A Confession, a short story

A Confession

She made her decision. Perhaps not one of her best, but it might just work. And the thing about her was that once she made up her mind about anything, she rarely went back on it. That is how come she saw herself—she had little sense of actually doing it, it was more like watching a performance—approach the four girls as someone altogether alien, someone she observed from nearby. Then she arrived, and with some unmapped portion of herself wished more than anything that it could have been someone else, that it was someone else: someone else stepping in among them from her usual detachment, someone else turning those eight eyes her way, someone else the center of their unfriendly attention. But it was not someone else. It was her, and there was no going back now. She had decided to supply an unexpected answer to their currently discussed, always burning question: who had?

And now they were waiting for her to say something.

“I’ve slept with him,” she said.

Annabelle Benjamin had a voice that you don’t easily ignore. It wasn’t masculine, like her eighth grade tormentors had like to point out, not really, but it did have a grainy huskiness to it that you would have expected from a smoker far beyond her years; it had a timbre she figured she must have inherited from her father. Maybe you could pretend you didn’t hear, but when she said something you did hear.

And they heard her.

Into this vacuum she added, “He wasn’t that special.”

Lois almost said something, but whatever had occurred to her turned to nervous giggle instead. She turned from Annabelle and looked at the others, at Vivica, at Dorothy and at Heather in turn, should she believe her ears? Then back at Annabelle.

Lois’ giggle expired and nothing took its place. The silence that settled was like a little universe within the larger humming of the school yard; an odd silence at first, Annabelle being the oddity at its center; then, as it lingered and grew, it turned ominous. Annabelle waited. She almost—just for an instant—turned her announcement into a joke, of course it was a joke, you guys, you didn’t believe, did you? But she said nothing. Instead she waited. She knew the feeling that crawled up her legs in search of gut and heart, and it took all the will she could muster to stay put. But stay put she did, and she said nothing.

Dorothy, the latest style in just about everything, clothes, hair, nails, mannerisms, shifted her weight from one leg to the other and looked vaguely amused. Maybe even a little surprised. Surprised that Annabelle had dared, surprised that Annabelle had done.

Lois, done giggling, was more than surprised. Stunned would be the word. All of her, deer eyes and all. Even her cute, just about perfect little nose—which was as close to symmetry as Annabelle had found in any face, apart from her own, of course—seemed to flutter with the revelation. But it was more than stunned. She almost looked offended, as if Annabelle had assaulted some deeply held belief, mortally.

Vivica was a study in dark eyes framed by shiny black, the most beautiful hair Annabelle knew. But those eyes were hostile in their probing, looking for the lie. Vivica didn’t believe her. Not for a second. Neither did Dorothy, she could tell.

Heather, short and rich and plumb was looking around for guidance.

Four of them. One of her. And the silence.

“Hey, what’s the big deal?” To her surprise it came out the way she’d intended, even and nonchalant, and an equally synthetic smile followed along quite naturally.

Vivica, whose eyes had yet to leave her, spoke then. “I’m surprised you’ve slept with anyone. I had you pegged as a virgin.”

Annabelle shrugged but didn’t answer.

“Well, had you? Before sleeping with him, I mean.” Heather took it upon herself to lend Vivica an unsolicited hand, but this was not appreciated. Vivica shot Heather a glance to shut up, then looked back at Annabelle.

“Definitely. A virgin.”

Annabelle’s smile turned mysterious. It came easily, this thin, enigmatic smile. It was her trademark: her cryptic smile, aloof, guarding mostly absent, but sometimes real, secrets. She shrugged her shoulders again. “You pegged wrong.”

Dorothy, watching and listening with interest, now slowly folded her arms in front of her, and leaned back slightly, taking command. “I don’t think so.”

“You can think what you want,” said Annabelle.

“You’ve never mentioned it.”

“She never mentions anything about anything,” said Heather. It sounded like a complaint.

“True,” said Lois.

