Let's Go Play at the Adams'

world. N

said. Lord, they've even criticized fairy tales for being too violent, But there are other things

too, the total- environment of love and Warmth and fun and helping. These children have cer-

tainly had that, and money as well (I wish I had as much, Barbara said). So why, given the

everything of life, would these kids choose the darkest parts for their most interesting games?

Were they naturally bad? And if they were, who then wasn't a little naturally bad? What would

Terry say?

Terry said (without bothering to materialize completely), Maybe they don't like what they see

of what

100

we think is the "pretty" world. Maybe it's too complicated or too dull or too hard or too

something. Maybe they feel they have to hold themselves in too much in order to be a part

of it. Maybe what we think of as rewards are only penances of different kinds to them.

Maybe they don't want to grow up at all. Maybe the world is closed off now, and there's no

place left to live.

Barbara said nothing.

Do you want to grow up, Barb? Again Barbara said nothing.

You think these kids are oddball and different and dirty, but how do you know they're all

that different from the rest? What did you think of them when you came here? You thought

they were pretty and fun. What did you think of them when you took them over to Sunday

school? You wished they were yours by some handsome, well-known man like your Dr.

Adams. What did you think of the way they obeyed and had fun when you took them

swimming? You were all over yourself with love, love, love, Terry said.

You make me sick, Terry said. A person's a package deal. Prime ministers probably go to

bed at night and play with themselves. What these kids are doing to you is the rest of their

playtime; it all goes together. What they're doing is natural enough.

Barbara shook her head silently. Again the logical airy step invited, and again she refused

to take it. I don't believe you, she said. All kids aren't this way. We

weren't.

·

Weren't we?

Barbara stopped. Something in imagined Terry's tone summoned to her mind the

remembered image of the parking-lot sniggerers of her own early teens. She saw them

clearly again, heard them clearly again. Their faces moved back and forth interchangeably

with those of John and Dianne and Paul, Cindy and Bobby.

No! They didn't do anything like this though.

No chutzpah, Terry shrugged.

.

Well, maybe, Barbara granted. What would they really have done? What would any person

do given entire power over another person? What-in particu-

101

lar-wou1d inexperienced children do? Who knows what people think when they're children

and we haven't broken them yet?

It was high, shimmering, full day.

Barbara no longer doubted that the children would strip her naked. It wasn't that difficult;

the kids were getting more confident, and in final count, it would hardly be fatal.

I've been naked before, Barbara said, but as she waited, she continued uneasy-squeamish.

. On the swimming team, in dormitory life, with doctors and-by accident, of course-with the

family, she had certainly been seen without clothes on. These transactional occasions,

however, had been brief, businesslike and not particularly pleasant. In a generation that at

least vocally favored frankness, skin, and more natural sex, she remained private and self-

possessed, avoiding exposure and usually averting her eyes from the exposure of others.

Naturally she worried that she was a prude-it was a death sentence in her age group-that

in the imminent upswarming flight of love and mating she would somehow be kept out of

the action by being timid and hesitant. None of this, however, seemed to internally alter

the rather maidenly shyness, the almost wordless taboo that inhibited her.

Rationalizing, she told herself that it was only a matter of time, place, and values. She

could see-if no one else told her, Sexy Barbara did-that in a moment of faith, trust, and

love, it could be joyous to free the body and live. There was an element of confession,

submission, of oneness about it. Indeed she had had a good many girlish dreams on the

subject. It was just that the occurrence hadn't come along quite yet, and that, as a result,

she was getting nearer a time when she could look back and find that she had "saved

herself for her husband'' or at least a serious affair-surely an old-fashioned approach-but

one that was rather nice in a way, or so she felt as she got older.

Today's indecency, however, had nothing to do with necessity, love, confession, or the

unfolding of

102

sweet offerings. What disgusted her, made her feel crawly, was that there was dirt and

malice in it, sneakiness, a shades-drawn, sex in a rented-room furtiveness about it. She

was being hauled back into a primitive stupid world of grayness and feeling around and

smirking and giggling. The object was torment, and she was afraid she would show how

well it was succeeding.

Actually, the event itself was at least quick and sparing of the lewd pawings she had

imagined. The kids arrived a bit earlier than their usual midmorning, and after some

whispered conversations in the kitchen, sauntered into her room with affected casualness.

They knew that she knew that Cindy had told her, and so it was all straightforward

between all of them. Dianne had brought a small pair of sewing scissors in her lunch bag,

and while the others stood back, she used them carefully.

Folding back the cotton lace of the shoulder straps of Barbara's summer nightgown, she

cut almost on the seams concealed there, right and left. Barbara could not see what

Dianne was doing, but she felt the metal go carefully along, dull edge of the scissors

against her skin, and she sensed that it was a proper job. Among her other talents, Dianne

apparently sewed as well. Having then bared Barbara's shoulders (Barbara felt a loss even

here), she went on with it.

