Evil Eye (19 page)

Which was a mystery, since G. was her father's father.

Good times our secret. Ours.

And so, she'd never told. In recent years when she tried to recall what
it
was—exactly what had been done to her, and with her; what sorts of things he'd shown her, and spoken of to her—she'd discovered that she remembered very little at all.

There was such banality to it—“recovered” memory.

Or was it “repressed” memory.

She'd never tried to explain to any man. Never to any of the boys with whom she'd been friendly in high school. Boys who'd been attracted to her in ways flattering to her even as she understood
They don't know me. How disgusted they would be, if they knew me.

But she could not. She could not
tell
. Not only was she repelled by the prospect of
telling,
she would have faltered and fumbled for words. For, when she'd been a little girl, and entrusted to this tall dignified relative, a kind of blindness had come over her, amnesia like a fine pale mist—she could not really remember clearly what he'd done to her only the air of furtive excitement, anxiety, and elation.
That he was getting away with it. Under the noses of the family. His family! That was part of the attraction.

All that she could remember of those years was both faded and over-bright, like a photograph of an exploding nova. You understood that there was something inside the blinding light but you could not see it. You could not identify it.

He'd given her gifts. Countless gifts. He'd taken her to
The Nutcracker
each year at the War Memorial. And to
A Christmas Carol
.

He'd taken her sisters and her brother to some of these occasions, as well. He'd given them presents. He'd pressed his forefinger against his lips, smiling
Don't be jealous, darling! It's to make them think that they are your equal though we know better.

He'd been clever. He'd never been suspected—not once.

She'd been made to know that she was special. That was the secret.

And now she did not want to acknowledge herself as a victim. In this era of victims, “survivors.” She could not identify herself as one of them. She was too accomplished a young woman, and too promising—in her career, in which she had an excellent job helping to oversee the funding of arts projects, if not in her private life. If she'd been visibly wounded, crippled—she would have stubbornly denied it. For she did not want pity, or sympathy.

She would explain to N. that she could not tell him who he'd been, the man who had despoiled her life. She could not share with him such memories.

And of course, she wasn't certain. She remembered—some things. But in patches, like broken clouds.

Broken clouds blown swiftly across the sky. You crane your neck to observe as the clouds are blown away and disappear.

Oddly she did recall G.'s voice, sometimes. In others' voices, she heard G.'s voice. His grunted words. And pleas—she remembered pleas. (But these were not his. These were hers.) In the speeches of politicians she heard the thrilling timbre of his voice, the voice of a public man, even when he'd retired from public office.

The fact was, G. had been a locally renowned man.
Bankcroft
the revered name.

All of the family was proud of that name. She, too, had been proud of that name except in secret she'd been ashamed of that name for it was
his
name, as it was her own.

She would not tell N.: a ten-year-old child is capable of considering suicide.

Killing oneself isn't such a secret now. Not such a taboo. A child is well aware of suicide attempts, and of successful suicides. As a child is aware of death generally. And betrayal.

She'd moved 360 miles away from
Bankcroft Street, Bankcroft Square,
the
Bankcroft Building.

Yes, she'd been proud that G. had so favored
her
. You would have been proud, too.

They'd sung together, on their walks. G. had taught her “You Are My Sunshine,” “White Christmas,” “Tea for Two.” Jaunty tunes were G.'s specialty. Hand in hand. She had not ever tried to run away. She had not ever tried to wrest her hand from his, and run away.

Through the cemetery she might have run. Run run run until her little heart burst and she fell amid the weatherworn old grave markers striking her head, cracking her skull so the bad memories leaked out like black blood.

He had not ever injured her. His finger inserted inside her to tickle, that was all.

Tickle tickle! That's my good little girl.

Of all that G. had told her, the stream of words, chatter and banter, teasing and cajoling, years later she would recall virtually nothing.

The grunts, she did remember.

And when they'd been alone together—(when he'd managed to arrange that they were alone together: could be a visit to Cross Memorial Cemetery to the grave of his dear departed wife who'd been buried beneath a shiny salmon-colored grave marker)—he hadn't felt the need for words.

His hand gripping hers had been sufficient. No need for words.

Plunged to a place beyond language where even his careful cautious demeanor dissolved, spittle gathered in the corners of his mouth, and his eyes rolled white beyond the dignified gold-rimmed glasses.

N. said, You're thinking of him now. You're remembering.

She denied this. Guiltily, weakly she denied this.

No. You're thinking of him now. Tell me who he is!

N. was becoming impatient, angry. She had not guessed at the start of their relationship how aggressive N. might be, how possessive of her.

She would have risen, walked quickly away. But N. seized her hands in his and held her in place.

Tell me who he was. What happened.

Her hands, gripped by his. She felt a swirl of vertigo.

Whoever it was—the bastard! Tell me.

She was not adept at lying. Bold frank outright lies. She was no good at such. But she'd become adept at another sort of lie, shrewdly nuanced, ambiguous. The lie that is an omission, a failure to totally recall.

Yet even this she could not risk. For N. seemed to see into her innermost heart.

Someone hurt you. Sexually. Or—in some other way, as well as sexual. Tell me.

I did tell you! I told you
no.

Something that went wrong, something that left a wound. Not a scar that has healed. A bleeding wound.

I am not a—bleeding wound. Don't do this to me.

N. was smiling at her. But N. was not smiling with her.

He was older than she was: yet not old, only just in his early forties. A still-young, vigorous man. A man whose physical being seemed trapped, or in any case contained and repressed, inside his proper businessman clothing: expensive suits, shoes.

His background had been, he'd said, working-class.

Or maybe just a little lower.

Immigrant grandparents, and his father had worked with his hands most of his life and had wanted to be, for a few years in adolescence, a professional boxer.

