by Maren Foster
“Wynafreda Laurent?” A young woman held open the door. I followed her as she escorted me back to a small conference room. She put a file folder down on the table and handed me a typed document.
“Read this. I’ll be back in a few minutes in case you have any questions or corrections to the report.”
I pulled it toward me.
EVANSTON POLICE DEPARTMENT
CRIMINAL REPORT
Victim: Wynafreda Laurent
Perpetrator: Unknown male, 22-23 yrs. old, Caucasian, approx. 6’5”, brown hair, brown eyes.
Date: Sunday June 10, 2012
Time: Approx. 1am to 10am
Location: 114 N. Locust, Evanston, IL
Description: Victim met perpetrator at a frat party at the address referenced above. Victim is 19 years old, 5’4” and weighs 110 lbs. Victim admitted to drinking alcohol and estimated that she had six drinks between 7pm and 1am. She did not see anyone put anything in her drinks. Victim was dancing consensually with men at the party and shared several consensual open-mouthed kisses with one of the young men on dance floor. Victim does not remember who she kissed. The last thing victim remembers is going out onto the back porch for some air. Victim alleges that she woke up alone, naked in a twin bed in a room on the first floor of the frat house. Victim said that when she woke up there was blood on the sheets. Victim does not know who raped her.
Physical Evidence Collected: Sexual Assault Forensic Exam (Date of exam: 6/10/2012)
‘Victim alleges’. I guess I knew that it would be written that way, but it was still difficult to read. The report made it sound like they questioned everything I’d said. Have they done any investigation of their own? Do they know that my story isn’t 100 percent accurate?
I looked up. The young woman was standing at the end of the table a few feet away from me, watching my reaction. I hadn’t noticed her there.
“Is the report factually correct?”
“Yes,” I lied.
“Please sign here,” she said and handed me a pen. I signed and dated the report.
“Thanks,” she said. “You can go.”
“What happens next?”
“This will go into the file. I don’t think the DNA results are back yet. When they are, we will reach out if we have a match. If there is no match the case will remain open. Obviously, please come back to the station if you remember any other important details from that day. There is a statute of limitations on these kinds of things,” she said.
“Yeah, of course.”
“Follow me.” She escorted me back out to the lobby. “Thanks again,” she said as she opened the door for me.
I replied instinctively, “Thank you.”
I got home before Ali and Vi and went straight to the kitchen. Vi had a very modest selection of alcohol in the house but always kept a bottle of her favorite French cognac in the freezer. She cherished it and only brought it out for others to enjoy on holidays or special occasions, so on the rare occasion in high school that I wanted a drink, I knew never to take much. I need a stiff one after my visit to the station. I took it out, wrestled with the frozen cap and poured a generous shot into a glass tumbler. I heard the front door and quickly returned the bottle to its place, tipped the glass back and savoring the familiar aftertaste as the cold liquid hit my throat.
Ali walked into the kitchen and went straight to the fridge. She took out a beer.
“Want one?” she asked. I’d noticed that she was buying a different six-pack of specialty beer each week.
“You really like this guy, huh?”
“You could say that.”
“You better be careful or you’ll gain the Associate twenty.”
“Haha. Not all men like little twig girls like you and your friends.”
Ali and I were the same height, but she had been blessed with wide childbearing hips and, for as long I could remember, had struggled a bit to keep weight off. She was by no means fat, but she just didn’t have the bone structure to be thin either. In response she had developed a ‘don’t give a shit what anyone else thinks about me’ attitude long ago, but an odd comment here and there made it clear to me that she really did care, and even resented women for whom it seemed easy.
“Actually, I could use one today,” I said.
She handed me a butterscotch stout. Certainly not my first choice, but whatever.
“Tough day at home?” she teased.
“Just boring,” I said, and changed the subject. “When’s your first date?”
“Already had it, thought you knew that.”
“No, when?”
“Last Sunday morning. We had brunch.”
“Lame! I mean a real date.”
“Oh, grow up. It’s 2012, not 1953. I don’t need to be taken out to a four course meal, at an overpriced restaurant to be on a date. And I certainly don’t need him to pay either.”
I sighed audibly. It was never worth the effort to argue with Ali on any subject where the equality of men and women was concerned.
“Fine. How was the date?”
“Good. As a European, he has some interesting perspectives on the Environmental movement. We seem to have a lot in common.”
“Great.”
The door creaked again and Vi walked in. “Since when do you think you’re allowed to drink in this house? And on a week night?”
“What’s the difference between drinking down the street during the school year and drinking here?” I said.
“You’re not even twenty-one yet. I’d appreciate if you’d limit it to holidays and special occasions when you’re in my house.”
“Sure,” I said and put the beer down on the counter.
“Oh, chill out. It’s one beer,” Ali said. She had always been able to banter with Vi and push back in ways that I had never been able to, or at least had never gotten away with. I had been punished for making insubordinate comments that would have been celebrated from Ali; the kind of arguments that would make her a good lawyer someday. Ali and Vi began to debate whether Ali’s beer drinking was representative of a desire to conform to the male-centric world around her. I was just glad to be out of Vi’s crosshairs.
