The Child Lives On
Chapter Sixteen
Blessed with a statuesque body and perfect cheek-bones, I use these fine attributes to my advantage. It's much easier than working.
He was thirty years older, but still quite fit and handsome. I met him when his daughter and I were modeling in New York City. He lavished me with gifts, and took me on extravagant vacations, winning me over with his money. We married a week after his divorce was final. In the marriage bed, he was tender and considerate. Nine months after the honeymoon, I gave birth to Stephanie.
For five years, we were a happy little family, doing fun happy little family things together. When Stephanie turned five, however, I began to notice something strange about his behavior. He would throw parties for our daughter, inviting little girls from all over town (never any boys), and dressed up like a clown so he could hug and kiss and touch them. When I asked him about it, he claimed it was just part of the act. What did I know? Maybe it was.
Then it got a little stranger. He brought home a little girl - I mean, the cutest little girl you've ever seen (besides Stephanie), with auburn curls, bright green eyes, and the chubbiest little dimpled cheeks you just want to pinch.
"This is Emily," he said. "She's a genius."
"No, Monsieur," said Emily. "I am not a genius."
"And modest too."
"Where did you find this little genius?" I asked.
"Blanche Cumberland was cleaning house."
"You bought her?"
"Of course not. I hired her."
"To do what?"
"Tutor Steph."
"I suppose that's alright. What did Blanche have to say about it?"
"Blanche? Well… she told me some crazy story about her mother-in-law and the madhouse."
"And what did that have to do with the child?"
"That's just it. I don't know."
"Where are her parents?"
"She doesn't have any parents."
"My parents are dead," said Emily.
"I'm sorry," I said.
"I never knew them."
"Awwwww…"
"You see?" said my husband. "We'll be helping her out, and giving Steph a head start."
I don't know how much he paid her, but I do know that room and board were included. In fact, he put her in the bedroom next to ours.
Emily was indeed intelligent, amazingly so, and Stephanie was learning. So far so good. However, when my husband began to sit in on the lessons my suspicions were aroused. So I spied on him, and let me tell you, I didn't like what I saw. He would sit close to Emily, speaking to her softly, while touching her shoulder or knee - and this in front of his daughter. To her credit, Emily would object, but that didn't stop him - no indeed, it did not. In fact, it seemed to spur him on. "Monsieur," I heard her say many times, "you must not take liberties."
"I'm not hurting you, am I?" he would say.
"Your behaviour is highly inappropriate."
"I can fire you, you know."
"Then do it. I am only here for Mademoiselle Stephanie."
He neither fired her, nor stopped his inappropriate behavior. When I confronted him, he lied. If I was tossed over for a younger and prettier woman, I would have understood (and received a nice settlement), but to be tossed over for a child was humiliating.
From that day on, I prepared for the worst. My father. an avid hunter, taught me from a young age how to handle a gun. I told him I was afraid of intruders, and he gave me a shotgun, which I kept under the bed. My husband paid no attention to housekeeping, and was unlikely to find it there.
Whenever we retired for the night, I pretended to fall asleep, but wouldn't actually sleep until I was sure he was asleep - you can't fake that kind of snoring. In the meantime, I enlisted the help of a faithful butler and maid. Then I waited. It turns out, I didn't have to wait long. Late one moonless night, I felt him leave the bed. When the door closed, I arose and followed. Shotgun in hand, I roused my compatriots, turned off the lights in the hallway and proceeded to Emily's door, opening it a crack. "Monsieur," I heard her say, "what are you doing? You must leave at once."
"You want this as much as I do," he said. "You've been making eyes at me."
"I certainly have not! Do not touch me."
"Mmmm, you smell so nice."
"Take your hands off of me."
"Mmmm, so soft and firm."
"Monsieur, do not touch me."
"Doesn't it feel good?"
"No, it does not."
"It feels good to me."
"Monsieur, you must stop."
"But I don't want to stop."
"No, no, no, do not make me..."
"You did this to me. It's your responsibility."
I was sick to my stomach. And yet, my conscience wouldn't let me escape my own guilt. I had married this monster for his money. The butler and maid were whispering behind me. I shushed them.
Emily was becoming hysterical. "Monsieur, do not do this," she cried. "You will regret it."
My husband was undeterred. "I don't think so," he said.
"Believe me, you will."
"You will like it, my dear. I know you will. Don't fight it. Just relax."
"No! No! No! I will not!"
"Settle down. Stop fighting me."
"I will not!"
"Then you leave me no choice."
"Stop, Monsieur!" she screamed. "I do not want to die!"
Pushing open the door, I turned on the lights, leveled the shotgun at his head, and cocked. "Do you recognize that sound?" I asked. He turned over and stared at me, completely naked. Emily's nightgown was torn, exposing her tiny flat chest.
"Sweetheart," I said, "you'd better run."
She was out the door in a flash.
"Now, my dear," I said to my husband, "shall we negotiate?"