Such a Pretty Girl

by Laura Wiess

  I climb soundlessly over the opposite railing and drop to the grass. Pad through shadows, heading away from the court and my building, taking the long way up around Andy’s building so that I’ll come out above the blind curve. I would be a fool to go straight home from Andy’s, to reveal my sanctuary to the serpent.

  I fish a cigarette from the pack and pause to light it. My father will smell the smoke on my breath the moment I open my mouth. He’ll also smell pizza, patchouli incense, maybe even the tangy scent of Andy’s mouth, moist with Jim Beam, anointing my skin.

  I pick up my pace. His child. Right. Maybe I was once, but not anymore.

  Andy’s pending departure makes me feel grimly reckless. It’s like he’s confirmed what I’ve always known but never gave voice to; when it comes to nightmares, we are each truly on our own.

  I pause above the blind curve near the front of the complex. My father’s new condo is in Building A and I can see it from where I’m standing.

  If I had a big old rotten tomato, I’d splat it against his front door.

  Maybe I will tomorrow night while he’s submitting to my mother’s determined seduction. With her urchin hair and face stripped of makeup she may actually get somewhere as long as the lights are out and his imagination is active.

  And providing there’s a daughter lying sleepless in the bedroom across the hall, bearing unwilling witness.

  I take a deep drag on my cigarette. Flick the ashes.

  In my dream, I am bouncing along a path with Tigger. We boing up and land with a booming thud and a springy eeee. The noises split my dream and I crawl up and out of the woods…

  Thud, thud, thud.

  I climb out of bed and go to my door. A light shines at the end of the black tunnel where shadows rise and fall on the walls.

  I enter the darkness. The night-light is off. I’m supposed to call 911 for bad things, but I go down the hall to my mother instead.

  Heart thundering, I edge to the brink of the open door.

  My mother is on her knees on the bed.

  My father’s face is crunched up and his hair is wet on his forehead.

  I am paralyzed. My mother has never said to call 911 on my father.

  He spots me, gaze burning, and puts a finger to his lips.

  I back up a step, wanting to run to my room.

  He shakes his head, makes a “wait” sign. Watches me watch him, nails my feet to the floor, and makes my chest ache for air.

  Thudthudthudthudthud!

  My father’s eyes roll back. I’m terrified because he’s gone into an ep-il-ep-tic fit like old Mrs. Nelson’s collie Boyd always does. I dash back to my room, bury myself under the covers, and then my father crouches near my bed whispering that I’m a brave girl and if I ever hear noises like that again I should come see what’s wrong like I did tonight, to watch quiet as a mouse and make sure that my mother is safe, but never to let her see me because it will be our secret…

  I pretend to be asleep until he leaves.

  The next night the noises go on and on and I realize that they’ll never stop unless I do what my father has said. So I do and when it ends my feet are no longer nailed to the floor and we’ve kept my mother safe for another night.

  The next afternoon I’m playing in old Mrs. Nelson’s kitchen with her collie Boyd and he goes into an ep-il-ep-tic fit and I watch, quiet as a mouse, to make sure he stays safe.

  Two nights later when the thudding starts, I rise and drag into the hallway. I don’t put it off anymore because I don’t want my mother to suffer any longer than she has to. This time she sees me at the brink of the shadows.

  “Meredith! Charles, stop!” She pulls away and covers herself. Whips a pillow in front of him. “Meredith! What’s wrong?”

  “I heard a noise,” I mumble, staring at my feet. I didn’t know she could get away so easily and now I feel stupid.

  “It’s all right, everything’s fine,” my mother says, wrapping the sheet around her. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

  “Mommy,” I whisper, as she leans over to kiss me. “Are you safe?”

  Her eyes flicker. “Of course I am. I have you and Daddy to protect me.”

  “Good.” I snuggle down, satisfied that my father hasn’t lied to me…

  Fool. I peer through the smoke at his condo and wish I had a whole bushel of tomatoes right now. I’d whip them at his door, watching each burst into a scarlet heap of—

  “Haven’t seen you in a while, Meredith.”

