She stares at him.
“Your husband is not exactly a man of principle, Mrs. Kent. He’s full of information. And you know, that Fiorelli woman was not unhelpful, either. I caught her on her way out. It sounds like there was some tantalizing behavior going on at your party, too.”
“Get out,” Vee said.
“We’ve had a nice thing, you and I.”
She works not to breathe.
“This won’t be permanent,” he says.
“Where is Alex?”
“But it won’t be fun. You were such a fun girl.”
“Where is he?”
“A car will be here at six.”
There are questions she should ask. Where am I going, what is this. Instead she envisions herself disappearing. Not going anywhere, not running away—Hump wouldn’t let that happen—but simply fading. Ceasing to be.
“Hey.” Hump, on his way out, sets a finger under her chin. He makes her look at him. He has never touched her before. “Get some sleep,” he says, and flips the finger and slides it down to the hollow in her throat, then out the ridge of her collarbone. He presses the finger into her shoulder, hard, and Vee realizes, an agony falling through her, that her shoulder is bare, her dress still half-unzipped.
AND SO
It Was Recorded:
THE NATIONAL ENQUIRER
NOVEMBER 4, 1973
EXCLUSIVE: The wife of Senator Alexander Kent has been admitted to Fainwright Hospital, the renowned psychiatric institution outside Boston, Massachusetts, the ENQUIRER has learned.
According to the senator’s chief of staff, Humphrey Sumner III, the senator’s wife, Vivian, 28, a petite, attractive redhead who hails from a long line of New England statesmen, suffered “a psychotic break following a party [last Friday night] that grew quite out of hand. We’re still trying to determine whether she may have been under the influence of a narcotic. She has a delicate constitution, and the senator is comforted that she is now receiving the best care possible.”
Although Senator Kent was not available for comment, Barbara Haskell, the wife of Congressman Haskell of Illinois, told the ENQUIRER that the Kents’ party was “a terrific time, with women and men on separate floors; I’ve never seen anything like it. There was wonderful music and lots of dancing. Vivian is wonderfully pretty, a fun-loving hostess. I guess you could say it got a little wild.”
Asked what “wild” looked like at a ladies-only event, another guest, Diane Fiorelli, who traveled all the way from Rhode Island to attend the Kents’ party, reported that she was “concerned from the beginning about how things might develop, and my concerns were shown to be legitimate.”
When asked to elaborate, Mrs. Fiorelli declined. But Mr. Sumner shared context that might help fill in the gaps, saying that Mrs. Kent had recently attended meetings of a Women’s Liberation group in Washington, DC.
Susan Silver, a former classmate of Mrs. Kent’s who joined her at these meetings, encapsulated their feisty libber spirit, saying: “This group is only radical if you believe that equal rights for women is radical. It’s only radical if you think women should stay at home serving their husbands and looking pretty. It’s only radical if you fear women using their full intellectual capacity.”
According to Dr. Matthew Pickles, consultant psychiatrist at Horizon Psychiatric Hospital in Los Angeles, who has not treated Senator Kent’s wife, the anger often on display at such gatherings should not be confused with Angry Woman Syndrome, a condition he has studied for over 35 years, though he acknowledges there may be overlap. Moreover, he said, “These Consciousness Raising groups are known to be havens for ladies seeking an alternative lifestyle.”
Mrs. Kent and Miss Silver were classmates at Wellesley College, an all-girls school in Massachusetts. Both graduated magna cum laude; only Mrs. Kent is married, and both women are childless.
Apart from Senator Kent, Mrs. Kent has no surviving family. Fainwright Hospital, which has treated luminaries such as the poet Evelyn George and the musician Sid Healey, refused to comment. Asked when Mrs. Kent might return to Washington, DC, Mr. Sumner said, “I would be remiss to make any promises with regard to that.”
SUSA
ESTHER
Of Course She Will Not Return
She looks again in the mirror. The taloned toes are still there, the kumquat breasts, the misaligned face. The only thing that appears unchanged is her hair, which looks out of place now, its black lushness like a plant springing from stone. She can’t find the strip of leather she tied it back with before the pageant. Before the pageant is another life—her fingers tying the simple knot.
“What have you done?”
The king peers at her from behind his fingers, clearly terrified, and Esther shrugs in his direction, as if to say, You can see what I’ve done. It’s not only her body that’s been transformed, she realizes. A strength has oozed into her, like the tar that bubbles up sometimes into the sands near the river. A slick of dominance. She thinks of her uncle. He wasn’t smarter than her aunt. He was just in charge. Esther picks up the wine bottle, still lying at her remarkable feet. It feels small in her enlarged hands—small and light, as if she could throw it a great distance. A thrill washes over her, awe and shock at what she’s done, and is still doing.
“Please.” The king begins to whimper. “What do you want?”
Esther sets her paddle hands on her wide hips. “To be let go.”
If a hero in this moment would add, And my people—I want them protected. Stop the cleanse, then our Esther does not behave heroically. She is too intent on freeing herself for selflessness, too desperate to dare ask for more. To the extent that she thinks of her “people,” she thinks of Itz and Nadav and her aunt, the ones she most wants to see when she is returned. Mostly she worries about the trick of turning back into herself. She decides she will have to visit the Gadol tent first, for help. But before that can happen, she must be released, and before that happens the door the king is pressed against is shoved open, sliding the king forward and revealing a man carrying a tray.
Here is the bottle of wine the king called for. But the man is no eunuch. On his substantial frame he wears a high man’s robes, on his face the particular blankness of a man unwilling to appear shocked. He was on the stage, Esther remembers, a member of one wall. He sets the tray down now with an elegant swish, then faces her, his chest no more than an arm’s distance from hers, his gaze piercing. For a moment, she is daunted. The king himself seems to be afraid of this man—he has already leaped up from the floor, wiped his face, straightened his robe. Esther squeezes the wine bottle, draws the beast’s strength into her throat, and says, “Let me go.”
The man narrows his eyes. He is taller than she is, even in her current form. His mouth curls into a smile that can only—and will only—be described as evil. In a calm voice, he says, “The king chose a beautiful virgin.”
“She isn’t here anymore.”
His entire face slides upward, a sleeve of composure tightening over his rage. He goes to the king and begins whispering in his ear, his mouth twitching like a rodent’s, his words inaudible but audibly venomous. The king takes a breath so deep Esther can see his robe strain. Esther can imagine what the man is saying. Some part of her thinks: I am standing too close. But another part is determined to show no fear, and this part is more persuasive. The king’s nature is gentle, she thinks—she is almost sure of it. He isn’t capable of attacking her. And she turns out to be right, because in the next moment it’s the tall man who is pouncing, who pushes her to the floor and presses a knee between her legs, hard enough she feels her flesh open. She hears herself shriek as he pins her hands; the wine bottle slips from her grasp. He is stronger than she thought possible; even in her augmented form, she has to use all her might to flip him onto his back, and once she has him there, he pushes her off, flips her, and pins her again. She has never fought anyone, she realizes, and a bolt of fear gets in, slicing through her skin. Above her, his eyes are full of hatred. He yanks her hands, positioning her arms above her head and jamming both her wrists beneath his forearm. This, she thinks, is where he grabs the bottle and rapes her with it. He will cut her throat and burn her body; he will find a way to hide her. Her mother’s voice comes to her, a thing she used to tell Esther to do if she ever met a boar in the hills: Play dead or run. Trapped under the man, Esther sees no way to do either. Mother! But the man doesn’t go for the bottle. Instead, with his free hand he begins to scratch at her face. No matter how fast she tosses her head, his nails find her. He moves to her chest, clawing. She smells blood.