Gerald's Game(65)

"No, honey, of course not. The thing that makes women pregnant didn't happen. Nothing like that happened. I was wrestling with you a little, that's all-"

"And you goosed me." She remembered saying that very clearly now. "You goosed me, that's what you did."

He had smiled. "Yep. That's close enough. You're just as fine as ever, Punkin. Now, what do you think? Does that close the subject?"

She had nodded.

"Nothing like this is ever going to happen again-you know that, don't you?"

She nodded again, but her own smile had faltered. What he was saying should have relieved her, and it did, a little, but something in the gravity of his words and the sorrow on his face had almost sparked her panic again. She remembered taking his hands and squeezing them as hard as she could. "You love me, though, don't you, Daddy? You still love me, right?"

He had nodded and told her he loved her more than ever.

"Then hug me! Hug me hard!,

And he did, but now Jessie could remember something else: his lower body had not touched hers.

Not then and never again, Jessie thought. Not that I remember, anyway. Even when I graduatedfrom college, the only other time I saw him cry over me, he gave me one of those funny old-maid hugs, the kind you do with your ass pooching out so there isn't even a chance you can hump crotches with the person you're hugging. Poor, poor man. I wonder if any of the people he did business with over the years ever saw him as rattled as I saw him on the day of the eclipse. All that pain, and over what? A sexual accident about as serious as a stubbed toe. Jesus, what a life it is. What a f**king life.

She began to pump her arms slowly up and down again almost without being aware of it, only wanting to keep the blood flowing into her hands, wrists and forearms. She guessed it was probably eight o'clock by now, or almost. She had been chained to this bed for eighteen hours. Incredible but true.

Ruth Neary's voice spoke up so suddenly that it made her jump. It was filled with disgusted wonder.

You're still making excuses for him, aren't you? Still letting him off the hook and blaming yourself, after all these years, Even now. Amazing.

"Quit it," she said hoarsely. "None of that has the slightest goddam thing to do with the mess I'm in now-"

What a piece of work you are, Jessie!

"-and even if it did," she went on, raising her voice slightly, even if it did, it doesn't have the slightest goddam thing to do with getting out of the mess I'm in now, so just give it a rest!"

You weren't Lolita, Jessie, no matter what he might have made you think. You were about nine country miles from Lolita.

Jessie refused to reply. Ruth went one better; she refused to shut up.

If you still think your dear old Daddy was a parfit gentle knight who spent most of his time shielding you from the fire-breathing mommydragon, you better think again.

"Shut up." Jessie began to pump her arms up and down faster. The chains jingled; the cuffs rattled. "Shut up, you're horrible."

He planned it, Jessie. Don't you understand? It wasn't just some spur-of-the-moment thing, a sex-starved father copping a quick feel; he planned it.

"You lie," Jessie snarled. Sweat rolled down from her temples in large clear droplets.

Do I? Well, ask yourself this-whose idea was it for you to wear the sundress? The one that was both too small and too tight? Who knew you'd be listening-and admiring-while he maneuvered around your mother? Who had his hands on your tits the night before, and who was wearing gym-shorts and nothing else on the day of?

Suddenly she imagined Bryant Gumbel in the room with her, natty in a three-piece suit and gold wrist-chain, standing here by the bed while a guy with a Mini-cam stood beside him, panning slowly up her almost naked body before focusing on her sweaty, blotchy face. Bryant Gumbel doing a live remote with The Incredible Handcuffed Woman, leaning forward with a microphone to ask her, When did you first realize your father might have had the hots for you, Jessie?

Jessie stopped pumping her arms and closed her eyes. There was a closed, stubborn look on her face. No more, she thought. I guess I can live with the voices of Ruth and the Goodwife if I have to... even with the assorted UFOs who chip in their two cents" worth every once in awhile... but I draw the line at doing a live interview with Bryant Gumbel while dressed in nothing but a pair of pee-stained panties. Even in my imagination I draw the line at that.

Just tell me one thing, Jessie, another voice said. No UFO here; it was the voice of Nora Callighan. One thing and we'll consider the subject closed, at least for now and probably forever, Okay?

Jessie was silent, waiting, wary.

When you finally lost your temper yesterday afternoon-when you finally kicked out-who were you kicking at? Was it Gerald?

"Of course it was Ger-" she began, and then broke off as a single image, perfectly clear, filled her mind. It was the white string of drool which had been hanging from Gerald's chin, She saw it elongate, saw it fall to her midriff just above the navel. Only a little spit, that was all, no big deal after all the years and all the passionate kisses with their mouths open and their tongues duelling; she and Gerald had swapped a fair amount of lubrication, and the only price they'd ever paid was a few shared colds.

No big deal, that was, until yesterday, when he'd refused to let her go when she wanted, needed, to be let go. No big deal until she'd smelled that flat sad mineral smell, the one she associated with the well-water at Dark Score, and with the lake itself on hot summer days... days like July 20th, 1963, for instance.