Copyright 1991 Aya Katz
FROM THE DIARY OF VERITY LACKLAND
I was sitting in the sala, twiddling my thumbs, hoping maybe to catch a glimpse of Nabal. Instead, I ended up studying Abby's portrait. It's a funny thing about that painting, even when you're staring right at it, you're not sure what she looks like. It would be very hard to describe her. Mostly, I think it's the confidence. She's got a sharp strong chin and she has it held a certain way, as if to say "I know what I'm doing." And the grey eyes are like that, too. Knowing, a little amused, but not cold. That's the mystery right there, I think. How with all that confidence and knowledge, she manages to be warm, too. Contrast that with Nabal. Not with a portrait of Nabal, but with himself. Of course, he wasn't there, but I can just close my eyes and I see him. Scornful, detached, and even when he's most intimately close ... cold.
Abby's eyes, slate grey and, to be quite honest, not so big, manage an intimacy and warmth that Nabal's big, brown, tortured eyes won't allow. That's why one can't feel any sympathy for him, I think. Because he's cold as a fish. Abby's warmth made her human, and her confidence made her desirable. Or was that sensuality? I haven't pinned it down exactly. Because if you're talking about sheer physical endowments, you would think that Mickey had her beat. But with Mickey, the spiritual element is entirely missing.
She was always nice to me. Abby, that is. When others ignored me, at the Brown 'N Serve, she went out of her way, by some gesture at least, to acknowledge my existence. And at the same time, never to judge me.
So it was odd that as I sat there staring at her, I suddenly felt angry. I was furious with her! I felt like punching her out. And there was no reason. After all, Nabal has already killed her. Why should I wish to do her any further harm? ...Probably premenstrual tension.
I sighed, and that's when I noticed that I wasn't alone any longer. Anadora was there. She has these oriental slippers and she is light on her feet. I didn't hear her come in.
"Admiring the temptress?" she asked. Her mouth wasn't smiling, but her eyes were. I'm almost sure of it.
"Why do you call her that?" I asked. It was a relief to feel rational again. Next to Anadora, anyone seems sane.
"She led my son from the path of righteousness." This she said rather matter-of-factly, in the same tone of voice she might have used to criticize Abby's taste in clothes.
I smiled. This conversation was really cheering me up. "You mean, before he met her, he kept even the first commandment?"
She wrinkled her brow. "Don't be silly, child. Contrariwise."
So, it's back to Alice In Wonderland, I thought. Anadora took a seat next to me on the sofa, unbidden.
"She was always nice to me," I said. "Abby, I mean."
"Naturally." The way she said it was exactly like Nabal's usage of the word. The pronunciation, the inflection, even her facial expression was the same. I wonder whether he knows how much of himself he owes to her. "She was kind to everyone. May the gods spare us from such kindness."
I squinted, taking in both the form and the content. "Do you mean, it wasn't genuine?"
Anadora put on a wise face. "It doesn't matter in the least whether it was genuine. It was harmful enough, either way."
"But why should kindness be harmful?" (My mother used to always say that it never hurts to be kind. It made me feel uneasy, her saying that, but I never knew why.)
"They're taking over the world, with their kindness. It used to be whips and chains, now it's kindness. But nothing has changed, in essence." She looked sad. "And Nabal, he can't bring himself to be kind. Not even to save his own life. He's too noble for that. So it's doomed."
I laughed. Picture this: someone too noble to be kind. For a moment, I imagined Nabal needing to be kind to me, but his better nature keeping him from it. I wanted to cry. It seemed so real. My eyes almost brimmed over.
Anadora watched me closely. "Give me your hand, child," she said. "Let me read your future."
I was reluctant, at first. She laughed, a kind of cackle. "I will not change your destiny - I'll only read it. What is the harm in that?"
So I let her have my hand. Her own was remarkably soft, and her voice, low pitched and seductive. It made me almost sleepy. Her one hand held mine firmly, while the other lightly traced over the lines in my palm. "You have a good strong truth line," she said, caressingly. "But then, that was to be expected." She had the same hypnotic effect on me that I used to get from saleswomen in the dress shop. It's all in the tone of voice I think, much more so than the content. "The love line is feeble, but it widens about here, and there are nicks here where language and learning clash with right." I felt very calm, almost ready to doze off. Only I wished it were Nabal caressing my hair that way, pulling it from my face. She turned once more to the study of my palm. "Ah, this is interesting, right here, the lifeline intersects with the laundryline ..."
