Michael, Antoinette, and Me

 

Part Three

 

 Fortune, providence, happenstance, whatever had gifted me with the solution to my rape problem, formally known as my abuse problem. My greatest actual fear was my brother ejaculating on my face in my sleep now I didn’t have a room to lock myself in. Though I had no doubt he’d get around to raping me, that had not become a real fear.

Until he did in my over tired dead sleep, sharing with three friends.

I had considered camping out by the railroad in my new sacred place, dropping in the apartment occasionally to shower, maybe even following the horses. Foremost was my plan to somehow get a job, rent a room somewhere. A rollercoaster car wheel put the solution in my lap. The past few days had been like an unreal, supernatural whirlwind.

I found the Goldilocks bed in a smaller upstairs bedroom, striped the bedding – god knows what the stains where – replacing with sheets from the cedar closet, the aroma hinting at my own natural scent. Having secured all the downstairs windows and checked the doors twice – all the upstairs windows propped open allowing the cool fall air in – I snuggled in.

I thought I was done with my rapists and the rape.

Once I settle snugly, I like to dream myself to the clearing just above the lake, my favorite sanctuary, dancing with the stars, the imp, the trees, Antoinette. Always Antoinette. I was so in love with her.

Then.

The faces of four boys, my rapists, disembodied, laughing, snarling, raging, stormed from the darkness at me. I sat up sharply screaming. I have never screamed in terror, ever.

Going to my favorite asylum when I was being raped to escape the experience polluted the vision, destroying my soft asylum.

Forever.

Wiping my cheeks with my palms, I looked hard into the dim room around me and out into the hall. “Any supernatural monsters want to dance?” I said, regrettably getting no answer.

 

Michael Borrows, like Bill Locke, hovered around 40-years-old. Oaken hair in a flattop, his warm inviting eyes studied me, drinking me, yet he didn’t come off creepy. Unlike Mr. Locke, he didn’t seem like he just stepped from a suntan lotion ad.

“I’d like to present Michael Borrows,” Mr. Locke greeted as I opened the door, which hit me as odd, the presenting. “Mike, this is Toby.”

“Good morning,” I returned, stepping back, allowing the two men to enter, accepting the hand. “Mr. Borrows.”

“Nice to meet you. Call me Mike.”

“I don’t think so, Mr. Borrows.” Releasing his hand, I mockingly presented the house. “If I knew company was coming, I’d have straighten up a little.”

“Bacon and what?” Mr. Locke asked, following toward the dining room.

“I burned a half pound of bacon, fried some coffee grounds.”

“Grandmother?”

“Bacon was common sense. Coffee grounds the suggestion of Levy, the stockboy. He said if we left a body lying around too long, it’d do the trick.”

“I’d heard that,” Borrows interjected. 

Mr. Locke stopped short as we entered the dining room. “My God, Toby.”

I rolled my eyes, taking my place at the head of the table. “I wanted a clean spot to eat, you know. Found some Old English under the sink. Once I got stared, well, I told you I can see the house for what it can be, not what it is. The table is beautiful. Today, the chairs.”

They bookended me, Mr. Borrows on the chair to my right, a thick brown folder not unlike the folder Vice Principal Barrett had.

“Breakfast?” I offered, looking from Mr. Locke to Mr. Borrows. “Turns out I can fry an egg. Who knew?”

“We’re good,” Mr. Locke answered. “I thought it best we get some things clear.”

I shrugged, sliding my half-eaten breakfast to my right. “I’m kind of OK with things, but sure, clear away.”

“You can eat –”

“I’m good, too. You have my full attention.” I took a deep breath expecting the worst of bud nipping and misconception dispelling.

“Relax, Toby,” Mr. Locke assured me. “I’m here, we’re here to help.”

I didn’t mean to telegraph my concerns. I held his eyes, never an easy thing for me to do. “I guess you’re going to start with another Mr. Hanson story?”

“I’m surprised you remember.”

“It’s an origin story, Mr. Locke, and a good one. Of course, I’d remember.”

“At the time I met Bruce, I was barely not homeless, living half on the street, half in a group home for troubled boys. Looking back, I can see my life could have gone either way.”

“Sure, two roads diverge, I get that.”

“Huh?”

“It’s from a poem about choices.”

“OK. Bruce gave me work and encouragement, a reason to believe in myself.”

“I understand,” I said, nodding.

“Mike is my friend and not only that, my lawyer.”

“You two go back to the group home?”

“We do.”

I thought to ask Mr. Borrows about the rape, the legal implications, my rights, their responsibilities. I pushed down my questions before they found words. I was sitting with two boys. I was not in the mood to entertain excuses for bad behavior.

“First things first,” Mr. Borrows said, opening the folder, setting a form on the table in front of me. “No questions about this. Just sign it.” A pen followed.

I was glad for good reading skills, quickly but carefully taking in the document. If I were allowed questions, I would have asked what the legal age was, though confident it was twenty-one. Under the penalty of perjury concerned me, little doubt the reason for the prohibition on questions, which was no different from Mrs. Petticoat, the middle school office manager, watching out the window when I signed my father’s name to the withdraw form.

I signed the document, affirming I was of legal age, Mr. Locke followed, signing where the form said witness.

Tucking the affidavit in the folder, Mr. Borrows placed a stack of papers on the table. “Lease agreement and other things. A formality,” he explained.

“This helps me establish value of the property when it comes time to sell, not actually a real obligation on your part,” Mr. Locke said.

“I’m assuming I can ask questions,” I stated as to not ask a question as I quickly scanned the pages.

“Yes,” Mr. Borrows told me.

“Holy fuck, Mr. Locke. I can’t afford this.”

Mr. Borrows Laughed. “My god, you’re right, Bill. So much like Mary.”

“I told you, didn’t I?”

“You did.”

He put his hand over mine. “This is all just on paper, Toby.”

“Like a magic trick,” Mr. Borrows added. “An illusion.”

“I know what a magic trick is, thank you very much.”

 

 Mr. Borrows was a slight man, gaunt but not appearing unhealthily so, contrasting Mr. Locke, who was built square like a house. Leaning on the doorjamb I watched the two friends retreat on the walk toward Mr. Locke’s white Sedan Deville. Obviously, Mr. Borrows was the kind of friend who would help Mr. Locke bury a body, partner in some sort of conspiracy concerning me, the depth of which I couldn’t imagine. 

I envied that kind of friendship, that kind of trust.

I gave up trying to read all the documents I signed, copies sloppily dropped in my own file folder for later review if I wanted.

I didn’t much care what conspiracy they concocted. I could stay in the house as a tenant rent free, Hemingway Associates my landlord, which was also my employer with my current assignment to restore and maintain the house.

“You will log every hour on your timecard,” Mr. Locke said. My pay came in cash, in an envelope, deductions listed on the flap. “Saves you from having to cash a check.”

