Red

She blinked, clearing her vision, looking at her mother once more, a strange feeling of relief moving over her. Her mother had set her free. Now, truly, there was nothing for her in Bend.

Turning, Becky Lynn limped toward the bathroom.

“Don’t come cryin’ to me if you get knocked up!” her father shouted from behind her. “You hear me? I won’t have none of your ugly bastard brats in this house. You hear me?”

Becky Lynn closed the bathroom door behind her, muffling the sound of her father’s rage, and latched it. She crossed to the old claw-footed tub and turned on the faucets. Kneeling, she pushed the rubber stopper into the drain, then stood and stripped off her soiled clothing, avoiding her reflection in the small mirror above the sink.

They had put a bag over her head so the wouldn’t have to look at her while they raped her.

She stepped into the tepid water, then sank into it. It flowed sweetly over her, like a baptism, cleansing her of Ricky’s touch, his smell. His hate.

She rested her head against the cool porcelain and closed her eyes.

As if from outside her body, hovering above, she saw herself. Her body folded into the tub, scrunched down so she would be submerged, her skin so white it blended with the tub, the shock of red hair around her face, floating around her shoulders. The bruises. The blood that leaked from her and into the water, muddying it.

They would be back.

She wanted to cry, to howl with rage and pain, yet she had no tears, couldn’t muster emotion enough for rage. She felt…a numbness. A nothingness. A weird kind of void that was at once a sweet relief and completely terrifying.

As the water became almost too cool to bear, she opened her eyes and sat up. Carefully, she soaped her thighs, her bruised womanhood, washing away dirt and blood. She winced as she moved her hands over herself, knowing from experience that physical bruises healed. And that invisible ones did not.

There was blood underneath her fingernails, Tommy’s from when she’d scratched him, and she dug her nails into the soap, moving them back and forth on the slippery bar, not stopping until they were clear. Clean and free of him. She soaped her hair next, scrubbing it, rinsing it. Scrubbing again.

The water turned dark and ugly. Her stomach heaved, but she choked the sickness back. She drained the tub, then sat naked in the empty bath, her arms closed around herself, teeth chattering.

Thoughts raced dizzily, crazily through her head, like the twisted path of a roller coaster.

I won’t tell, Becky Lynn… You must promise me that if those boys do anything to you, you will come to me…

What did you hope to accomplish by telling Miss Opal… Who did you think was going to believe that we’d touch you… Our parents laughed…

Lying whore… Get out of my sight…

Don’t do this, Mama…I need you… Mama, please help me…

I’ll make sure Tommy and Buddy get their turn…

Tears choked her, and Becky Lynn gasped to breathe. She brought her hands to her face and sobbed, pressing her hands against her mouth to muffle the sound, wishing that, somehow, holding back the sounds of her pain would erase it.

After a time, the violence of her sobs lessened, then ceased altogether, until the only sound she had energy enough to make was a broken mewl of despair. Soon, even that became impossible and she rocked, her arms curved tightly around herself.

Reaching up, she turned the faucets on full blast, half expecting her father to burst into the bathroom and rage at her for wasting water. Even as she waited, clean water slipped over her again, inch by comforting inch. The water warmed her, bringing her senses back to life. She rested her cheek against her drawn-up knees, her mother’s words from what seemed like a lifetime ago, nudging into her consciousness.

You’re special, Becky Lynn. You could move away from Bend, make something of yourself.

She squeezed her eyes shut, pain ripping through her. Nothing could be special here. Not in this house. Not in Bend.

Tonight her mother had set her free.

She had to take care of herself, no one else would. And as much as she loved her mother, she couldn’t help her, couldn’t save her from the fate she had resigned herself to.

Becky Lynn leaned her head against the tub-back and pictured the places in her magazines, clean and lovely, populated by beautiful smiling people. She pictured the brilliant sun and the warm breeze, imagining both against her skin. It never rained in those places. There wasn’t any dirt, nor the lingering smell of sweat and rotting fields. In the places of her magazines, boys didn’t hurt girls just because they were ugly and poor.