  Inside, my stomach jumps. Outside, I turn to meet Nigel Balthazar and his enormous, white Great Pyrenees, Gilly. Nigel is a retired Estertown cop and lives in a building near my father’s. My parents don’t know this and, once again, I see no reason to enlighten them.

  “I’ve been around,” I say, relaxing and tucking my hair behind my ears. “At Andy’s mostly. My grandmother’s once or twice. She’s been trying to talk my mother into letting me stay with her over the summer, but my father wants me home and of course his wish is my mother’s command.” I shrug and scratch the top of Gilly’s Plymouth Rock head.

  She wags her tail and washes my arm with her tongue.

  “Hmph. Figures. Andy okay these days?” Nigel asks, jabbing a Winston into his mouth and rummaging through his shirt pocket for his lighter. The windproof flame tints his weathered face a sheer tangerine. He lifts his head, exhaling.

  “I guess,” I say, flicking my cigarette into the gutter. “He’s leaving for Iowa on Sunday with his mother. They have an appointment with a victim soul.”

  “What, one of those religious rainmakers? Christ, those two. Hard heads, both of them. That kid needs a good shrink and some physical therapy, not some corn-fed quack quoting Scriptures and waving a crucifix.” Nigel squints at me through the spiraling smoke. “It’s lousy timing for you, but I’ll keep a good thought for our boy. Who knows, maybe it’ll pay off and he can send that chair back to the old folks’ home where it belongs.”

  One of the things Nigel and I have in common is loving Andy. The other is knowing far too much about my father, his past, and probable future.

  “I hear your old man’s out,” he says and taps the cellphone wedged into his shirt pocket. “Boys on the force say he hasn’t been down to register yet.”

  “He hasn’t? Well, I’ll have to remind him then.” My lips twitch at the thought.

  “That why you’re out so late?” he says, hitching up his pants. He wears old man jeans that hang low under his belly, brown slipper moccasins, and a faded plaid shirt that does nothing to soften the edges of his solid bulk.

  “Pretty much. He’s at my house right now, waiting for me to get home so he can ‘put the brakes’ on my disappearing act.” I glance at my father’s building. “He’s in A-Eight.”

  “I know.” Nigel’s eyes narrow. “Hear from social services?”

  “Next week, but what can they do? He’s out and he’s here. So he makes my life miserable, so what? Nobody cares. If they did they would never have released him.” I blink hard and my vision clears. The tears surprise me; I haven’t cried in years.

  “He get out of line with you yet?”

  I shrug. “He cornered me and said we should forgive each other. And he called me…Chirp.” The once-innocent nickname shrivels my tongue.

  Nigel swears briefly. “You gonna be able to handle this on your own?”

  I think of Andy’s pending absence and my mother’s deliberate blind spot. My grandmother’s still an option, but she leads a very busy life and she and my mother have never really gotten along. I know she hates my father, though; I once heard her say that child molesters were often murdered in prison and she’d sounded very hopeful. I’m pretty sure she’ll help me if I need it.

  “It’s gonna be bad,” Nigel says, watching me.

  “Good. Then maybe he’ll leave,” I reply.

  “I meant bad for you,” he says.

  “I’m not helpless anymore,” I say, and almost believe it.

  Chapter Seven />
  Nigel and Gilly peel off in one direction and I go in the other.

  I head back with the comfort of knowing that Nigel will watch out for me until I disappear around the bend. Once I do, I’m no more than a Hail Mary pass from home.

  I glance at my watch. The witching hour has come and gone. My father should be livid by now. I swing my hair forward, anticipating the confrontation.

  It feels good to be back to the original plan.

  I am going to drive him out of here and away from me.

  Be everything he hates. Use every tool I have.

  I round the bend and see my parents perched like oversize vultures on the front porch. They snap to attention as I pass beneath a streetlight. I slip my hands into my overall pockets and feel my thighs flexing beneath my palms. My knees have lost their rubbery feeling and I think of Andy as I left him tonight; eyes closed and fists striking his own lifeless legs, calling for the Virgin’s mercy, asking the Mystical Rose, Mother undefiled, Mirror of justice, Comforter of the afflicted to intercede and relay his plea to her Son. Begging her to ask Him, in the name of love, for restoration.

