Daughters of Eve (27 page)

"We have to stand up for our rights!"

"You sound like Irene."

"So, what's wrong with that? Are you turning on Irene now?" Paula regarded her incredulously. "I'll tell you, Fran, you and I have been friends for a long time, but if you dare say one thing against Irene, our friendship's over. Look at all she's done for us, at all she's taught us. How many teachers give their all for their students the way she's done? If it wasn't for Irene, we'd still be the bunch of spineless nothings we were a year ago, slopping along without any real direction, doing do-gooder projects and having our little parties. It's Irene who's shown us what sisterhood can be."

"It's gotten out of hand," Fran said. "It's gone too far. The basic premise is sound enough, but there's so much hate, we can't even look at it clearly any longer."

"Of course, there's hate! It's normal to hate people who hurt you!"

"I don't hate Mr. Carncross, and I don't hate Gordon. I like Gordon. He's a really cool guy."

"And I suppose you like' Mr. Shelby? Did Bambi read you that letter?"

"Yes, and I don't like it, and I don't like him. I think the letter was a copout, and there's got to be something we can do about it. But, not this. This isn't going to get us anywhere. What good will it do?" Behind the thick lenses of her glasses, Fran's eyes were solemn and worried. "Paula, this scares me. If things go on like this, somebody's going to get hurt. Badly hurt."

"Mr. Shelby, you mean?"

"I don't know who, but somebody. Violence leads to more violence. You know Tammy's 'candle with the blood on it'? I don't want to be there to see it burn."

"That's your problem then," Paula said.

"I guess it is."

Fran did not bother to go downstairs and walk Paula to the door. It would not have mattered. Despite the years of closeness which lay behind them, they were no longer friends.

CHAPTER 19

On Saturday, December 9, at 5:50 P.M., Jane Rheardon entered her home by the front door and went through the entrance hall to the stairway leading to the second floor.

As she passed the door to the living room, her father called out to her, "Jane, is that you? Come in here."

Jane hesitated at the foot of the stairs, torn as to whether to obey the command or continue to her room. Finally, she turned and came slowly back to stand in the entrance way.

Bart Rheardon was seated in his accustomed chair with the evening paper lying open on his lap and a martini already in his hand.

"Well, look who has decided to come home," he said, lifting the glass in a sardonic toast. "The wanderer has returned at last. Where have you been?"

"If you'd been really worried you would have called the police," Jane said.

"I wasn't 'really worried,' as you put it. I was sure you'd taken off to the home of one or another of those girl friends of yours. I wasn't about to go calling all over town to find out which one. The question is, why are you here now?"

"To get my clothes," Jane said.

"Oh, really? You mean you girls don't share each other's clothing? They're your soul sisters, aren't they? I thought you passed around everything like you were one big family."

"I'm not staying with one of the girls. I spent the night with Miss Stark. Her number's written down in the front of Mother's directory. I told you yesterday I was going to be over there for a supper party. You could have reached me if you'd wanted when Mother had her 'accident.'"

"Why should I? One more hysterical voice wouldn't have added much to the occasion."

"Well, now you won't have to listen to any voices at all," Jane said. "You can have the whole place to yourself. I'm moving out."

"This teacher friend is planning to put you up indefinitely?"

"At least until Mother gets out of the hospital."

"And then where will you be going?"

"With Mother," Jane said. "Wherever she wants to be."

"She'll be here, with me, the way she's always been," Bart Rheardon told her. "Your mother wouldn't know what to do with herself if she weren't here. The doctors think she'll have to be in a wheelchair for a while. That means she won't be able to do all the things she used to do. You'll have to pitch in and help out a lot more than you've been doing lately."

Jane stared at him in amazement.

"Dad," she said softly, "sometimes I simply can't believe you."

When he spoke like this, acted like this, he seemed so normal. He was a handsome man—heavy jowled and beginning to gray a little at the temples, but still far better looking than the fathers of most of her classmates. He had honest eyes with a direct, straightforward gaze—a strong, square chin—a wide, pleasant mouth. His was the kind of face that people liked and trusted. If you ran into someone with a face like that on a street comer and he asked you for directions, you wouldn't think twice about standing there and giving them to him. If you found yourself sitting next to him at a lunch counter and he smiled at you, you'd chat a little. He was well known in the community. People respected him. Her mother loved him. That was the ultimate mystery—the fact that her mother, who knew him at his worst as well as his best—continued to love him.

That morning at the hospital Jane had asked her, "How did it happen?'

Her mother had looked up at her and lied.

"I slipped on some grease," she had said.

"No, you didn't." Jane had not even tried to pretend to believe her. "You know that isn't true. It was a Friday night. Dad came home in one of his tempers like he always does. You must have said something he didn't hike, and he hit you."

"It was an accident."

"It's never an accident." Jane bent closer to study the swollen face, trying to judge it objectively despite the nausea rising within her. "He must have hit you on the left side of the jaw and knocked you down. You hurt your hip when you landed. How is it none of the doctors have wondered about those bruises and all that swelling?"

"I hit the table." Ellen Rheardon spoke so softly at first Jane could not be sure of what she was saying.

"I can't hear you, Mother."

"I fell into the table," her mother said more loudly. "I slipped and fell, and my face went into the edge of the kitchen table."

"You couldn't have fallen forward. If you had, you'd never have broken your hip. You had to fall backward to do that."

"I tell you, that's how it happened." The woman on the bed gazed up at her with pleading eyes. "I told that to the doctors, and they didn't question it any. Why are you trying to hurt us, Jane?"

"Trying to hurt you!"