That woke me up. I laughed. She's making fun of me, I thought. "The laundry line?"
She looked sympathetic. "Come now child, have you not been troubled in your laundry of late?"
It was an oddly phrased question, I thought. "Pilar told you?" I asked.
She was all grandeur now. "It does not matter how I know. What is this about your keeping watch over underwear?"
I stammered: "Well, I only have three sets ..."
"What?" she seemed ready to go to battle. "Has my son been begrudging you linens?"
I was tempted to say that after he splurged on the sheet at the Brown 'N Serve, he must have blown the budget for the year. But that wouldn't have done. Especially as my truth line is so strong. "I didn't ask him for any," I said. "I hope you don't, either. I really don't want to discuss it with him. It's not important."
She shook her head. "Not important. Why it's a matter of honor. Suppose some mishap were to befall you, do you think I want it said that a Cabeza de Vaca was too tightfisted to provide his concubine with undergarments?"
It was the first thing she had said that even remotely reminded me of my own mother. I was tempted to tell her that worse things were said of him than that. But she pushed right on. "Never you mind. Come with me. We have undergarments enough for a harem ..."
She took me, her long, skinny fingers clutched around my arm, and led me out toward the hall. The room to which she eventually brought me was adjacent to my own. And beyond it, I had already figured out, was Nabal's bedchamber, into which I had never been privileged to enter. She put her hand down the front of her dress and drew out a long brass chain, with keys on it. She bent down to unlock the door.
Anadora walked in before me. It felt close, stifling. So she went to the window and opened it, and drew aside the curtains. It was a bigger room than mine, but only marginally. It smelled vaguely floral. I sniffed and Anadora remarked: "Hyacinth. It was her favorite."
I was going to ask whose, but looking around, I figured it out for myself. Everything was grey, the bedcover, the drapes, even the marbletop of the dressing table. But there was another color, more muted, that appeared on the fringes of things, a pale violet. It was all simple and elegant, and yet obviously costly. And punctiliously uncluttered. "Did she actually live here?" I started to ask. "I mean ..."
She knew what I meant. "This was her room. But she spent her nights in his bed." She smiled. "And her afternoons in David's."
I nodded, remembering. "Yeah."
Anadora continued. "Naturally, she spent a fortune on undergarments. Take anything you like, my child. It is of no more use to her."
Anadora left, silently shutting the door behind her. I felt tired, immobilized by the task before me, and sank down on the bed for a moment. I nearly dozed off. It was comforting to be in her room, even if she never used that bed. I like Abby, I kept thinking to myself. If it were up to her, none of this would ever have happened to me. None of it.
Eventually, I got up from the bed and started rifling through the drawers. She had very nice underthings indeed, some of them I couldn't even classify properly. I held one nice black shimmery thing to my body and grimaced. I couldn't have worn any of that, though.
It wasn't a problem of size. She was slender and I'm skinny, and with underwear, height isn't an issue. It's just that I would have felt like a little girl playing dress up.
There was nothing gaudy. It was all very tasteful, black and beige and cream and silver. Very elegant and restrained. Nothing to suggest a whore. Which, after all, is not what she was, but is what I am. Nabal, in his ever so subtle way, reminds me of that everytime our eyes meet.
She was promiscuous, whereas I am not. But that signifies nothing. She did things because she wanted to, and I, because I haven't any choice. Or not much of a choice.
That's where it gets even stickier. Nobody has ever actually forced me to do anything. I always had a choice. I could have plead not guilty. That would have been the "right" thing to do. The brave, heroic, probably suicidal thing. I suppose that's what Nabal would have done. I suppose.
But the moment I gave up that right, I came under the thumb of Mr. Cain in probation and Melinda at AA. And I had to work somewhere in the County, doing something. And Abner was always there.
If it were not for Abner, I would never have submitted to Nabal. As Lou Ann puts it: never in a million years.
Does that make Nabal the unwitting beneficiary of Abner's wrongful act? It's a strange thought. Either way, we know what it makes me.
Abner and Pipa may think I've come up in the world. But Nabal knows that I've fallen into a bottomless pit. And that is some comfort.
Eventually, I started searching through the other drawers. The second from the top was full of cosmetics and depilatories and contraceptives. Her birth control pills and some other stuff. The bottom drawer contained several jewelry boxes. I opened one. There were diamond and pearl necklaces right at the top. I shut the box quickly. Oddly enough, it felt more of an intrusion than going over her underwear. A horrible, graphic confession of his weakness. I was certain of one thing: David didn't give her those diamonds. Nabal did.
