Exiled Page 16

  "I kept tabs on you, on the three of you. Nothing nefarious, I just . . . kept track. You went to school in Brooklyn. Your father worked at a jewelry store, a little place owned by a very distant cousin, I think. Or a friend of a distant cousin. I don't remember anymore. Your mother worked for a hotel, cleaning rooms. It was demeaning work for a woman meant to be an empress, but she did it with vivacity and determination. For you. So you could have shoes and clothes and some money to spend. Your father and mother both worked very long hours to put a roof over your heads and food in your bellies, which meant you were much alone. You had no friends that I ever saw. You never left school with anyone, you never met anyone outside of school. Once school let out, you would go to the library. But you'd stop for a snack on the way, at the same bodega every time. You liked your sweets. You'd get a Coke, and a Snickers bar. I had the feeling, when I watched you, that you got these things as a form of rebellion, that your parents wouldn't approve, which is why you did it. You'd stay at the library for long, long hours, reading. I never knew anyone to read so many books as you. You'd just sit in the stacks, nose in a book, from when school ended until late at night. Your father rarely came home before midnight, and your mother nearly that, and they'd both be gone a few hours past dawn. Seven, eight at the latest. You were . . . very independent. You'd take yourself to school, take yourself home. I assumed you made your own breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Always alone."

  "It sounds as if you kept very close track of me indeed, Caleb."

  You do not bother to turn, to look at me. "Oh yes. It was unhealthy, and I knew it. But I couldn't help it. My work suffered. I fucked up a rather important deal because I was watching you rather than doing my due diligence. But I couldn't help it."

  "Why? What was it about me?"

  A sigh. "Just . . . you. Everything. I do not know if I can explain it, even now. Something in you spoke to something within me. I was impatient for you to grow up, for you to be . . . ready for me. I never interfered in your life, nor that of your parents. I wanted to. I wanted to drive you to school so you wouldn't have to walk. I wanted to feed you. Stop you from eating trash. A body like yours, or rather a body such as I knew you would have one day . . . it deserved better treatment than you were giving it. You were just a teenage girl, so you knew no better. But I wanted better for you."

  Another sigh. Knuckles tapping on the window. Toe tapping on the floor.

  "What was it about you?" you repeat. "What is it about you now? I don't know. I'd never even spoken to you. But I . . . knew you. I knew you. I knew the books you liked. Classics, fiction, philosophy. Hemingway, Voltaire, Rousseau, Sartre, Tennessee Williams, Hawthorne, Shakespeare, the Romantics . . . you read so much, so widely. You possessed so much intelligence, so much raw beauty and potential. I wanted it all. I wanted to . . . shape you. It wasn't sexual, not then. As I said, I am not a predator. Not of that sort, at any rate. If I was not, as I have already said, a good man, I was not so depraved as to prey on fourteen-year-old girls."

  "I believe you, Caleb," I say. And I do. I do not know why, but I do.

  You turn, finally. "You believe that?" Eyes narrowed, jaw muscles flexing, a breath. "You believe that I never meant you harm? That I did not then, and do not now?"

  I must consider my next words carefully. "I believe that you were not a predator of young girls. That is what I meant."

  You hear what I do not say, however. "But you do not believe the rest?"

  "Given all that has occurred between us, it is difficult. You shot and nearly killed Logan--you meant to kill him. You kidnapped me out of my home. You tranquilized my dog. I was bound and gagged and blindfolded. You have mixed truth and lies and omission for so long that I do not know how to believe anything you say."

  You frown at me, stare at me. "I suppose I cannot fault you for that." You brace your spine against the glass, cross your arms over your chest. "But believe, if you are able, that everything I'm telling you is the truth. Nothing left out, nothing false."

  "I will try."

  "That is all I ask."

  "I have a question, though."

  "What?"

  "Why now?"

  You let your head thud back against the thick glass, let your eyes slide closed, as if summoning an answer from deep within. "It is time. For many reasons."

  "How illuminating." My voice is flat, sarcastic.

  You snarl. "You wish the truth?"

