"It's not the physical scars I'm talking about," she said, sadly.
My head snapped up, and I found myself startled by the proximity of her. Her face was inches from mine, her eyes not looking down at the scars, but directly into my own, directly into the center of my very being. Her hands were still on my body. Her left nipple scraped briefly across my right one. I couldn't look away. But then she stepped back from me and turned toward her own shower nozzle.
"You'd better hurry," she said, as if nothing had happened. "Your hair is wet, and I'm going to have to help you with it. What time are the reservations for?"
I was still breathless. Hadn't she felt it? Whatever it was ... that spark ... that feeling as if our souls had touched? I fought for control. "One fifteen," I muttered.
She turned off her shower and walked out into the dressing room. "We'd better hurry. We can borrow a hair dryer from the front desk."
We helped each other dress, and I must admit that when were finished, we looked pretty foxy. Brenda, as I think I've mentioned before, is absolutely gorgeous. Her hair is very long, very straight, and very black. The blue silk blouse and white slacks she chose made her look chic, intelligent and sexy, and I felt a little like the ugly girlfriend that always attaches herself to a pretty one to try and gain a little recognition.
Alphonse greeted me like a relative, hugging me and kissing me on both cheeks. I'd only been in there once since Mommy and Daddy died (with Ben and Martha for Martha's birthday), but he insisted on seating us and waiting on us personally. He made a great show of it for Brenda's sake, and I could tell he was enthralled by her. (We wound up spending almost three hours at that table, and at one point, when I had gotten up to use the ladies' room, he made it a point to tell me to take our time and stay as long as we wanted. I pressed four one hundred-dollar bills into his palm and told him what a real dear he was, and asked if he would see to the tip for his waiters. He, of course, never looked at the bills, simply pocketed them and told me I would always be one of his favorite customers. I'm glad I had the opportunity to come here one last time.)
Brenda was nervous, but very excited by the whole affair. I didn't ask, but I got the impression she'd never been in a five-star restaurant. While she never commented on the number and placement of the silverware, she watched me closely but casually. I was quick to pick up the proper fork, so she could follow suit without embarrassment.
I ordered a bottle of Dom, and she watched the cork-popping ritual with glee, but when our glasses were filled, she leaned forward conspiratorially and confided that she had an extraordinarily low tolerance for alcohol. She seemed genuinely distressed that the wine would go to waste. I had to laugh. She is so sincere about everything! She was right about the champagne, though. She sipped that one glass the whole time. I had four! But at the end of it all, we were both about equally tipsy.
Our conversation meandered here and there for awhile, but eventually it became more and more intimate. She changed the subject often, and I was caught off guard more than once. At one point, she started talking about her relationship with her husband; and I've got to say, it sounds absolutely bizarre! He hypnotizes her! Often! Like every day! I must have looked as shocked as I felt, because she was quick to defend him. She insisted that he only does it so often because she wants him to. In fact, she says, she often begs him for it! I was flabbergasted! How could she give up that much control to him, I asked. And she spent several minutes telling me how wonderful it is to just let go, give in, surrender to someone you love. I felt myself getting hot and blushing at the concept. I must admit, it did sound nice. But what do I know? I've never really had a "someone you love." Not really.
She abruptly changed the subject, then shifted it back to her love life, telling me how she confides in Freddy (her husband) about everything; but she hadn't told him about meeting me yet, since he was away on a camping and fishing trip with some of "the guys," and wouldn't be coming back until late this evening. And then again she changed subjects, leaving the real questions hanging in my mind like an anvil suspended from a string. Everything? Was she going to tell him about the scars on my ass and back? Was she going to tell him who I really was? Did she know herself?
And then, during the main course, she was talking about this historical article she was doing, hoping to sell it to a major history journal. It was about some riot that took place in Alton, Illinois around the beginning of the 19th century. And then, without warning, she was telling me about her first sexual experience.
Maybe it was the wine. I'm not really sure. All I know is that I hung on her every word. She had been raped! By her uncle, none the less! I could easily see that telling the story was extremely painful for her. She looked down at her hands as she spoke, and halfway through, she started crying. It was sad and erotic and infuriating and very, very intimate; probably the most intimate story I'd ever heard. I couldn't believe she was telling me about this, the most private and embarrassing moments of her entire life. But the underlying message was there, as well. She was giving me the opportunity to do the same; to tell her about my scars. She was subjecting herself to the pain of telling her story so that I could tell mine if I chose to.
And then, just like that, I WAS telling her. Looking back on it now, it was a really crazy thing to do. I mean, I'd only known this woman for 24 hours, and here I was, telling her something that no one, and I mean NO ONE, knew or even suspected. It just seemed so ... RIGHT to tell her!
And so, dear Diary, for the first time, I'll write the words here. They won't be around for long, of course; I plan to burn all my journals Tuesday evening. But maybe this will help. Saying it to Brenda seemed to.
I had to give her a little background, of course. I told about how Daddy had prohibited me from dating or even going out with friends. I explained how I spent all my days in the big house, studying with tutors and in home study or correspondence courses. And about how the only real free time I ever had was in the garden with Ben, or helping him with the car, or cooking with Martha. The happiest moments of my whole life, the accomplishments I'm proudest of, took place in the flower bed or the kitchen or under the hood of Daddy's Grey Ghost. I was allowed to read for pleasure one hour a day at lunchtime, and two in the evening when I went to bed, as long as I'd done my lessons properly and wasn't being punished by Daddy for some infraction of the rules.
Mommy was always very nice, of course, but Daddy never really allowed her to be a real mother. It was the position of dedicated servants to raise a child. Mommy's life was to be dedicated to Daddy. She spent her days and evenings upstairs in the big room she'd put her quilt racks in, stitching and cutting and batting and stretching. When Daddy called her, she went. When Daddy needed her, she was there. When Daddy wanted her, she gave herself willingly. Always. I listened at their door when I passed sometimes. When I was allowed to watch video movies in my room on weekends (as a reward when I was good), I often watched films that had love scenes, so I knew the sounds of love. Mommy and Daddy made them behind that door sometimes. She was his lover. His slave. Such was the position of "wife" in Daddy's eyes.
When I turned twenty, Daddy built me a mutual fund portfolio, and I had to manage it, with help at first, of course; but eventually he made me do it all by myself, and he kept putting more and more money into it. I hated it! But, of course, I couldn't complain. This is what Daddy had prepared me for. This was my legacy. This was my Hell.
When I was twenty-two, the new Economics building opened on the campus; the one built entirely from his contributions; the one bearing his name. The dean, as a gesture, offered to allow the generous patron's only daughter to attend the first graduate course in the new spaces. And so, for the first time, I was allowed outside unsupervised. Ben drove me in the Ghost, and that, of course, made it a bit like a circus. A 1937 Rolls Royce on a college campus! Daddy might just as well have sent me to class in a spaceship! Of course, I was very nervous and excited, but Daddy had really laid down the law, with a list of rules as long as my arm.
