Her father did not, and Elisabeth watched Miss Hunnefield draw four vials of Jacqueline’s blood, corking each tube when it was full. She set three of the vials in the rack, and the fourth she dropped into a wicker dustbin beneath the bed.
“We have to let her rest now,” Miss Hunnefield said. “One hour, and by then the drawn blood will be distilled and free of the influenza. But, darling”—she turned to Elisabeth—“will you please stay here with her? Your breath will help clarify the air, all the more because you’re sisters.”
Yes, sisters. Of course her breath would help clarify the air, and of course she would stay. Elisabeth had even slept in the room the night before, curled up on the hardwood floor in a nest of blankets. She had no plans to leave Jacqueline. Not ever.
And as soon as her father and Miss Hunnefield left the room, Elisabeth crouched and reached for the dustbin beneath the bed. The vial was still faintly warm, like milk still fresh in a bucket, and for a moment Elisabeth simply held the tube, rolling it around in her palm. The blood moved strangely—not sloshing but shifting, sliding around inside the vial with slow, weighty listlessness. Finally, Elisabeth uncorked the tube, and without hesitation she tipped back her head and drank. How sweet it had tasted, even sweeter than she had imagined, like the glycerin of a cherry pie.
And at last, she came down with it. A few days later, the sickness hit her, and for a week she fought and sweated through it. Jacqueline was still recovering from her own, and their father pushed their beds together and let them sleep in the same room.
What bittersweet pleasure she had taken in that illness—what pleasure, and what pride. She could tell that Jacqueline took pleasure in her sickness, too. Not with spite or maliciousness; it simply felt right for them to suffer together, and to suffer for each other. To Elisabeth’s mind, and to Jacqueline’s as well, it was only natural. They were one and the same. Kindred, then and forever. If one of them suffered, both of them suffered.
* * *
—
Mama?” Margaret said now, and the sound of her voice made Elisabeth open her eyes. With her elbow propped on the table, she had drifted into an uneasy sleep. Margaret was standing outside the open door of the work shed, dressed in her parka and boots.
“There’s my girl,” Elisabeth said, as though she had expected her all along. She extended one hand, and Margaret walked forward. They embraced, and the touch of Margaret’s head against her breasts almost pulled Elisabeth back to sleep. Then Margaret spoke.
“I’m sorry I called you a name,” she said. “I’m sorry I fought with you.”
The episode at school and their subsequent fight seemed so long ago, but it was only yesterday. God, was it really? Time was moving so slowly these days, and yet so quickly.
“I’m sorry, too,” Elisabeth said.
They were quiet for a while, and neither of them moved. With Margaret standing and Elisabeth on the stool, they held each other as if the full power of the cold had rushed inside the work shed and frozen them instantly in place. Elisabeth closed her eyes.
“I don’t really hate you,” Margaret said.
“I know.”
“And I’m sorry I made Papa hit me.”
Elisabeth nodded. “I know.” A lump caught in her throat like the pit of a peach, but she forced herself to swallow, hoping that her voice would stay steady with what she had to say next. “You—” she began. “You’re not going to run away from me, are you?”
And even though Margaret answered almost immediately, the air inside the work shed seemed to shudder, a force that Elisabeth felt in her bones.
“No,” Margaret said, “I won’t,” and she pulled away. She stood facing her now, and there was something in Margaret’s expression that reminded Elisabeth of Alfred, a certain keenness in her lips, an intensity in her gaze. “What happened to Jacqueline?” she said.
Elisabeth watched her. “You know what happened,” and that was true, though Margaret knew only the basics. The outline.
“She disappeared,” Margaret said. “The whole town looked for her, but they couldn’t find her.”
Elisabeth nodded.
“But where did she go? Why did she run away, and why didn’t she come back?”
I don’t know, Elisabeth almost said, but she stopped herself. What did she know? Or rather, what did she believe? “She didn’t come back,” Elisabeth said, “because she wasn’t able.”
“What do you mean?”
“She didn’t run away, exactly. She was taken.”
“Who took her?”
She was only speaking to her daughter, and she was speaking of things—details, shading—that even she couldn’t know for sure. And yet, Elisabeth felt in that moment that her words would be a commitment to something, as if whatever she spoke would be codified as the truth. And sure enough, when she finally spoke, that was what it felt like. The truth. The facts, and of all people, she had gotten those facts from a person who had nearly killed her.
“A man,” Elisabeth said. “A man who tricked her into thinking he was her friend.”
“What was his name?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why did he take her?”
Elisabeth swallowed. “Because he wanted to hurt her.”
“You mean he wanted to rape her?”
She couldn’t help but look away when Margaret said that. Yes was the answer. Undoubtedly, yes, but it wasn’t the answer that crushed her. It was Margaret’s question, and the very fact that she had known to ask it. And yet, was she really surprised? Margaret was twelve years old, and in those years—somewhere, somehow—she had read, had heard, had come to know that word and all its meaning. She had gone through some terrible rite of passage. This horrifying life, it came for everyone. Elisabeth lifted her eyes, and she nodded, but Margaret didn’t flinch.
