On the Edge of Dangerous Things (Dangerous Things Trilogy Book 1) (7 page)

After several minutes Hester stood up slowly, walked to where her coat hung, got the belt and sanitary napkin she’d wrapped in toilet paper out of the pocket, and went into the bathroom. She closed the door and struggled to put the pad on over the bloody wad of whatever it was that the man had shoved up her. She was in agony as she tried to pull on her panties and jeans. In the mirror the image of her pale face was fragmented by the cracks in the mirror. Her hair was oily-looking and damp. She stared at herself. Her eyes in the glaring light looked like black ticks frozen in amber. Hester went back into the bedroom, grabbed her coat, and left.

The snow had stopped, but the wind was wicked cold. She stood at the bus stop hugging herself and waiting, for what seemed like forever, for the bus back to campus.

Finally it came. It was practically empty. She took a window seat near the front. On the Walt Whitman Bridge there was a backup. The bus stopped, moved forward, stopped. Hester grew impatient. She felt horrible, and she wanted to get back before curfew to see Arty. Seeing Arty would make her feel better. It always did.

Arthur Kendall was one of the first people Hester met when she arrived on campus for orientation. He saw her sitting alone in the lounge, introduced himself, and invited her to the Trailer, an old Airstream, he explained, parked behind the place he rented in town. Hester liked his long sandy-colored hair, bell bottoms, the fact that he was older. She felt flattered, and curious.

The Trailer was pretty dirty, but it had a groovy atmosphere. Arty and the guys he lived with ran an extension cord to it from the house, screwed a black light into the ceiling, taped day glow posters over the windows, and threw an old mattress on the floor. It was a hangout, a place to smoke weed. Arty turned Hester on, and it wasn’t long before she was a regular at the Trailer. But there were always so many people around, so getting high was about all they ever did for the first few weeks. 

On his birthday, though, they were alone. That night the black light made everything magical for Hester. The whites of her boyfriend’s eyes and his teeth shone like milk glass. As soon as they were high, Arty leaned over and kissed Hester. He pulled her hair back and licked her neck and kissed it. Hester, not being experienced, did the same to him. Their hair, the color of the top side of a deer’s tail, was so identical they looked like twins kissing.

She felt his long fingers first. He slipped one hand down the back of her jeans and touched her between her cheeks. This made her squirm away from him so he stopped and began massaging her breasts through her blouse. He kept his mouth on her neck until he moved his hands down to her jeans and unbuttoned them. He maneuvered Hester onto her back, pulled her pants off. Before she had time to say a word, he was on top of her, then in her, and all she could feel at first was pain, unbearable, then bearable, then something that wasn’t pain but was nearly impossible for her to describe.

When it was over, Arty told Hester he was shocked by all the blood and a little worried that the guys would be pissed about the old mattress being ruined. Why hadn’t she told him she was a virgin? But she had, he probably hadn’t heard her.

The worst of the damage was already done, according to Arty, so he lit a joint, and they smoked it, and then they had sex until he came two more times. Hester wasn’t sure she came at all. But when Arty asked, she said she did because she thought that was what he wanted to hear. He told her she was the best birthday gift he ever got.

That was September 14.

Now it was November 29. Hester counted out the time on her fingers. It was less than ten weeks and that made her feel only slightly better. The baby would’ve been very small. How small? She wasn’t sure, but she was hoping it was small enough not to have felt anything.

Two weeks ago her belly seemed to swell up overnight and none of her pants fit. Arty gave her a pair of his to wear while he was figuring out where she could go to take care of the problem. She had them on now and rubbed her hands on the soft, worn denim. She tried to think about Arty but was having difficulty picturing him. His face, his hands, even his penis were nothing but a blur. She couldn’t picture what he looked like up close while they were making out, how his tongue tasted, how his lips felt on her neck, how he sounded when he laughed. Hester pressed the side of her head against the bus window and tried like hell to visualize the object of her undying love and affection, but all she conjured up was a clear image of that garbage can in that dirty room and, lying cold and dead in the bottom of it, her tiny naked baby.

One time when Hester was around eight years old, right after her sister was born, she was watching her mother nurse the infant—her mother was big on breast-feeding. She even started a club for it. There were more than a few people, though, who thought Mrs. Randal was disgusting. Hester overheard them say bad things about her mother and wished she would just stop doing it. But she didn’t. So this one day, when Hester was staring at her, her mother reached around Hester’s waist and pulled her close. Hester saw how tightly the infant’s lips latched onto her mother’s breast. The sound of the sucking was loud, the smell of the milk sweet and overwhelming. Hester felt the urge to suck on her mother’s breast too and almost asked if she could, but instead reached down and touched her sister’s hand. The tiny, almost translucent fingers wrapped around Hester’s pinky more firmly than seemed possible.