  So Andy hides and prays while I trudge back into the fire, leaking flammable memories.

  God, what a mess.

  I cross the warm macadam, hoping I look scornful and bored. Step onto my neatly edged, postage-stamp front lawn and amble up to the porch where they wait.

  “Meredith,” my father says, rising.

  His summons almost stops me, but I make myself sweep past him and up the steps. “You guys are nutty for sitting out here. The mosquitoes are brutal.”

  “We’ve been waiting for you.” His voice is tight. “You look like hell. Where have you been?”

  “Out.” My hand closes around the doorknob.

  “ ‘Out’ where?” he says.

  The door opens and I shrug as I pass through it. “Just out.” I walk inside and give it a shove after me.

  My father blocks it and follows me in. My mother is his shadow. “Please don’t walk away from me when I’m talking to you, Meredith.”

  I exhale a hearty sigh and stop. “What?”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” he says. “Where were you tonight?”

  “Out,” I say.

  “ ‘Out’ is not an acceptable answer,” he snaps.

  “It was until today,” I drawl.

  “Well, it’s not anymore,” he says, giving my flushed mother an accusing look. “You can’t just disappear without telling us where you’re going or who you’re going to be with and you can’t come wandering in at all hours of the night looking like you’ve been—”

  “Raped?” The foyer is too small for the ringing silence. “Not to worry. Estertown’s been safe for three years now, Dad.” I push past them both.

  No one speaks.

  I go into my room and lock the door. Look in the mirror for a long time until the trembling stops, until I hear the front door slam and the deadbolt slide home.

  Watch from the window as my father strides down the road toward his condo.

  I wait, but my mother doesn’t come to me.

  Miserable, I undress and crawl into bed.

  Chapter Eight

  I wake up Saturday morning with the dogged hope that my father has somehow died overnight, that a bulging aneurysm has popped and bled him out or that his heart simply stopped beating.

  There are other ways for him to die, of course, but these two absolve me of everything but hope and a person can’t be jailed for hoping. At least that’s what my old therapist said when she told me my anger was normal and should be voiced. She would have told me more, I’m sure, but my mother stopped our visits after my second “unpleasant venting.”

  I ease out of bed, cross the carpeted floor, and listen at the door.

  The condo is quiet. A hint of coffee lingers but it’s faint and not fresh.

  Nothing. No TV, no voices, no blathering morning radio.

  I slip across the hall to the bathroom. Pee and flush. Rinse my face in hot water. The countertop gets splattered with the runoff from my elbows and I give it a cursory swipe with my mother’s scarlet guest towel. The lace is scratchy and not absorbent.

  I tuck back my hair and head for the kitchen. Freeze in the entranceway.

  “Good morning,” my father says, glancing up from the newspaper spread out across the table. “I hope I didn’t startle you.” His gaze scans my thigh-high sleep T. “There’s orange juice in the fridge—”

  “Where’s my mother?” Panic sharpens my voice.

  “She ran to the deli to get bagels,” he says, leaning back in the chair. “We thought we’d all have breakfast together and discuss that little stunt you pulled last night. Why don’t you have a seat?”

  “No thanks,” I mutter and turn to leave.

  The air crackles.

  My father explodes from the chair, and the shriek of wood against tile stuns me for the millisecond it takes him to cross the room. He jerks me around to face him. “I don’t think you get it,” he says in a low voice. “I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. I’ve had about enough of this—”

  “Let me go.” Somehow my voice comes out louder than my thundering heart. “You’re not even supposed to be here without another adult present!”

  His fingers sink deeper into my skin. “Oh really? Well, then go ahead, Chirp, tell me what else the law says I can and can’t do. Come on, you brought it up.”

  He can’t do this. He can’t. “Stop it,” I croak. My hands spasm, my head bobs. Adrenaline screams fight or flight, but I can’t move. Can’t choose.