Beginning at the hip, Dianne cut up the side seam to the armhole on the right side. It was

all very much like opening a pretty Christmas package and trying not to spoil the

wrappings.

When she felt the gown being lifted off her body, Barbara closed her eyes and felt the tears

she had so much wanted not to show them. In another minute, the side seams of her bikini

pants had been cut, and she - was as awkwardly, gracelessly, naked and helpless as it was

possible to be. Of course there were giggles-she could hear each one separately-and she

thought, It finally did happen. After all. Every woman has thought the same under some

circumstance. Now they would begin to do things to her.

When nothing further happened, however, she

103

opened her eyes, still teary wet, and raised her head. The children were caught as in a

frieze=-Cindy half bent in mirth, two small hands covering her mouth to stifle laughter,

bright eyes half-peeking through her fingers; Bobby solemn; Paul in spasm; Dianne still

holding the scissors; John unable to raise his head for some reason-and seeing them,

Barbara was partially calmed.

Outside of the shock of seeing and feeling herself naked, there was yet no real harm in all

of this. Hers was hardly the kind of beauty that would drive beholders to madness anyhow.

Then John raised his head

at last, and she saw his eyes.

Instead of being teased and tormented as she had expected, Barbara was handled as if the

morning was no different from yesterday or the day before it. The children untied and

retied her, marched her to the bathroom and back, bound her to her chair, and fed her the

skimpy breakfast of cereal and toast, and then scattered to work on their list of daily

chores. The only difference was that Barbara was naked.

In place of the rather voluptuous feeling the flow of air over her bare body usually had-as

before a bath, for example--she was, of course, acutely demoralized and self-conscious.

Without her looking down, it

- was possible to feel every part of herself sticking out here, rounding in there, and so

forth. It really was; it was amazing. Moreover it did no good to think that clothes were the

barest fraction of an inch thick, that their presence or absence made no difference, that

we are all born naked to begin with. The real fact was that clothing was privacy,

protection, and (in the variety to be chosen from) personality. Naked, Barbara was

somehow less Barbara than before, and the children without benefit of such extended

thought-somehow knew it. Nakedness heightened the captor-captive relationship, and it

was probably meant to. Barbara sighed.

Outside it was hot, probably the hottest day since she had been here. In spite of the

continuous hum of the air conditioner, a still, dead atmosphere steadily filled the room and

made her skin moist and uncomfort-

104

able. A fly buzzed. Her hair tickled her damp forehead, and she shook it around as best she

could. Helplessness: torment.

Right now Terry was on the beach at Cape Cod, spreading out her blanket and settling

down with a book or maybe someone to talk to. Barbara's mother was probably on her way

to the Seven Comers' Shopping Center feeling late, impatient with traffic, and wondering

what it was she had forgotten to write down on the shopping list. The world went on so

freely and carelessly without Barbara. I know what it's like to be dead, Barbara thought.

Everything's just like it was before.

She could hear Dianne-just barely from where she had to sit-telephoning in a grocery order

on the kitchen phone. Dianna was half disguising her own voice, half imitating Barbara's,

and she wasn't doing badly at all. Barbara could picture easy Mr. Tillman at the local

crossroads store, where the city-people bought in-between things they hadn't bought in

Bryce on Thursdays-he would have no doubt that he was listening to the Adams' young

baby-sitter at all. Not on your life. He would very nearly testify to it on the stand.

Ob dammit, Barbara thought. Everything's so smooth; everything's going so well without

me. I'll never be found. I have a headache. Even Dianne would be comfort of a sort.

When Dianne finally did look in on her, Barbara asked for aspirin. When Dianne brought

them, Barbara was forced to lean forward and mouth them from the palm of Dianne's hand

like a horse getting sugar cubes. Afterward Dianne carefully gave her a drink of water.

"Thank you."

"It's OK." Dianne put the glass down. "Hope it helps."

"Thanks for cutting up my nightie, too."

"Oh, I'll fix that. This afternoon. You'll never know it. I could do it at home-we have our own

sewing machine-but Mrs. Adams has a much better one 105

right here, It does buttonholes and zigzag, every thing .... "

"Why did you do it, Dianne?" Barbara said it impatiently, perhaps, but confidentially. After

all, Dianne was a girl; she must know the fear of nakedness. "I mean, was it just because

you wanted to get at me for some reason, embarrass me with them?" Them was clearly the

boys.

