In Her Skin(39)

Your eyes shine. “In the shed? Really? So the evil boogeyman liked little boys, too?”

I nod, flustered.

“Thank goodness you had each other!” You sway with your words. “And from the looks of it, you got to know each other pretty well. Missed each other, even. Had to make up for lost time. Tell me your name, Victim Number Two.”

Wolf looks to me anxiously. I look only at you.

“They call me Wolf,” he says.

“You’re beautiful, Wolf. Look at you, though! You’re perfect. That face. If I didn’t know your … situation, I’d say you were a hot, brooding English actor. Your life hasn’t made your face hard. Yet. Not so much for Vivi here. Life hasn’t been so kind to her.”

I shift in my spot on the mattress. Where are you going with this?

“You see how rough her hands are?” You grab my wrists and yank me off the bed and force my hands under Wolf’s nose. “And the white ridges in her fingernails? The gauntness to her cheeks: okay, I guess that’s gone away. We’ve been feeding her pretty well here.”

I yank my hands back and plead, “Your parents will be home any second. Wolf has to go.”

“Back to Tent City?” you say.

“What did you say?” I say it slowly. This is the end, oh yes it is.

“I’ve known you’re not Vivi since the moment we met. You’re a stranger to this family. Admittedly, the perfect stranger.”

Wolf stands. “We’re both out of here.” He walks toward the door, and this time you don’t stop him. He looks to me, frozen in place.

“You’ve known?” I whisper, falling back down on the bed.

“Of course I’ve known. And it doesn’t matter. None of it matters.” You lean to stroke my cheek. “I’ll give you anything you want if you stay. What do you want most in this world, Vivi?”

“Jo, now. Let’s go,” Wolf begs.

“Love? I’ll love you,” you say.

“Jo,” Wolf says.

“Security? You have it here. You’re safe with us. You aren’t safe on the streets,” you say.

“Temple,” I whisper, burying my face in my hands.

“Money? Comfort? We can give you all of it,” you say.

“That’s not it. I don’t…” I can’t say Momma, because Momma is dead, and she may have loved me but she was not good for me. I can’t say family, because the truth is, I would be happy with just you.

What do I want?

“Jolene!” Wolf cries. “This is the last time I’ll ask you. Are you coming?”

“I see.” Your smile spreads. “I’m already giving you what you need, aren’t I?”

Your eyes are pools and I see my tiny self inside them. I fit inside you and I bet you fit inside me. There is no more need for Vivi. I can be myself with you now, and this is not nothing.

Wolf roils with hate and pain. I know what he is going home to do, and there is nothing I can do about it and I am the cause.

“Tell him to go, Vivi,” you say.

“Jo!” Wolf says: a warning.

“Tell him!” you say.

I rise and go to Wolf, kissing him gently on the sharp jut of his cheek. “Please go,” I whisper into his neck. He pours a long look on me that I turn my back on, and I can feel it there, burning a hole, and my eyes fill with tears. We are still and silent, the three of us, but for my hitching sounds as I try not to cry. Wolf and I might see each other again, when we are older and freer and I don’t need what I need. I flash on our moments together, against each other’s skin, in the hot tent and the cold tent and under the stars, and I wonder if I ever really loved Wolf, or just absorbed his beauty while I could, the way everyone who uses Wolf does. Finally, the door closes, and I hear the distant scrape of a window being raised and the jangle of the shaking fire escape.

“For the record,” you say, coming closer, “we never buttered the cat.”

I steel myself and raise my eyes. “How did you know I wasn’t Vivi?”

“Because I know what happened to the real Vivi. Would you like me to tell you?”

“Yes.”





PART II

TEMPLE





“Boston, May 2010. Two girls, both nine. The streets are filled with wine-buzzed lovers. Packs of graduates having one last night out before everyone scatters. Expensive cars driven by European students heading to Newbury Street for drinks before going to the clubs. In her room, the mother sprays perfume that drifts in front of the cold fireplace where the girls sit in pajamas, bowl of popcorn at their feet, mollifying Disney show already on. It is a room the parents make excuses for: plastic covers a square in the wall, an unsightly hole made by their contractor. The parents are young and their lives are exciting. A new deal has been inked, a deal that means enough money to commence their plan of buying the empty brownstone for sale next door, gutting it and expanding. They want to celebrate. They want to forget for a night that their nine-year-old daughter tries to control them by pitching a fit every time they leave her with a sitter. Fits that they joke with their friends about, leaving out the scratches and the bruises and the mortal threats.

“The friend keeps the girl happy. She is the daughter of European friends on the same block, quality people who do not parent like hovering aircraft the way American parents do. The girl is usually content with this friend: a meek, compliant girl who lives happily in the other girl’s shadow. The parents are optimistic. All week the sleepover was the carrot for good behavior. Sleepovers are supposed to be fun, not occasions for hysterics.