afraid to tell anyone this because I’m, well, ashamed to admit it. So you have to promise you won’t think less of me when I tell you. Do you promise? Okay, then here goes:
Lately, I’ve started to enjoy it.
So began Justine Kershaw’s raw, brutally frank short novel entitled She’ll Do Ya.
Mitch took a peek at it over his Cocoa Puffs after Des left for Four Chimneys. He’d intended to sample the first few pages, then tackle it in earnest after he’d filed his Sunday column on Safety Last!, a forgotten Harold Lloyd slapstick classic. Instead, he spent his entire morning reading She’ll Do Ya from start to finish as the fog hung heavy outside over Long Island Sound and the foghorn sounded from the Old Saybrook lighthouse. Not that reading it was easy. Mitch was so shaken by Justine’s novel that he felt outright physical revulsion. But he could not put it down. Never before had he encountered a voice quite like that of her unnamed fifteen-year-old storyteller. It was pure and piercingly honest-the voice of a tough, savvy young girl who has suffered so much emotional and physical cruelty that she is beyond all illusions, all hopes, all dreams. Mitch found her stubborn will to survive inspiring. Also heartbreaking. Because somehow, in spite of everything, she is still a child who wants nothing more than to be loved: Doing them is pretty much the only attention I ever get. Otherwise, I’m invisible. My teachers never call on me. The other girls don’t like me one bit. Can’t imagine why. And it’s not like a boy wants to ask me out for real. I own a mirror. I know I’m not much to look at. But if I do a boy then I’ve pleased him, right? Especially if he’s this one boy, Tommy, who I totally like. And who knows? Maybe Tommy likes me, too. I promise I won’t lie to you. I’II tell you everything that happened. Or as much as I can remember. Some of it’s still a haze. I kind of like it that way. That’s why I stay high a lot of the time. If I’m straight I think too much. Listen, I hope I don’t shock you too much. But I’m telling you this so you can learn something about the world you live in. I’m real. I’m walking among you. I’m your daughter, okay? And, hey, whatever you do, don’t take it too hard. Because it’s not so bad. Really, I don’t feel that bad. I don’t feel anything at all.
Mitch could barely get up out of his chair when he’d finished reading She’ll Do Ya. It was easily the most disturbing thing he’d read in years. Somehow, Justine’s confessional novel was more than one girl’s visceral cry for help. It was a cry from a million confused, rudderless young people all across the land. She had a remarkable gift, especially considering that she was a twenty-three-year-old college dropout with no advanced writing training. Not that She’ll Do Ya was without its flaws. The subplot involving that one particular boy, Tommy, went nowhere, for example. But the talent was there. All she needed now was a good editor. Truly, Mitch believed this was the work of a major new voice in American fiction. Assuming, of course, that it was a work of fiction.
Was it true?
As he turned the pages, Mitch couldn’t stop asking himself this. Was he, in fact, reading Justine’s autobiography? Had Stevie and Donnie raped her when she was fourteen? Had Dorset’s leading male citizens plundered her, one by one? Had her father tolerated it? Or had Justine dreamt this all up? How could anyone her age dream up such morally depraved stuff? How could she tap into such pain?
It had to be true.
Mitch found it hard to conclude otherwise-which made She’ll Do Ya even more disturbing than it already was. Mitch was so bothered that he couldn’t work, couldn’t think. All he could do was plug in his beloved sky blue Fender Stratocaster-the same make Stevie Ray Vaughan had played-and sit in with Taj Mahal on The Natch’l Blues. Jesse Edwin Davis’s tasty riffs on “Corinna” left Mitch plenty of room for his own brand of soaring, high-decibel blues. And so he jacked up the power and he played, reaching for that high note, finding it, squeezing it as Clemmie hid upstairs under the bed. Mitch had no talent. None. But he had the juice. And the love. And, right now, he had the feeling.
It had to be true.
