Chapter Twenty-Three Mallory
August 2008
Winthrop Island, New York
It’s a funny thing about human nature. Once you break the rules, it’s so much easier to break them again.
I couldn’t really tell you why neither Monk nor I even brought up the subject of condoms during the course of that night in the guesthouse, after Dillon punched him. I was just a teeny bit stoned, for one thing, and we’d had that incredible sex on the beach earlier that afternoon, fresh in our memories, which made it not just possible but irresistible to continue riding bareback, just this one night. Besides, in the backs of our minds we knew it was practically impossible for me to get pregnant at that point in my cycle.
Practically.
Just the one night, right? Two days after my period? The risk was so tiny, and the bonfire between us so fierce.
But as the week went on, and the risk grew bigger, we kept breaking the rules. I don’t have any excuse. We were young and foolish and invulnerable. We were madly in love, crazy with our plans, losing our minds on the total certainty of our life together. It felt so natural to make love without any barriers—so primal, so right. And a little bit dangerous, to tell the truth. A little exciting, to lie there afterward, buzzing with pleasure, nothing between us. The thrilling little rush when he pulled out at last.
“Pinks,” he said, two nights before our planned departure, in the middle of sex in the middle of a sweltering evening in the middle of the bed in the guesthouse, “we’re playing with fire.”
“It’s okay,” I said. Not very convincing.
“No, it’s not.” He pulled out and lifted himself up.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m getting a condom.”
He came back from the bathroom a moment later and we finished off. Afterward, I rolled on my side to face him and said maybe I should go on the Pill or something.
“But the hormones,” he said. “I don’t want to put you through that.”
“The coil isn’t great, I’ve heard. Complications.”
“Nah, we’ll just keep on using the condoms for now, Pinko. I don’t mind.”
He lay on his back, one arm around my shoulders, one arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling. I leaned forward and kissed him. “Hey, handsome. What are you thinking?”
“One more day,” he said. “One more day until we’re free. That’s what I’m thinking.”
August fourteenth. Monk had signed up to caddy all day. We need the money, honey, he told me as he kissed me goodbye at dawn and crept back to his bedroom in the house next door.
I couldn’t go back to sleep, so I got up and showered in the attached bathroom. I had this unsettled feeling in the pit of my stomach. Not doubt—I knew to the ends of my bones that I loved Monk and he loved me, and it was right and perfect for us to be together. This felt more like foreboding. Everything was too right, too perfect. Life wasn’t like that. Life was messy, life abhorred perfection. Something was going to go wrong.
The hot water coursed down my limbs. I cupped my breasts, ran my hand over my stomach, slipped my fingers between my legs. Closed my eyes and focused on Monk.
Two weeks together on the road. Like a honeymoon, almost. All good vibes.
Everything would turn out all right, I told myself.
When I brought the twins indoors from the beach for their math lessons, Mr. Adams was waiting for me in the sunroom. He wore the usual summer uniform of pale chinos and a polo shirt in mint green. A crest of some kind was embroidered discreetly on the left breast.
“Mallory,” he said, “would you care to have lunch with me at the Club?”
My mind scrambled for an excuse. I could only think, But I’m going on vacation with your son tomorrow morning and need to pack.
“Um, of course.” I looked down at my beach dress, sprinkled with sand. “I think I should probably change?”
“Nothing too fancy. The dress code is fairly relaxed during the day.”
At the time, it didn’t occur to me that there was anything inappropriate about going to lunch with Mr. Adams at the Club. He was on the boards of several important institutions! His distinguished family! His impeccable credentials! I was a college kid. Mr. Adams was three times my age. I was sleeping with his son, for God’s sake. It all seemed so avuncular. He helped me into his car—a low-slung vintage convertible that was probably handed down from his father—and off we zoomed down the drive.
I’d visited the Club countless times already. The twins had swimming lessons there on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and we often came to the beach so they could scoop sand and catch waves with the other young princes and princesses. There were parties and playdates. During the big Fourth of July party, I might or might not have snuck off to the gazebo with Monk while Chippy and Blue competed in the children’s limbo contest.
But I had never arrived there as a guest, rather than the help.
