The Yonahlossee Riding Camp for Girls (22 page)

There were little flashes where my brain should have been, as if it had receded for this. We were on the blanket, Georgie was on top of me, my nightgown was hiked to my waist, and Georgie’s penis was touching me, was slippery because I was wet and he had parted me and put his penis against the slickness. Then it felt very big between my legs, almost painful, and I didn’t want this to happen, not yet, not in this way, so I flipped him over, in one smooth motion, and he was surprised.
I
was surprised, too, but I wrapped my legs around his thigh and moved while I also moved my hand fast over his penis. The same rhythm in my legs and my hands, and I couldn’t get it quite right, the rhythm, I was doing two things at once and neither was right. So I moved faster, and the intense ache between my legs subsided briefly before it exploded, and then I stopped touching Georgie altogether for a second. I could see more clearly now, could see that Georgie was watching me, his hands folded beneath his head as if he were looking at the sky on a clear day. I smiled at him. I began again where I had left off.

I remember feeling very adult, for the first time in my life.

—

I
came in from hitting golf balls with Georgie and Sam around lunchtime and saw Mother, who had been upstairs all morning. Uncle George was off with Father, but Aunt Carrie had made herself scarce on this visit.

Mother smiled at me and returned to her paper, the glasses she used when reading small print slipping down her nose. I took three sandwiches from the platter Idella had left on the table.

“Aren’t you going to ride today?”

“We’re playing golf.” Mother nodded slowly. I didn’t want to tell her I had started menstruating this morning. It was private. “We’re not very good,” I added.

She reached underneath the table; I didn’t know what she was doing until I noticed that her arm was now weighed down by the blanket.

“This was out,” she said. She pushed her glasses up. She hated to wear them, but Father said she would wear out her eyes if she didn’t.

“Oh?”

“In the barn. Maybe Sam and Georgie were using it, for their hunting? Not you? Sam should know not to use the good blankets. This is an old carriage blanket, it’s older than you, you and Sam together.”

I nodded, and after I gave Sam and Georgie their sandwiches I went to the front, muttered something about the mail, and sat on the steps. I looked at the road that was only traveled twice a day: my father going, my father returning. I had been stupid. Stupid, stupid girl. I felt very desperate. This is what it feels like to be desperate, I whispered to myself. Stop it.

If Sam suspected, if he could no longer keep the secret and had confided in Mother, if, leaving Sam out of it, Mother had seen something on her own, peered through one of the hundreds, thousands of windows this house boasted—we did not shirk when it came to glass, Father said, your mother loves the light—if she had looked into my world with Georgie, and if in that moment in that world he had touched my cheek, kissed me, bitten my thumb . . . if, if, if.

T
he next time I saw him it was the same thing: he sent Decca away and accepted a drink from Emmy. We sat for a moment before he spoke.

“The girls are starting to apply for next year.”

“Is it a rigorous application process?”

He smiled. “It can be.”

“Are we handpicked from thousands?”

“You weren’t,” he said, “but yes, there is some handpicking involved.”

From upstairs we heard Emmy’s sharp warning, Decca’s hysterical giggle. She often acted this way in the afternoons, like a horse who had been pent up in his stall for days. A few moments later I heard the front door open and close. Through the window I saw a glimpse of Emmy leading Decca across the Square.

Mr. Holmes sat in his leather chair, I sat on a couch, two, three feet away from him.

“How do you pick?” I put my hand on the couch, as if to make smaller the distance between us.

“Family connections. If your sister went here, or your cousin. What kind of family you come from. We try to have some parity among the states. Though St. Louis is as far north as we ever get. And then after all that I suppose we look at the girl herself. What her parents want her to achieve while she’s here.”

“What her parents want,” I echoed.

“Yes. They write the letter, they answer the questions on the application. Her father, usually. Did you think it would be otherwise?”

I was silent.

“To have all your decisions made for you is a curse. But it’s one you know well, I assume.” He had known exactly what I had meant; he had articulated what I meant better than I could have. But he seemed distant, today.

“It wasn’t always like that for me.” I smiled at what I had said—why was I defending my father? But Mr. Holmes looked at me expectantly, so I continued. “I never felt like that, like everything was decided for me, until they sent me here.”

“Here,” he said, and seemed lost in thought.

“Do you like it?” I asked. I was losing his attention.

“Yes,” he finally said. “In the end I do. What I tell myself is that this world is changing quickly, that female education is becoming vital. But truly I fell into this position, and it’s a nice enough life, a nice enough place for the girls. Though most of the time I think I’d rather be reading a book.” He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. “You don’t think, when you are young, that you will simply fall into your life. But that,” he said, and raised his head and looked at me, “is exactly what happens.”

I stood and went to him, quickly, so that I wouldn’t convince myself not to. I sat down beside him, in the small space the chair allowed. And what compelled me to do what I did next? If I had moved away, or simply done nothing—well, I feel certain Mr. Holmes would not have touched me. He had touched me last time, yes, but today it felt as if he would not; today felt as if we were going to erase the sins of yesterday. And I did not want them to be erased; if he erased how he had touched me—well, then he erased me, Thea, what small stake I had eked out in his life. And so I put my hand on his knee, and turned my face into his coat.

