A/N: This chapter contains mature content dealing with the sexual abuse of a minor.
Full of Woe
Barbara turned sixteen on a rainy Wednesday in April. Two months later, John turned eleven just as Barbara completed the eleventh grade. John liked the symmetry of that, and announced it to her several times that month, placing great emphasis on their paralleled circumstances. She expended an equal amount of time refuting the notion, calling it an unfortunate coincidence of hard work. She'd spent the past two summers studying, and had managed to test out of the tenth grade the previous September. She wanted to graduate early, and said she was making up for wasted time, but John thought that she probably just wanted to leave home as soon as possible.
He did his best to dissuade her from this notion, but Barbara was Barbara, and she was always too far away from him to reach her. But that didn't mean he didn't understand her, and his suspicions were proved true when she didn't come home one day at the end of June.
The phone rang as he sat cross-legged in the long grass by the pond. He'd not heard it from where he'd cloistered himself, the distance, and the height of the reeds hiding the sight and sounds of the house from him. But the crunch of shoes over dry grass alerted him to the presence of someone lurking just beyond the borders of his fragile shelter. Parting the stems that hid him, he looked out to see the housekeeper scanning the area.
"Hello, Maria!" he called, rising to his feet. "You looking for me?"
The woman jumped and crossed herself, and an apologetic smirk graced John's features.
"Master John," she said, "There's a call waiting for you." Her chest was heaving but her speech was steady. John rather thought she was pretending, at least a little bit, to tease him and make him feel guilty as she sometimes did. But then her message hit him, and he turned toward the house, racing ahead lest it be his parents waiting to talk to him long-distance.
He took the call in the library, pressing the receiver to his ear eagerly. "Hello?"
The voice on the other end was not his father, or his mother, though it held traces of both.
"It's me, Barbara," she said.
"Oh," he replied, surprised and confused that she should be calling him when she was expected for dinner in less than an hour. He wondered if perhaps the car had broken down, and she was calling for help while the driver tried to fix the problem. In any case, he would be of little use to her. "Did you want to speak with Gamma, or Gramps?"
"No," she exclaimed, the word springing forward to forestall his suggestion before he had time to actualize it. "No," she said again. "I wanted to talk to you."
"Me?" Barbara never sought him out.
"Don't act so surprised, butt head," she laughed. "It's important."
"Okay," he agreed, trying to sound irritated that she'd interrupted his afternoon in a poor attempt at disguising his own amusement. "What do you want?"
"Johnny," she began. The she stopped, and sighed. "John," she repeated. Her tone held nothing of the vibrancy it so recently possessed. "I needed to talk to you, because I have to tell you I'm not coming home tonight."
John's throat closed, and his stomach clenched, recoiling from the frost that was spreading through his body. She may have only meant to indicate a temporary absence, but John was beginning to learn from precedent, and his family didn't have it on their side. He gave her the benefit of the doubt anyway.
"Do you want me to cover? When do you think you'll be back?"
Barbara didn't respond, but John heard her breath rasping quietly on the other end of the line.
"Babs?" he asked.
"I'm at the airport, John," she said. "I'm not coming back."
The icy tendrils of dread that had been creeping through his veins threatened to freeze him entirely, so instead, he allowed a slow burning fire of resentment to kindle.
"What do you mean?" he said, his voice terse and strained.
"I mean, I'm leaving. I'm not coming home again."
"What about me?" He pressed. He refused to believe that she would leave him the way everyone else had. He refused to accept that she would do to him what she so vehemently despised their parents for doing to her, and so he fired the ugly words she once used back into her head. "Are you just going to abandon me here?"
"Don't say that," she hissed, her own ire rising to meet his. "I'm not abandoning you. You're not my kid, okay? You're not my responsibility."
"I'm your brother!" he protested. His hands were sweating, and he began to feel a little nauseous. He looked around the room, worried he may have been observed or overheard. He fought to keep his voice low. "I'm your brother," he repeated. "Please don't leave me here."
"I'm sorry, John," she said. He couldn't see her, but he heard her sniff, and felt guilty for making her cry. "You know how much I hate it there. You know it, John."
"I know," he whispered.
"But you're tough," she insisted. "You're so much tougher than I am, okay? So you suck it up, and you get through it."
"Okay."
"I love you, do you hear me, John? I love you," her voice was rough, and the quality tinny from the distance, but John heard her.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
There was a pause, and John thought Barbara was debating whether or not an eleven year old could be trusted, but, as always, she made up her mind swiftly.
"Paris," she said. "But don't tell anyone, Johnny, 'kay? Promise me."
"I promise."
"Okay. Now, let me speak to Gramps."
