Chinese Handcuffs (7 page)

That felt really good because it seemed like Mom meant it, and for what seemed like a long time, they got closer and closer, and J. Maddy started to love her mom and maybe even trust her for the first time.

But that turned out to be a trick, too. Mom wasn't really sorry. She couldn't have been because she started bringing mean men home, men who would hit her and hit J. Maddy sometimes, too.

Only one of them ever touched her bad, and she was able to scream and run away, and that scared him off; but the bond that started taking hold during the time right after the therapy started to unravel, and more and more often J. Maddy found herself trying to answer the impossible question “Why are you doing this to me?”
every time something went wrong with her and one of these men.

But now there's T.B. He seems different. He plays with her and buys her things. He almost never gets mad, but you can tell when he does because his face gets really red and it looks like there's a rope under the skin on his neck. He doesn't explode, though; he just holds it in. J. Maddy thinks he's rich because he wears fancy suits and brings presents, and Mom seems happier than she's been in a long time—maybe ever—and for the first time in a long time J. Maddy doesn't feel that she's the reason her mom's life is awful. That feels
wonderful
to J. Maddy. The only person she has to take care of is herself, and that makes her feel
free.
She treats T.B. really well and almost never misbehaves when he comes over because “we don't want to scare him off now, do we?”

J. Maddy agrees. We don't want to scare him off.

 

Jennifer pulled the pillow harder against her face. Tricks, she thought.
Always tricks. The sweeter something looks, the uglier it really is.
And then she slid into thinking something that had been bothering her quite a bit in the past few months.
I'm a trick. Four-point-O average, “incomparable athlete,” common sense up the wazoo; all of it a lie. I can't even keep my mother's
husband out of my bed. How crazy is that?
She pulled the pillow even tighter against her face, recalling the number of times just this year that she had contemplated suicide. Not just thought about dying, but about how she'd do it.

 

T.B. comes into the room that first night. An old, uneasy feeling creeps into J. Maddy, but she forces it down, pretending to be asleep. He sits on the side of her bed as she assesses whether there is danger, but T.B. doesn't feel as “creepy” as Dad used to. And J. Maddy is nine now; she feels stronger.

He sits on the side of the bed and puts his hands in the middle of her back as she lies pretending to sleep on her stomach, and he rubs gently. He says, “Jennifer,” softly.

Nothing.

“Jennifer.”

J. Maddy gives a start, then stretches sleepily. “Huh?”

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

She turns over, rubbing her eyes. “Sure. What?”

“Your mother wants me to stay here tonight. Is that all right with you?”

“Where is she?”

“She went to the store to get some more beer. She'll
be back in a little while. I just want to make sure it's okay with you, that you're comfortable having me stay with her.”

J. Maddy doesn't know what to say, but she's become quite expert at saying whatever will not hurt someone's feelings. Actually she doesn't know whether she cares or not. She knows she likes it better when her mother is happy, and she recognizes that she likes it a lot better when she's not the one who has to make that happen. T.B.'s hand moves to her shoulder, and she freezes. He quickly takes it away.

“It's okay with me,” J. Maddy says. “If Mom wants you to.”

“Don't tell her I came in to ask, okay, Jen?” T.B. says. “I don't want her to think I have to have your permission, but I know it's tough when your family's been through a divorce sometimes. You don't want someone moving into your dad's spot.”

J. Maddy sits up. “My dad didn't have a spot,” she says. “He's been gone a long time. He didn't leave a spot. Don't worry about that.”

T.B. leans over and kisses her quickly on the cheek. He says, “Remember, no need to tell your mom we had this little talk. It'd just worry her that I worry about your feelings. Okay?”

J. Maddy says okay, not knowing why it doesn't feel quite right, why it reminds her of her dad. It makes sense, though, because T.B. seems nice, and when he's with her mom, she treats J. Maddy better.

Over the next few months T.B. spends a lot more time at their house, and he comes into the room increasingly often, sometimes to read J. Maddy stories and sometimes just to talk, about her day in school or her friends or one of her little projects. She feels more and more comfortable with it, even though he comes in only when her mom has gone somewhere or is taking a bath or down in the basement working on her crafts. T.B. is always interested in what she's doing and doesn't push at all. And he plays ball with her. He sets up a backboard over the garage, buys a really good basketball, and plays H.O.R.S.E. and one-on-one tirelessly.

