Whispering, Idaho Page 6

  “Take it off, I said!”

  “Shut up or I'll tell Dad you didn't fix dinner.”

  Alice rushed her sister and tore at the pink spaghetti straps. “I said, take it off!”

  “Stop it!” Christie shrieked. “You'll tear it.”

  "Ow! You scratched me. You little bitch.”

  “You’re in love with Stephen. I’m telling dad.”

  “Shut up!”

  “Knock it off!” Jim’s voice bellowed from the doorway.

  Alice jerked around. Her stomach turned at the sight of her father’s drunken face: sagging eyes, mouth askew. He grabbed the sides of the doorframe to steady himself.

  “Get that off…now!”

  Alice looked away from his red watery eyes, searching her room for something to bar the door. Her eyes came to rest on the tiny snag pulled across the bodice of the silk gown. She watched the material rise and fall over Christie’s heaving chest.

  “Get to your room!” Jim said.

  “I didn’t do anything wrong,” Christie wailed, pushing past her father.

  His eyes drifted down the front of Alice’s white slip.

  Alice crossed her arms over her breasts. Her fingers felt the welts rising on her forearms from her sister’s clawing fingernails. She tried to shut out Christie’s wails, but couldn’t.

  “Got a hole in your head or something?”

  “I’m tired,” Alice said, and reached to close the door.

  He blocked her arm with his own. His breath smelled like a dirty ashtray. His face was damp with sweat. “I gave it to you, Angel. Put it on.”

  Alice took a step backwards, feeling the edge of the dresser behind her. “I’m going to bed now,” she said, avoiding his eye. Her hand darted out, grabbing her hairbrush and wagging the weapon at him. “Leave my room,” she said.

  “Ooh! I'm soooo scared.”

  “Here, Daddy,” Christie said. She held out the rumpled nightgown.

  Beyond her father’s wide sagging shoulders, Alice could see Christie wiping away her tears as she dropped the nightgown at her father’s feet. She wanted to disappear into Christie’s bedroom along with her. Instead, Alice’s father grabbed the gown off the floor, tossing the pink fluff at Alice’s feet.

  “Put it on,” he ordered, staggering from the room. The door slammed behind him.

  Alice threw her hairbrush at the place where he’d teetered a moment before. “Goddamn asshole,” she fumed, hurrying to her bed. She shoved the nightgown beneath it. There was no way out, now so she pushed and dragged the nightstand across the green shag carpet, wedging it against the door.

  The scrape, scrape, scrape of claws scratched into Alice’s dream. She was in the shack. Lightning lit the tiny room, enough to see the door move with the weight of the thing trying to get in. The door bowed with each heave, the noise unbearable. Finally it began to give. Alice’s heart raced faster as the rotten shack door buckled, and at last, toppled to the floor.

  A wild dog pounced on her with the force of a keel hitting a deadhead. She choked awake; her father’s hot lips smothered hers. Desperately, she fought off his weight and heat. “Get off of me.”

  “Angel, please. Just let me get in bed with you.”

  “Get out of here,” she cried, shoving against his chest.

  His rancid fingers snapped over her mouth, the heel of his palm pressing into her throat. “Quiet, you’ll wake Christie.”

  Unable to breathe, Alice opened her mouth and bit down hard on her father’s hand.

  “Jesus!” He jerked back. “What the hell, you stupid whore.”

  Alice grabbed for her throat, gasping and coughing.

  Her father sat back over her hips. “Looking for this?”

  She continued to choke. A flash of lightning lit up the room, catching the shine of the gold jewelry dangling from his fingers. He laughed, jerking the cross into his clasped hand. “All mine, just like you are, sweetheart.”

  “Give it back.”

  “Give it back,” he mimicked, yanking the sheet off her body. He shoved her underpants down to her knees.

  The sound of a wild animal escaped Alice’s throat. Run, red fox, run. She roiled, shoving him as hard as she could.

  “Feisty bitch!” He slapped her face.

  Falling against the headboard, sparks of light ricocheted inside her head. Stunned, she grabbed her cheek and sputtered, “I hate you, hate you!”

