The Story of RINA MARLOWE 3 page

"But— " he stammered. "But— how?"

She smiled again, her fingers taking the handkerchief from his breast pocket.

Geraldine looked up at the mantel clock. It was just eight thirty. She heard the screen door slam and Rina came into the room. Her daughter's eyes were bright and shining and her face wore a happy smile. The smile was infectious and Geraldine smiled back at her.

"Did you have a good time at the movies, dear?"

Rina nodded. "A wonderful time, Mother," she said excitedly. "It was such fun. You don't know how great it is to be able to see a picture without all those brats squalling and running up and down the aisles like they do in the afternoons."

Geraldine laughed. "It was only yesterday that you were one of those brats."

Rina's face suddenly turned serious. "But I'm not any more, am I, Mother?"

Geraldine nodded her head gently. "No, darling. You're quite grown up now."

Rina spun around happily. "That's right, Mother," she said gaily. "I'm quite grown up now."

Geraldine laughed. "Now up to bed with you, young lady. You still need your rest."

"O.K., Mother." Rina bent over her and quickly kissed her cheek. "Good night."

She crossed the room and kissed her father's cheek. "Good night, Father."

She ran out of the room and they could hear her feet running up the stairs. Harrison Marlowe lowered his paper. "She seems quite happy."

"Why shouldn't she be?" Geraldine said. "Her first date. Every girl is excited after her first date."

He put down the paper. "What do you say we go out on the porch for a bit of air?"

They came out into the night. "Laddie?" she called.

"Over here, Mother."

She turned and saw him rising from the chaise. "Did you have a good time?"

"All right," he said shortly.

"Rina wasn't any bother, was she?"

"No."

"You don't sound happy about having to take her with you."

"It was O.K., Mother," he said tensely.

"Sometimes, son," his father said, "we have to do things even if we don't like it. One of them is looking after your sister. That's a brother's job."

"I said it was all right, Father," he snapped.

"Laddie!" his mother exclaimed in surprise.

Laddie looked down at the floor. "I'm sorry, Father," he said in a low voice.

She moved over and looked into his face. "Are you feeling all right, Laddie?" she asked with concern. "You look flushed and warm to me and your face is all perspired. Here, let me wipe it for you." Her hand sought his breast-pocket handkerchief. "Why, Laddie, what happened to your handkerchief? I saw it in your pocket when you left."

For a moment there was something in his eyes that reminded her of a stricken animal, then it was gone. "I— I guess I lost it," he stammered.

She touched his forehead. "Are you sure you haven't a fever?"

"I think you'd better go up to bed, son," his father said.

"Yes, Father." He turned to his mother and kissed her. "Good night," he said and went quickly into the house.

"I wonder what's the matter with him?"

Harrison Marlowe snorted. "I know what's the matter with him."

"You do?"

He nodded. "He's spoiled, that's what. He's so used to having everything the way he wants it, he sulks when he has to do a little thing like chaperon his sister. He's angry because he couldn't sit over in the Randall's yard and spoon with Tommy's cousin Joan."

"Harry, you're being horrid!"

"No I’m not," he said. "Take it from me. I know boys. What he needs is a little discipline." He began to pack his pipe. "And you're doing the same with Rina. Giving her everything she wants. She'll be spoiled soon, too."

"I know what's bothering you," she said. "You just don't like the idea of them growing up. You'd like to keep them children forever."

"No. But you have to admit they are spoiled."

"Maybe they are a little," she admitted.

He smiled. "Well, anyway, it's a good thing they'll be going back to school next month. Barrington's good for Laddie."

"Yes," she agreed. "And I'm glad Rina's been accepted at Jane Vincent's school. They'll make a little lady out of her."

For Laddie, it was a summer of pain and torture, of wild physical sensation and excruciating, conscience-stricken agonies. He couldn't sleep, he couldn't eat, he was afraid to look at her in the mornings and then, when he saw her, he couldn't bear to let her out of his sight. Jealous tortures flamed inside him when he saw her smiling or talking to other boys. Visions born of his knowledge of her would fill his mind and he could see them with her the way he had been. An uneasy, frightened contentment would steal through him when they were together.

And lurking all the while in the deep recesses of his mind was the fear — the fear of discovery, the fear of seeing the hurt and shock and loathing come to the faces of his parents once they knew.

But when she looked at him, smiled at him, touched him, all that was suddenly gone and he would do anything in the world to please her. He abased himself, groveled before her, wept with the agony of his self-flagellation. Then the fear would return. Because there was no escaping the fact. She was his sister. It was wrong.