She would go there, to California; she would start a new life.

Becky Lynn pulled the stopper from the drain and stood. Shivering, she dried herself, then wrapped the threadbare towel around her. She went to the bathroom door and cracked it open. The house slept. In the next room, her father snored.

Even though he was impossible to wake out of his drunken slumber, Becky Lynn tiptoed across the hallway and into her room. She dressed quickly and quietly, then threw her remaining clothes into a duffel bag, her few knickknacks and toiletries, she retrieved her toothbrush, the shampoo and toothpaste. She’d saved everything she’d made at the Cut ‘n Curl over the past couple of years, everything left over after her father had taken his share, and hidden it under a loose floorboard. Careful not to make a sound, she retrieved and counted it, then stuffed it into her jeans pocket.

Nearly two hundred dollars. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do.

She hesitated outside her parents’ door, then crept into their room. Her father’s slacks lay in a heap on the floor. She picked them up and searched one pocket, then the other. Her fingers closed over a couple crumpled bills. Hands shaking, she pulled them out. Twenties? Where had he gotten this money? she wondered. She didn’t care, he would only waste it on drink.

She took the money, keeping one twenty and putting the other into her mother’s secret grocery stash on her way out of the house.

At the front door, she stopped and turned back, taking one last look at the place she had called home for nearly seventeen years. She had called it home, but it had never been one. She had never been safe here, had never been loved.

She would never be trapped again.

As she slipped through the door, she thought she heard the sound of weeping—her mother’s weeping. Becky Lynn paused, her chest tightening. “Mama,” she whispered, taking an involuntary step back inside.

The smell of whiskey filled her head, a sense of smothering gray with it. She shook her head and her senses cleared, a familiar picture filling her head. Of blue skies and palm trees, of brilliant sun and smiling faces. Becky Lynn squared her shoulders. She couldn’t help her mother, couldn’t save her, no matter how much she wanted to.

The time had come to save herself.

Hiking her duffel bag higher on her shoulder, Becky Lynn turned her back on the house and life she had always known, and stepped out into the cold, black night.

Book Two

7

Los Angeles, California

1972

The way eight-year-old Jack Gallagher figured it, women were about the best things in the whole world. He loved the way they smelled, sweet like flowers, fresh like sunshine. He loved the way they felt, soft and warm and smooth; he loved their curves, their pillows of perfumed flesh, loved the way they spoke to him, in voices that were gentle and mostly lilting.

Jack’s earliest remembrances were not of his mother, his crib or toys, but of the changing parade of girl-models who had cuddled and stroked him, the girls who had given him kisses and candy, who had wiped his baby tears and brought him gifts.

Many a time as an infant and toddler he had nestled his face into a pair of smooth, soft breasts, and basked in the pure joy of it. His mother, the most wonderful of all the wonderful women in the world, said he had the ability to turn even the most ill-tempered and demanding model into a candidate for Miss Congeniality with nothing more than an adoring look or smile.

Men, on the other hand, he had learned, were not so easy to please. They had no time or use for a boy’s questions or curiosity. They made it plain that having him on the set was a nuisance they put up with only because of Sallie Gallagher’s abilities as a makeup artist, and only for as long as it suited their purposes.

From the beginning, he understood the importance of staying out of the way, of staying quiet while the others worked. The Great Ones, the photographers who moved like kings through the studios, making demands and accepting total obedience and deference as their due, did not like being interrupted or disturbed, especially by a small, inconsequential boy. And their displeasure, when evoked, was both swift and fierce.

So Jack had found places to hide and play, had created imaginary worlds where he was always the hero—the inside of a circular rack of clothes would become a castle or cave, a group of chairs shoved into a corner a magnificent sailing ship, the prop room an enchanted kingdom.

From his secret places, he had seen and learned many things. The first time he’d seen what men and women did together, how they touched each other, he’d almost peed in his pants. He remembered staring in shock and thinking it gross, impossible. He remembered looking down at himself and wondering if his would ever get so big.