  “Not for long, Angel, ‘cause you’ll like it, you’ll see. Whores always do.”

  Alice’s vision reeled, contorting her father’s face into an angry canine with each lightning flashed. She cried out, “Leave me alone!”

  He grabbed her wrists, pinning her arms above her head and with a single thrust, split her open.

  Alice’s screams muffled into his chest as her father’s weight ground over and over into her hips. She drifted into the shallows, her arms and legs mere piles of scattered bones floating downriver. With each thrust, her torn body bashed against sharp river basalt. One final thrust and he shuddered and rolled to the side.

  Soaked to the bone, Alice numbly stepped from the river. She looked down at her body, now transparent as thin ice. She was a ghost.

  “Clean yourself up,” he slurred as he staggered from the room. The door closed; so did her mind.

  Alice curled into a tight ball and cried and rocked. The smell of semen and blood sickened her. She lay there for some time when she realized her father might come back. By weak lightning light, she climbed out of bed, shuffling silently into the bathroom.

  She locked the door and switched on the light, keeping her face turned away from the mirror. While the tub filled with tepid water, she removed her blood stained slip and panties and stuffed them behind a stack of bride-white towels beneath the counter. She stepped into the water and sat down, her private parts stinging miserably. Weeping, Alice whispered, “Stephen will never love me now.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Alice woke to the smell of brewing coffee, muffled voices and clinking breakfast dishes. Sounds that usually comforted her made her want to vomit this morning. As she rolled onto her side to sit up, the sting between her legs doubled her over a second time. She sat still, her abdomen twisting like chokeweed around a boat rudder. Like clockwork, her period arrived on the Fourth of July each year. Would it this year?

  Gingerly, she stepped onto the shag carpet and pulled off her nightgown. Slipping on a pair of black panties and her black sundress, she glanced briefly at her reflection in the dressing-table mirror: tangled red hair, dark puffy eyes, red swollen cheek, and a bare and bruised neck.

  “Where’s my cross?”

  Alice rifled through the bedding, running her hand along the space between the mattress and the headboard. She searched the carpet; nothing. Noiselessly, she walked into her parents’ room and opened the top drawer of the dresser where her father kept his wallet, change, tie clasps and pens. No cross, but there was the photo resting next to his wallet. She stuffed it into her dress pocket and slipped into her parents’ bathroom.

  Her father’s striped pajamas lay in a pile on the floor. Kicking them aside, she opened the bathroom drawer: deodorant, aftershave, clippers, comb, and aspirin. No cross. Probably, it was buried in his pants pocket. Quietly closing the drawer, she crept down the stairs.

  “Belle has the baby’s room all set up. There’s a little rocking horse in the corner. Dad, you’re not paying attention.”

  Alice couldn’t stand the sound of her sister’s grating voice. Covering her ears, she stifled the impulse to dash out the front door. She’d run down the hill and be at the river in a matter of minutes, but the sting between her legs, her bruised hips and her aching gait wouldn’t allow her to dash anywhere. Besides, he’d follow her and drag her back. That was his nature.

  At the smell of toast, her mouth watered. She heard a knife scrape across the darkened bread, butter being spread. She hadn’t eaten since her father’s special pancake breakfast the morning before. Despite he
r pounding heart and leaden feet, she pulled her red hair forward to cover her swollen cheek and ducked into the kitchen.

  “What’s the matter with you, Stupid?”

  Alice ignored her sister, making a beeline for the percolator.

  “Don’t be rude, Alice,” Christie said. “Dad, she’s ignoring me.”

  Her father cleared his throat and rustled the newspaper. “Alice, don’t ignore your sister.”

  “Daddy, why couldn’t I have the nightgown? It was in the trashcan. No one wanted it. What’s the big deal?”

  “Eat your breakfast.”

  “It was for Stupid, wasn’t it? Nice going, Alice. Throw out your graduation present. When I have a baby, I want a teddy-bear-mobile just like the one Belle has hanging above the crib. All you do is wind it up and it plays Rock-a-bye, Baby and turns in circles. It’s soooo cute.”

  “Uh huh.”