His grandfather was furious, and he paced the halls with his hands clasped at his back, muttering under his breath for weeks after they received the call. Gamma, however, remained as composed and serene as ever, showing no signs of feeling Barbara's absence at all, and the summer holidays moved on without her.
By July it was almost as though Barbara had never been at the house. Her room still contained her bed, and a few pieces of adolescent detritus – snapshots, friendship bracelets from girls rarely thought of, and old school uniforms, the skirts warped at the belt line from being hiked up inch by inch – but her most precious belongings had been shipped to Paris at her mother's request only a few days after she'd fled.
John was surprised his parents had not been at all upset to learn of Barbara's abrupt departure. His mother took the news with all the dignified resignation she'd been cultivating for years, while Dad seemed to think it a bit of a joke. He'd called once to explain the situation to Gamma and Gramps, telling them that Barbara had moved into the family residence in Paris, and she would be staying there indefinitely, contingent on the fact that she continued her education in France in the fall. When he'd spoken to John perfunctorily that evening he'd seemed entertained by the whole thing, confiding in John that he took great delight in Barbara's ability to "buck the old man at last."
John thought this a rather rude way to speak about his grandfather, but kept his opinion to himself. He assured his father that he was fine, and that he was happy as long as Barbara was happy. Dad didn't hear his son's lie, or recognise his daughter's disdain beneath his own delight, and he hung up confident that both his children were safe, secure, and happy.
The summer rolled on, the temperature rising as the days passed. With all the children out of school, the house was opened, and Gamma and Gramps prepared for onslaught of visitors that came with the scorching heat.
It wasn't precisely that he was lonely – after all, school had only ended a couple weeks ago – but John did miss Barbara, and the summertime family tour was something he looked forward to each year. His parents rarely made an appearance, but it was great fun to have full run of the grounds with Elliot, A.C., and Chase after months apart. He would always be the youngest, but this year he was confident that he'd be able to keep up. He was still small, and thin for his age, no comparison to Elliot who at eighteen had begun to fill out, and was more interested in girls and sports than humouring his younger cousins, but at least he'd finally be some competition for Chase, and A.C.. He was determined to be. Besides, as chief resident of the house, he had the inside track. He knew all the tricks; he knew which horses in the stable were the fastest, which maids could be charmed into saving extra portions of dessert, and he knew which stairs creaked, which windows stuck, which doors were locked after dark, and how to circumvent them.
Of course, with the expectation of a full house, Gamma and Gramps were required to bring on extra staff for the season. This presented a bit of an obstacle, as new servants were generally more conscientious of the rules, and less likely to bend them, no matter how sweetly they were asked to by the heir. But by the time the pool was warm enough to swim in, most had been persuaded to his cause.
The first to succumb to his innocent wiles was one of the new housemaids. She was young, and pretty, and almost instantly smitten with him. She smiled at him, and spoke to him kindly when he encountered her in the hallways, which happened frequently. She would slip him little gifts when no one was looking, and helped him grow a stockpile of candy in his sock drawer, vowing never to betray his secret to the other staff. They might be tempted to inform his grandparents who'd be sure to liquidate it, lest he spoil his appetite, and ruin his teeth.
John revelled in the attention she lavished on him. It was empowering, and gratifying to again be the centre of someone's world. He'd forgotten what it felt like to have an ally, someone whom he could confide in, who listened, and made him feel as though his tragedies and his triumphs touched someone other than himself. She wasn't Bobby, but she was there, and he trusted her. It was she to whom he first confessed his anger at his parents, she who was first and last to hear about his worry for Barbara, and when he woke up one night, his underwear damp, she was the one he went to in distress.
Clutching his pants in a fist to keep the cooling fabric from sticking to his skin, he padded down the darkened hallways toward her quarters. On the threshold, he floundered, struggling to breathe, half convinced there was something terribly wrong with him, and not at all convinced he was ready to have his fears confirmed. With a shaking hand, he knocked on the door, quietly at first, but louder as he felt his courage about to desert him.
The door opened on blue eyes that had not quite adjusted to the dim light of the small lamp that illuminated the room behind her.
"Johnny?" she asked, her voice thick with sleep.
He nodded, unable to speak.
Her eyes closed, and she hung her head. For a minute, John thought she would deny him access, and he'd be sent back to his room to lie in bed and await death, as Bobby had. But then she turned around, and motioned for him to follow her inside.
John had never seen the inside of the help's rooms before, and he was struck by how small, and sparsely furnished it was in comparison to his own.
"Is this where you live?" he asked, curiousity overtaking concern.
