Free Daughters for a Time by Jennifer Handford Page A

harsh “What do you want?” having imagined the moment a hundred times in the weeks since the last visit, I always let him in with an affable hello, hoping that this time would be different. By the end of the night, Charlie would have my buttons undone and he’d whisper into my ear, “I don’t want to mislead you.” Then what are you doing here? I always wanted to say but never did as Charlie shucked off my shirt. Each time, I was left feeling smaller and less worthy than the time before.
    When I met Tim, I almost faulted him for wanting me. After a father who had left and a boyfriend who valued me so little, I couldn’t figure out what Tim saw in me. There had to be something that he was missing that would soon rear its ugly head, sending him packing.
    One night, when Tim and I were on a ferry from Venice to Corfu, we were lying on our backs on the deck of the bow. The sky was blacker than I’d ever seen and the stars were almost blue they shimmered so brightly. It reminded me of the Lite-Brite I had played with as a kid, plugging each little bulb into the board.
    “Are you sure you love me?” I asked Tim. “Are you sure you’re not going to hurt me?”
    “Not all men are evil,” Tim said. “You’ll see. You’ll see how good I can be to you.”
    In the little park outside of Arlington, I popped a handful of peanut M&Ms into my mouth and chewed, staring at Larry’s house. I took a long breath, inhaling and exhaling with force, feeling the tensile edges of my ribs. I imagined walking up to his door and knocking loudly, with purpose. No hesitation. There are things that I need to know! I’d demand. I could do that. What could be the worst thing to happen? Instead, I got up and walked the loop around the park. I watched as a teenager took my seat on the swing, his friend handed him a beer, and together, they laughed loudly.
    The houses surrounding the park were cute, eclectic. The golden glow of table lamps and porch lights made for a quaint, gingerbread-house effect. As I rounded the last corner, my gaze fixed again on Larry’s house. A sense of daring crawled up my back. As if being coaxed, I took a deep breath and crossed the road. I was now standing at the end of his driveway. My heart hammered. I looked back at my car. When I was a teenager, I, along with a group of somewhat derelict kids, had toilet-papered our math teacher’s house. I remembered the exhilarating feeling that accompanied that trespassing. This felt the same.
    I willed myself to take more steps. Now I was standing at the base of his carport. I reached out and touched the backbumper of his LeSabre. I rode in that car , I thought. As a little girl, I sat in that backseat and believed that everything in the world was good and right.
    Every October, our family would drive out to the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia to take in the sweeping views of the brilliant fall foliage. Claire and I would hunker down in the backseat, my nose buried in a Nancy Drew, Claire’s buried in one of her summer reading selections. The Catcher in the Rye , I remember well, as my sister gasped and giggled her way through it and I begged to know what was so funny. Meanwhile, Mom and Dad were in the front seat listening to the soft croon of George Jones on the cassette player. Every now and then Dad would swing his arm back to tap our knees. “Look out your windows,” he’d say. “You’re missing the beautiful scenery.” Claire and I would look up for a minute and then burrow back into our books, more interested in our sleuthy and scandalous stories than the changing leaves.
    We were happy then, it seemed. I was, anyway. But I was only nine, maybe ten years old. Claire seemed happy, too. But what do kids know about grown-up things like braving a marriage riddled with sickness and betrayal? At what age does a child learn that her parents might be pillars, but that, easily, they can crumble?
    A few more steps. Now I was standing on the concrete entryway. The front