  Alice grabbed a mug from the cupboard and filled it with hot coffee. Wrapping her hands around the white china, she could barely feel the heat against her palms. A strange numbness had settled over her, deadening her like Novocain. The hot mug began to burn her flesh but, she didn’t care.

  Her father smacked the paper down on the table and said, “Alice, you had a nightmare last night!”

  “Daddy, I was talking.”

  “She wake you, Christie? The lightning must have frightened her. She woke up screaming.”

  “I already told you, I slept through the storm.”

  “Alice,” her father bellowed.

  Alice kept her eyes on the tiny bubbles popping over the surface of the scalding coffee as she started across the kitchen, saying nothing.

  “I said you had a nightmare. Your screams woke me. Was it the storm that frightened you? You okay this morning?”

  Alice looked up, challenging his flat gray eyes with her own narrowed ones. Her head had begun to buzz, her legs felt weak beneath her weight. She would paint…that would clear her head…allow her to figure out her next step.

  “You know it wasn’t a dream,” she said, feeling the knot in her stomach cinch down around her emptiness. “You know exactly what it was.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Storms cause nightmares. Ask any shrink.”

  “It was a nightmare, but not a dream.” Alice snatched a piece of buttered toast and left the room. Behind her, she heard Christie’s shrill voice start up again.

  “Belle’s baby is due today. I’m going over there as soon as I’m finished with breakfast.”

  “Anyone ever touch you like that, I’ll kill the son of a bitch.”

  Bare-footed, Alice stepped across the basement cement to where she kept her wooden easel. Setting the mug of hot coffee on the TV tray next to her paints and brushes, she opened the window. The smell of rain-washed air drifted in and mixed with linseed oil and bitter coffee. The scents momentarily soothed her. She took a deep breath, letting her hand drift down the front of her dress, flinching as her palm brushed over her bruised hips and pubic bone.

  “Maybe I should see Dr. Redman. But what if he tells Dad and he denies it?”

  She imagined the doctor probing around down there and her father accusing her of being with Stephen. Recalling being overpowered again made her feel like vomiting. Suddenly, her embarrassment turned to shame; she turned quickly to her painting. She could never tell anyone.

  A canvas of saturated red and yellow paint shifted her focus. Grabbing a paintbrush, she loaded it with Mars black, pushed the bristles flat into the middle of the canvas, twirled the brush clockwise, and then dragged it horizontally. The taut white fabric resisted, springing back against the brush. As she kept the pressure steady, the violence from the night before pushed deeper into the recesses of her mind.

  She loaded the brush again and reached it to the surface. The basement door creaked open and Alice caught a whiff of Old Spice aftershave. She flinched at the sound of her father’s stocking feet on the stairs. When he reached the bottom step, he dropped a pair of leather shoes onto the cement floor. Alice jumped at the loud crack.

  “Polish my Wingtips. And when you’re finished, bring them to up to my bedroom.”

  “I’m painting.”

  “Then shoe polishing is right up your alley, Miss Artist.”

  The tension in Alice’s chest increased until she felt she’d suffocate. She looked around for the turpentine to wash her brush and spied the butcher knife she used to scrape her pallet clean.

  “You’re trying my patience,” he said. “Get over here, right now.”

  “I’ll rinse my paintbrush first,” she said, dropping her brush into the jar.

  “You’re going to be sorry you made me come over there,” her father said, striding across the basement.

  Alice’s heart raced. Quickly, she curled her fingers around the knife handle and slipped it behind her back.

  Her father rushed up, grabbing her bruised arm, giving her a yank. “You do what I say, do you understand. And not one peep out of you about last night, or I’ll…”

  Alice whipped the knife around, jabbing his forearm with the tip. “Stay away from me!” she shouted, wrestling free.

  Her father grabbed his bleeding arm and staggered backwards. “You bitch, you cut me. I can’t believe it.”

  “Stay back,” she shouted, waving the blade in the air. “I mean it. I’ll cut you again.”

  He raised his hands in the air, taking a step toward her. Smiling, he said, “I’m sorry. I’m okay. Now give me the knife.”

  She saw the thin stream of blood trickling down his arm. “Get back,” she said, her stomach lurching into her throat.

