by John Hart
As it closed behind me, I heard another burst of laughter. Outside, in the night air, I looked at the sky and tried to bleed away the tension. Then I heard more laughter, like the sound of passing traffic, and knew that it would not be that easy. How long, I wondered, until they realized I wasn’t coming back? What excuse would Barbara offer for the imperfection of her marriage?
I walked around back, where I found Bone scrabbling to get under the fence. I put him in the truck, and I drove us away from that place without a backward glance. I couldn’t save Jean, not tonight. But Vanessa was in pain, and I decided that it was time to deal with this shit once and for all. So as I watched the road, bright in the headlights, I thought of what I would say to Vanessa. I thought of the day we’d met. The day we’d jumped for Jimmy. I was twelve years old, and they said I was a hero. They said I was brave, but I wouldn’t know about that. What I remember was being scared, and then being ashamed.
His name was Jimmy Waycaster. Everybody called him “Jimmy-One-T.” There was a reason for that.
CHAPTER 15
Jimmy had only one testicle, a fact that followed him when he transferred in from some place out of county. His parents had no other children, which didn’t stop Coach from putting him at shortstop the next spring. First game of the season, and Jimmy took one on the second pitch. When Jimmy dropped, there was stunned and absolute silence. Until he started screaming.
As it turned out, Jimmy’s family was poor. And the surgery to save his last testicle was expensive. One of the other parents organized it, and two weeks later we jumped for Jimmy. It happened at the Towne Mall, back when it was open and fresh, before bodies were turning up in boarded-up stores. The plan was simple. Kids would collect pledges and jump rope in teams of four. So much for every hour the team jumped. It was supposed to last an entire day. There were twenty teams. Eighty kids.
Vanessa was one of them. So was I.
She was beautiful.
I guessed she was around fifteen, a freshman or a sophomore, which was pretty cool. Not many of the older kids turned out to jump for Jimmy’s nut. I noticed her purple dress the minute I walked in. She was down the long corridor, across from Sky City. She caught me staring once or twice but didn’t seem to mind. She even smiled, but it was a nice smile, not slutty or anything.
After that, I thought mostly about her smile, and what it would be like to kiss it. I thought about it a lot. It was that kind of smile.
There were a lot of parents, but none of them paid much attention. It was just a bunch of kids jumping rope. Every ten minutes, we’d switch, so you’d have thirty minutes before your next shift. Time to go to the arcade, hang with your friends, and watch the girl in the purple dress. Then it was your turn and you’d jump. It was an all-day thing. Parents appeared and disappeared, shopped and went for coffee.
Two hours into the day and I couldn’t stop thinking about her. She had blond hair and wide blue eyes. Her legs were long beneath hips that flared just a little. She laughed a lot and was nice to the younger kids. I thought she was about the finest thing I’d ever seen, and with our eyes we seemed to find each other.
“Don’t waste your time,” a voice said. I recognized it without looking—Delia Walton, snotty bitch daughter of somebody or other. She and a couple of other girls pretty much ran the school. They were the popular ones, with flawless skin and gold beads that gleamed at their throats.
“What’s her name?” I asked.
“Vanessa Stolen,” Delia informed me. “She’s old. In high school.”
I just nodded, eyes still on Vanessa Stolen. Delia didn’t like it. She knew what I was seeing.
“She’s white trash,” Delia insisted.
“Isn’t it your turn to jump?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said, and waved dismissively.
“Then go jump,” I told her, and walked away.
Lunch came and went and the kids kept jumping. I heard an adult say that we’d probably raise over eight thousand dollars, which seemed like a lot for a nut.
It was about three o’clock when I saw the girl in the purple dress go outside. It didn’t surprise me when I followed her, just scared me a little. But the day wouldn’t last forever.
Outside, a hot wind blew; it carried the smell of exhaust into the parking lot. Cars flew by on the interstate. Birds watched from the power lines. Then I saw her, down by the creek, near where it flowed under the parking lot. She was watching her feet, kicking at tiny stones. She looked serious and I wondered what she was thinking and what I should say to her when I finally got the nerve.
