Deconstructing Delilah, page 7
“Thank you, Joey,” I say with a weak smile. “I’ll see you in class.”
“Delilah, wait,” he calls, but I ignore it, dumping my half-eaten treat in the trash on my way out.
I wander the Garden District some, lost in my thoughts as much as my steps. It’s not a very large place, all things considered. It feels smaller still with how often I see familiar faces. The same mother walking with her two toddler boys from her house to the nearby park. The elderly man that sits out front at the deli every day eating his lunch. So many faces with set habits, folks that have found what makes them happy, where they feel most comfortable.
Envy washes through me, followed closely by the guilt of feeling a sin. This happens often, it’s not new, the feeling that my thoughts are sinful. I’ve felt guilt my entire life, no matter how hard I’ve tried to be good, clean, virtuous in the eyes of the Lord. Envy is new, however. I hadn’t had that before leaving the ranch. Now it is as if I spend much time each day holding its hand.
Envy isn’t the only sin I indulge in these days. Lust weighs heavy on my shoulders. Not a day goes by that I don’t picture Pope in his office that day. Nude, rigid with muscles decorated in inked art, his hard manhood prominent for that short moment before he realized what he’d done. I remember with vivid detail the way the dove on his neck fluttered when he swallowed, the way the broken cross that sits over his chest shimmered with his perspiration.
There isn’t anything I’ve wanted more than Pope. Not even wanting to escape the ranch. It terrifies me to admit it, but it’s the truth. I risked everything to escape my father. What would I risk in order to gain Pope?
Something tells me the answer is anything. I suppose it’s good I have so little. Nothing much more than myself, which I’ve offered to no avail. Perhaps, someday, the rejection will sting less. There’s nothing I can offer him, of course. I remember what the strangers said in the restroom, how he likes multiple women. Why would he choose a lonely, inexperienced girl?
As I often do when I take these walks, I end up at the gold door. His house is surrounded by a tall stone wall, ivy covering it from bottom to top, except the gilded iron door. Both ominous and regal, it invites you to the decadence or debauchery taking place inside. This is where Pope lives. I know because I saw the thank you card Lorelai addressed to him; the address easy enough to remember here in the Irish Channel just off the river.
It's a large house, the second story just visible over the wall and through the mature trees, a tall, Victorian home painted a gothic gray. Of all the times I’ve passed by, I’ve never seen anyone coming or going, never heard any noise from the other side of the wall. Today, a faint thump can be heard. Music… he must be home.
“Shit, girl, we’re late. He hates that,” a woman says from behind me. The blonde punches a code into the keypad on the door and it clicks open. She gives me a wink and a laugh and rushes through the door. “I hope you like punishment as much as I do.”
I follow at a much slower pace, though my blood pumps as fast as her feet move. I feel like I’m committing a crime being here.
Between the wall and the house is a mature garden, a trail lit by small shimmering lights hung in the trees. Like the fairylands in the books Pope gave me. The other woman left the front door ajar, a shaft of light inviting me in, even though I know I should stay out.
The glimpse inside his world is too big a prize to ignore.
The foyer walls are painted deep blue, almost the color of midnight against the dark wood floors and trim. They’re decorated in vibrant modern art though, giving the old space fresh life. As I creep further in, I see a dining room to the right, dark again but this time green. To the left is a living space draped in deep teal and filled with furnishings in both mustard yellow and a near magenta pink. Masculine and feminine both, and not what I’d expect of Pope’s bachelor pad. Honestly, I don’t know him well enough to have assumptions, only fantasies. Those I have plenty of.
The music grows louder, the tempo coming from upstairs. I climb them faster than I should. Fear should have me slowing, not running toward whatever is happening, whatever punishment is about to occur. But it’s Pope, and around him, I don’t feel like the dress being eaten away by destructive insects. With Pope, I’m the moth and he is my flame.
It’s wrong, so wrong. I know it, he especially knows it. There isn’t an explanation for why he feels like my safe space, it just is, and I’ll risk a lot to be near him. Obviously.