“He would have . . . ,” began Vivica but Dorothy cut her off.

“And when would this have been? When did you sleep with him?”

Now for the next lie. It came easily. “A couple of weeks ago.”

“When?”

“What do you mean? You want day of the week, time of day, to the second?”

“Precisely.”

“That is none of your business.” She did her best to sound offended.

“Then why did you bring it up?” Good point.

“No reason.” Keeping her voice as offhand as she could.

“You’re saying that you’ve slept with Geoff Barker but you don’t remember exactly when that was?” Dorothy sounded incredulous. A little too incredulous. She was putting on a good act.

“Of course I remember.”

“So, when was it?”

She really didn’t have a good enough reason not to tell them, so she dug the hole she had made for herself just a little bit deeper. “Thursday before last.”

Thursdays. School night. Early practice. No games on Thursdays. He would have been at home then. Could have been. Should have been. In all likelihood.

Dorothy worked it out. “The twelfth?” she said. “Thursday before last?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” said Dorothy. “So what happened?” It was a challenge.

“In your dreams.”

“Why? What do you mean?”

“Forget it. I’m sorry I brought it up.”

Dorothy shook her head. “Well, I for one don’t believe you.”

“That’s your prerogative,” said Annabelle. Dorothy probably didn’t know words like “prerogative” but she got the drift.

“There is no way that Geoff would sleep with a junior.”

“No way,” added Heather.

“Well, seems like he did.”

“Never,” said Dorothy.

“Maybe he couldn’t resist me,” suggested Annabelle.

“Maybe you were hallucinating,” offered Dorothy.

Annabelle feigned a very convincing irritation. “Let’s just forget it, okay? I’m sorry I brought it up. It happened. I did it, life goes on.”

Dorothy shook her head, arms still folded, and smiled as she passed final judgment for the four of them, “Darling Annabelle, you’re so full of it.”

She turned left at the very tail end of yellow, and almost ran over a running pedestrian. For Christ’s sake, Annabelle, get with it. She gripped the steering wheel till it nearly hurt her hands, turned her head to see that the guy was all right. He was, now at the opposite curb, watching her car drive away. She could imaging a fist shaking in air, but there was none. She looked ahead again, vowing not to kill anyone on her way home.

Her brush with the fabulous four remained with her.

It had looked good on impulsive paper: to show them that she, too, was a person and that she, too, was someone with experience, someone who had slept with guys, someone who was like them. But now that she had actually gone ahead and done it, you bloody idiot, temporary insanity. And, of course, she had lied to them, knowingly and blatantly. And for what? Was she really that desperate? Pathetic.

She was not given to lying, never outright like this. It just wasn’t something she did. Not her. But now she had. And they would find out. She stared ahead, barely seeing where she was going. Her hands still gripped the steering wheel as if to keep herself from taking off somewhere, her knuckles had lost their color. She noticed and eased the grip. She swallowed, or tried to. Well, of course they would find out. They were going to ask questions, they would want to get the specifics, she knew that, must have expected that, but she had also expected that they would believe her. Why not? They always seemed to believe each other, and most of what she heard—or overheard—them brag about to each other were lies, too, such obvious, outrageous lies.

Her house came up on the right. By reflex she flicked down the visor and pressed the remote garage door opener, turned up the drive way, waited for the door to open fully, and drove into the garage. She parked beside her mom’s Mercedes. So she was home. Before she stepped out of the car, she caught her reflection in the rear view mirror and was startled to discover tears in her eyes.

Her mother’s back was a familiar sight, straight, busy. She was on the phone, as usual, on two phones, actually. She could hear her jabber into the one while she held the other away from her. Not really a mother, not anymore. Ever? She wasn’t so sure, wished she knew. Wished she was one now, someone to confide in, go to for comfort, at least this once. But not this woman. Sometimes she wondered if she was adopted. But she had her mother’s features—her father’s eyes, but her mother’s cheekbones and mouth—must have sprung from. Hard to picture. My God, was she still crying? She could feel another tear course down her cheek. What was with her? She wiped it brusquely with her sleeve and made for her room.