She passed the last of the cars. We were far from the mall. No one else was around. No kids. No parents. Just us. She was almost at the creek, the tunnel dark along the steep overgrown bank. Clouds passed over the sun and it grew dark. The wind stilled itself and for a moment I looked up.
Then I saw Vanessa start, her hands flying up as if to catch something, but she didn’t make a sound. She took a single step backward. Then a man, long-armed and bent, surged up and out of the creekbed. He had nasty clothes, red eyes, and a ragged beard. He snatched her up, hand over her mouth, and was gone, back into the creek and the tunnel that ran beneath the parking lot.
I looked for help but saw only empty cars and the mall, which seemed so far away. I stood paralyzed, but then I heard a muffled scream. Before I knew what I was doing, I was down the bank, so scared that I could barely breathe; then I heard her again, more a whimper than a scream, and the blackness swallowed me. I thought of the purple dress, and the smiles she’d given me. I took another step, into the black hole, and then it was just the three of us. But I thought of her face, her blue eyes wide above grimy fingers; I saw the flash of her pale legs as he dragged her down, how they kicked in terror—and I stumbled on, like in a dream. . . .
I rolled down the windows, wanting the wind. The images had not been this strong in years, and this time it was different, like someone wanted to hurt me. I thought of blue daisies that looked like open eyes, and then I was back in time, back in the dark, like it was happening now and not twenty-three years ago.
B lack water moved like tar in the darkness. I felt it in my sneakers and licking at my shins. I heard them ahead, a single high squeal and then only the creek—its murmur, a few faint splashes. I stopped and looked back at the square of light that was already so far away.
I wanted to go back, but that’s what cowards did, sissies. So I moved on and it got darker. I put my hands out like a blind man; rocks tripped me and the dark tried to pull me down, but in my head I could still see the girl. Then there was pale light far ahead, and I thought I saw them.
I tripped, went down hard. My hands sunk into muck and I felt slimy water splash onto my face. Something moved against my arm and I almost screamed. But I got up instead. Be strong, I told myself, then I put my hands out again and walked toward the distant light.
It was like being blind, but worse. So much worse . . .
A blind man would not have done what I did, and I said it under my breath as I pulled up at Vanessa’s house and turned off the truck.
“A blind man would not have done it.”
I ducked my head and peered through the windshield. Light burned in her house; it shone through the windows and cut into the dark like blades. Except for the windows that had been boarded up, I thought. They were dark and sightless.
Gouged out.
Blind.
T he girl screamed, a long, drawn out NO that was choked off; then I heard a man’s voice, low and urgent.
“Shut up, you dirty little slut. Shut up or . . .”
The rest was lost. A rough mumble.
Then I saw them, definitely saw them, dark figures pinned against a spill of weak light. Her legs scrabbled, kicked up water, and he was shaking her as he dragged her. Her head looked twisted under his arm. Her arms beat against his, but they were small arms. She screamed again and he hit her. One, two, three times, and she didn’t move again, just hung from his arms. She wa
s helpless, and I knew then that there was no one else. Just me.
Suddenly, I tripped again, landed hard, face down in water that tasted like gasoline and mud. When I looked up, half-blinded by the water in my eyes, I could tell that he had heard. He was still . . . looking back. I huddled down, blood loud in my ears. I didn’t know how long he stood like that, but it felt like forever.
He would come back. He would find me and he would kill me.
But he didn’t. Eventually, he turned and kept walking. I almost went back then, but I held on to her smile and prayed to God like I never had in church. I didn’t know if he heard or not, but I went forward instead of back. I could still hear the sound of his fist against her face. One, two, three . . .
Don’t let her be dead.
I heard his steps very clearly, dragging through the water as if he was running, and the light grew from pitch-black to dark gray, until I could see my hands. The light was still far away, but I could see it. There was a storm drain, and I knew we must be far under the parking lot by now. I reached for the wall and found it, slimy concrete, like snot, under my fingers.
