however, had been brief, businesslike and not particularly pleasant. In a generation that at
least vocally favored frankness, skin, and more natural sex, she remained private and self-
possessed, avoiding exposure and usually averting her eyes from the exposure of others.
Naturally she worried that she was a prude-it was a death sentence in her age group-that
in the imminent upswarming flight of love and mating she would somehow be kept out of
the action by being timid and hesitant. None of this, however, seemed to internally alter
the rather maidenly shyness, the almost wordless taboo that inhibited her.
Rationalizing, she told herself that it was only a matter of time, place, and values. She
could see-if no one else told her, Sexy Barbara did-that in a moment of faith, trust, and
love, it could be joyous to free the body and live. There was an element of confession,
submission, of oneness about it. Indeed she had had a good many girlish dreams on the
subject. It was just that the occurrence hadn't come along quite yet, and that, as a result,
she was getting nearer a time when she could look back and find that she had "saved
herself for her husband'' or at least a serious affair-surely an old-fashioned approach-but
one that was rather nice in a way, or so she felt as she got older.
Today's indecency, however, had nothing to do with necessity, love, confession, or the
unfolding of
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sweet offerings. What disgusted her, made her feel crawly, was that there was dirt and
malice in it, sneakiness, a shades-drawn, sex in a rented-room furtiveness about it. She
was being hauled back into a primitive stupid world of grayness and feeling around and
smirking and giggling. The object was torment, and she was afraid she would show how
well it was succeeding.
Actually, the event itself was at least quick and sparing of the lewd pawings she had
imagined. The kids arrived a bit earlier than their usual midmorning, and after some
whispered conversations in the kitchen, sauntered into her room with affected casualness.
They knew that she knew that Cindy had told her, and so it was all straightforward
between all of them. Dianne had brought a small pair of sewing scissors in her lunch bag,
and while the others stood back, she used them carefully.
Folding back the cotton lace of the shoulder straps of Barbara's summer nightgown, she
cut almost on the seams concealed there, right and left. Barbara could not see what
Dianne was doing, but she felt the metal go carefully along, dull edge of the scissors
against her skin, and she sensed that it was a proper job. Among her other talents, Dianne
apparently sewed as well. Having then bared Barbara's shoulders (Barbara felt a loss even
here), she went on with it.
Beginning at the hip, Dianne cut up the side seam to the armhole on the right side. It was
all very much like opening a pretty Christmas package and trying not to spoil the
wrappings.
When she felt the gown being lifted off her body, Barbara closed her eyes and felt the tears
she had so much wanted not to show them. In another minute, the side seams of her bikini
pants had been cut, and she - was as awkwardly, gracelessly, naked and helpless as it was
possible to be. Of course there were giggles-she could hear each one separately-and she
thought, It finally did happen. After all. Every woman has thought the same under some
circumstance. Now they would begin to do things to her.
When nothing further happened, however, she
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opened her eyes, still teary wet, and raised her head. The children were caught as in a
frieze=-Cindy half bent in mirth, two small hands covering her mouth to stifle laughter,
bright eyes half-peeking through her fingers; Bobby solemn; Paul in spasm; Dianne still
holding the scissors; John unable to raise his head for some reason-and seeing them,
Barbara was partially calmed.
Outside of the shock of seeing and feeling herself naked, there was yet no real harm in all
of this. Hers was hardly the kind of beauty that would drive beholders to madness anyhow.
Then John raised his head
at last, and she saw his eyes.
Instead of being teased and tormented as she had expected, Barbara was handled as if the
morning was no different from yesterday or the day before it. The children untied and
retied her, marched her to the bathroom and back, bound her to her chair, and fed her the
skimpy breakfast of cereal and toast, and then scattered to work on their list of daily
chores. The only difference was that Barbara was naked.
In place of the rather voluptuous feeling the flow of air over her bare body usually had-as
before a bath, for example--she was, of course, acutely demoralized and self-conscious.
Without her looking down, it
- was possible to feel every part of herself sticking out here, rounding in there, and so
forth. It really was; it was amazing. Moreover it did no good to think that clothes were the
barest fraction of an inch thick, that their presence or absence made no difference, that
we are all born naked to begin with. The real fact was that clothing was privacy,
protection, and (in the variety to be chosen from) personality. Naked, Barbara was
somehow less Barbara than before, and the children without benefit of such extended
thought-somehow knew it. Nakedness heightened the captor-captive relationship, and it
was probably meant to. Barbara sighed.
Outside it was hot, probably the hottest day since she had been here. In spite of the
continuous hum of the air conditioner, a still, dead atmosphere steadily filled the room and
made her skin moist and uncomfort-
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able. A fly buzzed. Her hair tickled her damp forehead, and she shook it around as best she
could. Helplessness: torment.
Right now Terry was on the beach at Cape Cod, spreading out her blanket and settling
down with a book or maybe someone to talk to. Barbara's mother was probably on her way
to the Seven Comers' Shopping Center feeling late, impatient with traffic, and wondering
what it was she had forgotten to write down on the shopping list. The world went on so
freely and carelessly without Barbara. I know what it's like to be dead, Barbara thought.
Everything's just like it was before.
She could hear Dianne-just barely from where she had to sit-telephoning in a grocery order
on the kitchen phone. Dianna was half disguising her own voice, half imitating Barbara's,
and she wasn't doing badly at all. Barbara could picture easy Mr. Tillman at the local
crossroads store, where the city-people bought in-between things they hadn't bought in
Bryce on Thursdays-he would have no doubt that he was listening to the Adams' young
baby-sitter at all. Not on your life. He would very nearly testify to it on the stand.
Ob dammit, Barbara thought. Everything's so smooth; everything's going so well without
me. I'll never be found. I have a headache. Even Dianne would be comfort of a sort.
When Dianne finally did look in on her, Barbara asked for aspirin. When Dianne brought
them, Barbara was forced to lean forward and mouth them from the palm of Dianne's hand
like a horse getting sugar cubes. Afterward Dianne carefully gave her a drink of water.