In any event, the drawer next to the bottom proved to be far more interesting. The first thing that struck my eye was glittery bordeaux colored box, with a card attached. "To Nabal, on his thirty-fifth birthday, with love, Abby." That was odd. The metallic label on the box read "Turkish Delights." I opened the lid. It wasn't sealed in any way. Inside were semi-transluscent little squares. I took one out and held it the light.
Anadora had said "Take anything you like." But did that include candy? I compromised by slipping it into my jeans pocket, reasoning that if it turned out I wasn't supposed to have it, it could always be returned. But it did make me feel a little like Beaver Cleaver. About to get in trouble.
On the other side of the candy box was a small bundle of letters, tied together with an odd brown shoelace. I hesitated. Then taking it appart carefully, I examined the first envelope. It was addressed to Abigail Thompson, Vaca City. From Nabal. The paper was rough and almost brown. Like recycled paper, except that Nabal doesn't strike me as the sort to be environmentally conscious. Cheap, yes. But hardly what they term "politically correct." I took the letter out gingerly. The first thing that struck me about it was that it was very short.
Abigail,
I wanted you to know that everything that is mine lies at your disposal. My lands and my stock, my home and my name.
That's what I meant to say, but couldn't.
As for the question you posed, I cannot answer it except to say: I have never wanted another, nor ever will. Nor ever could.
Please, do not delay.
Nabal
I sat there rereading it, trying to figure out the references. The bathroom door creaked open, and I jerked sideways. It was Nabal. We stared at each other. He looked more confused than angry. Finally, he asked: "What are you doing there?"
"Your mother let me in."
His tone was languid, frown lines forming between the eyebrows, more from astonishment, it seemed, than from anything else. His mouth was too far ajar for it to be anger. "Did she?" And after a pause. "Why?"
He came closer, looking at what I held in my hand. I got nervous. "Underwear," I said.
"What?" he asked, abstracted. He wasn't looking at me, just at the letter in my hand, and he kept coming closer.
"She thought I should get some underwear."
He reached out his hand, palm open. The signal was unmistakable. I handed it to him. He stood there scanning the letter, speaking very slowly. "And did you get any?" he asked, folding it and putting it back in the envelope.
"What?"
He went over to the open drawer. Found the packet of letters, placed it in the pile. "Underwear," he said.
I shook my head. But since he wasn't looking at me, that didn't help. So I cleared my throat. "No. No, I haven't gotten any underwear."
He shut the drawer. Finally he looked at me. Our eyes met. "Good." He went over to the door, the hall door that is and held it open for me. "Don't ever come in here," he said. I was expecting him to say "again", but he didn't.
I went out through the door as his gestures directed. "Okay," I said.
He shut the door behind him and I heard it go click. I stood there outside for a moment. I had this strange mental image that he wanted all the lingerie to himself. That he was never going to let it go.
When I got to my room, the first thing I did was copy down that letter from memory. I'm almost certain I have it word for word. Or very nearly.
In the evening, after dinner, Pilar knocked on my door. She carried in a whole load of underthings and nightgowns in a laundry basket. "This is for you," she said shyly.
"Thanks," I said, not knowing quite how to react. "It is from my things," she said, "but do not worry, I laundered it all. It is clean."
"Thank you, Pilar," I said. "You didn't have to ... I could have managed."
She smiled. "The men," she said. "they do not always understand. We help each other, si?"
I nodded.
When you consider the number of people who have been kind to me here, I suppose it's odd I should hate it so. But then, before I got to Vacuum County, I was never dependent on kindness.
..........
I've been stewing over that letter. It probably hasn't occured to him that I got it down word for word. That it's so short, I practically have it etched in my mind.
The thing -- the thing that really strikes me as poignant is the "please." I've never heard him say "please" to anyone.
.........
He paid me a visit, the first since I moved here. It was the middle of the night. Really two a.m. -- I checked. There was a knock, and I turned on the lamp on the nightstand and I managed to glance at my watch. He walked in. I was really groggy, and he did knock you've got to give him that, but then he just went right on in. When I turned on the light he said: "Here you are." I thought that was odd. Where else would I be at that time of night.
His nose cast a funny triangular shadow. I stared at him.
"Did you read it?" he asked.
I nodded. He looked away. "You will not refer to it in future. I'll not have them make light of my love letters."
