Before We Sleep

by Jeffrey Lent

  Katey felt stronger—not alone. But was plunged with shame at being witnessed and grateful to not be alone. She pressed herself to stand upright and firm and turned in the dark—Luna a small shape riven out of darkness before her. But as she turned Luna stepped closer and wrapped her arms around her again and hugged her close and Katey was crying again.

  “Listen: He tried to do the same thing to me,” Luna said. Then she said, “He almost did the same thing to me. But it was different. Oh, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

  Luna was speaking low, just above a whisper. For herself, Katey had no voice. She wanted to thank Luna for coming out, for not leaving her alone but she had no voice. But she was able to move her arms about the smaller woman and slowly the rest of her followed, her wounded body up against another body, and they stood rocking together in the dark.

  Then Luna said, “Are you leaving now?”

  Katey had words back. “I am.” A rasp emitted.

  “Can you take me with you?”

  In her pause she felt the distress of the older girl. But was doubtful; cautious. In her mind she saw herself in the truck driving off into the night. To be alone with herself and then knew she didn’t truly want to be alone with herself. She also felt an urgency to leave, some distant alarm within her wondering if Luna had come or been sent to slow her, to contain her.

  She said, “Where?”

  “It doesn’t matter right now. Just not here.”

  “You don’t have to get your stuff? Just drive away?”

  “Isn’t that what you need? It’s what I need. I can get my shit later this summer. If I come back. Or when I come back.”

  “You serious?”

  Luna stepped back but reached and ran her hands down along Katey’s face. A caress, no mistaking. Luna said, “If you doubt me I’ll walk out to the road down the hill and you can pick me up there.”

  Katey said, “I’m going now. You want to slide in?”

  Once inside the cab Katey could feel Luna shivering and only then knew she was also. Her teeth clattering. She started the truck and rolled on down the starlit path of road past the bulk of the dome, dark. As they came into the wider opening she could see the pale ghost of the large building, also the bulk of the mountains east and south and above those dense dark cutouts the crazy starfield, an immense spread. She’d always loved the night sky but this one felt cold and remote; careless of the life far below it. They came to the edge of the path, ready to turn onto the road and she eased in the clutch and pulled the knob for the headlights and the world grew close, pinned down in the meeting cones of the twin beams. In pause. She was uncertain where to go, which way to turn. She turned the heat on.

  Luna said, “What is it you want, now?” A kind voice.

  “I should go to the police.” Then, she named it. “He raped me.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.” Then Luna was quiet. A long quiet.

  Katey said, “And I could use a cup of coffee.”

  Luna said, “There’s nothing open in Franconia this time of night. Littleton either. The closest place is a diner in Saint J. That’s a hour.”

  Katey heard the omission. She said, “What about a cop?”

  Luna said, “There’s a cop. One. There’s state police in Twin Mountain but that’s north and east from here. A hour also. And…”

  “And what? What about the local cop?”

  Luna was quiet, then said, “Why don’t we drive to Saint J and I’ll buy us breakfast there and we can talk along the way?”

  Katey killed the lights except for the dash and said, “Why are you here? Really?”

  “To get out. Like you but for different reasons. Listen, how old are you?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “Okay. Short version: The cop will love your story but only because he hates this place. You’re of legal age—so it’s a question of consent, right? And Steven will swear you invited him, wanted him. And the cop won’t care because he’s not after Steven, he’s after all of us. Including you. You’ll turn into just another hippie girl and what happened won’t matter. They’ll turn it into something else. Maybe you got jealous, maybe you were high, maybe all those things and more. Do you understand? They hate this place and will use you however they can and they can do it well. So, so, shit, I’m trying to tell you this is a heavy situation: Those fuckers will use whatever they can to shut this place down and you, you’ll end up being raped all over again but in ways you can’t imagine—in the papers, on TV, in court—you and me, we stopped at the town cop’s house tonight and woke him up, even if we drove to the troopers in Twin Mountain, either place, even if I tossed the little bag of grass I got before we were there—between talking to us and taking the next step, like waking up a judge for a warrant, somehow there’d be a bag of weed found on each of us. And it would go down like that. Do you understand?”