He
, N., had tried boxing at a neighborhood gym. In high school.

He'd loved it. Hitting, and even, to a degree, getting hit. But there were guys in the neighborhood, black kids, some of them built like Mike Tyson at age fifteen-sixteen—they'd discouraged N., you might say.

So, he'd quit. Probably just in time, before he'd gotten seriously hurt.

His hair was thick, sleekly brushed back across his furrowed scalp. She could see the boxer-hunter in him now: the way his eyes were fixed upon her.

She was frightened of him, in that instant.

She'd thought him husbandly, fatherly. But there was something else now, a deeper and more primitive being.

She said, I—I can't remember. . . .

What? What can't you remember?

. . . what happened, or . . .

When? When was this, that you can't remember?

Not recently. Not for a long time.

And who was it?

Who was it?—no one . . .

Fuck that! Tell me.

Oh he's an old man now—he isn't the man who. . . .

She was laughing. Her face was bright as a flame, her very hair seemed to stir on her head, like upright flames. He was staring at her in triumph, he had won. He had overpowered her, he had obliterated her opposition to him. Never in her life had she uttered such things—it was unbelievable to her, she'd said so much. Secrets snatched from her, irremediably. Her burning face she hid, she wiped at her eyes. Bright laughter fell from her mouth like broken glass.

She'd twisted her hands out of his grip, but now she seized his hands, his large hot hands, and held them tight.

In a lowered voice she said, I never told anyone.

He said, Until now.

He deserves to die. Anyone who harms a child.

But you promised!

Fuck my promise. That was before.

And then he was saying, I promise not to harm him. But I would like to talk to him.

She called home. A rarity in recent years.

She preferred e-mail. Though she did not often write to her parents, either.

At once her mother heard something in her voice. Her mother asked what was wrong, why was she calling so late in the evening, was it an emergency?—sounding both frightened and annoyed.

A mother's first thought is
Pregnant
!

She said, No! It is not an emergency.

She said, The emergency was years ago. Not now.

Her mother said, Emergency? What are you talking about, Cecie?

Tell me how G. is. I don't hear about G. much any longer.

G. was Grandfather. Or, as he'd liked to be called, with a French flourish,
Grandpapa.

He's—well. I mean, reasonably well, for his age. He's just returned from—I think it was the Amalfi Coast. He'd gone on a tour, with friends. He's still involved in politics, behind the scenes. You know how the Brankrofts are! He comes to dinner here at least twice a week and sometimes after mass we have brunch at the High Bridge Inn. I wish he and your father got along better together but he just—sort of—ignores Matt. He asks after you . . .

Does he? Does he ask after me?

Of course. Grandpapa always asks after you.

What does he ask?

What does he
ask
? Just how are you doing, your work, are you engaged, or seeing someone—the usual questions.

He wants to know if I'm “engaged” or “seeing someone”? And why is that his business?

Your grandfather asks after all his grandchildren, now that so many of you are scattered and living far away.

But me, he asks after
me
?

Why are you asking me this, Cecie? Why now?

I think you must know why.

What do you mean? I—I don't know why. . . .

Why didn't he ever remarry, after Grandma died? Wasn't anyone good enough for him? All those rich widows!

Why are you asking such questions? Why about your grandfather? You sound so angry, Cecie. . . .

No. I'm not angry. Why would I be angry?

I have no idea, Cecie. You've always had this way about you—this unpredictable short temper—first you call late, you must know a phone ringing past eleven
p.m
. usually means bad news, and now—

She interrupted saying, I think I'll hang up now.

Please, wait—

I'm sorry to disturb you, Mother. You're right, it's late. Good night!

None of them knows. None will guess.

Our secret is safe little darling sealed with a kiss.

She told N.: It isn't an issue in my life. I never think of it, truly.

Bullshit. You think of it all the time.

N. touched her. His warm broad hand across her belly, a lover's casual caress and she stiffened at once.

All the time you are thinking of it. I could see it in your face, before I spoke to you.

She wanted to protest: she was always so much more than whatever had been perpetrated upon her.

A fact she kept to herself, to nourish herself like something warm—a heated stone, or medallion—a kind of shield—pressed against her breasts and belly, secreted beneath her clothing.

She took pride in all that she was, that had nothing to do with the naively trusting little girl she'd been more than fifteen years ago.

For instance, she was a swimmer: almost a serious swimmer. In the dark of winter she rose early to swim in the university pool, for which she paid a yearly fee since she'd graduated from the university with a master's degree in social psychology.

In the shimmering water, her body dissolved into pure sensation, the strength of her muscled arms and legs to keep her afloat and to propel her forward. Once, N. would observe her swimming in the university pool, in the early morning, and would stare in surprised admiration. For her body was sleek, slender, and yet strong—this was not the body of a female victim.
If you've been thinking you know me, you are mistaken.

And she took pride in her professional career. Such as it was.

(And was G., too, proud of her? She had to suppose so. Her mother continued to forward greetings from G. to her; occasional cards, presents. He'd learned her latest address in order to send her a lavish bouquet of two dozen yellow roses in celebration of her appointment at the arts foundation. She'd shocked friends by gaily tossing into the trash.)

She had her job. Her new position. She loved books—­nineteenth-century novels, classics—her favorites were
Bleak House, Middlemarch, Tess of the D'Urbervilles,
and
Jude the Obscure.
She could reread these, late at night when she couldn't sleep; or she could watch the late-night Classic Film channel—Cary Grant, Greer Garson, Spencer Tracy, Katharine Hepburn, Humphrey Bogart, Clark Gable, Rita Hayworth. Their faces were comforting to her, like the faces of distant relatives.