I stirred, twisting to get a better look at him from my postion on the bed. "That was a love letter?!"
He met my glance with a look that was half smile, half grimace. Then he reached for my shoulder, playing with the puffed up sleeve of my nightgown. He pulled it down a little, off the shoulder. I stiffened. He studied the sleeve with a child-like intensity, his glance directed downward, his lashes covering the fire in his eyes. He was looking at the cloth, not at me. "What's that you have on?" he asked.
"Flannel nightgown," I said. "Don't worry. It's not hers."
"Of course not," he said. "She never wore flannel."
I suppressed a smile. He sat there a moment, his hand on my bare shoulder, not moving. I wished he would bring it down lower. But it was all right that way too. Absent-mindedly, I started to play with the buttons on his shirt. I wanted to get his skin underneath. I wanted to see him and feel him and taste him. And I wanted to ask him why they call it Vacuum County. Well, that's not exactly what I wanted to ask him, but those were the only words that came to mind. "Nabal, why do they call it ..." But now he had that let's-get-down-to-business look of his. He threw aside the blanket and I shivered. He mouth down on mine, and I suddenly knew in a flash why he did it. It wasn't a kiss of tenderness or desire. It was a gag. So that I wouldn't intrude my presence into his world. So that I couldn't say or do anything to spoil it. So there could be no question of who was servicing whom. He pulled up the gown and panties down, and I shuddered. It was cold. Very cold. I could have died of the cold. And he was nearly fully dressed. And I realized that if it were possible, he would have taken me without touching me at all. Or more significantly, without letting me touch him.
I got scared all over again, trying to struggle for air. But he relented for a moment and suddenly grew gentler. I was gasping the air and he must have known that I wouldn't dare say anything now. He just stroked my hair and said very softly: "Time to earn your keep, Miss Lackland." Which doesn't sound very soothing, but somehow, it was. Because I was glad he was there. And I was glad I was there. So, after the initial shock, I welcomed it as if I really wanted it. I mean, that's how it felt. As if I really wanted him. I couldn't have really, of course. Wanted him, that is. It only felt that way.
And if this was his subtle way of telling me that my wishes were of no consequence to him, it was better than Melinda's and Seth Cain's feigned concern for my well being. For months now, I've felt as if I were crying even when I was not crying, and violated when no one was touching me. Somehow the reality of what he was doing to me was a happy relief. And ultimately, there was the warmth on the inside that washed all the way through. And he couldn't deny me that.
Everyone else acts as though I were free, as though I could do anything I wanted to. As if I had choices. Nabal doesn't. He knows I'm helpless. He knows I have nowhere to go and nothing to do and he doesn't make me pretend everything's okay.
When he was done, he sighed and lay his head on my chest for a moment. I started to stroke his hair, as though he were a dog, but he shook my hand away. He must have been too lazy to get up, or he would never have allowed me the liberty. There was an opening in his shirt from my previous efforts and I slipped my hand in and began to feel his back. Only I didn't understand what I was feeling, ridges and lines that I couldn't quite picture. I started to twist around to get a look. "What are you doing!" He seemed more than just annoyed. He held me at arms length, so that our eyes met. "What do you think you're doing?"
I gulped. "I just wanted to look at your back." I realized it sounded very silly when I said it, but then his anger seemed equally childish.
"Did you, now?" There was a dangerous look in his eye. He rolled me over gently, and started pawing up my rump. I didn't understand, and it came swiftly and I was biting down on the pillow hard, to keep from screaming. But if he thought it gave him privacy because I couldn't see him, he was wrong. Because I could hear each gasp and wheeze of his labored breath in the space a little way above my left ear.
He left me lying in a rather undignified clump on the bed, my rear end jutting up in the air. I didn't dare turn around lest I offend him. His voice, receding behind me. "In future, you keep your nose out of my back, and I will keep mine out of yours. It's the Golden Rule." He paused. "A Baptist preacher taught it to me."
I rolled around to look at him. His mouth was down turned in a half smile.
"The position?" I asked.
His eyes darkened. "I was referring to the maxim."
He turned to go. "Nabal?" I asked.
He eyed me, but didn't say "What?" He only looked as if he'd said it.
"Are you a Baptist?"
His reply was thick with irony. "Hardly."
I pushed my sweaty bangs away from my eyes. "Nabal," I said again. I liked saying it.
This time he spoke the word, annoyance building. "What?"
"Do you like Turkish Delights?"