He did not move away. The pleasure of that moment was so extraordinary it felt almost unbearable, a gift too large. At first he was tense, but then I felt him relax. If a Yonahlossee girl walked in and saw us, she would be shocked, briefly, but then she would think that Mr. Holmes was comforting me; that I had been upset, that our headmaster offered solace.

Or perhaps I was fooling myself. Perhaps she would know exactly what she saw.

“It’s a beautiful place.”

“Yes, Thea.” He put his palm on my cheek. His voice trembled. “We can’t,” he said.

“It’s all right,” I murmured into his shirt. I had been right in divining his feelings.

He stood, and looked down at me. “You have brought me comfort. I don’t know why. It shouldn’t be this way. Do you know how bad it is out there?” He wore a pained expression, now. “This place might close, Thea. Let’s hope Mrs. Holmes works magic out there, but we are asking people for money they do not have, or money they want to hold on to.” He shook his head. “But let’s hope that’s not true, let’s hope that this is simply the worst year in everyone’s life. And lucky you, to have the worst year come so early. You have nothing except hopeful years ahead.”

I laughed, and then I stood so that we faced each other, Mr. Holmes and I. He raised a hand and I thought he might touch me, but then he brushed his hair from his forehead, and I saw that his hand shook, and I was thrilled, I was unnerved, I was exhilarated: his hand shook because of me.

“Why are you laughing, Thea?” he asked softly. “Everybody’s life is falling apart. What do you want? I know what I want, right now. If things weren’t so bad outside here maybe I’d want it less. But desperation leads men to do desperate things. Isn’t that right? Tell me it’s right.”

Instead of answering I kissed him. Even in that moment I was shocked at my boldness, but grateful for it, too. He was so much better than Georgie, so firm and gentle. Georgie was sometimes rough. Mr. Holmes stood, and looked down at me, and took a step backward, and I couldn’t tell if he was stepping away from me or asking me to follow him.

“Take me somewhere,” I whispered. He looked at me for a moment, then turned his head and looked out the window, and I knew he was deciding.

“Where would you like to go?” His voice was so solemn.

If I did not answer, it was because his question didn’t seem to require an answer. Because I knew precisely where I wanted to go. With him, anywhere.

In the end, after one hundred seconds, two hundred, he led me upstairs into his library. He moved quickly, almost clumsily, as if he was surprised by the course of this afternoon. He closed the door behind us and I glimpsed all the books that lined the walls before he laid me on the couch. He drew me to him and the way his hand rested on my back almost undid me; I moaned, and he kissed me. By the end, he lay on top of me. He kissed my mouth, my face, my neck. I’d never been kissed like this. I felt helpless, my arms pinned to my sides by his weight, but helpless in a very lovely way.

Mr. Holmes offered solace. But so did I. We took comfort in each other.

—

L
eona caught me as I was leaving Masters, en route to Augusta House. I tried to ignore her, but she did not want to be ignored, today.

“Weather’s turning,” she said, and sidled up next to me. I said nothing. “I’m going to visit King,” she said, when we were almost at my cabin. “Do you want to come?”

All the other girls disappeared into their cabins. I only had on a light sweater, and now I buttoned it against the chill. A storm had threatened all day but never come; one of those days that felt like a menace.

I could still feel the full weight of Mr. Holmes on top of me, even as I walked through the Square, even as I stood here, deciding what to say to Leona; as if some trace of what we had just done was mine to carry with me, now. I felt changed.

“Why?” I asked.

“Why? I just thought you might enjoy it. I just thought—”

“Stop. I thought that at least you, of all people, would have no tolerance for artifice. So stop, please.”

Something shifted in Leona’s stance. “All right,” she said coolly.

She eyed a group of passing girls. That she could be so casual while we were having this discussion infuriated me. Again I felt the impulse to touch her, to hurt her.

She tilted her head. “I guess you’re kept busy,” she said, “by other things, now. You’re such a busy girl, Thea.” She paused, and I knew she was going to say the worst thing to me now, the reason she had sidled up beside me in the first place. “Why was it you were sent away again?”

I stood there speechless, foolish, aware of how helpless I must seem.

I spotted Sissy coming down the steps of the Castle, and walked, half ran past Leona to join her. She had undone me. Leona called out: “But I forgot. You’re not a girl anymore. You’re very adult now, aren’t you? You spend so much time with adults lately.”

Aren’t you leaving soon? It was on the tip of my tongue to call out. But I couldn’t. It seemed too bad, even for me.

We watched Leona walk away, disappear into the woods.

“Off to see King,” I muttered.

“Did you hear?” Sissy asked.

“Hear what?” I thought she was going to tell me that Mrs. Holmes was returning.

“About Leona.”

“No.” I felt light with relief. I still had more time.