Eying the flap, I suppressed the urge to telegraph my shock, nodding, biting my lip. “But I can open a bank account? I’d really like a checking account. I’ve wanted to subscribe to some magazines for about forever.” I looked to Mr. Locke, who looked to Mr. Borrows, Mr. Borrows nodding.

“You’ll need a cosigner. That’s –”

“I know what a cosigner is.”

“I’ll get by the bank this afternoon. Continental Bank, in the mall?”

“Checking and savings?”

Mr. Borrows chuckled. “I’ll get it all started, drop it off, then you’ll have to stop by and sign in the bank.”

With a roll of my eyes, I added, “That’ll sure make it easier to pay the gas, electric, and telephone.” I was excited at the thought of seeing my name listed in the telephone book, which also was a foreshadowing that I had a home for a long time to come, the sense of the recent uprooting still weighing on me.

 

I wanted to tackle the mammoth task of washing every window, plate, bowl, glass, cup, knife, fork, spoon, floor, walls, and ceiling in the kitchen, opting rather to mow the spacious backyard instead. I wasn’t given a deadline. I was given an envelope of money for house upkeep related expenses and broad instructions. With the money came Hemingway Associates, or rather Mr. Locke’s proxy, which I guessed were the same.

I could hire service people and contractors. “I’m a busy man. You need not bother me with such things,” Mr. Locke said. “You can always call Mary if you have any doubts or questions.”

 

Mr. Borrows’ circle back came quicker than I imaged, just as I was finishing the backyard. I powered down the mower.

“Continental Bank, in the mall,” he said, holding a brown envelope forward.

“I remember.”

“Just making sure. See Mia Borrows. She’s an account manager.”

I narrowed my eyes.

He shrugged. “Do you need a ride? We could go now?”

“I want to put stuff away, lock up, thanks, I have a ride.”

He turned, then turned back. “Are you openminded?”

Odd question, I thought, coming from a grown man to a young woman only not a child by circumstance. “I’m not sure what you mean, Mr. Borrows.”

He chuckled, almost a giggle. “I’m not, either.”

 

I absolutely didn’t look like me, red bandana headband on my forehead under my ponytail, Temple College gray sweatshirt I found in a random drawer, blue jeans, red suede bag, green backpack, and of course my army boots. I watched me passing in the store windows, still careful not to walk into anything or anybody, pausing once before the perfect window to flirt a little. I was still slightly blushing when I entered the bank.

A woman half-stood from her desk toward the rear of the expanse, her hand dancing in the air like a hummingbird. She could have been almost me twenty-five years older. I say almost because only I or maybe Mr. Borrows would notice.

That made his question about me being openminded creepy.

She introduced herself, taking my envelope. “You may call me Mia.”

“I don’t think so, Mrs. Borrows.”

She shared a coy smile. “Watch what you assume. I could be Mike’s sister.”

“Only if you’re adopted. Absolutely no family resemblance.”

“Oh, Mike did say you were fun. I’m just playing, of course.” She put two forms on her desk. “These are your signature cards.”

Signing. “I peeked, read everything.”

“Questions?”

I sat, unlacing my right boot. “Can I make a deposit?”

“Oh, Toby, not a great place to hide your money. If you’d ever get robbed, that’s the first place they’d look.”

I sneered a little, laying out stacks of twenties on her desk. “Wouldn’t matter to me. I’d be dead.”

She counted the money. Agreeing on the total, she asked, “Checking or savings?”

“Split it.”

I sat attentive, patiently allowing her to show me how to properly fill out the deposit slips. “I’ll show you how to write a check.”

I glanced my starter checks. “I think I’ve got it, Mrs. Borrows.”

“OK. And Toby. Why Mrs. Borrows. Is that like a respect thing?”

“You mean why not Mia?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”

“You don’t want to know. Trust me on that.”

 

“I can’t believe they let you go to school dressed like that,” my mother greeted me in a harsh whisper, her hiding behind the bourbon bottle at the dining room table, the afternoon sun washing her from behind though the kitchen window.

If you could go just two minutes without your judgement of everything splashing on my face like Uncle Gropey’s semen. I rolled my eyes. “We’re pretty liberal in the new school. It’s good for morale.” I symbolically glanced all directions. “Where’s Sailor Max?”

“Who?”

“Anyway.” I dropped to my knees next to the sofa, searching bags. With a light touch and quick sniff, I said, “Fuck, they came on my underwear.” I imagined my four rapists standing in a circle jerking off, encouraging each other.

“What?”

“Mark’s been fucking with my stuff.”

“Watch your language.”

I packed my two favorite dresses, my favorite skirt, four pair socks, and my underwear from the bottom of the bag. I wanted to take everything, all that I owned narrowed down into two suitcases already. I paused, my thumb running up the side of the frame holding the photo of a woman from a magazine ad, my pretend Antoinette.

“I clean up shit all night. Shit. So you can have a roof over your head and food to eat. Shit.”

“I can’t even begin to imagine how terrible that must be.”

“Damn straight.”

I turned, watching her for a long moment. “Do you work tonight?”

“No. Night off, or I couldn’t be drinking. Stupid. This night shift messes with my quality drinking time. Tried to pick up the night. I don’t know how I’m going to pay your rent this month. So you can have a safe, warm place to be.”

Still on my knees, I held her eyes across the room. “Do you think, Mom, just maybe you have a drinking problem?”

“Quality drinking time was a joke, you little shit.”

“That’s new, name calling,” I said as if to myself. “I wasn’t basing the question on what you said, more what you do.”

“You’re just a child. You have no idea how painful life can be.”

From my father hitting me in the face with a hammer and other good smacks I didn’t deserve to my mother’s rages at me, my father tossing the Christmas tree onto the lawn, their arguments often getting violent, I’d assumed much of their painful life was rooted in their drinking.

Without critical examination, I’d wondered if my forays into the imaginary were similar to the drinking behavior of my parents. I didn’t consider myself disfunction, if that could be the measure of if an aberrant behavior was bad or good, but then, my mother and father didn’t consider themselves disfunction.

I wanted to ask, or rather confirm, I was put on the sofa and not in the bedroom so Mark could rape me. My mother was not pleased when I put a lock on my bedroom door in the old house. I didn’t want to watch her lie, or worst, I didn’t want to listen to excuses for Mark’s behavior.

I was comfortable assuming she failed to protect me, her thinking I didn’t need to be protected from the behavior of my brother or Uncle Gropey. As I stood, securing my backpack, I realized Uncle Gropey, my mother’s brother, must have fucked her silly when they were kids.

Maybe even an uncle or two. Or three.

“Where you off to?” she asked.

“Meeting up at a friend’s house. Big history test tomorrow.” Lying so easily did not sit well with me.

“Don’t be out late.”

“I love a good night’s sleep.” I paused, the door open, my bicycle in the hall where I left it. “I’ve got some lawn mowing money saved up. I know we were thrown out without warning. You need some time to get your feet on the ground. I’ve got next month’s rent.”

She stared at me from the pallid face.