“You’re late, Lacey,” I hear Pope say when I’m halfway to the top.
“Sorry, Sir,” Lacey responds, but she doesn’t sound apologetic. She sounds excited.
“Palm or paddle?”
“Flogger?”
“The paddle it is, you fucking brat,” he bites back. “How many minutes were you late?”
“Eleven, Sir.”
“Count,” Pope commands, and there is laughter from at least two other people.
I don’t move past the top step. Another foot and I’d be able to see into the room they’re in. The visual isn’t needed; I can hear each swat and Lacey clearly calling out the number that belongs to it. Spankings were a very integral part of my childhood. They happened regularly when anyone acted out of line, but also occasionally as a preemptive measure to ward away sinful thoughts. Or so we were told. Now I know they were part of the abuse, a way to control us or a way for the man delivering them to ‘get off’.
I’m not so messed up that I don’t understand what’s happening in the next room with Pope and Lacey is different. Lorelai and I have spoken in great length about consent and age-appropriate sexual behavior. I am still messed up enough to have flashes of memories bombard me with the first few slaps of the paddle on Lacey’s behind. There was a time in my life when spankings happened with more regularity. After I was too young and before I was too old. Maybe I should count myself lucky, I didn’t have it as bad as some of the other girls, but nothing in my life had much to do with luck. Except Martha helping me escape it.
“You don’t get my cock tonight, Lacey. That’s the bigger part of your punishment,” Pope says after they get to eleven.
“Please, Sir,” she whines.
“No. I’m giving you to Mr. James.”
“Yes, Sir.” There is dejection in her voice this time.
On the ranch, my father, and the Cleric before him, preached that marriage was sacred between a husband and his wives. But I know that wasn’t always the case. Sometimes, wives were shared with other men. Mostly it was the wives that didn’t protest it, like my mother. I once heard her tell a sister wife that it didn’t matter who fathered or gave birth to a child, if children were plentiful. I know now it was her way of excusing her own sexual deviancies, and maybe a way, too, to get a taste of that power the men had.
It’s not lost on me that whatever small amount of power she had, she used it for self-gratification instead of helping her children.
The sound of movement and murmuring brings me back from the sour thoughts of my parents. Neither gave me much thought outside of what value they could trade me for, I don’t owe them space in my thoughts.
Finally, I move the tiniest bit closer to those in the other room. Far enough that I can see part way into the room. It’s as dark as all the others, this one with a wine-red baroque wall covering. It’s beautiful but not as much as Pope standing just inside the doorway, as naked as he was that night that is singed in my memory.
Another woman, not Lacey, crawls to his feet and positions herself primly with her head cast downward. Pope grasps his penis, working his hand from base to tip while he watches something farther inside the room. I can’t see what from my position of hiding at the top of the stairs. He must enjoy whatever it is because the rise and fall of his chest grows faster and his penis longer. Pope drags the tip of himself down the woman’s nose to her lips.
“Open.”
Nothing but her mouth moves as she obeys. Pope rims her lips with his fingers before he pushes himself in. His hands go to either side of her head, holding her steady as he has sex with her mouth. Still, she doesn’t move. She’s nothing but the vessel for his pleasure.
Giving honor unto the wife as unto the weaker vessel.
This verse of the book of Peter was discussed when I was old enough to begin to understand the meaning. Rather, what the men ruling the congregation wanted me to understand. Men are stronger in nature, their parts stronger and giving. Whereas women are fragile and made only to receive. To obey.
Suddenly, I’m no longer present here in Pope’s home. I’m back at the ranch, small and shaking in my skin. Skittish, sad, and too naïve as my father lays down the rules for the day. How I have to behave, be polite, smile. Never stop smiling for the men coming to meet us, formally. Some from our own ranch, some from sister properties in other parts of the state. Those scare me the most, because at least if I’m home, I know what to expect.
