The Carousel

On a table in the center of the upstairs sitting room stood the carousel. High as a wedding cake, and of purest silver, it drew to itself every ray of the lamplight, returning each, magnified and glittering, to the dimmest corners of the room. It was a paragon of the silversmith’s art. The horses pranced; the children riding wore ribboned hats; pennants above the rooftop balustrade appeared to fly as though a wind were moving through; all was fretwork, filigree, and rococo.

Absurd, extravagant toy. Yet it had linked the momentous events of a life. The birth of love. Grief. And now, murder …

March 1990

S
he was not ready to go home, and not ready to face anybody, neither the five-year-old nor the infant, not prepared to answer the telephone or speak a civil word, after what had just happened during this past hour. Never had Sally Grey felt so wretched, so small, as if she had physically shrunk, as she sat huddled behind the wheel of the car and fled the city.

On the first plateau in the chain of mountains that stretched toward Canada, a scenic overlook had been set aside, very likely for the benefit of tourists. On this waning, windy afternoon it was deserted, and here she stopped the car. Below lay Scythia, an old city, its small factories ringed by tracts of new-built bungalows and highways; beyond them to the east, west, and south came farms. In the north, the dark mountains.

Lights winked on in scattered spots, but to
Sally’s left, where lay the headquarters of Grey’s Foods, light was a solid yellow oblong, marking the place to which one quarter of the city’s population was in some way connected, either employed by the company or related to someone who was. As to that, the other three quarters of Scythia had been touched in some way by the Grey family’s generosity: the library, the hospital, the neighborhood swimming pools, all were gifts from the Greys.

“You’re thinking such things don’t happen in families like yours. I understand,” that woman, that doctor, had said.

No, Sally had thought, you don’t understand. You thought I was feeling some sort of superiority, above the flaws of the common people, that I was feeling some sort of nasty, idiotic snobbishness. But I was thinking only of how happy we have been, of how
pure
our life has been.
Pure.
Such a Victorian word! But all the same, it fitted. There had been nothing dirty in their lives until now.

Somewhere within that compact mass of light, at this very moment Dan was working at his desk, not knowing. Tonight he would have to know. And if it should be true—no, of course it cannot be true, of course not—it would devastate him. His baby! His darling Tina.

No, there’s no doubt in my mind. Your Tina has been molested. Sexually abused.

Dr. Lisle had already explained herself at length, but still Sally had simply stared at her. She
had a homely, square face and a cool manner, this woman who, although no older than Sally, was dressed in authority, buttressed by professional knowledge.

Scolding me, that’s how she sounds, as if I were a schoolgirl instead of a woman who has had her own experiences, has traveled all over the world in peace and war with her cameras, having her photographs published all over the world. Well, I guess the truth is we simply don’t like each other. What kind of a crazy thing is this to tell me?

And as if looking for help, she stared about the spare, plain office. Its inexpensive desk and chairs were new. Its diplomas and certificates were recent. The view led over the back of a run-down three-story commercial building in the run-down heart of town. It was an uncomfortable, dispiriting place with no help in it. But the doctor had been so well recommended!

“This is incredible,” Sally said abruptly.

“No, it’s credible.”

“I can’t believe you. I won’t believe you. How can you even think of such a thing?”

“It’s natural for you to resist. What parent would want to believe it?”

“It’s incredible.”

“It’s credible, Mrs. Grey.”

“I live with Tina! I bathe her, and I’ve never seen a sign of—”

“There doesn’t have to be penetration. There are other ways, as you know.”

Revolting images flared. She had almost felt them burning, pressing inside her skull.

“Yes, I know. I read. But how can you be so sure? Has Tina told you anything?”

“Not directly, in so many words. Children rarely do. They’re too afraid.”

“Well, then, I ask you, how
do
you know?”

“There are many ways. For example, they play with dolls. Mine here are anatomically correct. I watch the child, I talk to her, and I listen while she talks to herself.”

“Tell me what Tina says. Exactly what you remember.”

The doctor put on her reading glasses. How long it took for her to fumble in the case and adjust them on her nose! It was a torture to watch.

And now, in the car, remembering, reliving, Sally’s head began to pound.

