Gina considers, then answers even more sensibly, “The only stakes that matter to me are the ones going through the hearts of rapists.”
Tolstoy famously remarked that all happy families are alike, but every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. That may or may not be true, but what is certain is that it doesn’t really apply to high schools. Protestations of crazed commencement speakers telling people that someday they’ll look back on their high school years as the happiest of their lives aside, a lot of people in high school aren’t all that happy. Yet in many ways nearly all high schools are alike. Picture a high school hallway. Picture the tile floor. Hear the sound of tennis shoes squeaking on the tile. The ceiling is probably white, lit by fluorescent bulbs. The walls hold banks of lockers painted in one of the school’s colors. Above the lockers the paint is white.
Picture this scene after a school’s final bell has rung, as students flee this prison where they are supposedly spending the best years of their lives. As the minutes tick by there are fewer and fewer students in the hallway.
At last there are two, and one of them is leaving.
Marilyn waves and calls to her friend, “I love what you’re doing with the yearbook theme, Chrissy!”
“Thanks! See you tomorrow,” Chrissy says, and walks out the door.
Now the school is silent. Marilyn enters a girls’ bathroom, goes into a stall, hangs her knapsack on a hook, crouches precariously over the bowl without touching anything (well-trained daughter of a sensible germ-phobic mother), and pees, humming the Naxalite Rebellion Bollywood theme song she frustratingly hasn’t been able to get out of her head. She flushes, takes down her knapsack, and opens the stall door.
An older boy is standing inches in front of her, one hand on each side of the stall’s doorway.
Marilyn gasps. “Jason! You can’t be in here!”
“I am though, aren’t I? And so are you,” he says.
She asks, “What do you want, the history assignment?”
“I want something else.”
He’s way too close. She laughs nervously. He takes a lock of her hair between his fingers, tugs on it, and glares at her. Marilyn is confused and a little scared.
She says, “What’s up with you?”
He doesn’t respond. She pushes between his body and the opening of the stall, then tries to reach the door. He grabs her arm and pushes her backward against a counter. Her knapsack drops into a sink. He grinds his hips into hers. She tries to push him away, but he’s stronger.
She says, “What the fuck are you doing?”
“You said no the other night when I drove you home, but you’re not going to say no now.”
“Get off me!”
He whines, “When you rejected me, you broke my heart.”
Marilyn tries to placate him. “I didn’t reject you, Jason; I like you fine. I just didn’t want to, you know …”
“Why not? What’s wrong with me, huh?” He squeezes her breasts and forces a kiss.
She turns her face away, says, “Stop it!”
He says, “I’ve got what you need, Marilyn. Trust me, you’ll enjoy it. It’ll be so good. Feel this, this is how much I want you.” He puts her hand on his crotch.
She snatches her hand away, horrified. “Stop it! No!”
“Shhh,” he says, quietly. “Shhh. We’re made for each other. You’ll see. Just surrender to our love.”
Marilyn struggles as Jason kisses her face and neck, as he rubs his body against hers, as he touches her body with his hands. Unable to free herself, she begins to cry.
Marilyn shouts, “Help! Help! Someone!”
Jason’s not worried. He informs her, “Everyone’s gone home. Yell all you want. Soon you’ll be yelling for more.”
Marilyn begins to sob. She says, “Never! No! Stop! Jason, you can’t do this!”
“Oh, yes, I can.” He tears open Marilyn’s shirt and pushes up her bra. She tries to pull his hands off her, and fails. She says, frantic, “Jason, think about what you’re doing! You’re going too far! You’re supposed to be my friend!”
“I am your friend. We’re much more than friends. I want you and I’m going to have you. I’m going to fuck you so hard. I love you so much.”
“If you love me you’ll stop! You’ll listen to me! Please stop this—we can work it out! No one has to know about this! Please!”
He says, “Hush now. You had your chance to do this nice.” With one hand Jason reaches behind her, pulls her close, crushing her against him. With his other hand he pulls up her skirt.
