I did what Joseph asked of me, nearly all the time.
Once and only once did I say no to Joseph as he climbed into bed beside me. Only once did I admit that it hurt, what he did to me. I pulled my legs up as high as I could and wrapped my arms around them so that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t find a way in, and he stood before me, before the bed, and said, “‘An eye that mocks a father and scorns to obey a mother will be picked out by the ravens of the valley and eaten by the vultures.’ Proverbs 30:17.”
And I imagined that. Being picked apart by ravens and vultures. My carcass being torn apart by their beaks and talons because God was angry with me. Because I was refusing my father what was his duty and obligation.
And then I parted my legs and let him climb up on me and I held real still, like Momma used to say when we’d go to the doctor for a shot. “Hold still and it won’t hurt so much.” And I did, I held real still. But still, it hurt.
It hurt there, in the moment. Hurt long after he’d gone, after he’d told me what a good girl I’d been, how he was pleased with me.
I thought long and hard about that, about me being a good girl. I wondered what it would take, how many times Joseph would have to let himself into my room, before this good girl turned bad.
CHRIS
I finish my breakfast and head in for a shower, making sure to scour the tile first to remove any trace of the vile sores on that girl’s feet. Thirty minutes later, Heidi stands before me, hands on hips, and asks, “Really?” when I appear before her with briefcase in hand and I reply, “Yes, really,” as I say goodbye to Zoe and head for the door.
I drag Heidi by the hand and into the hallway before I go. The scent of Heidi’s breakfast fills the space. A neighbor passes by, presumably headed for the newsstand on the corner.
“I want you to call me,” I say as the elevator chimes in the distance and our neighbor friend descends to the first floor. “Every hour on the hour. If you’re so much as a minute late, I’m calling the police.”
“You’re being unreasonable, Chris,” she says to me.
“Every hour, Heidi,” I repeat. “It’s that simple,” I say, asking rhetorically, “How much can you really know about another person?”
And then I kiss her cheek and leave.
On the train, I eavesdrop on twentysomethings’ conversations about the previous night’s drunken adventures, their lingering headaches, whether or not they puked when they got home.
Later, relishing the quiet solitude of my office, I slide the receipt from my wallet and peer at the name on the back: Willow Greer. I stretch in a leather executive chair on the forty-third floor of a skyscraper in the North Loop, and realize then and there that my offering memorandum—the one hanging over my head, the reason for the commute to work this sunny Sunday morning—is the furthest thing from my mind. I consider that booklet I’m to put together, the one that details the inner workings of some company we’re to sell—financial statements, business description, the works—and then push it from my mind.
I fire up the computer and type in the words Willow Greer.
Enter.
While the computer does its thing, I find myself staring at a blank spot on the wall, thinking that I should’ve stopped on the way in and picked up some coffee. My office is windowless, though I’m supposed to be grateful I have an office at all, and not a ceilingless gray cubical as many of our analysts do. I forage through the desk drawers for two shiny quarters, planning a trip to the vending machine as soon as I solve the mystery of Willow Greer. The phone rings and I snap it up. Heidi’s sarcastic voice is on the other end, announcing, “Eleven o’clock check-in call.” I peer at the numbers in the corner of my computer screen: 10:59. In the background, the baby wails.
“Why’s she crying?” I ask.
“Fever’s back,” says Heidi.
“Did you give her medicine?”
“Just waiting for it to kick in.”
“Try a cool washcloth,” I offer, “or a lukewarm bath,” remembering how sometimes, with Zoe, that worked. But what I really want to say is Serves you right, or Told you so.
“Will do,” says Heidi, and we hang up the phone, but not before I remind her, “One hour. I’ll talk to you in one hour.”