Twisted Family Values Read online

  “You mean overfucking.”

  “And for your having to spend the night on the cold floor.”

  “You forgot hard.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It was hard, Biz. The floor. Among other things—unless he couldn’t…”

  “Very funny. Look, is this how it’s going to be now? Do you need a week’s break?”

  “We’ll get longer than a week,” Charlie said, and filled an empty duffel bag with a Super 8 camera and a tall orange stack of square two-minute film reels.

  Biz zeroed in on the European power converter. “I don’t understand. Are you packing or unpacking? What’s happening? Where are you going?”

  “Paris,” Charlie said with the same offhanded tone he’d use if he were heading to the dining hall. This was the moment he’d been looking forward to, and it was just as delicious as he’d hoped. He began to whistle “La Vie en Rose.”

  Biz was nonplussed. “What, like tomorrow?” She was kidding.

  “Mais non,” Charlie chirped. “Six P.M. tonight.” He’d felt a freedom since signing the documents for his semester abroad and was smug with the promise of adventure. Biz, meanwhile, felt hit in the gut. The rushing pulse in her head became distracting. “Does Aunt Cat know?” she asked, still processing the information.

  “Yes. I told all the people who matter to me.”

  “Isn’t it going to be a pain for them to reassign a new roommate?” She didn’t give a crap about dorm room administration; she was groping for an excuse that might keep him here. Grabbing at straws, she said, “Does Foster know?”

  Charlie lost it. All composure went right out the window. “What the fuck does Foster have to do with any of this?”

  “Don’t shout at me!” shouted Biz.

  “Don’t fuck with me!” boomed Charlie. His father’s predilection for alcoholic rage surfaced immediately as if prodded with a sharp stick. “I’m sick of you fucking with my head!” he yelled.

  “Well, I’m sick of you fucking with mine!”

  Charlie lunged toward Biz with burning eyes and put both hands on her shoulders. He could feel her thin clavicle bones through her sweater and squeezed her as if she were clay. He growled, “Hey, I know. Let’s pretend I’m Foster,” and plunged his hand down her jeans. Biz winced and let out a shocked “Charlie!” but he ignored her and kept shoving his way down. “Stop it, fuck, stop!” He reached her pubis; his fist was between her thighs. Biz pulled up on his arm as hard as she could but was unable to dislodge him. “Cut it out!” she cried, clamping her thighs together. She was pissed for not being as strong. His groping hurt and she began to feel frightened, but no voice in her head said to scream. This is Charlie, she thought, I can handle this. She leaned in and bit him hard on the shoulder. “Hey!” he yelped, and pushed her back. She tried to control her shaking, but he reached for her fly and unzipped it. She slapped him, urging “Stop!” through clenched teeth. She was kicking his shins wildly. He shoved her onto the bed. Her head hit the mattress and bounced back up abruptly. They were both stunned by the slam of her forehead. “Ow,” Charlie said, and she tried to lock her elbows against his chest, but he was stronger and they gave way. Charlie used his full body weight to pin her while she lay squirming on Foster’s bed. Fear overtook anger as he unbuckled his belt with one hand and kept her pinned. Yet, she was still afraid to scream for help because she didn’t want to get him in trouble. So she spoke to him pointedly in a deep register, as if giving crucial, life-saving instruction. “Choo, what the hell are you doing? Knock it off, or I swear, Choo, I am going to scream.” She hoped hearing his childhood nickname would snap him out of it and let her escape.

  But Charlie stayed focused and spoke with eerie calm. “You weren’t a screamer with Foster. Why don’t you show me how quiet you were.” He felt mean but chose not to care. Biz urged,“Stop, Choo, or I’ll scream,” repeating it like a manic mantra. Yet of all the options her mind raced after, she was unable to raise her voice for help. Charlie felt entitled to ignore Biz’s pleas as he felt he’d been ignored. They’d been grabbing things from each other their entire lives. Besides, she wanted it, too, he told himself. They’d talked about it for years. Why not fuck her, then get on the plane.