“I understand I made you feel bad when I wouldn’t do what you wanted, and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings! Let’s talk about this, Jason! I understand why you’re upset, and I know you’re hurting!”
“Then give me what I need.”
“We can work this out. I know we can,” she says. “I have so much compassion for you.”
“Then fuck me.”
Marilyn struggles. As Jason unfastens his pants she feels around frantically behind her for her knapsack, finds it in the sink, and reaches inside. She grasps the knitting needles. She hesitates. But suddenly she feels his hand begin to pull down her underwear, and in her panic nothing matters but stopping him, stopping this right now. She thrusts the needles hard up under his ribs.
He backs up a step, looks at her in shock, then down at the needles and the blood.
She looks at him, horrified, and then at the blood on her hands, and then back at him as he crumples to the floor. She shouts through sobs, “God damn it, Jason! God damn it! I can’t believe you’d do this to me! Fuck! Fuck Fuck Fuck! You were my friend!”
CHAPTER 6
Gina and Brigitte are sitting in Gina’s kitchen, eating cake.
Gina says, “Oh my goddess. This is exquisite. I’m having a religious experience.”
Brigitte responds, “I knew you’d love it!”
“What’s in the layers, raspberry?”
Marilyn bursts in the back door, slams it, and with her head down walks into the kitchen and quickly past them.
Brigitte says, “And hazelnut!”
Gina holds out a fork to her daughter. “Marilyn, sweetie, you must try this!”
Marilyn doesn’t look at them. “Later, Mom! I’ll be in my room!”
Her mother says, “Hold on there. Where’s the fire? Stop and say hello properly.”
Marilyn stands in the doorway to the living room, with her back to them. She says, her voice shaking, “Hi, Mom! Hi, Brigitte! I’ve had a rough day and I want to freshen up in my room. Okay?”
Gina says, “Turn around and let me see you.”
“Later, okay? Can I go now?”
“Now, young lady. Come here,” Gina says, concerned.
Marilyn slowly turns around. Her eyes are red, and she has bruises on her neck. Her shirt is held together with bent paper clips.
Gina is on her feet instantly and goes to Marilyn. Brigitte stands too, and hovers.
Gina demands, “What happened?”
Marilyn starts to cry. She says, “Mom, Brigitte. You were right.”
“Right about what?” Gina asks.
Marilyn, through the tears, says, “About … talking to … It doesn’t work.”
“Who? Talking to who?”
“To … you know …”
Gina grabs Marilyn’s shoulders and cries, “What? What happened? What happened, honey?”
Brigitte says, “Oh my god. Who was it? I will kill him. I will kill him!”
Gina turns to Brigitte and says, “That’s my job.” She turns back to Marilyn and says, tenderly, “Sweetie, oh, no, are you okay? Oh, god, of course you’re not okay. Tell me what happened. We’re going to the hospital right now. Come on, sweetie.” She puts her arm around her daughter.
Marilyn responds, “No, no. I’m okay. He didn’t actually do it.”
“Thank god!” Gina says as Brigitte says, “Thank goddess!”
Marilyn takes a
deep breath. “He tried. He tried really hard. I stopped him. I stopped him before he could …”
Brigitte and Gina think a moment before Brigitte says, “I thought you said talking didn’t work.”
Gina asks, “How did you stop him?”
Marilyn takes her knapsack off her shoulder, reaches inside, and pulls out two knitting needles smeared with blood.
Gina’s eyes widen, and she takes Marilyn in her arms and hugs her hard. She says, “Oh, baby.”
Brigitte yelps, “Your first kill!”
Gina looks at Brigitte, annoyed, and says, “That’s inappropriate! This is my daughter we’re talking about!”
Marilyn nods, steels herself, and says, “That’s right, I am your daughter. And I’m ready to join the knitting circle.”
Tears spring into Gina’s eyes. “You protected yourself. I’m so proud of you. And now you’re ready to protect others. I’m just so proud of you!”
Brigitte asks, “What about the scene? You’ve removed the weapon; that’s good thinking. Do we need to go and remove any fingerprints? Did anyone see you?”