"It's between your father and me, so you just stay out of it. It's not for you to pass judgment He's sorry. He's living in hell, he's so sorry. See those flowers over there by the television? Those roses? Aren't they beautiful? Roses in December! He must have gone out to a flower shop in the middle of the night and made them open up special so those would be waiting for me when I woke up this morning." She grimaced as the effort to talk became too much for her. "I need—to rest a little."

"Yes, you rest, Mother. I'll come back when you're feeling better."

Her mother's eyelids fluttered, and she gave a deep sigh. They had given her a shot of something to control the pain. She was struggling against it, trying to keep her thoughts in order so that she could convey them.

"And—Janie?"

"Yes, Mother?"

"Everybody can't help what he is, you know. Dad's father—he used to use a horse whip. Your daddy told me about it once. When he and his brother were naughty, his father used to go out to the garage and get that whip."

"That has nothing to do with you and me," Jane said.

"Maybe—it could help you—understand better."

"I will never understand him," Jane said softly, "and I never want to."

And now, staring at the man in the easy chair, she said again, "I simply can't believe you. You're—unreal."

"I seem to be real enough when it comes to paying the bills around here," Bart Rheardon said. "I'm 'real' when you want a new dress or curtains for your room or a student activity ticket. How many lads do you know who get an allowance the size of yours?"

"You're a son of a bitch!"

Jane spoke the words slowly and clearly, enunciating each syllable. They shot into the air between them and hung there, so sharp and strident that they could almost be seen. Her father's eyes widened with shocked surprise.

"A son of a bitch," Jane repeated with satisfaction. "Mother won't say it, but I will, I'll say it for both of us. And when Mother gets out of the hospital, she's not coming back here with you. I'm not going to let her."

"I don't think you will have much to say about it," Mr. Rheardon said.

"I think I will, Dad."

"I say you won't; that's that."

"No, it isn't 'that'" Jane said. "This isn't the dark ages. Women don't have to let themselves get beaten up, and they don't have to watch other women get beaten. I'm going to the police."

"And accomplish what, Jane? It will be your word against mine and your mother's. She's not going to back you up."

"She doesn't have to. There'll be the doctors at the hospital. They've seen her bruises. Not just her face right now, which is bad enough, but the others. She's got them all over her."

"Your mother has had several unfortunate falls," Mr. Rheardon said in a tight, controlled voice. "She herself will testify to that if she is forced to do so. Nobody is going to listen to a youngster like you, especially when the person you're supposedly defending calls you a liar."

"They will listen to me! I'll make them listen!"

"You can't make anybody do anything," Bart Rheardon said with a short laugh. "A little piece of chicken fluff like you has about as much clout as peach fuzz."

"You'd better think twice before you say something like that, Daddy," Jane said in a burst of anger. "You know what your sweet little 'chicken fluff, peach fuzz' daughter was doing this afternoon? She was chopping up office furniture with an ax!"

"You don't even own an ax."

"It came from Paula's house. Her brother Tom takes it with him when he goes hunting. We all got to use it! We chopped up the desk! You should have seen it!" The words came pouring out of her in an uncontrollable rush. "Mr. Shelby's desk is this big, mahogany thing; now it's like firewood! And the cabinets and the book shelves, we did the same to them! We burned all the books! That was Kelly's idea. We had to rip them up to start with because they were too thick, but that didn't matter. We had the whole afternoon!"

"You're making this up."

"I'm not making up anything! Every bit of it is true!" His refusal to believe her drove her to greater fury. "I'm nobody's chicken! I'm a woman, and women are powerful! We can do all kinds of things when we band together! You lay a hand on my mother again and you'll find out how strong we are! We'll make you sorry—sorrier even than Peter!"

Her voice was rising higher and higher, a shriek of desperation. Far and shrill, she could hear it screaming out words she had never meant it to say. Stop, she cried to it silently. Stop! Please, be silent! But it would not obey her.

"We'll get you! We'll punish you!" the voice screamed.

Jane saw her father rise from his chair and come toward her, but she did not take in his full intent until she felt the blow. His fist struck her on the left ear and sent her reeling backward across the room into the bookcase. The wooden shelves behind her kept her from falling, and she stood, leaning against them, stunned into silence.

Her father said, "Come here."

No! Jane mouthed the word, but no sound came. Terror drained all strength from her body. She lifted her left hand and pressed it against the side of her face.

"I said, come here!" Bart Rheardon said hoarsely. "Do you hear me, daughter?"

Numbly, Jane nodded. She managed to get her feet aligned under her and took a tentative step forward. The world spun dizzily about her. She took another step, and her father's hand closed hard upon her shoulder.

"Now, you listen to me," he said, "and you listen good. Number one, you're resigning from that Daughters of Eve club tomorrow. I don't know what's going on there, but whatever it is, it's turned you in a couple of months time into a vicious, smart-mouthed troublemaker. Number two, you're not moving out of here until you graduate. This town would have a heyday gossipping about that Rheardon girl who left home to live with one of her teachers.

"Number three, you're going to shape up and behave yourself. You raise your voice to me one more time, and you're going to find yourself sharing a hospital room with your mother. Do you understand me?"

Jane made a second painful attempt to nod her head.

"You tell me, "Yes, Dad.'"

"Yes, Dad." She brought the words out in a whisper.

He released her shoulder, and she took a quick step backward.

"Now, don't you go running off. You're here to stay awhile." Bart Rheardon went back to his chair and seated himself. He picked up the glass, which he had set down on the coffee table, raised it to his lips and took a long swallow. "That teacher was with you, right?"