  “So I suck it up and drive? That’s what you’re saying?”

  Luna sighed. She said, “Okay, listen: Wherever you live, you go out on a date with the coolest guy in school, the one you always liked and trusted and everyone thought was an outstanding guy, right? You know what I mean. And after the date he drives out somewhere where you’re not sure where you are and he tells you you’re going to fuck him or he’ll leave you there. Or he just fucks you. Rapes you. And then he takes you home. You don’t say anything because you don’t know what to say and he doesn’t say anything because in his mind it either wasn’t rape or he’s already done with you. Or both. And you both know it. He drops you off at your house and drives off. And you slip in and hope your mother is asleep and maybe she is or maybe she isn’t but if she’s waiting you don’t tell her anything except you’re tired and want to go to sleep. Because, really, you want to be alone. Because you already figured out that no one is going to believe you and he’s going to deny it or most likely say you wanted it and all the sudden everyone is going to think you’re a slut. Because that’s what they do. Does that make sense? You understand what I’m telling you?”

  Katey turned the heat down. The cab was hot and she ached all over, her thighs were sore and twitching still and she felt a slick wet smear in her underwear. Finally she said, “Yeah.”

  Luna said, “I know it sucks.”

  “Yeah.”

  They were both quiet then. Luna reached over and placed her hand over Katey’s hand upon the wheel. She didn’t squeeze but gently worked her hand atop Katey’s as Katey realized she was gripping the wheel so very hard. And slowly her hand relaxed and as it did so did the rest of her. Not much but enough.

  Finally Luna spoke again. “Tell you what? Let’s drive on to Saint J and I’ll buy us breakfast and we can talk some more along the way. And when we get there if you decide you want to ditch me—go to the cops, go on alone, whatever, I’m down with that. But meanwhile I’m hungry for bacon and I’m guessing the ride would do us both good.”

  Katey again turned on the lights and eased out to the road, paused and said, “Which way?”

  “Down the hill into the village is fastest. After that I’ll point out the way.”

  Katey said, “You mind if we try the radio for a bit?”

  “Down with that. I could use some tunes.”

  The radio delivered and so once truly out on the road, they sang along, Luna as promised pointing out turns along the way. But both belting out, filling in for each other when they dropped the lyrics—Katey more often than Luna but it didn’t matter. Both released.

  Then the radio dissolved into static and they rode in silence a little while and after a bit Katey said, “Was that you?”

  “What?” But she knew what, the treble in her voice.

  “The girl in high school.”

  Luna was quiet a bit and then said, “Yeah. But that’s not important. Well, it’s real heavy, it’s not going away anytime soon. Maybe never. But what’s important is that you understand rape is not sex, it’s not making love. It’s—fuck, I don’t know what it is except wrong and nasty and makes you feel
like shit—dirty. But it’s not making love. That’s what’s important—that you know that. Because some day you’re going to meet a guy, a great guy and you’re going to be nervous and anxious but you’re going to want to do it with him. And when you do: Oh, baby, it’s the best thing in the world. Like you can’t believe.”

  “I always thought so. But right now I can’t ever imagine feeling that way.”

  “Yeah, I can dig that. What can I say? You meet the right guy and all that will change? Sure. But also, most guys follow their dicks, ya know what I’m saying? If there’s a chance, they take it. Not all but most is my bet. So. What does that mean? Is one chick’s nightmare another one’s dream? I don’t know. It’s mighty fucked up is all I know. But you gotta hold hope. Because the good guy, he comes. He really does. I want so bad for you to know that—not just because of tonight. But because it’s true. I know.”