They stopped beneath the drain, overlit by that half-dead light. A concrete shelf rose above the creek like an altar, and he threw her down. He looked in my direction, but I knew he couldn’t see me. Yet he stared, as if he sensed me after all. Close to panic, I looked back the way I had come; the tunnel behind me stretched away, a throat.
Then his gaze was gone, torn away by his impatience. He was talking again, mumbling to himself, and it was in his voice, the eagerness.
“Yes, yes, yes. Oh yes . . .”
His fingers moved on her. I heard fabric tear and walked closer. His voice swelled up as her purple dress was ripped away. It spread beneath her, torn wings, and above it, in the light, her body shone like cold marble. His voice rose and fell, a chant, a crazy man’s ditty.
“Thank you, Lord. Thank you. Yes. So long, so long, so long. Oh, my sweet, sweet Lord . . .”
He moved between us, his back to me, so that I saw her face and the bottoms of her legs. Again fabric tore and I heard his voice.
“Ohhh . . .”
It was a moan. Her panties floated past me on silent water. I looked down and watched them, blue daisies on a field of black—eyes staring in the dark. They drifted against my leg, spun away, and were gone, down the wet throat behind me.
I tore my eyes up, realizing how close I’d come, no more than twenty feet away, the light touching me. Her eyes were open and staring. Her mouth, too, gaped and I saw where he’d beaten her. Her lips twitched and a low gurgle escaped. Her fingers fluttered in my direction; then he struck her again, and her lips didn’t move after that. Her eyes were still open but showed mostly white. I felt anger and I nursed it, needing it. It made me strong.
My foot touched something beneath the water and I knew what it was.
I reached down, my fingers closing on a rock the size of a baby’s skull. . . .
I stared at the light that spilled from Vanessa’s house, but it didn’t drive the images away; so I closed my eyes, rubbed at them, fearing that I might start to tear at them instead.
I raised the rock over my head and took another step, expecting him to turn and see me, to come for me, too. But he didn’t. All he saw was the girl.
Another step, and the fear rose alongside the anger; and it was stronger. He would kill us both. I saw that. I should have gone for my father. This man was huge and he was crazy and he would kill us. He would kill us sure as shit. I was about to turn and run. Already I was beginning to accept it. Beginning to turn away.
Then he moved. And I saw her, a marble statue on a concrete pedestal. . . .
She was perfect.
I couldn’t tear my eyes away. I’d never seen a naked girl before, not like that. Not a real one. I felt funny looking at her, ashamed and dirty, but I couldn’t stop. And I noticed that my feet weren’t moving. The rock felt loose in my hand, my head light on my shoulders. My breathing went funny, and she seemed to rush at me, until she filled my eyes. I looked at her breasts and then down to the soft blond hair that filled the space between her legs. I’d forgotten the man, my danger, everything but her, spread on that altar. It was only a few seconds but felt longer, and all I did was stare.
Then he moved, dirty fingers on her stomach, moving down, like snakes into a nest; then he was on her, grunting like an animal, baked-bean teeth dark on her pale and helpless breasts.
I couldn’t move.
Then I saw her eyes, and I saw that there was nothing in them; and in that emptiness, I found myself again. My hand tightened; the rock came up.
I walked into the light. I took two steps before I saw his face, and his crazy eyes. They were on me. Right on me! And his lips were pulled back over those pudding teeth, and he was smiling, his body still pumping, like a separate animal. And his words, when he spoke, they penetrated me.
“You like what you see, don’t you, boy?”
I froze.
“I seen you watchin’.”
Red filled his eyes, making him less than human. But his body continued to move. Up and down. Up and down. Grunt. Grunt. Grunt. Eyes like grease on my face. And again that terrible smile. He knew.
“Well, get a good look boy . . . ’cause you’re next.”
And then he was off her, laughing, coming at me, his arm out, as if to put it around my shoulder.
“Lord, sweet Lord.”
