“What’s your father doing?”
“Snoozing on the sofa.”
“He overindulged.”
“Yeah. He was upset about Pete’s accident.”
“Whatever. I think I’ll just let him stay there.”
“Okay. Night, Mom.”
“Sleep tight.”
Lane went to her bedroom. When she came out with her robe, light no longer spilled into the hallway from her parents’ room.
In the bathroom she turned on the light and locked the door. She took off her clothes. Sitting on the toilet, she removed the tampon.
Don’t want you ruining your nice skirt, Kramer had said before pushing it into her.
He actually kept a supply on his boat.
The tube was sodden with blood and semen.
Lane knew she shouldn’t flush it down the toilet, but she couldn’t leave such evidence in the wastebasket. She had never used tampons. If Mom noticed it...
She flushed it away.
Leaning back, she looked down at herself. Her skin was red where he had punched her. Red where he’d squeezed her. Red where he’d sucked her. She thought she could smell his saliva. A sickening, sweet odor. But not as sickening as the taste in her mouth.
Groaning, she leaned forward and peered down. Her blond curls were matted flat, dry now but sticking to her skin. Under the sparse hair, her skin had a reddish hue like her breasts. She saw no blood. Or anything worse. Kramer had licked her clean.
Her vulva looked like a raw wound, the lips crimson and shiny.
Lane winced when she eased her legs together. She stood up, hobbled to the sink and started to brush her teeth. The toothpaste had a minty flavor that overcame the taste of Kramer.
She stared at herself in the medicine cabinet mirror as she brushed. Her hair looked windblown. Her eyes were pink where they should’ve been white, and had a strange, dazed look about them. They hardly seemed to be her eyes at all.
This isn’tme anymore, she thought. It’s somebody else.
Somebody who got fucked.
Really fucked.
I’m ruined, she thought. Wrecked, fucked.
And I’m dead meat if I tell. Dead meat if I don’t let him do it to me again.
Like hellI’ll let him do it to me again!
A thick foam of toothpaste spilled over Lane’s lower lip. In the mirror she watched it roll toward her chin. She suddenly gagged. Eyes going blurry, she whirled away from the sink. She dropped to her knees in front of the toilet, grabbed its seat with both hands and heaved into the bowl.
When she was done, she crawled to the bathtub.
Thirty-nine
Lane patted herself gently with the towel, taking care not to awaken hurts. Then she draped it over the bar and put on her robe. The soft fabric stuck to her skin where she’d missed wet areas.
Her toothbrush lay in the sink, its bristles and handle still coated with white goo. She rinsed it off. Knowing she could never put it into her mouth again, she dropped it into the wastebasket.
I’ll say it fell on the floor and got hair on it, or something, she thought.
In a cabinet under the window, she found her leather traveling case. She took out her spare toothbrush. She brushed her teeth again. When the paste thickened inside her mouth, she gagged once and her eyes watered. This time, however, she didn’t throw up. She spat out the paste, rinsed, and put her brush into the holder.
She took aspirin, washing down three caplets with cold water.
After checking the toilet and finding no traces of vomit, she gathered her clothes and left the bathroom.
The hallway felt cool. Light still glowed at the far end. She wondered if her father was still snoring on the sofa.
Mom always got pissed off when he drank too much.
It’s not such a big crime, Lane thought.
Mom ought to be glad she’s married to someone like him, and not give him crap about little stuff like that.
She stepped into her bedroom. With an elbow she nudged the light switch up. She carried her denim boots to the closet and set them down.
And stared at them.
Her present, her reward for getting Dad the yearbook.
God, she thought. If Kramer hadn’t helped me get the yearbook, I wouldn’t have started staying after class. None of this might’ve happened.
You got me raped, Dad.
Bullshit. It was all my fault.
Grievously did she sin, and grievously did she pay.
What’s that, Shakespeare?
Kramer rigged that coin toss for Hamlet, she suddenly realized. He had it all planned.
She stepped over to the bed with her clothes. She tossed her skirt and blouse down and lifted her bra close to the lamp. It didn’t appear to be soiled.
Soiled enough, she thought. The bastard touched it.
As she inspected her blouse and skirt, her mind went back to the coin toss. When was that? Before Mom and I went to Grandma’s last weekend. Friday. He did it on Friday, and it wasn’t till this last Monday that he got the yearbook for me.
If he rigged the coin toss, he must’ve had it all planned by Friday to get me tonight. Beforethe yearbook. BeforeI started staying late and fell off the stool and started acting like an idiot and leaving my bra home and everything. It had nothing to do with all that.
The bastard picked me like a target.
Lane brought her mind back to the present task. Her blouse and skirt were okay. She might never wear them again, but they weren’t spoiled by stains.
She tossed her garments into the hamper.
She stared at her bed.
She didn’t want to get in it. She wouldn’t be able to sleep. She would lie there, thinking. All her worst thoughts came when she was trying to sleep, and she didn’t want to face those that were waiting tonight.
Did he get me pregnant? Did he give me AIDS? Is he going to sneak into the house with his razor, some night, and murder us all?
Shit.
Who needs to be in bed to think about that shit?
He probably didn’t get me pregnant, not with my period due so soon. What about AIDS, though? Even if he’s got it, the chances...
There I go, thinking about it.
And it’ll be worse, lying there with the lights out.
Be nice to just sit up all night and watch television.
The TV’s on, she remembered. And poor Dad’s an outcast on the sofa.
She left her room, uncertain what she planned to do. Maybe sit down and stare at the tube. Or maybe turn it off and wake up Dad so he could have a good night’s sleep in the bed where he belonged.
At any rate, the TV and lamp shouldn’t be left on all night.
Lane made her way toward the living room, walking slowly. Though she ached all over, the pains seemed rather mild. Maybe the aspirin had helped. Certainly the shower had helped. And the long, hot bath she’d taken after cleaning herself under the spray.
The virus could’ve gotten in when he busted the old maidenhead. Wouldn’t that be ironic? I died because I was a virgin. Shouldn’t have been so fucking chaste.
I’ll be all right, she told herself. I’ll be all right.
The television was still on, its screen fuzzy with snow. The lamp at the end of the sofa was still on. But Dad was gone.
Lane heard the soft rumble and thump of a door sliding shut.
What’s he doing? Going out back?
She went into the kitchen and cupped her hands against the glass. Dad was out there, all right. Walking funny, as if he wasn’t completely awake — or awfully soused. He made his way toward the garage with a lurching, staggering gait, weaving a little.
Lane slid open the kitchen door. She almost called to him, but realized that a shout might wake up her mother. Whatever Dad might be up to, Mom was sure to interfere and give him some grief about it.
As Dad opened the garage door, Lane stepped outside and eased the kitchen door shut.
“Dad?” she called, not too loudly.
He didn’t seem to hear her. He vanished into the darkness.
Lane frowned. Maybe I should just go back in, she thought. But what if he isn’t okay?