"Not really." As her part of the shared duties, Dianne dusted Barbara's room and made the

bed each morning and turned it down each evening. She did it with a mother's half-

annoyance and a perfectionist's dislike of mess. Now as she did this, she moved out of

Barbara's vision. Barbara turned and tried to follow with her eyes.

"Do they do everything you tell them to?"

"Me? No." Dianne might have been speaking with a toss of the head but Barbara couldn't

see. "We vote. We voted."

"I mean in the game, Freedom Five.''

"Oh." Dianne audibly laughed. It was the first time she had done , so, and it did not have a

funny sound. "That's all over."

"Then, what is this?"

"I don't know," Dianne said honestly enough, plumping the pillows back into place. "This is

just this, I guess. We used to play the other when we were younger, but not anymore."

Barbara sighed, but in exasperation. "Well, if you're not keeping me tied up because it's

part of a game, and you're not doing it because you're mad at me, and you all vote, then

what is it? Why did you ever start it? It’s stupid…”

"Well .... " There was the sound of that last thumping a well-made bed gets. Dianne was

obviously not in a mood to confess inner thoughts-it was almost unimaginable that such a

time would ever come-but again she wasn't being coy or obscure either. The conclusion

might be that she had not thought it out herself, or that she had and simply wasn't saying.

106

"I don't know," Dianne said. "We just got to

talking about it, and then we just did it, that's all."

"Like on a dare?"

"Yes. Kind of. I guess so."

"Then why keep it up? I mean, you did it after all-you won."

"Why not?" Dianne was dusting. Barbara could hear things being moved and replaced behind

her.

Barbara bit her lip. It was all a wheel and a circle inside of an oval with these kids. It wasn't

real; it wasn't a game, and yet it was. The illogic of the position didn't seem to bother them at

all. "Then, how are you going to get out of it," she said, "when the Adams come back and all?"

"I don't know," Dianne said. "What could they do anyhow? What's the harm?" Dianne came

back in front of Barbara and dusted the vanity top, moving bottles and things deftly and

quickly. "Have you been hurt? Really? Has anybody done anything to you?" She turned and

looked down at Barbara. "Well ... ?"

Barbara looked up into those clear, gray, flawless, and conscienceless eyes and was frightened

somehow. She had never been naked, helpless, stared at-it was more like inspection or

inventorying-by another woman before. Moreover there was no guessing what went on behind

those cool eyes.

Dianne and the others bad no gods and heroes to exemplify the good and proper life for them,

nor did they seem to have any pursuing demons either. Within their smoothly-managed,

automatic world, they were serene, secretive, knowing, adept and without fear or respect.

They paid no tax to their Maker, their parents, nor to anyone else-not really, not within their

hearts, Barbara felt that-and they operated free of standards other than their own. In the power

of Freedom Five, Barbara was more alone than she might have been in some classic, solitary

confinement. How could you guess what children like that might do, might dream of? She

swallowed.

"What now?"

"I'm going to dust," Dianne said with practicality.

107

"I mean with me," Barbara said.

Barbara was really too squeamish. Her actual thought-there was horror in it-was that you

just don't leave a naked, helpless girl sitting around for young boys to fool with. And

though she was the object/victim, she was too nice to protest. She said, "What are they

going to do with me next?"

If Dianne caught Barbara's mood, she ignored it.

"I don't know," she said. "I mean, after all, what can they do? Really?''

When it was Paul's turn to watch, he didn't think he was going to be able to walk into

Barbara's room. It was as if he were carbonated on the inside, a bottle of fizz that someone

had shaken too hard; everything tingled. He felt that he had some kind of haze over his

eyes; there was a knot in his throat. He was afraid.

"Wait a minute," he said when Bobby told him his guard time bad come. "Don't go yet-I

want her gagged again."

"Why's that?" John was sitting half-a-saddle against the kitchen sink, eating a sandwich.

"I just do. That's the new rules. You have to help me do what I want with her," Paul had

been eating too, but now his appetite disappeared. "Isn't that right, Dianne?''

She shrugged. "OK."

"Don't go out of your tree, man. I was just asking why. That's all." John swung down to his

feet. "Come on if you want to. Let's get it over with."

"Really?"

"Let's!" Cindy said.

When they all got into the room together, Barbara looked up. When Dianne got the gag

and tape from the dresser, she looked alarmed.

"What's that for, Dianne? Please-"

Paul thought that she had a nice pleading tone to her voice. "You're going to get gagged."

With the others around him, he was assured again. "Do it, Dianne."

"But why? I didn't make any noise ... "

108

"I know," Dianne said. "It's just the new rules.

Paul wants it, so that's what we have to do."

"What new rules?"

"Whoever's on guard, gets what he wants. We all help."

"When did this start?"

"This morning," Dianne folded the terry cloth square. "Don't worry, I'll take it out when it

comes my turn later on."

