An Act of Love

by Nancy Thayer

  “All right,” she whispered, but she stiffened in his arms.

  He tried to ease the tension by lightening his voice. “It’ll be a real sacrifice on my part, you understand. It’ll take a lot of my valuable time. Lots of practice.”

  With his voice he had eased her as if she were a nervous animal, and that night they spoke no more about it, but over the next months she came to bed with him with an innocent apprehension that in turn excited him. He had only to pull her down on the bed with him to feel her pulse flutter in her throat like a hummingbird’s wings.

  At first she lay in his arms curled and guarded, and so he soothed her with stroking and gentling words. He kissed her, slowly, softly, lightly, everywhere; taking his time, taking infinite care. His mouth softly touched her shoulders, the fragile ladder of her spine, her soft buttocks, muscular thighs, the silky back of her knees. As the nights went by he was rewarded when she sighed with pleasure. He did not press her for more. It was enough, he thought, for that moment, to hear her sigh, to feel the ease of pleasure relax her body.

  Owen caught himself staring down at a splintered, weathered post. He shook his head to clear it. That span of fence was satisfactory. He climbed back on his tractor and drove toward the far eastern boundary of his land.

  Once again he stopped the tractor, turned it off. The engine pinged, then all was silent.

  As the fence line neared the ascent into the forest, an abundant cluster of wild grapevines coiled up the fence posts, spilling leaves over the fence. The grapes were gone, the large leaves rusty and rattling with autumn. Long ago he had helped his father clear a path between the fence line and the trees wide enough for a man to pass through on a horse. Two feet, all the way up the hill. He began to walk, his hands checking the tension of the wire, his mind churning on other thoughts.

  He was a good father to his son, a good husband to Linda. Was he a good stepfather? On the whole, he would say, yes. Yes he was. Although it had taken him a while to get used to the little girl.

  Emily had been seven years old when she moved to the farm. She’d been a chatterbox and pretty much of a baby. Just about everything on the farm frightened her: the horses, the attic, the farm implements. But to give her credit, she’d adjusted fairly easily. She’d been anxious about starting school in a new place, then quickly she made friends, got invited to their homes to play, and invited them to the farm. Her quarterly grades were excellent, the comments from teachers at family nights and conferences glowing. She and Bruce bickered a lot, over normal family issues: who got to hold the remote control, whose turn it was to do the dishes or take out the trash, whose friends were geekier. But almost from the start she slept well at night, ate well, laughed a lot, and with each day had seemed to feel more at ease with Owen, who, she had once confided to Linda, sort of scared her with his booming voice.

  He had tried to be a good stepfather. He had kept his distance; he’d been available but not pushy. Every night of that first year he and Linda lay whispering in bed, going over the day, calculating how happy each child was and how comfortable, how close, they were each becoming to the other’s child. They’d agreed that since both kids had been taught to call the stepparent by his or her first name, they’d keep it that way, unless the child specifically asked to call Linda “Mom” or Owen “Dad,” and that hadn’t happened, and that was fine.

  They developed a ritual for bedtime. Owen would tuck Bruce in; Linda, Emily. They’d spend a few moments with their own child, giving them a chance to talk privately, to be together intimately before sleep, and then they’d visit the other child. Owen would sit on Emily’s bed, talk a few moments, kiss her goodnight, and Linda would do the same to Bruce. Owen and Linda would cross between the bedrooms like dancers in an elaborate ceremony, and Owen always did think there was something slightly affected about it, something stilted. But Linda had felt strongly about this, and he’d agreed to it. After two or three years, as the children grew older and their bedtimes began more erratic, the ritual had changed, then disappeared completely.

  But that first year Owen and Linda had kept to it religiously, just as they always sat together at the dinner table every night, eating the slightly elaborate meals Linda insisted on, talking about their days or, when one of the kids was in a bad mood, sulking, preoccupied, pretending to.

  He and Linda had tried hard. Had felt they were doing well.

  Now, suddenly, a memory, an important memory, slid out of the vault of his mind and clicked into place.

  When Emily was younger, she had lied about something of significance.

