Part 13 (2/2)
”Do we really need Peg down here? She's sixteen.”
”You think she doesn't get an eyeful in the girls' locker room?”
”That's different. Those are girls. This is a...”
”Woman. Yes, I know. I'm aware of that. Hey Belle?”
”Yes?”
”Do me a favor and leave this to me, okay?”
He thinks, always in my face. If it's not one thing it's a G.o.dd.a.m.n 'nother. always in my face. If it's not one thing it's a G.o.dd.a.m.n 'nother.
He puts on the work gloves and checks the old rusty drain in the floor. It's clear. He picks up the spray wand. He turns on the pressure washer and pulls the trigger.
Cold soapy water blasts the woman in a sixty-five degree arc all up and down her body. It buffets her flesh like a wind-whipped flag. He's never seen anything quite like it before except in those movies where some guy's being subjected to g-force acceleration. She's closed her eyes against it and closed her mouth against it and she's tossing her head side to side. When it hits her chafed b.l.o.o.d.y wrist she opens her mouth and screams.
He lets go of the trigger.
He turns to his wife and smiles. Or sort of half-turns. Because he's sporting an erection you'd have to be dead to miss. He wasn't aware of it but Belle's stepped back nearly all the way to the stairs. She almost returns the smile, she takes a shot at it, but not quite.
”Let's see how we did,” he says.
The woman is shaking her head and sputtering out the white film of water that slides down her body from head to toe. He has a look.
”Not bad,” he says. ”Need to get her back though. And then for some of this, need to get in closer.”
Brian's throwing free throws when Peg walks back from the burn barrel. Darlin's trying to rebound for him. Which means chasing a ball she can barely get her arms around. Brian's tolerating this.
They all hear the woman scream and it stops them dead. Darlin's brow furrows like it does when she's puzzled. Peg's brother only smiles at her.
”I always miss out on the good stuff,” he says.
”That's the good good stuff? What the f.u.c.k is wrong with you, Brian? Jesus!” stuff? What the f.u.c.k is wrong with you, Brian? Jesus!”
She trudges back toward the cellar.
”Peg said a bad word,” she hears her sister say behind her.
Which one? she thinks. f.u.c.k f.u.c.k or or jesus? jesus?
In the cellar she's immediately aware of two things. First, her mother has moved so far away from this she's practically on the steps. She's clutching at the dress so hard her knuckles are white. Second, her father has moved in close, he's only a few feet away now and the water is pounding at the woman, her face pure agony as he moves the wand from her crotch to her thighs to her belly to each of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and back down again, hurried strokes like he's painting some wall except that this wall is moving, writhing with each stroke of the wand that's got to be torture on her skin, the dressing from her side wounds sodden at her feet. She watches this and can practically feel it on her own skin like she's the woman and the woman's her and sees the woman's eyes go to the two of them standing back by the stairs and silently plead plead with them. with them.
She's saying something. Or trying to say something. ”Maithairs,” ”Maithairs,” she hears but that's all. she hears but that's all.
Her father varies his stroke. Up her breast and up her arm...to her wrist. The wrist she reached for him with, the hand that grabbed him. The wrist she reached for him with, the hand that grabbed him. Her wrist black now with caked blood frothing white. The woman Her wrist black now with caked blood frothing white. The woman howls howls, absolutely screeches. screeches. Gasps. And then howls again and it's f.u.c.king huge. Peg has never heard a sound like this and never, ever wishes to hear it again. Gasps. And then howls again and it's f.u.c.king huge. Peg has never heard a sound like this and never, ever wishes to hear it again.
”Daddy, please! Daddy! Stop! Stop! She's hurt! YOU'RE HURTING HER hurt! YOU'RE HURTING HER!”
She's never made quite so big a sound herself.
He releases the trigger, turns to her. She guesses she's surprised him. Well, she's surprised herself. And mom too. Mom's looking at her like, is this my daughter? My little Peggy? Who played so quietly as a child I had to check her in her playpen to make sure she was alive? Or so the story went.
”Please, dad. Please. Enough.”
Her father looks...dazed or something. Like she's broken him out of some strange deep concentration. He shakes his head.
”She's not clean,” he mutters and turns on the spray again.
Pummels her wrist again.
And there's that pig-being-slaughtered screech again.
”f.u.c.k this!” Peg yells and turns for the stairs. He mother tries to stop her but it's only halfhearted. Her mother's hands fall away almost as soon as they touch her. But her father's heard her too and he's turned off the spray. Peg yells and turns for the stairs. He mother tries to stop her but it's only halfhearted. Her mother's hands fall away almost as soon as they touch her. But her father's heard her too and he's turned off the spray.
”Get your a.s.s back down her, Peg. G.o.ddammit!”
And she's halfway up the stairs knowing her father's right behind her, that her mother won't try to hold him there either, won't dare to, when she hears something that stops them all.
From the woman. In a very small voice. A voice thick with tears.
”P-puhleese.”
They're all turned to her then. Did she really say that? Peg thinks. Was that our language? Please? Please? She's nodding to them. She says it again. The sound of it makes her heart race.
”P-uhleese.”
Her father smiles and drops the pressure wand clattering to the wet cellar floor.
”Well, I'll be a son of a b.i.t.c.h,” he says. ”Belle? Peg? Go get some towels. And the first aid kit. We'll need to patch her up again.” He shakes his head. ”I'll be a pure d.a.m.n son of a b.i.t.c.h!”
NINETEEN.
The girl's actions have surprised her. She has begged them both for aid (”Will you help me, mother?”) but has not actually expected it. She is grateful. And very much wounded. Everything stings. Her entire body. She feels rubbed raw as if by sand. She's freezing. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s ache. Her hair hangs wet in her eyes so that she can barely see and she has not yet the strength to shake it free.
The man steps closer. Licks some spittle off his lips.
The man is a dog with the foam of madness on his lips.
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