His mouth a dark, stinking hole. Fingers twitching. A wave of odor, like a dead dog I’d once found by the roadside.
“Adam and Eve!” he shouted. “Eve and now Adam.” He leaned forward, bent low until he looked like a huge rat. “Let us pray.”
He repeated the same words, over and over. “Let us pray. Let us pray. . . .” Until they bled into one high-pitched cackle that ended when he was mere feet away. Then with curled lips, he changed the words, and spoke them slowly. “Let us play. . . . Let us play.”
Then his fingers were on me, and I began to scream.
But even as I screamed, I swung the rock, hit him somewhere, but he just laughed harder. I tried to hit him again, but he pulled the rock from my hand and tossed it down. I heard it splash, as if down a very deep well. Then my face hit the wall and I tasted blood. Again and again, until I could no longer scream. I felt his hands on me, all over me, but I couldn’t move. I was barely there, just barely, but still . . . I felt his hands. The slickness of his tongue on my cheek.
. . . And I was sobbing.
But then there was flashing light, and distant shouting voices. I saw him squint, lips pulled back, tongue out like meat gone bad. Then he looked back down, caressed my face with one hand.
“You a lucky little boy,” he said. “Yes, Lord.” Then he dropped me in the water. My head cracked the wall again, and I saw stars. When they cleared, he was still there, crouched over me, eyes glowing but scared, his hand on my crotch, squeezing. “But I’ll remember you. Adam on a cross . . . oh yes. You’ll always be my little Adam.”
Then he was gone, shambling down the tunnel, away from the light and the voices, which seemed so far away, but coming closer. I thought of the girl, naked and helpless, but this time it was different. I crawled through the mud and pulled myself up. I gathered the shreds of her dress and closed them about her. I placed her hands on her stomach, closed her bloodied legs.
That’s when I saw that she was looking at me, the blue gleam of one eye just visible through the swollen flesh.
“Thank you,” she said, and I could barely hear her.
“He’s gone,” I told her. “Everything’s gonna be okay.”
But I didn’t believe it, and I didn’t think she did, either.
I thought I was done, thought that it was safe, but another memory, like a predator, followed fast on the heels of the last.
It was something my father had said. I was in bed; it was late, but I couldn’t sleep. I hadn’t really slept in the two weeks since they’d pulled us out of that hole and
into the wide-eyed crowd that pointed like we couldn’t see them. The girl, broken, held together by the jacket they’d wrapped around her. Me, bloody teeth chattering, trying not to cry.
My parents were arguing in the hall, not far from my door. I didn’t know what started the argument. I heard my mother first.
“Why do you have to be so hard on him, Ezra? He’s just a boy, and a very brave one at that.”
I crept to the door, cracked it, and peered out. My father had a drink in his hand. His tie was loose and he made my mother look very small in the dim light.
“He’s no fucking hero,” my father had said. “No matter what the papers say.”
He knocked back the drink and put a hand on the wall above my mother’s head. Somehow he knew my shame, the burning in my mind that kept me up at night. I didn’t know how he knew, but he did, and I felt hot tears slide down my cheeks.
“He’s having a tough time, Ezra. He needs to know that you’re proud of him.”
“Proud! Ha! He’s just a dumb-ass kid who should have known better. It’s sick the way you coddle him. . . .”
I didn’t hear the rest. I closed the door and climbed back into bed.
He didn’t know.
Nobody did. Just me. And him.
I seen you watchin’. . . .
I opened my eyes, done because I could do no more. Now I had to tell Vanessa how I’d failed her. She was raped at the age of fifteen and I’d watched it happen, allowed it to happen.
I should have done more.
I looked up at her house and felt a sudden twist of nausea. A man was standing on her porch, staring down at me. I’d not seen him come out. Had no idea how long he’d stood there. Who he was or why he was there. He came slowly down the steps. I climbed from the truck and met him at the front of it. He was younger than I, probably thirty, with thick brown hair and close-set eyes. He was tall, with big shoulders and large, heavy hands that hung like iron from the sleeves of a denim shirt.