The Put-Up
Sunday, September 13, 2015
Hell’s Kitchen
Noreen texted Sunday morning, “How was the date? 2nd right? I wanna hear all about it. Brunch?”
I replied, “Meet me at Sunny Side Up?” It was the kind of familiar neighborhood brunch spot that always had slightly sticky tables and a wait to be seated, despite having average food.
“Half an hour?” she texted.
“Perfect.”
We were seated at a small table in the back, and ordered eggs, toast, and mimosas.
“So,” she said. “You’ve seen this guy twice now? What’s his name again?”
“Nate.”
“So, what’s he like?”
“Well, he checks all the boxes. He’s handsome and successful, and charismatic. He asked me about marriage and kids on the second date.” He’s also a rapist and ruined my life.
“What!”
“Yeah, he asked whether I want to get married and have a family someday. He said he wants to have at least two or three kids.”
“Oh my god, it took my husband six months of dating before he would even respond to my questions about kids. He sounds like a keeper!”
“Yeah, he does, doesn’t he?” I paused to take a sip of coffee. “I’m trying to decide how long to wait before…” I made a face. “You know.”
“You have sex with him,” she said.
“Yes.” And dreading it with every fiber of my being.
“Well, you’re not a virgin, right? So I’d say a month, max.”
“You’re probably right. I guess I’m just nervous.” God, she’s right. I’m gonna have to have sex with him sooner than later if my plan is going to work.
“How long has it been?” she teased. “You know you can’t wait too long these days, he’ll lose interest.
It is the 21st century.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“So, there you go.”
“Yeah, we’ll see. I’ll keep you posted.”
“I’m excited for you!” She shook my arm gently. “Why don’t you seem more excited?”
“Too many disappointments in the past I guess.” One major one.
“Oh come on, cheer up! Just because you’ve dated assholes in the past doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be excited about the prospect of love now!”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
“Cheers!” she said.
“Cheers,” I said as I touched my glass to hers. I hate lying to her, but this isn’t exactly the kind of moment you spring a ‘that night a stranger violently raped me’ story on someone.
As difficult as it was, I tried to imagine having sex with him. I would have to convince myself that it wasn’t a big deal, otherwise I was sure he would sense my fear and distress. I would have to give my best performance yet. If I can pull this off, I can pull off anything!
I managed to hold him off until just about a month after our first date. I could tell he was getting frustrated. He’d invited me back to his place at the end of every date we’d been on and each time I’d made an excuse.
We met for dinner on Saturday night, at a little bistro that almost perfectly split the distance between his condo and my apartment. It was French Moroccan fusion served tapas style. We split a few different dishes including a sweet Seffa dish with meatballs, Kalinti, and kebabs.
After dinner we went for a walk, hand in hand, in the direction of his condo. As we got closer he said, “Come up for a night cap.”
I looked up and nodded.
He smiled.
It was my first time inside his house. Everything was classy and high-end, but it was clearly a bachelor pad. The kitchen was very well appointed but small, and way too clean. The countertop, backsplash, and cabinets were various shades of grey: slate, charcoal, and cloud. The living room had a large flat screen t.v. that dwarfed the gas burning fireplace beneath it.
He opened a bottle of champagne, poured two glasses, and handed me one. My hand shook slightly as I took the glass. Shit. Relax.
“Cheers!” he said. We touched glasses and I quickly put the glass to my lips and took a large sip.
“You okay?” He asked. Shit, he can tell I’m nervous.
"Yeah, great." I forced a smile. I’m okay, I’m fine. I have to be fine. Just get through this.
We sat on the couch, my body rigid next to his. Just when I expected him to turn on the t.v. he reached for an envelope on the coffee table. He opened it carefully and pulled out a piece of folded paper. Then without any ceremony he began to read:
Like dew on the morning buds,
You are always new to me.
Like a cool dip in the lake in May,
You invigorate me.
Your smile is my happiness,
Your love, my purpose.
Oh my God, barf! How cliché! He handed me the paper. It was dated September 15, 1915 and the penmanship was nearly indiscernible. In gold lettering at the top of the page it read, Joseph A. Ellis. Can this be real or is it just some strange ploy he uses to get women in bed?
“It’s a poem that my great grandfather wrote for my great grandmother. When I met you I finally understood what he meant.”
I studied the expression on his face looking for sarcasm. Is this his thing? Does he read this to every naïve woman he brings home? Sick! He seemed sincere. He leaned over and kissed me, and I let him.
He paused to pull my shirt up over my head and threw it on the end of the couch. He took his off. His chest was strong and tan. He began to kiss me more aggressively. Oh my God. Can I actually do this? Butterflies churned in my stomach. I had been trying to prepare myself for this for so long, telling myself it wasn’t a big deal, but it was, and no amount of therapy or medication could prepare me for it. There was no doubt that having consensual sex with him would be the hardest thing I’d ever done in my life. I have no choice now. This is it. This has to work.
