If I Loved You, I Would Tell You This Part 6

But newly, unexpectedly, I wasn't sure that I I agreed with agreed with us us.

From bed that night, I heard my father yell. And then my mother in response. I rolled over, my back to the door, and took the pillow from under my face, rested it on my head. I felt the cool unyielding flatness of the sheet beneath my cheek, and I tried to escape from the s.p.a.ce their voices filled. With the pillow pressed over my ears, I conjured the sensation of sitting on our couch between my parents, equal portions of warmth on either side. And then I attempted, once again, to conjure G.o.d, wondering whose fault it was that he was so utterly invisible in me. And when, as always, he failed to appear, I thought about Harriet Elliot. Her father's little princess. And how much I hated her for those clothes, and for her drawings of fairytale landscapes, and most of all for her disregard of our disregard of her.

As the voices of my parents burrowed through the darkness into me, I decided I should have told them what had happened. How she had been kidnapped, in Italy. I decided they should know. A sensation of danger was swelling, beneath my covers, beneath my pillow, a feeling so real and so polluting that suddenly anything bad seemed like it must be true; and I was certain that we had been wrong. She had had been stolen by strangers. She had lived for three weeks in the company of bandits. I pictured her at first, just as I knew her only younger, but prim and clean and dressed in ruffles and lace. I imagined her captors as unshaven men in black masks and black leather coats. She must have cried for her mother and her father. She must have cried out her eyes. But then, at some point, she must have stopped-an even more frightening thought. And her tights must have faded from white to the pale gray of dirt, and maybe eventually to black. She couldn't have worn the same dress for three weeks. She must have had to change. Change her clothing. Change herself. She must have had to stop being a princess, if only for those days. been stolen by strangers. She had lived for three weeks in the company of bandits. I pictured her at first, just as I knew her only younger, but prim and clean and dressed in ruffles and lace. I imagined her captors as unshaven men in black masks and black leather coats. She must have cried for her mother and her father. She must have cried out her eyes. But then, at some point, she must have stopped-an even more frightening thought. And her tights must have faded from white to the pale gray of dirt, and maybe eventually to black. She couldn't have worn the same dress for three weeks. She must have had to change. Change her clothing. Change herself. She must have had to stop being a princess, if only for those days.

I rolled over. From my bed I could see out into the hallway. I could see the pine cabinet that had sat there all my life. And at that moment, my mother's voice from below sounded as though she were singing-singing something sad and worn; a memory that would come to me always with the notes of certain melancholy hymns. I could hear the dishes clattering, water running. But underneath, her voice. As I stared and I listened, I saw my sister cross the hallway from the bathroom to her room. I thought of calling out her name. But then I heard her door squeak closed.

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HARRIET ELLIOT APPEARED the next morning in a blue satin dress. At her collar were rings of lace that matched her tights. She hung her coat in silence, made her way to the bookshelf, chose a book, and retreated to a corner, by herself. Throughout the morning, as I went about my tasks, I watched her there. the next morning in a blue satin dress. At her collar were rings of lace that matched her tights. She hung her coat in silence, made her way to the bookshelf, chose a book, and retreated to a corner, by herself. Throughout the morning, as I went about my tasks, I watched her there.

In the park, during break, she sat on her bench with a box of crayons and a pad. Mary had brought out a big thick piece of chalk and gone over the lines we'd drawn on the pavement two days earlier, faded during showers overnight. A few of us climbed on the bronze statues dotting the square. A pair of boys tossed a Frisbee back and forth. Teacher Margie moved without pause from one group to the next, her little dog trailing just behind.

I skipped straight through the hopscotch board, two feet, one foot, one, then two, then one, then one. And done. And I kept on walking. When I reached Harriet Elliot, she looked up from the drawing in her lap, silent. For some moments we just stared into one another's eyes, hers blue, as if painted. China-doll blue, and powerfully uninterested in me. As though she could choose to blink and I'd be gone.

"It's true, isn't it?" I asked. "You really were kidnapped, weren't you?"

"Yes, I was. I said so."

"n.o.body believes you," I told her-though I did. "Everyone thinks you're a liar."

She reached into the pocket of her coat and pulled out a piece of old newspaper. "Here," she said, holding it to my face. "This proves that I'm not."

The headline wasn't English, I couldn't read it, but there was a picture underneath, a tiny girl with a mop of curly hair, held aloft like a prize in a man's arms. "That's me, on the day they got me back. I was on Italian TV too." The child in the photograph wore rags, nothing more than a sack, her bare legs and bare feet sticking out. "And that's my father." The man was smiling, his mouth open wide. Not facing the camera; facing her.

