She nodded and tried to slide into a more comfortable sitting position. The handcuff tugged at her left wrist. She shot an angry glance at me and mumbled something behind the gag.
I edged closer. “If I remove the gag, do you promise not to scream? I wouldn’t blame you if you did. I would, but it would be fruitless. Honestly, you can never make out the screams upstairs. There’s no way anyone outside would hear you.” I slipped my fingers beneath the edge of the gag and pulled down. There was something about her skin; that quick touch made me feel all tingly. I’m not afraid to say my cheeks may have blushed and my heart pattered.
As the gag dropped around her neck, Mrs. Carter sucked in a deep breath, then let the air out before pulling in another and another after that. I thought she might hyperventilate and considered running upstairs for a paper bag, but then she spoke, her voice muted and raspy, no doubt from a dry throat.
“Screams?”
I cocked my head.
“You said ‘you can barely hear the screams upstairs,’ as in plural. Have your parents done this before?”
“Done what?”
“This.” She tugged at the handcuffs, causing them to rattle against the water pipe.
“Oh.” My gaze fell back to the breakfast tray. “I don’t know.”
She frowned. “You don’t know if your parents have ever chained a woman up in their basement before?”
I reached for the orange juice. “You must be parched. This juice is delightful, like sunshine in a glass.”
“I don’t want any juice, I want you to let me go. Please, just let me go.”
“How about a banana, then? I think I may eat one myself. We bought them two days ago, and they’re right at that stage between green and yellow, with a little tang of unripeness, just enough to put a pucker on your lips.”
“Let me go!” Mrs. Carter bellowed, the words scratching at her dry throat. “Let me go! Let me go! Let me go!”
I sighed. “I’m going to replace your gag for a second while I explain the rules to you. I’m sorry, Mrs. Carter.”
She tried to pull away, but I was ready for her. I grabbed a handful of her hair and tugged her head back sharply. I didn’t want to hurt her, but she left me little choice. My knife was tiny, a Ranger buck knife I easily concealed in my right palm. I had it out in an instant, the blade snapping open with a quick flick. I pricked her neck in the blink of an eye and held the bloody tip out in front of her to be sure she could see. It wasn’t a deep wound. I only wished to draw blood and help her understand I could do significantly more damage should I desire to do so.
Mrs. Carter whimpered, her eyes on the blade.
With my free hand, I maneuvered the gag back into place and released her. It was all over so fast, but I had made my point (pardon my silly little pun). With another flick of my wrist, the blade slipped back inside the sheath and out of sight as I dropped the knife into my shirt pocket. “The rules are simple, Mrs. Carter. They’ll only take a minute to explain, then I can leave you to your breakfast. I’m sure you’re famished.”
Her face grew red with anger.
“Do you promise to behave while I explain the rules?”
“Fuck you!” she shouted from behind the gag.
I was taken aback. I mean, how rude! Wasn’t I trying to help her?
“We don’t tolerate that kind of language in our house, Lisa. Not even from our guests,” Father’s voice boomed at my back.
I turned to find him standing at the base of the stairs, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. He stepped closer. “It starts with language like that. Such talk is quickly followed by rudeness, then anger and hate . . . There is simply no need for it in a civilized society. Before you know it, we’re all running naked in the streets, swinging axes. We can’t have that, can we? We’re trying to raise our boy right. He looks up to the adults around him. He learns from the adults around him.” He stepped forward and ruffled my hair. “This little guy is growing up quickly, and he picks up on things like a sponge. His mother and I want to be sure we instill the best values in him before we release him out into this big, nasty, beautiful world of ours. That’s where the rules come into play.”
“The rules come from the three monkeys.” I said. I couldn’t help but clap my hands with excitement. “Some people call them the three mystical monkeys but there was actually a fourth. He was called—”
“Slow down, son. When you tell a joke, do you skip to the punch line?”
I shook my head.
“Of course not,” he continued. “The same is true of a good story. First you begin with a little backstory, some history if appropriate, then you get to the nut of the tale, and finally you finish with a neat little bow to tie the package all off. You mustn’t rush. You should savor the telling like you would a good steak or sweet cone of your favorite ice cream.”
Father was right, of course. He always was. I had a tendency to be a little impatient, a fault I fully intended to work on. “Why don’t you tell her, Father? You tell the story so much better than me.”
“Than I, son. Than I.”
“Sorry. Than I.”
“If our guest promises to behave, I’m sure I could spend a few minutes with the two of you and run through it. After all, it’s best she understands the rules from the start, don’t you agree?”
I nodded.
Mrs. Carter stared at us both, stonefaced, her cheeks red behind the black and blue reminders of the previous night.
Father pulled over an upside-down bucket and sat beside me, setting his coffee down on the concrete floor. A little spilled over the side and sank deep into the bloodstain. “The wise monkeys are depicted in a carving above the door to the famous Tosho-gu Shrine in Nikko, Japan. They were carved by Hidari Jingoro in the seventeenth century and are believed to depict man’s life cycle . . . well, all the panels depict the life cycle, only the second one includes the wise monkeys. The life cycle is based on the teachings of Confucius.”
“Not the one from fortune cookies—the real Confucius,” I blurted out. “The real one was a Chinese teacher, editor, politician, and philosopher. He lived somewhere between 551 BC and 479 BC.”
“Very good, son!” Father said, beaming. “He authored some of the most influential of Chinese texts and codes of conduct still utilized today, not only in China but in much of the modern world. He was a wise man indeed. Some people also say the idea of the monkeys came to Japan from a Sendai Buddhist legend. If you ask me, nobody knows for sure. Such a strong proverb simply endures. I wouldn’t be surprised if one day we learned both Japan and China obtained the wisdom from an even more ancient source, and perhaps that source got it from something older still. The wise monkeys may date back to the dawn of man.”
Mrs. Carter continued to stare as Father went on. “The life cycle carving at the Tosho-gu Shrine is made up of eight panels in all. The monkeys appear in the second panel. Can anyone tell me their names?”