As she failed to protect me, I was abandoning her without warning. Paying her rent for the month was buying any guilt I may have at a discount. I pushed down the urge to toss out Have a nice life as the door closed.

 

Jim, Mark’s good friend, ride to and from school was tall, a head and a half over me, lanky, black hair ratty around in his ears, white complexion, odd spattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose, dark, brown eyes. He most enjoyed the rape as to say he wasn’t angry, or all that angry, in the moment with me, not just masturbating inside me like the other three.

He leaned against his black Rambler, arms across his chest, smiling pleasantly as I wheeled my bicycle up the walk from the apartment, Mark sitting on the far passenger side staring at the windshield. “Hey,” he greeted.

Because at the time I’d yet to have all remnants of social graces tromped out of me, I hey-ed back, keeping three steps off, the bike between us.

“I just wanted to say, eh, Toby, ah, Saturday ­–”

“Do I know you?” I really didn’t.

“Jim. Mark’s friend.”

“OK. What about when you raped me?”

“Huh, what? Raped you?”

I was just a little bewildered. “Rape, you know. Me dead asleep, the four of you pull my pants down, stick your dicks inside me when I’m barely conscious. Rape.”

He pushed off the car, looking behind him at Mark, then back to me. “Mark said it’s a game you play. You pretend to be asleep, he, ah, eh –”

“You raped me, at least be big enough to use the words without choking on them.”

“Toby.” He hung like a ragdoll, looking at his shoes. “I thought, we all did. If what you say is true, well, I’m really sorry, I had no idea.”

“Mark’s hated me since the day I was born. Has he said anything positive about me, ever? I get stuck in a terrible school, my father pays his tuition to finish in the good –”

“Huh? He’s just using the old address.”

I had a list of things to unload, deciding not to. “Whatever, have a nice life.”

“I get it, Toby. I said I was sorry. I wanted to say, you were really good, best I ever had.”

“Huh? What the fuck?”

“I mean, I want to ask you out, like on a date.”

 

I guess I wasn’t the only one with forays into the imaginary.

 

With a quick moment in the apartment rental office, I wrote my first check, surprised how cheap the rent was. At the post office, I filed, with just a little help from Steve the friendly clerk, two change-of-address cards for myself. One card from my old house to the new house, the other from the apartment to the new house.

Sure of my mother’s ineptness, I filed a card for her and my brother from the old house to the apartment. I thought of calling my old school, letting them know my brother had moved from the district.

I didn’t want to jam him up simply for being an asshole.

 

I kind of missed my patent leather Mary Janes, I think because that’s all I saw Antoinette wearing. Antoinette, always prim, proper, back straight, confident, comfortable, maybe even proud.

A better version of me in a better life than mine.

I couldn’t get a real sense of the person I was replacing in the house, a person – I guessed – so hated by her children they chose to have the baby cut in half rather than any of the others getting it. I thought about my few belongings in neat stacks around the sofa at the apartment, belongings I was willing to simply cut loose so as never to see my mother again.

The revelers, ravagers, and scavengers hadn’t picked all the meat off the carcass, destroying what they had no use for. When first entering the house with Mr. Locke, I had imagined inheriting a complete wardrobe of sorts. All I could salvage was a pair of gray pants that zippered on the side, the Temple sweatshirt, actual silk stockings, and a pair of black pumps with a three-inch heel, like what my adult almost-double, Mia Borrows, was wearing.

She was small, the woman I replaced, the pumps snug on my feet.

She also owned a vast assortment of really wonderful dresses and gowns, all torn and ripped beyond repair by the interlopers. I tried a few on anyway, deciding they were trash. Sadness settled deep in my chest knowing the world had people who would do such a thing.

I made a pile on the bed in an upstairs room, plans to make a braided rug, resurrecting the dresses and gowns into something else. Lilly Martin, who took me to church, one summer, sat on her porch making a rug. I just had to figure out how.

 

The cold wind dancing with the trees, making the windows rattle delivered a notice November was not far off. I sank in a bubble bath, the hot water pulling the ache from my legs. I attribute my bike riding to why I could even walk after the rape, having read other victim accounts in my secret magazines, secret which is to say I hid them from my mother and father knowing they’d not approve. That, and I was so tired, I didn’t full wake up.

Pulling my light cream dress, my Antoinette dress, that I recovered from the apartment over my head was like a long, warm hug, a welcome home. The silk stockings were like nothing I’d ever felt, even with two years of ballet. I had to rummage around for a garter belt, which was not comfortable. The pumps felt interesting, a stretching of my calves, the stairs making me clumsy.

After I’d dusted and swept the dining room, polished the dark walnut table and eight chairs, I’d cleaned and polished the full-length mirror, a mirror without a crack, which was secured in a light oak stand allowing the mirror to swivel. Apply awkward effort, I worked the heavy mirror down the stairs a step at a time and into the dining room, strategically placed next to the hutch where I could watch myself at the head of the table.

Dressed, light makeup, I boiled two hotdogs, added a piece of bread to a plate, took my place at the head of the table, ate, flirting with me in the mirror for half an hour getting lost in being me and being Antoinette. It may have been the flirting, maybe the feel of the silk on my legs. It could have been the overwhelming peace I felt being me, being Antoinette, at my table in my house. It could have been the wind rustling the windows, cutting the perfect quiet, quiet only interrupted by the occasional humming of the furnace from the darkness below me.

After the long day, finally in my Goldilocks bedroom, I sat on my bed, watching me underdress in the mirror, a mirror with a crack across the bottom, hanging in the closet door. I slowly drown in the best sex I’d ever had, without the violation of a Ballantine Beer bottle or intrusion of four ghostly faces jumping at me from the dark.

 

Since the first night in my house, I’d been concerned with the four wraiths swimming in the shadows just out of sight. They only appeared once, when I evoked my soft asylum, the clearing over the lake, the place in the mindscape I retreated during the rape. I couldn’t be sure they’d not appear again at any time.

I wanted to think Mark hated me. I’d read across my publications about sibling rivalry. He was two years old when I was born. Though not cognitive at that age, I’m sure the animal instinct in him conditioned him to believe I was a major disruption in his neat little life, him getting all the attention, then here I am, a helpless baby. I assumed he never got over that feeling, seeing me as a competitor, someone who needed to be bested, beaten.

I wanted to turn the page and here’s Jim, almost an innocent victim, telling me the tale of conspiracy. I don’t know for certain Mark, my brother, planned to rape me. The kiss on the mouth after he finished was weird, contradictory. I was certain the scheme came from Joe, the boy I bested on the steps of our elementary school.

Revenge. Unlike Jim, Joe knew he was raping me.

I had to dispel the wraiths from my mind.

 

As Friday afternoon crept in, I packed gloves, a hooded sweatshirt, a scarf, my red knit hat, and a paper grocery bag in my backpack, heading out to my new sanctuary by the railroad tracks, the soreness in my foot a constant reminder. Under the sharp afternoon sun cutting through the trees, I picked up all the trash: twigs, glass, two rusted cans, half filling the bag.