  "Yes--"

  "Then do not mock me, Isabel. Do not forget who I am." You pivot, resume your earlier pose, leaned against the window, facing out, but now with your arms still crossed. "We met for the second time by accident. If you believe nothing, believe that. I hadn't meant to ever come face to face with you again until you were at least eighteen. But then, I believe it was the day after your sixteenth birthday--you saw me in a cafe, and approached me. I tried to be rude, hoping you would go away. For your own good. I was not ready for you, nor you me. But you were persistent. You sat down at my table, ordered an espresso and a pain au chocolate. You carried on as if we'd always known each other. You told me your name, and asked me mine."

  You pause for so long I wonder fleetingly if you've fallen asleep. But you continue, only now your voice is so low I can barely hear you. I move closer.

  "You are responsible for Caleb Indigo, you know. I've never told anyone that, but it's true. You asked me my name, and I panicked. I didn't want you knowing who I was. I didn't want you finding me, finding out that I was a pimp, and a former prostitute myself. It wouldn't have been hard for you to find out. None of it was secret. I don't know. I just . . . panicked. When I was a prostitute working for Miss Amy, there was a man. A client of hers, and thus, of mine. He was a vicious, brutal son of a bitch. Completely cold. Never gave away anything. Nothing. His name was Caleb. He would show up for an appointment with me, and he would just . . . use me. I was never a small or weak person, but he--" Your voice cracks. You suck in a breath. "I envied him his ability to obscure all of his emotions, all of his thoughts. When you asked me my name, his came to mind. So I told you my name was Caleb. 'Caleb what?' you asked me. You were wearing the blue dress. You know the one. Indigo. Not just blue, but indigo. And thus, Caleb Indigo was born."

  "That is difficult to believe, Caleb."

  "I know. But yet it is true."

  "The original Caleb. What happened to him?"

  You make a sound, somewhere between a grunt, a growl, and a hum. A strange sound. Animal, rather than human. "I killed him. After Amy died and I went into business for myself, he came looking for me. I refused him. He tried to force it, and we fought. I won. Made sure no one would ever find him. Although a man like him, I don't think anyone would ever look."

  "So you told me your name was Caleb Indigo."

  "Yes. Because I was . . . I didn't want you to know Jakob." A brief silence. "So then we began meeting at the cafe. Once a week, twice. Sometimes more. I continued the charade of being Caleb. Acted out a persona that wasn't me. Pretended to an emotionless facade I did not feel. Never told you anything about me. I never touched you. It was clear you had a crush on me, an infatuation. I tried not to encourage it, and even made it clear you were too young. But I couldn't make you stop coming to our cafe, and I couldn't stay away, knowing you would show up looking for me. You made advance after advance on me, and I turned you away. Made you angry, time and again. But always you came back. You couldn't stay away and neither could I. This went on for months. And during those months, I found the Caleb persona useful. I pretended to be Caleb more and more. Caleb was . . . calm. Cool. Powerful. I could hide behind him. He wasn't the orphan, the homeless boy. He wasn't a whore. He wasn't weak. He was in control. I liked being Caleb."

  A pause, a breath, and you clear your throat. Begin again. "And then something unforeseen happened."

  "The car accident?" I asked.

  "No, not yet. That was later. This was . . ." You breathe slowly in and out several times. "I was alone, late at night. Out walking. I'd bee
n drinking. I didn't drink often, but that night I'd had a deal go wrong and needed to unwind. So I went to a dive bar far from anywhere I normally visited, and got drunk. Very, very drunk. I was stumbling home, and there you were. Walking home from the library. Of course, the library had closed hours and hours earlier. But you'd take the books you'd checked out to an all-night diner nearby and get a cup of coffee and sit and read. The waitresses all knew you, and they let you stay as long as you wanted. I walked by that diner. You'd just walked out, and you had your books in your backpack, and you were wearing . . . God, this outfit I would never have let you leave the house in. A short skirt, sandals, and a blouse that showed too much cleavage. You'd grown up in the two years I'd spent watching you, the months we'd spent talking in that cafe. Sprouted breasts, started wearing a pushup bra. Of course, even at sixteen you didn't need one, but you had no one to tell you no. Your parents loved you so much, but they had to work endless hours, because New York is an expensive and merciless mistress. So there was no one to tell you to put on different clothes. I remember that night. More vividly than any other night in my life, I think. I was behind you, and you . . . I don't know. You felt me, I think. You turned around, and you saw me. You seemed happy to see me. It was the best feeling, that joy in your eyes, meant for me."

