Hiding Out Read online

  My parents’ four-year courtship happened mostly via airmail between London and Boston. During that time, Dad’s mother died and Mr. Hall got remarried, leaving Dad with stepparents. Eager to marry Mom, he begged his commanding officer in the London War Office for a transfer to the War Office in the U.S.—located in Washington, D.C. Their small wedding took place in Massachusetts, the honeymoon a simple weekend in New York City while on their way down to D.C. and their new life together in the nation’s capital. Mom, already twenty-eight, immediately became a baby factory—pop, pop, pop—having thirteen kids in fifteen years. After a few years, with five kids and more on the way, Dad started a travel agency, Holy Pilgrimages. I can’t deny it, Dad has balls.

  Travel runs in our veins. Our first family trip to New York City, in 1968, was to celebrate my parents’ twentieth wedding anniversary, and we were showstoppers. Manhattanites were so enthralled with us, a well-mannered clan ranging in age from five to twenty, some asked if we were part of an orphanage. On a lark, we were invited to the stage during a weekly radio show featuring Vincent Lopez and his orchestra and sang “Edelweiss.” We began a family tradition as the American version of the Trapp Family Singers, performing the song regularly at weddings or anywhere they’d have us. Even though my parents wanted more kids, they stopped after me—Mom says I’m her “lucky thirteen.” That may be true, but I’m pretty sure her uterus finally cried uncle. The thing that my parents and a lot of devout Catholic families seem to miss is that the rhythm method doesn’t work if you always got rhythm.

  Now, despite the smell of french fries wafting through the open bus door, I don’t feel like moving. You’d think I’d played the entire game instead of the meager final one minute and six seconds, after our team already had the game in the bag. I slip the ten-spot into my black dress pants, the crease still crisp, if uneven, from a solid hour of pressing last night at Nic’s. Her face scrunched when I asked for the iron; she knows I never iron. I suck at it.

  “Don’t you have a maid who does this for you?” Nic joked as she handed me the can of starch.

  It’s true, Erie Frye, our longtime housekeeper, eventually got too old for waxing floors and scrubbing toilets, but Mom knew Erie needed the money, so she kept her on just to do our ironing. On Tuesdays, she’d press everything from linen napkins to Dad’s custom-made shirts from Bangkok to our Catholic school uniforms. By the end of the day, the dining room looked like a religious laundry, with perfectly pressed garments hanging on the mahogany ledge that runs around the room, among Dad’s vast collection of religious icons.

  * * *

  It still seems impossible—dreamlike, a comedy really—that a Greyhound bus arrived right outside our home to pick up my family, the back tires appearing mammoth compared to the wheels on our neighbors’—the Dorans’—shiny Cadillac. I watched the scene unfold out of a narrow third-floor window. The puff of dark smoke floated across the street toward the Ellermans’ elegant porch, the dignified white pillars bright against the dirty exhaust. The towering vehicle seemed as awkward idling in front of 5 East Irving Street as me without a basketball on my hip. A sea of rowdy travelers descended across our front lawn—patches of grass missing from the wear and tear of a ginormous family taking frequent shortcuts—past hastily trimmed hedges, dragging suitcases and carry-on bags toward the bus. The redbrick sidewalk quickly transformed into an unruly queue spilling in multiple directions, with my ecstatic, waist-high nephews shoving and bumping their way to be first. My heart raced as I watched out Magdalene’s bedroom window, ready to grab my suitcase and make a run for it, hoping I still had a shot at getting a window seat for our three-hour ride from the Maryland Beltway, up I-95, to JFK Airport. Being the youngest, I was used to fighting for a good seat. Even at four years old, I knew enough to clutch an apple while I took my nap to be sure no one ate it while I was sleeping.

  I’ve always loved traveling. My first trip overseas, at barely ten years old, was filled with adrenaline-rushing anticipation. I was breathless for months over the concept that I would travel first class from New York to London—on an ocean liner that my siblings explained was longer than our suburban street and taller than our three-story house. How could a ship be longer than East Irving Street? It seemed as absurd as the old lady who lived in a shoe, who had so many kids she didn’t know what to do.