Mindfully, I disrobed, placing my folded clothes in a perfect stack on the log. Face to the trees, the sky, and the sun, I danced fearlessly for fifteen minutes, maybe the best ballet I’ve ever ballet-ed, certainly the fieriest. The four faces did not come.

 

I slid my timecard to Mary Locke in the change booth, leaned in the window to be heard over the clammer. “Hi, Miss Locke.”

She narrowed her eyes, setting the card on a stack of other cards. “Hi, Toby. You sure you have all your hours?”

I wondered about the other cards, who they were, what they did. “Yes. Every single hour.”

She leaned forward. “Are you openminded?”

I stepped aside for someone needing change, then back in the window. “What time are you done? We need to talk about this openminded thing.”

She smirked at me. “9:30.”

 

I took the stool down by the grill. “Hey, Carol,” I called.

Not turning from the grill, Tex greeted, “Hey, Toby. Burger?”

“Pass, just tea for now,” which Carol placed on the counter.

“Got overwhelmed, huh.”

I crossed by eyes at Carol.

“By the test. You left early.”

“I was done.”

“Really?”

Turning, Tex chuckled. “Told you she was a smart one.”

“You guys were talking about me?”

“Only in passing, only in passing,” Carol said.

“Do you sleep in that ponytail?”

“Pretty much, Tex. Why?”

Carol rolled her eyes, walking off to a customer down the counter.

“I was wondering what you look like with your hair down.”

“More hair than girl,” I said, working at the hair tie, shaking out, presenting myself.

“Whoa, you’re beautiful!”

I shrugged, tying my hair back up. “Thanks.

“How about a movie. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid is playing. We can catch the next showing.” He looked at his watch. “I’ll buy the popcorn.”

“Eh, thanks but no thanks.”

“You can get to see what I used to do as a Texas Ranger!”

“I don’t date grown men, Tex.”

“Date! I told you. I don’t hit on children.”

“Oh, in that case, thanks, Tex, maybe another time.”

Carol leaned on the counter, close to me. “Are you checking me out?”

“What, eh, no.”

“It’s OK if you are. I mean, I’m openminded.”

“I just love the dress, Carol. It’s really cute.”

“You may look all you like, Toby. I don’t mind. But, like Tex, I don’t date children.”

“You mean you actually don’t or like Tex, just say you don’t.”

“Hey!” Tex objected.

“I don’t.”

 

I was checking Carol out, rather the way the hem danced on her thighs as she walked. Like her patter with the customers, she was wooden in her openminded proclamation. I guessed as with Tex only saying he didn’t date children, Carol only said she was openminded.

I wasn’t sure what she meant. As I window shopped, mostly watching myself in the reflections walking among other people moving in both directions, I thought to go back, to engage Carol, to ask her exactly what she meant. I didn’t like Carol, not that I disliked her. She hid behind a persona. I couldn’t get a look at her and in that, I didn’t much care what she meant by openminded, her likely not even sure.

Tex, 30ish, I liked, which could have much to do with him having a gun under his shirt. Keith not only gave me a paper route, but protection from Mark beating me up. I thought with a friend like Tex, he could serve a similar purpose if needed. Tex projected a persona, too. However, he didn’t even try to pretend his bullshit was true. He was a pontificator like my father.

He knew he wasn’t fooling anyone and didn’t try to fool himself.

If I had room in my backpack, I could have easily glutted my wardrobe. I bought a tiny white garter belt to replace the uncomfortable bulky one I inherited. I also gifted myself with three pair underwear and a lace camisole with built in bra all actual silk.

I shivered, blushing a little.

I wanted to correct Jim there on the sidewalk in front of my mother’s apartment. I was on my back when they raped me. I do have breasts. However, what I do or don’t have is no of anyone’s business.

 

Mary Locke was a robust woman, white-blonde hair dancing on her shoulders, busy dark brown eyebrows, her pale blue eyes shadowed with hues of blue, her lips ruby red. She spoke loudly, demanding, peppering most sentences with the word fuck all of which came in handy when asking the children not to abuse the machines.

“Bill says you really like the house.” Mary settled at the table in the office behind a pile of money.

“More like in love with, but yeah.”

“Used to be a farm, right there, long before you were born, before the developers bulldozed everything. Old Lady Marcy sold off plots over decades to make the expenses. Wouldn’t sell the house, pissing off everyone, including her three kids. We lived nearby.”

“In the group home?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Bill was in the home, in the city. I was adopted out. They didn’t like boys.” With a smile, wave of her hand, watching me carefully, she said, “Gave my first blowjob in the barn there, about your age. Not that I wanted to.”

I shrugged, not sure what to say.

“OK, Toby, there’s boys who like girls and girls who like boys.”

I thought to cut her off with I am acquainted with basic biology but recognized the preamble. I nodded watching her sort the money.

“Some boys like boys, some girls, girls.”

I offered another shrug, another nod.

“Some boys like to be girls, some girls, boys.”

“Miss Locke, I am familiar with all this. I read Penthouse Forum every month.” I think I surprised her.

“Well, that’s not always accurate –”

“I know a story when I hear or read one.”

“OK. What do you think?”

The question was way to broad. “About?”

“People such as these?”

“Homosexuals? Transvestites? I’m not afraid of words.”

“Generally, yes.”

I shrugged yet again. “People come in all sorts of flavors. I don’t judge.”

“That’s the correct answer. I give a party the second Saturday of November. Bill, Mike, and I really like you. Are you interested?”

“An adult party?”

She giggled. “Sorry. I need another server, someone to work the party. Pick up, help out in the kitchen, get drinks, make sure people are happy.”

I telegraphed my surprise.

“No, Toby, not happy in that way!”

“I understand, I think.”

“Good. Dress is semi-formal, rent a tux if you like. Slacks or skirt, your choice. I suggest flats. You’re going to be on your feet running for hours. Take the money out of your house envelope.”

“Where is ­–”

“We’ll send a car for you. Any other questions?”

 

Rain – that wasn’t rain, more like a blanket of wet, a fine mist – sat on the landscape making the forty-degree temperatures colder than usual. I wrapped in my hooded sweatshirt, red knit cap, and scarf covering the twelve miles and change in just over an hour.

“Hey, Sally,” I greeted, entering the White Tower just shy of midnight having spent time counting money and talking of nothing with Mary Locke. Sally was the only adult I called by her first name. We had become, I thought, good friends.

There was a summer, Uncle Gropey called it The Summer of Toby Budding Breasts, breasts he wanted to see, maybe touch. He never saw, the lights off in my bedroom. He did get his hand under my pajama top when I was asleep as he ejaculated on my face. I didn’t scream or yell knowing at the time no one in the house gave a fuck what he did to me.

Sobbing, scrubbing my face hard with Ivory soap, he pushed the bathroom door open, entering.

“Get the fuck out, Uncle Percy.”

