Let's Go Play at the Adams'

111

his present game, he let the point of his knife trickle down between them to her navel and

her pale white belly where he pressed in just hard enough to make her wince and squirm.

Then a new· game began. Stick her here and make her twist that way; stick her there and

make her twist back again. This way, that way. Harder.

When he finally straightened up, it seemed that he had been holding his breath for a

hundred years. He let it out slowly and listened. The life of the house went on as usual. He

could hear the other kids' voices somewhere, but they didn't seem to be caring. It was

better than he'd dare think, and his turn at guarding wasn't half over. He looked at

Barbara-the complicity of victim and tormentor-and he smiled.

Much more slowly now, with much less fear, he began to test her whole body with his knife.

He found that by keeping the blade flat and pressing in on the point, he could leave a faint

white line on her skin wherever he drew. He could make designs even if they lasted but a

moment. They were chanting in the cave now: by the flickering light of greasy, animal oil

torches stuck in the rocks, Paul prepared the victim for the final act. Even he trembled

when he thought of it.

When Paul straightened up a second time, he found he had been lost in his dreams for

nearly an hour. Barbara's body was crossed and marked with a number of now-pink lines

that were slowly becoming more vivid. After that, they would fade; at least, he guessed

that they would. He found, however, that he really didn't care. There would be no beating

for this tonight, and the remoteness of punishment plus the number of possibilities formed

something like an inescapable corridor down which he must go, each step leading to the

next. He had to do what he was doing.

Barbara, too, was thinking. Paul was glad he didn't know what. She still didn't seem very

much afraid-though she understood it well enough when he hurt her-and she was still

angry. But there was something else. She kept looking at him as if she just couldn't

understand any of this, as if she were trying to look inside of him and figure it all out. He

bore this

112

uncomfortably while he regained his normal breathing: she was spoiling things. Then he

had an inspiration.

Going to the chest, he opened the drawers one after another until he found the one with

her own things in it. As he had hoped, there were several summer scarves neatly folded

and stacked to the side. Taking one and laying it on the bed, he refolded it from corner to

comer and then again and again until it was no wider than a belt. He had a blindfold.

Barbara saw him coming and would have no part of it. She shook her head no-no and

twisted away from him violently. Nonetheless, by putting the blindfold under her chin and

trapping the back of her head against his skinny chest, he was able to work the cloth up

over her eyes and tie it in place. It took several tries and some struggle, and when be had

finished, they were both breathing bard again. The change in things, however, was

remarkable.

Instead of Barbara's put-down looks, there was nothing. It was as if she bad left the room.

The prisoner was anonymous-like the ones they used to do things to down in the woods:

nonexistent-and the taboo over her was gone.

Taking his knife again, Paul McVeigh reopened his game, this time pressing in here and

there as if daring himself to break the skin and draw blood. Now. That ought to hurt for a

change. He even touched her breast. When lightning did not strike him dead-like John, he

rather saw lightning as the all-avenging blast that evened justice out-he put the point of his

knife on her breast and ran it luxuriously down to the nipple. Hers were bigger than his,

bigger even than Dianne's, and they had little bumps in the pink part and he bad a long

time to go yet, and so he toyed with his knife point.

/

John, too, was half-afraid when it came his turn to guard Barbara. Though be felt himself to

be the leader in most things, be was all the more shy about saying what he wanted done

with her. It would be like a pane of glass-everyone would know then-and he almost

113

let the whole thing pass. Then he called himself coward, and faced the whole matter down.

"I want her back in bed. Like she always is." "OK," Paul twitched. He had just joined them

on the kitchen steps. He seemed pale and a little breathless.

"It's too early," Dianne said logically. "We'd only have to go to the trouble of getting her up

again to eat. And then put her down again."

"Yeah. Anyhow, that's no fun," Bobby said. "It's my turn to say."

"OK. All right," Dianne sighed and got up. The rest of them followed her.

This time Barbara resisted. When they released her from the chair and got her to her feet,

she refused to move, and when they pushed her, she knelt down on her knees and doubled

up and let them choke her with their halter. When they grabbed her upper arms and tried