“Here. Friday the tenth, the visit before last. I quote: ‘You take your panties off, then you put that thing—’ ”

“Oh, no!”

“ ‘And you put your mouth—’ ”

“Oh, no!”

“Then she took the doll and threw it across the room, and she cried. Are you feeling all right, Mrs. Grey? I can stop if you wish.”

“All right, stop. I have the picture.”

It was then that there had come the onset of terror, a quick, slashing pain in the chest and wet hands, twisting themselves together until the ring dug into the flesh. It was then, too, that she had
straightened her back and sat up. For if you panic, Sally, you drown.

She said positively, “Tina is never left with strangers. She’s very well supervised, by me when I’m home and by a marvelous nanny, a sweet, grandmotherly lady who helps take care of Susannah, the baby, and takes charge of everything when I go away on business. I’m a photographer, you remember. But I never stay away for more than a few days at a time. No, it can’t be, Doctor. It’s—it’s bizarre. Your diagnosis has to be mistaken.”

“Tell me, then, how for example you explain Tina’s talk to the doll?”

“Well, children of that age are just starting to discover things, aren’t they? And I’m sure there are children in school who have older siblings who’ve told them about sex. God knows there’s enough of it on television. We don’t let Tina watch much television, but many other people do, and it filters down to the rest of the kids.”

The doctor waited. She had been trained to observe, to listen for what people did not say. Sally knew that, and she sat up even higher in the chair.

“How have things gone this past week?” the doctor asked.

Yes, Sally thought, let’s get back to reality, let me give you some plain facts and then you tell me how to deal with them, if you can. Fact, not fantasies.

And she said honestly, “The same. On and off.
Sometimes the average five-year-old and sometimes not.”

“Tell me about the ‘sometimes not.’ ”

“Well, at school, I’m told, she’s still doing some hitting and biting. At home, we’ve had some temper tantrums. And her bed is still wet every night. She still asks me when we’re going to take Susannah back to the hospital. No matter how carefully I explain, she keeps asking. To my mind, Doctor, that’s the source of the whole trouble.”

“As easy as that? What I’ve told you makes no impression on you?”

“I’m with Tina all the time, I’m her mother! She plays with dolls at home, so wouldn’t I have observed something strange too? Surely, she would have told me if someone had—done anything to her.”

“I’ve explained to you, not necessarily. In fact, most probably she would not. A child can, in a vague way, feel guilt. She knows that something is wrong, although she can’t explain it. And she may be afraid to betray the person who abused her. She may even in some way, in some fashion, have liked the person. It’s not all that simple, Mrs. Grey.”

Sally was silent. And the doctor, with a sudden surprising change of manner, said gently, “You should really, very seriously, consider what I’ve told you. I can read you much more from my record if you need to be convinced.”

Sally put up her hand. “No. Please, no.”

“You’re afraid, Mrs. Grey.”

“Dr. Lisle, please believe me, I respect your
knowledge, but mistakes—even you, excuse me, even you, anyone can make one—and in this particular case, you’re wrong. The way we live, this is impossible.”

“People always think it is unless they see something with their own eyes.”

“Everything was fine before the baby came. We had no problems at home, none at all. Maybe you think I’m exaggerating when I say that Dan and I have had a charmed life. I suppose some people say things like that to cover up the truth. But that would be foolish. Why should I come here for help and then lie to you? We have a good home, believe me. I wish every child in the world could have a home like ours, and a father like Dan. Sundays we cook together, Dan’s proud of my work, we love each other. It’s been such a happy house, and surely Tina must have felt the happiness. Everyone said she was such a sunny child—”

She had prattled. Now, alone in the car recollecting, she was certain she must have seemed foolish. But she had almost gone out of control. That resolute, stiff posture of hers had been a sham.

A solemn gaze had been turned to her while she prattled. It had been uncomfortable to confront that gaze, but to avoid it had been awkward, too, so she had alternated between the gaze and the dingy warehouse across the street. Her voice had petered out and still no comment had come. I have to get out of here, she had thought. Tomorrow we’ll find another doctor. This woman, well
recommended or not, was like a surgeon, an alarmist who gives you only a month to live unless you undergo an immediate operation. It was outrageous.