“Did he kill her, too?” she said.
And again Elisabeth felt as if she was bringing the truth into being, and this time she answered even more quickly, and more firmly.
“No,” she said. “She’s alive.”
“But where is she? Is she okay?”
“I don’t know, but I’m trying to figure that out.”
Margaret stepped closer. “You’re looking for her.” She glanced at the table. “That’s what you’ve been doing all this time, right?”
“That’s right. And I can find her if I keep looking. I’m certain I can.”
“We can search for her together,” Margaret said. She was working hard to restrain herself, but the trembling giddiness in her voice was unmistakable. “I can help you, Mama. We can be a team. We can solve the mystery.”
But Elisabeth only shook her head. She was dealing with a madman. A murderer. Would she bet her life that he could help her? Yes, but would she bet Margaret’s life, too?
She couldn’t. There had to be another way. A compromise. Alfred was playing a game with her, and she had to devise a new set of rules. Elisabeth reached out, pulled her daughter close again. She held her tightly against her body, and she wished that she could cling to this child forever.
“No,” Elisabeth said, closing her eyes. “This is something I have to do by myself,” but again the air in the work shed seemed to shudder.
CHAPTER 33
Sacrifice. Suffering. And more specifically, suffering together. If what Alfred claimed was true, then she had failed her sister beyond measure. She didn’t like imagining the awful things that Jacqueline must have endured, but like the intruding fantasies of Mack’s murder, Elisabeth couldn’t help herself. And as Jacqueline had suffered through her entire adolescence and adulthood, what had Elisabeth been doing? Going to school. Earning her associate’s degree. Getting married. Raising Margaret. Living life with peacefulness and ease. The tranquility with which she had passed through life now felt like something to be ashamed of, but Elisabeth had every intentio
n of evening the scales, however fractionally. In fact, she would start today.
“Where’s Margaret?”
Alfred was standing just inside the door to the visitation room. Elisabeth was seated, but now she stood.
“She’s not here. I didn’t bring her with me.”
“Then we can’t—”
“Hear me out,” Elisabeth said. “I brought something for you.”
She held it out for him to take: a pearloid photo album as thick as a dictionary. It held hundreds of pictures, spanning Elisabeth’s childhood through just last month. Alfred walked forward, and he took it. For a minute, in silence, he thumbed through the album, but his eyes stayed narrow with skepticism and displeasure.
“Is this supposed to be a substitute for what I requested?”
“No,” Elisabeth said, “but I’m hoping it’s a start.”
She stepped closer to him, feeling light on her feet. She had been drinking. Before leaving the house that afternoon, she had drunk four glasses of Kentucky Tavern whisky, each of them diluted only with ice. As she tossed back the final glass, she realized that Kentucky Tavern had been the brand she once drank with Mack, and something far fiercer than the whisky burned inside her throat. But she made herself forget about that now.
“I want to talk about this,” she said. “I want to work out a different exchange.”
If he already sensed what she was getting at, Alfred didn’t let on. He closed the album and set it down on the table.
“I made myself very clear.”
“You did.”
“There’s no room for negotiating.”
“We’re just talking.”
“There’s nothing more to talk about.”
“Please,” Elisabeth said. Gingerly, like a girl taking the hand of her date at a dance, she reached for him. And Alfred didn’t shy away. She pulled him to the row of chairs, and they sat. “There’s got to be something else we can do.”
“There’s not. I’ve made this very simple for you. It’s Margaret visiting me here, or it’s nothing.”
“I don’t like the police any more than you do,” Elisabeth said. “Believe me: I’m not going to talk to them about anything. Truly, that’s the last thing I’d do. If this is really a matter of trust, you can trust me absolutely when it comes to the police.”
But Alfred only shook his head. “Margaret,” he repeated. “Margaret has to visit me.”
“I can’t tell Margaret what to do, not when it comes to a thing like this. Even if I agreed to this, it’s not my decision to make. It should be hers.”
“Then let her make the decision. She’s not a child anymore. Tell her what’s going on, and tell her what I asked for.”
She brushed that off. “What more would you want?” She pushed the album toward him. “You can have that, and you can have anything else you want.” Anything. “I’ll give you a hundred more photographs of myself. A thousand. I’ll visit you every day, if you’d like that. I’ll bring you food, alcohol, cigarettes, money, if it has any value here. Just tell me what you want, what else you want, and I’ll give it to you.”
And then he was on her. He lunged forward and kissed her, hard, and she kissed him back. Their teeth knocked together. They pushed and pulled. He tasted like rawhide, and his breath felt as hot and wet as steam from a kettle. His hand was in her hair, and when he tensed his fingers, he pulled at her scalp, and she couldn’t deny that what she felt was more pleasure than pain. But just as quickly as Alfred had moved in, he moved away from her.
“This was what you planned,” he said, still gripping her hair, “wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“This is what you’re offering.”
“Yes.”