  What year had she been in school? Third grade. He remembered Mrs. Tenner, Emily’s teacher, with her high Minnie Mouse voice. She’d asked them in to a private conference after school to tell them that Emily was inventing a series of ever more elaborate lies about the way her father died, rescuing her from a sinking boat in the middle of the lake.

  Linda had not been alarmed. “I guess that’s what happens when your parents are writers.”

  “I’m concerned,” Mrs. Tenner had said, “not because of the lie, which is understandable—most children in this school are fortunate enough to have both parents living with them. We have a low rate of divorce in this county. So perhaps Emily is embarrassed by her particular situation. It is the elaborateness of the lie that troubles me. And perhaps troubles is too strong a word.”

  Linda asked, “Do you think Emily needs to see a psychiatrist?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. No. I don’t want you to be alarmed. I just thought you two should be aware of this story, and perhaps discuss it with Emily. Sometimes children can get themselves boxed in by their own fantasies.”

  That night they’d gone together into Emily’s bedroom. Emily had been wearing her pink-and-white nightgown, and she’d held a grimy stuffed rabbit in her arms. Her two front teeth had been missing. Her hair had been still slightly damp and smelled of baby shampoo.

  Linda had sat on one side of the bed, Owen on the other.

  “Honey,” Linda had begun, “we talked with Mrs. Tenner today. She told us how well you’re doing in school. You have so many friends. And your schoolwork is great. But she’s concerned because you told the class that your father is dead. That he died in a lake, rescuing you.”

  Emily only looked at her mother, wide-eyed.

  “You know that’s not true, don’t you, sweetie?”

  Emily nodded solemnly.

  “You know your birth father is alive, and living in Pennsylvania, and is a cellist.”

  Emily nodded again.

  “And you know I’m your stepfather now,” Owen said softly. “I’ll help your mother take care of you.”

  Emily looked at him. “On the television,” she said, “a house was on fire and a little girl was trapped inside and the daddy ran in and rescued the girl.”

  Linda said, “Oh, honey, we take great precautions to see that this house won’t burn down. That’s why we have smoke alarms everywhere.”

  “But what if the house did burn down?” Emily insisted. She was kneading her bunny. “Or what if I was in a boat and it tipped over?”

  “Well, I’d be there, silly, and I’d save you,” Linda said.

  “But what if you weren’t there? You go away a lot. You go to Boston. You go to England. What if I’m in the house with Owen and Bruce? What if I’m in a boat with Owen and Bruce? Owen will save Bruce, but who would save me?”

  Linda looked at Owen. There was a moment of silence. Owen was proud of the fact that he never lied, never made easy promises, always kept his promises, every single time.

  And so he meant it when he said to Emily, “If the house burns down, I’ll save Bruce and I’ll save you. At the same time. I’m strong enough, I can carry you both at once.”

  “What if we’re in a boat?”

  “Then I’ll swim and get Bruce and you both.”

  “How can you swim if both arms are full?”

  “You and Bruce can hang onto my shoulders.”


  Emily looked at Owen’s shoulders, as if measuring their width.

  “Okay,” she’d said finally. Simply.

  Standing at the edge of the woods with a strand of barbed wire in his hand, Owen remembered the radiance of Linda’s face as she looked across her child’s bed at Owen, at Owen, who would rescue her child.

  That was the night he felt her body relax, as if her bones were melting inside her skin. That night he at last had brought her to an arching, moaning, sexual release.

  “Oh, oh, that’s what it’s all about,” she had sighed when she had caught her breath. “Owen, I never knew. Owen, Owen … why, that is rapture.”

  She’d thrown her naked, sweat-dewed body around his, she’d wrapped her legs and her arms around him, she’d kissed his face, his neck, his chest, his shoulders, she’d been laughing and crying at the same time, and though the lights were off he could feel a radiance steaming from her skin. She had been happy. “Owen,” she’d said, nuzzling him greedily. “Owen. I want more.”

  And he had given her more.

  And now it seemed that the meaning of his world resided in her body, and the meaning of her world in his. They were soul mates; they were comrades; they were husband and wife.