Her mother didn’t turn around. Heard her though. “Annabelle? Did you pick up the invitations?”

Ah, shit!

Without stopping she said, “No.”

Now, she turned around. “Annabelle!”

“Yes, mom.”

“Look at me.”

She halted and turned salty eyes on her mother.

“What?”

“They are ready. They were ready this morning. I told you that. You were supposed to pick them up. I asked you to.”

“Sorry, I just forgot.”

“Forgot? How on earth could you forget. I need them now, you know that. I told you. They have to go out today, or they will not arrive . . .” Then she paused, sensing for what was out of place with her daughter and for a few silent seconds she searched her Annabelle’s face for a clue as to what might it might be, but then, frowning slightly but unenlightened, resumed, “. . . or they will not arrive on time.”

Annabelle said nothing. Could say nothing. All she felt at that moment, stronger than her own confusion, stronger than the pang of having lied, and of having failed in that lie, was disgust for her mother, for a woman no longer concerned about her child, who couldn’t even tell that her own daughter was crying, for Heaven’s sake. Without another word Annabelle turned and ran to her room and locked the door. Her mother called out something after her but it was lost in her wake and Annabelle had passed beyond caring.

Her room, of which she took no notice now, was more a suite than a room—one of her father’s fancies: “Our new house shall be grander than the Grand,” a pun which had worn thin soon enough. “A suite for everyone,” he would add.

And he had been true to his word. Driven more by her mother’s decision to make social inroads, and quickly at that, than by any innate need to excel, his business had done very well and six years ago, Annabelle had been ten at the time, he acquired an acre of prime real estate and ground was broken soon thereafter.

To Annabelle it had all been a waste. They didn’t need ten rooms, they didn’t need a gazebo or a tennis court or a fish pond or a three car garage. So why was her father working himself into high blood pressure, cardiac arrest, and lately, insomnia? It was Elsa. The fake German socialite. Her mother chaired two women’s clubs, was on the board of several others, tea’d every day of the week with different “ladies,” and was always busy inviting her circle or getting invited by it. Her father did enjoy showing off his house, and Annabelle figured that this is where these two rushing trains occasionally ran in parallel. It must have been different at some point, maybe, probably: she was conceived, after all.

But that was not the room she entered. She entered a prison of mocking lace, French doors, and light brown wall paper. A scattering of books on her night table which the maid by decree had left untouched, but Bridget had picked up and properly hung all her clothes. She had also vacuumed the carpet and dusted, she could smell the polish Bridget like to use not matter how many times Annabelle asked her not to.

Her journal rested at the bottom of the pile of books. She thought of writing, of entering her written world, of trying to extract herself, of trying to sort out how she had managed to bring this particular hell on. But it was only a thought, fleeting at that, soon stifled by the paralysis of truth. There was no escaping it: she had lied, stupidly, horridly, and they had all seen through the lie: her pitiful attempt to make friends. To make friends.

For that was all she was after, really.

She lay down on her bed. The ceiling above her was nothing more than that which prevented her from seeing farther, the quilt and the bed under her was only that which prevented her from falling. The walls, the doors, the windows were only structure that contained, sealed in. Sealed her in, with this numbing truth.

Her phone rang.

And again, and again. And after four or many the machine picked it up.

“Hi darling,” said the thin, but unmistakable voice in the little speaker. “This is Dorothy. You know, I’ve done some checking,” it went on. “Seems no one has heard a thing about your purported outing with Geoff. None of the girls, not a word. None of his chums. But don’t you worry, that doesn’t meant anything. I’m sure Geoff will corroborate when he gets back from practice. Actually, not. I think you’re lying, girl. And I think you’re history. Hugs and kisses.” The answering machine made a little beep to tell the room that it had a new message. Purported? Corroborate? Dorothy knew those words?