  Although that Greyhound bus was not nearly as long as the SS France, it did grab the attention of our neighbors, the elderly, well-groomed Dorans and the even older Mr. Shields—a former White House speechwriter. They stood on their tidy lawns and hosed sidewalks in their conservative apparel, watching another wild Worthington happening.

  Our neighbors seemed to accept the chaos pouring out of 5 East Irving Street, since they too had raised large families, attending the same Catholic school and church right around the corner—Blessed Sacrament. In fact, B.S., as it’s known, is so close to our house, we can walk out the front door five minutes before mass starts and still be early. Chevy Chase had loads of large families who belonged to Blessed Sacrament Parish—the Smarts had sixteen children, the Shaughnessys thirteen, the Harringtons fourteen, the Crosbys ten, and on and on. When I was a baby, 7-Up sponsored an annual picnic at Rock Creek Park for families in the neighborhood with seven or more kids. The place was packed—good luck trying to get a turn on the swing set or the sliding board.

  Dad said chartering a Greyhound was the most logical means of transportation to get twenty-five of us to New York’s Kennedy Airport for our flight to Rome. Owning a travel agency, he’d know. I have no idea how, but Dad paid for the whole trip. Twenty-seven people—Dad even invited his stepparents, the Halls—ten days, first-class hotel, plus the chartered Greyhound. No one else seemed to know where all the money came from, either, but it never stopped any of us kids from enjoying Dad’s generous offerings. He usually sent us a few at a time, or one by one, but that year, 1975, was a Catholic holy year, so Dad invited everyone—in-laws, grandkids, even a few girlfriends and boyfriends. No sooner had we pulled away from 5 East Irving Street and turned right onto Connecticut Avenue, passing the exclusive Chevy Chase Country Club, with its stately stone wall—no Jews, blacks, or Italians allowed—than Dad started calling out our names from oldest to youngest, his formal roll call reminiscent of Sunday mornings, when he’d shout our names from the second-floor landing—not moving on until he got a rousing response—to be sure his children were awake for mass. One by one, we marched, still obedient, to the front of the bus—ranging in ages from twenty-eight to thirteen—to retrieve our white envelope from Dad. “Philip!” “Helen!” “Gloria!” “Luke!” “Margaret!” “Simon!” “Matthew!” “Kate!” “Frances!” “Magdalene!” “Paul!” “Rebecca!” “Christine!”—Dad refuses to call me Tina, like everyone else. We all settled back into our seats, politely opening our white envelope to find a crisp hundred-dollar bill tucked inside the itinerary—spending money, courtesy of Dad.

  There had always been money for private schools, frequent trips on the Cunard ocean liners, summer beach house rentals, and expensive dinners at D.C.’s finest restaurants, although Mom still cut coupons from the Sunday paper. Over the years, we had a few panic-inducing conversations around the dinner table when Mom announced that Holy Pilgrimages might go bankrupt. Like most dramas in our family, it was a huge deal at the time, and then it just seemed to disappear. Before we knew it, Mom was off on another trip to Paris, or somebody was going to visit the Greek islands, or Dad decided to put in a swimming pool. I can’t ever recall a time when Dad’s wallet wasn’t packed with fresh hundreds, and our trip to Italy that year was no exception.

  My family loved seeing the sights of Rome from our own private bus—like the Partridge Family without the instruments. One day the bus got stuck on a narrow street—a small car blocking the way—so my five very athletic brothers hopped out along with my brothers-in-law, picked the car up, and moved it. Throughout Rome, Dad seemed to have access to everything and everyone—even Pope Paul VI, whom we had
an audience with. One of the most powerful Catholics at the Vatican—the papal nuncio of Italy, Archbishop Magni—celebrated a private mass for our family. I watched afterward as he and Dad had a hush-hush conversation in a corner of the hotel lobby that seemed as serious as a troublemaker’s teacher-parent conference.