The bus was still stuck in the traffic on the Walt Whitman Bridge, and Hester was floating in and out of the past. She saw her baby sister’s fingers in her mind’s eye, remembered the warmth and strength of that touch.

I shouldn’t have left my baby there, I should’ve taken it with me, Arty and I should’ve buried it.

Her heart was in her throat. Some girls, who claimed to know about these things, told her it would be about the size of a pearl. She’d believed them then, and thought it would be an easy thing, but not now. She was in so much pain, her baby had to have been bigger than a stupid little pearl!

Maybe it had come out alive, and she could’ve baptized it—splashed a little water on its forehead and made the sign of the cross. It would’ve been better than nothing. Maybe it had cried. Maybe the man had pounded her poor baby to death with that claw thing.

Hester started to weep. It came on her hard.
I’m only seventeen and going to hell…for Arty.

Snot ran with her tears into her mouth, and the sourness of it all, of everything that happened, of everything she’d done, made her want to kill herself. She thought about getting off the bus and jumping off the bridge into the river.

She was crying so much, she bit down on her fist to shut herself up. She didn’t want the other people on the bus to hear her sobbing. She didn’t want anyone to ask what was wrong.

It was almost eleven o’clock when Hester walked into her dorm. The drugs were completely worn off. Her pelvis and groin throbbed. She had to see Arty. If he held her in his arms and told her he loved her, then she would know she’d done the right thing. She would heal, and they would go on loving each other. But it was late, too late to go to the Trailer and look for him. She couldn’t afford to miss curfew and have a letter sent to her parents. After all, they were paying for everything. If they found out about tonight, they’d never, ever forgive her. They’d make her come home, and then she would never see Arty again.

When she got to her floor, Hester went straight to the pay phone. Hearing his voice would be enough until tomorrow.

Gene, a guy who lived with Arty, picked up on the second ring.

“Hester?” His voice sounded like it always did, like he’d just inhaled nitrous oxide. “What the hell are you calling here for?”

“Look, Gene, I don’t feel all that great. Please, just let me talk to Arty.”

“Hester, shit, I don’t know what to tell you. Look, I didn’t think you’d be feeling too great tonight.” He made a noise that sounded like a chuckle.

Did he know what she’d done? How in the hell…?

“Just get him, Gene. Come on.” She was almost out of strength and completely out of patience. Then for a split second, it hit her that maybe something bad had happened to Arty, and Gene was just trying to break it to her gently.

“Gene, tell me the truth,” Hester pleaded. “Is Arty alright?”

“Well, he’s not hurt or arrested or anything, if that’s what you mean. I just don’t know what to tell you.”

“How about the truth?”
Asshole
, Hester almost said it. She knew Gene was just trying to keep her on the phone. He was always trying to outdo Arty, like he was jealous of him or something.

“You asked for it, Hester, and remember, I didn’t want to be the one to tell you. Personally, I think you’re a groovy chick and that Arty is a real asshole for…”

“Please, Gene, I’m really sick here. Please, don’t tease me.”

“Well, he’s not here for a couple of reasons. He got loaded, he went to see Trish, the girl from his home town he’s been in love with for four fucking years, the girl he’s engaged….”

Hester didn’t think she heard him correctly.

“Hey, look, Hester,” he continued, “want me to come over and sneak you out? We can go somewhere and get stoned. You know, help me celebrate, help you get over that asshole.”

“You’re an effing liar, Gene!”

“No, but for your sake I wish I was. It’s the fucking truth, and it’s about time you knew it.”

Hester slammed the receiver on its hook and held onto wall phone as though she were tethered to it. If she let go, unseen forces might pull her away bit by bit, cell by cell, till even her bones might disappear. All that would remain would be her broken spirit. She leaned her head against the cold wall. The peace sign on her T-shirt stretched across her breasts. She saw it, but it didn’t register. She looked down beyond it. How far away her feet looked—those stupid clogs, like two small wooden boats sinking in a puddle of scarlet blood the saturated napkin could no longer contain.

Twelve

Hester wasted half of the next morning sitting in Al’s La-Z-boy feeling nauseous and ruminating about the past. She’d barely slept. During the night she was awakened by the goofy hip-hop ringtone Al had downloaded on her cell. After she saw that it was him, she turned it off.

Now, she stood up. Stretched, and looked out through the sliding door. Old Chet was shuffling his way over to shuffleboard courts with Ernie Stamford. Thank God. She could go out now and not have to worry about being forced to listen to more of Chet’s commentary.

The patio and small yard were a mess. Hester got to work picking up garbage, hosing the asphalt down, scrubbing what was left of the outdoor furniture, raking over the fresh mound of dirt beneath the Bo tree.

