I know a lot about you, Nora, from Franny’s point of view—I know what she thought of you, and what she needed and couldn’t get from you.”
I ignore his attempt to make me feel guilty. I was not much more than a kid myself when Franny came to live with me, and I did the best I could to take care of her. My parental skills were lacking—I know that; I was not perfect, but I did my best. I jog on, not taking his bait.
“As for the oral sex,” he says, “she was truly dreadful when we first met. Clumsy, ineffectual, artless—not to mention downright dangerous. I had to endure the agony of her sharp, scraping teeth more than a few times.” He laughs softly. “But she was extremely willing to please, and a fast learner. Once I taught her what to do, she was excellent. I’d even go so far as to say she had quite a knack for it. Of course, the inducement I offered her probably had something to do with her willingness; she quickly learned that the consequences of not pleasing me far outweighed any reluctance she might have had. As a result, she became quite adept.”
I withhold my anger, keeping his cold words at a distance. He wants to reduce me to tears or anger or guilt. His machinations are transparent, and I am glad we’re jogging; the physical exertion diverts some of the anger I feel. He is unable to see the effect his words have on me.
“What consequences were those?” I ask.
“Not as harsh as you’re imagining. Remember, she was in love with me. She wanted to please me.”
Instead, I remember her diary, how he tied her to the dining room chair, legs spread, to punish her for a minor transgression, for wearing a red satin robe.
“What consequences?” I repeat, but he ignores me. We reach an old, concrete bridge and circle back. A blue farm truck with a wooden slat railing in the back rattles by. It is the first automobile on the road to pass us this morning.
“That’s enough for today,” he says. “Why don’t you tell me something about yourself?”
With exasperation, I sigh. The pounding of my Reeboks, as rhythmic as a beating heart, accentuates the silence. We jog down the road, neither of us speaking. Broken asphalt and small clods of dirt crunch and crumble beneath my shoes. Rameau trots along at M.’s heels, never veering from his side.
“What do you want to know?” I say finally.
“Everyone has a secret, Nora. Everyone has unresolved issues, problems they don’t, or can’t, deal with. Franny seemed to think you didn’t have any; I believe differently. I want to know yours.”
I shrug, unwilling to share anything with this man. I find his question intrusive, and his manner irritating. Over dinner a few nights ago, he quizzed me on the details of my life since Franny died—a leave of absence from the Bee, moving to Davis, a new boyfriend, occasional freelance work—and my sister, according to M., had filled him in on my life previous to her death. What more can he want? A long, white sedan with dried mud splattered on the side speeds by.
“Talk to me,” he says.
I am silent again, uncomfortable with the direction the conversation is taking. We jog past a row of trees lining the road—old country trees, some asymmetrical from a previous disease or infestation, or perhaps from a natural force, the limbs wind-torn or lightning struck. In the gray dawn, they appear ghostly and skeletal, the trunks weathered and toughlooking.
“Tell me about the men in your life,” he says, trying to encourage me. “Franny said you’re aloof with them, that you had numerous boyfriends but were never serious about any of them. She didn’t find it strange, though—she thought you were strong, courageous, much too independent to rely on a man for anything. She envied you your many boyfriends—she wanted one of her own—and even though she didn’t agree with your easy-come-easy-go philosophy regarding men, she didn’t find it strange.” He turns to me and smirks. “You were a
I ignore his attempt to make me feel guilty. I was not much more than a kid myself when Franny came to live with me, and I did the best I could to take care of her. My parental skills were lacking—I know that; I was not perfect, but I did my best. I jog on, not taking his bait.
“As for the oral sex,” he says, “she was truly dreadful when we first met. Clumsy, ineffectual, artless—not to mention downright dangerous. I had to endure the agony of her sharp, scraping teeth more than a few times.” He laughs softly. “But she was extremely willing to please, and a fast learner. Once I taught her what to do, she was excellent. I’d even go so far as to say she had quite a knack for it. Of course, the inducement I offered her probably had something to do with her willingness; she quickly learned that the consequences of not pleasing me far outweighed any reluctance she might have had. As a result, she became quite adept.”
I withhold my anger, keeping his cold words at a distance. He wants to reduce me to tears or anger or guilt. His machinations are transparent, and I am glad we’re jogging; the physical exertion diverts some of the anger I feel. He is unable to see the effect his words have on me.
“What consequences were those?” I ask.
“Not as harsh as you’re imagining. Remember, she was in love with me. She wanted to please me.”
Instead, I remember her diary, how he tied her to the dining room chair, legs spread, to punish her for a minor transgression, for wearing a red satin robe.
“What consequences?” I repeat, but he ignores me. We reach an old, concrete bridge and circle back. A blue farm truck with a wooden slat railing in the back rattles by. It is the first automobile on the road to pass us this morning.
“That’s enough for today,” he says. “Why don’t you tell me something about yourself?”
With exasperation, I sigh. The pounding of my Reeboks, as rhythmic as a beating heart, accentuates the silence. We jog down the road, neither of us speaking. Broken asphalt and small clods of dirt crunch and crumble beneath my shoes. Rameau trots along at M.’s heels, never veering from his side.
“What do you want to know?” I say finally.
“Everyone has a secret, Nora. Everyone has unresolved issues, problems they don’t, or can’t, deal with. Franny seemed to think you didn’t have any; I believe differently. I want to know yours.”
I shrug, unwilling to share anything with this man. I find his question intrusive, and his manner irritating. Over dinner a few nights ago, he quizzed me on the details of my life since Franny died—a leave of absence from the Bee, moving to Davis, a new boyfriend, occasional freelance work—and my sister, according to M., had filled him in on my life previous to her death. What more can he want? A long, white sedan with dried mud splattered on the side speeds by.
“Talk to me,” he says.
I am silent again, uncomfortable with the direction the conversation is taking. We jog past a row of trees lining the road—old country trees, some asymmetrical from a previous disease or infestation, or perhaps from a natural force, the limbs wind-torn or lightning struck. In the gray dawn, they appear ghostly and skeletal, the trunks weathered and toughlooking.
“Tell me about the men in your life,” he says, trying to encourage me. “Franny said you’re aloof with them, that you had numerous boyfriends but were never serious about any of them. She didn’t find it strange, though—she thought you were strong, courageous, much too independent to rely on a man for anything. She envied you your many boyfriends—she wanted one of her own—and even though she didn’t agree with your easy-come-easy-go philosophy regarding men, she didn’t find it strange.” He turns to me and smirks. “You were a
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