I remember being surprised the first time I saw that clubhouse, Memorial Day weekend. I’d imagined some grand, historic building, or at least a majestic modern reconstruction. Instead, it reminded me of my mother’s house on Cape Cod, only bigger. The walls were shingled in cedar, the rooflines peaked, the trim white. Inside it smelled of lemon polish and intractable damp, laced with a hint of mothball. According to Monk, the original clubhouse was grander—built in the 1920s—but it was impossible to maintain and a little embarrassing by the 1960s, so they decided to knock it down and rebuild on a more modest scale. The cost of demolition being what it was, though, nobody raised much fuss when a mysterious fire tore through the old barn late one night, just before the wrecking balls were supposed to swing.
Monk told me all this with a shrug. The older the money, the cheaper the skate, he said.
Nobody raised an eyebrow as Mr. Adams escorted me through the foyer to the dining room, where wicker tables and chairs spilled through the open french doors to the stone terrace overlooking the sixth-hole fairway. He spoke to the manager (the trim, immaculate Mr. Irwin), who led us to a table at the very edge of the terrace, so I could almost lean over the wall and touch the grass. He handed us menus.
“May I offer you anything to drink?” Mr. Irwin asked me, entirely without judgment.
“Just the water, thank you.”
“No, no,” said Mr. Adams. “It’s your last day with us, isn’t it? Might as well celebrate with a glass of bubbly. Irwin? Two glasses of Bollinger. No. Why not the bottle.”
“A bottle of Bollinger it is,” said Mr. Irwin.
When he left, I laid my napkin on my lap and asked cheerfully, “I assume Monk’s told you about our plans?”
“He telephoned me on the way to the golf course this morning.” Mr. Adams steepled his hands. “I must say, I was hoping you’d stay on until the end of the month. This puts us in a bit of a childcare bind. My wife is…”
He reached for his water glass and sipped.
“Mrs. Adams?”
“We’ll manage, of course. When Monk and his sister were small, all the teenagers around here used to babysit. Now the teenagers are off to orphanages in Haiti and immersion language programs in Argentina and that kind of thing. Nor are they interested in earning pocket money. I guess they don’t feel they need it. Thank goodness for girls like you.”
“I’m sorry about that. I thought we were clear about the fifteenth. Monk and I—”
Mr. Adams waved a hand. “It doesn’t matter. The important thing is the two of you and your plans for the future. I’ve been doing some thinking, to tell you the truth. I mean, it’s fair to say this development wasn’t unexpected, hmm?” He smiled. “I’ll come right out and say that you haven’t exactly hidden what you’ve been up to. An old house like ours, the noise carries.”
My cheeks turned hot. I snatched the menu and pretended to study it.
Mr. Adams laughed. “Don’t worry, Mallory. I’m not here to scold you. Of course Monk’s attracted to you at this moment in his life. That’s all well and good. Enjoy yourselves. You’re young and free. Nothing more poisonous to happiness than regrets, believe me. My concern is that—”
The arrival of the champagne cut him short.
“Ah,” he said. “Here we are.”
Mr. Irwin unwrapped the foil and eased out the cork with barely a hiss. Once the glasses were poured, he melted away with a promise to return momentarily for our lunch order.
“To art,” said Mr. Adams, “and young love.”
I didn’t know how to reply to that, so I clinked my glass against his without a word. I was nervous enough to drink deeply, maybe too deeply. The champagne was cold and dry, delicious.
Mr. Adams set down his glass. “Mallory, I’m going to do you the favor of speaking frankly. And I want you not to take offense. I know that doesn’t come easily to your generation. But I have seen something more of life than you have, can’t we agree?”
“I agree,” I said coldly.
“You’re young, like I said. You’re in love. You’re full of dreams. At your age, you can’t imagine an end to any of this. You can’t imagine these powerful feelings between you could ever fade. Believe me, when I married my first wife, I thought we’d feel that way about each other forever.”
“Mr. Adams,” I said, “I have to say that I think you’re being incredibly presumptuous here.”
Mr. Adams leaned back in his chair and raised his eyebrows. “Do you?”
“I mean, honestly, you have no idea how we feel about each other. And if you’re trying to warn me away or something—”
He held up one hand. “That’s not what I’m saying at all.”
“What, then? What’s this concern of yours?”