“She’ll be gone by the beginning of summer. And when she goes, King stays here.”

“Oh, no,” I said. I was horrified. To have to leave her horse when she had done nothing wrong. I had had to leave Sasi, but I had nearly outgrown him anyway. And still, it had been miserable. But there was some small part of me that took pleasure in Leona’s misery. She was so awful; perhaps that’s why awful things happened to her. “That’s awful,” I said, because Sissy seemed to expect more of a response.

“Not as awful as everything else that’s happened to her family,” Sissy said, and looked at me curiously, and though I did not agree I said nothing.
This
was the most awful thing to happen to Leona, of course it was.

—

T
he next time I saw Mr. Holmes he led me to his library again, and closed the door, and I reached for him, but he stopped my hand in midair. Even that, his hand on mine, was thrilling.

I could feel what he was doing, the way he held my hand, as if stopping a child. He was asking if I wanted to stop. But I did not want to stop.

“Emmy’s gone?” I asked.

“Gone,” he echoed. “With Decca.”

I kissed him, then, and the idea that we were going to stop, that we would not touch each other again, disappeared, a puff of smoke.

He kissed my neck, and unbuttoned the first button of my blouse. His hand shook, and I touched it.

“You’re so lovely, Thea,” he said. His voice was sonorous, trembling.

He brought my hand to his cheek, and held it there for a moment while he watched my face, and I had never before felt so observed, so carefully accounted.

Then I took my hand back and began to unbutton my blouse, began the process by which I would reveal myself to him, and the moment felt so tender, so utterly unlike anything I had felt before. Mr. Holmes touched my breasts, and then pressed me to him and slid down to the floor, so that he was kneeling in front of me.

The world today was dark, wintery, the kind of day we never had in Florida. I could only see the mountains from his window, the rest of camp below my line of sight.

“Thea,” he said, and took my hands in his, “you want this?” And his voice was so kind, gentle. I wanted to please him; I wanted to be pleased by him.

I nodded. “Yes,” I said, and I almost didn’t trust my voice. “Yes.”

He put his hand under my skirt and slid it up my thigh until he reached the line of my panties.

“Take these off,” he murmured, and I let him peel down first my stockings, then my panties. I felt very relaxed, sleepy but not tired. He stroked the inside of my thigh.

I put my hands on his shoulders to steady myself, and he looked up at me, and I saw this was going very quickly for both of us, now.

“Open your legs.” I did. He put one finger inside me, and I tensed.

“Does it hurt?”

I shook my head.

“Here,” he said, and pulled me down next to him, on the rug. He lay at my side and undid his trousers. He put his finger back inside me, then another, and pushed up my skirt.

“There,” he said, “I can see you. You’re so . . .” He stroked my forehead. His voice was so soft, so loose.

“Beautiful.”

He smiled. “Are you supposed to give yourself compliments? I was going to say something else. You’re so . . .”

I waited. He pushed his fingers farther into me, and it was such an odd pressure that I loved.

“Exceptional,” he said. “Beautiful, too, but there are so many beautiful girls. Be something besides that, Thea.”

“All right,” I said. “I’ll try.”

He took himself out and I touched him, but he shook his head. “No, just lie there. Just lie there.”

“And be exceptional.”

“Yes.” He kept his fingers inside me as he touched himself and looked at me until he came, and then he seemed like he was in great pain for an instant, closed his eyes and cursed.

We lay there on the rug together afterward.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Nothing too complicated, please,” Mr. Holmes said. He patted my hand. I smiled. Everything was so easy, now. If I could lie right here forever, shut the door on my life and everything it held, I would. In that moment, I would have.

“Thea?” His voice was gentle.

“Mr. Holmes—”

“Jesus. Please call me Henry. I’m begging you.”

I turned and faced him. He placed his palm on my torso. “So strong.”

“You know Mrs. Holmes knew my mother?”

“Yes.”

I waited for him to tense—he rarely spoke of Mrs. Holmes—but he didn’t.

“Do you think you’ll ever leave?”

He was quiet for a long time. “I’m sorry,” I finally said. “Never—”

“No, it’s all right. In a way. Will I ever leave Yonahlossee? It’s a question I ask myself, of course. In a way I like it here. When I was young all I wanted to do was leave Boston. I hated it there. And then I left.” He seemed lost in thought.

“Where did you go?” I asked.

“New Orleans. And then we ended up here. I thought the South would be different. And it was. But not different enough.” He turned to me. “But you can never really leave your home, can you?”

“I didn’t want to leave,” I said. “I loved my home.”

He lifted a handful of my hair and inspected it. “You had such long hair when you came here. And then you cut it off, like everyone else.” He smiled. “You should remember that the sins of youth seem very far away when you’re no longer young.”

I said nothing. I thought of my mother, my father, my brother. Sasi. My first pony, before Sasi, dead for years now.

“Do you see your family at all now?” I asked.

He shook his head. “After my father died, Beth and I met my mother in Philadelphia, when Sarabeth was a baby. But since then, no.”