Chinese Handcuffs (11 page)

“What about that TV guy? Wayne whatever. You guys get along pretty well, don't you?”

Coach nodded. “We get along fine. But you'll notice you don't see us together all that often. It's certainly not what you'd call a full-time relationship. I love it this way. And so does Wayne. But it's certainly not what's considered ‘normal' and it's certainly not what I expected I would want at forty-two years old back when I was in high school.”

Dillon felt the need to put Coach's information into a context he could understand. “So do you think you'll get together—you know, completely?”

“Dillon, what do you want from me?”

“Like I said, I thought I wanted advice.”

“About what?”

“About Stacy. About Jen. Things just seem so out of control.”

“It would just be bad advice,” Coach said. “But maybe I can help a little.”

“A little is better than nothing.”

“Dillon, all you have in this world, really, are your responses to it. Responses to your feelings and responses to what comes in from outside. You know how adults are always trying to get you to ‘take responsibility? That's all responsibility is, responding to the
world, owning your responses. It isn't about taking blame or finding out if something's your fault.”

“Okay,” Dillon said. She always made him think.

“You have no control over the world. You have no control over anyone but you. You can't control how Stacy feels about you or whether she had your brother's baby. You can't control what's gone on in Jennifer's life or how she's reacting to that. There's nothing in the world outside yourself you can control. Winter's cold, summer's warm. Things fall from high places, they break. You lie, trust goes. Truth stays the same, Dillon. Truth is simply what is. It doesn't have to be believed to exist. Only our responses change.”

“I know this helps me,” Dillon said, “but I don't know how.”

“You always want to fight, but you never want to fight at
home,
you always want to fight on foreign soil. The wars with Caldwell, the wars about your brother, about your mom leaving. The war to make things
fair
all the time, to make Stacy and Jennifer fit into something you're familiar with. All things you have no control over. That's not where the war is, Dillon.” She pounded her chest lightly with her fist. “The war's in here.”

Dillon looked down. Though he didn't completely
understand, something hit close to home because he was embarrassed, like back in the fourth grade when he found he'd been beating on a kid for fifteen minutes who
hadn't
stolen his bike.

“Your responses are all you have,” Coach said again. “It's exactly the same thing I tell the girls in basketball, but it's easier to understand there because there are rules and an identified playing field. In basketball, when you respond well to what you see, you play a good game. You play a
great
game when you're able to respond to something you've never seen before, something brand-new.”

The light switched on briefly. “You mean like falling in love in a way nobody ever told you about?”

Coach smiled. “I mean like falling in love in a way nobody ever told you about.”

Dillon took a deep breath. “But I don't know how to respond well to that.”

Coach shrugged. “So I guess you go by feel. The good part is, you go with whatever works. There's no precedent, so as long as you agree with whoever else is involved, you can't be wrong. That part I can tell you from experience.”

Dillon's mind reeled. He'd been looking for simplicity. This
was
simple, though certainly not what he
thought he'd asked for. Finally he said, “You're basically saying I'll do what I'm going to do, right?”

“Right. And that you need to own up to it, to yourself. You can be active or passive about your choices, and you can even trick yourself into thinking it's all out of your control, but every move you make is yours.”

As usual, when Dillon spelunked in Coach Sherman's dimly lit spiritual cave he came away with artifacts he didn't immediately understand. He finished folding the towels and stuffed them into the footlocker in silence, though a very busy conversation rattled on in his head. He started to leave, then turned around at the door and walked over to Coach and hugged her.

“You're one tough chick,” he said.

“Watch it,” she said back as he ambled out the door.

Dear Preston,

Well, brother, old Dillon decided to take the bull by the horns and get this all out on the table—aboveboard, as it were—just to see what the hell it looked like in the light of day as opposed to inside the bottomless caverns of my paranoic imagination. I billed it as a friendly get-together, a chance for my two best friends to meet and begin to get to know each other, secretly hoping that one area of conversation would lead to another, with my expert guidance, and I'd get some information out and some questions answered.

I've been absolutely haunted for the past few days, since figuring out that Ryan Ryder is really Ryan Hemingway and following a conversation I had with Coach about—for lack of a better description—how life works or doesn't work. I was really intrigued by her idea that if I
keep my mind on myself and my own reactions to the world, I can have complete control, that trying to control everything outside me is what keeps me stuck and completely out of control. Opposites at work, I think, maybe Stacy's Chinese handcuffs. Who knows? I may be the world's next really great philosopher. Then again, I may be the world's next really great jerk. It's a crapshoot, I tell you. But it can't hurt, because there exists in this the possibility that I'll be able to put you in your rightful place.

Anyway, I was supposed to pick Jen up at her place (“Just honk, don't come in.” Hell, Dad would be tempted to slap the back of my head till my nose bled if he saw me do that. “You walk right up to the door, son, don't be disrespectful. Young ladies deserve respect.” Remember that?) and take her to the library for an hour and a half, then meet Stacy and Ryan over at Jackie's Home Cookin' for some pie and ice cream.