“Mallory, honey. Look. I admire your pluck. I do. Your determination to choose your own path. It’s just that a young woman from your background—well, you have a certain freedom. The world’s your oyster. Whereas Monk’s lived to a certain standard all his life. He takes certain things for granted. He doesn’t understand the sacrifices necessary to achieve and maintain this life to which he’s accustomed.” Mr. Adams turned his head to idle his gaze over the nearby tables. “Do you see that man over there? In the seersucker suit?”
I squinted to my left, into the sunshine. “That guy over there by himself?”
Mr. Adams turned back to me with such an intense gaze, from those blue eyes that looked so much like Monk’s eyes, I felt a little sick.
“His name is Cooper,” he said. “Bud Cooper. His family made a fortune in textiles, I think, over a hundred years ago. Bought some land and built a house here around the same time my grandfather did. Good man, Bud. Couple of years ahead of me at Harvard. Loved books, you know, loved literature. I think he had some idea he was going to be a writer. The next Fitzgerald or Hemingway or something. Did a little of this, little of that. Never settled into what you might call a career. And his father—good man, Mr. Cooper—he figured, why not indulge him? There was plenty of money, right?” He made a motion with his hand; Mr. Irwin swooped in to refill our glasses. “Bud’s broke now, Mallory. That big summer house his grandfather built, over on Plum Lane? He lives there year-round. It’s all he’s got. Falling apart. The Club stopped sending him any bills about a decade ago. The membership covers his dues and charges. Nobody says anything about it—I mean, he’s an old friend. A good man.”
I glanced again at the man sitting at the small square table at the edge of the terrace, all by himself in a suit of yellowing blue seersucker, spooning some soup in careful, well-bred strokes. “That’s nice of you,” I said.
“We have this idea among us, Mallory, that it’s vulgar to mention money. That it’s vulgar even to think about money. And I agree. Money isn’t the object of life. Life is the object of life. But the unmentionable fact is, money is what sustains that life. Our life. These beautiful houses, these nice families, this lifestyle, you think they last forever. But they don’t. You have to take care of your legacy, or it vanishes into nothing. And the world isn’t like it used to be. Taxes and inflation and everything else. There’s no such thing as old money anymore. Old families, maybe, but if you don’t replenish the well, then—you know the saying? Shirtsleeves to shirtsleeves in three generations. And you end up like poor old Bud. Good man, never accomplished a damn thing. Kids are living in New Hampshire somewhere, doing God knows what. He’s got nothing left.” He signaled again to Mr. Irwin. “I think we’re ready to order now. Mallory?”
I raised the menu again. “Um, the crab cakes? Please?”
“Certainly. For you, Mr. Adams? The usual?”
“Yes, Irwin. Thank you.”
Mr. Irwin took our menus and Mr. Adams leaned forward. Returned the full force of his attention to me. “Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you, Mallory?”
“Mr. Adams,” I said, “I get what you’re saying, and I appreciate the concern, but aren’t you kind of jumping ahead a little here? We’re still in college. We’re just going on a vacation. Not…you know, making any life-changing decisions here.”
Mr. Adams set down his glass and furrowed his eyebrows at me. “You don’t think dropping out of college is a life-changing decision?”
“Dropping out of college?”
“I’m sorry, but isn’t that what we’re talking about, Mallory? About Monk quitting college to start his so-called music career? In Providence, with you?”
The Club chattered pleasantly around me. The champagne bubbles rose in lazy threads between my fingers. Mr. Adams’s face turned blurry against the backdrop of modest midcentury architecture, the trim green links to his right.
“I…I don’t…Is that what he told you?”
“Mallory,” said Mr. Adams, in a slow voice, “he’s already disenrolled from Colby.”
“He’s what?”
“I assumed you’d already spoken about it.” Mr. Adams waved a hand at the champagne bucket. “I hope I haven’t put my foot init.”
“I—I think maybe you’ve misunderstood, Mr. Adams.”
“I don’t think I have, Mallory. Monk was very clear with me. Very sure of himself.”
I squared my knife and fork alongside my plate. Reached for my glass and gulped down the icy champagne. When I set the glass back, I said, “In that case, I support his decision.”
