Page 76 of Clever Little Thing

“Ireallythink we should take a break,” says Phil.

But Pete is on a roll, and it seems that he actually believes what he’s saying. “Kia, Emmy, whoever—none of them actually mean anything.”

“And that woman on the camping trip in Humboldt,” I say. “Yes, I figured that one out too. And Blanka. And those are only the ones I know about.”

Then I see the pattern: he chooses the women who think they’re not good enough for him. He might think he chose me because I sparkled, but he also saw my loneliness.

“You chose me because you thought you could control me,” I say.

“I loved you. I loved our life. But after Stella—”

“You couldn’t control her, and you couldn’t stand that. So you took it out on Blanka.”

“Charlotte, please. I’ve fucked up, I admit it, OK? But I don’t deserve to lose my children.”

“You know who didn’t get what she deserved? Blanka.”

“Let’s focus on I statements and on next steps,” says Phil, who looks greenish.

“Phil,” I say. “Could we have a moment? And maybe you should have a drink of water. Or put your head between your knees.”

Phil tugs at his collar. “I really need to be here to keep things amicable, equitable—”

“Just give us some space, OK?” barks Pete. Phil starts to his feet and weaves towards the kitchen door.

“I’m sorry, but we need you to actually go to another part of the house,” I tell him. Phil nods, looking dazed, and we hear his feet on the stairs. For a moment, I feel like we’re his parents and have sent him to his room. I remember what it was like to be on the same team. But only for a moment.

“You’re right. I lied about the diary,” I say. “She didn’t write about being raped in her diary. She confessed directly to me.”

“Before she died? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I want you to watch something.” I take out my phone and click to the recording of Blanka-in-Stella speaking at the soup pots. I’ve edited it so it is just the salient bits.

“I try his whiskey,” Stella says. “Then he puts his tongue in my mouth. He grabs me, squeezes. I do not like.”

Pete stares. “Why is she talking like that? Is this some kind of game—did you put her up to this? Did you feed her these lines? This is sick.”

I hit pause. “I think you know that nobody can feed Stella lines,” I say. Then I press play again.

Stella says, “Daddy does not listen, forces me to floor, brings upmy skirt, opens my knees. All the time, talking, how pretty I am. He pushes inside me and it hurts….” She covers her eyes.

As Pete watches it, he rubs his eyes and face and pushes his flesh around so vigorously that it feels as if when he takes his hands away, there will be an eye on his chin, another at the level of his hairline, nose and mouth mashed together. “It’s not possible. You faked this. This is not Stella.”

“It is Stella,” I say. “But it’s also Blanka.”

“This is fucking insane,” says Pete, and I realize that even if he still loved me and trusted me, he will never be able to understand that Blanka is in Stella. He has many talents, but he lacks imagination. “You know I’d never lay a finger on Stella,” he says. “I never fucking would.”

I shrug. “The police don’t know that. Child protective services don’t know that. They will watch this video and see your eight-year-old saying that you assaulted her.”

Pete looks sick. “You won’t be able to get this performance out of her under questioning. One recording isn’t enough evidence.”

Maybe he’s right: the video won’t be enough. The authorities will want to talk to Stella directly. Maybe they’ll give her one of those anatomically correct dolls and ask her to show them what happened. Blanka will have to relive her shame in front of strangers, in a strange place. I don’t know for certain that she will tell her story again.

But I can’t let him see my doubts.

“I’ll show it to the authorities, and I guess we’ll see what happens,” I say.

“You cold bitch,” Pete says. I shrug. A family is not happy,playful rabbit people. It is people in masks whom you can never understand.

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