Ottessa Moshfegh - Eileen

“But the mother — Rita is her name — I just don’t understand her motivations.” Rebecca was intent on getting to a point. I really could not have cared less about the Polks — I had Rebecca now. We were partners in crime. She’d said those very words. I would have cut my palm open with the kitchen knife and made a pact in blood then and there to be friends, sisters, forever and ever. But I sat and listened attentively, feigning interest the best way I knew how, nodding and furrowing my brow and batting my lashes and all.

“I don’t get the feeling that the father was threatening her,” Rebecca continued. “She doesn’t come across to me that way.” I knew what she meant, actually. When Mrs. Polk had visited earlier that week, she hadn’t come off as a victim. She held her head high, seemed more angry than sorrowful, had an air of judgment in the way she gazed at us — me, Randy, Rebecca, Leonard. And she didn’t seem like the type of woman who would try very hard to please others. She was fat. She wore ugly clothing. “I believe something crucial must be resolved with that woman,” Rebecca continued, “before Lee can really move on. And like I said, I don’t believe in punishment, but I do believe in retribution. Lee’s father raped him. He did a bad thing, so he got killed. Lee killed his father, so he’s in prison. The mother is guilty of her own crime, and she hasn’t suffered any consequence. And Eileen?” She leaned forward, grabbed me by the calf. “You can’t tell anyone about this, you promise?” I nodded. Rebecca’s hand on my leg was enough for me to promise her the world. I still couldn’t understand her earnestness, her grave intensity about the Polks. What did it matter? Why did she care? When she stuck out her slender pinky finger, I hooked mine around it. We shook. This gesture felt so heartfelt, so pure, and yet so perverse, my eyes filled with tears.

“This isn’t my house, Eileen,” Rebecca said then. “It’s the Polk house. I have Rita Polk tied up downstairs.”

• • •

I should say that as a rather sheltered young person in X-ville, I had little experience of direct conflicts between people. My parents’ dinnertime fights when I was growing up were all for nothing, just gripes covering the surface of whatever deeper grievances they each carried around, I’m sure. Nothing ever came to blows, though in my last years with him my father would occasionally wrap his flat hands around my pencil-thin throat and threaten that he could squeeze the life out of me any time he felt like it. It didn’t hurt. His hands on my neck were, in fact, a kind of balm — it was all the affection I received back then. I recall that when I was twelve, a girl a few towns over went missing and they found her naked body washed up on the rocks at the beach in X-ville. “Don’t take rides from strangers,” and “scream if someone tries to grab you,” our teachers said to warn us, but their alarm never scared me. On the contrary, being kidnapped was something of a secret wish of mine. At least then I’d know that I mattered to someone, that I was of value. Violence made much more sense to me than any strained conversation. If there had been more fighting in my family growing up in X-ville, things might have turned out differently. I might have stayed.

I must sound terribly self-pitying, complaining that my father didn’t love me enough to hit me. But so what? I’m old now. My bones have thinned, my hair has grayed, my breathing has become slow and shallow, my appetite meager. I’ve had more than my fair share of scrapes and bruises, and I have lived long enough that self-pity is no longer a pathetic habit of the psyche, but like a cold wet cloth on my forehead bringing down the fever of fear about my inevitable mortal demise. Poor me, yes, poor me. When I was young I didn’t care at all for my physical well-being. All young people believe they are invincible, that they know well enough not to heed any silly warnings. It was this kind of brave stupidity that led me out of X-ville. If I’d known just how dangerous a place I was escaping to, I may never have left. New York City was no place for a young woman all alone back then, especially a young woman like I was — gullible, helpless, full of rage and guilt and worry. If someone had told me the number of times I’d get groped and grabbed on the subway, how often my heart would be broken, doors slammed in my face, my spirit smashed, I may have stayed home with my father.

Back in X-ville, I’d read tales of violence in the prison files — awful business. Assault, destruction, betrayal, as long as it didn’t concern me, it didn’t bother me. Those stories were like articles in National Geographic . Their details only fostered my own twisted imaginings and fantasies, but never made me scared for my safety. I was naive and I was callous. I didn’t care about the welfare of others. I only cared about getting what I wanted. So when Rebecca’s revelation hit me, I wasn’t as horrified as you’d expect. I was insulted, however. Suddenly it became obvious to me that her friendship was not motivated purely out of admiration and affection, as I’d have preferred to think. Rebecca had forged a rapport, it was clear, as part of a strategy. She assumed I’d be useful to her, and I suppose in the end I was.

“I’m so sorry,” I stammered, trying to hide my disappointment. “I’m really not feeling well.” I could have told her she was crazy, that I wanted nothing to do with her, that she ought to be committed, but I was so hurt, so dismayed by her scheme to seduce me into being some sort of accomplice that I failed to muster any cutting words or phrases. “Good luck,” might have been enough, I suppose. Anyway, I wasn’t going to reveal my brokenheartedness to her — I felt humiliated enough already. I’d been such a fool. Of course Rebecca didn’t really like me. I was pathetic, ugly, weak, weird. Why would someone like her want someone like me as a friend? “I should really get going,” I said, and got up and headed for the door. In the hallway, however, Rebecca grabbed my arm.

“Please,” she said. “Don’t run off so quick. I’m in something of a little pinch.” I could tell from looking at her that she was scared. I thought of breaking free, driving home to tell my father, calling the cops. But with Rebecca looking at me like that, as though I could save her, saying, “Please, I really need you, Eileen. Be a friend,” I began to cave. She pulled a cigarette out for me, lit it with trembling hands. “You’re the only one I trust,” she said. That was all it took to reel me back in. She respected me after all, I chose to believe. She wanted me on her side. Tears filled her eyes and slid down her cheeks. She mopped them up with the cuff of her robe, exhaled, shuddered, looked up at me imploringly.

“OK,” I said. Nobody had ever cried to me before. “I’ll help you.”

“Thank you, Eileen,” she said, smiling through her tears. She blew her nose on her sleeve. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m a mess.” It pleased me to see her scared and vulnerable like that. She took another slice of bread from the counter, picked at it mindlessly for a moment. “I don’t know how I got into this. But now that we’re in it, we have to finish what we started.”

I sat down, straightened my back against the chair, crossed my legs like a lady, folded my hands in my lap. “We could call the police and just explain what happened,” I said softly. “It was an accident, we could say.” I knew full well this suggestion was ludicrous. I just wanted to reap all the desperation I could out of her. I deserved at least that much in return for my loyalty, I thought.

“And say what?” Rebecca replied. “That I accidentally tied her up? They’d take me to jail,” she cried.