When I picked Jen up, I saw her stepdad in the doorway. I can't remember if I thought he looked ominous standing there, but I'm blessed with retroactive memory (whatever I remember at this moment is the way I've always remembered it), and after hearing Jen's stories tonight, I'm sure he looked extremely ominous. And I'm going to get him. One way or another. I'll honor the promise I made to Jen and not blow it all sky-high, but I'm going to get him.
You can't treat people like that and be allowed to grow old peacefully and die. You have to eat shit first.

It's too bad you didn't stay around for the fireworks, Pres (though a lot of them might not have gone off in the first place if you had). This was one of the most incredible nights I've ever spent, and it all happened in my parked car and over pie and ice cream at Jackie's. Compared with this, the night the Warlocks came after me was a cakewalk.

We drove to the library, and Jen was real quiet. I thought she was lost in the upcoming district tournament, so I left her alone, and about the only conversation we had was to ask each other questions for the contemporary world problems test tomorrow. We cut the study time short and decided to go on over to the restaurant early because we really weren't getting anywhere studying. Between us we knew enough answers for a strong B+, so we'll probably sit close and cheat. Stacy might even be able to come up with enough extras for an A. It doesn't really matter, though.

Jen was real distracted on the ride over, and I asked her if she wanted to skip it and get together with Stacy some other time.

She said, “No, I don't want to go home yet. My sister's not there tonight.”

That didn't make much sense to me, but I didn't pay any attention because she seemed so out of it, so far away.

I asked if there was anything I could help with.

She was staring out her side window and just shook her head.

God, Pres. It really makes me nuts when she gets like that, and I told her how I feel so helpless.

She didn't say anything, just kept staring out the window.

Finally I said, “God damn it, Jen, tell me
something.
This is driving me crazy, I'm serious. I can handle that we aren't lovers, and I can handle being your friend; but I can't be a good friend if I don't know what your
pain
is all about. You're in so much pain sometimes. . . .”

Without turning toward me, without moving a muscle, she said, “My stepdad messes with me.” She said that, Pres.

“What?”

“You wanted to know what all my pain is. My stepdad messes with me.”

“What do you mean, messes with you? You mean,
messes
with you?”

“I mean, he's been having sex with me,” she said. “For a long time.”

All the missing parts I'd been digging blindly for fell into place like tumblers in a fine combination lock, and the huge metal door of my consciousness swung open; but all I
could say was “Je-sus Christ.”

She said, “He hasn't had much to do with it.”

“I'll bet. Why haven't you told somebody?”

Jen gave a little snort, and from the back I watched her head turn slowly from side to side. “Like who, Dillon?”

“Well, I mean, they have child protective services. You could tell the cops.”

Jen still hadn't looked at me. “I did that. Back in Chicago.”

“What happened?”

She let out this sigh, Pres, and I swear she sounded eighty years old, and she said. “Child Protective Services isn't for rich people, and it isn't for smart people. My stepdad was one of the top family law practitioners in Chicago, and he's one of the top family law practitioners here. He was way smarter than they were. They didn't have a chance. I was eleven years old, and he made them look like fools and me look like a stupid liar.”

I stopped the car in front of Jackie's and turned off the engine, reached across the seat to touch her. Her body tightened like a steel cable, and she said, “Please . . .”

“Okay,” I said. “What can I do?”

“You can listen and promise not to do anything. And promise not to feel sorry for me.”

You have no idea how hard a promise that was to make,
but I knew Jen was in control here. Even so, I couldn't
imagine
not doing anything.

“Dillon,” she said into my silence, “don't even
think
you can do something. He's untouchable. And he's mean beyond anything you can imagine.”

“I'm not afraid of him, Jen.”

She whirled, and I thought she was going to take my head right off my shoulders.
“I'm
afraid of him,” she whispered. “He's a killer. I have a mother and a sister that he'd do away with in a heartbeat. Now I'm asking you to listen to me and promise you won't try to do anything. I need somebody to listen to me. You're the only one there is.” And then she took the sides of my face in her hands and said, “If you try to do
anything
you'll cease to exist in my universe. I swear it.”

“Okay,” I said, “I can do that. I can listen.” I knew it would be hard, but I thought I could do it.

Her shoulders slumped, and she let out a little air; relaxed a bit, I think. “I tried CPS in Chicago,” she said again. “It took me two years to get up the guts. After the first time he . . . well, after the first time, he came into my room with a Polaroid picture of my dog's head under his boot, wedged next to the car tire, and told me if I ever told anyone, the dog would have an accident. The day I reported it he tied the dog to the back bumper and ran over her and
left her on the porch. You couldn't even recognize her face. He ran right over her head.” I can't tell you how I felt, Pres. I just wanted to go over to her place and kill him. I swear, if she'd said the word, I would have.

She started to tremble, and I reached for her again; but she pulled away.

“He'd already told me he'd do something to Mom and my sister, but I believed what the people at school said about how sex abusers sometimes make scary threats. I believed if I told, someone would do something.”