  Everything was lush: We were treated to a lavish dinner hosted by the head of Alitalia airlines; took over a small hotel on the island of Ischia; toured the Vatican, the basilicas, the catacombs, and Naples, all courtesy of Dad, including lots of wine.

  The lobby of our five-star hotel in Rome was coated in gold leaf, with a giant marble staircase and grand pillars throughout; the ceiling reached as high as a basketball gymnasium. Rebecca and I shared a suite with old-style European windows that opened outward; the drapes were long enough to make play clothes for a large family, the bathtub as big as a fountain. Mom says Rebecca and I are just like Winnie and her: opposites but very close. Whenever we traveled, Rebecca and I shared a room—same as we did at home—and we’d been going to school together every day since kindergarten, but just because we were close doesn’t mean I told her my secrets. I didn’t. I didn’t tell anyone my secrets. I even bullied Rebecca at times—even though she’s eighteen months older. Once I peed on her bed. Once I decided that we each had to stay on our own sides of the room, never, ever crossing the designated line—but of course, my side had the door. In third grade, when I started getting in trouble at school for the first time, my teacher would summon Rebecca to my classroom and, in front of the entire class, tell my sister that when we went home, she was to tell Mom what a bad, misbehaved child I was. Of course, like a true sister, she never did.

  According to Mom, I was a very good girl through second grade, but something suddenly changed when I was nine. What happened? I’ve never told even Rebecca about what two of our brothers started doing to me then. It started with the confusing horror of Simon, nineteen, coming into my bedroom in the middle of the night. Then Luke, twenty, began putting his hands on me or telling me he wanted to show me something in his room or the basement. Neither of them seemed to know that the other one was also having sexual encounters with me. Their size, and age, and of course the fact that they were the “boys,” gave them all the power. Even the swimming pool wasn’t safe. They grabbed whatever they wanted, the way bank robbers do. Dad always favored the boys. Mom, too, with her own old-fashioned ways. Girls are supposed to clean and cook and serve. The boys take out the trash once in a while and play sports. Dad’s constant eye rolling and scoffing at his daughters seemed to deliver a collection basket full of negative labels: girls are always late, we’re frivolous, wasting time applying makeup, curling our hair, shopping for God knows what, and yapping. Lots of yapping. Wouldn’t he be surprised to know some of the behaviors of his favored heirs.

  It could have been weekly, monthly, I’m not certain, but the sexual abuse by my brothers became regular over the course of a few years, until Simon and Luke finally stopped when they got married. Both had girlfriends during the entire time. I wonder sometimes whether someone had abused them, and whether they did to anyone else what they did to me.

  After some time my mind ignored the disgust, because my body started to like the way it felt. It was confusing, because when my brothers weren’t violating me, they gave me extra attention: coming to my basketball games, letting me play in their all-male pickup games. In an odd way, I was one of the boys when we weren’t in the dark. This is when I started breaking empty soda bottles against the school walls, smoking, kissing boys behind the auditorium curtain, and being mean to Rebecca. Although I’m away at college, whenever I’m around Simon or Luke I feel a surge of anger that never seems to release, as if my feelings are pinned in a mousetrap. It is the gnawing in my gut that I live with every day—even though I try to ignore or numb the ache.

  Dad’s stepparents only came to Rome from London for a few days, since Granddad Hall was confined to a wheelchair, having had a stroke years before. Dad and his stepparents are polite but distant with each other—not at all affectionate like our family. I’m not sure if it’s because they’re English, or because there’s not an ounce of blood between them, but the Halls seem as chilly as our deep freezer. If Dad is mad at Mr. Hall for beating him, he never lets it show. Instead, he is exceedingly kind and generous—giving them money and helping Granddad in and out of his wheelchair.

  “Can I get you a tea, Dad?”

  “How about you sit in this chair, Mother? It’s most comfortable.”

  Behaving like a fretting nurse.

  It’s typical of my dad to be much nicer to people who are handicapped, poor, old, or ill. Sometimes I wonder why he takes out all his anger on us instead of the man who beat him. All I know is no one talks about what’s really going on in our family or how they truly feel about stuff, including me.

