Page 117 of The Hitchhikers
She took another sip, and when he looked pleased, she had another. The next few minutes passed with her focusing on the pages. He gave her a pencil to mark any edits.
“Whatever you notice,” he said. “Typos, or if something doesn’t make sense.”
It grew hotter in the office, her wool tights itching, and Robert added more whiskey to her glass. She took small sips, enjoying the clink of ice against the glass, feeling like a grown-up, reading a manuscript. Maybe she’d be an author one day—or an editor. She squinted at the papers. Except these words seemed to be moving and blurring.
Robert sat beside her, the dip in the couch making her slide toward him. She moved to give him room, and he moved closer still, leaning over her as he pointed at a mark on the page.
“That was a good catch.”
She felt her cheeks grow warmer. “It’s a great story.”
“Yeah?” He smiled at her, showing his white teeth. “I’m glad you think so. I can’t tell anymore. If it’s not perfect, the reviewers are going to rip me to shreds.” His smile melted away, and he gave a heavy sigh. She felt bad for him. It had to be so hard.
“I could never think of something so clever. The way the main character, Susan, collects the driftwood to build her fence against the storm, it’s a metaphor, right? Because the storm isn’t what’s happening outside, like tonight.” She gestured at the window. “It’s what’s happening in her heart. She wants to wait for her fiancé to come back from the war, and she misses him, but she’s falling in love with that other man—the doctor—and she’s trying to shield herself.”
Robert was staring at her. His face solemn. Did she say something wrong? She’d always had a hard time speaking to Robert. She used to flush and stutter when he looked at her and just about died with embarrassment when he first began dating her mother and brought Jenny flowers. She’d been unused to attention, to a kind word. Now that they lived in the same home, he mostly ignored her. That wasn’t any better. She felt like an interloper. An unwanted guest.
Robert set his hand on her leg just above her knee, rubbing and massaging. She stared at it, confused. Her stomach flipped like she was going to be sick. She wanted to leave.
She set her glass of whiskey on the side table. He put his down too. She was going to get to her feet and walk out. She needed water. She would feel better then. She shifted to the edge of the couch. The hand on her leg—Robert’shand—was pressing harder, holding her still.
Now he was looking at her with glossy, red-rimmed eyes. “You’re a beautiful girl. Do you know that? That’s why your mother’s jealous of you.”
Jealous? What did he mean? Then his mouth was on hers and she was stunned, so frozen by the feeling of fleshy lips and the sour taste of whiskey that she didn’t push him away. She fell backward. He was on top of her, heavy and moving quickly, his hands everywhere. Mauling and grabbing her breasts. One was up her skirt and pulling on her wool tights, dragging them off.
She tried to block him, but his elbows were pinning her arms, grinding into the muscles and tendons. His weight was on her rib cage. She couldn’t take a breath. She’d thought she’d said no, but later she couldn’t remember. She just remembered pain.
It was over as suddenly as it had begun. She was crying as she straightened her skirt and tried to pull her blouse together. It took her three attempts before she realized she was missing buttons. Her tights were on the floor. She picked them up and held the small bundle to her chest.
Robert was sitting at the other end of the couch with his head in his hands. “Oh, Jenny.” His voice was agonized, like he was the one in pain. “Why did you have to give me those looks? With that damn short skirt, sitting so close to me. You can’t tease a man like that.”
Jenny pulled the offending skirt over her knees. She didn’t know what to say. He was the one who had sat beside her, wasn’t he? Maybe her skirt was short, but she’d been wearing tights. She wasn’t showing skin. Her head was blurry from the whiskey, her cheeks burning.
Robert got up from the couch and collected the papers that had scattered all over the carpet. He stacked them on his desk in a neat pile. Fussing until they were perfect. Then he turned around, grabbed his whiskey, and took another mouthful, eyeing her over the rim.
“I won’t tell your mother, but this can never happen again. Understand?”
She didn’t understand. Had this been her fault? She had to leave his office. She got to her feet, legs quivering, throat tight, and ran upstairs to her room. She locked the door to her bathroom and had a bath so hot her skin turned red.
Maybe she had sat too close to him. Her laugh had been too bold. Her questions had made her seem too interested. He’d talked about the way she looked at him, but she could only rememberwanting him to feel better about his book. She’d made some sort of mistake. She didn’t know exactly what, but she couldn’t let it happen again.
That night, unable to sleep, she practiced ballet in her room. She didn’t stop when the blisters on her heels tore, or when her calves and thighs cramped. She welcomed the burn in her chest. When she was finally exhausted, she collapsed on her bed and fell asleep in her clothes.
She didn’t come down for breakfast and waited until late at night to sneak to the kitchen for her dinner, which she was barely able to eat. She threw most of it off her balcony.
She worried that Robert would come to her door. He might want to talk. Or worse. Sometimes she heard him moving around downstairs, but he never climbed the stairs. When she again couldn’t sleep, she practiced ballet. Her shadow danced along with her in the mirror.
Her mother returned Sunday night. Jenny remained in her room until she was called down for dinner. She considered saying she was sick, but any excuse would lead to questions.
Why are you sick? Were you in the rain? I don’t need my dancers with sniveling noses.
Then her mother would subject Jenny to some gross homemade cure that she’d read about in a women’s magazine. Like beef-bone broth or ground-ginger mustard poultices.
Robert sat at the head of the table. Jenny’s mother on his right, and Jenny on his left. She kept her eyes on her plate and her knees swung to the side. Robert and her mother were holding hands over top of the table, his thumb rubbing against her mother’s ring finger. She was telling him about the clothes she’d bought, and material for new drapes. Velvet. Maybe they should reupholster the sofa. She was bored of the color. They talked about the dance studio.
Robert asked Jenny for the salt. She passed it and he flashedher a distracted smile, then turned his attention back to her mother. He laughed at something she said. There was no shame in his eyes. No fear. It was as though nothing had happened. Jenny touched her legs under the table, felt the sensitive spots on her thighs and hips. The round bruises from his fingers.
Months passed. Although it was impossible to avoid him altogether, Jenny made sure she was never alone with Robert for long. She didn’t go near his office. If he entered a room, she left. She became a ghost in her home. She no longer thought it beautiful.
