Their own father.
The fact of it is like her own heartbeat. Her own blood, pounding in time with the horror of it.
She’s trembling. “Why? Why did you . . . why?
“Frank?”
He raises his head, and through the shock of it all, she sees that he’s smiling at her. Like it’s a sunny afternoon at Coney Island and he’s just handed her a corn dog. But there’s something in his smile . . . something slithering behind his eyes.
And although his head is angled down and his breath is regular and even, the words come out sizzling.
“Ruth, honey, you were behaving like a bitch in heat. Running around with all those men. You’d spread your legs for any guy with a fat wallet and a fancy watch. You were a mother, but you wouldn’t act like one. So you had to be taught a lesson. And I was ready to forgive you, but you had to ask for it. And I knew that if the kids were gone, you’d need me again. You’d need my help. I knew you’d want me to come back.”
His eyes bore through her, all the way inside her, and his mouth twitches.
“And you did, didn’t you, baby? I was the first person you called. You needed me again.”
His smile is a red blur through her tears.
“You came back to me.”
Somehow the ring of arrogance in his voice breaks the spell and she lets out the long breath she has been holding. She realizes that beneath the horror and the disgust, she is knotted with rage. She clenches her fists and feels the nails break her skin and for one white-hot moment she feels the depth of her hate.
She lifts her head. “But we broke up again, Frank. We broke up. I’ve been with other men since you.”
His tongue flickers out, just for an instant, to wet his lips.
“Lots of men.”
He smiles again.
“Yeah. Yeah, I knew that, Ruthie. I knew you’d leave again.”
He sighs, tips his chair back, studies her with his head to one side.
“And I knew that when you got out of here, you’d disappear. You’d go off with Gallagher or someone else, and you’d think you could move on. Without me.”
Suddenly his chair lunges forward, the legs crashing against the floor, and she jumps and he’s looking over at the guard and nodding like everything is fine, and then he’s leaning toward her. She doesn’t want to give him an inch but she can’t help it, and even though she recoils he’s close enough that she can smell his sour breath as he spits his words out.
“But no matter where you go or who you’re with, no matter who you’re whoring yourself out to, no matter which rich dupe you find to take care of you, you’ll know what I did and why. I’ll be in your head every day. You’re going to get what you deserve.”
He leans back and folds his arms and that smile is back in place.
“When we were waiting for the verdict, I was so afraid you’d get off. These past four years, I finally knew where you were. Knew you weren’t with another guy. And now it doesn’t matter what happens. You could walk out of here tomorrow and it wouldn’t matter. After today, I’ll always be right here”—and he reaches over and taps his finger against her temple. Twice.
That’s the image that stays with her: his finger, tapping; his bright eyes; that broad grin.
She doesn’t remember much after that: not Frank leaving or the walk to her cell. She doesn’t remember the bell ringing for dinner or making the decision not to get up and eat, but when she comes back to herself, she’s huddled on her bed and it’s dark. The lights are off in her cell and there’s just the pale glow from the hallway and the noise of hundreds of women falling asleep: low voices, coughing, someone sobbing quietly.
She closes her eyes and all she can see is his smile, and she thinks: This is how it’s going to be now.
And this is how it is through the days that follow.
She eats and showers and gets into bed when they tell her to. She mops floors, scrubs toilets, pushes the library cart, and all the time Frank is there, like he promised.
The day of the parole hearing arrives and her attorney looks at her naked face, her red eyes, and nods.
She sits in a small stifling room facing another row of faces across another table. She speaks softly. She hears the words remorse and guilt and she bows her head in acknowledgment and weeps.
“Yes,” she wants to say. “I am guilty. I did not protect them. I did not stop him. I did not recognize him for what he was.
“I admit it. I am guilty.”
She lets their voices wash over her and thinks about telling them. She imagines the words in her mouth. How they would sound. She imagines the clear truth hanging in the close air of this room. How it would taste. And then she imagines them looking through it and seeing only her fury and her grief. She imagines their disbelieving expressions and their eyes slip-sliding away to their notes, the murmured shaking of their heads.