Tricks. Part 27

Opened my legs. Wept as he plunged inside.

Choked on his Listerine-flavored tongue, wielded like a weapon. His kiss was, in fact, harder to accept. s.e.x is s.e.x. A kiss means love.

After he left, I cried and cried, called into the night, "Andrew, where are you?"

No answer came then. Or yet. The next morning Jerome brought a hot biscuit, with b.u.t.ter and honey. Nothing ever, ever, has tasted so good. He came back that night. Afterward, I cried and cried, screamed into the night, "Andrew, save me." But he didn't. Hasn't yet. The next morning Jerome brought a perfect peach.

And so it has gone. I have my shampoo, unscented so Father won't notice, but at least my hair feels clean. Really clean. I even got my Cherry Garcia.

Another small plus: Jerome always uses a condom. That little detail has saved more than a badly timed pregnancy.

It has probably saved my sanity.

Almost worse than the thought of having his baby is the nightmare idea of his "leftovers."

After a Few Weeks The straight s.e.x has become routine.

Something I can shut myself off from.

But now Jerome wants other things.

Let me watch you touch yourself.

Creepy things. Did you know guys like to use vibrators too? Like this.

Downright disgusting things. Your period? I like the taste of blood.

How I wish I could say no. But even if I thought he'd leave me alone, saying yes is how I have convinced him to make Father believe I am fit for small freedoms. Like working in the yard, pulling weeds and picking vegetables. Out here, beyond the confines of my room, I understand there is no way to leave the place on foot. I can see forever across the playa, and the road is a straight, stretched wound. I can tell cars are coming long before they arrive, by dust mushrooms sprouting into the hot blue Nevada sky. Hot? Working outside, even midmorning, sweat pools in my armpits and beads my skin, attracting bugs and dirt.

But anything is better than slow suffocation in the tomb of my room. I observe people come and go. Memorize schedules. Learn where cars are parked, some left unlocked.

Ironically, Jerome is one of the worst about leaving his keys under the floor mat.

I file that fact away. Plan A has gone awry.

Maybe it will come in handy with Plan B.

Plan A Was to do whatever it took to get Jerome to call Andrew, tell him where to find me.

But a major flaw in that strategy surfaced.

Oh, I have played on Jerome's sympathy.

Talked about home. Church. Papa. Told him Mama is crazy, something he understands.

Jerome inherited his own "not rightness"

from the XX chromosome side of his family.

My mother used to lock my brother and me in the closet, he told me. Then she'd sit outside the door and listen. If she heard us praying to Jesus, she'd let us out.

Even Mama isn't that bad. But our conversation did reveal some mutual rocky ground. And keeping him talking meant less time for other stuff.

Then yesterday I asked if he'd ever fallen in love.

He blushed but said nothing for several seconds. Finally he confessed, With you.

Talk About Knocking The squall out of my sails. In love with me?

Looks like loneliness works both ways here at Tears of Zion. Jerome will not help me reconnect with Andrew. Neither will he leave my door unlocked so I can slip away into the desert night (Plan B). Unless ...

What would he do if I asked him to run away with me? Does he really believe he loves me? Would he desert Tears of Zion and Father? Is this a job or true devotion?

Could I convince him? Could I make him believe I'm in love with him, too? Could I live with myself afterward? Could I ever be forgiven for such painful deception?

As I sit here, alone, questioning, phrases tumble into my head: You'll be here for the foreseeable future.... Make the best of it.... Guys like vibrators too.

Plan C begins to formulate. Yes, it's wrong.

But not as wrong as everything else.

Plan C Means courting Jerome's affection, pretending to enjoy his deviant s.e.x.

Tonight that means letting him call me "Mommy" as he sits on my lap and "nurses."

I stroke his hair as a mother would, dig deep inside for the words, "Mommy loves you, Jerome."

That excites him, as I guessed it would.

I love you, too, Mommy. See how much?

Oh, Andrew. Even if you do find me, how can you ever love me again after this?

I hold stubbornly to the dream that he will, as Jerome turns his belly to "Mommy's."

Love or no, Jerome wants to punish Mommy.