"How do I know that's you?"

She ignored the question and put the picture back in her coat.

"Someday I'm going to find the men who took me," she said, "and make them pay."

"What?"

"I'm going to go back to Italy and hunt them down. And kill them for what they did."

In the background I heard Teacher Margie clap her hands.

Harriet began packing up her crayons, arranging them carefully in their big box. "We're supposed to go in," she said. "Look, they're all lining up."

"What do you mean you're going to kill them?"

She shrugged. "I just am," she said. "But first, I have to grow up. Go through all of this. That's the boring part."

I looked over at my cla.s.smates in their line.

"How're you going to find them?" I asked. Then: "That's just stupid."

She smiled. "I remember every second. I was there, wasn't I? I was there the whole time."

She walked away, toward our cla.s.smates, and I followed, just behind, so I had to take her place as last.

Soon after that day, my sister began treating me much more cruelly than she ever had. In the car, as our mother drove us to our schools, she would whisper to me that I was ugly. And fat. That I smelled like I never took a shower. At meals she would reach beneath the table, with arms that seemed to lengthen for the task, and pinch my legs until I cried. When I spoke, she mimicked me, antic.i.p.ating each word as it formed, rendering all my expressions foolish, meaningless. At night, as I lay in the shoulder of the hallway light, she would walk over and pull my door shut tight, leaving me to lie there in the dark.

One night, uninvited in my room, she first told me that I was too old to sleep with all the stuffed animals I had, then swept them from my bed, onto the floor.

"You're just so stupid and babyish. I can't even believe it. You act like you don't know what's going on."

I said nothing.

"I can't wait to see what happens to you when you... when you have to..." But she didn't finish the sentence. Just threw my pillow to the ground, stood, and walked away. "G.o.d. You're such a spoiled brat. You and those other stupid co-op kids." She slammed the door so hard, it bounced open wide. "You're so f.u.c.king dumb!"

I told no one about Harriet's plan to seek revenge. I knew that they would laugh at her. And I knew that if they laughed at her, then I would too. And something in me didn't want to do that. So a new wall of privacy came up. A new realm of secrecy. And a new us began. told no one about Harriet's plan to seek revenge. I knew that they would laugh at her. And I knew that if they laughed at her, then I would too. And something in me didn't want to do that. So a new wall of privacy came up. A new realm of secrecy. And a new us began.

Some days I would join her on her bench and I would ask her not about the future, but about how it had felt to be there with those men. To be taken from her family, not knowing if she would ever be returned. She told me stories that I believed, stories in which she never shed a tear, and never spoke, but only stared at the people around her-not just the bandits, but the strange women who cooked her food, the other children there who pulled her hair and tore at her clothes.

"I wouldn't let them see me cry," she said. "They wanted me to. But I wouldn't do it."

I nodded, aware of my cla.s.smates' occasional looks our way.

"I was very brave," she said. "I still am. I have never been afraid."

I didn't tell her how very afraid I was, every day. Every night. I watched her, instead, wondering how to be brave like that. In profile, beside me on the bench, Harriet Elliot's chin stayed slightly raised, as though she were always on alert, her eyes seeming to see past whatever was in her path.

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THE CO-OP WAS CLOSED for Veterans Day, though we called it Resolution Day and pa.s.sed the week before constructing peace signs out of popsicle sticks and out of tiny pinecones and out of mismatched b.u.t.tons and even out of the lima beans with which we learned our math. for Veterans Day, though we called it Resolution Day and pa.s.sed the week before constructing peace signs out of popsicle sticks and out of tiny pinecones and out of mismatched b.u.t.tons and even out of the lima beans with which we learned our math.

It was Harriet's father who called that morning, inviting me over, and it was her father, the man from the newspaper, who came to the door and waved my mother away, who took my coat off my shoulders, hung it up, told me my friend my friend was upstairs in her room, then asked if I would please take off my shoes. was upstairs in her room, then asked if I would please take off my shoes.

"It's the carpet," he said, smiling broadly, as though he had never stopped smiling since his daughter was returned. "We try our best to keep it white."

His hair was short, like a soldier's, and mostly gray. I thought he looked too old to be anyone's father. I thought there was something vaguely wrong with a father who answered the door and took your coat, who spoke to you as though you were interesting. Like a mother would do. "Overalls, huh?" He picked my boots up off the floor, setting them on a small bench. "Maybe we should buy Harriet a pair of overalls. Though I don't think she'd wear them."