They were kissing again, and something even more than that—grappling awkwardly with each other, groping and pushing and heaving. Her chair slid sideways, and she almost toppled to the floor. Somehow, she stood, but he stayed on top of her, and together they stumbled across the room, Alfred pushing forward as she wheeled back, the two of them entangled all the while. She slammed against the room’s farthest wall, the same that he had pinned her against when he throttled her, but today Elisabeth felt no fear or panic. She wanted this. She wanted to give him whatever he wished to take, if that would keep them going.
“You’ll come here every day,” Alfred said.
“Yes.”
His left hand was clamped around her breast. His other troweled her hair.
“You’ll give me anything I want.”
“Anything you want.”
They staggered to the corner of the room. His hips were against hers, and she could feel him pressing at her. They kissed. Deliriously, savagely, they kissed.
“You’ll give me photographs. You’ll give me drawings.”
“Yes.”
“And you’ll give me anything else I ask for. As it suits me, on a whim.”
“Yes.”
And now his hand tensed harder in her hair, and pain darted down her neck and spine. He pulled her head back, and he held his forehead against hers like a ram locking horns with a rival.
“You could do all of that,” he said, “and it still wouldn’t be enough.”
He let her go. Turned away.
“This is what you want,” she said, breathing heavily. Her lips stung, and her scalp was throbbing. “I don’t care what you say about lust and love. I know this is what you want. The drawing. The photograph. The lock of hair. This is what you’ve wanted for months. Isn’t that right?”
He was silent. His back was turned to her. He wiped one wrist against his mouth.
“You dream of me,” Elisabeth said. “You’re obsessed with me.” She rushed forward, grabbing at his arm. “You want this.”
He swung around, yanking his arm away from her. “But you don’t.”
“That’s not true.”
“This is beneath you, Elisabeth. You’re whoring yourself.”
She slapped him. And when he only stared at her, glowering down from inches above, she slapped him again. But he didn’t move. He didn’t lift a finger at her.
He was right. Even Elisabeth could admit that. Whoring was exactly what she was doing, or what she was prepared to do. Yet she was failing at even that, and her frustration made her want success all the more. She stepped forward, pressing herself against him.
“Do you want this?” she said. “Yes or no?”
His eyes seemed to soften. His lips relaxed. His jaw loosened. “Yes.”
She turned her hand and opened her palm, and she grabbed him. He was hard, and as she touched him, he got harder still, pulsing in her clutching fist. She squeezed, strong enough that it surely hurt, but only the briefest shadow of pain passed across Alfred’s face.
“This is mine,” Elisabeth said, and as she leaned forward to kiss him, she thought that she had won. But again he pulled back. She squeezed even harder, but he slipped away from her. He crossed the room, pounded his first three times on the door.
“Margaret,” he said. “Twenty minutes alone with her.”
“Don’t you fucking leave—”
But the guard was already opening the door. A different guard this time, the Walrus, and he stood there gawking at her, sallow eyes that Elisabeth could feel crawling over her skin like a rash.
“Don’t visit me again without Margaret,” Alfred said. “If you come here alone, I won’t even bother coming out of my cell.”
He turned and left the room. The Walrus followed.
“Alfred,” Elisabeth shouted. “Alfred!”
But he was gone, and she was alone. She realized then why the Walrus had been staring: Alfred had ripped loose one of the buttons on her flannel blouse, and her shirt was flapping open. She pinched it closed, but the blouse sagged open again, and in a fit Elisabeth yanked her whole blouse apart,
its buttons springing loose and casting through the air like sparks from a fire. She stayed there for a minute longer, the room’s bitter drafts churning coolly against her naked stomach and chest, covered only by her brassiere. Then she put on her parka, and she buttoned it tight.
CHAPTER 34
If Margaret said no, Elisabeth wouldn’t force her. That—that—was a line she wouldn’t cross. But once she had made the decision to ask, Elisabeth found that it was very easy to justify the proposition. There would be guards everywhere, she told herself. Not in the visitation room, no, but just outside of it. One shout away. Fifty steps. Maybe less.
And she herself would be sitting outside the room. The door’s barred window would allow her to hear the rise and fall of their conversation, perhaps even entire words. If there was a power more perceptive than a mother’s sense of hearing, Elisabeth didn’t know it, and her hearing that afternoon would be more acute than ever before. Maybe, if she went about it the right way, she could even have the door unlocked, unbeknown to Alfred. It locked from the outside with a key, so all she had to do was speak to the guard as he exited the room. With the door latched but unlocked, she could rush in at a moment’s notice. Perhaps this whole ordeal wasn’t as dangerous as Elisabeth had first assumed.
And then there was the matter of letting Margaret make her own decision. How often had she remarked about Margaret’s maturity? Her intelligence. Let her make the decision, Alfred had argued, and that wasn’t such an absurd thing to suggest. Margaret wasn’t stupid, and she wasn’t incapable. Just the opposite: Margaret was one of the smartest and most capable people that Elisabeth had ever known. She wouldn’t force her. She truly wouldn’t. She would let Margaret decide for herself, and if there was one thing that Margaret wanted in this life most immediately, it was the chance to make decisions for herself. She craved responsibility. Agency.
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