  “I am your father,” he says and, with his free hand, cups my quavering chin. “I changed your diapers, I taught you how to hit a fastball and how to count and everything, and now the state is gonna tell me, now you’re gonna tell me what I can and can’t do? Bullshit.” He tugs me up against his chest where the golden baseball blinds my vision and his minty-fresh breath reams my nostrils. “You’re my daughter and I love you and nobody’s going to stop me from hugging you if that’s what I want to do, dammit.”

  Close the curtain, my mind orders, but the command is small and lost.

  His voice cracks. “God, Chirp, how can you be so cold? What happened to that pretty, good-natured little girl with the freckly nose? You used to think I hung the moon, and now…”

  The air conditioner kicks on and the floor vent blows chilled air up between my trembling legs.

  “Are you afraid I’m mad at you for testifying against me? Listen, I don’t blame you. You were just a kid, confused and manipulated, and I wasn’t there to protect you. I understand that.” He tries to tilt my chin up, to woo my gaze from his chest to his face.

  I don’t give.

  He sighs. Releases my arm and steps back. “Please don’t make this harder than it has to be. You’re still my little girl and I’m responsible for you, body and soul.” His voice hardens. “You might want to remember that the next time you decide to break the rules.”

  He saw me. He touched me. If I swallow, I’ll throw up.

  “Now, why don’t you go get dressed before your mother comes back with breakfast?” He lays strong hands on my shoulders and turns me in the direction of my bedroom. “Go ahead, now,” he says and whacks me on the butt.

  I jolt forward and scurry into my four-sided box.

  “And take a shower while you’re at it,” he calls after me, sounding vaguely offended. “You smell pretty ripe.”

  “Okay.” I shut the door and pace blind, helpless circles in the middle of my bedroom….

  I pat bubbles onto my face in a beard. Then lower where a puff of froth gives me the hair I don’t yet have. But I’m getting there because today I go from being a baby in a bathtub to a big girl who rinses off under the shower.

  I grasp the shower curtain and balance on the edge of the tub so I can see my slick, soapy body in the mirror.

  The bathroom door opens. “Ready for the shower?” my father says, stopping as he catche
s sight of me. “What the heck are you doing?”

  “Getting big,” I say, grinning at him through my sudsy beard.

  He closes the door behind him. Locks it. “Don’t be in such a hurry to grow up, okay? You’re perfect the way you are.” He is shirtless and the baseball gleams like treasure in his chest hair.

  I reach to touch it and slip.

  Instantly, his hands cup my armpits. “Careful there.” He nudges my nose with his and comes away with a puff of soap clinging to his lip. “Uh-oh, old timer, your beard’s falling off! Time to get wet!” He leans into the tub toward the faucet.

  “No!” I shriek, laughing and clinging to him like a monkey, wrapping my arms around his neck and my spindly legs around his waist. “Don’t drop me, Daddy!”

  “Never happen,” he promises, pulling me in even closer….

  The memory slams me back into myself. I glance around my room, find what I need, and walk to the bathroom. Turn on the exhaust fan and the shower.

  I go back out to the hall linen closet, closing the bathroom door behind me to contain the billowing steam, and as I open the closet I call, “Hey Dad, will you make me a fresh pot of coffee, please?” I pause, listening to his silence. Is he suspicious of my sudden capitulation or will his ego chalk it up to a wooing well done?

  “Sure,” he calls back, sounding pleased. The newspaper pages swish and his chair grates away from the table.

  “Thanks!” I dart into my bedroom instead of the bathroom, closing and locking the door, praying his task and the steadily drumming shower will blunt the stealthy sounds I’m about to make.

  Because I’m leaving. Not for good, but for now. I need to get a grip and rethink my original plan. Being older and obnoxious isn’t going to drive him away and I hadn’t counted on my mother disregarding the supervised visit guidelines so quickly. I can’t be caught unprepared like this again.

  I pull on a fresh tank top and the overalls lying in a crumpled heap where I left them. Stuff my cigarettes into the bib pocket. Grope under my pillow for my pocketknife—a fifteenth birthday gift from Nigel—and wedge it into my front pocket.

  I hurry across the room. Raise the blind and grasp the bottom of the window, pressing the metal release clasps. I am about to slide it open when I see my mother’s car meandering around the blind curve.