Mr. Adams reached out and touched the fingers of my left hand. “Look, Mallory. I want you to be happy. I do. But I want you to know that if things don’t quite work out as planned, I’ll be here to offer you a helping hand.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary. Really.”
“All the same.” Mr. Adams released my hand and reached into the pocket of his jacket. “I want you to take my card. Monk doesn’t have to know. He has his pride, God knows, stubborn as hell, and I respect that. But if you find yourself in a tough spot, here’s where to find me. You can count on me, Mallory. I mean that.”
I looked at the card, not really reading it. “Thanks,” I said, and slipped it into my wallet.
A waiter arrived with our food. Mr. Adams’s usual turned out to be a turkey club with bacon on whole wheat, toasted, with french fries. The crab cakes went very well with the champagne.
In fact, we finished the bottle.
My cellphone rang inside my handbag during the drive back to Seagrapes. I turned to Mr. Adams and said apologetically, “It’s Monk.”
Mr. Adams made a courtly gesture.
“Hey, Monkfish,” I said. “What’s up?”
“Hey. How was the lunch date?”
I gulped. “Lunch date?”
“Pinks, come on. I saw you. I was caddying the sixth hole and I happen to look at the clubhouse, and there’s my dad having lunch with my girlfriend. Champagne in a bucket and everything.”
“Monk.” I turned my face to the side, where the draft could carry my words away. “Don’t be weird. He’s right here. We’re driving back to the house. He just wanted to talk about our plans. What you told him.”
“What? What did he say I told him?”
“Like, about how you’d dropped out of college?”
Monk swore under his breath. “Mallory, look. Honey, I’m so sorry. I just wanted to talk to my dad about it first, okay? I wanted his blessing. Which he didn’t give. But I thought I should square it with him before I sprang it on you. Are you mad?”
“Not mad. Just—I don’t know. He was under the impression we were basically eloping. He kind of put me on the spot, like it was somehow my fault. That I’d led you astray.”
“Oh, Jesus, Pinks. He didn’t.”
“He did.”
“So what did you tell him?”
“I told him I supported your decision. What else was I going to say?”
Monk heaved a sigh that rustled in my ear. “Pinks, you’re the best. Seriously. I don’t even deserve what a fucking clutch hitter you are, you know that? I’m just sorry about the ambush. I am. That was all supposed to stay between him and me.”
“But why? Why didn’t you tell me? Don’t you trust me?”
“Mallory, what are you talking about? I trust you more than anyone else in the world. You’re literally the only human being I do trust. Look. Is he still there?”
“Yes. Driving. We’re almost at the house now.”
“Gotcha. I’ll be quick. So the real reason I called was actually not to pull your chain about the champagne lunch with Dad. Believe it or not.”
“Oh?”
“Mike called,” said Monk. “He had a band coming in that was supposed to play tonight and they bailed. Wants to know if I can step in.”
“Are you going to do it?”
“It’s four hundred bucks, Pinks. That’s a lot of gas money. And Bessie drinks a lot of gas.”
“Then do it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course. I’ll take the first driving shift tomorrow. It’ll be fine.”
“So you’re still in? Not too pissed off to share a car with me?”
“I told you, I’m not pissed off. Just kind of—I don’t know, blown up a little.”
“I’m sorry, Pinks. I am. I wasn’t trying to keep any of this from you, I swear. I just wanted to surprise you. That’s all. Do the romantic thing on the mountaintop. And I fucked it up, apparently, and I’m sorry. I didn’t realize Dad would—shit, you know what? I’m an idiot. I should have known. Fucking Machiavelli. What was I thinking?”
We turned from the main road onto the Seagrapes driveway. The car began to fetch in the potholes. I felt Mr. Adams’s ears straining for our conversation. I glanced at him and smiled. He lifted his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulder.
“What do you mean, Machiavelli?” I asked.
“Look,” said Monk, “can we unpack all this later? While we’re driving through Pennsylvania? It’s a big state. Goes on fucking forever. Plenty of time to psychoanalyze Dad’s manipulative ways. Just don’t let him get to you, okay? Don’t let him set up house in your head.”
I stared across the meadow grass to the crumbling stone wall that separated Seagrapes from the Monk property. The spot where I’d once sat with Monk, and a squall caught us, and Monk held his jacket over our heads while the rain drummed around us.