And then there was silence and the cold certainty that Dorothy would find out, sooner or later, would make it impossible for her to go back, ever.

She opened her eyes onto darkness. For an instant there was peace: the blessing of not remembering. Then her waking continued and the world, and her lie, returned in full force.

She glanced at her alarm clock, luminous in the semi darkness now. Eight thirty, it said. An eight, a three and a zero. Dad would be home now, on his computer, checking on things, on his third drink; Elsa would still be mad about the invitations—which she would have had to go pick up herself, or have delivered by a messenger, on her second. Annabelle didn’t exist. Her self made hell didn’t exist out there. Her room was a raft on a very lonely sea. She looked at the walls. The thought of painting them black came and went like a friend; board up the windows, never come out. Drape yourself in black lace and mourn forever. Starve to death. The picture, her morbid, emaciated self draped in black in a black corner, hugging her knees couldn’t help but make her laugh: nothing, nothing could be this bad. Could it? She laughed again, then choked, then coughed and then her tears lost their merriment. Who was she kidding? She had painted herself into that very corner.

“No!” she said aloud and startled herself. “No,” she said again, softer this time. “Nothing is that bad. Nothing could possibly be that bad.” And then she made up her mind for the second time that day.

“Can I speak to Geoff please.” She was praying that he had returned from football practice by now, just, so that Dorothy had not had a chance to reach him yet.

“Who can I say is calling?”

The voice belonged to an older woman who pronounced words very precisely. His mother? Funny, she had never thought of Geoff Barker actually having a mother.

“This is,” she had to clear her throat, “this is Annabelle Benjamin.”

“Annabelle Benjamin?”

“Yes.”

“Very good. Please stay on the line.”

“Thanks.”

She heard many sounds in the background, as if an event took place in a hall. Come to think of it she had no clear idea of exactly where he lived. Could be a shack, with a TV blaring, could be a castle with Errol Flynn come to rescue Maid Marian. Then the rumble of someone picking up the receiver.

“Hello.”

“Geoff?”

“Yes.”

“Hi. This is Annabelle Benjamin. You don’t know me.”

A pause. “I know of you.”

“You do?”

“You’re a junior.”

“Well, yes, that is true.”

“You’re the strange one.”

“The strange one?”

He didn’t reply.

“I, well, we need to meet,” she informed him.

“I doubt that.”

“No, we do. We definitely do.”

“Why?”

Why? Well, that was the question, wasn’t it?

“I have something which is yours.”

Again, he didn’t reply.

She said nothing either. She could hear the sounds again, muffled now. What was going on in that house? She was about to ask him when he spoke. “What is it? That you have that’s mine?”

“I can’t tell you that. Not over the phone. We’ll have to meet.”

“Look, is this some sort of come on? I don’t date juniors, especially not weird ones.”

“Absolutely not. No, of course not.” She felt her grip on this conversation slipping, then she found it again. “But once we’ll meet you’ll understand why I’d rather not discuss this thing of yours over the phone.”

“What thing of mine?”

“When we meet.”

Again then nothing. What was with him? Was he stoned or something? Nah, the coach had really come down hard on that, probably not. But he sure was slow.

Then the background event simply ceased. He had hung up.

Annabelle sat looking at her phone for several minutes, not seeing it, receiver still in hand. That was a close call. Reality settling in again, wondering what on Earth she was doing. Had she actually planned to go through with it? What if he had said yes? Then what would she have done? She motioned the receiver toward the phone, slowly, not really guiding it, letting it find its own way back.

“Annabelle!” It was Elsa knocking, trying the handle at the same time. The door was still locked. “Annabelle. You have telephone.”

“Who is it?”

“Geoff someone.”

She was driving slowly, trying to catch the street signs. Most were covered by foliage or darkness or both and she was looking for a small street, he had said, Dewberry Close, not much of a street. If you get to the school, you’ve passed it, and there was the school.