And then it shifts. Not gradually—though maybe she could have seen it coming if she hadn't wanted to like him so much—but instantaneously.

 

Tricks, Jennifer thought. The better it looks, the uglier it really is.
She brought the pillow down to her chest. When she got into this space, nothing but time could bring her out. She was barely aware of the game the night before, of her athletic heroics or the accolades
she received in the morning newspaper. She was only aware that her life was a lie—and that the hopeless road before her stretched out forever. She tried to force thoughts of that first time out of her head, but the reel ran on. . . .

 

J. Maddy sits at her desk, reading a book about a boy named Chip Hilton, by Clair Bee. It is a book for boys, her mother has told her. Girls aren't supposed to be interested in sports. But T.B. chides her mom gently about old-fashioned thinking and tells J. Maddy about several more books in the Chip Hilton series, all about the same boy, first in high school and then in college, who is a superathlete with a wise father who has died and with a lot of good friends. The books cover his adventures in football, basketball, and baseball, but J. Maddy is interested only in the ones about basketball and has scoured the city library in search of them all. She doesn't care that they are old with faded covers and pages ready to fall out between her fingers like over-boiled chicken off the bone. She loves them for their action and for their endings. The good guys always win, and they win so well that the bad guys realize it and turn good. J. Maddy can completely lose herself in a Chip Hilton story.

She hears his voice behind her and starts a little, though only from surprise. T.B. has J. Maddy's trust now. She is not afraid to let him come into her room.

“Whatcha reading?” he asks, leaning over her shoulder to peek.

She shows him the cover.
Hoop Crazy.

T.B. nods. “I remember that. It's a good one. How far are you?”

J. Maddy pinches the pages of the first three chapters together between her thumb and forefinger, indicating her progress. If she starts talking, she knows he will stay and she'll have to put the book down.

T.B. says no more, and J. Maddy returns to the book, semi-consciously noting that he hasn't left but is sitting on the bed. She turns uncomfortably, but before she can speak, he motions her to continue reading. “Don't worry about me,” he says, “I'm just relaxing. Your mom went to a meeting. She'll be late.”

She is suddenly uncomfortable with him sitting there but forces herself to read another page before turning from her desk. Finally she can't stand the silence. “You want to play a game?” she asks. “Monopoly or something?”

T.B. shakes his head and says no. “Go ahead with your book,” he says.

J. Maddy goes on, forcing her thoughts away from these strange feelings, familiar feelings. Then his hand is on her shoulder again; only this time it feels different, maybe a little forceful. He massages her neck and runs his hands down her shoulders. J. Maddy shrugs and pulls away. “That tickles,” she says, and giggles, though she doesn't really feel like laughing, and he pulls her back, still running his hands over her back, and suddenly all she wants is to get away. “No,” she says, and starts to stand, but T.B. pushes her down on the chair, hard.

“Just do what I tell you,” he says, “and it won't hurt.” His breath smells of alcohol, hot and sweet. His hands slide under her arms and around to her chest, and she pulls violently away; but his fingers are like vises, and he pinches her, hard. J. Maddy shrieks and starts to cry. She calls for her mother, but of course, there's no answer.

J. Maddy's mind races as T.B. carries her to the bed, trying to think what she's learned at school in the
Good Touch, Bad Touch
classes; but the wheels only spin in panic, and she can't concentrate, can't remember. He's undressing her now. Feelings she hasn't felt for years, since her father left, roar into her throat and choke her with terror. T.B. releases her for a second to undo his
pants, and she instinctively rolls off the bottom of the bed, hitting the floor on the run, but he is much too quick and kicks his foot against the door as she tries to jerk it open. He slaps her hard across the face, and she drops to the floor in tears as he quickly drags the desk in front of the door. There are no more words; there is no more resistance. J. Maddy does what she learned to do when her father came into her room years ago: She leaves her body there, but she takes her head away. In the distance she hears her sister knocking on the door, but then J. Maddy's gone, picturing clouds and kites and her grandfather. It's harder to stay gone, because T.B. is rough, but she manages out of sheer will, and when he is finished, she lies with her face pressed into the crack between the bed and the wall, no tears, no sound, no feelings.