“I’ve been kind of thinking New Mexico lately,” I said. “What do you think of New Mexico?”
“Never been to New Mexico. I hear Santa Fe’s a great spot.”
“Georgia O’Keeffe lived in Santa Fe.”
“No shit, that’s right. That’s a sign, Pinks. An omen. I’ll see you in the morning. Bring you coffee, how’s that? Grace promised she’d pack some sandwiches for us.”
“Oh my God. We’re really doing this.”
“Pinko,” he said, “we really are. Get some sleep.”
“You too.”
“It’s going to be okay, I swear. I love you, all right? I’m all yours.”
“Same,” I said.
I hung up the phone and slipped it into my handbag. My head was still spinning from the champagne. Mr. Adams eased the car to a stop in front of the garage and cut the engine. “Everything all right?” he asked.
I stared through the windshield at the cedar shingles in front ofus.
“You’re wrong about Monk,” I said. “He’s a great artist. Maybe it’s not your kind of art. Not your kind of music. But it’s special, it is. He writes these songs that dig into your soul. And he can sing, Mr. Adams, he can really sing.”
“I know that, Mallory. He’s always had a terrific singing voice.”
I turned in my seat and looked at Mr. Adams. He concentrated on the garage door facing the car, like he was trying to use Jedi mind tricks to open it. Not listening to me at all.
“You should know something,” I said. “You should know that he’s been playing gigs at the Mohegan Inn all summer, and he’s killing it, Mr. Adams. Killing it. They’re boating in from the mainland to hear him. They’re lining up for autographs. You have to see it to believe it. You have to hear him, Mr. Adams, you have to understand. This is what he was born to do.”
“Then perhaps he should have told me about all this. Don’t you think?”
“Because he didn’t want to disappoint you.” I reached out and put my hand on his arm. “Look. Listen to me, Mr. Adams. Please listen. He’s going to kill me for telling you this. But I think you should know he’s playing tonight. He’s stepping in last minute to earn some extra money. You should go. It starts around nine o’clock. Just go. I mean, don’t let him see you there. But just watch. Please, Mr. Adams. You have to watch him play. Before he leaves.”
Mr. Adams turned to look at me. His face was tired and full of compassion.
“You care about him very much, don’t you?” he said.
“I love him, Mr. Adams. I’d do anything for him.”
“Then he’s a very lucky boy.” Monk’s father gave me this kind, wistful smile and reached out to pat my knee. “All right, then, Mallory. If you want me to go, I’ll go.”
Even though Mr. Adams assured me I was now officially off the clock, I went upstairs to tuck the twins into bed when evening fell. We’d been reading from Harry Potter, and it seemed somehow wrong to finish up the chapter and slide in the bookmark, without any intention of continuing to the end. Deceitful, almost.
“So,” I told them. “You know how you asked if Monk and I were getting married?”
Blue sat up in bed. “You’re getting married? Can I be bridesmaid?”
“Gross,” said Chippy.
“No, silly. We’re not getting married. Sheesh. But we are—you know, boyfriend and girlfriend. And we decided we would take the rest of the summer off and go on a little vacation together, before college starts.”
Blue sighed. “I know that. Mom said.”
“Oh.”
“She called you a slut,” said Chippy.
“Well, that’s nice. You know that in olden times, a slut was a woman who was really messy. Like an artist sometimes gets when she’s in the middle of creating something wonderful. So maybe your mom was right. Now lie back down so I can tuck you in.”
Blue lay back and stared at me with her moon eyes while I kissed her forehead. A little unnerving, but whatever. “Are you coming back?” she asked.
“Of course we’re coming back, sweetheart. Monk’s your big brother, he loves you more than anything.”
“Do you love me?”
“Oh, sweetheart.” I pushed her fine hair back from her forehead. “Of course I do. Maybe you and Chippy can come and stay with us sometime. Would that be fun?”
“Yes,” she said. But her eyes were still moons.
When I turned to Chippy, he pretended to be asleep. Curled on his side, eyes shut tight. I ruffled his hair and kissed his smooth, damp cheek.
“Good night, sweet boy,” I whispered. “Love you always.”
