I said once that I wasn't going to post any more stories while they were still first drafts. Well, alright I guess I'm cheating, but I like this one and I want to share and I wrote it out long-hand first and then pipped it into the computer, so technically it already is a second draft, but it's not quite finished yet. Thanks to Andrew and Sarah, my writing group partners, for being the first brave souls to take a look.
This was inspired by an in-class writing exercise a couple of weeks ago. Brenda spread a number of photocopies of famous paintings and photgraphs and said to write about what was going on in them. So, before you read this, please see the inspiration for it here, a photograph taken by Larry Fink. As always, feedback is always appreciated and considered, seriously or mildly, depending. And it's long -- you've been warned.Of course you were able to make a bigger pig nose than me, you could do everything better than me. Looking at your face, it made sense that you’d be a natural pig face, but you were always so quick to point out that I was the one with the big nose or greasy hair. That doesn’t explain why you always wanted to ride with my family on summer vacations, complaining that the air conditioning in your car didn’t work or that your little brother always farted and smelled like puke. You even started calling my mom “Mom,” and when she came out of the bar that afternoon, I stood by as you tackled her, stepped gently onto her feet and walked backwards, her skirt riding up her thighs as you hugged her legs.
Because our parents were friends, we were thrown together from infanthood. You still made life hell for me, especially after grade school, when adolescent angst reached a fever pitch. You seemed to think you had it all together at school, but the only reason Paul ever asked you to dances was because your boobs were enormous for an eleven-year-old and Katie Eschelman decided you were cool enough to hang out with. And the only reason everyone loved Katie Eschelman was because her sister was in high school and would give blow jobs to the guys on the football team, so all the boys at our school would go over to her house and just hope, pray that maybe Katie’s sister would notice them or get drunk and come onto them.
When we were alone, you would share your Laffy Taffys and tell me we’d be best friends forever. If other people were around, I may as well have had the plague, like the time that you and Katie kept telling me that I had ring around the collar and instead of helping me wash it off you pointed your fingers and squirmed as if a third ear was growing out of my head.
Whatever, pig face, with your huge eyebrows that you let Katie Eschelman’s sister completely pluck off one evening while your parents were gone and they took three weeks to grow back and Katie wouldn’t sit with you at lunch because Paul started calling you “Cancer Carrie.” Why did you keep making out with him all the time after that? I saw you around a lot those three weeks, and your parents never let Katie Eschelman’s sister baby-sit you again.
Your dad let you have your first sip of beer that day and your mom got mad and sent you to the car so she could yell at him in the parking lot pretending like you couldn’t hear. You crept into the backseat of our station wagon and I wondered, even then, when I should have been feeling sorry for you, why you didn’t just spend summers with the Eschelman family, too.
I listened to your parents argue in the parking lot, both slightly drunk, as my parents stood by listening, sheepish.
“What are you trying to do, John, turn her into an alcoholic?”
“She’s halfway there already, all the time she spends with her grandmother!”
Furious, your mom stormed back into the bar, Mom in tow.
“Bitch,” your dad muttered. He ran and scooped up your little brother and swung him around wildly, blowing off steam. Your brother, blissfully unaware, screeched six-year-old giggles of delight. My dad came over to our car and pressed his face into the back window, opening his mouth and blowing out his cheeks, “the blowfish,” he called it. You peered up at him with a scowl etched on your face before returning to the fetal position.
“Hey Amanda,” Dad murmured, “go talk to Carrie, would you?”
I stared at him, petrified. I didn’t want to talk to you. I wanted you to cry and think that your parents didn’t love you, and regret ever being mean to me or calling me “Armpit Amanda.” I wanted you to think everyone hated you and it was all your fault.
“C’mon Amanda,” Dad prodded.
As I looked into the car, assessing your mental state, I swear I saw a slit of your open eye glint out, serpent-like, watching our interaction -- you loved the attention.
“Oh fine,” I sighed.
I slipped into the backseat, sliding over the seat to sit in the back. Your quiet sobs filled the car.
“Hey Carrie?”
You pretended not to hear.
“You know your parents are probably going to get divorced.”
“Shut up!”
You sat up sharply.
“It’s true, my dad said.”
You looked out at my dad, who stared into the back of the car like he was watching a little league game.
“Why does he know?”
“Your dad told him. Says he does stuff like give you beer because he knows it makes your mom mad, then she’ll leave him.”
As you began to sniffle again, the sense of satisfaction gave me a little rush.