The s.e.x is rough, but it doesn't hurt nearly as bad as the pretense. And it's even faster than usual. When he finishes, I lay my head on his k.n.o.bby chest. "Too bad you have to go.

It would be nice to sleep together all night."

Jerome's chin lifts and falls against my hair.

Uh-huh. That surely would be nice.

I roll on top of him, look up into his eyes.

"What if we ..." Soft kiss. "Never mind."

He shivers. Is much too easy. I feel almost evil when he whispers, What?

I sit up, slide the naked place between my legs over his skin. "We could leave. Together."

He shakes his head. His body stiffens.

No. I couldn't do that. It would be wrong.

"No more wrong than this." I lean forward, cup my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, rub them over his face.

Confusion seeps into his eyes, and like it or not, his muscles relax. All but one.

I rock back gently, invite him inside. "I'd be all yours and take such good care of you."

The second time takes longer, but when he's finally done, he says, I'll think about it.

After he leaves, I lie in an aura of hope.

Say a little prayer to Mary Magdalene.

Hope Begins to Fade After two days. I haven't seen Jerome even once. Did I scare him away?

I'm pretty sure he didn't say anything to Father, who doesn't act strangely at all during our regular sessions.

In fact, today he is almost friendly.

Brother Jerome tells me you've worked hard in the garden, he says. Is that right?

What kind of game is this? Better play along, whatever the rules. "Yes, Father."

Good. Hard work deserves a reward.

Starting Sunday, you may attend the regular worship service. If that goes well, we can talk about school.

Worship? School? No more isolation?

Is this some kind of a trick? Did Jerome confess everything to Father after all?

I have no idea what to believe anymore.

One thing I know. It's wiser to say too little than too much. "Thank you, Father."

Brother Stephen Walks me back to my room. A girl, a bit younger than me, rakes gravel outside the chapel door. She looks up as we pa.s.s and I smile at her, which only makes her drop her eyes to the ground again. But not before I see the fear floating in them. Is she new here, then?

Or has she been here longer? Long enough, perhaps, to know which is the greater punishment-isolation or supervised communion. The short exchange leaves me uneasy. I wish I could talk to her.

But that won't happen. Stephen herds me forward. Hurry up, would you?

"Why? Somewhere you have to be?"

A hard shove lets me know in no uncertain terms that my sarcasm is not appreciated.

Except by what little is left of Eden.

Thank the Good Lord The piece that remains is the one that can find a streak of humor, however dark, in almost anything. Otherwise, I would have gone completely crackers by now.

Otherwise, they would have already won.

I'm not conceding yet, and I never will, unless Andrew is out of my life forever.

Why did I think that? He's looking for me.

(Unless my parents had him locked up.) Waiting for me. (Unless he believes our separation was for the best.) Loving me. (Unless he finds out what I've done.) A wave of depression sweeps over me, washes me into an icy black sea. I'm treading water, poorly, when the door opens.

Why are you lying there in the dark?

It's Jerome. The smell of chicken broth tells me he's brought my dinner.

He flips on the light, and I jump up to greet him, kiss him on the cheek. "I'm so happy to see you. Where have you been?

I thought for sure you were mad at me."

He sets down the tray. Now, why would you think a thing like that? I had a couple of days off is all. He reaches out, strokes my hair. So pretty. When we go, I'll buy you shampoo that smells like roses.

You like the scent of roses, don't you?

When we go? Chills charge through me.

"Of course, Jerome. Roses are my favorite."

Good. I thought so. I have to go now, but I'll be back later. We'll talk then.

When He Returns He outlines his plan. We'll leave tomorrow night, when everyone's asleep.

By the time somebody misses you, we'll be halfway to Salt Lake City.

Salt Lake City? Well, we can't go back to Boise. Still, "Why go there?"

He shrugs. My brother lives there.

I can work for him under the table until you turn eighteen. After that, we're free to go wherever we want.

He has really thought this through.

So, "Why can't we leave tonight?"

No hurry, is there? I'm too tired to drive very far tonight. Besides ...

He lifts my arms, pulls my shift up over my head. I'm in need of your special brand of lovin'. Help me out? He nudges me toward the bed.