He chuckled, fists on his hips, throwing his chest back and ample stomach out like a Santa Claus gone terribly wrong. “You can call me Percy, no uncle, now that I’ve cum on your face so often.”

If she was able to, I’d have allowed Sally to cum on my face.

“How’s my favorite girl?”

“Cold, damp, happy to see you.”

“You’re sweet.” She provided hot chocolate with marshmallows, turning to the grill to cook my usual burger.

“Full house,” I called, the counter half occupied.

“It’s the weather.”

I’d hoped for quiet.

The cheeseburger and fries found the counter.

“When you get done at 6am, can we sit in your car for a little while. I have something I need to talk to someone about.” I thought to talk with Mary. There was something about her doing her first blowjob, not wanting to – more boys will be boys stuff.

Sally looked down on me with sad, mournful eyes. “Oh, Toby. We’re not friends. You’re my customer.”

I watched her eyes, fishing a ten-dollar bill from my pocket, placing it next to my untouched burger, spun off the stool, back out into the almost rain before I started crying. “I did not see that coming,” I said, peddling hard. Sally was much better at the patter than Carol could ever dream to be.

I thought if I talked about the rape, I could rid myself of the four wraiths dancing in the darkness just out of my vision. Telling the story to Tex was an option, providing him with yearbook photos and addresses. I did not want revenge. I wanted the four faces to go away.

My quiet asylum was covered in fallen leaves, no evidence of the fairy. I made a healthy clearing and kindled a fire, the fingers reaching up, painting the branches, the branches swaying to the caress of the wind, calling me to dance.

Clothes in a neat pile on the log, naked, I faced the almost-rain, the wind, the fire’s fingers, the swaying branches, the dark night beyond my circle, dancing. Antoinette joined me, the fairy and the four rapists did not. I became Antoinette, she became me. For thirty minutes of bliss, I danced with me.

Out of breath, just a little, sliding my tights up my right leg, I said to the wet air, “Yeah, Miss Locke. I understand way more than you’ll ever know.”

As if the fire knew my heart, sure I would never return, a sharp crack called my name, an ember jumping to the nearby fallen leaves, smoldering. With a sigh, I agreed. “Yeah, burn it all down. But then, where would the fairy dance?”

 

Tom Karl was a stout man of thirty-four, dark hair and eyes, two full heads over me, a soft voice, him hitting me as a gentle giant in his well-appointed semi-formal tuxedo. With a click of the heels, he offered a greeting.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Karl,” I returned with a nod.

“Oh, call me Tom.”

“I don’t think so, Mr. Karl. I need a tuxedo for a party I’m working in two weeks.”

“Oh, good. Rent or buy?”

“I think I’ll buy it, assuming it can be altered down the road if I happen to do any more growing.” Even at the tender age of 15, I’d put on a half-pound, hadn’t grown an inch in two years. Then, I was a tall girl, now a short girl. Same height.

“To an extent, eh ­–”

“Toby.”

“What kind of party?”

“Semi-formal? A private holiday party.” I was not aware there were categories.

He turned, then turned back. “Black. Bowtie, red cummerbund.”

“Cummerbund?”

He pointed to his stomach. “Wide sash, covers the shirt below the button and above the pants.”

“You’re not wearing one.”

“Vest.”

“I like a vest.”

He turned again.

“Skirt,” I called after him.

“But of course,” he said.

 

I felt corny elevated eighteen inches on a platform watching myself in the mirror, Tom bending. “On the knee, Mr. Karl? Really. Take it up six inches.”

He glanced me in the mirror. “How’s this?”

“A touch more. OK.”

He went to work with a white fabric marker on the skirt and jacket. “Waist feel OK? Tugging with two fingers, he explained, “If we don’t get the waist snug, you’ll have to wear suspenders.”

“Too snug, I can’t breathe. The Goldilocks waist.”

He laughed. “I shall be using that.” As if a magic trick, he presented six different color fabric pieces on his forearm. “Which?”

“For?”

“Oh, the pocket square.”

“The pink,” the color of the ribbon Antoinette often wore. “Can I get a bowtie to match the color?”

“Oh, that would be a violation of all that’s normal, Toby.”

“I’m a girl in a tux, Mr. Karl. It’ll be fine.”

“Good point. Let’s talk shoes.”

“I doubt you have what I want.”

“Which is?”

“Black patent leather Mary Janes with a two-inch heel.”

“Again with the girl in a tux. I love it, actually.”

 

I wandered the mall, bought my new shoes having an excuse to replace my Mary Janes, this time with an upgrade. I rashly replaced forever my Mary Janes with boots thinking the boots somehow magic protecting me from getting my head bounced off concrete steps. I’d missed that my Mary Janes were a connection to Antoinette.

I stopped by the lunch counter, greeted Carol politely, told Tex I was glad to see him, ordered a hot dog alone on a plate. “Burn it slightly, if you would, Tex.”

Tex, of course, was glad to see me, too, renewing his offer of a movie. “Maybe after Thanksgiving,” I said, stringing him along in the event I wanted someone killed.

“Is that your lunch?” Carol asked, nodding toward my hot dog, puddles of ketchup and mustard, a spoonful of relish.

“I’m a growing girl!” I answered, my sarcasm lost on her, not Tex.

Returning to Formals, I practiced tying the bowtie, with Tom’s constant assistance, for an hour. I allowed him once to stand behind me, showing me how. Back on the platform, fully tuxedoed including my new shoes, Tom argued the skirt too short.

“I guess from where you’re knelling, tugging on it, Mr. Karl, it seems too short, and you seem just a little creepy.”

He stood abruptly. “Well, I didn’t mean to be. I’m just trying to be helpful. See what your parent’s think. Plenty of hem to let down if need be.”

“Yeah, I’ll get right on that.”

 

“What will it be?” Mary Locke asked. “Oh, it’s you.”

I stepped back from the change booth, twirled twice. “Mr. Karl thought the skirt too short.”

“I think it’s perfect.”

“Me, too. Can I use the office? I want to change.”

 

Home, I unpacked my tux from my backpack, put on my silk underwear, silk stockings, new garter, new shoes, and dressed in my tux, wrestling three times until I got the bowtie just right. I affirmed people line of sight wouldn’t see the top of my stocking. People kneeling might, but I didn’t care about that.

I walked toward my full length mirror a dozen times, the skirt hem doing just what I wanted it to. I couldn’t walk forward looking back. Retrieving a screwdriver from the kitchen, I removed the mirror from my bedroom closet door, propping it up in the dining room.

With six adjustments, I got the mirrors just right, redid my tie five times, then walked back and forth, carrying a variety of plates as I checked me out. “There’s two hours of my life I’ll never get back,” I said to myself in the mirror.

The shoes were comfortable enough. I was satisfied I could easily do twelve hours if need be. Mary didn’t say how long I’d be needed. I redid the bowtie – again.

 

My father, besides being a raving asshole, the more beer, the more assholery, was a salesman, thus the pontificating. He was good at persona – wearing a mask. “If they like me, they’ll buy from me!”