As he began to unhook my bra the panic started building inside me. What if he tries to handcuff me again? I’ll lose my head? I have to stay calm.
“Hey, I thought you said you weren’t a virgin?” he teased.
“I’m not.”
“Why are you so nervous then?”
“It’s been a while,” I said. “A long time actually.”
“It’s fine,” he said calmly, “relax.”
He pulled at the button on my jeans as he shoved his tongue in my mouth. He stopped kissing me and stood up, unbuttoned his pants and let them fall to the floor. He wasn’t wearing any underwear and his erection was impressive. He raised my legs in the air and then grabbed the hems of each pant leg. I propped myself up on my hands so that he could pull them off. He stepped forward, picked me up off the couch, and held me against him. He pulled my legs around his waist, and as he was kissing me, lowered me down onto him. I was still dry as a bone. Crap, I’m clearly not turned on. He’s gonna think I don’t want this. He lifted me up and spit on himself, then lowered me down again. He doesn’t care?
“Oh my God,” I said, “go slow. You’re really big.”
He grinned.
Sucker!
“Come on, relax,” he said again. “Just enjoy.”
With every thrust he pushed himself deeper inside me.
He propped me up on a ledge and thrust his hips back and forth without any attention to what did or didn’t work for me.
I closed my eyes and began to moan, loudly. I squeezed the muscles in my abdomen as tight as I could, and he bought it. His motions slowed, and he fell back onto the couch, pulling me on top of him. He shifted his pelvis and lifted me up slightly and off of him. He began rubbing himself and then aimed at me as he ejaculated. He directed his warm cum all over my chest and stomach, and watched himself as he came. When he was done he laid back onto the couch and closed his eyes. Just as I was about to jump up, he sat up and wrapped his arms around me.
“Hey, I’m sorry,” he said. “Next time I’ll let you do it.”
“Yeah, I’m not on birth control right now,” I said. “So it’s fine. I guess I’ll have to go back on it.”
“Yeah, I wasn’t sure.”
I excused myself, ran to the bathroom, and locked the door. I turned the shower on, let the hot water rush over me, and finally lost my composure. What the fuck am I doing? I collapsed onto the tile floor. I began to heave. I can’t do this. I tried to stifle the sounds of my distress. What was I thinking? I should have just forgotten about him, moved on. I held my head in my hands, closed my eyes, and sobbed. I can’t do this.
Eventually I calmed down. Get it together. He has to pay for what he did.
I pulled myself up off the shower floor and scrubbed my body with soap, working meticulously over every part me that he had defiled. I scrubbed again and again, until I finally felt clean. I wrapped a towel around my chest, checked my face in the mirror, and opened the bathroom door.
“You okay?” He was still laying on the couch naked, his limp penis hanging against his thigh. “You were in there forever.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “Just enjoying a long, hot shower.”
“Hey, I really am sorry about how that ended.”
“It’s fine.”
I could feel him watching me as I got dressed.
“You aren’t gonna stay?”
“No. I have an early morning. Need to get some sleep.” No way I can sleep here.
“Alright.”
“Night.”
As I walked home in the cool night air, tears streaming down my cheeks, I tried to focus on the end game. This is the only way now. It will be worth it eventually.
I couldn’t sleep so I worked on the assignment from my therapist instead.
Friday, July 20, 2012
When I woke up it was far brighter in my room than it should have been for a weekday morning. Shit, what time is
it? I wondered, looking at my phone: 8:20am. Crap, I’ll be so late to work.
I didn’t have time to shower, so I threw my hair up into a messy bun and put on a loose blouse, a pencil skirt, nude flats and a ton of deodorant. The kind with the toxic chemicals that Vi and Ali were always warning against. I grabbed a banana on my way out the door and fidgeted as I sat on the Purple Line “L” train, which squealed as it rounded each bend on its elevated tracks. My internship at the PR firm downtown was in an old six story brick warehouse building in River North, with exposed brick walls and brightly colored furniture. The dress code was shabby chic and the atmosphere, at least on the surface was laid back, although I sensed that under the chill façade there was stress: grown-up stress.
My job was essentially to make cold calls to potential clients and proofread press releases, which would keep me busy for most of the summer and hopefully keep my mind off of everything else.
I rolled in at nine-thirty, filled a ceramic mug with black coffee, and stared blankly at my computer screen. My boss walked by and asked me to join her at a ten o’clock meeting in the conference room. The meeting was about the marketing strategy for some new laundry detergent and it was a true struggle to look interested for the better part of an hour. Toward the end of the meeting I began to feel nauseous. Jeez, I didn’t have that much to drink last night. I was the last to get up when the meeting ended, but as I stood up I knew something wasn’t right. I tried breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth, like Vi always advised when I thought I might puke. I walked over to the door to leave and then it hit me. I quickly shut the door and vomited into the waste basket. I took a few deep breaths and then looked into the bin. There wasn’t too much, it was mostly coffee. I took a few tissues from the box of Kleenex on the table and threw it over the mess. It doesn’t really smell, I reassured myself. I walked out as if nothing had happened. That was weird.