Marilyn responds, “My friend Chrissy saw me after school, but she’d never tell. I know she wouldn’t. And I knew enough to leave no trace of myself. I haven’t eavesdropped on you all those times for nothing.”
They all laugh. Then Brigitte says, “Come, darling, have some cake. You could use it.”
They go to the table. Brigitte serves Marilyn a slice of cake, and Marilyn starts eating.
Then Gina says, “Marilyn, I want to go back to something you said earlier, just for a minute.”
Marilyn is slightly cautious, in a way most daughters and sons are when their mothers make these sorts of loaded statements. She is silent.
“You made one remark in particular that I want to be sure we don’t forget.”
Marilyn’s curiosity wins over her caution. “What?”
“You said, and I quote, ‘Mom, you were right.’”
Brigitte adds a correction: “It was ‘Mom, Brigitte. You were right.’”
Marilyn rolls her eyes, says, “Whatever.”
Gina continues, “No, seriously. Let’s write that down on the calendar so we never ever forget. ‘Mom, you were right.’” She smiles. “I like the sound of that.”
Brigitte and Nick sit in Brigitte’s living room. No music plays. They sit on her couch, each slightly facing the other. Brigitte holds Nick’s hand in both of hers. She says to him, “I appreciate that you want to help …”
Nick responds, “I care about the issue. It’s important for men to act in solidarity. And I care about you.”
Brigitte smiles, a little sadly, and says, “Maybe that’s my problem. You know I love you. But sometimes I worry we’ll get too close.”
“Really? What are you afraid of?”
“It’s not a fear. I’m just concerned that if we get more entangled in each other’s lives, then being together will start to become a habit.”
Nick nods, then says, “And from there it becomes an obligation, and then, bingo, there goes the magic.”
Brigitte’s smile loses its sadness. “Exactly.”
Nick says, “That’s one of the things I love about you.”
“Good!”
He continues, “The last thing I’d want is for us to turn our wonderful time together into a task, a duty.”
“Good,” she says.
“A stultifying obligation,” he continues.
“Agreed.”
“An achingly boring slog …”
“Okay!” Brigitte cuts him off, annoyed.
Nick says, “We’re on the same page … Cutie.”
Brigitte smiles again, says, “Cutie.”
“But that doesn’t mean I can’t help. I can do something on my own, without you. You can give me an assignment. I’ll be the Undercover Secret Agent Lone Wolf, or something.”
“I might be able to think of an assignment more easily if I get a back rub …”
Nick puts his free hand over hers. “Let’s start the undercover work now!”
The members of MAWAR are at their headquarters, sitting around an old linoleum-topped kitchen table patterned with faded boomerangs. The stuffed squirrel and plastic monkey watch as the members play Bible Scrabble, where the only plays allowed are words or names found in the Good Book. This means wimpy secular words like exegesis or queue are not allowed. Further, words used in some versions of the Bible and not others can be worth less or more points. For example, words like groovy found only in Good News Bibles from the late 1960s (“And God saw everything that he had made, and behold, it was all so very groovy”) are worth half points. Over the years there have been significant arguments over whether the word debts should count identically to the word trespasses. And certain words are because of their importance given triple value, words like smite, know (wink, wink), sin, and of course crucifixion. Another special rule is that anyone who plays the word God and loses the game (in other words, uses that name in vain) suffers consequences in games foreverafter.
This particular game sees a friendly yet fierce competition among four MAWAR men. But the tone of the contest changes dramatically when Billy Bob puts down tiles that spell Jezebel. Their leader looks up from his rack, where he’d been trying to spell Hezekiah (Bible Scrabble has a lot more Zs, and also blank tiles which are not used as wild cards but instead as alternative ways to spell You Know Who’s name without everlasting consequences). Seeing the name Jezebel takes their leader’s mind off the game. He demands of Zebadiah, “Why hast thou not consummated the plan to capture that heathen ditz?”
Zebadiah looks away.
Their leader says, “Didst the heathen call after you sent your holy fucking text message?”