She hears the desk slide back to its original place, and she hears the door open and close and Dawn's and T.B's voices out in the other room, and that brings her back in a flash. She runs to the door and listens, waiting to hear if he's going after her sister. If he does, she thinks, there's a poker by the fireplace.
I'll get him. I will. I'll get him.

But the voices are normal. T.B. is saying he doesn't know why Dawn couldn't get the door open or why her
sister didn't hear her knocking. He's sorry she was scared. No, she shouldn't go into Jennifer's room. He just checked and Jennifer's asleep.

I'll tell, Jennifer thinks. Just like before. Wait till I tell Mom. She'll believe me this time, because I proved it before.

J. Maddy steals across the hall to the bathroom. Locking the door quickly behind her, she strips her pajamas off and steps into the shower. She makes the water as hot as she can stand and washes herself over and over and over again, and though her mind knows she's clean, the icky feeling inside won't go away. She stays until the water begins to turn cold, carefully touching her private parts with the washcloth. There is blood, and it hurts terribly. Just wait, she'll tell.

She lies in her bed with the light on, trying to read her book, waiting; but Mom doesn't come, and it's very late and J. Maddy finally tries to sleep. She can't keep the thoughts out, it's been so long, and she's out of practice—she really thought she was safe with T.B.—and her body begins to convulse, and the convulsions finally give way to sobs, and she cries until she's empty, until she approaches an uneasy sleep. But her dreams immediately wrench her awake, and she lies in the darkness of the room, feeling terrified and invaded and utterly
powerless. She wishes she could just die.

The door opens quietly, and J. Maddy hears soft footsteps. Closing her eyes and pulling the covers tight against her chin, she rolls over again into the crack between the bed and the wall. The lamp beside her bed is switched on, and she feels the pressure of someone sitting next to her.

“Jennifer, I have something you need to see.” It's T.B.

J. Maddy doesn't move.

“Did you know Rolex almost got run over today?” he says.

Rolex is J. Maddy's and Dawn's dog, a puppy actually. They've had him only three months. He's a golden retriever, and J. Maddy named him Rolex because her mother said he might be a good watchdog. J. Maddy is a whiz at puns. Rolex is also the name of T.B.'s watch.

J. Maddy turns over. She is defiant, eyes blazing, the covers still pulled tight.

“It was close,” T.B. says. “Rolex is a very lucky dog. I saved him just in time.” He hands J. Maddy a Polaroid picture of her puppy, his head jammed under the back tire of the car, a boot against his neck. His leash is chained to the back bumper.

The boot is T.B.'s.

“I saved him just in time,” T.B. says again.

J. Maddy's eyes grow huge as she realizes what this means, and T.B. holds the picture just out of her reach. She looks at him in astonishment, then back at the picture.

“If you tell anyone—
anyone
—what happened in here tonight, I won't be able to get to Rolex in time next time. Do you understand?”

J. Maddy nods quickly. “I won't tell,” she says breathlessly. “I promise. I won't tell.”

“I believe you, Jennifer. I really do. But you should know that's just the start. If you change your mind and decide to tell anyway, Rolex won't be the only one. I'll get Dawn, and then I'll get your mom. And then I'll get away.” He reaches over and places his hands tightly on her cheeks, forcing her to look into his eyes. “I've done it before,” he says softly, and J. Maddy is chilled to her marrow.

 

That is the face Jennifer remembered as she clutched tight to the pillow in her room. He came again, of course. As often as twice a week sometimes. It had been less lately, probably in the past year or so, but Jennifer only feared that meant Dawn was next. There was no peace. She had perfected the art of “leaving” when he
came in and had perfected the lie in the rest of her life so well that sometimes she forgot how she was trapped. Basketball helped with that. So did her studies. It wasn't hard to be perfect, she thought, when it kept your mind away from such horror. Only during times like these, when she was weakened in some way, did she feel this horrible, empty hopelessness. She would wait it out. She always had.