Secret Dreams (53 page)

Suddenly she decided Mama shouldn't see,- after all, hadn't she just gone out? Then Brother fell off his chair. Good riddance, then; if you can't sit straight go back in the toilet. Now only Sister and Papa were watching, Sister doll on Papa's lap, as it should be.

She unstoppered the perfume bottle and did what Mother did. Going under Püppchen's dress and underneath her own. Then touching with the handle of the brush. A pleasant tingling weariness came over her,- the long silver handle felt better on herself than on the stiff lifeless doll. She rubbed her thigh, higher up and deeper, until there came a long, sighing ache. She glanced in her dresser mirror, but it seemed clouded over in mist. A silvery, shuddering, slippery wetness lay over everything. Oh, Püppchen, dear, how sweet you are! The doll's brown eyes glistened, and her long hair was splayed across the floor. Oh, Ninny, dear, how nice it is when you brush my hair….

Now she did it for Papa doll to see. The silver handle going up her smock, the tender itch growing safe and warm all over. The brush handle went on, turning the room into a creamy soft mitten. Vaguely she noticed Papa Doll wasn't sitting in his chair by the dollhouse. The odor of his pipe drifted through the air, smoky and reassuring. He stood in the empty hall, looking into her room. Papa Doll had become the real Papa….

Watching her as smoke rose in wisps from his pipe.

Little It gave him a smile and he smiled back, his eyes blessing her. See! He
did
want her to take the brush, to be like Mother, soft and loose…. When she looked up through the soft mitten haze, he just smiled and she kept on. Did he want to use the handle too?

Downstairs, the front door slammed.

Mother! Back so soon?

Father plucked the brush from her hand, right from between her legs. His face, even his lips, were gray. He put the brush on Mothers dresser. No, not the dresser! On the vanity! But Father caught her at the door, whispering brutally, “It's all right! All right!”

But she knew it wasn't.

Mother came into the hall. She stared at them for a long time, till Father slowly lowered Little It to the floor. “I can hold her, can't I?”

“If you wish,” Mother said dully.

For a few moments she looked over her things: the bed, the night-stand, the glass vanity … sensing the ripple of some disturbance. She went to the dresser and touched the silver handle lightly, almost caressing it.

Tm tired. I want a nap,” she said.

And closed the door on them both.

Another day. Another hat and gloves to the door. Mother paused before she left. ‘‘Now promise me you'll be a good girl while I'm gone.”

And Little It said back, “I promise.”

The front door slammed. Father brought the brush. Somehow he always knew when Mother had really gone and how long they could play. Then he'd say, “That's enough,” coming from his place by the door to take the long-handled brush gently back. But after a while, just the words “That's enough now” made her cool and stop. And he knew the brush's proper place — on the glass vanity, near the stoppered bottle of the dove.

When Mother finally came home, Little It was playing safely alone in her room, while Father kept away, sitting in his green leather chair. Reading from the book he brought down from the shelf. A large picture book that he wandered through, turning its pages …

But one day when both were out, Little It took the brush alone. She went on for a long time, until she was very sore and tender. Then quietly as a mouse she slid back to the glass vanity.

A floorboard creaked. Mother.

Little It snatched her hand behind her back. But Mother smiled kindly, as if everything were right and good…. She lifted the brush from its place on her table. Yes, offering. “Would you like this, darling? I'll let you have it if you show me/' Mother tempted.

Little It wanted it. The silver brush should've been hers. Ought to've been hers. “No,” she told Mother.

“But why won't you show me, darling?”

“I'm not darling. I'm Little It.”

“But why won't Little It show Mommy?”

“Because …”

“Because why? Because you only show Daddy? Because you think I'm angry? I'm not angry. Show Mommy how you show Daddy. And I'll give you the brush. Don't you want the brush?”

She did. She did. She did.

“No,” she told Mother.

But then Mother fetched Puppchen, offering the dolly and the brush. “Show Mommy on Puppchen. Show me on your dolly.” That seemed easier,- reluctantly Little It took the dolly and the brush. Going up the dolly's dress. And then her own, saying, “Now it's my turn….” The hazy mist curled from beneath her smock, weaving in the air. Distantly she heard Mother say, “Oh, I see. I see. You saw me. You saw….”