I didn't know what to say. Of course she wouldn't wear them. And by then I didn't think she should. "Probably not," I said.

"No. Probably not." Then he told me to run on upstairs. He said he would call when it was lunch.

My stocking feet were silent on the carpet. As I padded through their home, I wondered what it would be like to walk on such softness every day. The floors of my own house were wood, battered oak, and bare except for a few scattered rugs from my father's travels, all too often sliding underfoot. I wondered what it would be like never to hear footsteps, so never to listen for them.

"I have been making plans," she said. have been making plans," she said.

We sat on pale yellow chairs, at a pale yellow table, in her fairy-tale room, a room in which all of the colors were pastel, all of the surfaces softened, all of the light bulbs shaded, the three tall windows covered with lace, the sun diffused. Even the canopy bed cus.h.i.+oned the air, as though the atmosphere itself might be too harsh.

Harriet's chin was slightly raised as always, her eyes focused just above my head, and she was dressed like herself. Only the shoes were gone, so the white legs below her green velvet hem dwindled unexpectedly, seeming to melt into the carpet. "I have been working on details," she said.

"What details?"

"You'll see. There are things I have never shown anyone. But I think I will show them to you. Today."

I didn't speak, afraid that if I did she would change her mind about whatever exceptional quality she thought she had detected in me. I only tried to look special.

Harriet stood and walked toward a closet door, then opened it, revealing a row of dresses pressed together so tightly I decided she had had to wear one every day, because the closet couldn't hold any more. She reached into the middle and pulled out a filthy rag. It was the rag from the photograph. The rag she had worn. I knew at once. to wear one every day, because the closet couldn't hold any more. She reached into the middle and pulled out a filthy rag. It was the rag from the photograph. The rag she had worn. I knew at once.

"We'll need this. And a few other things," she said.

She moved around the room, collecting objects, arranging them in front of me. First, the tattered baby dress, and then a lock of hair. Then a diary, a ring, a piece of crackly paper rolled into a scroll and tied with string, and finally a miniature bottle of amber gla.s.s. Then she sat down.

"Do you know anything about killing people?" she asked.

I shook my head.

"There's a difference between how men kill and how ladies do."

"That doesn't make sense," I said. It was a phrase I used a lot with her, a phrase that asked her to go on without admitting how much I wanted to hear her words.

"Women use poison," she said. "And men use guns. My father says if he ever saw them, he would shoot them. But that's not what I'm going to do." She picked the ring up from the table. "This one doesn't work," she said. "It's just a toy. For practice. But there are rings in Italy that open up so you can pour poison in your enemy's food." She tapped the black stone with her thumb. "That's how women kill. Especially in Italy. They invite you for dinner, then they poison you. That's how I'm going to kill. Here," she said. "Try it on."

I straightened my fingers as she slid the ring down. Her face was closer to mine than it had ever been. Each blue iris, I saw, was ringed by black.

"It's heavy," I said.

She leaned away. "Do you want to smell what's in the bottle? It's a potion. But it's not the real thing," she said. "I have to wait for that till I'm grown. Like everything else. This is only flower petals and lemon peel."

I nodded. "Sure."

"I think it's important to practice," she said. "Even if it's just with toys. That's what professionals do. Professional killers. That's what they they did. They practiced stealing babies. They practiced on dolls. I know they did. I saw them, all these dolls stuffed in a tiny closet. Hundreds of dolls they would grab from each other. Then they would run away with them." did. They practiced stealing babies. They practiced on dolls. I know they did. I saw them, all these dolls stuffed in a tiny closet. Hundreds of dolls they would grab from each other. Then they would run away with them."

"How do you remember so much? If you were only three?"

"Here." She stuck the bottle under my nose. The smell reminded me of the library near my house.

"This was all my parents had left," she said, picking up the lock of hair. "My mother never let it go. She slept clutching it every night." was all my parents had left," she said, picking up the lock of hair. "My mother never let it go. She slept clutching it every night."

The rolled-up paper was a map of Italy. "Here," she said, pointing to a star drawn in pencil. "That's where they are. That's the place where they took me."

"How do you know?"

She rolled it up, without a word.