It was with a feeling of relief that he saw the crazy summer come to an end. It was over, he thought. Away from her, he would be able to find himself again, to control the fevers that she set raging in his blood. When they would come again to the beach next summer, it would be different. He would be different, she would be different.

No more, he would say to her. No more. It's wrong.

That was what he believed when he returned to school at the end of that summer.

"I’M PREGNANT," SHE SAID. "I’M GOING TO HAVE a baby."

Laddie felt a dull ache spread over him. Somehow, this was the way he'd always known it would turn out. Ever since that first summer two years ago. He looked up at her, squinting his eyes against the sun. "How do you know?"

She spoke quietly, as if she were just talking about the weather. "I’m late," she said simply. "I've never been late before."

He looked down at his hands. They were sun-darkened against the white sand. "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know," she answered. Her white-blond hair glittered in the sunlight as she turned and looked out at the ocean. "If nothing happens by tomorrow, I guess I'll have to tell Mother."

"Will you— will you tell her about us?"

"No," she said swiftly, in a low voice. She picked the next question from his lips. "I'll tell her it was Tommy, or Bill, or Joe," she answered, still not looking at him.

Despite himself, he felt a twinge of jealousy. "Did you— with all of them?" he asked hesitantly.

Her dark eyes fixed on his own now. "No," she said emphatically. "Of course not. Only with you."

"What if she talks to them? Then she'll know you're lying."

"She won't," Rina said positively. "Especially when I tell her I don't know which one it was."

He stared at her. In so many ways, she was older than he. "What do you think she'll do?"

Rina shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know. There's not very much she can do, I guess."

He watched her walk down the beach to meet some friends, then rolled over in the sand and placed his head on his arms. He groaned aloud. It had happened. Somewhere in the back of his mind he had always known it would. He remembered the night just a few short weeks ago.

They had come down to the beach that summer as they did every year. But this time, it was going to be different. He had sworn it to himself. And he had told her, too.

"No more," he said. "It's stupid, it's kid stuff. You stick to your friends and I’ll stick to mine. We'll only get in trouble if we keep it up."

She had agreed. Even promised. And he had to admit she had kept her word. It was he who had broken his vow. And all because of that damned bottle of orange pop.

It had been a rainy afternoon and they were alone in the cottage. It was hot and humid and the air clung heavily to his body, sheathing it in an invisible choking blanket. His shirt and trousers were wringing with perspiration when he went into the kitchen. He opened the icebox but the usual bottle of orange pop he kept there was gone. He closed the icebox door angrily.

He went upstairs and past her open door before his mind absorbed what his eyes had seen. He walked back and stood in the open doorway. She was naked on the bed, half reclining, the bottle of orange pop in her hand. She was staring at it intently.

He felt the pulse begin to hammer in his head, the perspiration break out anew beneath his clothing. "What are you doing with my orange pop?" he asked. He knew he sounded stupid, even as he spoke.

She moved her head slightly on the pillow and looked at him. Her eyes were heavy-lidded and hazy. "Drinking it," she answered huskily, putting it to her mouth. "What do you think?"

The soda overflowed her mouth and ran in orange driblets down her cheeks, across her breasts to the convex of her belly and onto the white sheet. She smiled at him and held out the bottle. "Want some?"

As if he were someone else, he saw himself cross the room and lift the bottle to his lips. It was warm from her touch. He felt the sweetness of the liquid spill into his mouth. He looked down at her.

She was smiling up at him. 'You're excited," she said softly. "And you said you wouldn't be any more. But you are."

Some of the orange soda spilled down across his shirt as he suddenly realized he had betrayed himself. He turned to go but her hand caught him around the thigh. He almost screamed with the sudden inflaming agony of her touch.

"Just this once more," she whispered. "And then never again."

He stood frozen, afraid to move, afraid he would stumble and fall because of the trembling within him. "No," he said hoarsely.

"Please," she whispered, her fingers opening, searching.

He stood there as if paralyzed. An anguished moan came from deep within him. There would be no more of this, no more humiliation, no more groveling before her. This time she would learn to leave him alone.

With one hand, he seized her wrists and bent her back to the bed. Her eyes were still confident, still unafraid as they watched him. Suddenly, he pressed his lips to hers. Her mouth was warm and moist and still tasted of the orange soda. Then he moved his head and his lips were traveling down her body, across her throat, over her breasts.

It was then she began to fight him. "No!" she whispered, writhing away from him. "No! Don't touch me!"