Get some sleep, Monk had told me.
I tried. I lay in bed for the longest time, rolling to one side and the other. The champagne buzz had worn off a while ago. I tried to concentrate on my breathing, to concentrate on childhood memories, TV shows, go through the to-do lists, but the things Mr. Adams had said to me over lunch kept dropping into my head.
Isn’t that what we’re talking about, Mallory? About Monk quitting college to start his so-called music career?
There’s no such thing as old money anymore.
And: Believe me, when I married my first wife, I thought we’d feel that way about each other forever.
I glanced at the clock. Nearly eleven. Monk would be finishing up by now, signing autographs. Signing arms. All those belly buttons tucked in their sleek, tanned bellies. Fun-loving, music-loving girls. Girls who didn’t spend an hour staring at a seashell, mesmerized by the pattern of ridges that resembled the ripples in an ocean.
I love you, all right? I’m all yours.
I rose from the bed and changed into pajamas. Belted my dressing gown over them. I’d bought the robe at Marshalls before I left for college, imagining long midnight conversations in the dorm hallway. It was getting a bit tatty by now, as my grandmother would have said. The teal satin was fraying at the seams. I tiptoed to the liquor tray in the sunroom and poured a splash of vodka into a glass to numb my anxious nerves a little. Some lemon seltzer.
“Mallory. Good evening.”
I spun to the french doors. Mr. Adams stood there in a dressing gown of his own, much richer than mine. Smoking his evening joint.
“I—I thought you were at the Mo.”
“I came home after the first set. You reach my age, you can’t stay out the way you once did. And Becca called.” He examined the joint, inhaled, examined the result. “She was under the weather.”
“I’m sorry.”
He waved his hand. “Join me?”
“I really—I was just going to bed—”
“Come along. It’s a lovely night.”
I followed him to the terrace. He sat in his usual wicker chair; I perched on the edge of my usual wicker sofa. He offered me the joint. I hesitated, then took it. It would help me sleep, I thought.
“You know, I once had aspirations to be an artist,” Mr. Adams said.
“Did you really? Doing what?”
“Oh, I painted. Oils. Back at school, they thought I had some talent. That was some time ago.” He picked up the glass of brown liquid sitting on the wicker coffee table and swirled the sides. “In fact, I took a minor in fine art at Harvard. My father thought it was a good idea. Everyone needs a hobby, he told me.”
“Do you ever wish you’d pursued it more?”
“Oh, not really. Not to any great extent. I married early. Divorced and married again. Monk’s sister came along, and Monk. Duties, you know? God gives us habit in place of happiness. As Pushkin tells us.” He drank the Scotch, set it back on the coffee table, and picked up his joint. “But nothing goes to waste, Mallory. Remember that. Instead of indulging my creative ambitions at my family’s expense, I poured all my energy into supporting young artists.”
“So what did you think of Monk’s show?” I asked.
“I thought it was very good. He’s a natural performer.” He chuckled and shook his head. “All those women, my God. I don’t know where they came from. The mainland, I guess.”
“Mike must have sent the word out. He’s got kind of a following now. Monk, I mean.”
“I thought I recognized one of them. Daughter of an old friend of mine. Harvard. Oil family, out in Texas? We used to tease him about it. Called him Tex. Tex Lassiter. Good man. Now the girl’s at Colby with Monk.” He smiled. “Was, I guess.”
“Oh?”
“He joined her at the bar during the break. They seemed to be having a nice chat together. Catching up, I guess. Lovely young thing, Lee. You know, I always imagined—well. Never mind that.” He sucked on the joint and shook his head. “Girls these days, their figures. All these sports they’re doing. Can I get you another drink?”
I looked at my glass and realized it was empty.
“I really shouldn’t. I couldn’t sleep, that’s all. I thought it might help.”
He rose and took the glass. “A second will put you right out, trust me.”
I heard him step through the door behind me. I stared at the joint burning in the ashtray. Thought about Monk, putting his guitar into the case. Walking out the kitchen door of the Mo, down the street by himself, into Bessie by himself. Followed, possibly, by a fan or two. Maybe the one who’d joined him at the bar, according to Mr. Adams. The old girlfriend from Colby, catching up.
