I woke the next morning to the sound of her voice.
At first I thought it was only another dream, and I welcomed it, wishing to watch her remove her dress and walk into the lake again and again in the theater of my mind. Her voice drifted through the air on a whisper, followed by Mother’s chuckle. My eyes snapped open.
“It was kinky,” she said. “I had never been tied up before.”
“Never?” Mother replied.
Mrs. Carter giggled. “Does that make me a prude?”
“It just makes you inexperienced. In time, you’ll be surprised by what your husband can come up with to get his rocks off.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes. Just last week . . .” Mother’s voice dropped to a whisper.
I sat up in bed. Now the voices were faint, somewhere else in the house.
I hastily dressed and pressed my ear to my door, but still I couldn’t make out the words.
With a gentle twist of the knob, I opened the door and made my way down the hallway, my stockinged feet noiseless on the hardwood floor.
The hallway ended at the living room, which in turn faced the kitchen. I smelled something baking: the lofty aroma of apples and bread. Pie, perhaps? I love a good pie.
Mother and Mrs. Carter burst out laughing simultaneously.
I crouched low against the wall near the end of the hallway. I was still unable to hear well but dared not enter the living room. This position would have to do.
“My Simon is not that adventurous,” Mrs. Carter said. “I’m afraid to say his bag of tricks is rather light. More of a satchel than a bag, really. Or perhaps one of those little paper lunch sacks.”
The refrigerator door opened with the jingle of bottles.
“Not my husband,” Mother replied. “Sometimes I’ll put on the game just to get his mind out of the bedroom. Or the laundry room. Or the kitchen table.”
“No!” Mrs. Carter cried out with a laugh.
“Oh yes,” said Mother. “The man is like an animal in heat. Sometimes there is no stopping him.”
“But you have a kid.”
“Oh, that boy is always off doing something. When he’s not, he’s in bed sleeping like a bear in the dead of winter. The earth could open up beneath him, and he’d sleep through the carnage.”
I eased my head around the corner without so much as a sound, immediately drawing it back so as not to be seen.
Mother was mixing something at the counter. Mrs. Carter sat at the kitchen table, coffee mug at hand.
“Maybe you should try something to spice things up,” Mother continued. “Missionary is for missionaries, I always say. Introduce a toy or bring some food into the bedroom. All men like whipped cream.”
I was not permitted to bring food into my room. Not since Mother had found a half-eaten tin of cookies under my bed.
Mrs. Carter giggled again. “I could never.”
“You should.”
“But what if he doesn’t like it, or thinks I’m some kind of freak? How would I survive the embarrassment?”
“Oh, he’ll like it. They always do.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
The women fell silent for a moment, then Mrs. Carter spoke. “Has your husband ever, you know, not been able to, well, you know . . .”
“My husband?” Mother shrieked with amusement. “My Lord, no. His plumbing is in top order.”
“Even when he drinks?”
“Especially when he drinks.”
One of our wooden chairs scraped against the floor.
I peeked around the corner for just an instant. Mother had sat beside Mrs. Carter and put a hand on her shoulder. “Does it happen a lot?”
“Only when he drinks.”
“Does he drink a lot?”
Mrs. Carter paused, searching for the right words. “Not every night.”
Mother squeezed her shoulder. “Well, men will be men. He still has some growing up to do.”
“You think?”
“Sure. When starting out in life, there are so many pressures on a man, on both of you, but especially on him. He bought you that lovely home. I imagine you’ve talked of children?”
Mrs. Carter nodded.
“All those things, they add up like big, heavy weights on his shoulders. Each one adding another pound or two until he can barely walk, barely stand. He drinks to help deal with that, that’s all. I find nothing wrong with a little sauce to calm an edgy nerve. Don’t you fret. When things improve, when the pressure lifts, things will get better. Just you wait and see.”
“You don’t think it’s me?” Mrs. Carter said, her voice almost childlike.
“A pretty thing like you? Of course not,” Mother told her.
“You think I’m pretty?”
Mother snorted. “I can’t believe you’d even have to ask. You are gorgeous. One of the most beautiful women I’ve ever laid eyes on.”
“That is so sweet of you to say,” Mrs. Carter said.
“It’s the truth. Any man would be lucky to have you,” Mother told her.
The women fell silent again, and I stole another glance, crawling around the corner as quiet as a mouse.
Mother and Mrs. Carter were kissing.
12
Emory
Day 1 ? 9:29 a.m.
Darkness.
It swirled around her like the current of the deepest sea. Cold and silent, crawling across her body with the touch of a stranger.
“Em,” her mother whispered. “You gotta get up. You’re going to be late for school.”
“No,” she groaned. “A few more minutes . . .”
“Now, baby, I’m not going to tell you again.”
“I’ve got a bad headache. Can I stay home?” Her voice was soft and distant, soaked and heavy with sleep.
“I’m not going to make up another excuse for you with the principal. Why do we have to go through this every day?”
But this wasn’t right. Her mother had died long ago, when she was only three. Her mother had not been there on her first day of school. She had never sent her off to school. She had been homeschooled most of her life.
“Momma?” she said softly.
Silence.
Her head hurt so bad.
She tried to force her eyelids open, but they fought her.
Her head ached, throbbed. She heard the pounding of her own heartbeat, the rhythm fast and strong behind her eyes.
“Are you there, Momma?”
She peered through the darkness at her left, searching for the illuminated red numbers of her alarm clock. The clock wasn’t there, though; her room was pitch-dark.
The city lights normally cast a glow on her ceiling, but they too were dark.
She couldn’t see anything.
It’s not your room.
The thought came swiftly, an unknown voice.
Where?
Emory Connors tried to sit up, but a hammer of pain pulsed on the left side of her head, forcing her to lie back down. Her hand went to her ear and found a thick bandage. Wetness.
Blood?
Then she remembered the shot.
He had given her a shot.
Who was he?
Emory didn’t know. She couldn’t remember. She remembered the shot, though. His arm had reached around from behind and plunged the needle into her neck. Cold liquid rushed out under her skin.
She had tried to turn.