, calling her a whore. Calling her Salome. Jezebel. There was thumping on the stairs then, the man descending, and the shadow of the woman, crouched as if running beneath the blades of a helicopter, scurried across the room, looking to flee but with nowhere to go.

  Diana pressed her back against the wall, terrified to move. The woman headed toward her, but didn’t appear to see her, and then the man, towering in the darkness, was above her, grabbing her by the hair and pulling her backward, spinning her around until he caught her with the back of his hand. Twice. Three times. Each blow just a little bit harder. He let go of her hair with the fourth, and the woman landed back on the floor. Diana’s instinct was to run to the woman, cover her and shelter her, but she couldn’t move. It wasn’t real, she had to tell herself; it couldn’t be real. Maybe then, not now. It was all just images, pictures painted on the face of time. But then the man lifted a shovel from the corner, and raised it above the woman’s head, and then the woman screamed.

  Elizabeth.

  Diana screamed herself, and as she did, she jumped up from the floor, her position against the wall, the light back on above her now. Despite the chill, she was sweating, her forehead damp. Everything in the room looked solid, bright, and re
al where the light reflected upon it. The light. Only leaving shadows in the corners now. Diana took two deep breaths. Dreaming. She had just been dreaming again. Of course. She stood up and began to pace again, her shoulders, her muscles beginning to relax. Dreams. The cellar was getting to her. Everything was getting to her. The house. Becoming impossible to tell what was real, what was not. She needed out. There had to be something down here that she could use to chip through the door. Wait till he was gone, for sure, and then start in. Or a crowbar. Maybe a crowbar. Something. Diana walked over by the shelves with the boxes of books. And then she heard a noise. Coming from the well.

  Her hair stood up on the back of her neck. The noise was distant at first, but gradually getting louder. A scraping noise, and then something that sounded like breathing. Someone taking deep breaths themselves. Scrape, stop, breathe. Scrape, stop, breathe. Diana’s heart began to race again. Dreaming. She must still be dreaming.

  There were footsteps again above her now. Small, hurried steps. Running. And still more noise from the well. Diana still couldn’t move, her mouth metallic with fear, and her stomach tightened as it moved up her throat. More noise upstairs. A voice. Ford’s? She couldn’t be sure. Her eyes were locked on the well. The breathing, the whispers. And then a small cry. And then as Diana heard the cellar door suddenly creak open above her—a slant of light following—she saw a hand reach over the stone edge of the well. A gray hand. Diana tried to scream. She ran toward the stairs, toward the light pouring down from above, and as she passed the well, the woman emerged over the top.

  Diana stopped in her tracks. She wasn’t dreaming now, she was awake. She was sure of it. The woman was dripping wet, her hair clinging to her face, and her eyes wide, blank. Her flesh blue. She wore a high-collared dress, a Victorian dress, the dress of the woman in the dream. The photo in the diary. The face. The woman opened her mouth as if to speak, but no words came through, and as she started to climb out of the well, straddling a leg over the side, Diana suddenly found her own legs and bolted up the stairs. She slammed the door shut behind her, secured the bolt. Catching her breath, she stared down at the lock. No key. How could the lock have opened without the key? Diana looked to the window. It was dark still in the house, but the day was breaking in blue gray. Later than she thought, earlier. Morning. Dawn.