She laughed, her blonde hair hanging loose, and long over her chest, and moved to sit in the middle of her bed. She looked comfortable in a way that was new to John, her undress and freedom starkly opposed to the dark uniform he was accustomed to seeing her in.
"For now," she said. "Are you okay?" She gestured to the fistful of clothing he still held.
His purpose recalled, John nodded reflexively, but his wide, fearful eyes disagreed. This was their practice. He would first deny or downplay his fears, and she would wait, giving him the time he needed to convince himself of the necessity of speech, allowing the uncertainty of silence to press him to action.
"I think," he started, "I think something's wrong with me."
She stared at him blankly for a moment, but then a sudden understanding came upon her, and she held her arms open for him. He remained still, craving the comfort, but ashamed, and terrified of contaminating her.
"Oh, John," she said, pulling his reluctant form into an embrace. "It's normal," she breathed. "It's absolutely normal."
"Are you sure?" He tucked his chin to his neck, giving in and burrowing as close as he could against her chest. "Do you promise?"
"Yes," she said. "It happens to lots of boys your age. Don't worry. There's nothing wrong with you, I promise."
"Okay," he nodded.
She held him for a while, rocking him gently as his heart rate slowed, and his eyelids drooped, exhausted by both the hour, and his fear.
"Hey," she said, as she felt him drop, boneless, close to sleep. "Hey, let's get you cleaned up, alright?"
She lead him to the bathroom adjoining his own room, stumbling and loose-jointed like a marionette. Once inside, he shucked his clothes, wrapped them in a towel, and passed them to her out the door before stepping under the shower head. John let the water run as hot as he could stand, rinsing away the events of the night with the first layer of skin.
Finally, he emerged to find a set of pyjamas waiting for him on the counter top. Still skirting the blissful edge of unconsciousness, he donned the clothes and reentered his room, somehow surprised to find her there, folding back the edge of fresh sheets, leaving a tidy triangular space for him to slip into. It should have been welcoming, but seeing her standing there, knowing she had handled the linens he'd soiled, caused the heat of embarrassment to flood him again. He hesitated, stuck in the doorway between one room and the next.
"Feeling better?" she asked, quietly.
He nodded, but he didn't move.
"Then come on," she said.
John swallowed hard, forcing one foot to follow the other over the distance that separated him from her. She smiled, and he dropped his eyes, not wanting her to see. When he was close enough, she grabbed his hand and chafed it between her own, guiding him to sit on the bed. He stayed silent, and she brushed his wet hair away from his forehead.
"You alright?" she murmured.
"I'm clean, again," he stated, forcing a grim smile to his face. He wished she'd laugh, or leave, or do anything but speak to him like a frightened colt. "I'm not dying, I guess."
"Well," she said. Her eyes flickered down his chest, to his lap, and back again as she weighed something in her mind. She considered him closely, locking her eyes to his, and parting her lips. Her breath was warm and sweet on his face. "Maybe I should check."
At first, John thought that he must have dreamed of that night as his memory was clouded in the way that events which happen in darkness are always obscured. Certainly, it didn't seem very likely. He was a young boy on the verge of adolescence, and while he'd often observed privately that she was quite pretty, he'd never constructed a fantasy as wrought with emotions as he now associated with her. As much as he tried, he couldn't quite wrangle his thoughts on the matter. It hadn't exactly been unpleasant, but neither had it been free of terror, uncertainty, or shame. He was left with a vague feeling of helplessness, and decided that the best thing he could do was to remain silent. After all, he didn't want one fleeting instance he could hardly articulate to overshadow and dictate the course of his whole summer.
But two weeks later, he awoke once more to the same sensations, and could think of no one to go to but her. Again she welcomed him into her room, and brought him to her bed with warm, steady arms.
Then, the next night, she came to him.
"We have to keep this a secret, John," she said, "Or I won't be able to see you anymore, and I don't want that. Do you?"
The thought went through his head that maybe that would be better. Maybe he ought to tell someone. But then he thought about how furious it would make his grandfather, and how disappointed his grandmother would be. They might even be angry enough to call his parents, to send him back to them, which would only annoy his father, and make his mother sad. And stuck with them on the other side of the world, he'd be out of reach of the one person he could go to for comfort. She'd kept so many of his secrets; it wasn't such a hardship to keep this one of hers.
"No," he said. "I don't want that."
So the visits continued, and every night John would lie in bed, his thoughts racing as the activity of the day slowed. Alone, he replayed the events in his mind, his hands clutching at the thin sheet he pulled to his chin, worried that the door would open and she'd slip inside, petrified that it wouldn't; afraid to sleep but yearning for senseless lethargy.