  Charlie fumbled with his zipper while prodding her legs apart with a knee. He wasn’t hard yet, but was sure he’d be in a minute. Biz wrenched a forearm free and reached out to the bedside shelf. Feeling for anything hard or heavy, she couldn’t believe she’d ever wanted him. She grabbed a plastic VHS tape of Repo Man and smacked Charlie’s head with purpose and fury. “Ow,” he said, and shook it off, as if his task had been briefly interrupted. “Choo, stop!” Biz screamed in one short burst, then hit him again, this time harder. “Ow!” Charlie said in anger, and pulled back to look in her eyes. He was confused by what he saw; she was terrified and crying. He hadn’t seen her look this scared since a clown took her hand when they were little. He was only handing her a circus balloon, but she’d screamed with bloodcurdling fright. Charlie had yelled at the clown to leave her alone, then hugged Biz as she cried. He’d protected her in that moment as she’d always protected him. Now, seeing her face masked in terror, he snapped out of his horrendous haze, dumbfounded he could be the reason. Who am I?

  Biz wedged her knees between their chests and wriggled a foothold on his stomach, the way she did when they played airplane as kids. She kicked him away with her remaining strength, hissing, “You fucking maniac!” Charlie tumbled back off the bed, then checked his nose in the mirror. A trickle of blood made its way down his face. “What the hell,” he murmured to himself. “What the hell?!” shrieked Biz. “Have you lost your mind?” She’d finally found her voice. Charlie was in the weird middle place of returning to himself. He felt confused like maybe that clown from the circus.

  Biz scrambled off the bed and zipped her jeans. Her hands shook as she tucked in her ripped shirt. She buttoned her coat, then lunged at Charlie and pummeled him with as much force as she could summon. Biz had never wanted to inflict pain the way she wanted to hurt Charlie—profoundly, with marks he’d shamefully have to explain. “You asshole!” she screamed, and started to cry, her tightly balled fists losing speed and strength. Charlie deflected her swings, surprised by the attack, still unaware he’d been a monster. “Whoa, whoa,” was all he said, as if wrangling a tantrumming child. He seemed genuinely flummoxed by her actions. Biz was too consumed with retribution to notice Charlie’s wrath was no longer in control, and the person she’d always loved and trusted remained, though diminished. She grabbed his shirt in twists of cotton and brought her face close to his, tears streaming down her cheeks, jaw clenched. She spoke one word at a time, barely eking out the sounds. Her throat was swollen; she tasted salt on her lips as her nose ran loose and clear. “You. Will. Never. Ever. Touch me. Again,” she said with fiery eyes. “Never. Ever. Again. Do you hear me? Never.”

  Charlie said nothing and let her finish, having been taught it was disrespectful to interrupt. “I hate you,” Biz said, then unhanded his shirt. She used her sleeve to wipe the small dot of blood on her forehead and the snot from her chin. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. He couldn’t believe he’d been the source of her terror. “I’m so, so sorry.” Charlie remembered his father making him feel that way, small and unsafe. The fear was utterly and horrifically unspeakable. He’d never suspected he would become his father and put the thought out of his mind. Charlie’s eyes grew large and round, his forehead wrinkled. Oh my God, I did that to her. “I love you so much,” he whispered, and moved toward her, wanting to wipe her shiny, wet cheeks. She flinched and, cowering, backed toward the door. “Get away from me, you fuck, or I’ll scream, this time for real.” He froze where he was. “Bizzy, I’m so, so sorry.” And he was, in fact, ashamed. He was angry at himself—and his father, but mostly himself. Then, in a cascade, he realized the devastation he’d wrought. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’d never do anything … I’m so sorry. That was totally wrong and I don’t k
now why … I was stupid and jealous. Forgive me. Bizzy, I love you so, so much, and I’m sorry. Please believe me. I swear, there’s no one like you.”

  Biz lowered her voice and said in a calm, steady stream of command, “Fuck off. I don’t care. And back up or I’ll scream.”

  “Okay, okay, I’m sorry, I’m stepping back now, I promise.” Charlie backed away, hands up as if surrendering.

  Biz’s arms were folded across her chest, her hair in messy loops, her eyes and lips still puffy from salted tears. “I’m going to splash my face. Don’t come near me.”

  “I won’t, I promise. And I—”

  “And don’t talk to me,” Biz said. She moved around him as if he were a snake.

  At the sink next to the hot plate, she let cool water fill her cupped hands before smoothing it over her face, giving her fortitude.

