Jane fell asleep with the radio on next to her head. Rock and roll, the background to her dreams. The music was her first thought when she woke with a man lying on her back. It must be a friend, a joke. Jimmy trying to scare her like her father used to. “I need sex,’” the man said. “I need sex, I need sex, I need sex.” Over and over. Jane twisted her head to look at him. He looked old. He looked young. He was white. Blond hair or bald. His penis was not hard, and even with her imperfect knowledge of sex, Jane understood that the longer the man didn’t get hard, the more desperate he would grow, and the more time she had. “I need sex. Women don’t understand,” the man said. “I know,” Jane answered. She thought about screaming. “Are you young or old?” he asked. “I’m young,” “Are you a virgin?” “Yes,” Jane lied. “Then I won’t kill you.” His hands tightened around her neck. The man pushed her head toward his penis and Jane resisted without thinking. He kept talking to her and she kept agreeing with whatever he said. His hands were around her neck again. She moved and spoke automatically, as if her behavior were willed or instinctual, an involuntary response for survival. He was shaking her, pushing her. Then he collapsed and began crying in her arms. The man said he had never done this before. Never. That he’d seen her through the windows. He asked her forgiveness. He said he was sorry. He said, “I’m going now,” and got off the bed. “Don’t call the police.” Jane agreed to everything. “Give me time,” he said. He walked to the other room. She heard the radio again. She lay on the bed and time passed. Another song. She heard the time, one-thirty, and thought, it’s too early for something like this. He might be in the other room, waiting to see what she’d do, so she rose slowly and put on her robe and walked into the other dark room. He had gone or she couldn’t see him. Jane called her sister, the one she lived with, and told her to sit down, that something bad had happened. Her sister said she’d be right there. Call a friend. Keep talking. Jane called Maria and woke her mother and talked with Maria until her sister arrived with the cops. Jane was lying on the bed in her flannel nightgown and robe. The police didn’t believe her story. One cop said, “If you weren’t raped, you’d be dead.”
All three now marry in an instant.
Maria was rubbing Jane’s back and singing a Spanish song to her. Jane said she thought the end of King Lear was the saddest thing, Cordelia dead, carried in by her father. Everyone dies except for Edgar. “Carried in like that, how I see it,” Maria went on, “Cordelia’s like a sacrifice. She may have been born into power, but she’s not smart enough. She thinks that love’s enough. And Shakespeare shows that it isn’t.” Love isn’t enough, Jane repeated to herself.
Jane took the attack in stride. She almost accepted it. The lieutenant assigned to her case was a nice man who wanted her to make an identification. Pick someone out of a lineup. Jane said she would but couldn’t make a positive identification because she’d never really seen his face clearly. She had no picture of him. Jane wanted to cooperate and go to a lineup and her sister worried that she was too cool about it. The morning after the attack, when Jane discovered bruises all over her body, her sister bought her French pastries and cried. Jane remembered looking at the skyline and imagining a woman being killed. She regretted walking naked around the apartment and never wanted to return there, the scene of the crime. The police said one of the window doors was ajar, the one she’d walked out of onto the terrace that night or the night before. She was careless. Jane wondered if bad thoughts had set the event into motion. She didn’t speak about these ideas to anyone, except her diary.
Where does fear go when you don’t feel anything? It was like Lois dying, all over again. Something happens and you try to find reasons for it. Finding reasons possessed Jane. Why he didn’t call. Why that man didn’t kill her. She felt sorry for him still and despised him. Evenings passed, the television on or the record player or the radio, and Jane watched or listened from very far away. She conducted dialogues in her mind with her sisters, her father, Jimmy, Maria. Jimmy was writing for a rock & roll band, and he was always frantic and exhausted. His response to the attack was to insist that they see as many movies as possible. Old ones. Like Johnny Guitar. It’s so obvious, he said, loving it. He didn’t want her to talk about it and she understood that. But not telling Uncle Larry was hard. Jane didn’t want to see him cry or get upset the way she knew he would. Or maybe she wanted him to. Her parents were never to know.
Never Daddy. Daddy loves me so much he wants to cook me in the oven and eat me. Daddy throws me up in the air and always catches me. He pushes my swing and I don’t get scared. He goes into a rage and screams and his face turns red. He takes me shopping and tells me I’m good. He buys me whatever I want and my mother doesn’t. Maria had said it was funny that there weren’t any mothers in Lear and Jane admitted that she hardly ever thought about her mother, to which Maria nodded and said she knew. Jane told Larry about the actor’s not calling her as an explanation for not being in touch. Larry said, “There are other pleasures in life besides love and food.” She said, “I never think about pleasure.”
Chapter 14
When Emily left Edith’s apartment for Europe, Edith stripped her room of things that were left behind and hung the painting Emily had given her on a wall that wasn’t prominent. This time Edith thought she’d rent the room to a boy. For a change. Edith fought the idea that she, too, had been left behind, that Emily in her youth could just leave, almost heartlessly, her parents, Christine, whether or not the relationship was good for her. Could she have just left, announced to her children, Goodbye, this is it, I’m going to find out who I am or whatever people left for. It seemed like the plot for a situation comedy in which the mother would in the end be seen to have been only dreaming. And the feelings didn’t last, because Edith hated sadness, and next to her husband’s death, she could stand anything. Though sometimes, when the air smelled a certain way, suddenly she was in a different place, a street near her high school, and someone calling her name, Edith, from a distance, and maybe it was a friend, a boyfriend or her mother, long dead. Dead so long that saying it was like a date learned in history class. Only if she became the person she was when her mother was alive, if she conjured her up and became a teenager again, then Edith could remember the loss and it was palpable. Her mother could stand right in front of her and she could hear her voice. The best thing was not to think about it, not to breathe in that air, the air that’s always sweet and light, the kind of air that holds memories. Edith shook the rag in her hand and looked at the skinny mattress on Emily’s bed, deciding to buy a new one. The mattress slipped easily off the bed; it hardly weighed anything.
Emily liked Amsterdam for all the usual reasons, but especially because she felt so removed from the city and its inhabitants. She was an alien and it was alien. “Foreign: alien in character, not connected or pertinent, occurring in an abnormal situation.” She’s not normal enough, she could hear her parents mutter to each other. Emily took a room in a house on the Centuurbaan that was owned by a woman in her fifties whose mother, in her eighties, lived with her, and always had. The house was large, with many rooms on each floor, and the mother and daughter each had a floor to themselves. They didn’t get along.