“What happened?”

“To make a long, ugly story short, he had no trouble convincing my mom I was lying because she would have done anything to keep him, even though he beat her up all the time. I hate her, Dillon. And I hate that I love her. I can't stand to stay away because of what he does to her. I don't know why he doesn't hit her as much when I'm there, but he doesn't. If I didn't care about her, I'd take my sister and leave. But I can't. I don't know why, but I just can't. I think he'd kill her. I mean, really beat her to death. I saw him kick her so hard in the stomach one night I thought she was going to explode. You know what I remember most about living in Chicago?” Jen laughed and shook her head. “I remember standing in the snow with my sister and my mother in the woods. We lived on the outskirts. Dawn and I
were the fastest packers in the world. We could have worked for Bekins. That bastard would get drunk and beat Mom almost unconscious, then storm out. Every time she promised we were leaving and never coming back. ‘Get your things together, girls, we're getting out.'” Jen mimicked her mother with such astonishing contempt that my guts reeled, Pres. I've never seen such hate. And she
stays.

It was scary. She kept talking like she was back there. “We'd be packed in fifteen minutes and out the door. We had to stay away from the roads because T.B. would always come back quick and look for us. I
know
he was terrified we'd blow his cover and he'd be ruined. Mom and Dawn and I would stay away from the roads and cut through the woods.” Tears started to roll down Jen's cheeks. I wanted to do something to help. I'd have done
anything.
But there was nothing. She kept right on talking. “I remember Dawn up to her waist in snow, dragging her suitcase, just crying and dragging it. She was the toughest little shit you'd ever want to meet; but pretty soon she'd collapse, and I'd carry her suitcase, too.”

I couldn't believe it. I said, “But your mom didn't tell?”

Jen just shook her head. “We'd always go to a motel or someplace where no one knew us. We never went to any of her friends or to a battered woman's shelter or anything like that. By morning Mom would already be getting us ready to go home, telling us things would be better, that the fight
was her fault and if she'd quit nagging all the time, T.B. would stop. The time right before I told, I remember standing in the middle of the motel screaming at her. I was eleven years old, and I was screaming that my mother was a stupid bitch.”

“What'd she do?”

“She slapped me and told me to be quiet.”

“So what happened when you told?”

Jen looked down at her hands. Her fingers were knotted, and even in the darkness of your van I could see her knuckles were almost white. “They did an investigation. Took me out of the house and put me in foster care for a little while. I actually thought I'd done the right thing, that finally this nightmare would be over, but it was killing me that Dawn was still there. They didn't take Dawn. I don't know why unless they didn't believe me from the start. Anyway, both Mom and T.B. told CPS and the cops that I'd been sexually abused by my real dad, which was true, and that I'd always resented T.B. and the only reason they could think that I'd say such a thing about him was that I knew it would get him in trouble and that I was using it to get him out.”

“Jesus, it
worked?”

“Dillon, this guy is
good.
He never loses. He represents some of the real slime of the universe in divorce cases, and
he never loses. You see the house we live in? We're
rich.
And we're rich because he's good. I was back home in less than a week. I could see it coming. When she picked me up, the caseworker was right there telling me she'd take care of me and make sure I was protected and I could call her anytime, and within two days she was grilling me like a convict. I just gave up. I said, ‘Send me back. You're going to do it anyway. Just hurry up.'”

“What about Dawn? Why didn't she tell?” I asked.

“Mom and T.B. got to her. There was a lot she didn't see. She didn't know anything about the sexual stuff. She might have even thought I was making that up to get rid of him. I was real mad at her for a while, but she was young. And really confused.”

“So that was it? I mean, they just decided you were lying?”

“That was it. He handled those people like school kids. They never even saw his temper. He was ‘just as concerned' as they were and just as worried about my traumatic past with my real dad, and he could even see why I'd say what I said; but boy, it really gave him a scare there for a while, 'cause he knew what society thinks about sex abuse. He even went down to their office one day to get the name of some good therapists he might be able to send me to to help me work things out. Money was no object. He cared
only about my well-being . . . shit.” She took a deep breath and nodded toward the entrance of the restaurant. “Let's go in.”

I sat against the car door, soaked in sweat from hearing her story. I thought
I
had the worst story in the world to tell, but this just bowled me over. “Wait for just a minute,” I said. I just
couldn't
let it ride. “We have to do something.”

She flared again.
“No,
Dillon. You promised. You're either going to be a person I trust or not. If not, get out of here.”

I raised my hands. “Okay, okay,” I said, but I could barely get my teeth ungritted. “I promised. You can trust me. But I don't know what to do. I can't stand leaving you there. I can't stand the thought that he's—”

Jen laughed and said, “Don't worry. I'm not there. My body's there, but I perfected the art of mental evacuation long, long ago. Clear back with my dad . . .”

Stacy's car pulled into the parking lot by the side of the restaurant then, and she stepped out, waved, and opened the back door to remove Ryan from the car seat. I said, “Listen, if you don't want to go in, I can take you home and come back.”