  There’d never been one single event during which Owen had saved Emily’s life, but over the years Owen had been there for Emily, and he was proud of that. Over the years he’d driven her to a friend’s house when Linda was gone, or driven into town to pick up a prescription or a liter of 7UP when Emily was sick. He’d led Babe or Fancy Girl around the pasture with a gaggle of giggling little girls on their backs at one of Emily’s birthday parties. He’d spent hours looking at Emily’s homework, helping her with math, admiring her artwork, listening to her read her essays.

  Did he love Emily?

  Yes. Unquestionably. He hadn’t loved her at first. At first he’d only accepted her into his life because he loved and needed Linda. But over the past seven years he’d come to care for the girl, to enjoy her company, appreciate her humor, admire her strong points, and wish her well in all she did.

  And, damn it, he would save her from a fire if he had to, and he’d rescue her if a boat tipped over.

  He would give his life for hers.

  But how could he help her now?

  He’d come to the far boundary line that ran over the ridge of the hill. He’d work on that another day. Most of the fence around his land was in good shape for the winter; he’d accomplished something with his time.

  He only wished the troubles they were facing with Emily could be so easily mended.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Monday morning while Linda made breakfast, Owen called Hedden and arranged for Bruce to be excused from his classes and to be waiting in front of Bates at nine-thirty.

  Linda prepared a mug of coffee for each of them to drink during the drive to Basingstoke; they needed the warmth and the boost of caffeine. They were both anxious, and the weather suited their moods. The sky was low, iron gray; the temperature frigid. Their sleep had been restless and in the hush of the rushing car they were awkward with each other. Finally Linda twisted the dial on the radio until she found a Beethoven symphony that filled their silence.

  Owen thought they’d arrive early at Hedden, but because of Monday morning traffic, they pulled into the drive in front of Bates Hall with only a few moments to spare. Bruce stood in front of his dorm as straight and radiant as a flame, his red hair shining in the gray day. He hopped into the back seat of the car.

  “Hey, guys!”

  Owen asked, “How was New York?”

  “Awesome. Except, Dad, we saw some homeless people? Sleeping on grates, you know? One guy was about my age. I gave him a dollar, but Whit says not to, they just buy booze or drugs.”

  “Did you like Whit’s parents?” Linda inquired.

  “Oh, man, you’ve got to meet them! They are like Mr. and Mrs. Albert Einstein. Their house is like a museum. They have more books than we do.”

  Owen searched for something, anything, to keep things seeming normal until they got to the hospital. He and Linda had agreed not to discuss Emily’s accusation with him beforehand. “Did you see Alison?”

  “Yeah. Twice. Her place is extreme. Ultramodern, like a space station. She and Whit and I and a bunch of their friends went to dinner at the Paramount. I brought you some postcards. It is such a cool place. New York is the best. So, how’s Emily?”

  Cautiously, Linda said, “Well … better, I think. I guess we’ll find out in a moment, won’t we?”

  Today the counseling room seemed too small. Dr. Travis had to bring in another chair. Bruce, smelling of sunshine and fresh air, dressed in baggy sweatpants, a rugby shirt, and his J. Crew anorak, his feet enormous in sneakers, seemed to overwhelm the room with his masculinity.

  Emily came in after everyone else was settled. Her face was blank in that hateful way all adolescents had of barricading themselves from adults.

  “Hey, Emily,” Bruce said, easily, naturally.

  Emily didn’t reply, but sank sullenly onto her chair.

  Owen watched his son carefully. Bruce was relaxed and good-natured. Innocent. If he weren’t, wouldn’t he be just a little nervous?

  Dr. Travis began. “Thank you for coming in, Bruce. We need your help. We’re getting to the root of Emily’s problem, and … I’ll let Emily speak.”

  Emily’s eyes were dry, but as she spoke her face flushed. She looked across the room at her stepbrother with anger in her eyes. “I told them. I told Mom. I told Owen. What you did.”

  Bruce had thrown himself down carelessly on his chair, bum on the edge, long legs sticking out in front, arms crossed over his chest. At Emily’s words he looked puzzled. He glanced inquiringly at Owen, at Linda. “What I did?”

  “I knew you would do this!” Emily growled. She turned to Linda, face creasing. “Mom, I knew he would do this. He is such a liar.”

