Chapter 8
That night, the couch mattress stayed out in the yard. Jane shared Ma's bed. For the first time, she wasn't tied. It was the old woman's way of telling her that she was trusted. Considering that just hours before she had been trying to prepare herself to accept death, Jane accepted this as a very pleasant bonus.
As she stretched out in the more comfortable, though not much cleaner bed, Jane felt the day's pressures catching up with her. For a while, she felt her muscles go tense, then as the calloused hands of the old woman stroked her, she felt tensions melt away. All she had to do was give an indication that she wanted more, and it would have been forthcoming. She didn't really though, so instead, the tough but motherly hands stroked her gently, soothingly, until Jane felt hereslf drifting into the gentle world of sleep. It was an easy trip because she was ready for it.
When she awoke in the morning, the hands were still close, still offering their peculiar comfort. She smiled an almost shy, scared good morning and received something similar as the woman got up to fumble around the kitchen in search of the coffee to get the day underway.
Except for Grace who remained sullen and Don who was not capable of understanding that things were different, the atmosphere of the room was tinged with an optomistic air. Ma, George and Jane all chose to believe that the day would bring something different and wonderful to all. There was an air of nervousness around the kitchen, but within it was contained a willingness to believe that things would work out somehow.
There was little conversation, but all eyes seemed to turn to the clock frequently. It was as if each participant in this strange drama wondered whether it could really go on as planned. To Jane, it meant the difference between freedom and death. She wouldn't really believe that they intended to go along with the plan until she was safely back in her own home. To Ma, it was the difference between fifty thousand dollars and prison. If the girl could really be trusted, she would be rich; if not, they would all end up in jail, even poor Don who would have nobody to love him or look after him.
The problem, the alternatives, meant something different to George. If the plan went ahead, he wouldn't have to kill this beautiful young woman, wouldn't have to bury her lovely white body under the foul floor of the barn. But at the same time, it meant that he would never see her again. He would return to the ample, somewhat flabby body of his wife, but that wouldn't be the same again, not after having tasted the firm, tender beauty of the hostage.
Jane, of course, was anxious to go ahead with it. George, although his heart was not in it, would also go along. Ma represented the only possible stumbling block. If she got scared at the last minute, if she decided that the fifty thousand was not worth the gamble, then the whole thing would be off. In that case, Jane would die. It was after ten o'clock now. If the plan was to be followed, George would leave in about an hour. Sixty minutes were all that remained to decide the future of these three people and others who depended on or cared about them.
They looked at each other, they drank coffee, they each wondered what the others were thinking. Don walked into the room naked and aroused, but he was almost totally ignored. Jane wondered whether she could improve her chances by doing him the big favor, but she dismissed the idea. Nervous as she was, she knew she couldn't do it. There was also the nagging thought that by appearing too friendly, she could arouse suspicions that could mean death. She ignored him and hoped she was doing right. There was still no sign of the buggy whipped Grace. Jane was thankful for that. She didn't want to see her again. That session on the couch yesterday had been more than enough.
The kitchen clock showed five minutes after eleven. George looked at Jane with a warm smile that told her he wanted to be a friend, told her she was trusted. She tried to smile in reply, tried to tell him with a look that she wouldn't let any harm come to him. She hoped he understood.
He got up and picked up his jacket from the back of a chair. Moving almost mechanically, he began to slip it on.
"Where you goin'?" The old woman's voice registered a note of alarm.
"I'm goin' to pick up fifty thousand bucks." The calm tone of his voice disguised his nervousness.
"You just wait a minute, you hear?" Ma's tone was plainly nervous. It was as if she were reconsidering.
Oh God, Jane thought, please don't let her change her mind now. Jane felt the irony of the situation. She hadn't prayed or recognized God since she was about ten years old. Now, with death staring her in the face, she called on God. I wonder, she thought, if I shall ever think of him again if I live through this?
Jane looked at the old woman. She saw that George was looking at her too. Jane sensed that he would help if he could, but she couldn't help wondering whether he really could. It was obvious that in the clutch, the old woman was still boss.
"What's the matter, Ma?" Jane heard herself ask.
"I don't rightly know what's the matter. There's just somethin' here don't seem right. We kidnapped you and you have the right to be real mad at us. Yet, you tell us you're goin' to help us get fifty thousand dollars and you ain't goin' to tell the cops nothin'. There's just somethin' not right about it all. I'm not sure I should let George here go after that money. Maybe money ain't all that important."
"Ma," Jane felt panic rising within her and tried to keep it from showing in her voice, "we made a deal. I promised that if you let me live, I would show my gratitude by gettin the money for you and not letting anything happen to you or your family. I meant that, Ma. I still do. You've got to trust me."
"No, Jane, I don't got to. Maybe I'm just bein' greedy. Maybe instead I should be safe. What would we do with all that money?"