He sold ad copy for the newspaper, the same newspaper I once delivered. I never mentioned that to my father, knowing he wouldn’t salesman persona me. He’d see me as a threat and get me fired.

The gift my father gave me was my practiced talent to read people. Knowing what he wanted, I could stay out of the way of his hammer. I figured the best I could hope for from my abusers was neglect, working hard at being invisible.

Sally blindsided me. I watched her persona the other customers. I knew she was good at it particularly seeing Carol so bad at it. I completely missed how she persona-ed me, prying huge tips out of my pocket. We’re not friends. You’re my customer is forever burned across my soul. I had thought Sally would help me bury a body if asked.

Watching the ember kindle the nearby leaves, I’d thought if I let the woods burn, Sally would somehow be cleansed from my mindscape. I wasn’t mad at Sally. I projected the anger with myself onto her, which made me angrier with myself and frustrated, too.

 

About a mile from home after turning my timecard in, the sky opened up with predicable blinding rain. A vague light in the darkness beckoned me. I took refuge in the shallow front door alcove, the tall red door opening at my touch. “Oops,” I said aloud, pulling the door.

The door resisted, gliding open.

“Sorry, I just ­–”

Face in shadow, a voice like silk, the man, two heads over me, twice my age, gaunt like a telephone pole, held his hand forward. “Child, you’re soaked! Come in, come in his instant. Bring the bike, it’s OK.”

Saint Paul’s Episcopal Church dwarfed Trinity, my first church.

I blinked against the water down my forehead into my eyes, trying to see the face painted in shadow. “I’m good, it’ll pass. I am soaked, don’t want to get your rug wet.”

“Nonsense! The carpet will dry. Come in, come in, until it passes.”

I was caught between This is how a church should be and This man is going to kill and eat me.

I really didn’t mind terribly being cold and wet. I had to stop because I couldn’t see, which could get me killed.

A hand reached out and took the handlebars in the middle, the other hand taking me by the elbow not in a grabby manner, but rather to guide. “I insist. We have a kitchen downstairs, get you some tea.”

I’d been meaning to stop by the church, maybe find an elderly woman walking by herself on Sunday, casually joining her.

The church basement brought the school cafeteria to mind. “I’m not taking you away from anything important, am I?”

He sipped his tea. “Right at this moment, you are the important thing I’m attending to.”

“Well, thank you for that, and for the tea.”

“God is always there, in times of trouble and times of not trouble, there’s always sanctuary from the storm.”

“I’d almost taken the Confirmation classes. I am baptized.” Each Sunday morning with Lilly Martin in church, often her and I holding hands, reciting the songs together, kneeling – I would help her down and help her up – praying, listening to the sermons, many about the magical being they called Lord, God, and Jesus, and what He expected of us, though most of the lesson good, sound, I was astounded how so many people could believe the core story. A story that was obviously and objectively not true.

It was Father Brown’s use of the word sanctuary. I danced naked under the stars in the flickering light of a fire, often with the dead Antoinette, often becoming her and very often while I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, once while being gang raped. I fully understood the value of believing something obviously and objectively not true.

“That sounds like an interesting story,” he mused, nodding.

“It’s not.” Father Brown was head-and-shoulders better than Sally and Sally had me completely fooled.

“Well, Toby, anytime you wish to tell me the story, or any other story, you can come seem me.”

“I’ll take you up on that,” I offered enthusiastically, because I was at least as good as Sally. With a cock of my head, I added, “Sounds like the rain’s let up.”

“We have a class starting in January. A Confirmation class. I could get you signed up.”

“If a parent signs off.”

“Well, a parent or guardian.”

I shrugged. “I’ve read the catechism. Do these classes offer anything beyond that?”

“The classes are required so that you may partake –”

I stood, cutting him off. “May I attendant services on Sunday? Maybe volunteer to help prepare the building for the holidays? Help out in fundraisers? Stuff like that.” I gave him the traffic cop hand. “Without a parent or guardian’s approval?”

He watched my eyes for a full five seconds. “Yes, you may.”

 

I’d mowed the lawn one last final I-really-mean-it time, gathering the twigs and branches tossed down by the recent storm. With the axe from the garage, I chopped the larger branches into fireplace sized pieces, all managing not to cut my foot off.

I then learned all about chimney vents after filling the house with smoke. I appreciated the fire, the familiar voice singing to me, not the same as my fires in the woods, not calling me to dance.

I resisted the desire to get excited about church, still not abandoning the idea Father Brown, in dark ritual, would murder and eat me. Up early – almost the middle of the night – I lingered over my breakfast of bacon, eggs over easy, toast, and shredded fried potatoes, tea while having a conversation with myself in the mirror, elbow on the table, my chin in my right palm.

As a – younger – child, I never, ever put my elbow on the table while eating but once. I cannot recall why, but at my maternal grandparent’s for a week one summer, there at the farm, the house on a dark hill, I happened to prop my head, my elbow on the table.

My grandfather, a troll of a man, squat, broad, ratty hair springing in all directions and hugging his face, stormed from the other side of the table, slapped me to the floor, proclaiming, “No elbows on my table!”

“We shall be civilized, dear,” my grandmother said with an undeserved grace from her perch above me.

I’d caught my grandfather twice masturbating, likely while watching me. My short stays on the farm, taken as a whole, gave me a bit of insight as to why my mother was so fucked up. As I didn’t know at the time Uncle Gropey and my brother’s actions were not only fucked up, but illegal, my mother had an askew idea of what was right and what was wrong.

Over my eggs, my cheek in my palm was flirtatious. I did it to Sally over my burger and once, I caught myself doing it to Tex.

The sky was a seamless gray, the naked trees reaching upward, the temperature hovering at a lofty 40º - a perfect November day – I decided to walk to church. I did just a little eye makeup, just enough for some definition and to bring out my eyelashes, a look I was falling in love with. Starting with my new silk camisole and underwear, I absolute didn’t want to leave the house. “Remember,” I warned myself. “Last time you felt like this and left the house anyway, you got your face bounced off the concrete steps!”

I rolled my eyes at the image in the mirror, stopping what I started. “Yeah, yeah. I can see an afternoon – all afternoon – date with you.”

I repeat: I never dress for other people. I did want to be cute. I wore my hooded gray sweatshirt, my denim skirt three inches above the knee, white knee socks cuffed just under the knee and my shined-to-a-glowing-luster black army boots.

I skipped the mile and change, very much the innocent child of fifteen years, free of the weight of life, of gang rapes, assaults in school bathroom, men like Tex eye fucking me when he thinks I’m not looking, a father who hits me in the face with a hammer, a waitress who works me for tips, an uncle who sexually assaults me, a mother who enables him.

I didn’t conjure up Antoinette, comfortable in my skin, in the November air, in my happy stride, smiling at people, good-morning-ing them, finally falling in the quick moving line at the church door, Father Tom Brown standing in the alcove greeting people by name. I liked that about him. Father Sweet knew most people by name, certainly not all people.