She turned the car around and drove back, even slower. Hampton Lane, Morrison Drive, Morrison something, Dewberry Lane, Dewberry Close. Ah. The crawl came to a close, the car stood still. The engine seemed content to idle. She swallowed, or tried to. This was it. She was certifiable.

1445 was four houses down and there, in the yellow light of a small street lamp he stood, Geoff Barker. Taller somehow than his normal self in the half light.

“Okay, so what is it?”

She turned to him where he sat in the passenger seat. He was handsome, there was no question. But his eyes, what she could see of them, were not friendly.

“Heard from Dorothy lately?” she asked.

“What?”

“Dorothy. Has she called?”

“No.”

Okay. So far so good.

“So what is it?” he asked again, a little impatient, put off. “What’s mine that you’ve got?”

“My virginity,” she said, facing the wind shield.

“Your what?”

“You heard me.”

“Did you say, your virginity?”

“Yes, that’s what I said.”

He seemed incredulous. “You’re asking me to, what, fuck you?”

“Perhaps not the verb I’d use, but yes.”

He looked at her and then he looked ahead as well. Nothing but small street and hedges and yellow lights above the mail boxes out there. Her engine still hummed, pleased with the world, and strands of aftershave and sweat reached her. For a minute, more it seemed, he said nothing, just sat there, trying to reconcile things, and with some trouble, she suspected.

Finally he turned to face her, apparently done grasping the situation.

“You’re as weird as they say. Weirder.”

“Why?”

“For one, you’re a junior,” he said, “and I’m a senior. I would never.”

“Why?”

“You’re a, you’re a nobody.”

“I beg to differ, but so what?”
“So, you’re fucking nuts, that’s so what.” He tried to laugh, but it didn’t come off. It came out more like a snort, a disdaining horse. He got out and slammed the door behind him. Long legs carried him up the drive to his house.

Of course she was nuts, he got that right. But since he had not spoken with Dorothy yet it could have worked. And, yes, she really had thought he would do it. Stud by reputation would not turn down an offer like that. Right here in the car maybe, maybe in his room, or anywhere. And whenever Dorothy did get hold of him, well, yes, sure, I’ve slept with her, sure. He would tell her, they were pals. But probably not the details, probably would have save those for his buddies.

And that would have solved it. The lie no longer a lie.

She dreamed, and in her dream she knew that she had lied, knew that she had invented herself in order to be liked and had to seduce Geoff Barker to make her lie come true. And her dream gave her glimpses of long legs running away, and he was laughing, laughing. At practice, laughing, in the cafeteria, surrounded by boys and fawning girls, laughing, pointing at her, laughing. Dorothy laughing, Vivica and Lois whispering and looking in her direction, snickering. Heather looking confused, spilling orange juice down her dress, mouth open looking at her in wonder.

Then she finally caught up with him, on Dewberry Close in the darkness, and she gunned her happy to be let loose again engine and reached those legs and crushed those legs and crushed that laugh, and crushed it and crushed it and now there was no Geoff Barker left and she was safe.

The alarm clock brought gray morning through the French doors. The dream lingered, she had killed him, she was safe. But in this world, where it counted, Geoff was still alive and there was no place to hide.

Which left her no other options. She made up her mind again.

They were kind of floating, and she was not sure whether she was approaching them or they were approaching her. Dorothy, smiling, confident in some knowledge, slightly behind the others.

“Hi, guys.”

“Hi, darling.” Dorothy’s smile widened.

“So, what’s new?” she asked. “Got it all confirmed?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. I got your message.”

“What message?” asked Vivica.

Dorothy didn’t reply, so Annabelle filled her in. “She’s checking with Geoff whether I actually slept with him or not.”

“Cool.” Could only have been Heather.

“You are?” said Vivica.

“Of course.”

“Don’t bother,” said Annabelle. Then her voice deserted her. She was stepping out into thin air and had trouble breathing. Found her voice again. “Don’t bother checking,” she said. Then, after a small silence, added, “I lied.”

