Our Father (35 page)

“
No
, you don’t understand!” Elizabeth whirled on her. “You had a mother who loved you! Who would have consoled you. Who wouldn’t have blamed you! I didn’t know what my mother would say and I couldn’t have borne it if she …” Her voice broke, she bent her head.

“How long did he do it,” Mary asked in a hard voice.

“Until I was seventeen.”

Mary calculated. “When I was twelve.”

“Then I stopped him.”

“You stopped him!” Mary gasped. “How!”

Elizabeth turned to her slowly. “You didn’t?”

“I was afraid!” Mary cried. “He started when I was only eight years old! He said I was his girl, that we were lovers the two of us, Mommy was dead, only he and I left in the whole world. He said he was lonely, that I could make him happy and he would make me happy and that it was all all right. That this was what daddies did with their little girls. But I mustn’t tell anybody. That would kill him: if I said anything to anybody, he’d shrivel up and die and I would know I killed him. And that if he died, I’d be sent to a home, an orphanage. I’d be all alone. Then later on, years later, he showed me a gun, he pulled it out of his drawer, he said if I said anything he would shoot himself!”

“He told me that if I told, he wouldn’t send Mother any more money,” Elizabeth said.

“He usually did it in the Georgetown house, when I was home from school on vacations. But when I got older, he did it here, in the summer when he came up,” Mary added. “Probably starting about then, when I was about twelve. When you stopped him.” She stared at Elizabeth. “How did you know about me?”

“I didn’t. It’s just—since we’ve been back here—some things you said—the way he terrifies you. It was the only thing that made sense.”

“I didn’t even ever imagine he did it to you! He never seemed to care about you and he was affectionate with me. I thought he loved me, not you. I thought that was the proof. That that was what I had to pay for having him love me. But it was so awful! It hurt, and I didn’t want it! That’s why I was so devastated when you went to England: I knew I’d be here with him all alone with no one to stop him, and he was here most of the summer then. I couldn’t stand it, I tried to get away, I begged him for driving lessons or to let me spend the summer with Aunt Pru. But he absolutely refused. He wouldn’t let go of me. That’s why I got married! To escape him. And he knew it! He tried to stop me! He was furious! But I couldn’t stand it anymore! I figured it couldn’t be any worse with a husband!”

No one moved to console her, bent over, weeping.

“That’s why I needed you so much!” she cried in a muffled voice from between her hands.

Elizabeth rose, went to Mary and stooped down and put her stiff arms around her and held her. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered into the hair over Mary’s ear. “So sorry,” she kept repeating.

Mary threw her arms around Elizabeth’s neck. “You didn’t know, you couldn’t have known,” she sobbed.

“I should have known. I could have guessed. I was so jealous of his love for you. …”

“Love! That’s love!” Ronnie cried.

“Of course it’s love!” Mary cried. “That’s why it’s so … terrible!”

“That’s not love, it’s exploitation! Oppression! Abuse! What’s the matter with you?” Ronnie screamed.

“It takes the form of love,” Elizabeth said. “And that is what is so terrible about it. Because it defines love somehow. Like pornography, you know? Defining love as torture. It gets into your brain. And it poisons the rest of your life, your sense of things … of sex … of love. For me, sexual love in a woman meant obliteration. I believed that women’s pleasure consisted entirely of pleasuring a man. I thought there was something missing in me, I wasn’t a real woman—because I couldn’t bear living that way, couldn’t bring myself to do it. I thought I was frigid,” she said, turning to face Mary fully. “As you always said.”

Mary’s mouth trembled. Sorry, she mouthed.

“But anyway,” Mary said in a small voice, “you
do
love him. Your daddy.” She stared at the wall. “The god descends,” she said, “sweeps you up in his arms, offering what you yearned for all those years, what you dwindled without, like a plant without sun or rain. But given in a way that hurts, shames, erases you.” She shuddered.

Ronnie cried out as if she had hurt herself suddenly, and Elizabeth swerved to face her.

“Is that how you felt?” Elizabeth prodded.

Ronnie was bent over, her elbows resting on her muscular jean-clad legs, her hands over her face.

“That
is
why you left, isn’t it,” Elizabeth continued relentlessly.

She nodded.

“Tell us.”

