67.
I know what to do,” said Ed.
“No you don’t,” said Madeline.
They were sitting at the living room table, listening to the rain and gloomily eating Jane’s muffins. (It was terrible the way she kept giving them to Madeline, as if she were on a mission to urgently expand Madeline’s waistline.)
Abigail was in her bedroom, lying on the sofa bed they’d moved in to replace her beautiful four-poster bed. She had headphones on and was lying on her side with her knees up to her chest.
The website was still up. Abigail’s virginity was still available for purchase anywhere in the world.
Madeline had a grimy, exposed feeling, as if the eyes of the world were peering in her windows, as though strange men were right now silently creeping down her hallway to leer and sneer at her daughter.
Last night Nathan had come over and he and Madeline had sat with Abigail for more than two hours: begging, reasoning, cajoling, yelling, crying. It had been Nathan who cried, finally, with frustration, and Abigail had been visibly shocked, but the ridiculous child still would not budge. She would not give them the password. She would not take it down. She might or might not go ahead with the auction, but that wasn’t really the point, she’d said; they needed to stop “obsessing over the sex part.” She was leaving the website up to raise awareness of the issue and because she was “the only voice those little girls have.”
The egocentricity of the child, as if international aid organizations were sitting around twiddling their thumbs while little Abigail Mackenzie on the Pirriwee Peninsula was the only one taking decisive action. Abigail said she couldn’t care less about the horrible sexual comments. Those people were nothing to her. That was completely irrelevant. People were always writing mean stuff on the Internet.
“Don’t suggest calling the police,” said Madeline to Ed now. “I really don’t—”
“We contact the Australian office of Amnesty International,” said Ed. “They don’t want their name associated with something like this. If the organization that really does represent the rights of these children tells her to take it down, she’ll listen.”
Madeline pointed her finger at him. “That’s good. That might actually work.”
There were bangs and crashes from down the hallway. Fred and Chloe did not respond well to being stuck indoors on a rainy day.
“Give it back!” screamed Chloe.
“No way!” shouted Fred.
They came running into the room, both of them gripping a sheet of scrap paper.
“Please don’t tell me you’re fighting over that piece of paper,” said Ed.
“He’s not sharing!” screamed Chloe. “Sharing is caring!”
“You get what you get and you don’t get upset!” screamed Fred.
In normal circumstances that would have made Madeline laugh.
“It’s my paper airplane,” said Fred.
“I drew the passengers!”
“You did not!”
“Well, you can stop all your stressing.” Madeline turned to see Abigail leaning against the doorjamb.
“What?” Madeline said.
Abigail said something that she couldn’t hear over the yelling of Fred and Chloe.
“Bloody hell!” Madeline snatched the piece of paper from Fred’s hand and tore it in half, handing them a piece each.
“Now get out of my sight!” she roared. They ran.
“I’ve taken down the website,” said Abigail with a world-weary sigh.
“You have? Why?” Madeline resisted the urge to throw her arms above her head and run around in circles like Fred did when he kicked a goal.
Abigail handed her a printout of an e-mail. “I got this.”
Ed and Madeline read it together.
To: Abigail Mackenzie
From: Larry Fitzgerald
Subject: Auction Bid
Dear Miss Mackenzie,
My name is Larry Fitzgerald and it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. You probably don’t hear from many eighty-three-year-old gentlemen living on the other side of the world in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. My darling wife and I visited Australia many years ago, in 1987, before you were born. We had the pleasure of seeing the Sydney Opera House. (I’m an architect, since retired, and it had always been a dream of mine to see the Opera House.) The people of Australia were so kind and warm to us. Sadly, my beautiful wife passed away last year. I miss her every day. Miss Mackenzie, when I came across your website, I was moved by your obvious passion and your desire to bring attention to the plight of these children. I would not like to purchase your virginity; however I would like to make a bid. This is what I propose: If you close your auction immediately, I will make an immediate donation of $100,000 to Amnesty International. (I will, of course, send you a receipt.) I have spent many years campaigning against the abuse of human rights, and I do so admire what you are trying to achieve, but you are a child yourself, Miss Mackenzie, and I cannot in good conscience stand by and see you take this project to fruition. I look forward to hearing whether my bid is successful.
Yours sincerely,
Larry Fitzgerald
Madeline and Ed looked at each other and over at Abigail.
“I thought one hundred thousand dollars was quite a big donation,” said Abigail. She was standing at the open fridge as she talked, pulling out containers, opening lids and peering into them. “And that Amnesty could probably do something, you know, pretty good with that money.”
“I’m sure they could,” said Ed neutrally.
“I’ve written back to him and told him I’ve taken it down,” said Abigail. “If he doesn’t send back the receipt I’m going to put it straight back up.”
“Oh, naturally,” murmured Ed. “He’s got to follow through.”
Madeline grinned at Ed and then back at Abigail. You could see the relief coursing through her daughter’s young body; her bare feet were doing a little dance as she stood at the refrigerator. Abigail had put herself in a corner, and the wonderful Larry Fitzgerald of South Dakota had given her an out.
“Is this spaghetti Bolognese?” said Abigail, holding up a Tupperware container. “I’m starving.”
“I thought you were vegan now,” said Madeline.
“Not when I’m staying here,” said Abigail, taking the container over to the microwave. “It’s too hard to be vegan here.”