“You what?” Vivica again.

“I made it up,” she said. “I never slept with him, with Geoff. In fact, I’ve never slept with anybody if you need to know.”

Lois was the first to speak, “That’s pathetic.”

Yes, she thought, it’s pathetic, but it’s true, it’s true and having said it she could feel the ground beneath her again. She had told the truth. She had managed to do it.

“That’s pathetic,” said Heather.

“You are finished,” said Vivica. “You are fucking finished.”

Dorothy said nothing. Just looked at her and slowly shook her head, then turned and walked away. The others lingered for a short while, smirks and glances to make sure she knew how pathetic they thought she was. Then they too left her, a retinue of three catching up with their queen. Annabelle felt her cheeks redden. She felt as if the entire school had suddenly got the news and they had all turned to stare at her. Whispering. Pointing. Though the ground was hers again to stand on.

It was dark again when the phone rang. She may have been asleep. She had cried, she had drifted, she had cried again.

“Hello.”

“Annabelle?”

“Yes.”

“This is Dorothy.”

“Yes.”

“Can I come over?”

“Why?”

“I need to tell you something.”

“I’ve been told all I need to be told.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, tell me then.”

“I want to come over.”

“To personally make sure I never get up again.”

“No, it’s not like that. It’s not like that.”

She wore jeans and hardly any makeup. Annabelle almost didn’t recognize her. When they got to her room Dorothy sat down at Annabelle’s desk and Annabelle herself climbed up on her bed. Dorothy looked a little bit uncomfortable as she looked around her, softer. Annabelle realized that she had never been here before.

She looked up at Annabelle. “I have a neighbor, I call her Dubly. Her real name is Mrs. Dubleef and she loves cats. She’s got them all over her apartment.”

Annabelle listened in silence. She had not known what to expect, it had been very awkward, but Dorothy had insisted that she see her and finally she had agreed.

“She’s forty-eight years old and quite good looking, but she’s been a widow for twenty-six years. She lost her husband in Vietnam. She and her husband got married four hours before his plane took off for Asia and two days later she got the telegram. Delivered by hand, someone from the State Department. She never remarried.

“She promised him eternal love and she is still keeping that promise.”

“What,” said Annabelle. “What does this have to do with me?”

“Dubly is the finest person I know. I go to her whenever I have a problem or need to talk. She’s my real mother. She has some sort of inner peace, something really beautiful, something that is not just words and good intentions, you know, like everybody who just talk and talk. She’s living her promise, she’s been true to her promise for twenty-six years. Twenty-six years. That’s an amazingly long time. There is something precious in her, a sort of light.

“When you told us today, when you admitted to lying about the Geoff thing, something in you reminded me of Dubly. I thought about it and thought about it and when I got home I went to see her. I told her what had happened and she said she understood what you had done.”

“She did?”

“Yes. And she said that what you did took courage. Real courage.”

Annabelle didn’t really notice warm and heavy tears fill her eyes, silently thanking this Dubly woman for knowing and Dorothy for telling.

“She also said that you had to do it or you would have lost yourself.”

Annabelle nodded slowly. “Yes,” she said. “It was awful, the lie.” She looked up a Dorothy. “I don’t lie. Not like this. Can you believe that?”

Dorothy nodded.

“And your Mrs. Dubly is right, I had to tell the truth. In the end I just had to.”

The room was very still. Two young women, the blonde on the bed hugging her knees, wet now with tears, the cascading brown hair on the chair, framed by the desk light. For many breaths no one spoke. The blonde girl closed her eyes and forced herself not to smile, the brunette drew a long sigh, and spoke.

“Let me tell you something, which I’ve never told anyone,” Dorothy paused. Took another breath, “I’m still a virgin too.”

“You are?”

Dorothy nodded and smiled.

Thoughts? I'd like to hear them.
Ulf Wolf

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