"It isn't just the money, Ma," Jane reminded her. "There was another part to the deal too.
I meant that. It can be the most beautiful day in his life for Don."
Don had seemed to ignore the conversation to this point, but the mention of his name and the way in which Jane had said what she did seemed to bring him to life. He sensed, somehow, that something very important to him was at stake here.
"Hey Ma," his voice contained a note of urgency, "don't talk mean to Jane. I think she's real good. I like her."
Jane's warm smile was probably the most wonderful thing that had ever been bestowed on him. He glowed in its warmth.
"Thank you Don," Jane's voice was gentle, warm, "In just a day or two, I may have a chance to show you that I like you too. I'll be very good to you Don and we'll both enjoy it." Even as she spoke, Jane realized that she may be alienating the old woman, but she had to take the chance. She was so close now to getting away from here alive, that she couldn't let the chance slip away without a fight.
"Come on ma," George pleaded, "we made a deal, let's go through with it. I'm the one what gotta go pick up the money and I ain't afraid. Even Don here trusts her. Let's go ahead with it."
The woman looked from him to Don. She still felt the cold fingers of fear clutching her. As head of the household, the responsibility for this decision was hers.
"All right, George, go. But I'm sayin' this right now. If you ain't back here with the money and without no trouble, this here girl is gonna die."
It was all he wanted. George wasted no time in hurrying out to the car. Jane ran behind him and stopped him before he opened the car door.
"Thank you for everything, George. I know I can trust my dad. He promised me he wouldn't play any tricks, you don't have to worry." She looked for other words to reassure him, but couldn't find them.
"Aw heck, Lady Jane, I ain't worried none. Don't you fret neither. You're gonna be out of here and back in your nice big house in no time at all."
His words were doubly warming to her because she knew that he really was worried. She knew that he was counting on her promise and hoped that her father wouldn't play tricks to save his money. She knew it was out of her hands now. Other people would decide whether she lived or died. She kissed him lightly on the cheek and waved as he bumped the old car out of the yard. She hoped that in spite of his nervousness he would drive carefully. Even a minor accident that delayed him would mean death for her. It was that close now. As she watched the car turn onto the dirt road, she remembered a similar feeling from years ago. It was the first time she had flown. As the plane left the runway, she realized that she was airborne. If anything went wrong in the next couple of minutes, she had thought, we shall crash and I'll die. Every second of the plane's seemingly slow climb was an hour of pain. She realized that she was going to relive that experience now. The car made a turn and was lost from sight. She walked slowly back into the old house. She wondered if she would ever leave it again.
Just as during that plane flight her fate had been in the hands of others, so it was now. She looked down and saw that her fists were clenched, the knuckles white. As she shut her eyes tightly, she was on that plane again; the engines strained, the sound changed, she waited again for the crash.
"Come on you," Ma's voice shrilled from the doorway, "ain't nothin' changed till George gets back with the money. You stay in the house and keep real quiet or I tie you to the couch again'."
Jane walked into the house without replying. Inside, she found that the place had shrunk as if by magic. Previously, it had been a big kitchen in a big old house, now it was a tiny cell with the walls closing in on her. Oh my God. she thought, here I am on the verge of getting out of here and now I'm going to lose my mind. I've got to do something.
"Ma, can I wash the dishes or something?" Jane's voice showed all the rough edges of panic.
"I suppose we don't wash them good enough to suit you," the old woman retorted. "You just sit and stay put."
Hearing the old woman's shrill voice and sensing that the new favorite was in disgrace, Grace dragged herself sleepily out of the bedroom and shambled toward the stove. This time, she didn't even wear the usual panties. The ugly welts all over her white, slightly soft body gave evidence of the session with the buggy whip. They made it obvious that any clothing at all would irritate already sensitive skin. She picked up the coffee pot, poured some of the black brew into a used cup she found on the end of the stove and walked to the door. She stood there sipping from the stained mug and gazing out the door toward nothing in particular.
Jane stared at the ugly whip marks which crisscrossed Grace's back, buttocks and thighs. In spite of all the woman had done to her, she felt an instinctive sympathy. She turned away and looked at the battered old clock. It showed that ten minutes had elapsed since George left.
It must be stopped, she told herself. She walked toward it but heard the ticking before she reached it. Even driving fast, it was going to take George at least an hour to make the trip, probably longer. She wondered if she could retain her sanity that long.
She thought that her chances would have been better if she had been taken by professional kidnappers. The whole thing would have been planned and carried out efficiently. The Travers family were not professionals though, far from it. They were just an ignorant, uneducated bunch of hicks. There was no telling what they would do under pressure.
Jane looked back at the clock. Another minute had been killed. Walking aimlessly back and forth across the room, she saw Don's eyes on her. His thoughts couldn't have been more obvious if he had voiced them aloud.