From her diary, Harriet read me the names of boats that sailed the Atlantic. Then she told me about poisons that inflicted excruciating pain before they killed. She told me that one bandit had a scar that ran the length of his long, b.u.mpy nose, another had hair that grew in perfect stripes of black and white. One of the women had no thumb on one hand, but two on the other. One of the babies had been so fat he had to be propped up with half a dozen pillows or he might just roll away. She listed the foods she would prepare for her captors' last meal. Caviar. Lobster. Strawberries. Chocolate eclairs. But, she told me, she would poison their first bite.

I still wanted to know more about the past. "You must have been afraid," I said. "When you saw the dolls, you must have been."

"I had to keep my wits about me," she said. Then, for once, she looked directly at my eyes. "You should too."

For lunch, Harriet's father served us clear soup in china bowls. We sat in the dining room, at a long, wooden table glossy with polish. When he left, telling us to call him if we needed anything, Harriet reached for my wrist.

"It's done like this, so no one knows," she said. "See? Just a little twist of your hand." She turned my arm a quarter turn. "And the poison comes out. You try."

I touched the toy ring, pretending to open it, then moved my wrist the way she had, as though poisoning my own soup.

"That's good," she said. "But you have to be less obvious. You have to not get caught."

"I wouldn't get caught." From the kitchen I heard a bell ring; a timer had run, and I realized the air was filled with something sweet. "Is your mom here?" I asked.

"Because if you do get caught murdering," Harriet said, "you'll rot in a jail for the rest of your life. Especially in Italy. They won't even remember to feed you and if they do, when they come with your bread and moldy cheese, because that's all you can have, not even water every day, they'll find just your bones one time, your rotten bones. Do you understand?"

I nodded.

"If it were France," she said, filling her spoon with soup, "they would chop off your head."

And I nodded again, slowly, as though letting these facts sink in, as though I too were plotting my revenge.

When Harriet's father came back, he was carrying a plate of cookies. She smiled at him, seemed almost to laugh; and I realized I had never before seen her smile.

"There must be something that you want," she said, back upstairs, after lunch, her door now locked. "Something important enough to make you brave."

I thought of my parents. I only shrugged.

"It has to be something you want so much that it hurts. So you feel like your arms and legs will fall off if you don't get it. And your head. Your head will roll away. And your backbone will crumble. So if you think about that, how bad that would be, you can't be scared. Not of other things."

I could feel my eyes begin to sting. I could picture my head rolling off and my backbone crumbling.

"There's something, isn't there?" she asked.

I shrugged again.

"Don't tell me what it is," she said. "I know a ritual you can do."

She told me that first I had to write my wish down. In red ink, for blood. She gave me paper and a red marker. "Start by writing: This is the wish that is dearest to my heart This is the wish that is dearest to my heart."

I did. And then I wrote the thing I wanted so much it kept me up through every night.

"There's more," she said. She told me that I had to lick my words. "Make sure the paper's wet. All of it. It has to be."

When I had finished, my tongue pasty, thick in my mouth, I found those blue eyes narrow and appraising. "Is it wet?" she asked, and I nodded. She told me to take my overalls off. She told me I had to be naked for it to work. That the wish had to be able to touch all of me. "That's part of it," she said. "That's the part where your bravery starts to be in your veins. You need bravery to make a wish come true."

I stood and undid the buckles at my shoulders. I let the denim fall-trying to feel like it was normal. Just as though I was home, about to take my bath or go to sleep. I kicked the overalls from my feet, then pulled off my s.h.i.+rt, my underpants, my mismatched socks, certain as I did that she'd thought I'd chicken out, determined to pa.s.s every test she gave, and only when wholly naked, feeling the full bore of her gaze on my still skinny body, still flat chest, on the area between my legs my sister said was bald and vowed would always be.

Harriet's face was expressionless as she told me to rub the paper on myself. "Your wish has to cover you," she said. "All over. Every part of you. Even the parts you think you shouldn't touch. Especially those."

The red ink trailed across my skin, leaving markings like the openings of tiny wounds. I could picture the words I had written seeping in. I was certain I could feel them in my veins. I smoothed the paper over my front and through that arch between my legs, made sure to press it there, then down, away, to knees and feet. She watched until I stopped.

"It's almost finished," she said. "You're almost done." She told me to tear it into bits and swallow them as quickly as I could. "Think about how no one can ever hurt you. How no one can ever make you feel bad again."

The paper gummed in my mouth, but I forced it down, little bit after little bit. When it was gone, Harriet Elliot sprinkled my naked shoulders with her potion; then she brushed the lock of her baby hair across my face. And finally she declared me brave. Brave enough to make my wish come true.

And by then I believed every word.