"But why do you want me gagged? What're you going to do?" Barbara averted her head a

moment and looked at Paul.

Paul squirmed and grew red. This was exactly the kind of confrontation be didn't want.

"He just does," John said, short of patience with them both. "Now are you going to do it or

not?" He looked around for the bottle of chloroform.

"You'd better not do anything," Barbara said to Paul, but she opened her mouth and

allowed Dianne to put the cloth in. She complained, but she didn't fight when Dianne fixed

it there with three wide strips of adhesive tape over her lips. .

Then they were gone. After pretending disinterest for a few minutes, Paul went over and

softly closed the door to the hall. Then he came back and walked around Barbara. It had all

come true. His heart was very loud: be could hear it from within his own head.

When they had first talked about taking Barbara's clothes off, he had pictured her like the

girl in the book Dianne was reading-she was tall, slender, terrified, bound to the stake in

the middle of the stone platform with the magic signs drawn on her body in blood and the

priest with his dagger ready to rip her heart out from beneath her breast. Reality, of

course, had been quite different.

For one thing, Barbara had hair down between her legs, and this not only surprised him,

but disappointed him. He imagined a woman's genitalia from air-brushed pictures he had

managed to see-something small, rounded, utterly smooth, and somehow, magically

attractive (else why could they not show it?).

109

In this sense, she had let him down. For another thing, Paul bad seen enough of the mass

media to know that Barbara wasn't exactly shaped like a film star. His idea of anatomy was

not so vague that he didn't realize that he'd seen better and more rounded figures-clothed,

remote, of course-many times.

Nonetheless Barbara was here and helpless, and that made up for a lot. He was

discovering the particularness of a separate person. He walked around in front of the chair

to which she was tied and reached in his pocket.

Paul had a knife. It was the ordinary kind to be bought in Tillman's store for a dollar

seventy-five, but today it was hot as a poker and weighed a ton in his thirteen-year-old

band. He took it out and opened the big blade. Only when he had done so did he allow him-

self to look up and meet Barbara's eyes. She wasn't looking at him as he had expected, but

looking at the blade, following the movements of his small hands with attention.

Paul turned the knife this way and that, made as if to feel the edge, which was dull enough.

He moved the knife from side to side and again watched her eyes follow; it was like holding

a switch over a dog and not beating him yet, but it was far, far better. An extreme, a

delightful sense of going-to-be-bad filled him. His fear had begun to fade. He whipped the

blade past her at arm's length-it was perhaps as close to him as to her-but she stiffened

nonetheless.

Only that? Paul paused.

Probably Barbara wasn't at all afraid that he would kill her (this, be wished her to fear) :

she probably wasn't even afraid that he would hurt her much. Paul was obviously in

command in one way, but as an adult, she was obviously and still in command in quite

another way. He better not or else. It hurt Paul. Cross him, belittle him in any of his crazy

whims, and you bad a very angry boy on your bands.

Well, she'd better believe me, Paul said. Leaning forward, he put the flat part of the knife

blade on her

110

'

throat and pressed the dull side into her gently and safely. She wouldn't know that of

course; she couldn't see under her own chin. She shook her head no-no angrily, and in so

doing, cut herself. There was, after all, a sharp side, too. It was no more than a prick, but

she felt it, and it slowed her down perceptibly. Afraid that he'd really hurt her for a

moment, Paul almost withdrew, but when he saw that she was merely scratched, he left

the knife on her neck and continued to press less gently. There were the tiniest, whitest

little blonde hairs on her skin-you wouldn't even see them unless you bent close and tested

her neck with a blade-and Paul was fascinated. The point of the knife made a little shadowy

indent that was white at the tip and flushed all around and then all of those pale little

touches of light on her skin and she stopped moving at all. Now she knows, now she

knows, he thought, Then he began to trace the long tendon of her throat up and down, a

little harder each time until she had to withdraw. This continued until she had her head

practically fiat on her far shoulder.

Delighted, Paul held her there with the point of steel just under her ear. They had invented

a new game: he could make her move her head anywhere he wanted, and she resisted. It

was exciting and dangerous. If she became angry or tired and thrashed her head around

again, and he did not get the knife back in time, she really would be hurt. He might kill her

that way. And if he held the knife in one place too long, he might just do it-accidentally. But

still he held the blade there another second and another and pressed harder. Then finally

he relented, only to walk around the chair and begin the game over from the other side

again.

During all this, of course, Paul was painfully aware of her naked breasts just below his arm,

sometimes nearly touching it. He thought that somehow there was something sacred about

a woman's breasts it was one of the very reasons he had wanted her nightgown off-but he

wasn't going to touch either of them, certainly not yet anyhow. Instead, when he had tired

of