  It was then that Foster walked in.

  “Hey,” he said to Charlie without looking directly at him. The door had been unlocked, so there was no need to knock. Charlie looked down and said, “Hey.” Biz noticed Foster enter and filled her hands again to drink, reclaiming strength with each sip. She grabbed a clean T-shirt from Charlie’s bed and used it to pat her face. Then she tossed it on the floor.

  As she left, Foster said, “Hey,” to Biz, but she ignored them both.

  “Bye,” said Charlie, being careful not to move toward her.

  “Bye,” Foster added, but she was already down the hall.

  Biz took the fire stairs directly to the outside alley. Her teeth were chattering, though she wasn’t cold. She crossed to walk on the side of the street where she could feel the sun shining and closed her eyes a few seconds at a time, once oncoming pedestrians had passed by. She meant to walk fast, but a voice inside told her not to run. Also not to tell a soul what had happened. Maybe it was a little my fault because I slept with Foster. And left Charlie alone in the linen closet, embarrassed. She never meant to hurt his feelings and understood he was mad, but fuck him. I did nothing wrong. Fuck. Him.

  Foster said to Charlie, “Hey, man—” and Charlie cut him off. “Don’t talk to me,” he said and left without his coat. He headed in the direction he hoped Biz wasn’t. He felt she should have her space. He leaned into the wind and was blasted by unseasonably frigid air that stung like shards of glass. Realizing his behavior had been unspeakably egregious, he wished someone would punch him in the face. He knew he deserved the pain and slammed his knuckles into a brick building as he waited with other pedestrians for the signal to cross. The light turned green, but Charlie turned around. He needed to get back and finish packing.

  Biz spent the next few days in a torrent of anger, unreasonable short temper, and guilt. Why the hell didn’t I scream for help? It seemed so obvious to her now but not at the time. Zombielike, she spent hours in her dorm shower, weeping. Though rife with indignation, she questioned her reaction. She hadn’t been raped, she told herself, but the consolation did little to soothe. Were these extreme emotional aftershocks valid? Hadn’t she been almost raped? Did that even count? Should she even be using that word at all? Biz had never felt so incensed, helpless, and hurt. She wanted vehemently to get back at Charlie but not get him in trouble. The fucker is gone. I guess I’ll eventually get over it.

  Biz felt unable to bring herself to exact retribution but vacillated about whether or not to tell someone what had happened. It never occurred to her to go to the campus clinic. What could anyone possibly do for her now? And what if she decided to tell her parents? Would she make up a fake name to protect Charlie? Then what was the point? Aunt Cat had taught her to listen to her gut about guys who made her uneasy. In high school she was told she could always call home for a ride. “Walk away, make something up, just get out of there,” Aunt Cat had said. But no one had ever discussed “almost rape.” And certainly no one ever mentioned the possibility she might know the person. When she heard stories it was always a stranger and never a family relation. At times Biz vibrated with anger when recalling being pinned to the bed. She loathed hearing his voice and was still livid for being weaker. You colossal prick, you’re not supposed to scare me like that. You’re supposed to protect me from assholes—not be the asshole.

  And now Charlie was living in fucking Paris. Fucker. Fuckface. Fuck.

  * * *

  The fact that Charlie wasn’t around at Thanksgiving for Biz to seethe and scowl at made it more difficult for her to resolve her hatred. Some of her anger was replaced by the conflict of missing her best friend. But how good a friend could he be if he tried to hurt her? She was able to slow herself from obsessing during the day, but in the evening had no control over her dreams. Night after night, alternate endings played out in a darkened dreamscape, more harrowing than her fading memory—endings that woke her out of sound sleep. Then she’d be wide awake for hours, her heart beating out of her chest as if overcaffeinated, no one chasing her but her mind. She’d try to calm herself by admonishing that she should be over it—time heals all wounds and all that. Then she’d think about how much she missed Charlie and what he might say to calm her … then she’d grow pissed at her own betrayal, and the cycle would begin again.