Ronnie dropped her hands. “WHY! WHY! Isn’t it enough that you know about it? You want me to give you all the salacious details so you can wallow in them, in self-pity, in whining victimization? NO! NO! I don’t have your problems. I didn’t love him and I knew he didn’t love me! End of story. It was pure exploitation!”

She stood up suddenly, went to the table where the bottles stood, and poured herself a tall glass of Perrier. She stood there, muttering. “You really loved him. It’s natural, he was your father, of course you did. And you wanted him to love you so in some sense you wanted what happened to happen …”

They cried out in protest. She held up her hand. “Whoah, whoah! I’m not saying you wanted him to rape you. Just that you feel complicit in it because you took it for love and you wanted love. It’s the sense of complicity that’s killing you. That makes you feel so … shitty.”

She returned to her chair and lighted a cigarette. “Anyway, what I’m trying to say is I don’t have that sense of complicity. I was a servant’s kid, he never gave one flying fuck about me. I was a little
chicana
servant, nobody, nothing. I never even knew he was my father until I really saw his eyes that time. I had no love for him. So when he did what he did to me, just took me, roughly, like I was a piece of meat. … I never confused it with fatherly love.”

She sat back with her face set hard, blew out smoke.

“You mean he did it to …
all of you
!?” Alex cried. She felt as if her head was locked in a bubble, far away. It took time for their voices to reach her, and they reached her only faintly. Bed. She had to go to bed. She stood up, but wobbled. Ronnie jumped up and grabbed her to keep her from falling.

“Bed. I have to go to bed,” she mumbled. She sounded drunk.

Elizabeth gave Mary a warning look. “Maybe you should have a little Perrier,” Mary said, standing and taking Alex’s glass. “I’ll get it for you.” But Alex had barely touched her drink: her glass was nearly full; Mary held it up for Elizabeth to see.

“Brandy,” Elizabeth said.

Mary went for it.

Ronnie settled Alex back in her chair. She looked old, dead white. Her eyes were sunk into dark pockets. She gazed off into nothing.

“I was lying in my crib. In the nursery,” she croaked. “I felt this thing and I woke up and Father was there. His hand was inside my panties. He kept rubbing me. It felt. … it felt … nice. It hurt. It frightened me. Baby scared,” she whimpered. “Mommy, Mommy!”

Mary ran back into the room with the brandy, held it under her nose. “Smell this. Sip this.”

Alex smelled, sipped. She sat back. Ronnie was crouched down beside her; Mary knelt down on the other side. Elizabeth stood up. Alex gazed up at her and reached her hands out to her like a baby reaching out to a mother to be lifted from her crib. Elizabeth breathed in a sob, moved to Alex, bent and embraced her.

“I was the oldest. I should have helped! But I didn’t save any of you!” Elizabeth cried. “All I cared about was saving myself!”

“We all did,” Mary said, her head bent, voice muffled. “Any way we could.”

“What else could you do?” Ronnie asked, bewildered. “What could any of us do? We were children!”

Alex held on to Elizabeth. Mary sat on the arm of her chair, and embraced Alex with one arm. Ronnie laid her head on Alex’s knees, put her arms around them. Then they all started to move, to sway gently from side to side, moaning, murmuring, keening, like women at a funeral, humming and swaying in unison, a single mourning body of women.

15

W
HEN STEPHEN DOZED OFF
around ten the next morning, Florence buzzed Mrs. Browning on the intercom, whispered to her to send someone up, she needed a break. Teresa came tiptoeing into the room smiling. Florence mimicked drinking tea and Teresa nodded, smiled, turned the rocker so she could see the television set, which was showing some sports event.

Florence went downstairs to the kitchen and told Mrs. Browning that she wanted to see Miss Upton. Mrs. Browning frowned and said she’d have to see. She went out, came back and ushered Florence from the kitchen down a long hall past a kind of huge parlor, and a room with a pool table in it, to the library. It had a low ceiling and wooden beams and a huge stone fireplace. Miss Upton sat behind a huge desk.

Florence Douley marched somewhat fiercely up to the desk, but then Miss Upton looked up and smiled.

“Miss Upton: about that little matter we discussed last evening as I was leaving?”

“I’m sorry, Florence. What little matter?”

Florence’s mouth twisted. “About the possibility of a need for a bedpan, Miss Upton.”

Elizabeth sat back, took off her glasses. “Right.”

“Well, I was wondering if you heard Mr. Upton buzz last night. Because the bed was wet this morning.”