  “Do what?” Bruce asked. He looked genuinely puzzled.

  Owen said, “Emily says you raped her.”

  Bruce’s head jerked back. “What? No way!” He looked at Emily. “Hey, Emily. Come on.”

  “It’s true!” Emily said vehemently. “You know it’s true. When Mom and Owen were at the writers’ conference. You came into my bedroom the first night, and you raped me the second night in my bed, and you raped me the third night in the barn.”

  Bruce looked at his father. “Dad, why is she saying this stuff?”

  Before Owen could speak, Emily shouted, “Because it’s true! Because you scared me and you raped me and you hurt me and I thought I could forget it but I can’t, I never will!”

  Bruce looked puzzled, then certain. “This is because of Jorge,” he said.

  Emily cried, “You shit! No!”

  “What about Jorge?” Owen asked.

  Bruce shrugged. “You know. What Alison said. Everyone knows. Emily went apeshit at Jorge. Then she tried to off herself. Figure it out. If anyone raped her, he did.”

  “No!” Emily said.

  “That’s why you beat Jorge up?”

  “Well, yeah. Because”—Bruce shrugged, looking abashed—“I mean, I heard that he’d frightened her, and I wanted him to leave her alone.”

  “That’s not true!” Emily protested. “You’re lying about everything.”

  “Hey, Emily, they can ask anybody at school. Casey and Merrit saw you screaming at Jorge.” Bruce looked at Owen. “Ask them. Ask Casey Mestapapoulos and Merrit Frobisher.”

  “Mom, Owen, he’s lying,” Emily cried. “I mean, part of it is true. That night Jorge tried to kiss me, he just put his arms around me, and I don’t know why, I freaked. I mean, I’ve had a crush on Jorge, and I still really like him; I don’t know what happened, I thought I wanted him to kiss me, but when he put his arms around me I got all scared, it was like he was going to rape me like Bruce did, and I started hitting him and telling him no.” Tears spilled down her face. “It was so embarrassing. He must think I’m a retard. He’ll
never talk to me again, I know it. I hate myself, I just want to die.”

  “You want to die because of what happened with Jorge?” Owen asked sharply.

  “No!” Emily lifted her head and confronted them all, Dr. Travis, Owen, Bruce, Linda, with her reddened, blotchy, anguished face. “I wanted to die because of what Bruce did to me. It ruins everything, it ruins Mom and Owen, it ruins the farm for me, it ruins Hedden, it ruins everything I do, everywhere I turn. I’ve lost everything! Don’t you see? Now when a guy I really like tries to kiss me, it only makes me scared, it makes me want to puke, all I can think of is Bruce and how he held me down, how he raped me!”

  Now Bruce was as angry as Emily. “What is your problem? I didn’t rape you, and you know it. I don’t know why you’re saying this stuff, but it sure as hell just isn’t true.”

  They stared at each other, enraged.

  “Take your time, Emily,” Dr. Travis said.

  Emily took a deep, cleansing breath. She looked directly at Bruce. “I tried to die. I thought that would be the easiest for us all. But I didn’t die, and I’m not going to try again. You raped me, Bruce, and I’m not going to lie anymore. I’m telling everyone, Mom, and Owen, and I’m going to tell Zodiac and Cordelia, and everyone at Hedden will know …”

  “You fucking psycho, don’t you dare.”

  Emily’s head whipped back at the sudden venom in Bruce’s voice. Owen and Linda and even Dr. Travis recoiled in surprise.

  “Bruce,” Owen said warningly.

  “You just want to ruin everything for me, don’t you, you stupid bitch.”

  “Bruce,” Owen said again.

  “Bruce, your language is not acceptable,” Linda told him.

  Bruce glared at his stepmother. “My language is not acceptable? Emily’s trying to ruin my fucking life and you’re all worried about my language?” He turned to look at his father and now his calm had disappeared. His face was red, sudden tears glimmered in his eyes, and his jaw contorted as he tried to keep from crying.

  A slight shadow of satisfaction crossed Emily’s face as she watched Bruce’s agitation. Bruce saw it.