  Biz’s turmoil diminished as time passed and Christmas loomed. Did it even happen the way she remembered? Was it not as extreme or worse? Her emotions were muddled, and she kicked herself for not having made other close friends. Charlie had been her number one for so long, she’d never cultivated a second string. Maybe Piper had some advice; she certainly always had opinions. She was tough and probably knew how to move on. Biz picked out some monogrammed stationery, sat down and wrote her a letter—said she was asking for a friend. But once she learned Piper was studying in London for the semester, she crumpled it up and threw it away. By the time she might get a response—ten days in the mail each way—her drama would probably be over.

  Two weeks before Christmas break, Biz developed a low-grade stomachache. She assumed it was a virus that wouldn’t go away. She told Tindy her cat at home died—though she didn’t have one—in order to explain her excessive sleeping and mood swings. Then she fainted in the shower, slithered down just like in Psycho. Her period was late. She bought a test. Biz was pregnant. Not knowing what else to do, she called her Aunt Cat from a pay phone, eight blocks west of her dorm in a studentless neighborhood.

  “Oh, dear,” said Aunt Cat.

  “I know!” Biz sobbed.

  “Honey, you’re going to be fine. We’ll figure it out. How far along are you?”

  “Um.” Biz counted the weeks since Fall Festival—since Foster. “Six? Seven?”

  Aunt Cat didn’t hesitate. “Is it Charlie’s?”

  “Oh my God, no! Jesus!” Biz said, heaving, “I can’t believe you would—”

  Aunt Cat cut in. “Do not raise your voice at me, young lady. I am trying to help you. I only asked because I found a condom in the linen closet, during Fall Festival, at the spot where Charlie slept. And I am not an idiot, though I am continually surprised. So let’s calm down and not bite the hand that’s trying to save your ass.”

  “Okay, Aunt Cat. I’m sorry. I’ll be nice.”

  “You don’t have to be nice, just don’t be Veruca Salt. Let’s try this again, shall we? Whose is it?”

  Biz lost her last shred of composure and resumed her sobs. “It’s mi-i-i-ine!”

  “Yes, that is correct, but who else’s? Is it someone you love? Someone you’re planning on marrying … You know what? Doesn’t matter. It’s the eighties, modern times. Do you want to keep it? Does the father know yet?”

  Biz felt she was being hammered with questions, though in reality her aunt was quite calm. She settled down to consider her answers but forgot where to start. “I thought calling you would be easier than calling Mom,” she whimpered.

  “I know, my dear, but these questions are important, I’m afraid. I’ll need the answers before we take the next step. Take a deep breath. Let’s start at the beginning: I love you and I’m here for you. It’s wonderf
ul that you’re fertile. Plenty of women can’t get pregnant, so that’s a plus. What do you think you’d like to do, dear?”

  Biz stared at the pay phone’s coin return, tapping the door so it swung in and out, catching it on the tip of her finger. “I don’t know,” she said, winding down, slowing her breath. But she did know. She knew no way in hell was she keeping a baby, and thank God she wasn’t Catholic, because she wouldn’t be pressured to keep it by her lapsed Episcopal mother. Biz was in college now, and when she graduated she wanted a career. She wanted to travel and fall in love. She wanted an abortion.

  She just didn’t know if she could say the words.

  Aunt Cat piped up after giving Biz enough time with her thoughts. “This is a big decision, and I’m here to help in any—”

  Biz interrupted. “I want an abortion.” The moment she heard herself say the words she knew it was the right choice.

  “Righty-o. I will take you,” said Aunt Cat, also clearly relieved.

  “I’m so sorry to make you do this, Aunt Cat. You have no idea.”

  “I do have an idea, and we’ve all been there in some form or another. You know what Nana Miggs taught us: it’ll all work out fine. Besides, no one’s perfect.”

  “Mom is.”

  “Including your mom.” Aunt Cat wanted to add, “Especially your mom,” but decided against it.

  Biz cried jogging back to her dorm room, this time tears of relief. Life was short but life was also long; she was making the right decision. She splashed her face when she got home, as she’d been taught by her mother, then slept better that night than she had in weeks. She expected to feel conflicted or wrestle with her conscience, for her dreams to haunt her, but they never did. She felt unapologetic about terminating a pregnancy with a man she didn’t love, for a baby she was ill equipped to take care of and not religiously compelled to keep. Aunt Cat would drive up to pack Charlie’s stuff—he’d decided to stay in Paris until summer. She would chaperone Biz, who was grateful as hell—and wicked glad Charlie was gone.