  Finally in Saint Johnsbury they got a little lost, then saw the diner but that side of the street was filled with cars and so they circled the block three times, each time spying and then missing the closest parking space. By the time they finally parked the truck and walked uphill to the diner they were both giddy, entering the only packed place in the small city at three in the morning. Yet for a moment the place went quiet, all eyes on these strange women. Then to a booth and alone with menus, hidden and soon forgotten by the crowd. A woman with a collapsing beehive of silver hair and bright red lipstick came and took their order, then brought them coffee and soon after, platters of food.

  Lightened moods, both, Luna waved a strip of bacon at Katey and said, “So, you. How’d you end up at Franconia, anyway?”

  Katey drank orange juice and then said, “It’s a long story. But I’m trying to find a man who was with my dad in the war. And I think I found him, but he’s somewhere way down south. I’m not sure I can handle that trip. But I sure don’t want to go home, right now. What about you? Where are you from?”

  Luna laughed. “I’m from all over. Most recently what most people call home is San Diego. My dad’s an anchor-cranker. I’m a Navy brat. Grew up all over the world—well, Hawaii, the Philippines, Japan, mostly. And my mom stayed stateside for a while to raise me and my brother and two sisters in what she thought was a good place. But I dunno. I never fit in, anywhere. Inside my own family even, mostly.” She shrugged and ate a triangle of toast smeared with grape jelly from a little plastic tub. “How it works, sometimes.”

  “How’d you end up here? At Franconia College?”

  “I read an article about it. A weekly newspaper the library in San Diego had called the National Observer. And I thought, That’s the place for me. Of course, my parents didn’t know a thing about it—they think it’s just a northeastern private college that gave me a pretty good scholarship and that was enough. Oh, I guess maybe a part was they were almost as happy to see Little Miss Trouble go as I was to get out. Oh, and yeah, my oldest sister, Laurie, and her husband and their kid live in Massachusetts and so they felt she’d be close and keep an eye on me. Or be able to do so. You know, the stories people tell themselves to let happen what they want to have happen anyway. Funny thing is, they don’t have a clue about her. They did, they’d never have sent me east.”

  And she paused a moment and brightened and said, “I’m not trying to bum a ride. But that’s what you should do. Come down there with me. Think about it: You don’t want to go home, not right now. Not tomorrow morning. And you might want to explore that southern guy thing for your dad. But most of all, Kevin and Laurie are cool—not hippies but good hearts—he’s a graduate student in Amherst and they’re both antiwar, all that shit. And if you want to talk about what happened I can’t imagine a better person, either one of them. Or not say a word the whole time you’re there, and they’d be down with that too.” “After all,” Luna said, “you got me.”

  Katey had eaten her bacon and toast. Her home fries. On her plate remained the two eggs, yolks cut open some time ago, the whites with black speckles of pepper, cold.

  And she leaned over peering down upon her plate, studying it, and then began to cry. Small huffs and tears sliding down her cheeks, dropping onto the plate.

  She lifted her head and looked at Luna, still crying. She nodded. After a bit she choked out, “That sounds okay, maybe.”

  Wondering if her mother had been raped.

  Six

  Ruth

  On a Friday in the first week of December there was an early snowfall, several inches of wet heavy snow. She made it back up the hill after school, the short day already shutting down to an ethereal dusk, the bare trees, branches and trunks limned with snow, spatters of sleet on her windshield. Oliver would be leaving for work after supper, although a couple of months into the school year Ruth had talked with Jennie and an arrangement had been worked out. Saturday nights he’d have off, even if it was the busiest day of the week—there was another clerk who, before the job became Oliver’s, had been the night stockboy and also took inventory and so, weekly for that one night, was reinstated to his old position. If the man objected, Ruth never heard of it although she recognized within this silence the great power that Jennie, through Ed, exerted over the employees. Work was work and the man should be glad of it. And it meant that Ruth and Oliver had Saturday nights together. Ruth was also quick to figure that Jennie’s benevolence had a smack of self-interest. She wanted a grandchild and this might help. Perhaps also, perhaps, Jennie recognized that beneath all of these efforts to accommodate her son and his father and her daughter-in-law, ran a very real strain. Not that she’d ever speak of it. Not that any of them ever spoke of it.