I reached for the joint and dragged in a lungful of weed.
“Mallory?”
I realized my eyes were closed. I opened them and there was Mr. Adams, holding out a drink. “Thanks,” I said.
He had refilled his own drink too. He sat down, picked up the joint, and said, “Have I put my foot in it again?”
“What? No.”
“Monk’s a loyal boy, Mallory. You have nothing to worry about.”
“I’m not worried.”
“I’m sure he’s on his way home now.” With his drink, he gestured in the direction of the Monk estate. “If you’d like to go over there and wait for him, instead of sitting around here with a doddering old man like me, I understand.”
I picked up the glass and sipped. A little strong on the vodka. “That would be silly.”
“That’s my girl.” Mr. Adams sucked on the joint and set it back on the edge of the ashtray. “So, tell me a bit more about your drawings, Mallory. I want to know everything about you.”
When I think of what happened next, which is not often, I think of it from a distance. I watch it happening like it’s some other girl, some actress playing me in a scene. Even at the time, it didn’t seem real. I felt like a puppet. Like something else had taken over the action of my arms and legs and thoughts. My emotions sandpapered away to a dull matte. So I don’t remember every detail. Every word. They alter a little in my memory, every time I think about that night. Which is not often.
But this is the gist.
I remember I talked to Mr. Adams about my drawings, about the repeating patterns in nature and how I’d taken this course in textile design and started weaving those ideas into my work. He found it fascinating. He asked me about my father, my relationship with my father, how old I was when he left. He asked how close my father and I had been. How often I see him now.
I heard myself say, “I think I’d better head for bed now.”
“I think you’d better,” said Mr. Adams.
He helped me rise from the chair. Held me around the shoulders as we crossed the sunroom to the hall. “I’m feeling a little strange,” I told him.
“Yes, you probably do,” he said. “I might have given you something to help you sleep. You seemed a bit on edge. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you. This way, honey.”
I wanted to tell him that I didn’t need help, that I could get to bed by myself. But my limbs were heavy and my head seemed to lack any will of its own. He guided me around the corner and down the hall to my room. Turned on the lamp next to the bed and untied the sash of my dressing gown.
“I can take it from here,” I said.
“Now, Mallory. Just let me help you. I don’t think you can get these buttons by yourself, can you?”
“But I don’t…I need my pajamas…”
“Mallory, honey. Let’s be honest. You’ve been wanting me to do this. I’ve seen the way you look at me. Those dirty little glances. And your paintings, my God, those flowers. Don’t think I don’t know what you were trying to tell me with those.”
“I think…I think you misun…mister…”
“Nobody has to know, Mallory. Our secret.”
I was falling. He caught me and sat me on the bed. The pajama top came apart in his hands.
“That’s right. Here we are,” he said, in that soothing baritone. “Well, now. Look at these little devils. Even prettier than I imagined.”
He laid his hands on my breasts. I remember looking down in shock at his fingers, raising my nipples to points. You need to panic now, I thought. You need to do something.
“You see?” he said. “You want this, Mallory.”
“No.”
He laughed softly. “But I know how much you enjoy a good screw. Right, Mallory? I’ve listened to you at night. You’re just one of those girls. One of those girls that needs it.”
I tried to lift my hands to stop him, but they were so heavy, like they were filled with iron. “I can’t,” I said.
“I’m going to take care of you, Mallory. Everything will be fine, I promise. Nobody will know. Just lie down for me. Let it happen.”
He pushed me gently back on the bed and took hold of my pajama bottoms. I stared at the ceiling as he worked them down my legs. When I summoned my arms to rise against him, they wouldn’t move. This must be a dream, I thought. That’s it. A dream. Hallucination. Nightmare. This is not my body. This is not real. This can’t be real.
This isn’t really happening.
But it did. It happened. It happens to a lot of women, more women than you think. Women who never imagine it could happen to them, women who trusted the wrong person, women who dropped their guard at the wrong moment. Women who think it was maybe their fault. Women who are too ashamed to talk about it afterward. Women who try to forget, to move on with their lives, to block the whole thing out, to stuff it in a box and close the lid. Go on living and loving, don’t let it define you. Don’t let it beat you.
But it did happen. That night, it happened to me.