feel like a man again. And I walked around silently and with a blank expression, looking like a strong man. But inside, I was a child having a tantrum. And part of me desperately needed my parents to see it.
It was during this week that Charlotte starting having her dream. She knew the originsâsome wildlife documentary theyâd watched a few weeks back about wolves. In one of the scenes, a lone wolf chased a lone impala through the woods to the edge of a cliff. The impala, being deft and sure-footed, slowly made its way onto the steep rocky side of the cliff, while the wolf frantically ran along the edge, looking down at his meal, so close but unattainable. He didnât give up for nearly an hour.
In the dream, Charlotte watched this scene from a distance. Though she knew the ending, each time, she relived it as though the impala might just get caught in the woods before making it to safety, or perhaps this time the wolf would venture off the side of the cliff onto the rocks and find his own footing. As it played out, always with the same ending, her heart would pound wildly and she would awaken to find herself tangled up in sweaty sheets and fear.
The dream was haunting in so many ways. The hunter and the hunted. Tom and the rapist. Injustice and Tom. The rapist and Jenny. Tomâs family and Charlotteâs secrets.
I asked her which character she was in the dream, the wolf who loses his meal, or the impala who cleverly escapes but will always be in danger on level ground.
I donât know. It wasnât clear in the dream. I mean, I always saw it from the distance, watching both animals. One running for its life. The other out to kill. So I canât say from any feeling or perspective I had. But, I did think about it. It tortured me nearly every night when the Kramers were here that Christmas, and it continued on and off for weeks after they left. I suppose I could be the wolf, endangering my family and the entire life Iâve built. But then I think Iâm actually the impala, running for my life. I do feel like that. Like Iâm always one step away from being found out. It sounds paranoid, Iâm sure, but I think Tomâs mother knew. I could see it in her eyes. And I hated her for it. I know she was helping Jenny. I should have wanted her to stay longer. But all I could think, all through Christmas Eve dinner and caroling and opening presents the next day and church and another dinner, was that I wanted her to get the hell out of my house.
Charlotte had her secrets, but I believed there was more to her dislike of Tomâs parents, his mother especially. I mentioned her childhood earlier. I suppose this is a good time to elucidate, and I ask for your indulgence.
Charlotte grew up in New London. For those of you not familiar with this part of the country, New London is home to the United States Coast Guard Academy and a naval sub base. The military is strongly present. Her mother, Ruthanne, was a promiscuous young woman who became a single mother at age twenty-three. She had not attended college and worked at a small factory, making decorative candles. Charlotte can remember vividly the smell of scented wax that would follow Ruthanne through the front door of their apartment after work. Ruthanneâs family lived in town. Her parents, after doing some readjustments to the dreams theyâd had for their youngest daughter, were helpful at first. But they were not healthy folksâdrinkers, smokers, verging on obesity. They were both dead before Charlotte was ten years old. Two years later, Ruthanne finally married. His name was Greg.
This is Charlotteâs first secret, and it was well kept. She did not reveal it to me until I had earned her trust. And that was not an easy task.
I was a beautiful girl. I had blond hair and blue eyes and my body was quite developed around that time. And my face, if you look at pictures, you can definitely see that Jenny is my daughter. My mother
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