But he didn't even hear her. He could feel the red rage pumping in his temples; there was a congestion in his chest. He felt her hand pull loose and rake his chest, leaving a clean, hot path of pain in its wake. Bewildered, he looked down at himself and saw the bloody traces of her fingernails on his flesh. A terrible anger rose up in him.

"You cock-teaser!" he yelled, swinging his free hand. The blow caught her on the side of her face. knocking her back against the bed. She stared up at him with frightened eyes.

"You bitch!" he said, tearing his belt from his trousers. He raised her arms over her head and lashed her wrists to the iron bedpost. He picked up the half-empty bottle from the bed where it had fallen. "Still thirsty?"

She shook her head.

He tilted the bottle and began to laugh as the orange soda ran down over her. "Drink!" he said. "Drink all you can!"

The bottle flew from his hands as she kicked it away. He caught at her legs and pinned them against the bed with his knees. He laughed wildly. "Now, my darling little sister, there'll be no more games."

"No more games," she gasped, staring up into his eyes. His face came down and his mouth covered hers. She felt herself begin to relax.

Then the fierce, sharp pain penetrated her body. She screamed. His hand came down heavily over her mouth, as again and again the pain ripped through her.

And all that was left was the sound of her voice, screaming silently in the confines of her throat, and the ugliness and horror of his body on her own.

Laddie rolled over on the sand. It was all over now. Tomorrow his mother would know. And it would be his fault. They would blame him and they would be right. No matter what, he shouldn't have let it happen. A shadow fell across him and he looked up.

Rina was standing there. She dropped to the sand beside him. "What are we going to do?"

"I don't know," he said dully.

She reached a hand out to his. "I shouldn't have let you do it," she whispered.

"You couldn't have stopped me," he said. "I must have been crazy." He looked at her. "If we were anybody else, we could run away and get married."

"I know."

His voice turned bitter. "It isn't as if we were really brother and sister. If only they hadn't adopted— "

"But they did," Rina said quickly, and with a sure knowledge. "Besides, we can't blame it on them. It wasn't their fault." She felt the tears come into her eyes. She sat there silently as they rolled down her cheeks.

"Don't cry."

"I— I can't help it," she whispered. "I'm scared."

"I am, too," he said. "But crying won't help."

The tears kept rolling silently down her cheeks. After a moment, she heard his voice. She looked at him. His lips moved awkwardly. "Even if you are my sister, you know that I love you?"

She didn't answer.

"I've always loved you, I guess. I couldn't help it. Somehow, the other girls were nothing when I compared them with you."

"I guess the reason I was so bad was because I was jealous of the girls you went with," she confessed. "I didn't want them to have you. That's why I did what I did. I couldn't let any other boy touch me. I couldn't stand them."

His hand tightened on her fingers. "Maybe it'll turn out all right yet," he said, trying for reassurance.

"Maybe," she said, a dull hopelessness in her voice.

Then they ran out of language and they turned and watched the surf run away with their childhood.

Laddie sat at the helm of his small sailboat and watched his mother in the bow. He felt a gust of wind take the sail and automatically he compensated for the drift while scanning the sky. There were squall clouds coming up ahead. Time to head for the dock. Slowly he began to come about.

"Turning back?" he heard his mother call.

"Yes, Mother," he replied. It seemed strange to have her aboard. But she had wanted to come. It was almost as if she had sensed there was something troubling him.

"You've been pretty quiet this morning," she said.

He didn't meet her gaze. "I have to concentrate on the boat, Mother."

"I don't know what's the matter with you children," she said. "You're both so moody lately."

He didn't answer. He kept his eyes on the squall clouds up ahead. He thought about Rina. Then himself. Then his parents. A sorrow began to well up inside him. He felt his eyes begin to burn and smart.

His mother's voice was shocked. "Why, Laddie, you're crying!"

Then the dam broke and the sobs racked his chest. He felt his mother's hand draw his head down to her breast as she had done so often when he was a baby. "What's the matter, Laddie? What's wrong?" she asked softly.

"Nothing," he gasped, trying to choke back the tears. "Nothing."

She stroked his head gently. "Something is wrong," she said softly. "I know there is. You can tell me, Laddie. Whatever it is, you can tell me. I’ll understand and try to help."

"There's nothing you can do," he cried. "Nothing anybody can do now!"

"Try me and see." He didn't speak, his eyes searching her face for something, she didn't know what. A curious dread came into her. "Has it— is it something to do with Rina?"

It was as if the muscles that held his face together all dissolved at once. "Yes, yes!" he cried. "She's going to have a baby! My baby, Mother," he added through tight lips. "I raped her, she's going to have my baby!"