Little It nodded in agreement, not meaning to, but nodding.

Mother took the silver brush, laughing through her teeth. Little It giggled in the cottony haze. She found she didn't need the brush handle at all, that fingers were good enough. Better, even. Puppchen slipped from her arm. Mother pushed the silver handle under the dolly's dress,- laughing, always laughing. She brushed the dolly's long, thick hair. “What long, thick hair she has. Just like yours. So pretty. But don't you think Püppchen's hair needs cutting? Just a snip-snip here, a little trim there?”

A pair of scissors clicked in her fingers.

The soft haze was breaking up. “Oh, Mother, please don't. Don't cut Püppchen's hair!”

“But Little It, darling, just a little trim.” Snip-snip went the scissors. A few locks of the dolly's hair fell to the floor.

“I don't want the brush.”

Snip-snip went the scissors. More hair fell. One side of Püppchen's head all bristles. “But we have to even her out. We can't have her walking around like this.” Snip-snip went the scissors. She trimmed the other side of the dolly's head. Wisps of hair clung to Mothers white hand. “So you see, darling, Püppchen doesn't need my brush so often now. And so we can leave it on the table.” Little It looked at the dolly, feeling the hard bristles on her scalp. Mother toyed with Little It's hair. “And so if the scissors go snip-snip on you — then you won't need Mommy's brush either….”

“But M-m-m, you promised —”

Mother raised the brush, calling for silence,- then quietly explained: “If we do this” — the brush stroked the inside of her own thigh as Little It had done — “then we do this!” Mother struck herself. “If we do this” — she stroked Little It's bare thigh under her smock with the flat side of the brush — “then we do this!” She smacked the naked thigh, the mark glowing from white to red.

“If we do this” — now back to stroking her own thigh — “then we do this!” Mother struck herself again.

“If we do this —” The brush stroked Little It's red thigh.

“Then we do this!” Smack went the brush!

“If this — then this!” Smack! Smack! “If this — then this!” Smack! Smack! Little It crawled to the farthest corner of the bed, cowering. “Stop! Stop!” Then Mother flew into a rage, striking her own thighs, her breasts, her throat, the place between her legs, crying, “This and this and this! I hate them all!”

A silence fell. The brush waved slowly in Mother's hand. “Do you want it now?” She asked. Little It clutched Püppchen to her chest, shaking her head no. “You said you did. Say you want it. Say it now!” Little It scuttled under the bed, dragging the dolly with her. “So you want the brush? I'll give you the brush! Here it is!” The brush was flung against her back. Fingers snatched her ankle. Little It wrenched away, banging her ear against the bedframe. A sharp light went through her head. She was going to throw up all over poor bald Püppchen. But Mother dragged her out instead. She hit her head again, trying to break free. Mother towered over her like a great mountain, looming into the clouds. The silver brush sailed like the moon in a dark sky, and Mother's voice whispered far away. “Do you like the brush … ? Do you want it now.

The sky above went blacker and blacker.

“I'm sorry,” she mumbled to the dolly. “Sorry. Sorry …”

Little It woke up in bed. The same day or another day? Her body felt stiff and sore. She took Püppchen off the shelf. “Are you all right?” The dolly said nothing
_/
its glass eyes glistening as though filled to the brink. She tried to comfort poor Püppchen, petting her bristly head. Then taking her to the dresser mirror, saying nice things to make her feel better. “See, you don't look so bad. It'll grow back. Really it will.” The doll examined herself carefully in the glass, then turned white in the face with rage. The dolly began to shake all over, wailing:

“Look, Ninny! Look!”

Hair lay all over the room. In the bed. On the pillow. The floor by the dollhouse. Cut and lying like dark hay. She felt the skin along the top of her head. Patting it made a flat sound like cardboard. No hair to brash. No hair. No brush. Her eyes filled to overflowing. The mirror sparkled; she saw hot tears running down Püppchen's cheeks. “We have no hair,” sobbed the doll.

“No hair! No hair!”