  Pulling through the campus entrance, past the University of Maryland sign, our bus stops to let everyone off. My dormitory stands in the distance, cold and unfamiliar, because I’ve only spent a night there since arriving at college six months ago. The bus idles in the parking lot, and I gather my belongings slowly so that my teammates and coaches will get off first. I know Nic will be waiting as usual across the parking lot, hidden, motor and lights off, until the coast is clear for me to sneak into her van and head to her house. I hop off and linger in the parking lot, pretending to wait for a ride. A few players are talking trash, goofing off as the bus leaves, a blast of heavy exhaust filling the air. I keep my distance, pretending that I don’t see Nic waiting a few rows of cars away.

  “Who you waitin’ for, rookie?” our team captain asks, seeing me alone, off to the side. The other girls turn, hands jammed into their winter coats, waiting for my response.

  “My mom . . . I’m staying at my parents’ house tonight.”

  “Bitch is homesick already!” another teammate jokes.

  High fives all around. I laugh, pretending I think it’s funny, and wait until they finally get tired of standing in the cold. I may not be able to outjump a single one of them, but I sure as hell can outwait anyone. Once they are long gone, I make a run for it, sprinting down the long row of cars, keeping my head low and body crouched, hiding. My secret is safe for another night.

  3

  Ascension

  Nic pushes through the front door of her house, carrying takeout from the local Chinese restaurant. A black Adidas tracksuit hangs easily on her toned body. As usual, she discreetly watched my basketball practice today from a dark corner of the University of Maryland’s coliseum. Even though I love Nic’s attention, it also makes me nervous that my teammates might find out about our relationship, or become suspicious that Nic’s friendship with Coach Norris could give me preferential treatment. Wishful thinking. Fact is, on the court, Norris treats me like any other freshman on a full basketball scholarship. Riding my ass in practice, while I’ve been riding the bench all season. On weekends, Coach hangs out at Nic’s rental, a modest brick rambler in working-class Wheaton. Just a bunch of women in their thirties drinking Bud Light and passing the bong in between competitive rounds of horseshoes. I get tongue-tied and never know what to call her at these parties—Coach? Eileen? Miss Norris? I guess I just feel more confident, and safer, when I’m alone with Nic.

  My biweekly coach/player meetings in Norris’s office are always official until Coach tells her secretary to hold any calls and closes the door. “How’s Nic?” She winks, all teeth. I hate that we barely talk about my lack of playing time.

  A March gust blows in behind Nic, and I tighten her blue men’s robe around my naked body. I rarely shower in the locker room after practice, preferring her power-head nozzle and nice shampoo to the cheap shit the athletic department offers. No one knows that I’ve only slept in my freshman dorm room once this year, wanting the comfort of Nic—whom I’ve been in a relationship with for two years, since I was sixteen—and her queen-size waterbed.

  Nic switches on the hanging brass lamp, illuminating t
he faux fur sofa and matching armchair that hulk in the living room like a brown bear and her cub. A few patchouli-scented candles, cheap softball trophies from her women’s summer league, and a bag of weed lie on top of the redbrick fireplace.

  “Did you remember chopsticks?” I ask, collapsing into the fur.

  “Oops. Sorry.” She cracks up, dropping a roach into an ashtray. Her bloodshot eyes gaze over me as she leans in and gives me a long kiss. She tastes like pot and spearmint gum.

  “I may want you before the mu shu,” she teases, her speech at half speed.

  I wish I could get high, too, but basketball and bongs don’t mix.

  “You were hot stuff on the court today,” she comments on her way to the kitchen.

  “Same as every practice. Norris better fucking play me tomorrow,” I gripe, discovering a fresh blister on the ball of my foot.

  “Let’s call her up and tell her that.”

  “You call her, she’s your friend!”

  I click on the television to Dan Rather’s nightly report—a habit from growing up in the nation’s capital, with a father who watches the six thirty news as religiously as he attends morning mass.

  “Family coming to the game tomorrow?” Nic says too loudly.

  “Maybe. Definitely Mom.”