“Smile, Delilah. If I see you frown, it will be the rod for you tonight.”
“Don’t move. Good girl.”
“Be Daddy’s good girl, Delilah. You’ll catch us a good prize if you’re good.”
“Just like that.”
“Just like that, good girl.”
Fingers pushing my smile in place. Fingers tangled in the woman’s hair.
I can’t keep up, can’t keep track.
A cry escapes. Hers. Mine. Maybe both.
Then there’s a rush of air and a hand at my throat. All delusions wash away to be replaced by the black eyes staring hard into my very soul.
“What the fuck are you doing, Delilah?” Pope’s words lash me like a whip, hard and angry.
“I… I don’t,” I try to speak but can’t. Between his grip on my neck and the trauma I haven’t yet swallowed down, I can’t. “I…”
“Who’s this?” a man asks, appearing over Pope’s shoulder.
“Back away, James. She’s a goddamned child.”
I’ve never felt more like one in my life.
“I’ll leave,” I gasp. “I will. Please let me leave.” Tears stream now as my body shudders with shame and the need to flee.
“You’re done here, Delilah,” he says the words so quietly, but they sting so deep as he whispers them at my ear. Before he releases my throat, he leans in and licks one long trail of my tears. “Run home. Now.”
Kind enough words delivered with nothing but pure hate. Except it’s his tongue on my skin that I focus on, the searing rush that it sends through me. New, frightening, above all… pleasant.
I run, stumbling and tripping my way down the stairs and out his front door. I run all the way back to Noah’s home, despite the thunderstorm that’s rolled into the city while I played voyeur to Pope’s life. The rain doesn’t matter, not when my head and my pride hurt so much. Block after block, I make my way home as quickly as I can. Each strike of thunder reminding me of the words Pope rained down on me.
Child.
Done.
Run.
I pushed too hard, took too much. Assumed I could make him want me like so many men did before him. By the time I’m home, I’m sobbing and soaked through.
“Delilah,” Lorelai exclaims as I run past her in the backyard to my guesthouse. She follows me. I hear the worry in her voice as she asks what’s happened. I hate it. I don’t want to be worrisome to anyone. I don’t want to be a burden.
I don’t want to be seen.
Except by Pope. I’d be the weight chained to his ankle if I could.
“What have I done, Lorelai? What’s wrong with me?”
“Nothing is wrong with you, Delilah. What’s happening?” she asks, pulling me into her arms as soon as we’re inside the house.
I cry through the whole sordid story, starting weeks back. I don’t leave much out.
“Oh, honey. I knew you liked talking to him about religion. I didn’t know it went deeper.” She smooths my wet hair back from my face and leads me to the sofa where she grabs me a blanket. “What is it about him?”
“I’ve always felt safe with him. From the first time I met him at your wedding. I thought that meant something,” I tell her weakly, snuggling down into the blanket. I should change out of my wet clothes but that takes effort I can’t seem to summon just now.
“Of course, that means something, sweet girl. But maybe it doesn’t mean more than friendship. He’s much older than you, experienced, with a life that you know so little about. But I understand, you know? That’s how I became infatuated with Noah when I first met him. I recognized something in him that matched me. And I, too, pushed it too hard and too fast. To the point where he was my whole existence until it all fell apart.”
“But you found your way back.”
“Sure, after a lot of years, and even more mistakes,” she says. “I had to learn what I wanted from life, and how to stand on my own. You need to take the time to do that, too. You had eighteen years living one way and have had less than one living another. Give it time, give yourself some space to learn. Some grace to make mistakes. It’s not a race.”
“It’s a journey,” I finish for her. “Do you think I’m sinful? I wanted to see him that way, is that wrong?”
“No, Delilah. It’s not wrong to explore, it’s not wrong to desire. It’s wrong to take it when it isn’t offered. That was your only mistake tonight, okay?”