  I do not like where this is going. I do not like the hesitance in your voice. I am silent, still, frozen, as if only my ears function.

  "We walked together. I remember the moment you took my hand. It was so innocent. But yet . . . so sinful. We were crossing a street. It was nearly midnight, and the sidewalks only had a few people on them, in that neighborhood. We were only a few blocks from your apartment building. I remember it. You put your palm to mine, and our fingers just . . . wove together. I think I stopped breathing, because I knew I should let go, but I was drunk, and I didn't want to. I let myself pretend we were just . . . two people. We held hands, and walked, and talked. Or rather, you talked and I listened. You were normally a quiet girl, I think, except with me. You saved all your words for me, it sometimes felt. Poured them all out on me.

  "But then . . . you changed everything. For me, and for yourself. I stumbled. Tripped on a crack in the sidewalk, and--somehow, somehow--I ended up holding you in my arms. I'd fallen against the wall of an alley, and you were in my arms. You smelled good. You were so close. Your eyes were large, and I couldn't look away. And then you kissed me. You kissed me. And that was your undoing. You might have escaped me, if you hadn't kissed me. But after I'd tasted you, tasted the coffee on your breath, tasted the virginity in you, I knew. I just knew. You were mine. Sixteen, a virgin, and destined to be mine.

  "I tried to resist you. Even after that. I pushed you off me, said something vulgar and demeaning, something about how I didn't fuck naive little virgins."

  A pin could prick the silence. A knife could flay it. A word could shatter it.

  He tasted sour, the way Papa's breath sometimes smelled, late at night. But this was different. This was Caleb, and I was tasting him. Kissing him. And he was kissing me back! It was beautiful. It was right. He was finally seeing me. His hand was on my waist, just above my hip. I wanted him to touch me where I'd never been touched. I leaned into him, pressed my chest against his, pressed my hips against his. Without words, I begged him to touch me. To show me how to be a woman, the kind of woman he wanted. He moaned, deep in his throat. It felt as if the moan were coming from deep within the earth, as if the ground itself were making the sound. His fingers tightened in my skin, gripping my waist. His tongue touched my teeth. I whimpered and opened my mouth, so I could taste more of him, so he could show me how to kiss with tongue. It was my first kiss, and it was everything I'd ever dreamed of. My first kiss, with Caleb! Oh, oh, oh . . . his hands were moving now. Downward. To my hips. Yes! YES! I whimpered again, and then his hands were palming my bottom, lifting me, pulling me harder against him. And I felt IT. A thick, hard THING between us, pressing into my belly. It felt so big, so hard, and I wondered what it would look like. I knew what sex was, of course. I knew how it worked. I even knew I was supposed to put my mouth on him down there and suck, and it was supposed to feel good for him. A blow job. Girls gave men blow jobs. And men did things like this, what he was doing to me. Holding my bottom, his fingers gathering the fabric of my miniskirt so more and more and more of the flesh of my buttocks was bared. I wasn't wearing panties. A dare, to myself. I LIKED it, too. It felt wrong. Naughty. But so good, the way my thighs rubbed together, the way my privates felt every draft of air as I walked. The way I had to sit carefully so no one realized. I was a good girl, but I didn't WANT to be good. I was invisible at school. No one noticed me. I had no friends. No one even picked on me. I just wasn't there. I wanted to be seen, to be noticed, to matter. I used to matter, before we came here, to this country. America was not what I thought it would be like. Not as clean, not as magnificent. Not as wonderful. Mama and Papa were always gone now and never had time for me. No one had time for me, except Caleb, and he'd made it clear I was too young for him. So I tried to grow up faster, for him. I listened to conversations about sex, looked things up on the Internet. Learned to curse in English. Today, I didn't wear panties, because maybe he'd notice, maybe he'd realize I wasn't a little girl. And he had! He'd noticed! He was kissing me and touching my bottom--my ass--and I felt his cock. Maybe he would have sex with me. I wanted him to be my first everything. My first kiss, my first boyfriend, the man who took my virginity.