  When she stepped from the car she felt the impact of the sleet on the wet snow, the snow was less, packed down by the not-quite rain. The wind had stopped and behind a thick gauze of cloud she could see a halo of moon overhead and she felt the cold, as the temperature was dropping with nightfall. So would come a freeze and soon, a glaze of ice crust over the snow. She was without care—Ed Snow’s truck sat in the drive with chains already mounted on the tires, a job Oliver had done sometime while she was gone and so he could safely crunch in low gear down to the store and back up again later. It wouldn’t matter how strong the freeze, the layer of snow and sleet below would make good traction. She went into the house to make supper, to turn on the radio, to stoke the furnace and parlor range, whatever needed to be done. For that matter, clumping along in the galoshes pulled over her shoes, she might well open the door and find Oliver had done all those things and was seated at the table or fussing over the stove. Times, he liked to do so—the electric range still a force of wonder for both. But she didn’t expect it and this day collapsing so rapidly into night with slight partition between the two, was no exception. The house was empty, although it was warm—he’d filled the stove and, as she set her bag of papers and texts and books waiting the weekend down, she felt the warm sweep of a draft across the floor and realized for the first time this season he’d also set a fire in the basement furnace. He was taking care.

  She smiled. She felt life was creeping back in, not only with them but with everyone they knew. The war had changed things, certainly, and just as certainly all were rising out of it. She wasn’t sure but guessed it had been Jennie who had told her she needed to be patient last summer when she felt she was failing him somehow. Perhaps it had been her mother. It didn’t matter.

  She set to making supper. Like almost everyone else she shopped on Saturday. Some mornings she’d wake to discover Oliver had brought home a handful of goods after his night shift—most often things he liked. Once back in the summer he’d offered to take a list with him and so relieve her of the Saturday morning chore but he’d mislaid the list and brought home four grocery boxes of oddments, redundant condiments, cans of soups or vegetables they had no need for and three packages of steaks he’d cut himself. The steaks were thick and delicious although three meals of beefsteak in one week was a bit much—not that both didn’t crave the meat—it was an indulgence of
expense. And she’d still had to go down to buy the laundry powder, the paper goods, all of the other items he seemed to be oblivious of; as if such things came with the house and never needed replenishing. A man, was what she thought.

  So that Friday evening was leftovers and odds and ends. There was the end of a tuna casserole and a bowl of pickled beets. She hard-boiled two eggs and then chopped them over the beets while the casserole warmed in the oven. A large heel of a loaf of bread that she sliced while butter melted in an iron skillet, then dredged the bread on both sides in the butter, arrayed on a cookie sheet and shaved cheddar atop to melt in the oven. There was no dessert, and then she found a scrape of cottage cheese in a wax carton in the back of the fridge, studied that and found a can of pineapple rings in the pantry. She fried the rings in the leftover butter until they were brown on both sides, laid them in a pie pan and used a butter knife to dab the remnant cottage cheese atop the buttery caramelized pineapple and slid that also into the oven. Turned down the knob for heat and had supper waiting for the table.

  The door pushed open and he stood there a moment, cold air flooding in as she turned toward him and she cried, “What happened?” He was struggling for breath and the knee of his right trouser was torn, a dark egg was building above his left eye and his face was wild, his eyes scattered and jittering. His lungs sucked air. Cradled in both hands was his fiddle. Blood seeped from a cut on his right hand. He looked at her and was silent but stepped in further. She moved toward him and a guttural gurgle passed his lips as he moved around her. And she thought He’s only wanting to get to the parlor, where the case for the fiddle rested, open. He wouldn’t leave it in the unheated shed behind the barn overnight. She knew the reasons why and then knew this was different. She shut the door and turned to watch his back, waiting.

  He didn’t pass through to the parlor but set the fiddle on the table. Put both hands down either side of it and leaned upon his hands. Looking down upon it. His breathing still heaving.