Which made She’ll Do Ya more than just a compelling read. It was a blistering one-hundred-fifty-page statutory rape indictment against her twisted warpo brothers and a whole lot of Dorset’s leading male citizens. Seemingly, Justine had kept quiet until now because she didn’t think anyone would believe her. After they’d read She’ll Do Ya, everyone would. And Dorset would no longer be that quaint, beautiful Yankee Eden on the Connecticut Gold Coast. It would be the ugly little town with the ugly little secret about those dirty men who had done unspeakable things to a young girl.
No wonder she hadn’t wanted Bement to read it. No telling what the hotheaded love of her life would do to Stevie and Donnie when he got full wind of this. Assuming, that is, Bement didn’t already know about it. But how was that even possible? In a town this size, how could Bement not know? What about Rut Peck? Did he know? Mitch figured not, because if the old postmaster had any idea what She’ll Do Ya was about then he wouldn’t have encouraged Justine to pass it on to him. But she had. And now Mitch was sitting on pure dynamite.
It was true. It had to be true.
Or did it?
Mitch needed to find out for certain. He just needed to take care of a personal matter first. Something that wouldn’t wait. So he snatched up his cell phone and speed-dialed the number in Vero Beach, Florida.
And when he heard that familiar voice at the other end, he said, “Hi, Mom… Nothing’s wrong, I’m fine… I do not have a cold. My voice sounds perfectly normal. I just have a somewhat weird favor to ask of you…”
Honestly, she looked so innocent and bug cute seated there on that uncomfortable metal bench that it was hard to believe Justine Ker-shaw had ever done anyone.
She’d smiled at Mitch with genuine delight when he’d shown up at her cash register. Told him she’d meet him outside in, like, eleven minutes-not that she was counting. “So what do you want to talk to me about?”
“Your novel. I’ve read it.”
“Is that right?” Justine’s left knee began to jiggle convulsively. And Mitch swore she’d just sucked down half of that cigarette in one drag. “And?…”
“I have to ask you something. Did those things really happen to you?”
Justine looked at him in bewilderment. “Why does that matter?”
“People will want to know. Your editor, your readers, the media.”
“The media? Whoa, cupcake…”
“Not to mention the police. Terrible crimes were committed, Justine. Someone has to pay.”
“Okay, I definitely don’t care about that.”
“Exactly how much does Bement know?”
Justine stubbed out her cigarette, her dark eyes scanning the crowded parking lot. “Bement is very sheltered. But we love each other and we’re together in every way possible. That’s all I feel like saying about him right now, okay?”
“Not okay. Justine, did it really happen to you or didn’t it?”
“It happens to young girls like me every day, and no one ever gets in trouble. I’m surprised you even mentioned the P-word. Did you already tell your girlfriend about it?”
“I haven’t told anyone. I came directly here. I need to know whether-”
“Oh, hell!” Her gaze had fallen on a mud-caked Toyota pickup that was sputtering its way across the parking lot toward them. “That mean old bastard’s always checking up on me, bugging me…”
The pickup drew up before them in the fire line, its engine clanking, its back end crammed with black plastic trash bags that seemed to be full of empty bottles and cans. An angry looking Doberman was barking out at the world from the passenger seat.
Milo Kershaw got out, snarled at the dog to shut up and sidled over to them. He was a chippy little runt in his sixties, with shrewd eyes and a down-turned mouth that gave his face a decidedly nasty expression. “What do you think you’re doing out here, little girl? Supposed to be working for a living, not flirting with the boys.”
“I’m on a break,” she answered coldly, lighting another cigarette. “And I told you to leave me the hell alone.”
“Don’t care what you told me. I’m still your father. Besides, I was on my way over to them machines at the A amp;P.”
“Since when are you such a big recycler?”
“Never mind since when.” Milo pointed his chin at Mitch. “Who’s this?”
“I’m Mitch Berger, Mr. Kershaw. Pleased to meet you.”
Milo shook a finger at him. “You got one hell of a lot of nerve sniffing around my girl, considering where you been dipping yours lately.”
Mitch stiffened. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”