  He had my skirt up around my waist, one hand huge and warm and rough against my butt cheek, gripping it. The other . . . oh God, oh God, oh God . . . it was moving around between us. Inches from my privates. I'd touched myself there, of course. Made myself feel amazing sensations. Made things explode inside me, like something was coming apart in my privates, in my belly. Maybe he'd make me feel that. Or even better. I felt his finger, right THERE, nudging ever so gently against the edges of my privates--

  But then he stopped.

  He grunted roughly.

  "You're not wearing any panties." It wasn't a question.

  "No," I whispered.

  "Fuck."

  He'd never cursed like that.

  "What?" I asked. Tried to kiss him again, wanting him to keep going. Keep going!

  But he shoved me away. Hard. I nearly fell to the dirty ground, and he stood there, leaning back against the wall, the hand he'd been touching my privates with pressed to his face. He was staring at me. His eyes were narrowed to slits, and his chest was heaving up and down as if he'd just run a race.

  "You're a virgin." Again, it wasn't a question. I heard the liquor in his voice. But he was lucid, coherent.

  "Yes. But I'm ready. I want this. I want you, Caleb."

  His eyes go dead. I don't know how else to think of it, other than that they just go . . . flat. Empty. Hard and cold. He stands up straight, shoves his hands into his trouser pockets. Arrogance radiates off him in thick, palpable waves. He takes a long step toward me, stops so his face is less than a foot from mine, staring down at me with those eyes like cold dead chips of stone.

  "I don't want you, Isabel." He delivers this calmly, easily. I know it's a lie. "I don't fuck naive little virgins."

  My heart twists, and my eyes sting.

  "I tried to be nice about it, but you just don't get it, do you? You're so naive! You actually think I'd fuck you? I wouldn't even let you suck my dick. So just go home. Okay? Go home, and grow the fuck up, stupid little girl."

  And then he turns and walks away. He does not stumble, does not waver or sway. He turns the corner, and he's gone, and I manage to hold back the tears for a moment, two, and then they pour down my face. I feel the pang, the ache, the hate, the twist of the knife in my heart.

  I turn and go home, replaying every moment, repeating every word he said to me.

  *

  I didn't mean it." You whisper this. Never have four words felt so porcelain. Especially from you. "I didn't mean it. But I had to make you . . . stop. Make
you go away. Before I ripped that skirt off your delectable, too-young, sixteen-year-old ass and fucked you there in the alley. You were all woman. Sixteen, and a woman. But yet, still a girl. So naive. So innocent. Yet so hungry to be worldly. The makeup you put on when you came to see me, you caked it on. Too much of your mother's perfume. I pretended not to see you as you would approach our cafe, but I always saw you. You would stop at the corner, and fluff your hair, tease it out. Tug your shirt down and push up your tits. Pull your skirt up to bare more leg. As if seeing more of your skin could tempt me any more than I was already tempted. You were just pouring gasoline on a wildfire, but you didn't realize it. I was Caleb, and Caleb never gave anything away. Caleb did not feel. So you never knew just how close you came, that night, to being fucked up against an alley wall like a common slut. I fantasized about it, about that night. Fantasized, dreamed of what I might have done differently. How I might have held on to your ass and lifted you up around my waist. How I would have slid my cock into you and fucked you so hard it would have hurt you. A virgin, you were, and you would have bled all over me. I'd never fucked a virgin before, and I wondered how tight you would feel. I'd fucked so many women, so, so, so many. All of them older, more experienced. Thirties, forties, and beyond. Or younger women who'd already been initiated into the world of hard and fast fucking, the way I did it. You would have cried, maybe. Then I could have kissed away your tears and fucked you gently, to show you that I could." You speak reverently, using words I've never heard from you, expressions and turns of phrase and inflections that I didn't know you knew. You are fading between being Caleb and Jakob. "I jerked off, thinking of all the things I wanted to do to you. I fucked my whores, pretending they were you. But I stopped going to the cafe. I stayed away from Brooklyn, where you lived. I stayed away. I stayed away, Isabel. For you, I stayed away."