Zebadiah still cannot look at him, but does nod curtly.
“What sayeth she?”
“She said she bought some new sho—”
“Leaveth thee off the bit about the fucking shoes, and get thee to the meat of it.”
Zebadiah says, “She …” He trails off, turning bright red.
Their leader presses hard. “She sayeth what?” He stands. He moves around the table to stand next to Zebadiah. He insists, “What didst that Jezebel say?”
Zebadiah juts out his chin, then says, defiantly, “Her name is Jasmine, and I’d prefer you not call her Jezebel.”
All the men of MAWAR gasp, and stand as one. They surround Zebadiah, move in very close. He shrinks in his chair (while still covering his rack; he had a very nice Zamzummims stashed away for next turn), begins to sweat.
All of the men point at him with quivering, accusing fingers.
He wishes he were somewhere else, someone else.
Together they begin to chant, at first slowly, and then with more speed and intensity, all in a sing-song voice, “Zebadiah and Jezebel—”
He interrupts by shouting “Jasmine!”
They chant over him, “Sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes six Zebadiahs and six Jezebels—”
“Her name is Jasmine!”
“—in a baby carriage.”
They stop. They are silent for a moment before their leader says, “Ah, he’s shy. Mr. Nads of Steel hath fallen under the spell of Jezebel.” They all laugh.
Zebadiah cries, “Her name’s Jasmine!”
Later, after Bible Scrabble is finished, the leader comes to Zebadiah privately, and says, “So, are you going to moveth our plan forward?”
Zebadiah says, “Yes, sir. But it is so scary.”
“The plan is scary?”
“No, sir.”
“What these horrible women are wroughting on the world as we know it is scary?”
“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir, that is very scary.”
“But that’s not it, is it?”
“No, sir.”
“We both know what it is that hath frightened thou, don’t we?”
“Yes, sir. It is love. Love is very scary.”
&
nbsp; “There are cures for love, you know.”
“Like marriage?”
“That’s one. Intimacy is another. Friendship. Getting to know the other person. Conversation. All those doth surely kill love. So there is yet hope. Just talk to her a little while, brother Zebadiah, and your feelings will go away. Trust me on this one.”
“Thank you, sir. This helps, but still I feel so weak in the face of this love, and the temptations this love can bring.”
“You may be weak, but Jesus hath strength enough for all of us. And remember, he lived thirty-three years and never knew a woman, never was intimate, never was in love. Let him be an example to you, and to us all. Let him be your strength. Let him be your holy fucking nads of steel.”
Zebadiah doesn’t say anything.
The leader says, “Mindest thou if I speak explicitly?”
“No, please do.”
“Remember always that Jesus can help us in any circumstances, no matter how troubling. And he can help us with our sexuality, even though he died a virgin, blessings to him and to his blessed unused genitals.”
“He can help us, truly?”
“He can help us no matter what our trouble. Sometimes, even though I am married, when I see some woman other than my wife, my Peter doth still become a Rock; when that doth happen I think of Jesus on the Cross, and before you know it, I can tie my Peter in a knot and pee sideways. And Jesus helps me in the other direction, too. Sometimes with my wife it is not always easy to fulfill my husbandly duties….”
“I don’t understand, sir.”
“Let’s just say that Peter is not always the Rock upon which my church is founded. In those cases, even though I am with my wife, sometimes instead of thinking of her I picture the precious face of Jesus, I picture the flowing robes, I picture us breaking bread and drinking wine as we lean against each other at the Last Supper, and the Next to Last Supper, and the Supper Before That. I picture us walking hand in hand through the garden, I picture a gentle kiss (with no awkward consequences like some other kiss in the garden) with that sweet, sweet Man, and before you know it, Lazarus has been raised from the dead.”
“You do this, sir?”
“I do. And I think a lot of other people do, too. Why do you think that so many people, when they are having sex, cry again and again, ‘Oh, Jesus! Oh my God! Oh, Jesus!’?”
The Knitting Circle Rapist Annihilation Squad Page 7