“Toby,” he greeted. “Almost didn’t recognize you with the hair not dripping wet.”

“Good morning, Father Brown.”

He bit his lip. I thought fuck.

“Do you think you’re dressed appropriately?”

“I guess not.”

I pivoted, stepping.

“I didn’t mean ­–”

Shrugging, I didn’t want to hold up the line. I got three steps off.

“Toby, don’t –”

“I’ll give it some thought, Father Brown,” I said not looking back, smiling to a woman, dropping to a knee.

“That’s a pretty dress,” I told the child, maybe eight years old.

“Thank you.”

“I just remembered I have something important to do.” I fished in my red suede bag, retrieving a crisp $50 bill. “Will you do me a big favor. Put this in the collection plate for hungry people?”

She looked up to her mother, her mother nodded, then back to me. “Sure.”

“Thank you.” I stood, pulling my hood up, head down, hands in the sweatshirt pockets. “Lilly Martin is dead,” I said to my boots. “Maybe I should let her stay dead.”

I would have argued, maybe asked whether it was my skirt being too short, my army boots, or my sweatshirt that was the problem. I didn’t want to hold up the line. The children, people my age and around, were dressed like picture day at school. The day I met Lilly Martin, my first day attending church, she did send me to put my best dress on.

Back home, I stripped naked, got under the covers, invited Antoinette to join me, and had that date with myself. Somewhere in the blissful all of myself, I wondered what silk sheets would cost.

 

The house sat quiet against the sharp afternoon sun cutting in the windows, the coffee percolator talking in a whisper from the kitchen. I loved the smell of coffee coming into being, the taste not as much.

The ritual was growing on me.

My mother and father filled their cups with milk and sugar, my first foray into the beverage when we still lived in the house. It’s like they couldn’t decide what they wanted to drink, the concoction terrible. Having bought fresh ground coffee to fry against the house’s odor, and having the percolator, I tried coffee again, finding it not so bad without the milk and sugar.

The trash container had arrived Friday afternoon, dropped in the driveway in front of the garage. I’d kind of committed all day Sunday to my new church, not sleeping the morning away then sipping coffee on my front steps pondering the difficulty in stripping the eighteen layers of paint from the porch deck, watching an old light blue Ford Fairlane station wagon creep up and down the street a half dozen times.

My hair was wild, unattended in my sweatshirt hood, a pair of faded blue jeans pulled on, barefoot, makeup smeared from my nap, not expecting company.

I may have brushed my hair.

Having parked at the curb, Levy, the stockboy, bounded out of Fairlane, hurrying around letting himself in the gate. “I thought that was you!”

I rolled my eyes. “Hi, Levy. You certainly look dapper today.”

“Is that sarcasm?”

Levy, a tall boy a full head over me, broad, round face with a brown mop curtaining his forehead, excited burnt sienna eyes.

“It is not. Sarcasm. You look good in the suit, love the tie. And you took the time to actually polish your shoes. I’m embarrassed how much time I spend with my boots and the polish.”

“Thanks! We dress up, me, sis, mom, dad, go to Paul’s every Sunday, then out to breakfast at the diner.” He offered narrowed eyes. “You, on the other hand –”

I offered back a shrug. “Still an improvement from being covered in shit, huh?”

“They still call you little shit girl down to the market.”

“Endearing.”

“Well, I’m honest, if nothing else.”

“Then you need not pretend you accidentally happened to see me sitting here.”

He blushed, just a little. “Well, sure, I figured you were in Old Lady Marcy’s house. Compared to what they called her down the market, little shit girl is a compliment.”

“Is there anything particular you wanted?”

“Eh, no, not really. Well, eh, em, do you believe in angels?”

“No.” I wondered what his actual question was.

“Today, down at Paul’s, that’s Saint Paul’s –”

“I had assumed as much.”

“Jennifer Wilkens, she’s in my little sister’s class, like in school.”

“OK.”

“Father Tom, that’s the pastor, calls her up in front of the congregation. Praises her for her generosity. Hold up a $50 bill in both hands, slowly clocking it for all to see.”

“As an example of how others can be as generous as an eight-year-old?”

“Nine, but yeah.”

“Though ninety percent of advertising is based on shaming, I don’t personally find it a good motivator.”

Ignoring my commentary, he went on. “Little Jennifer –”

“Is Jennifer small for a nine-year-old?”

“Eh, no.”

“Maybe not call her little, then?”

He watched my eyes. I watched my hands. Not being little and not spelling of shit, I didn’t appreciate being called the little shit girl.

“That’s a good point, I guess.”

I shrugged. “So, Jennifer is up in front of everyone, likely red-faced embarrassed.”

“She tugs on Father Tom’s sleeve. He bends down, she says something in his ear. An angel gave you the money for hungry people he announced to the congregation.”

“A Christmas miracle,” I moaned.

“A bit early for Christmas.”

“God’s angels work in mysterious ways, I’ve been told.”

“I thought that was cool, Jennifer being generous, not wanting to take credit.”

“Like Santa Claus, leaving all the shit, not hanging around for a thank you.”

“Toby –”

“That, Levy, was sarcasm. Let’s circle back around. Ask me what you’ve really come to ask me. If it helps you, I’m going to say yes.”

He swallowed hard, blushing a little. “Will you go out with me sometime?”

“Yes.”

 

Levy was friendly, helpful. Guilt knotted my stomach for the reason I said yes. He drove a station wagon, which could come in handy. Lugging broken furniture to the trash container, I rehearsed the conversation I’d need to have with him, things with Father Brown intruding. Finally, I washed my face, brushed my hair leaving it loose, wrapped myself in my silk underwear, black leggings, white knee socks, army boots, red knit cap to my eyebrows, favorite Antoinette dress.

With a chill invading, I donned my pale red fleece coat, fur lined hood down. for the second time that day, I walked the mile and change to Paul’s, greeting all who looked my way, many people raking leaves. As if my habit or instinct, I sized up the lawns. “As long as there’s grass, I’ll have money.”

 

After running the gauntlet of six women on the first floor, all about my mother’s age and demeaner, I found Father Brown in the basement kitchen, white full apron, washing pots. I thought a good look for the head administrator of a major congregation.

“Toby!” he greeted, turning from his pots, working his hands on the apron. “I’m glad you came. I wanted to –”

I held his eyes, something I only do if I mean it. “I survived the minefield that was two drunk parents. I live by design and habit not to disturb the sensitivities of anyone. Even the hint of such, I have no problem just walking away.”

He watched me for a long moment. “Toby, that can –”

“If they can’t see me, they can’t hurt me. I figured the best I can possibly hope for from my abusers is neglect.”

He turned back to his pots, I shrugged, watching his back for six minutes.

Again, turning, drying his hands on the apron. “What do you want, Toby?”

I gave him my narrowed eyes. “I don’t understand the question.”

“From me in this moment, from the Church. What do you want? You strongly implied last night that you’re not a believer –”

“I am not.”