Daytime was easier at first, but as his guilt mounted, his anxiety increased, and it became harder and harder to maintain control. He felt smothered by his family, and yet completely detached from them. His cousin, Chase, who he'd always got on well with, suddenly became the subject of his ire.
Sometime near the close of July, he'd become the unfortunate bearer of a nickname. By August, it had been forgotten by everyone except Chase.
"Race you to the treeline, Scooter!" he'd shout, as he thundered by on one of Gamma's favourite geldings, swatting playfully at John's shoulders with his crop.
John spurred his own horse on, bent low against her neck, intent on catching Chase and giving him a sound lashing in return. But then, panic overtook him, and a caution typically foreign to young boys forced him to lean back on the reins, and turn back to the barn as Chase whooped and cheered in victory.
Scooter. How John hated that name.
Sometime later, at dinnertime, Chase used it when asking John to pass the salt. Suddenly enraged, John kicked back in his chair, sliding down the seat and lashing out wildly beneath the table. His shod feet connected soundly with Chase's shins, as well as A.C.'s knee. John barely noticed the secondary casualty, so focused was he on hurting Chase as much and as quickly as possible.
"What's this?" the livid tones of his grandfather boomed out over the table, the crystals of the chandelier tinkling together as they trembled before him. John was insensate, until he felt the large, square hands of his uncle forcing his shoulders back against his seat, a napkin still clamped between his fingers.
"John!"
John stilled at the sound of his grandmother's shock. As quickly as it began, it was over. All eyes – aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents – were focused on him. John's chest rose and fell rapidly with exertion, and utter, burning loathing for Chase.
With no apology or explanation immediately forthcoming, Gamma addressed him, her light eyes glittering.
"Young man, you are excused. Please leave the table. I do not want to see you for the rest of the evening, do you understand me?"
John stood, head high and defiant, at an angle he'd most definitely acquired from Barbara.
"Yes, ma'am," he said.
"Good," she replied. "And Chase?"
"Yes, Gamma?" came the sullen, sulky tones of the blond boy down the row.
"We do not use nicknames in this family, is that understood?"
"But -" he protested, as several exceptions to this rule sprang to mind. However, all qualms were buried at the sight of her hardened jaw. "Yes, Gamma," he conceded.
"Goodnight, John," she said, resuming her meal.
John heard the snick of her fork against the porcelain plate as she continued eating. A subdued chatter picked up as he turned, and exited, chin up, and eyes unblinking against the threat of tears.
After that, he tried to avoid his family, his cousins, and Chase in particular. But though the Carter grounds were vast, and his boundaries practically unlimited, he found it impossible to leave sight of the house, and harder still to avoid the mass of people which populated it.
Chase had been thoroughly chastised, but his genial nature seemed to have erased any chagrin he may have felt over the incident at dinner. He continued to taunt John with the hated name, each use of it more pointed than the last, though he was careful never to utter it within earshot of an adult. It vexed John, and he wrestled with his desire to strike back at Chase every time, until one day, he was mortified to find himself moved to tears over it.
No one was more surprised by this reaction than Chase, who ran for his father, afraid that his cousin was hurt, and more afraid that he might be blamed for any possible injury, physical or otherwise.
By the time he returned, John had made himself ill with hysteria. His uncle took one look at the child before him, and recognised the problem as being well beyond his ability to solve with a short lecture, and a coerced apology. John was bundled up, and hustled inside his grandmother's office where she regarded him seriously from across the polished stone of her desk. She waited for him to cease crying, and gather his shattered nerves before speaking.
"John," she said. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine, Gamma," he muttered, sniffing hard, and wiping his hand under his nose.
"Handkerchief," she reminded him. "Are you certain?"
John said nothing, but dutifully removed his handkerchief from his pocket. His need for it had passed, but he ran it over his face for her benefit, and so that he might avoid her prying eyes.
"John," she said again, her words deliberate and careful. "Is there anything you'd like to tell me?"
She knew something. Suspicion was in her voice, and he knew she must know something. His head shot up so fast his jaw clicked, and he bit down on his tongue. Her gaze was searching, but as he studied her, his brow furrowed in concentration of thought, he realised that nothing could be confirmed without his word. So he looked her straight in the eyes, and lied.
"No, Gamma," he said. "I'm fine."
He couldn't be sure – Gamma was difficult to read – but she dismissed him from her office without another word on the matter, so he felt he must have managed to convince her in the end.
But the next day a suitcase of his belongings was loaded into the trunk of Gamma's car, and he was shipped off to summer camp. When he came home a week later, his sock drawer had been purged of candy, and all the summer staff had been dismissed.