  “I’m not mad, Alice. I know the storm upset you.”

  Her father’s voice came in low soothing tones, brushing against her resolve like fingers smudging charcoal.

  “Put the knife down, Angel. I want to help you. You’re upset.”

  “Stop calling me Angel," Alice pleaded, tears running down her cheeks.

  “Nice painting. What do you call it?"

  “Stop buttering up. Do you think I’m stupid?”

  “Alice, you’re not feeling well. I’ll take you to see a doctor. Give me the knife, now.”

  Feeling faint, Alice reached for the easel; immediately his hot fingers, like steel cuffs, snapped around her wrist. She tore at his hand and cried, “Let me go. Just let go.”

  The blade slipped, nicking her forefinger as it fell, spilling her blood into the palm of her hand. Her legs turned liquid. She swam through the swirl of black water toward shore, grabbing the paint table as she collapsed, spilling paint tubes, brushes and hot coffee.

  From the cold cement, she stared up at his leering face. He reached a hand forward. Laughing, he grabbed the knife from beside her prone body.

  “It’s not art,” he said. “I know that much.” He flashed the knife in front of her face. “I’ll take this to work with me and sharpen it. Better bandage that finger. Don’t want to lose too much blood.”

  Alice closed her lips around her bleeding finger. Briny warmth spread through her mouth.

  “That’s my Angel. You won’t tell now, will you? Your little pastor friend would lose his job if people found out he’s been seeing a whore.”

  Alice watched the corner of his mouth pull into a misshapen smile. She closed her eyes before his face hardened in her mind like dry river mud.

  “I didn’t think so,” he said.

  While the cold from the cement floor soaked into Alice’s back, she made up her mind. She’d leave home so he couldn’t hurt her again. Wiping away tears, she listened to the sound of her father’s footsteps overhead, the front door shutting, his car driving off. In the silence that followed, Alice relaxed somewhat.

  Eventually she sat up. She examined her aching finger, finding the cut fairly deep. If her mother were home, she’d get piled into the car for a trip to Dr. Redman’s office. Looking around, she saw the blood and coffee staining the scrap of carpet she kept in front of her easel. Paint stains, she would s
ay, if her mother ever asked.

  She pulled herself to her feet, and impulsively jammed her bleeding fingertip into a white space near the center of the canvas. She drew it sharply downward, rolling her skin back. Searing pain shot up her arm.

  “Shit, shit!” Alice shook her hand, splattering rows of red dots across the streak of blood. She grabbed a clean paint rag, wrapped her finger and collapsed onto her paint stool.

  “I’ll hang this painting in my new apartment,” she sighed. “I’ll call it FREEDOM.”

  “What did you say?”

  Alice shrieked and grabbed her heart.

  “Jeez Louise, what’s with you?”

  “Gena! You scared me. How’d you get in?”

  “Christie let me in.” Gena slipped her sunglasses onto the top of her head. “Your sister was right. You look like shit. What’s wrong?”

  Alice pulled her stringy hair over her burning cheek. “Nothing.”

  “Another fight with your dad? Looks like it got physical.” Gena pushed Alice’s red hair away from her raw cheek. “He slapped you?”

  “No, I ran into the wall.”

  “Why do you always protect him?” Gena said. “Someone should stop the asshole. My guess is that someone is you.”

  Alice’s eyes flicked from Gena’s red lips to her cleavage, then to her matching short-shorts. “You shouldn’t dress that way.”

  “What happened to your gumption? Thought the pot loosened you up.”

  “I’m serious. You’re sending the wrong message.”

  “Sometimes I wonder what we have in common.” Gena blinked her large gray eyes. “I flaunt what I got on purpose. Someone’s bound to take the bait sooner or later.”

  Alice narrowed her eyes at the idea of cruising for guys. “That’s not all they’ll take.”

  Gena laughed.

  “It’s not a joke. It’s dangerous dressing like that. Someone might hurt you. Where’s Sunstar?”

  “Who knows? I thought I’d go look for him, though.”

  “Did you two do it?”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  “How many times does it take to get pregnant?”

  “Once will knock you up, or not, I guess. Depends on where you are in your cycle. You doing the pastor?”