He had also learned the rules of grown-up life: that the truth was negotiable, as was just about everything else in the world with the exception of artistic integrity; that life operated on the barter system—you gave someone something they wanted, you got something you wanted in return; and finally, he had learned that beautiful things were special. The most special. To have beauty in your possession was to have a prize, a measurable commodity worth as much—or more—than any other.

Jack slumped onto the battered leather couch, shoved against the far wall of the busy studio. At eight, he was too old to play such games, too old to hide and pretend. Instead, he stayed in the background while The Great Ones worked. He watched. And made his plans.

Made his plans because the last and most important thing he had learned from his secret hiding places was who he really was.

Giovanni’s bastard brat.

He hadn’t known what those words meant, not the time he’d first heard them, but they had stuck with him. They sounded important, although something about the way they’d been uttered had made him feel dirty, as though he’d done something he should be ashamed of.

He had kept the words to himself, guarding them, turning them over in his head. When he had finally found the courage to ask his mother, she’d looked unhappy and upset, but had gently explained. He had nodded in understanding, and had never brought it up again. Neither had she.

Jack drew his knees to his chest and studied The Great One. Giovanni was the greatest of all The Great Ones, considered the king of all the kings, the reigning monarch of fashion photography.

His father. Giovanni was his father.

Jack sucked in a deep breath, willing away his nerves, the tight fist of hope burning in his chest. Sissies and babies were nervous. And Jack Gallagher was neither baby nor sissy. He was the great Giovanni’s son, an important thing to be—he couldn’t be weak, or nervous, or too hopeful. It was time he started becoming a man, like Giovanni. His father.

Jack cocked his chin proudly and pictured himself walking through the studio, his father’s arm thrown casually but possessively across his shoulders. He pictured the others’ looks, could almost hear their whispers—Did you know, Jack is Giovanni’s son…

Jack had it all figured out; his mother had never told Giovanni that he was Jack’s father, she couldn’t have told. If she had, Giovanni wouldn’t brush by him as if Jack were nothing, he wouldn’t look through him as if Jack didn’t exist.

She hadn’t told because he was already married, and she didn’t want to cause trouble with his wife. Jack drew his eyebrows together. He’d also considered that his mother hadn’t wanted to share him with his father, but he didn’t like to think that was true. He was sure she’d had her reasons, and even though he loved his mother, he wanted Giovanni to know. He wanted a father. He wanted his father.

He would tell him. Today.

Jack smiled to himself and imagined Giovanni’s face when he told him. Imagined his initial surprise, then his pleasure. He would clasp Jack to his chest, then announce to all that he had found his son.

They would do things together. His father would show him how to do things, guy things. He would clap him on the shoulder in encouragement and approval, the way Jack had seen other fathers do to their sons.

Giovanni probably didn’t like baseball or fishing or camping out, but that was okay. It didn’t matter what the two of them did together, it was only important that they be together. That finally, he have his father.

A violent stream of Italian broke his reverie. Jack opened his eyes.

“I do not work with amateurs!” Giovanni shouted, in English now, handing his camera to his assistant. He strode forward to face the object of his displeasure, a young model just off the foreign circuit. She cringed.

“If you cannot give me what I want,” he demanded, gesturing broadly as was his way, “what good are you? If I have to ask you twice, you cost too much. There are many pretty faces, bella. If you want to be the face who works with Giovanni, then you give me what I ask for. Capisce?”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, wetting her lips. “I’ll try harder. I can do it. I know I can.”

Giovanni lowered his voice and gently tipped her face up to his. He trailed his thumb across her damp lower lip. “That’s what I want, bella, vulnerable. Your eyes now, they tell me everything. Yes!”

His assistant was beside him in a flash, handing him the camera. Giovanni began shooting immediately, alternating between shouting approval and insults.

The model would be in tears later, Jack knew. She would be exhausted, wrung out. He had seen this scenario played out a hundred times before. She would cry and curse and swear she was getting out of the business. She would curse Giovanni, call him a son of a bitch who deserved to die. But the chromes would be good. Very good. A successful session with Giovanni could make a career.

