The Dollhouse

Chapter 38

I struggle to talk about what happened to Violet.

The discipline happened behind closed doors - that was a given. Arabella's manicured hands reached for her shopping bags with the grace of someone who had just lost a war, and then she slammed the door so forcefully the windowpanes rattled.

There was a brief pause where we all just stood there, feet glued in place as if we were a tableaux. My head was swimming; re-running every moment, gnashing away like piranhas. I actually started to think they'd gotten away with it. 

Then, Father Edgar sighed. Unbuckled his belt.

With startling strength, he closed his grip around Violet's upper arm.

Had they ever been abused, back in the day? I couldn't even picture Arabella as a young teenager, oozing innocence rather that the sap of spite. Had the same panic-stricken, fearsome look ever reflected back into her eyes? It was as if my questions were answered when the sound cut through the air.

Arabella had never known happiness.

"No." Panic seized in Rudy's voice. "Mother! Punish me! It was my fault, my wrongdoing!"

Maybe back in her youth, they had learned the ways of corporal punishment through the harsh temper of their own parents. As Arabella's footsteps faded away, I wondered if she could even stomach hearing the crack of leather. The blood-curdling scream. And knowing it was what she commanded.

It was bone-chilling to know that such a holy man was capable of such cruelty - and to hear every lash - at least my step-uncle had the decency to kick the door closed.

Why didn't he save her?

The words came out screaming before I could even control them.

"Coward! Coward!"

Rudy collected himself, grasping me before I could charge ahead. His hands wrapped around my shoulders, but they felt like knives.

"She wouldn't want to same thing to happen to you."

"Why?" was all I could ask.

"Not now," he hissed into my ear. "One day I'll kill him. One day soon, I'll fucking kill him."

He never let me see what happened, and for that I'm strangely appreciative. My stepbrother was the one who was scarred by what he witnessed. The blank countenance when the priest delivered one last strike.

Rudy was choking back sobs, too. 

The best thing I could do was the keep my head down and help in my own quiet way.

I had a difficult time convincing myself. I went to the corner store and purchased some cigarettes for Violet, and a packet of gum for myself. I chewed down the entire thing when I walked up the hill, swallowing the chunks and everything.

We all went to Nick's father's funeral.

It was a sleek, intimate affair that felt far too phony for such a genuine family. The church was decked out in flowers and cards, the pews clustered with huddled figures. I wondered how many of the blurred faces knew how lucky Nick's family had been. How they had fun photographs and messy dinners, and that Ronald truly loved Beatrice. That made me very sad.

Rudy played a piece of the piano, his spine straight as if somebody was holding a dagger to his throat. The music was beautiful. Through my watery vision, I could see the back of Nick's head bobbing in the front row.