Under her blouse and skirt, she wore only a bra. She had never gotten the panties back from Don and wouldn't have worn them again anyway. She knew that his eyes were seeing right through her clothes, she could see that his hands were itching to touch what his imagination was seeing.
The thought struck her then. It would be one way of killing the nerve shattering wait for George's return. She could walk into the bedroom and indicate by the simplest gesture that he was invited to join her. He would leap at the invitation. She would use up a lot of time unbuttoning the blouse. She would slip it off her shoulders one sleeve at a time, slowly, seductively.
In just her bra and skirt, she would walk slowly toward him, breathing deeply, causing the bra to rise and fall dramatically under the weight of her full breasts. Acting without haste, she would unbuckle his belt, undo the top button and slip his trousers down.
She would pull them down very slowly and see the sign of his male arousal. As she did, she would look up at him and give him a warm smile. She would see the animal hunger evident in his face.
Stopping him with her hand against his chest, she would move back then, a few feet away from him. Keeping her motions slow and deliberate, she would unfasten the bra, hold it in place for a moment, then remove one strap, free one breast from the confining cup. Her hand would rise to it, squeeze it for a few seconds, tweak the pink nipple to life. Slowly, she would remove the other cup, massage the other breast.
Dropping the bra to the floor, she would then clutch both breasts, push them up and out. The nipples would be aimed at him like a pair of ripe strawberries floating on mounds of rich whipped cream. He would be beside himself with passion.
It would be time to move on then with the show. She would reach for the snap and zipper at the side of her skirt. The zipper would make an exaggerated sound in the still room. She would hold the skirt so that it would not fall too quickly. Instead, she would lower it over her slightly rounded belly just a little at a time.
She would watch his eyes as they roved over her silken skin. Each time the skirt dropped another inch, his eyes would soak up the newly exposed flesh. He would small glimpse of the tangled foliage against the alabaster skin, then he would see all of it, then, abruptly, the skirt would plunge to the floor and she would stand naked before him. She would brace her feet wide apart.
When she beckoned, he would walk to her, kneel before her at her command and pay loving tribute to her body with eyes and hands and lips. Having been readied then, she would lead him to the bed and, arranging herself deliberately, would invite him to be guest of honor at the banquet of Venus. He would gorge himself in every possible way.
Having worked out the plan in detail, she rejected it. She couldn't do it, not now anyway. She started to turn to look at the clock, but stopped herself. I mustn't keep looking at it, she reminded herself. That only makes it worse. I must do something else. She turned to the dirty window and stared out into the junk littered back yard, beyond that, at the stunted scrub brush that crept into the shaggy grass cover of the yard.
My God, she thought, this whole place is so stunted, so dirty, that not even the woods will grow normally. She wondered whether the people had contaminated the trees or whether the environment of the broken down farm had infected the people. She was not inclined to blame nature in this case.
A hurried movement behind her caused her to turn abruptly. Grace was bending in front of Don who stood by the table. With frenzied movements, she was tearing his pants open and pulling them down. Almost in the same motion, she turned and clutched the edge of the table, her fat buttocks wiggling an obscene invitation to the nude man.
Like an animal, he was on her. His arms wrapped around her body, his belly rushed against her with the sound of flesh slamming against naked flesh. As his weight was thrown against her time after time with a piston like action, Grace lost her balance and was thrown roughly onto the table.
Her feet left the floor, but there was no break in the action. Don grabbed one thigh with each hand and seemed to pull her roughly toward him as his body slammed her in the other direction. As her body was abused, she mouthed a stream of obscenities which seemed to be directed at Don, at her, at Ma, but mostly at George. In spite of the words she used, she seemed to be lost in a transport of erotic delight, like a continuing, unending climax.
When her peak did arrive, she had nothing left. She fell limply across the table, her arms flapping loosely, her body still being pounded by the animal thrusts of the man who held her thighs and manipulated her body as easily as if she had been a rag doll.
Don finished with a grunt and a mighty lunge which brought a scream of pain from her. As he backed away, he wore a detached smile.
Sweat poured from his body. Looking down at the wreckage of his arousal, he walked slowly to his room. Through the open door, Jane saw him reach under his pillow and come up with her panties. He wiped with them, on and on and on.
Looking toward Ma, Jane saw her huddled over the end of the table. It was as though she had ignored everything that had happened before her eyes. The action had been within inches of her, but she seemed not to have seen it. Her thoughts were obviously far away with a son who drove the dirt roads on a dangerous mission. A mother wondered whether she would ever see her son again, wondered if she had made a terrible mistake, wondered if she should have just killed this strange young woman and protected her family. But it was too late for such thoughts now. All she could do was wait and worry. She did.