My Three Husbands by Swan Adamson Page B

all to myself, for three paltry days. In New York I had to share him with Whitman, and I had to spend my days with Whitman in the apartment while Daddy was at work.
    Three days or a week, it was never enough. The world was an entirely different place when I was with Daddy. He plucked me out of the cruddy garage-sale life I lived with Carolee, that world of used but “perfectly good” clothes that never quite fit and toys that were always missing one critical part so you couldn’t play with them.
    I wanted to savor every moment with Daddy. But the monster wouldn’t let me. I’d be in some wonderful spot with Daddy, having fun, and suddenly Carolee’s bitter, wine-slurred voice would echo in my ears. I’d hear her cursing and complaining about him , about how rich he was, or they were, and how poor we were. And then my own music-box of resentments would start to play. The terrible public school that I had to go to. A school where I learned nothing, was afraid for my life, and had no one to protect me. There was no one who understood what I was going through, or cared enough to do something about it. There was no one who gave a shit about what happened to me day after terrifying day as I eluded gangs of girls out to rob and beat me up and boys who threatened that they were going to “get” me. Daddy was the only one who could save me from all that, but he didn’t. He wouldn’t. Instead, he lived a fun life with Whitman in New York.
    The monster would grab me by the toes and yank me down to his lair. From a sunny moment of having fun with Daddy, I’d suddenly disappear into a black hole of rage. I’d spend hours stewing in the dark stinking sludge with the monster, thinking up ways to punish Daddy, or Whitman, or both of them, and Carolee, too. Someone had to pay for my misery. Otherwise I’d have to accept it as an everyday part of my life.
    I wasn’t that angry ten-year-old girl anymore, but every now and then I felt her kicking, like a baby, wanting out. She was there now, wanting to scream at Whitman, but I clamped a hand over her mouth.
    â€œYour dad and I lived like paupers in New York,” Whitman was saying, “so we could fly you out there, and have your dad fly back here, and pay Carolee alimony and child support.”
    â€œI’m sorry I was such a financial burden,” I said.
    â€œI don’t want to get into a blame game here,” Whitman said. “I just want some assurance that you know what you’re doing. That you’ve actually thought about it. That you aren’t just rushing into this marriage because you can’t live without having a man around.”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter what I say, Whitman, you won’t believe me.”
    â€œVenus,” he said, “I’ve been watching you since you were five years old. I’ve seen how you behave. I’ve seen how you make your decisions and present them to your parents as faits accomplis.”
    â€œWhat does that mean?”
    â€œYou don’t ask for approval or advice; you just tell them what it is you’re going to do. Quit school. Become a model. Get married. Get divorced. Join the army. Be a lesbian. Get married. File for bankruptcy. You’re an only child, so they give in to you. They’ve never put any limits on you because they want to believe that you know what you’re doing.”
    â€œThis time I do know.” I got up and paced around the big bedroom. “Tremaynne and I love one another. We want to be together.”
    â€œOkay.” Whitman held up his hand. “The next question is, what are you going to do for a ceremony this time?”
    â€œIt’s about time you asked,” I said. “We’re writing our own.”
    â€œWell, don’t forget there’s a grammar and a spell check on that computer I gave you. Next question: Where is it going to take place?”
    â€œAt my mom’s. I told