his guy. I am going to cripple
him. Clare sits before me, shoulders back, gooseflesh, waiting. I hand her her
shirt, and she puts it on.
"All right," I tell her quietly. "Where do I find this guy?"
"I'll drive you," she says.
Clare picks me up in the Fiat at the end of the driveway, out of sight of the
house. She's wearing sunglasses even though it's a dim afternoon, and lipstick,
and her hair is coiled at the back of her head. She looks a lot older than sixteen.
She looks like she just walked out of Rear Window, though the resemblance
would be more perfect if she was blond. We speed through the fall trees, but I
don't think either of us notices much color. A tape loop of what happened to
Clare in that little cottage has begun to play repeatedly in my head.
"How big is he?"
Clare considers. "A couple inches taller than you. A lot heavier. Fifty
pounds?"
"Christ."
"I brought this." Clare digs in her purse and produces a handgun.
"Clare!"
"It's Daddy's."
I think fast. "Clare, that's a bad idea. I mean, I'm mad enough to actually use it,
and that would be stupid. Ah, wait." I take it from her, open the chamber, and
remove the bullets and put them in her purse. "There. That's better. Brilliant idea,
Clare." Clare looks at me, questioning. I stick the gun in my overcoat pocket. "Do
you want me to do this anonymously, or do you want him to know it's from
you?"
"I want to be there."
"Oh."
She pulls into a private lane and stops. "I want to take him somewhere and I
want you to hurt him very badly and I want to watch. I want him scared shitless."
I sigh. "Clare, I don't usually do this kind of thing. I usually fight in
self-defense, for one thing."
"Please." It comes out of her mouth absolutely flat.
"Of course." We continue down the drive, and stop in front of a large, new
faux Colonial house. There are no cars visible. Van Halen emanates from an open
second-floor window. We walk to the front door and I stand to the side while
Clare rings the bell. After a moment the music abruptly stops and heavy
footsteps clump down stairs. The door opens, and after a pause a deep voice
says, "What? You come back for more?" That's all I need to hear. I draw the gun
and step to Clare's side. I point it at the guy's chest.
"Hi, Jason," Clare says. "I thought you might like to come out with us."
He does the same thing I would do, drops and rolls out of range, but he
doesn't do it fast enough. I'm in the door and I take a flying leap onto his chest
and knock the wind out of him. I stand up, put my boot on his chest, point the
gun at his head. C'est magnifique mais ce n'estpas la guerre. He looks kind of like
Tom Cruise, very pretty, all-American. "What position does he play?" I ask
Clare.
"Halfback."
"Hmm. Never would of guessed. Get up, hands up where I can see them," I
tell him cheerfully. He complies, and I walk him out the door. We are all
standing in the driveway. I have an idea. I send Clare back into the house for
rope; she comes out a few minutes later with scissors and duct tape.
"Where do you want to do this?"
"The woods."
Jason is panting as we march him into the woods. We walk for about five
minutes, and then I see a little clearing with a handy young elm at the edge of it.
"How about this, Clare?"
"Yeah."
I look at her. She is completely impassive, cool as a Raymond Chandler
murderess. "Call it, Clare."
"Tie him to the tree." I hand her the gun, jerk Jason's hands into position
behind the tree, and duct tape them together. There's almost a full roll of duct
tape, and I intend to use all of it. Jason is breathing strenuously, wheezing. I step
around him and look at Clare. She looks at Jason as though he is a bad piece of
conceptual art. "Are you asthmatic?"
He nods. His pupils are contracted into tiny points of black. "I'll get his
inhaler," says Clare. She hands the gun back to me and ambles off through the
woods along the path we came down. Jason is trying to breathe slowly and
carefully. He is trying to talk.
"Who...are you?" he asks, hoarsely.
"I'm Clare's boyfriend. I'm here to teach you manners, since you have none." I
drop my mocking tone, and walk close to him, and say softly, "How could you
do that to her? She's so young. She doesn't know anything, and now you've
completely fucked up everything..."
"She's a.. .cock.. .tease."
"She has no idea. It's like torturing a kitten because it bit you."
Jason doesn't answer. His breath comes in long, shivering whinnies. Just as I
am becoming concerned, Clare arrives. She holds up the inhaler, looks at me.
"Darling, do you know how to use this thing?"
"I think you shake it and then put it in his mouth and press down on the top."
She does this, asks him if he wants more. He nods. After four inhalations, we
stand and watch him gradually subside into more normal breathing.
"Ready?" I ask Clare.
She holds up the scissors, makes a few cuts in the air. Jason flinches. Clare
walks over to him, kneels, and begins to cut off his clothes. "Hey," says Jason.