And later, she would trail adoringly after The Great One. And maybe, if The Great One was so inclined, she would do it with him.

Jack cocked his head to the side, studying the photographer as he worked. Giovanni was handsome, with the look of the Italian aristocracy he was reputed to be descended from. He had high cheekbones and a broad forehead, a chiseled mouth that could be either giving or forbidding, a slash of dark eyebrows over piercing eyes, eyes so dark they were almost black. He wore his hair brushed straight back from his face, and while he worked, it would sometimes fall across his forehead. The photographer would sweep it back with an impatience, a leashed power, that Jack watched with awe. Indeed, everything about Giovanni seemed powerful; he emanated it in waves that both exhilarated and cowed everyone around him.

Jack practiced being like Giovanni. At home he would stand in front of the mirror for hours, mimicking the older man’s gestures, his looks, the way he spoke. He would gaze at his own reflection, searching for the resemblances between them and despairing at the few he found: the shape of his face was wrong, more narrow and angular; his eyes weren’t dark and stormy, but the vivid blue of his mother’s; his hair, chestnut instead of black, wavy instead of straight. So he stared at his reflection and willed himself to grow as strong as his father, as powerful.

He would make his father proud. He didn’t know how or when, but he would.

Jack looked back at Giovanni. The photographer had wrapped for lunch; he was talking with the client and the ad agency’s art director. Everyone else was either eating or socializing. Giovanni never ate. He never socialized. He prowled and smoked cigarettes, he checked his equipment, he conferred with his assistants and drank the espresso he insisted on having whenever and wherever he was shooting.

This would be his only opportunity to approach his father, Jack knew. If he missed it, it could be weeks, or longer, before he got another.

As the art director and client walked away, leaving Giovanni alone, Jack jumped to his feet, excitement and stark terror clawing at his gut. He’d been waiting all his life for this day. He wasn’t going to blow it just because he was scared.

He started across the studio toward the photographer, palms sweating, legs unsteady. He reached him and squared his shoulders. “Excuse me.”

Giovanni turned slowly. He glared down at Jack, arching his eyebrows ever so slightly as if considering a pesky insect.

Jack shifted under the man’s stare, panic turning his mouth to vinegar. “I…um…I—”

Those dark eyebrows arched a fraction higher, and the man made a soft sound of impatience. “Well?”

Jack shifted from one foot to the other, searching for the best way to start. He must have taken a fraction too long, because with a snort, Giovanni started to turn away.

Jack’s heart stopped. He’d lost his chance! After all this time, all his waiting, he couldn’t just let him walk away! He grabbed the photographer’s arm. “Wait!”

Giovanni stopped and looked back. Beneath his hand, Jack felt the photographer stiffen.

“I just—” His throat closed over the words, and he cleared it. “I just wanted you to know that…you’re my…dad.”

Giovanni said nothing. He simply continued to stare at Jack, his expression unchanging. To his horror, Jack felt tears prick his eyes. They gathered in his throat and chest, threatening to choke him.

He fought them off, barely. “Did you…did you know that?”

“Of course.” Giovanni frowned, his dark eyebrows lowering ominously. “Your mother and I have an arrangement.”

An arrangement? His mother and Giovanni had…an arrangement? What did that mean? “I don’t…understand. You’re my father.”

“I have a son. Carlo is my son.” Giovanni shook off Jack’s hand, turned and walked away.

Jack stared after him, frozen to the spot, his world crashing in around his ears. Giovanni had already known about him. He had known all along.

His father didn’t want him. He had never wanted him.

Tears choked him. He thought of his dreams, his plans, thought of the hours he’d spent imagining them together as father and son, and a howl of pain and rage flew to his throat. He battled it back, fingers squeezed into tight fists.

His father had another son—Carlo. A son he called his own, a son he wanted. Hatred and jealousy built inside Jack, stealing his hurt, his urge to cry. Carlo, Jack thought again, despising the sound of the name.

