Turn of Mind

You’d hoped for a different witness. My guess is your father.

Now why would I want that?

I don’t know. Something happened between you around that time. Something after you’d interned for him when you turned sixteen, just before your senior year. You were so close until then. Then, trouble. You came home from work together one night that summer not speaking. And it lasted for years.

I’d rather not talk about it.

Even now?

Even now.

If it had something to do with a woman, you don’t have to worry about telling me. I knew it all. It didn’t change anything between your father and me.

Well, maybe you weren’t the only one affected.

What’s that supposed to mean? Who could it matter to but me?

There were two other members of our family. Two other people who were betrayed.

No, honestly. Why would it matter to you? He was still your father. There was no betrayal there.

No, not there.

Stop being so mysterious.

Oh, come on, Mom. Even you had to admit that the peddler’s daughter was pretty hot. Did you think Dad wouldn’t notice? And once he noticed, what he would try to do?

So he made a pass at your girlfriend. He made passes at everyone.

Forget it.

Or is the problem that he succeeded?

I said, forget it. I should have known better than to try to have a conversation with you. I’m actually sorry you won’t remember this one. Because I want it to stick.

How angry you are. You seemed to come here in a conciliatory frame of mind. And now you’re burning bridges?

They’ll be rebuilt. And reburned. The never-ending cycle.

Just be careful.

Why? Because you might just remember this time?

Yes. At some level, I believe you do remember these things.

He gets up and dusts something off his pants. His face changes, grows crafty. His voice is now quieter and more measured.

I think you do remember. Fiona does, too. Like what happened to Amanda.

I don’t answer.

You do know, right now, don’t you? That she is dead?

I nod.

He lowers his voice, comes even closer. Almost touching.

And do you know more than that? What do you remember?

Get out, I say.

Tell me, he says. He is so close I can feel the warmth of his body.

I said, get out.

No. Not until you tell me.

I reach for the red button above my bed. He sees what I am fumbling for and his hand shoots out, grabs my wrist.

No, he says. You’re going to deal with this.

I struggle to free myself, but his grip is strong. I give a sudden twist to my hand, free it, and slam the button. He gives a little shout of anger and grabs my wrist again, holds it against his hip. It hurts.

You know you’re guilty, right? You know there’s no way out. A confession won’t do any good at this point. It won’t do anyone any good.

We hear running outside the room. He releases my wrist, stands back.

Out, I say.

Good-bye then, he says. And he’s gone.

My door is closed, but I am not alone. Although it is dim, I can see a shape flitting around the room. Dancing,