"Please be quiet," I say. "No one is hurting you. At the moment." Clare
finishes cutting off his jeans and starts on his T-shirt. I start to duct tape him to
the tree. I begin at his ankles, and wind very neatly up his calves and thighs.
"Stop there," Clare says, indicating a point just below Jason's crotch. She snips off
his underwear. I start to tape his waist. His skin is clammy and he's very tan
everywhere except inside a crisp outline of a Speedo-type bathing suit. He's
sweating heavily. I wind all the way up to his shoulders, and stop, because I
want him to be able to breathe. We step back and admire our work. Jason is now
a duct-tape mummy with a large erection. Clare begins to laugh. Her laugh
sounds spooky, echoing through the woods. I look at her sharply. There's
something knowing and cruel in Clare's laugh, and it seems to me that this
moment is the demarcation, a sort of no-man's-land between Clare's childhood
and her life as a woman.
"What next?" I inquire. Part of me wants to turn him into hamburger and part
of me doesn't want to beat up somebody who's taped to a tree.
Jason is bright red. It contrasts nicely with the gray duct tape.
"Oh," says Clare. "You know, I think that's enough."
I am relieved. So of course I say, "You sure? I mean there are all sorts of things
I could do. Break his eardrums? Nose? Oh, wait, he's already broken it once
himself. We could cut his Achilles' tendons. He wouldn't be playing football in
the near future."
"No!" Jason strains against the tape.
"Apologize, then," I tell him.
Jason hesitates. "Sorry."
"That's pretty pathetic-"
"I know," Clare says. She fishes around in her purse and finds a Magic
Marker. She walks up to Jason as though he is a dangerous zoo animal, and
begins to write on his duct-taped chest. When she's done, she stands back and
caps her marker. She's written an account of their date. She sticks the marker back
in her purse and says, "Let's go."
"You know, we can't just leave him. He might have another asthma attack."
"Hmm. Okay, I know. I'll call some people."
"Wait a minute," says Jason.
"What?" says Clare.
"Who are you calling? Call Rob."
Clare laughs. "Uh-uh. I'm going to call every girl I know."
I walk over to Jason and place the muzzle of the gun under his chin. "If you
mention my existence to one human and I find out about it I will come back and I
will devastate you. You won't be able to walk, talk, eat, or fuck when I'm done.
As far as you know, Clare is a nice girl who for some inexplicable reason doesn't
date. Right?"
Jason looks at me with hatred. "Right."
"We've dealt with you very leniently, here. If you hassle Clare again in any
way you will be sorry."
"Okay."
"Good." I place the gun back in my pocket. "It's been fun."
"Listen, dickface-"
Oh, what the hell. I step back and put my whole weight into a side kick to the
groin. Jason screams. I turn and look at Clare, who is white under her makeup.
Tears are running down Jason's face. I wonder if he's going to pass out. "Let's
go," I say. Clare nods. We walk back to the car, subdued. I can hear Jason yelling
at us. We climb in, Clare starts the car, turns, and rockets down the driveway and
onto the street.
I watch her drive. It's beginning to rain. There's a satisfied smile playing
around the edges of her mouth. "Is that what you wanted?" I ask.
"Yes," says Clare. "That was perfect. Thank you."
"My pleasure." I'm getting dizzy. "I think I'm almost gone."
Clare pulls onto a sidestreet. The rain is drumming on the car. It's like riding
through a car wash. "Kiss me," she demands. I do, and then I'm gone.
Monday, September 28, 1987 (Clare is 16)
Clare: At school on Monday, everybody looks at me but no one will speak to me.
I feel like Harriet the Spy after her classmates found her spy notebook. Walking
down the hall is like parting the Red Sea. When I walk into English, first period,
everyone stops talking. I sit down next to Ruth. She smiles and looks worried. I
don't say anything either but then I feel her hand on mine under the table, hot
and small. Ruth holds my hand for a moment and then Mr. Partaki walks in and
she takes her hand away and Mr. Partaki notices that everyone is
uncharacteristically silent. He says mildly, "Did you all have a nice weekend?"
and Sue Wong says, "Oh, yes" and there's a shimmer of nervous laughter around
the room. Partaki is puzzled, and there's an awful pause. Then he says, "Well,
great, then let s embark on Billy Budd. In 1851, Herman Melville published
Moby-Dick, or, The Whale, which was greeted with resounding indifference by the
American public..." It's all lost on me. Even with a cotton undershirt on, my
sweater feels abrasive, and my ribs hurt. My classmates arduously fumble their
way through a discussion of Billy Budd. Finally the bell rings, and they escape. I
follow, slowly, and Ruth walks with me.
"Are you okay?" she a