Elizabeth stood up. “What!”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean … it was just … I wondered if he buzzed or … some patients do get angry, like babies, the poor souls, and just … wet, you know.”

“Father wet the bed?” She seemed incredulous.

“Maybe he buzzed and yez didn’t hear it?”

“His intercom is connected to the kitchen, Mrs. Browning’s room, to the maid’s room, and to my bedroom, too, just in case. I can’t imagine no one heard it if he buzzed. Did you ask him?”

“I did, ma’am,” Florence confessed. “And I thought he sort of grinned at me. Of course, the way his face is, maybe I was mistaken.”

Elizabeth stared at her. “I’m so sorry, Florence. You must have had a mess to clean up.”

Words burst out of Florence. “It’s not as if he’s incontint. The incontint ones they can’t help it and I can keep them in diapers. Lucky I thought to put a rubber sheet under the chamois or I would have had a time. As it was, I had to move him to the wheelchair, air the mattress, wipe down the rubber sheet and wait for it to dry, first thing in the morning. He seemed fine though—gobbled up his breakfast.”

After her outburst Florence felt placated. “Well, sure it’s all part of the job, ma’am. Just thought I’d ask. Because if he is, you know, incontint, we’ll need to put diapers on him.”

“Yes.” Elizabeth sat down again and Florence turned to leave. “Florence?” she called.

“If he does it again … tell me, all right?”

“Wetting the bed! Father!” Mary exclaimed. “I can’t believe it! Father?”

“Maybe he couldn’t help it,” Alex said.

Mrs. Browning and Teresa entered carrying bowls of steaming pea soup.

“Another gray day,” Elizabeth observed.

“Yes,” Mary sighed. “I thought of going to Boston tomorrow. It’s Sunday, but the museums will be open. Anyone else want to go?”

“Me.” Ronnie held up her hand.

The servants left.

“How can we find out?” Mary asked Elizabeth.

“Ask him,” Ronnie said.

Elizabeth snorted. “He’d tell us?”

“We could ask the doctor,” offered Alex.

After much discussion, they decided to do both: Elizabeth would call Dr. Stamp, Mary was delegated to speak to Stephen.

Mary knocked on the open door. Florence looked up from her knitting. “Oh, bless you, I’m parched,” she said, laying her work down. She nodded her head toward Stephen without a smile. “He’s fine,” she said, briskly. “Nice and quiet, watching the telly,” she explained, as if that were not obvious. He did not glance at her, and she made no effort to fluff his pillow or straighten his cover before she left.

“May I speak to you, Father?” Mary asked from across the room.

Stephen hit the mute button on the remote.

She hesitated, then walked around the bed and sat in the rocker. “Florence was very upset this morning.”

He scowled at her.

I know that look. What the hell do I care if she’s upset?

“Of course, in her work she often has incontinent patients. She’s upset because she believes you have self-control. If you don’t, we should know it. So we can … make arrangements … for you.”

His eyes opened in outrage. Even the half-shut eye seemed to widen.

Someone else should have done this, Mary thought, her stomach fluttering. Not me. Please don’t be mad at me, Daddy.

Don’t. Don’t crumble. What would Elizabeth say? How Ronnie would mock you.

Her voice rose. “There’s no point in looking at me with outrage, Father! You wet your bed! Like a baby! Out of pure malice! I know it! And if you keep doing it, Florence will put you in diapers! Is that what you want?!”

Stephen paled, his eyes widened, he grabbed his heart. Mary stood, terrified, then darted from the room and down the stairs.

“Elizabeth! Lizzie!”

Ronnie met her in the hall. “What’s up?”

“I think he’s having a heart attack!”

Alex and Elizabeth converged in the foyer and the four of them ran upstairs. Stephen was sitting in bed watching television.

Mary grimaced. Bastard. Always could scare me.

“I just spoke to the doctor, Father. He says there’s no reason for you to be incontinent. If it continues, you’ll have to be diapered,” Elizabeth said coldly.

A look of utter hatred fixed itself like a death mask on Stephen’s face.

Elizabeth stared him down.

He dropped his gaze, pushed the tablet to writing position. BORED, he wrote, with a pitiful look at Elizabeth.

“Yes, of course you must be,” Mary said sympathetically.

He wrote again: PAPER.

“You want paper? To write on?” Elizabeth asked.

He shook his head.

“The papers?”

He nodded.

“The
Globe
? The
New York Times
?”