“How was the beer?” I asked after a few seconds.
“It tasted like farts.”
We sat in quiet, the distant sound of your brother’s squealing bumped against the car windows.
“Good, he’s an asshole anyway,” you said finally.
“Asshole” was a word that you picked up from Katie Eschelman’s sister, too. She said it all the time, even around her parents.
“Why?”
“My dad touches me,” you said, matter-of-fact.
“So? My dad touches me, too.”
“No, idiot, here.” You grabbed my hand and shoved it between your legs, to your crotch. I felt a surge of excitement through my spine and suddenly scared, I yanked my hand away.
“Don’t Carrie,” I paused. “Do you like it?”
You scoffed, “no. Sicko.”
You picked at a scab on your knee, your long hair falling in strings around your face. I startled at the knock on the window.
“Carrie, sweetie?” You dad’s voice came muffled through the glass, his wide smile now a thing of fright.
“C’mon sweetie, it’s time to go.”
We both just stared at him, but I saw your hand trembling slightly, out of his view.
“Amanda,” I heard Dad say, sternly, “let’s go.”
I looked at you to see what I should do, shrugging.
“Should we go,” I asked?
“Yeah, I guess,” you said, vaguely, your attention still firmly on your scab.
You suddenly looked up at our dads, smiled, and rocked your head back and forth so your hair covered your entire face like Cousin Itt. You made a peace sign with your bony fingers that Dad liked to call “E.T. fingers.” Our dads laughed.
“Don’t let them know anything’s wrong,” you said, sliding back over into the backseat.
Back in the parking lot, I hid behind my dad, looking at yours through new eyes. Our mothers had come back out of the bar and were alternately comforting you and throwing dirty looks at your father. He ignored them as he and Dad talked fishing lures and football -- man talk. When he winked at me, I felt a chill up my spine, and I was suddenly overcome with a sense of urgency.
“Dad,” I tugged at the bottom of his polo shirt as he droned on.
“Daddy,” I persisted.
“Amanda, what?” His hand swatted me away like a fly.
“I need to go to the bathroom.”
“Okay, then go.”
“I don’t know where it is.”
“It’s behind the building,” he pointed.
“Come with me.”
“Why, you know where it is.”
“I know, but can you just come with me?”
Dad rolled his eyes in your dad’s direction. I tugged at his hand, he scoffed.
“Amanda.”
“Please, Daddy, please just come with me,” I pleaded with him, silently, praying he would sense the urgency in my face.
“Alright,” he relented, “I’ll be back.” I grabbed his hand and marched to the back of the clubhouse, whose patrons became progressively drunker in the mid-afternoon heat. When I reached the back of the building, I sat down on the ice machine.
“What’s the matter, I thought you had to go to the bathroom?”
I ignored his question.
“Daddy, what does it mean when someone’s being touched?”
“What?”
“You know, down here?” My hand gestured vaguely to my crotch.
“What are you talking about,” he asked, still a little drunk.
I heard your words echo in my head, “don’t let them know,” took a deep breath and spilled it.
“Carrie said her dad touches her. Down there.” My face felt hot, shameful.
“How do you know that?”
“She told me. I said already.”
“When was this, sweetie?”
“While we were in the car. Just now. When you told me to talk to her.”
Dad stood, his arms placed on either side of me, elbows locked. He sighed and looked down to his sandaled foot, scraping at the gravel.
“Is that okay,” I asked.
When he looked up, lines creased his brow, veins emerging around his hairline.
“No sweetie, no it isn’t.”
“We have to do something then, right?”
He put his head down again.
“Right?”
“Lying isn’t good though either, Amanda.”
“I’m not lying,” I protested, my voice raising. “Please Daddy, please you have to do something.”
“Amanda, please. Stop it, I’m tired of this.”
“Why don’t you believe me?” Panic rose up through my throat and out my mouth.
“Because,” he snapped, “Carrie’s daddy’s a good man.
“He’s not, he’s not. He’s hurting her!” I screamed.
Dad grabbed my wrists.
“Amanda, shh!”
I squirmed and struggled down off the ice machine, tears of frustration streaming down my face, hysterical.
“Please Daddy, please! I’m not lying, I promise!”
“Stop it Amanda! Stop it. You’re causing a scene,” he hissed, heat on his temples, losing control. Several patrons had come around the back of the building and now stood staring.
“It’s okay,” Dad said loudly to the small crowd forming as I struggled to the ground.
“She’s just throwing a tantrum.”
