Freedom. Jonathan Franzen

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ games, occurred to her now. She was so indignant she almost felt like talking to somebody. But she was afraid to let her coach or teammates know she’d been drinking.

      How the story came out, in spite of her best efforts to keep it buried, was that Coach Nagel got suspicious and spied on her in the locker room after the next day’s game. Sat Patty down in her office and confronted her regarding her bruises and unhappy demeanor. Patty humiliated herself by immediately and sobbingly confessing to all. To her total shock, Coach then proposed taking her to the hospital and notifying the police. Patty had just gone three-for-four with two runs scored and several outstanding defensive plays. She obviously wasn’t greatly harmed. Also, her parents were political friends of Ethan’s parents, so that was a nonstarter. She dared to hope that an abject apology for breaking training, combined with Coach’s pity and leniency, would put the matter to rest. But oh how wrong she was.

      Coach called Patty’s house and got Patty’s mother, who, as always, was breathless and running out to a meeting and had neither time to talk nor yet the moral wherewithal to admit that she didn’t have time to talk, and Coach spoke these indelible words into the P.E. Dept.’s beige telephone: “Your daughter just told me that she was raped last night by a boy named Ethan Post.” Coach then listened to the phone for a minute before saying, “No, she just now told me … That’s right … Just last night … Yes, she is.” And handed Patty the telephone.

      “Patty?” her mother said. “Are you—all right?”

      “I’m fine.”

      “Mrs. Nagel says there was an incident last night?”

      “The incident was I was raped.”

      “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. Last night?”

      “Yes.”

      “I was home this morning. Why didn’t you say something?”

      “I don’t know.”

      “Why, why, why? Why didn’t you say something to me?”

      “Maybe it just didn’t seem like such a big deal right then.”

      “So but then you did tell Mrs. Nagel.”

      “No,” Patty said. “She’s just more observant than you are.”

      “I hardly saw you this morning.”

      “I’m not blaming you. I’m just saying.”

      “And you think you might have been … It might have been …”

      “Raped.”

      “I can’t believe this,” her mother said. “I’m going to come and get you.”

      “Coach Nagel wants me to go to the hospital.”

      “Are you not all right?”

      “I already said. I’m fine.”

      “Then just stay put, and don’t either of you do anything until I get there.”

      Patty hung up the phone and told Coach that her mother was coming.

      “We’re going to put that boy in jail for a long, long time,” Coach said.

      “Oh no no no no no,” Patty said. “No, we’re not.”

      “Patty.”

      “It’s just not going to happen.”

      “It will if you want it to.”

      “No, actually, it won’t. My parents and the Posts are political friends.”

      “Listen to me,” Coach said. “That has nothing to do with anything. Do you understand?”

      Patty was quite certain that Coach was wrong about this. Dr. Post was a cardiologist and his wife was from big money. They had one of the houses that people such as Teddy Kennedy and Ed Muskie and Walter Mondale made visits to when they were short of funds. Over the years, Patty had heard much tell of the Posts’ “back yard” from her parents. This “back yard” was apparently about the size of Central Park but nicer. Conceivably one of Patty’s straight-A, grade-skipping, Arts-doing sisters could have brought trouble down on the Posts, but it was absurd to imagine the hulking B-student family jock making a dent in the Posts’ armor.

      “I’m just never going to drink again,” she said, “and that will solve the problem.”

      “Maybe for you,” Coach said, “but not for somebody else. Look at your arms. Look what he did. He’ll do that to somebody else if you don’t stop him.”

      “It’s just bruises and scratches.”

      Coach here made a motivational speech about standing up for your teammates, which in this case meant all the young women Ethan might ever meet. The upshot was that Patty was supposed to take a hard foul for the team and press charges and let Coach inform the New Hampshire prep school where Ethan was a student, so he could be expelled and denied a diploma, and that if Patty didn’t do this she would be letting down her team.

      Patty began to cry again, because she would almost rather have died than let a team down. Earlier in the winter, with the flu, she’d played most of a half of basketball before fainting on the sideline and getting fluids intravenously. The problem now was that she hadn’t been with her own team the night before. She’d gone to the party with her field-hockey friend Amanda, whose soul was apparently never going to be at rest until she’d induced Patty to sample piña coladas, vast buckets of which had been promised at the McCluskys’. El ron me puso loca. None of the other girls at the McCluskys’ swimming pool were jocks. Almost just by showing up there, Patty had betrayed her real true team. And now she’d been punished for it. Ethan hadn’t raped one of the fast girls, he’d raped Patty, because she didn’t belong there, she didn’t even know how to drink.

      She promised Coach to give the matter some thought.

      It was shocking to see her mother in the gym and obviously shocking to her mother to find herself there. She was wearing her everyday pumps and resembled Goldilocks in daunting woods as she peered around uncertainly at the naked metal equipment and the fungal floors and the clustered balls in mesh bags. Patty went to her and submitted to embrace. Her mother being much smaller of frame, Patty felt somewhat like a grandfather clock that Joyce was endeavoring to lift and move. She broke away and led Joyce into Coach’s little glass-walled office so that the necessary conference could be had.

      “Hi, I’m Jane Nagel,” Coach said.

      “Yes, we’ve—met,” Joyce said.

      “Oh, you’re right, we did meet once,” Coach said.

      In addition to her strenuous elocution, Joyce had strenuously proper posture and a masklike Pleasant Smile suitable for nearly all occasions public and private. Because she never raised her voice, not even in anger (her voice just got shakier and more strained when she was mad), her Pleasant Smile could be worn even at moments of excruciating conflict.

      “No, it was more than once,” she said now. “It was several times.”

      “Really?”

СКАЧАТЬ