“Then, Toby, what do you want? Do you even know?”

“I do – know.” I stared through him. “There was a day, a very long time ago when dinosaurs roamed the earth. I’d suffered a terrible night in my parent’s house, thinking I would surely die. Fear. Anxiety. They passed out come the dawn. I’d hoped somehow they were dead. I wondered if I could kill them, maybe put a pillow on their faces, sit on it.”

 I closed my eyes. “Dawn, the sun, me still alive, my mind about to break. I sat on the steps, the sun on my face, wishing for all the pain to just stop. Just stop.” A teared rolled down my cheek. “Lilly Martin. Older than the dinosaurs, came up the sidewalk, told me to wash my face, put on my pretty dress.”

I opened my eyes, my vision blurred. “We, Mrs. Martin and I, went to church every Sunday after that, if early enough, we had pancakes. Mrs. Larkin taught us girls ballet on Friday afternoons.” I blinked hard and fast. “That’s what eventually drove me to read the catechism, to see why the people on the board at the church would suddenly hate her.”

I waved a hand like swishing flies. “That’s what I want, Father Brown. I want moments where I can hold that soap bubble of innocence and wonder at its beauty, seeing my face reflected back before it bursts to shit, everything disappearing.”

Father Brown nodded, biting his lip.

I had never revealed to anyone just how damaged I was. I did not feel unburdened. I felt vulnerable.

“This morning, I spoke without consideration. I apologize. I didn’t mean you couldn’t attend services dressed like that. I just thought you may wish to consider how you were dressed.”

“I did, consider it. I have no idea what you had a problem with.”

“The boots, those boots, Toby.”

I rolled my eyes so hard, my head hurt. “Years ago, I always worn my church and parent approved, really cute patent leather Mary Janes. Some boys decided it would be fun to mock me for having a friend. One shout led to another, which led to a push, then a shove, my cute little shoes unable to grip, my face bounced off the concrete. I still have the scar.” I pointed.

“These boots don’t slip. I could walk up a vertical wall.”

I let out a long, deflating sigh. “I just wanted to attend services today, sitting quietly toward the back, soaking up at least the illusion of community.”

Father Brown gave a sharp nod. “Then, Toby, you do that. I’ll always be glad to see you sitting back there.”

I returned the sharp nod. Turning, I got six steps off, turning back. “Oh, one other thing.”

“What?”

“Jennifer Wilkens. She told the truth, as she knew it.”

“Huh?”

“An angel did give her the money to put in the collection plate for the hungry.”

My face reflected in a soap bubble.

 

The most grueling task I mastered was my fingernails. I’d always haphazardly trimmed them, never bothering with pretty. Careful filing was not as easy as I thought it’d be. With a color to match my bowtie, I burned Friday evening in front of the fire. What hit me as a tiresome undertaking became a labor of almost joy when I imagined I was painting Antoinette’s fingernails.

Often giggling, I did my toenails, too.

I loved my ocean of hair, ebbing and flowing around me as I walked. When laboring, I preferred the high ponytail occasionally tapping me on the shoulders, sometimes wrapping the tail in a ball to keep my hair out of shit when needed.

Saturday morning, I lost an hour of my life in front of the mirror attempting to create a crown of hair like a Greek goddess. I thought to call Levy for a ride, having had our conversation over the phone. I’d rather have had the in person so I could read him, his calling everyday made that impossible.

“You strike me as a nice guy and all. I don’t want you to take this wrong.”

Even over the phone, I could tell he rolled his eyes. “Oh, here it comes.”

“Oh, maybe not. I’m an asshole sometimes.”

“Aren’t we all – little shit girl. Not that I’d ever admit having called you that down to the market.”

“That’s a good point. The thing is, I’m not looking for a boyfriend.”

“I thought we could have dinner together, maybe see a movie. I wasn’t asking you to marry me.”

“Well, expectations, Levy.”

I could tell he shrugged.

“I really don’t have any. To be honest, in the market those couple times, I got the hit that you’re totally on your own and maybe could use a friend that buys you dinner, takes you to the movies.”

“A ride if needed.”

“I knew it had something to do with the station wagon.” He chuckled.

I did not abandon the idea that Levy had expectations, promising myself I’d not take advantage of his offered friendship.

Though the weather square on the bottom of the front page of the newspaper promised temperatures in the thirties overnight, the day was to be in the low fifties, ideal for a six mile each way bike ride.

At Rube’s, the salon in the mall, I explained to Elaine what I had in mind. When I got the rolling eyes, I realized maybe I wasn’t the first person to want such a thing, quit the hand motions and over explaining, simply saying, “Like a Greek goddess.”

“We have to charge for that.”

With a cock of the head and narrowed eyes, I asked, “People actually come in here expecting not to pay for your time?”

“You’d be surprised.”

Maybe I wouldn’t.

I tied my hood down tight for the ride home, and not because I was cold.

 

I was ready an hour early, sitting in the dining room, watching myself in the mirror. Sitting revealed the top of my stocking. I shrugged, guessing I’d not be doing any sitting and if so, I’ve had a lifetime being careful how I sit, boys in school often launched into manic behavior at even a glimpse of underwear.

I obsessed over the shadowed white triangle when a new black Sedan Deville caught my eye out the window, the driver lumbering out, classic black tuxedo, black bowtie, white pocket square, vest, positioning himself next to the rear passenger door. I’d lost track of time eye fucking myself, wondering whether I had time to –

Having nothing to match my tux, I didn’t bother with a coat.

“Toby,” the driver greeted, opening the door.

“Hi, eh?”

“Jack Remington. Bill’s personal aide. You may call me –”

“Mr. Remington.”

“As you wish.”

Mr. Remington was in his early thirties, built solid, a good two heads over me, black hair cut like Sailor Max’s. His rich, brown eyes glanced me, darting off in all directions and no direction, back to me just as I swung my legs in. You pretend not to check me out, I pretend not to notice, the age-old game the likes I played with Carol at the lunch counter.

Behind the wheel, Jack found me in the mirror. “You need to get a clutch.”

I pulled my suede bag onto my lap. “Thank you for the advice.” If I were a guest at a party, I would need a clutch. Since I was nothing more than an overdressed busboy and bottle washer, my bag would be stowed in a drawer or closet somewhere, unseen.

I felt no need to education Jack.

We drove for fifty minutes and change. Compelled by some dark instinct, I made careful note of our travels that somehow, I may have to find my way back. Reading the room, I did not exclaim Holy fuck when we pulled up to the semi-isolated house, as I sat hands on my bag, waiting for Mr. Remington to hurry around, opening my door.

He offered a hand, which I took to be polite. He crowded me more than he needed to, I think to smell me. “Servant entrance around back,” I asked, looking up at him.

“You may use the front door. Just go right in.”

“You’re not coming?”

“I have other people to retrieve.”

As the black Sedan Deville sped off, given what Mr. Locke pays me, I couldn’t imagine what Mr. Remington got paid.

 

 

Part Four