Jack lifted his gaze. It landed on Giovanni, standing across the room, talking with a model. He set his jaw in determination. Giovanni would want him for his son. Someday, Jack promised himself. Someday, Giovanni would want him.

8

Someday, Giovanni would want him for his son.

Jack’s promise to himself was never far from his mind. It burned bright and hot inside him, coloring each year that passed, years that transformed him from a trusting boy into a cocky, worldly-wise sixteen-year-old.

That day, those words, shaped his life. They gave him direction, focus. He vowed he would prove himself worthy of his father’s love. He vowed he would show Giovanni what a great mistake he had made when he rejected him.

At first, he hadn’t known how he would do it; he had only known the desire twisted in his gut so tightly, there were days he thought of nothing else. Then it had come to him. He would meet his father, and beat him, in his own arena.

So while the other boys in his class at high school had involved themselves with sports and girls and parties, he had planned his future. He read everything he could about photography, talked to every assistant who would give him the time of day, studied every photographer’s technique, equipment preference and work habits.

He had needed a camera, so he had worked anywhere he could for anyone who would pay him. After school, he’d grocery shopped and run errands for the old ladies in the apartments around his and his mother’s. At night, he’d bussed tables and done dishes at the Italian restaurant on the corner. At shoots, he’d done the gofer work everyone else hated. He now owned a used Nikon F2 with a motor drive and two lenses.

Jack ran his fingers lovingly over the camera’s black metal body, over its levers and buttons. His camera. His first piece of professional equipment, the first of many. He would need a medium-format camera soon, more lenses, tripods, lights, umbrellas and darkroom supplies; he would need a place to work.

But the 35mm was a good place to start, it gave him flexibility and mobility. It was the single piece of equipment that Giovanni used more than any other.

Jack frowned and set the camera back on the shelf above his desk. Since that day eight years before, he’d only seen The Great One a handful of times. His mother had stopped bringing him to Giovanni’s shoots. She’d claimed it was her own choice and had nothing to do with the photographer, but Jack thought otherwise. He believed Giovanni had asked her to keep him away. As if by keeping him out of sight, he could deny his existence.

Whenever Jack thought about it, his determination, and his anger, grew.

As did his curiosity about his half brother. He wondered about him: what he was doing, what he looked like, if they would like each other if they ever met. He never allowed himself the foolishness of imagining them as friends, as real brothers; facing his father had taught him a powerful lesson about caring too much and about opening himself for rejection. He had promised himself he would never be so naive again.

But he wondered about Carlo, anyway. He looked for him. For some mention of him, for a picture. His mother, an avid face-watcher, took all the fashion magazines, took glossies like Vanity Fair and Lears, took commercial pulp like People. He scoured them all.

Finally, he had found a mention in People’s Passages section. Carlo’s mother, a former model, after having been involved in a tragic, disfiguring car crash, had committed suicide. The blurb mentioned her husband, fashion photographer great Giovanni, and their son Carlo.

Jack slid open the magazine and stared at the blurb and accompanying photograph, eyebrows drawn together in thought. She’d been beautiful, Carlo’s mother. Now she was dead. Did that mean Carlo would come to live with Giovanni? Had he already? The magazine was many months old, the news could have been dated already by the time the magazine had gone to press.

From the other room, Jack heard the sounds of his mother moving around, getting ready for work. It was early, not quite six, but she had a shoot with Giovanni today, a big editorial spread for Vogue, and support staff had to be on location and working hours before the shoot actually began.

She would know about Carlo.

He stood, tucked the magazine under his arm and sauntered to the other room. His mother stood in front of her bathroom mirror, putting the finishing touches on her makeup. He cocked his head, considering his mother. Tall and curvaceous with flyaway sandy-colored hair, a scattering of freckles and a fondness for offbeat clothes, his mother looked part tomboy and part bohemian bombshell.

He stopped in the doorway and smiled at her. “Hey, Mom.”

“Hey to you.” She looked at him, and her eyes crinkled at the corners. “You’re up and dressed early.”

“You know how excited I get about school.”

She made a face at his sarcasm. “If you put a little effort into it, you might enjoy it.”