"Oh, no!"

"Yes, Mother," he said, his face suddenly stony.

The tears sprang to her eyes and she covered her face with her hands. This couldn't happen to her children. Not her children. She had wanted everything for them, given them everything. After a moment, she regained control of herself. "I think we'd better turn back," she managed to say quietly.

"We are, Mother," he said. He looked down at his hands on the tiller. The words slipped from him now. "I don't know what got into me, Mother." He stared at her with agonized eyes, his voice strained and tense. "But growing up isn't what it's cracked up to be, it's not what it says in books. Growing up's such a crock of shit!"

He stopped in shock at his own language. "I'm sorry, Mother."

"It's all right, son."

They were silent for a moment and the waves slapped wildly against the hull of the boat. "You mustn't blame Rina, Mother," he said, raising his voice. "She's only a kid. Whatever happened was my fault."

She looked up at her son. A glimmer of intuition pierced the gray veil that seemed to have fallen in front of her eyes. "Rina's a very beautiful girl, Laddie," she said. "I think anyone would find it difficult not to love your sister."

Laddie met his mother's eyes. "I love her, Mother," he said quietly. "And she really isn't my sister."

Geraldine didn't speak.

"Is it terribly wrong to say that, Mother?" he asked. "I don't love her like a sister. I love her" — he searched for a word — "different."

Different, Geraldine thought. It was as good a word as any.

"Is it terribly wrong, Mother?" Laddie asked again.

She looked at her son, feeling a sorrow for him that she could not explain. "No, Laddie," she said quietly. "It’s just one of those things that can't be helped."

He took a deep breath, beginning to feel better. At least she understood, she hadn't condemned him. "What are we going to do, Mother?" he asked.

She looked into his eyes. "The first thing we have to do is let Rina know we understand. The poor child must be frightened out of her mind."

He reached forward and took his mother's hand, pressing it to his lips. "You're so good to us, Mother," he whispered, looking gratefully into her eyes.

They were the last words he ever spoke. For just at that moment, the squall came roaring in from the starboard side and capsized the boat.

Rina watched stolidly as the lobstermen brought the pitifully small bodies to the shore and laid them on the beach. She looked down at them. Laddie and Mother. A vague spinning began to roar inside her. A cramp suddenly seized her groin and she doubled over, sinking to her knees in the sand beside the still figures. She closed her eyes, weeping as a terrible moisture began to seep from her.

MARGARET BRADLEY LOOKED DOWN WEARILY AT the papers on her desk. They were covered with the hen-tracked hieroglyphics of the girls who trooped through her science classes. Abruptly she pushed them to one side and got to her feet. She walked over to the window and looked out restlessly. She was bored, tired of the never-ending, day-in, day-out routine.

Looking out into the gray dusk of evening, she wondered why Sally's letter hadn't arrived yet. It had been more than two weeks since she'd heard from her and usually letters came regularly twice a week. Could it be that Sally had found someone else? Another friend with whom she could share those intime whispered secrets?

There was a hesitant knock at the door and she turned toward it. "Yes?"

"A special-delivery letter for you, Miss Bradley." It was the quavering voice of Thomas, the porter.

Quickly she opened the door and took the letter. "Thank you very much, Thomas," she said, closing the door.

She leaned against it, looking down at the letter in her hand. She began to feel brighter. It was Sally's handwriting. She crossed to her desk and rapidly tore open the envelope.

Dear Peggy,
Yesterday I was married. . . .

The knock at the door was so low that at first she did not hear it. It came again, a little louder this time. She raised her head from the desk. "Who is it?" she called in her husky voice.

"Rina Marlowe, Miss Bradley. May I see you for a moment?"

Wearily the teacher got to her feet. "Just a moment," she called.

She walked into the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, her lipstick slightly smeared. She looked older than her twenty-six years. She turned on the tap and cleaned the make-up from her face with a washcloth. She stared at herself. For ten years, she and Sally had been inseparable. Now it was over.

She replaced the washcloth on the rack and walked out to the door. "Come in," she said, opening it.

Rina looked into the teacher's face. Miss Bradley looked as if she had been crying. "I'm sorry if I disturbed you," she said. "I can come back later if you like."

The teacher shook her head. "No, that's all right," she answered. She crossed to the small desk and sat down behind it. "What is it?"

Rina shut the door behind her slowly. "I was wondering if I could be excused from the dance Saturday night?"

Margaret Bradley stared at her. For a moment, she couldn't believe her ears. Missing the monthly dance was considered the ultimate punishment. The girls would do anything rather than lose that privilege. It was the only time boys were allowed within the confines of the school. "I don't understand," she said.