Lorelai is being too kind to me, I’m sure of it. I let her stay long enough for her to be sure I’m okay before I shower to wash away the day. And then I kneel at my bedside to pray for forgiveness, for guidance, for the grace to accept my mistakes and learn from them.
The Lord may punish me for my indiscretions, but surely, He will forgive if I repent. So many voices enter my thoughts even though I attempt to focus on penance, growth, redemption. I hear Lorelai telling me there isn’t anything wrong with me, Noah questioning the existence of God. Loudest of all is Pope asking me what I did that was so bad it warrants such response from me or a punishment from God.
Panic overtakes me as questions fly at me at once. It’s too much and I succumb to it in a sobbing ball on the floor next to a bed that’s too soft, in a room that is too lavish and comforting. I’m undeserving of any of it.
I’m undeserving of it all.
PART II
CHAPTER EIGHT
“I’m proud of you. We’re proud of you.” Noah emphasizes the plural and nods in the direction of Lorelai who’s straightening the decorative pillows for the eleventh time. She’s having a hard time today as she and Noah help move me into my own apartment. Well, mine and Cookie’s.
Being a constant figure at her home for nearly six years, today is a big milestone for us all. But it’s time.
“I wouldn’t be here if not for you two. I’m your babysitter for life, you know?” Olivia is ten now. Before long, she won’t need anyone to watch her. Piper is about to start school; Beckett is two and exactly what you’d expect from a toddler boy. Rowdy and wild.
The addition of Beck to the family isn’t the only thing that’s changed. I graduated Tulane and interned with Cookie’s mom at one of her three companies. Tomorrow, I will start at another one of them. Anxiety and excitement over the position weigh in equal measure.
Plus, Martha kept her promise to me, and Jillian is safely away from the ranch and hiding in the same Nevada safe house that I did. She’s several months from turning eighteen, but Noah has sworn to me that she’s safe and will be moving in with him and Lorelai as soon as possible. And she isn’t alone. Two others came with her.
One of them is fourteen and was married off the week before she escaped. My father is taking chances with his congregation that Lorelai’s father never did. My heart breaks for the girl, Hannah. If there could be a silver lining in the situation, it would be that her rape has escalated the federal investigation which had become stagnant. Jillian says something has happened over the past couple of years and it’s made my father more erratic, much more unpredictable.
Power changes people. Perhaps becoming leader is all it took to send him over the edge from borderline illegal to full on. I can’t be sure. All I know is that I’m happy to have three more girls safe. Jillian said Martha could have gotten more out, but most are still entirely too afraid of the outside world or to disobey my father’s preaching.
Lorelai’s father was awful, my father is worse. He’s taken to claiming any atrocity in the world or any natural disaster, as his doing. All in the war against the sinners. It brings new fears to his flock. But the federal agent working on the case thinks they are closer to being able to charge my father than ever before. I hope that’s true, but I also know that there are men there that would gladly take his place.
“If we keep up this pace, we may need you for life.” Noah laughs. They aren’t deciding on a number when it comes to children. They’ll stop when they’re ready, Lorelai says, whatever number that lands on. They are amazing parents, and I don’t see that ever changing. Gentleness, humor, freedom, and most of all, love are the tools they use. So entirely different from the world Lorelai and I were born into.
I’ve learned we aren’t doomed to the future our parents press on to us as children. I’m not destined to be anything or anyone. I can make mistakes, I can learn, and I can grow as a person. That’s what I strive for each day, to gain more knowledge, more self-awareness, and better critical thinking. All things denied me for so many years.
“I’m only a call away if you need some… alone time,” I tease.
“I don’t know what you mean, Delilah.” He winks. “If you need help, or advice, I’m only a call away.”
“Thanks, Noah. For everything.”
He pats my shoulder, then moves to haul Lorelai closer to the door. She’s said goodbye already, more than a few times, tears in her eyes.
“I guess you two are all set, then,” Lorelai says.
“Yep, all good. I’m going to put a couple more things away, then go read this anti-gravity book I’ve been reading. I can’t put it down,” I say.