Gratefully, she lost track of time and only stopped when she heard the mockingbird. It was sitting atop the Buchanans’ flagpole. She closed her eyes and tried to follow the pattern of the whistles, the tweets, the long shrill slides from one octave to another. The wild abandon of the bird’s warbling made her ache inside. If only she could be free as a bird. The creature flew into the Bo tree. She thought of Atticus Finch.

“It’s a sin to kill a mockingbird,” she whispered. “All they do is sing and make the world a better place.”

That’s what I wanted to do, make the world a better place.

How short she’d fallen of her high aspirations. Her time of giving, of mattering, over. Her life narrowed down to Al, dominated by Al. She never should’ve retired so young. How much more alive she’d felt in her classroom, the endless stream of teenagers with their angst, their neediness, their natural inclination for melodrama. She loved helping them to sort it all out, to stay on track, to make something out of what they thought was their nothingness. Look at Nina. Look at what Hester had done for her.

Nina Tattoni had walked into Hester’s English class for the first time three years ago, a few months after 9/11. She looked like a mix between Tinker Bell and someone from the chorus of
Grease
. She was cute and petite, but she had on too much make-up and wore outdated clothes. Hester liked her immediately, though. She had good posture, a long neck, and curly light brown hair pulled up into a really high ponytail. Hester shook her hand. How small and fragile it felt in hers. There was something about Nina that was familiar to Hester, very familiar.
Maybe,
Hester thought,
I’ve taught relatives of hers.

Nina was a sophomore and woefully behind in her studies, according to the guidance brief, which had no other helpful information in it. An aunt was identified as her legal guardian. She’d moved from Queens into her aunt’s house in Moretown. Her last report card was abysmal. Well, this wasn’t the first time Hester had to deal with an almost blank slate.

Hester tried to get more information out of Nina, but the girl was good at not answering questions, good at examining her raggedy fingernails or staring into space. Despite the fact that her new student wasn’t more forthcoming, Hester volunteered to tutor Nina during Hester’s lunch periods. The rest of the class had just finished
To Kill a Mockingbird,
and Hester wanted Nina to catch up, but Nina was looking for the easy way out.

“Just tell me what I need to know. You think I’m stupid, I ain’t. I can remember something if you tell it to me.” Nina looked down at the thick book, then back up at Hester and tilted her head to one side just like a little bird. “Pleeeaaaseee, Mrs. Murphy, jus’ tell me. I ain’t got time to read it now. Please, please, please?”

Hester stared into Nina’s big, brown eyes, and almost laughed. Did this little freshman think for one minute that she, the teacher, would actually summarize the novel for her, the student, so she wouldn’t have to read it?

“Please, please, please, nothing. Miss Nina Tattoni, you read this book starting right now, because I will never, ever tell you what it’s about. And while we’re on the subject of what you are, or are not, going to do when you are with me, you are not ever going to say “ain’t” again. Got it?” Hester said this half-jokingly. She smiled at Nina. Nina pursed her lips and wiggled her head on her long neck.

After a rather long and ominous silence, Nina said, “I can’t read silently to myself, I’ll lose my place.”

“Then you can read it aloud, to me,” Hester couldn’t believe she was offering to listen to the whole novel as read by this stubborn, and most likely lazy, creature. She had tons of other things more important to do on her lunch break. But the offer had come out of Hester’s mouth for whatever reason, and Nina whispered, “Alright, Mrs. Murphy, if that’s what you want.”

The girl’s voice was hesitant at first, like a stream drying up on its way to the river; but as she read along, she found her confidence and somewhat of a pace and the words began to flow. She got into the character parts, especially Mayella’s. She added lots of expression.

Hester began to genuinely look forward to her time with Nina. True, Hester had read the novel dozens of times, but she’d never had the pleasure of listening to it; and Nina’s voice, full of delight, reading the words of Harper Lee, was haunting. When Nina came to the end, she ceremoniously closed the book.

“And that is the end of the greatest American novel ever written. Goddamn, Mrs. Murphy, this is the best book I’ve ever read,” was all Nina could say. Hester’s eyes glistened with tears.

Later, Hester would discover Nina neglected to tell her it was also the first book she’d ever read.

The bright Florida sunlight beat down on Hester as she stared dumbly at the wounded Bo tree, and fought off yet another wave of hangover nausea. How the memory of Nina’s triumph, only three short years ago, seemed a lifetime away!

When their tutoring sessions had ended, Hester found she missed being alone with Nina and had to force herself to go back into the English department office and eat her lunch with her colleagues. She had to stop thinking about Nina, but try as she did to distract herself, she knew something—what, she couldn’t say exactly—had begun between them.