Rina looked down at the floor. "I just don't want to go, that's all."

It wasn't because the boys didn't like her. The teacher knew it was quite the opposite. The slim, blond sixteen-year-old standing before her was surrounded by boys at every dance. She came from a good family. The Marlowes were well known in Boston. Her father was a banker, a widower.

"That's a rather strange request," she said. "You must have a reason."

Rina still looked down at the floor. She didn't answer.

Margaret Bradley forced a smile to her lips. "Come now," she said in a friendly voice. "You can talk to me. I'm not that much older than you that I wouldn't understand."

Rina looked up at her and she was surprised by the deep revelation of fear in the girl's eyes. Then it was gone and she looked down at the floor again.

The teacher got up and walked around the desk. She took Rina's hand and led her to a seat. "You're afraid of something," she said gently.

"I can't stand them touching me," she whispered.

"Them?" Margaret Bradley asked, her voice puzzled. "Who?"

"Boys. They all want to touch me and my skin creeps." Rina looked up suddenly. "It would be all right if they just wanted to dance or to talk but they're always trying to get you alone someplace."

"What boys?" The teacher's voice was suddenly harsh. "We'll soon put a stop to their coming here."

Rina got up suddenly. "I’d better go," she said nervously. "I didn't think it would work, anyway."

She started for the door. "Wait a minute!" Margaret Bradley's voice was commanding. Rina turned and looked back at her. "Did any of them do more than— than just touch you?"

Rina shook her head.

"How old are you?"

"Sixteen," Rina answered.

"I guess by now you know that boys are always like that."

Rina nodded.

"I felt the same way when I was your age."

"You did?" Rina asked. A note of relief came into her voice. "I thought I was the only one. None of the other girls feel the way I do."

'They’re fools!" The teacher's voice was full of a harsh anger, but she checked herself sharply. There was no sense in allowing her bitterness to expose her. "I was just going to make myself a cup of tea," she said. "Would you care to join me?"

Rina hesitated. "If it wouldn't be too much trouble."

"It won't be any trouble at all," Margaret Bradley said. "Now, you just sit down and make yourself comfortable. I'll have the tea ready in a minute."

She went into the small kitchenette. To her surprise, she found herself humming as she turned on the burner beneath the teakettle.

"I think a summer in Europe between now and the time she goes to Smith in the fall would be of great benefit to her," Margaret Bradley said.

Harrison Marlowe leaned back in his chair and looked at the teacher across the white expanse of the dinner table, then at Rina, seated opposite her. What he saw inspired a kind of confidence in him. A plain, not unattractive young woman in her late twenties, he imagined. She wore simple, tailored clothes, almost mannish in their effect, that seemed to proclaim her profession. She had none of the foolish mannerisms that so many of the young women had today. There was nothing of the flapper about her. She was very serious and businesslike.

"Her mother and I often spoke about Rina going to Europe," he began tentatively.

"No girl is considered quite finished if she hasn't spent some time there," the teacher said assuredly.

Marlowe nodded slowly. It was a great responsibility bringing up a daughter. Somehow he had never realized it until several months ago, when he had come into the parlor and found Rina there.

She was wearing a dark-blue dress that somehow made her seem older than her years. Her white-blond hair shone in the semidimness.

"Hello, Father."

"Rina!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing home?"

"I got to thinking how awful it must be for you to come into this great big empty house and find yourself all alone," she said, "so I thought I'd take a few days off from school."

"But— but what about your studies?" he asked.

"I can make them up easily enough."

"But— "

"Aren't you glad to see me, Father?" she asked, interrupting.

"Of course I am," he said quickly.

"Then why don't you kiss me?" She turned her cheek toward him. He kissed her cheek. As he straightened up, she held him with her arm. "Now I'll kiss you."

She kissed him on the mouth and her lips were warm. Then she laughed suddenly. "Your mustache tickles!"

He smiled down at her. "You always said that," he said fondly. "Ever since you were a little girl."

"But I'm not a little girl any longer, am I, Father?"

He looked at her, beautiful, almost a woman in her dark-blue dress. "I guess not," he said.

She turned to the sideboard. "I thought you might like a drink before dinner."

The bottles of liquor were all ready for him. He walked over to the sideboard. She even had cracked ice in the bucket. "What's for dinner?" he asked.

"I had Molly make your favorite. Roast chicken, rissolé potatoes."

"Good," he said, reaching for a bottle of whisky. Her voice stopped his hand.

Date: 2015-12-24; view: 858