I heard a chorus of understanding chuckles.
“C’mon Amanda, calm down. You’re not a baby anymore.”
Dad leaned over me and picked me up, placing me over his shoulder.
“If you’re so sure, you can ask him yourself. How’s that sound?”
“No, no! Daddy no!”
He rounded the side of the building and back to the parking lot, where you were with our parents, the gate of the station wagon down, Popsicles turning your lips and tongues bright red. You looked up at my cries.
“Gary, what on earth is the matter?” Mom stood up. Dad deposited me in front of her, feet first, onto the ground, my wails subsiding.
“Listen everyone. Mary, our daughter has a question for John.”
Everyone quieted, looking at me as I stood, silent as a monk. My face, my whole body burned to the point I felt numb.
“What is it, Amanda?”
“Nothing,” I said softly. I saw the faint beginnings of a smile forming around the edges of your mouth.
“Yeah Armpit, what’s your secret?”
I looked at you, astonished. Had you been lying the whole time? Did you put me on the spot, knowing this would happen? I had been so convinced, seeing your hand shake, but your smile told me differently. Was this some sick joke you learned from Katie Eschelman’s sister again?
“Amanda!” I was knocked back to reality. Dad crouched beside me.
“Tell John what you have to say.”
I felt hot tears at the base of my eyes again.
“I don’t want to,” I whispered.
“Well you have to, everyone’s waiting.”
My mind swam. What if you got in trouble because I told everyone what you told me, even if it wasn’t true? You’d hate me forever, more than I’m sure you did already.
“Do you want me to tell them?”
I shook my head fiercely. Tears dropped to the dirt at my feet, creating dark patches of brown against the dust. “I want to go home,” I said softly.
“We can’t go home until we do this.”
I slowly nodded my head. Dad stood up, clearing his throat, as if on ceremony.
“Amanda here, seems to think that John is molesting his own daughter.”
I heard a “that’s ridiculous” before the blood rushing through my ears drowned out the rest. Your dad chortled loudly. Your mom laughed nervously, a kind of non-funny laugh, shocked. My mom held you, concerned, as everyone turned their attention to you. Except me, I couldn’t look at you.
“Really?” Your dad finally said. “Carrie, did you tell her that?”
“No,” you replied immediately, your voice hard with annoyance.
“Why would you say that?” You mother asked me.
“Sorry John,” said Dad, reconciliatory.
“Amanda, why would you say that?” You mother asked me again, insistent.
“I don’t know. I don’t know...I thought,” I stammered.
“She just wanted some attention,“ you said, burrowing your head in Mom’s shoulder.
“Tell John you’re sorry, sweetie,” Mom said, her gaze disapproving.
I craned my neck up to meet your dad’s face, grotesque. I knew you couldn’t have been lying. But why were you lying now? I looked at you, eyes pleading, pleading to agree with me.
“Manda.”
“I’m sorry for believing those things about you,” my lower lip trembled again.
“Well I think we learned a valuable lesson here today,” Dad said, “Do you know what that is, Amanda?” Condescension tightened his voice.
I shook my head, no.
“It’s to not lie, right?”
“I’m not lying,” I whispered. Dad grasped my shoulders and spoke in a low tone.
“Amanda, enough. You can’t go around telling people that for no reason.”
“Carrie told me.”
“No, she said she didn’t. Why would she lie about something like that?”
“Why would I?”
“Why would you,” your mom asked as she rose from the gate of the station wagon, throwing her wooden Popsicle stick hard to the ground. “John it’s time to go home.”
We left that parking lot soon after. I don’t remember your parents ever coming back to our house that summer. When school started, I walked up to you that first day, you and Katie Eschelman, and you stared right past me, as if I weren’t there. Later there was a note shoved into my locker, it was your handwriting, but with Katie’s signature, telling me that if I came within twenty five feet of you on purpose, someone would kill me.
Throughout that year, the word “liar,” and “slut” would be scratched on my locker or notebook or homeroom desk.
It wasn’t until years later that I began to realize that maybe what you said was true. I still don’t know, but I could guess. There was an evening that Brad and I were putting down the baby, finally asleep and the phone rang. Anger flashed through me as the ring echoed through the house, the baby screaming itself awake. I picked up the receiver, annoyed, but as I heard your voice telling me that you’d just had an abortion after being raped, that summer came flooding back and my baby not only cried in mourning for your baby, but for you as well, for whatever reasons you were too scared to say anything at the time.