Herr Doktor leaned back in his chair, peering through a slit in the blinds. À narrow band of light fell on his face, making him look like a hawk. “Your twiddle is left over from masturbating,” he said matter-of-factly.

Oh, God — what an ugly word. Not touching. Not loving. But that ugly, ugly word. Mustardbeating.

“It's not like my t-twiddle. Not like it at all!”

She was lying.

Of course it was.

Her twiddle just like Mas-Turd-Bating. Monster-Biting,

Just like it.

She left his office and went out into the heat, twiddling in the tram all the way home as drops of sweat ran down her body. If only he could see her now. Doing it in public. On a crowded tramcar with people staring at her. She didn't care. She twiddled as she walked down the street. In front of passing carriages, in front of shop windows, in front of a dog lifting its leg against her building, even as she clomped up the stairs past melting doorways — all the way into her suffocating bed. And there she pulled up damp sheets, twiddling, twiddling. Then using the long-handled brush just as she had as a child. Once, twice, thrice, till her hand went numb.

Fräulein wanted Herr Doktors office always dark now. The July heat lay like rank grass in a field. Through the darkened room came the sounds of horses in the street and the faint bell of the tram as it went down the rails. Nice sounds, comforting. Echoes of the larger world; a place of escape when the sickening tale of the day was done.

“What made M-mother like this?” she pleaded into the gloom. “Why didn't F-father take me away? Didn't he love me?”

Herr Doktor made no answer.

“Don't you think I know the truth?” Her voice sank as though telling him a dirty secret. “Of course Father loved me. But we couldn't go away because of the problem with his foot. Remember when I told you that? The problem of his foot. So we sat at breakfast. Me, mostly bald. My head itched. But Mother never let me scratch….”

The cuckoo clock ticked stolidly on: tock-tock-tock. The hour struck. The cuckoo bird had been plucked clean. Little It thought he looked ridiculous with yellow nubs, but she was the only one who noticed. “Everything's cuckoo!” he croaked and shut the door. Mother held a long tress of hair in her fingers and wistfully brushed the tips with the silver hairbrush. Father sat staring silently into his egg cup. Mother hummed the melody from the tin-cylinder phonograph. Between bits she said:

“I know you watch her.”

“That's a lie,” Father said into his egg cup.

Mother taunted him. “No lie, no lie. She told Mummy, didn't she?” Father's face went papery. She went on taunting him in a flat singsong. “I know you want it from her, but Papa's not going to get it. I know she'll give it to you, but Mama won't let her. Mama knows she's just a little slut just begging for it all the time. And you d take it from her, wouldn't you? You're nothing but a little-girl-licker. A little-bitch-kisser. Nothing but a slit-tickler!”

Singing scornfully:

“Nothing but a Pedi Pedi Pederast!”

“The reason we could never go away,” Fräulein Schanderein said into the gloom, “was that my father was a pederast. Ped. Greek for foot, understand? The problem was his dirty foot. He used little girls. So how could we go away?”

Herr Doktor sat silently in the shadow. She felt him watching her, scrutinizing her through the dark room. “Well, why don't you say something?” She was sure he was about to call her a liar or an idiot. But instead he cleared his throat and said quietly:

“Pod
is the Greek word for foot. The word ‘Pederast' comes from a different root altogether.
Paiderastes
, Specifically, however, a lover of boys. Not little girls. You've got your genders confused.”

Fräulein flew into a fit. “Genders!” she shrieked. “Who cares spit if I've got my genitals confused? Ask my brother. Father was doing it to
him
. That's why they never allowed him out of his room. That's why Mother always beat me. To keep me good. That's why she and Father never spoke. Father was going into my brother's room every day. Twice a day! And I was next. Soon my brother would be all used up, and Î was
next
…”

Fräulein broke off. She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and began to spit into it as if to rid her mouth of dirt. Indeed, her mouth tasted bitter and soapy and completely revolting. She had the distinct impression of a stranger's hands probing roughly up her dress, pawing feverishly at her underthings. She felt the horrible sticky sweat between her clenched thighs and the man's thick, dirty fingers.

“How do you know your father molested your brother? Did you ever see them?”