His eyes narrowed. But his lower lip was jutting out a bit, a breach in his defenses. I felt oddly possessive of his mouth. "There was a box of Turkish Delights," I explained. "In that drawer. And the card attached said it was for your thirty-fifth birthday."
"Oh." He nodded, as though he were weighing this information in his mind. "My birthday was a week after she died. So she didn't have a chance to ..." He cut himself off.
"Do you like Turkish Delights?" I repeated.
He smiled, his mouth twisted, the eyes serious. "Very much." Then, taking a step toward the door: "Good night, Miss Lackland." And he walked out, precluding any further conversation. The door closed gently behind him.
Only, technically speaking, since it was after midnight, he should have said good morning.
FROM VACUUM COUNTY FILES
PROGRESS REPORT
VACUUM COUNTY ADULT PROBATION
SUBJECT: LACKLAND, VERITY OFFENSE: DWI
INTEROFFICE REPORT --- progress report
The subject did not keep for her regularly scheduled monthly appointment. However, two hours later, Mr. Nabal Cabeza de Vaca appeared in her place. Cabeza de Vaca, with whom the subject cohabitates, stated that she had been unable to attend because she had suffered a poisoning. The subject had wished to attend even under those dire circumstances, but had been prevailed upon to accept Cabeza de Vaca as her proxy.
Due to the subject's record, I questioned him as to the particular substance imbibed and the circumstances. Persons with substance abuse histories often attempt to compensate for periods of enforced sobriety with whatever is readily at hand, often with disastrous results.
Cabeza de Vaca responded that she had eaten a Turkish Delight laced with poisonous alkaline substance of uncertain origin. At this point, due to the unusual nature of his allegations, I asked him if I might tape-record the conversation. He reluctantly acquiesced. The following is a condensed version, transcribed by me from said recording:
---"Do you normally keep poisoned candy on hand?"
"Not normally. No."
(Pause.)
---"Why don't you tell me what happened. Save us both some time."
"Pipa Perez was visiting her parents at the ranch. She and Miss Lackland had served as waitresses together at the Brown 'N Serve. Pipa was eager to renew the acquaintance."
---"Excuse me, do you always refer to the subject as Miss Lackland?"
"Yes. ... In polite company, in any event."
---"Why?"
"Probably for the same reason that you refer to her as the subject."
---"What part did Pipa Perez play in all this?"
"Pipa left the evening before the incident. Miss Lackland fell ill before breakfast. If it were not for my mother's immediate assistance, she would likely have died. You can get a medical report from Dr. Hicks, if you like."
---"Was she taken to the hospital?"
"No. My mother is a healer. She pumped her stomach right there. It wasn't necessary, and we felt it would be better not to move her."
---"Do you think she was trying to commit suicide?"
"No."
---"Wasn't she uncomfortable with her situation there? She struck me as very troubled."
"One might have thought that. It was not a situation I would have wished on anyone I ... cared for. But no. I know it for a fact. She ... she didn't mind being my slut. It wasn't that."
---"How do you know?"
"I overheard her in the atrium with Pipa. They didn't see me. Pipa was goading Miss Lackland. Something to do with what an unpleasant task it must be to serve as my mistress. Miss Lackland said ... she said she'd rather be my slut than rule the world."
---That's an odd choice of words, don't you think?
"Yes. Especially since no one was offering her the other alternative."
---"Don't you think she might have made that statement for Pipa's benefit? To assuage her injured pride?"
"That did occur to me. It would be a plausible explanation. Except that Miss Lackland doesn't lie." (Pause.) "Of course, theoretically it leaves open the question of suicide. Someone who'd rather be my slut than rule the world, may still prefer to die than be my slut."
---"Where did she get the candy."
"She found it in a drawer. It was a gift to me from my ...wife."
---"Your wife?"
"My deceased wife. Abigail. The one I shot. You've heard of that, perhaps."
---"Oh. Right."
"They've run a test on the candy. Each piece was poisoned." (Clears his throat) "Apparently, it isn't very pleasant to serve as my wife, either. I brought a copy of the lab report for your records. Miss Lackland has been unwell for the past two days. This afternoon she came to and suddenly remembered that she had an appointment with you. She was going to try to come in her weakened condition. She got up and nearly fainted. She said the Judge had told her if she missed another meeting, she would go to jail. You're not going to revoke her probation over this?"
--"We'll have to look into it."
"I promised her I wouldn't let you revoke her probation."
--"How could you promise her that?"
(Pause.)
"I don't know."
__________